Chapter Seven: Moral Compass

Nathaniel

 

 

Steven parks his car in the midnight shadows beneath the trees lining the street. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up and shoves his hands in the front pocket as he walks toward his parents’ house. He uses his key to enter through the front door. The house is quiet. A faint glow from the power buttons on the television and other electronics lights one corner of the room. If anyone’s home, they’re most likely asleep at the late hour. Steven tiptoes up the stairs and along the hallway to his bedroom. He’s careful to close the door before turning on the light.

We’re greeted by a jumble of cardboard boxes and an overflowing laundry basket sitting in the middle of the floor. Steven’s bow rests on top of the heap. He sets his jaw and I wonder if he’ll crack his teeth beneath the pressure. We simultaneously stare at the open closet where everything that was inside is now stuffed into the boxes. He pulls open the top drawer of the dresser. It’s empty. The bed is made and covered with a white bedspread and pillow shams sporting very large and very feminine pink blossoms.

Steven flips open the nearest box and starts rifling through the contents.

“If you want to sleep here tonight, you will hand over your car keys and house keys right this instant,” a pissed off voice says behind us.

Steven doesn’t look at his stepmother. His breaths come short and fast, but he otherwise shows no emotion.

“Is my dad here?” he asks.

“No. And that doesn’t matter. He’s the one who told me to pack your belongings. We want you to start talking to the pastor at church, Steven. Pastor Charles agrees with me and your father that you need an intervention.”

“You need to walk out of my room, Missy.”

“I am your mother, and you will address me that way.”

“You are not my mother,” Steven says.

“I’m the only mother you have ever had,” she screeches.

“You’re a manipulative judgmental bigot. Where are my arrows?”

“Tone it down right now before you wake up your sister and brother.”

“You’re the one yelling, Missy,” Steven points out.

“I am not yelling,” she screeches again.

I cringe for Steven. The woman’s voice is enough to drive anyone bat shit mental. She has a way of hitting just the right note to irritate every nerve ending. Steven moves to another box.

“The keys, young man.” She holds out her hand. The sleeve of her fuzzy bathrobe covers half of her palm. “I’ve already made an appointment for you at our church. It’s on Monday. You’re grounded until then.”

“Screw you and your church.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me because I couldn’t be any clearer,” Steven says, finally starting to show his anger.

“God will forgive you if you try harder, you little asshole.”

The words seemed to slip out of her mouth. As soon as she says it, she drops her hand and steps back. The shock on her face is comical. Somehow, I don’t think she’s remorseful for calling her stepson an a-hole. She’s more embarrassed at exposing her true feelings.

“The self-righteous hath fallen. Don’t forget to get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness. While you’re down there, ask God why he made you into such a bitch.”

“I will not listen to this in my own home. I have tried and tried to help you find the Lord, but now I can see how pointless my efforts have been. Take your junk out of my house and go straight to hell with all the other sinners.”

“Thought I was only an asshole, now I’m a sinner, too. Thanks for straightening that out for me,” he says.

Her eyes narrow and her mouth pinches shut as if she is straining to keep quiet. She holds back any last damning sentiment and leaves. Steven fills a cardboard box with mostly clothes. He throws in a few miscellaneous items and places his bow and the pack of arrows he found in the heap on top. He carries everything downstairs and out the front door.

After loading up the car, he turns back to the house. Light on his feet and barely making a sound, Steven moves with stealth as he heads straight to the barn on the east side of the property. Steven finds the barn door locked. He says a poignant word under his breath before walking around to the individual stalls on the backside of the barn. He scales the fence, passes a sleeping horse, and lets himself inside the barn through the stall.

It’s apparent he knows what he’s after and makes a quick trip out of helping himself to a western style saddle and a pad. He throws a bridle with reins over the pile and exits the barn the same way he had come. It’s no little feat with the load he’s hauling.

So… my client is a thief. I guess I could give him the benefit of the doubt and assume the saddle is his, but my instincts are screaming that this kid would lie, cheat, and steal if it pleased him to do so.

“How’s it going?” I ask while leaning against his car.

