Bless the Beasts & Children Page 12
O twayne me a twim, where the ffubalo jym, where the rede and the telopen zoom; where nibber is nat, a conframitous rat-tat-tat.
He was dead on target. Impacted by grill and bumper at its center point, the taut linkage sheared with a twang and the two halves rolled back with release of tension like a curtain parted violently. The truck poured through and parked itself, since Cotton was evidently unable to locate the brake, on top of a small scrub cedar tree.
The Bedwetters might have managed a last, loco laugh except that Teft the sharpshooter fired again and hit something, because the lead jeep scurried behind a rise and Teft, tearing at the cartridge box, discovered it was empty.
The pickup spun wheels and hopscotched off the stunted tree and circled and came back through the gap like a traveling rodeo and Cotton, who must have found what clutch and brake were for, snubbed up just as Teft stood tall and grabbing the rifle by the barrel raised it over his head and chopped down and smashed the stock into splinters.
"Dings!" howled Teft. "Outa gas, outa hay, outa ammo —dings all the way!"
Cotton smiled. He never smiled. "Hell we are," he said. He lit another cigar and puffed omniscient smoke. Even in their condition they were dumbfounded. They drifted in to him like strays, hesitantly, fearful he had snapped his ultimate cap.
Except for the engine idling, it was very quiet. Cotton had a quick look at the herd, restless now as it nosed among weeds for alfalfa, then one at the pursuit. The jeep and two pickups and the men were five hundred yards away and closing fast.
Then he reviewed his regiment. Long gone and far out they might be, but at least they were not sucking thumbs or biting nails or grinding teeth. He smiled again, every sign of his seizure erased, and for a moment, inexplicably, he reminded them of an old soldier sitting on a bench by the courthouse in Prescott, recollecting his boyhood and watching the world go by and chewing on the idea of eternity.
"Hell we are," he repeated. "I'm proud of us. We said we'd finish and we are. That herd's gonna bust out and so're we. Now. For good."
Avoiding his loose tooth, he got a heroic grip on the cigar with his molars. "You watch, men," he told them around it. "You watch."
He shifted. The transmission shrieked. The truck lurched ahead. When he had steam up he transcribed a wide, slewing half-circle out on the range, the tailgate clanging like a tin can on a pup's tail, and bore down on the herd from the rear at forty mph. They saw him throw the cigar.
Fifty yards from the animals he laid on the horn. That did it.
The herd detonated. Forty-seven beasts and two calves jumped three feet straight up and hit top speed before they came down and tails high tore for the hole in the fence and boomed through it like greased lightning, boy and pickup and horn on their heels. They made a splendid thunder. It pulled down temples. It smote the ears of gnats and governments. It caused an impious planet to slip a cog. It must have been heard in heaven.
The Bedwetters saw the buffalo trophy bounce from the end of the bed. They saw the drover's head out the cab window and listened to him yahoo:
"Dings! Dings! C'mon, you dings, let's go!"
Two bulls led the breakout. Beyond the fence, pivoting at the last possible instant, at the verge of the rim, they split the herd. Half to the right, half to the left, it skedaddled off into the wide open spaces of these United States, where it belonged. But the Judas truck kept true and awful course.
Running and stumbling after it in shock, they did not know whether the brakes had failed or he had ignored them or tried to cut an ignition system which would not cut because it was double-wired or had forgotten the rim or whether he simply did not give a glorious goddam because it was gloriously finished and the buffalo were free, free, forever free, or what. They had a last glimpse of John Cotton's red hair flaming like a torch as the truck seemed to soar and dive and disappear. And that was all, except for the remote but unmistakable concussion of metal and rock and the recognition of its meaning, which, microseconds later, cracked their hearts even as it freed them, too, forever.
O twayne me a twim, where the ffubalo jym, where the rede and the telopen zoom; where nibber is nat, a conframitous rat-tat-tat, and the dils are not icky all doom.
The jeep and two pickups dusted through the break in the fence and stopped abruptly. A dozen men jumped from them, then hesitated.
The morning sun was steadfast now, the air blithe as a cool bottle of cola, and the countenance of the earth was fair. But a sad wind sneaked out of the canyon below, moaning baby, baby, and the blues and trembling through the pines and fanning over the preserve in farewell. It grieved.
Squinting under big hats, the men advanced, their faces grim. Some of them wore state uniforms. Some were sixpack city sportsmen and carried merciless rifles. Then they stopped abruptly.
Before them, standing frightened and defiant at the very jaw of the Mogollon Rim, were five redeye, hay-head juvenile delinquents in dirty boots and jeans and jackets with BC on the backs, one of them hugging the head and horns of a bull buffalo and all of them in tears. Lawrence Teft, III, and Samuel Shecker and Gerald Goodenow and Stephen Lally, Jr., and William Lally were bunched up bawling in their sorrow and jeering in their triumph over what seemed to be the sound of a radio. "Yah! Yah! Yah!" they sobbed and jeered at the men in ridiculous hats. "Yah! Yah! Yah!"