The Cowboy

By Michael Berrier

It's 1970 in southern California, and ten-year-old Bobby is bummed out. His mom split and his dad's no help, and the only way Bobby can deal with it is to wish he'd lived in the old days he sees played out in his favorite Westerns, when a cowboy could tell the good guys from the bad guys as easily as seeing whether they were defending the homestead or attacking it. Things get worse after Bobby's dog, Junior, defends him from a redneck, and the fuzz want to put Junior in the pokey. Bobby calculates he'd better hit the trail with Junior, and they cut out for the Mexican border. Tracked by his family, the police, and the redneck out for revenge, his real head trip begins when he approaches the border, where everything he thought he knew starts to come unglued.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Berrier
• Release date: Nov 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223678885

Michael Berrier

Michael Berrier creates suspenseful stories about greed, corruption, and justice. Learn more at michaelberrier.com

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Hollow and still, the house huddled around him. Only memories were left here now. The walls bore the ghosts of picture frames, the carpet shadows of furniture.

Even the air seemed wanting. Laughter was needed in the air, and the voices of his mom and dad, and the barking of an adopted dog. His own footsteps were missing. They would be a child’s footsteps with small feet in footed pajamas padding like a cat’s paws, or in cowboy boots rapping on the tile to announce him.

He had removed his shoes at some point this afternoon after the packing was done and the movers left. His size twelve Reeboks leaned against one another across the room, reminding him of how long it had been since he was a boy in this house.

A cool breeze spun through the room from the open front door. Autumn itself took him back. In those days everything was new and only for him: the sunshine, the moon and stars, the seasons. Summertime was for the beaches and a warmth that could make you feel like the universe itself hugged you. Wintertime was for fireplaces and hot chocolate and decorations and presents. Springtime trees flooded with leaves and sparkled with floating bees and flies, and birds chirping and calling. But in the fall the colors turned golden and brown, leaves lost themselves from limbs going stark in preparation for winter’s sleep.

Fall. His favorite season. Here in southern California, in the fall you could get a day in the nineties or hotter as the winds drove heat across the desert toward the coast, or you could get a day like today, the air cool enough to bring on sweaters or jackets. In childhood, every season had its magic but this one, for him, was finest of all. Its onset took his mind off the start of school and turned him forward toward the holidays he loved. But it was more than that. It was the changing. Autumn was the season of change.

The click-clack of skateboard wheels drew Robert’s eyes to the doorway. A kid of ten or eleven glided past, both feet on the board, arms hanging loose at his sides, hair brushed back from his face by the wind and whipping behind him.

That was the age. That was the autumn he remembered best.

A thought occurred to him, something he’d forgotten. He had to go to the backyard for a crate to stand on, because the ladder and stepstool and everything else were already gone. With the crate he was tall enough to open the hatch in the hallway leading to the attic. Head and shoulders into the opening, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness the trunk appeared, within reach. He slid it toward him and tilted it to slip it through the opening.

He blew off a layer of the dust caked on its lid, leaving a crust that would take a rag to remove. He opened the latch. The hinges resisted, but gave.

Inside were his boyhood things, saved by his mother.

That she would pack this trunk so carefully brought a swelling flood to his chest, a mixture of sorrow and gratitude, and yearning for times that would not come again. He wanted to tell her he’d found it, and thank her.

On top of the folded clothing of a child—worn jeans and a striped crew shirt—sat a white Cattleman crown cowboy hat. He lifted it out. The felt of the brim was soft to his touch, and he ran his fingers along the curve whose shape always reminded him of a saddle seat. Turning it over, the leather sweatband bore the stains of oils and sweats from his forehead, marks from a lifetime that was at once distant and recent enough to have been yesterday.

He didn’t try it on. It wouldn’t fit anymore. But it felt good in his hands. It was like the touch of a friend.

Autumn. Cowboys and Indians. The shrill cry of a crow. A dog saved and a boy lost. The memories swept through his mind.

They drew him away.

October, 1970

Long Beach, California

1

When Bobby got to the place in the sidewalk where tree roots had buckled it up, he straddled the break and planted his feet, and looked up. His thought was to count the few leaves still clinging to the branches that reached over him, but the brightness of the Friday afternoon sun clobbered his eyes. Squinting between his fingers didn’t work. He couldn’t outsmart the sun.

He closed his eyes to let the blaze fade from under his eyelids and while he was a blind man he shifted his textbooks to his other hand. The edges of his Science and Math books had dug into his wrist. He extended his arm down next to his leg and flexed his hand.

If he was a cowboy, his sidearm would rest holstered right about there against his thigh.