He stops skulking toward the vehicle. A silent and weighted pause rests between us before he asks, “What are you doing out here?”

“Observing the universe.”

“I don’t have time to stargaze or whatever the hell you’re doing. Excuse me.” He walks to the trunk holding the bulky cargo.

“Is that your saddle?” I ask trying to sound conversational.

“Yeah,” he says from behind the trunk lid.

“You sure?”

“What’s it to you?” He closes the trunk with a small and carefully quiet click before walking around the car and opening the driver’s side door.

“Kind of odd to be taking a horseback ride at this time of night.” I let him hear my suspicions.

“It’s not any of your business, but my friends and I like to get an early start when we go hunting. On horseback.”

He adds the last part as if I couldn’t figure out his meaning on my own. Steven closes the door and drives off without another word. If only he knew that I am going to be haunting him every step of the way.

Steven checks his phone as we head out of town and toward the reservation land. I read his text messages.

Bull’s Horn. Witching hour.

It’s obviously only for him to know, but I can guess it’s a location and the witching hour is probably midnight, seeing that he’s driving twice as fast as he should be over the rattling washboard covered back roads.

The last stretch of deserted trail he turns onto is a dry gulch. He manages the car well, avoiding hazardous boulders and the largest of the scrubby bushes. The sides of the arroyo begin to rise around the car until we’re surrounded by vertical walls of the crumbling soil. He drives around a wide curve and we see two trucks in the headlight beams. Steven parks alongside Dominic’s pickup truck and flips off the lights.

“Look who came out to play,” someone says as Steven steps out of the car.

“Mommy dearest let you have a play date?” another guy taunts.

“Shut your corn hole, Trent.” Steven walks over to Dominic and they grip hands in some sort of dap greeting.

“I was about to give up on you,” Dominic says.

“Had to stop by the house first.”

“She still harping on you?”

“Worse than ever,” Steven says.

“Tonight should pick you up then. It’s going to be sweet victory. Come over here and let me do your paint.”

Dominic struts over to the truck, opens the door, and the interior light comes on. On the seat are a couple of tins of paint. Dominic makes a quick job of it as he dips in two fingers into the black pigment and swipes them across Steven’s cheeks and forehead. He draws a wide black smile around his mouth then uses a clean finger to smear white paint on Steven’s lips, creating a ghoulish grin.

“There. Now you are with us.” He holds his fist to Steven’s chest.

Steven lights a cigarette and asks, “Who is that with Trent?”

“Arrio. He’s my cousin’s friend from Wyoming. He has connections up north.”

“You trust him?”

“He wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Steven gives a curt nod of acceptance.

Dominic slaps the top of Steven’s shoulder. “You ready?”

“Let’s do it,” Steven says with his usual lack of emotional engagement.

Dominic calls to the guys lurking behind the other pickup truck. “Load out. We’re climbing over the Bull’s Horn to our stash. Then we’ll ride to Cottonwood Ranch where we’ll take as many as we can grab.”

Steven jogs over to his car and quickly rearranges the contents of his backpack. He grabs a canteen, spare shirt, his can of lighter fluid, some rags, two different pocketknives, and various candy and granola bars. He straps his bow and arrows to the pack and slips his gear over his back. After locking his car, he crushes his cigarette under his shoe and jogs to catch up with the others. They choose a path heading east out of the ravine and begin a trek up the side of a shrub covered mountain.

“Who scouted this place?” Steven asks.

One of the three guys in front of Steven says, “The barn is forty yards from the main house. There are two motion sensor lights, so we’ll take care of those first. The place borders BLM land on the east and south. Forest to the west. As long as we head in any of those directions, we’ll be in the clear.”

“Anything we should be keeping our eyes peeled for? Dogs or bastards with shotguns?”

“Shotguns, for sure,” one of the others say.

They keep their voices low, even though I know there isn’t another human within miles.

“The old man has help during the day, but his guys leave before dinner. All the lights are out by ten every night. We’ll be back at camp in two hours flat.”

“Shut your mouth, Trent, unless you’re willing to make a wager on what happens out there tonight,” Dominic says.

