ever proved that.”
“That’s what the sheriff told you.” Calvina was always one step ahead of him.
“It’s just for six months. We can use him for round up.”
“You haven’t adopted him.”
“Of course, not. You think I’m an idiot?”
Buster got out of the police cruiser and took off his hat. Long, tangled, dirty hair spilled out.
“Uh, ’lo, Mommy. ’Lo there, Daddy.”
Faith, Hope, Charity, and Destiny Stumplehorst giggled. Mrs. Stumplehorst turned purple and hissed something in her husband’s ear and stormed back to the house.
In the barn, Skylar put on his leather sheep shearing chaps and took an electric cutter to Buster’s hair. Unbeknownst to Buster, he had an audience peeking in through the workshop window—Destiny Stumplehorst and her three sisters.
“The missus doesn’t want you to call her ‘Mommy,’ unnerstan?”
“Yessir.”
“You can call me Pop if you want, though.”
“Okay, Pop.”
“But don’t call me Pop around the missus.”
“Whatever you say, Pop.”
After Skylar had buzzed Buster all the way down to the scalp, Buster reached up, touched the top of his head and whistled.
“Jiminy Christmas!”
Skylar then instructed Buster to take off his clothes and stand against the cinder block wall. Skylar let him have it with the fire hose. The girls outside watching had to cover their mouths as they squealed with laughter at the sight of their newly adopted naked brother. Destiny had to pull Charity’s hair to get her out of the way so she could get a good look. The girls were all dumbstruck by the size of Buster’s johnson—which, even under the duress of freezing cold water, gave the impression of a Slinky making its way down a flight of stairs.
Satisfied he’d loosened all the grime and vermin from Buster, Skylar proceeded to burn his clothes, hat, and boots. Buster was given a new pair of Carthart workman’s pants, a shirt, two pairs of skivvies, two pairs of socks, and a pair of White’s Packers.
“You’ll sleep with the other fellers in the bunkhouse.”
As they walked outside, the Stumplehorst girls scrambled out of the way.
“People in town tell ya we’re rich?”
“The Dominguezes always tole me not to listen to what people said in town.”
“Well, we’re not rich. So get that outta your head right now.”
“Yessir.”
“And be don’t be goin’ around here losin’ tools or throwin’ em on the ground. And don’t take a whole handful of toilet paper when you wipe your ass. It’s a waste of money and it clogs up the septic.”
“Yessir.”
The bunkhouse was a drafty old wooden building that leaned over on its hip as if it had been waiting a long time for a bus. Buster adjusted his clothes in his arms so he could offer his hand to Skylar and say what Sheriff Dudival had told him to say when the time was right.
“Mr. Stumplehorst…wanna say ah ’ppreciate the op-por-too-nit-ty.”
Skylar looked at him and didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. He shook his hand without saying anything. It was his wife’s idea to put him in the bunkhouse. If it had been up to him, he would have put him in the house. But it wasn’t up to him. He just hoped that Buster wasn’t going to resent the accommodations.
The men awoke at four thirty in the morning. They washed and dressed in the dark. They were then made to stand outside in the corral and hold hands while Mrs. Stumplehorst administered the Morning Prayer. Anyone who overslept or dodged the prayers was not eligible for breakfast. Every couple of weeks or so, a man from Delta came down and randomly tested their urine. Any man caught playing a musical instrument, drinking, playing cards, reading an X-rated magazine, or talking to her daughters was summarily fired. The men, of course, hated her, but like her own husband, they had no other place to go.
Buster opened the bunkhouse door and stepped inside. There was only one electric light bulb hanging from the apex of the rafters. The board and batten structure was heated by a potbelly stove in the corner. Either everyone was too lazy or too tired to stoke it. There were ten men in their cots, ages twenty-five to forty-five. The air was blue from tobacco smoke and stunk from clothes, body crevices, and feet that may not have been washed in months. The men turned to look at Buster then looked away, disinterested. They were doing a variety of things—one cowboy was stitching a torn bridle, another man was sitting on another’s back squeezing a cyst that the other man couldn’t reach himself. Some were just laying there with their eyes open looking at nothing. Buster wandered around the room until he found the only bunk available. It was situated next to a cracked window. The bed was unfortunately missing half of its slats. The mattress showed the tale of its long use with pastel splotches of yellows, ochres, and reds. Buster took the bedding that the old man had given him and patiently fixed things up as best as he could.
There was a mandatory lights-out at 9:30. Buster had chewed bits of newspaper into pulp and caulked the cracks in the wall that were blowing a steady stream of chilled air into his left eardrum. He tried to go to sleep, but he was too excited about the prospect of being a real working cowboy. As disjointed as his life had been, he felt that there was a direction, an unseen hand guiding him to where he was now—even if he was sleeping on a putrid mattress. Quietly, he slipped out the side of his bed so the other men couldn’t see him and got on his knees and prayed. He prayed for the people who had raised him, living and dead.
That night, Buster had a dream. He was the boss man on a wagon train that was heading out west to start a new life. It was a heavy responsibility—being the boss man. Some of the people he led were folks he knew—like the Dominguezes, Svendergards, and the Boyles. In each valley they came to, he had to judge the soil, the quantity and quality of the water, whether there was enough timber to build homes, churches, and schools. Each place, so far, had fallen short, and they kept moving—a train of twenty prairie schooners creaking across the slickrock and dry soil. Buster opened his eyes. He was awake, but he could still hear the creaking of the prairie schooners. Then he realized that it was the bunk beds in the room that were creaking from the men masturbating.