The sidewalk in a cowboy’s town wouldn’t be made of concrete. It would be planks, joining the front of the general store to the place that was a combo barber shop and tooth pulling parlor. His boots would rap against the planks. He’d tip his hat to the ladies, and view the Indians hanging around the saloon with suspicion. When the gunfight came, the townsfolk would scatter, and he’d step down into the dirt street and stand at thirty paces. He’d wait for the other guy to draw because then it’d be self-defense, and plus it was the honorable thing to do when you were faster.

Hey, Bobby.

Bobby wheeled around and drew.

Nelson.

Never sneak up on a gunfighter, pilgrim.

You going to shoot me with your finger?

Bobby uncocked his weapon and holstered it. You ought to know better.

Nelson’s brown cowlick stood out to one side like a bent stalk of wheat. Behind his smudged glasses, he narrowed his eyes and looked down past Bobby.

The leaves on the sidewalk here were bigger than ranchers’ tanned hands, their flexed fingers dry and rigid. Bobby stretched for one of them and stomped. Through his worn All Stars the brittle crunch tickled the sole of his foot.

Nelson leaped onto the next uncrunched leaf. Bobby lunged for the one beyond it. The rest of the way they scrambled for the leaves, yelping every time their toes got stomped.

At 3rd and St. Joseph, Nelson peeled off toward his house. Bobby ran home.

The Imperial sat in the driveway. Dad was home early.

Bobby burst into the house. Mom! I’m home! His books clapped together on the dining room table and in the kitchen he found the graham crackers and poured a glass of milk.

Five minutes to The Rifleman.

But it was Dad who walked down the hall, not Mom, and something in the hunched way his shoulders were set made Bobby stop and stare. He came on down the hall, the only dad in the neighborhood who was a doctor too, the one they called whenever anybody was hurt.

The milk glass cooled Bobby’s fingers. He loosened his grip on the graham crackers so he wouldn’t snap them.

Dad’s hand pressed down onto Bobby’s shoulder. Son, we need to talk. His lips tightened up like they did when he was trying to loosen a stuck bolt on the Imperial.

Bobby edged away. "The Rifleman’s about to start." The T.V. screen reflected the light from the living room window as a warped white rectangle. The on-off knob stuck out above the two channel dials.

Dad knelt down. His eyes had rims of red tucked inside the lids. And his hand on Bobby’s shoulder was pinching too hard.

There’s no easy way to say this, Bobby, so I’m just going to say it. Connie—your mom’s gone.

Bobby looked over Dad’s shoulder, down the hall. He saw no movement back there, heard no sound.

Where’d she go?

Dad’s eyes flickered, going wet. Seeing it made Bobby feel like the floor was falling away.

I... she’s with some friends for a while. Then, I don’t know.

The emptiness of the house cratered around him. No footsteps came. The hallway over Dad’s shoulder was a black cave broken by sunlight streaming out of windows in rooms with nobody in them.

The ticking clock on the mantel was loud enough to shatter windows.

Bobby, your mom’s left us.

But when’s she coming back?

I don’t know.

But what... The empty house around Dad was blurring up. Bobby felt the glass of milk starting to slip from his hand. He clamped it tight.

So it’s just you and me, son. For now anyway.

Bobby spun out from under Dad’s hand and went into the kitchen. The counter at the sink was empty. No one stood there. Mom wasn’t at the refrigerator or sitting at the table stirring a cube of sugar into a cup of Lipton.

His milk glass clacked onto the cold white top of the kitchen table, and the echo in the silence was like a slap.

What had he done? There was that thing with Miss Kelly last week. Why did he have to talk back? Mom had to go to the school and talk to her, and he’d been off the T.V. for a whole afternoon for that one.

He went back to Dad, who still knelt in the living room.

Is it because I got in trouble at school last week? Because if that’s it, I won’t talk back again. I promise.

Both of Dad’s hands came onto Bobby’s shoulders, like he was trying to keep him in place the way he couldn’t keep Mom. The water seeping into Dad’s eyes made everything worse. He blinked.

No, Bobby. That’s not it. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.

He shrugged out from under Dad’s hands. Yes, it does. She’s my mom. ’Course it has to do with me.

I mean it’s not your fault, Bobby.

Don’t say it doesn’t have anything to do with me. Because it does.

Okay. Right. Yeah, that’s right.

She’s my mom. And she’s gone. He turned away and looked into the vacancy of the kitchen again. Who’s going to make dinner? You? And who’s going to— He snapped his mouth shut. Every night, after Dad said good night, Mom drifted into Bobby’s room to hug him and tuck him into bed. To tell him about the day coming up and make him giggle over something.

He rubbed his face against the short sleeve on his shoulder.

We’re going to have to figure it out, Bobby. You and me.

She’d left the kitchen windows open. The drapes she’d picked out lifted away from the wall in a cool breeze as if the outdoors was breathing—white cloth like clean bed sheets broken by a pattern of printed flowers without a fragrance. They settled back down.