“I’m more than willing to place a bet on tonight’s raid. My share for yours if we’re not back to the new camp in ninety minutes or less,” Trent says.

“I bet it’ll take two and a half hours,” Arrio says.

“I’m in,” Steven says. “Trent appreciates living below poverty level so damn much he’ll keep runnin’ his mouth all night long. I say we’re back at base in two hours and ten minutes.”

“Easy for you to give up your portion. Not all of us have a rich white stepmother paying our meal ticket,” Trent says.

“She doesn’t give me shit and you know it.”

Dominic interrupts then, “If any of you are in this for easy money, turn the fuck around and take your greedy asses home.”

“Settle down. We’re all here for the same reasons,” Trent says.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Dominic says. “Steven, tell us why we’re here.”

I watch my client’s face as we hike over the rough ground. He’s mostly hidden under the face paint and cover of the night, but I notice his eyes harden.

“We are warriors,” he says with a militant attitude I’ve never heard before. “We’re remembering what it takes to be badass. We raid our enemies and steal their power. Horses are a symbol of influence and freedom. We will have it for us. For our Nation.”

“We’re not even from the same tribes,” Trent mutters.

“You leave now,” Dominic orders.

“I’m kidding, man. You know I’m committed to our band of brothers. I live for this raiding business,” Trent retracts.

The fourth guy adds, “Yo, Dominic, you need the money as much as any of us. And money is power.”

“Arrio, you just want to win the bet with Trent,” Steven says.

“Hell yes, I do. And unless Kitchi Manitou sets fire to our horses’ tails, there ain’t no way we’ll be back to base in less than ninety minutes.”

“Money is a form of power,” Dominic says. “But it is not the reason we do this. We raid those who are weak and undeserving. Every horse we take increases our strength and proves we are worthy to defeat others. Now, shut up, all of you.”

The young men fall into line and set a steady pace up and over the rocky, brush covered mountain. They carry no flashlights and make their way by a thin sliver of moonlight. The descent down the western slope is not as steep and they arrive at their first destination near the base of the hillside.

Six horses shuffle about inside a makeshift corral behind the remnants of an old log building. The location of the dilapidated and unrecognizable structure backs up to a narrow low-walled box canyon. Strings of barbed wire stretch from the old building to the canyon walls on the right and left, creating a horse enclosure with natural walls of crumbling earth and stone on the sides and the rear.

I observe the guys unearth saddles and horse tack from beneath camouflage tarps covered with brush and tumbleweeds. Flashlights are brought out only long enough to saddle up, check the cinch straps, and inspect their gear.

An excited undercurrent zings through their quick and sharp movements. Sly nods pass between them. An occasional flash of teeth as they harass and insult one another in whispers. The horses are sensitive to their moods. Steven’s horse continues to paw at the ground and blow or snort every few minutes. The animal has to be separated from the others after a snap of teeth at Arrio’s mount. Steven’s competent and steady hands remain firm as he finishes saddling.

Dominic’s height and wide shoulders make him easy to spot in the dark. He appears from around a cedar or pinon tree. The trees all look more or less the same to me. With that thought, I hear Juliana’s voice in my head. There are many different species growing in the high desert. I can teach you how to identify them. She would offer and I would accept, then find myself staring at her mouth and not paying much attention to the various species names.

“Do you want my mare?” Dominic asks.

“No,” Steven says. “We’ve reached an understanding and I don’t want to jinx it. Not tonight.”

“You and this asshole gelding are on good terms already?” Dominic asks with suspicion.

“Yep,” Steven says. “He takes me straight to his new girlfriend, and I’ll give him the peppermints inside my pocket.”

“Bribery. Good thinking.”

They mount and ride northeast. How am I going to watch this happen and not interfere? Is tonight going to be the end for Steven? It’s highly probable. No matter what traditions a person believes in, or what timeframe in history he or she lives in, horse thieving and raiding are seriously illegal business.

Four young guys are out thrill seeking. They couldn’t go prove themselves by jumping out of an airplane with a parachute strapped to their backs or kayak the river. There are some of the largest mountain peaks in the country a short distance away. Couldn’t they climb a fourteener and leave their signature inside the can? Make their mark by hiking up the side of a mountain with virtually no oxygen and live to tell about it. No, not these four misguided souls. They want to take their power back. Literally steal their power and trade it away for fast illegal cash.

How am I going to handle this? If I could turn my back and go stay the night with Juliana, I would be a much happier camper. This is what I get. I keep telling myself I wasn’t cut out for the position of Angel of Death, and tonight reaffirms it. I declare my assignment as utter bull crap. I stare at the millions of stars overhead while listening to the clink of metal, the creak of leather, the clopping of hooves. The song of the west. Staring up at the vast sea of the heavens, all I can think is, I hope someone’s getting a good laugh at seeing me reach the end of my rope. My wits end is frayed and I’m unsure how long I have before it snaps.

An unmeasured number of miles later, the guys slow the pace as we near the crest of a small rise. A distant light brightens the corner of a house too far to make out much of the details. I leave Steven and his gang to check out the place. The house is typical of northern New Mexico. Stucco covered walls with a flat roof and plenty of vigas and corbels. A low wall surrounds a courtyard with an inner garden and a chiminea fireplace with its bulbous shaped body sits near the wall. The barn is a good forty yards from the house. The house and outbuilding are quiet. Trent was correct in his scouting of the place. If there are horses in the barn, it should be easy pickings.

When I return to my client, I find them near the top of a hill out of sight of the house and outbuildings. Their excitement hums in the cool night air. Steven’s horse refuses to hold still. In the relative silence, his animal and saddle sound like a tornado moving through the brush and weeds.

“Hobble your animal over there. He’s making the others nervous,” Arrio says.

Arrio’s voice sounds more nervous than the horse, but I’m not an expert on horses.

“You should stay here with the animals while we go in to grab the others,” Steven says.

“No fucking way, puto. I didn’t come out tonight to be the camp bitch.”

“Shut up,” Dominic says, and they instantly quit bickering.

“Arrio is new and he’s going to prove himself tonight. We’re going inside.”

“Steven and Trent, you’re going to keep a look out and signal if anything comes up.”

“Whatever,” Steven says, and starts to walk his horse away from the others.

“Everyone, tie your horses and meet back here,” Dominic says.

The plan is simple. Trent and Dominic will cut the fence, opening a pathway for easy escape. Trent moves ahead and disables the motion sensor lights by either, A: sneaking past the sensors and cutting the wires, or B: shooting them with his CO2 pellet pistol. Dominic and Arrio will enter the barn after Trent gives the all clear.

Steven is to remain the lookout for the others. He’s also in charge of making sure the escape route isn’t compromised. Should anything unforeseen happen, Steven is the fallback guy. Watching out for everyone and being quick on his toes. Once the others return, he’s supposed to help manage the new horses and prepare them for the getaway.

As soon as Dominic, Arrio, and Trent are out of sight, I make quick work of scattering two of the hobbled horses who are out of sight and hearing range of Steven.

I materialize inside the barn and look for any way I can stall these jackasses. Fate is a tricky player in terms of what can and can’t be manipulated. I don’t have clearance to fool around with Steven’s accomplices’ futures, but I’m not going to stand by and do nothing. Steven’s fate, on the other hand, is why I’m here. There isn’t much time to stir things up and return to him before his buddies expect his help.

There’s a stack of lumber and some tools in the corner of the barn. Thinking quickly, I jam the main barn door closed with a long board. The horses stir inside the stalls. The sound of heavy bodies shifting about accompanies the thump of a hoof bumping into a wall. I roll a wheelbarrow full of muck in front of the other barn door. Before leaving, I scatter a pile of rakes and shovels around the barn floor with the hope one of these idiots will trip or receive a nice hard whack in the face or shins. There’s little else for me to do without having more time and more light. Aware that my little booby-traps could injure the horses as well, I grab some loose twine lying near the haystack and quickly tie it together in a long rope. Outside the building, I string the twine from post to post slightly below shin level and tie it nice and taut. Hopefully, Dominic and Arrio will trip before ever opening a single door.

By the time I’m finished, Trent is nearing the barn. Dominic and Arrio cut the final section of pasture fence closest to the paddock and barn.

Steven pulls the fencing out of the way. He always seems aware of the small details. With his work as a roadie, he’s neat, organized, and precise. He doesn’t talk a lot, but he listens well, and when he has something to say, I notice his coworkers and the band members take his suggestions seriously. A boy this intelligent and talented should not be risking his life for deadly and illegal fun and games.

After taking care of the fence, Steven adjusts his backpack and then retrieves his bow from the ground. As soon as I think the others are out of earshot, I snap a branch with my foot.

Steven freezes in place and then slowly crouches. There’s a couple of cedar trees, could be junipers, but they’re all cedar trees to me, blocking his three-sixty view. I whistle a few notes from one of The Shy Lights’ songs. It’s a catchy melody and one they had been working on in the studio earlier.

“Don’t fuck around, Trent,” Steven whispers.

I don’t speak. Maybe tonight will have a higher entertainment factor than I previously thought. If I’m stuck doing a job I’m not cut out for, I should make the best of it. In all honesty, I don’t want Steven to take his life. But this kid doesn’t even act suicidal. He’s more reckless than anything. Since he doesn’t seem to be the emotional gooey type who is searching for answers and the meaning to life, I’m going with scaring him straight.

Steven begins moving away from me toward his horse. His head moves back and forth as if continually scanning the barn, the house, and the uneven surface of the ground.

I rattle the nearest tree and whisper in a very cheesy ghost-like voice, “Crime never pays.”

Steven whips his knife out and spins around. When he doesn’t see me, he begins walking much faster.

“Turn yourself in and right your wrongs,” I call, and try my hardest not to laugh as he starts to run.

I hear a crashing sound from down the hill and my wicked grin spreads from ear to ear. Dominic or Arrio probably ran into my wheelbarrow or pile of leaning lumber. God, I hope the rancher wakes up from the noise.

“Who’s out there?” Steven hisses in the dark. He must have heard the crash as well, because he slows and stares in the direction of the barn.

“Ho, ho, ho,” I sing.

“Santa?” Steven says, his confusion clear. He thrusts his knife into the empty air.

“Green Giant,” I finish the completely random jingle and wait to see how my client responds. The catchphrase used to get stuck in my head when I was a kid, and for some random reason, it’s back. “Are you eating your vegetables, Steven?”

I pick up some pebbles and throw them at his back, then disappear again before he sees me.

“How do you know my name?” He shoves the knife into its sheath and readies his bow.

“I’m your conscience, Steven. That’s a long-distance weapon, isn’t it?”

His head jerks away in reflex as another pebble bounces off it.

“Get out of here before I kill you,” he says.

“Get on your horse and ride away.”

“Are you too afraid to show yourself?” His bow swings around, finding nothing to aim at.

“Your friends are about to have their lives ruined,” I say to Steven’s back.

I take a quick peek down the hill. The back door of the house slams opens and a shotgun blast deafens every living thing in the surrounding area. A high beam flashlight lights a path toward the barn. Two men rush out of the house and across the yard. At the same time, we hear the horses whinny and neigh. The unmistakable sound of stampeding hooves rumbles through the ground. The men run for the barn. The flashlight beam dances and splashes light off various surfaces.

Steven lets the arrow fly after I tap him on the shoulder. To this point, I haven’t let him see me. “It’s not worth it,” I say.

But Steven isn’t paying attention to me any longer. He runs toward the fence line. The horses gallop into the paddock. I can’t tell if Dominic or Arrio are with the horses. Steven stays low to the ground and scrambles to the opening they cut in the fence. One of the horses nears the fence, but changes direction and trots away, trailing a lead rope. One of the guys appears as a shadow as he runs in our general direction. The beam of light passes over him, sweeps across the paddock, and returns.

A shotgun blast tears through the night. Dominic, Arrio, or Trent scream and collapse to the ground. Steven runs after the dangling lead rope of the horse and jerks the animal around, slaps its rump and sends the surprised horse through the open fence. The horse gallops across the hillside and disappears. In a crouching run, Steven hurries to his fallen comrade, but Trent is already back on his feet and running toward the opening. Another shot fires and hits Trent in the back of the leg. Steven catches his friend and they both take a tumble. Another shot skims Steven’s backpack.

I have only a second to wonder if my client is now officially on his way to crossing over to the afterlife when the pounding of hooves is so close, I think Trent and Steven are going to be trampled.

“Run! He won’t shoot his own horse,” Dominic says.

Dominic’s lying low across the horse’s back, heels dug into its sides, and hands fisted around the reins. He circles the horse around his friends, giving them time to regain their feet. The horse prances, anxious and stressed. The white of its eye flashes in the light from the ranchers.

Steven makes a run for the fence, but Trent cannot even stand. Dominic kicks the horse into high gear and gallops past Steven and into the desert night. The flashlight beam at his back, another shotgun blast fires and I see Dominic’s body jerk to the left, but he somehow manages to hang on. So much for not firing at the horse, I think. The last shot had a distinctly different blast than the shotgun. Steven makes it to the cover of the trees and high tails it away from the ranch.

By the time he reaches his horse, Dominic is almost ready to mount his horse and has the stolen one leashed to his saddle.

“It’s a fucking bitch doing this with one arm,” he says.

“You’re shot?” Steven asks.

“Yeah,” Dominic hisses.

“I don’t hear anyone else coming,” Steven says.

“They’re trying to figure out what the hell happened and get out of there,” Dominic growls through clenched teeth.

Steven whips out his flashlight and shines it on Dominic’s arm. He removes his backpack and yanks out his extra shirt. “Man, you’ve got to stop bleeding.”

“Help me out. I can hardly move my arm.”

Steven uses his knife to slice a T-shirt down the middle. He rolls it into a long strip and ties the bandage around Dominic’s right bicep where blood oozes out of a nasty gash. He wipes Dominic’s blood off on his pants and then inspects his hands in the pale moonlight. His left hand is even darker than before he tried to wipe them clean. Steven stares at his leg. I can’t see anything wrong with his black pants, but he says, “Shit. Trent was bleeding bad. This is really bad.”

“Don’t think about it right now,” Dominic orders. “We gotta ride.”

“Where are the other damn horses?” Steven asks.

“I don’t know. Something is way off tonight. You feel it?”

“Yeah. I feel it. Where’s Arrio?” Steven asks as he moves to the left side of his horse.

“Lost sight of him. He knows what to do if we separate. Let’s get the hell out of here, brother.”

They throw themselves into the saddles and urge the horses into a full gallop. Ravines are avoided, but the horses barely slow down as they barrel through brush and gullies. We’re most of the way back to their base camp when we hear a coyote call over the unceasing rhythm of hoof beats. Steven calls back with two quick yaps and slows his horse to a trot. He pivots around in the saddle and we stare into the rolling landscape.

Arrio appears out of the black distance. His horse’s breath is labored from the exertion, as is Arrio’s.

“Did Trent make it? Did you see anything?” Steven asks.

“They loaded him into an ambulance. I don’t know if he was breathing,” he says between heavy pants.

“Did you hang around for the after party or what?” Dominic asks.

“Shit, man. I was hiding in the bushes forever and then my horse walked right in front of me. No one’s coming after us. I was careful to make sure.”

“What about the other two?” Steven says, eyeing the other two horses trailing behind Arrio.

“I found them on the way. They were standing there side by side. After another fucking disaster, there’s no way I was leaving them.”

“Trent’s horse?” Steven asks.

“Never saw it,” Arrio says.

“Damn,” Dominic says. “I thought the damned filly was gone for good.” He thumps his chest with his good hand and howls a battle cry into the night.

Arrio adds his own victory whoop. Steven and his friends manage to grin at one another. Their painted faces look like eerie smiling nightmares in the dead of night.

“You’re coming on every raid from now on. We need someone with your luck,” Dominic says.

“Steaks and beers on me as soon as we’re back to your house,” Arrio says.

“Steaks and beers should wait until this herd is loaded into the trailers and out of state,” Steven says.

“Whiskey and ribs on delivery day,” Dominic says and clicks his tongue, urging his horse back into a lope.