"Like Lucas and Mark on The Rifleman, Bobby. Like those guys. We have to get through it like they did."

Bobby turned to his dad.

2

On the floor with his glass of milk sturdy between his knees, Bobby’s eyes never left the television. He swept a quarter graham cracker in just long enough to soften it. His head dipped down so his mouth was over the glass, and he closed his lips over the cracker and reached for another.

Square-jawed and lean, The Rifleman Lucas McCain stalked the dirt street. The Marshall was hurt, so it was up to Lucas. Bad guys always seemed to find him. The sodbuster never looked for trouble.

A soggy graham cracker melted between Bobby’s teeth, and he reached into the wax paper for another one.

His heart raced with the low charging music.

The guy in the black hat and black vest hid behind the corner of the general store. He called Lucas’s name. Lucas moved out, his rifle in one hand, his back curved like a snake. His off hand went to the rifle too, and the bad guy came out firing.

Another cracker broke. Ope! Bobby tore his eyes away from the gunfight and fingered the cracker up before it dropped to the bottom where he couldn’t get it without draining his glass. By the time he looked back to the screen, the bad guy lay hugging the dirt street and Lucas’s son Mark was sprinting out in the high western sunlight to his dad.

The music percolated along now, showing Lucas’s picture next to the names of all the people who made the show. Bobby grabbed his milk glass and the package of crackers and went to the kitchen.

What if that bad guy was sitting right there at the kitchen table?

Bobby set the glass and crackers on the counter. His hand imagined the feel of the cool steel of The Rifleman’s rifle. You picked the wrong town, Slim.

The gunfighter was thin as a hitching post. Black hat tipped back, the cocky gunfighter spat into the corner.

Don’t spit in my mom’s kitchen.

The gunfighter stood. Tall as Dad. The dried sweat on him smelled like broccoli. He sneered, and Bobby knew what was coming.

The gunfighter’s hand flashed.

With a whip, the rifle circled around under Bobby’s arm. Cocked. He dropped to the floor and rolled, came up firing.

The gunfighter flew into the kitchen door.

Dead before his back slid onto the floor.

Bobby stepped to the lifeless body. I guess you won’t spit in anybody’s kitchen again, Slim.

He flipped a coin to the bartender. Sorry for the mess.

The clink of a wrench finding a bolt outside said Dad was doing something to the Chrysler. Bobby slid some graham crackers out of the pack and snapped them. He tried to stuff them into his pocket, but when his fingers found the crumbs of this morning’s Pop Tarts he had to turn the pocket out over the trash can first.

He went back to the T.V. and flipped the knob to see if any more cowboy reruns were on. No luck. He pushed the button to turn it off and went back through the kitchen to the door and outside. The afternoon air swept cool on his face and bare arms.

Bobby could only see Dad from the belt down. On the ground at the front end of the Chrysler, Dad lay on his back, one knee up and moving slowly from side to side. Bobby bent over to see under the car.

Dad’s face tightened as he pulled at the wrench. The bolt came free and he brought the basin underneath before loosening the bolt more, then his eyes met Bobby’s, and he winked. How’d Lucas do?

With his fingers Dad unscrewed the bolt and the oil streamed out in a curved line, pinging into the bottom of the plastic basin. Then the sound was like soup coming into a bowl.

He did good. When can I have a rifle?

The oil coming out narrowed down to a trickle, and Dad replaced the bolt and tightened it. Hand me that filter wrench, will you?

Bobby found the long-handled silver tool with the metal loop on the end and reached under the car to get it to Dad’s hand.

If I got you a rifle, it wouldn’t have that special lever like Lucas has. You couldn’t cock it by swinging it around like he does. Even if your arm was long enough. He worked the loop around the oil filter and unscrewed it. With the basin underneath, he shook the oil out of the filter and set it closed-end-down in the gravel. Hand me that new filter, Bobby.

It was in a cardboard box with red letters that said Mopar. A panel of cellophane let you see inside the box so you knew what the filter looked like. He started to hand it to Dad, then thought better of it and opened the box, and slid the filter out.

I could learn the normal way first. Then maybe when I get older you could change the lever for me.

After screwing the filter in with his hand, Dad looped the filter wrench around the other way to tighten it in. Anyway, I don’t think your mother would want you having a gun at the age of ten.

Bobby inspected the pebbles in the gravel driveway for a moment.

How would Mom find out?

Dad turned his eyes, and even in the darkness under the car Bobby saw what came in them. My cigarettes are out there somewhere.

He scooted out from under the car with his wrenches in one hand. Dad’s eyes wrinkled around the edges, and he pretended he was looking hard for the cigarettes when all the time Bobby could see the pack-sized lump in the shirt pocket. Dad made a show of finding them, then shook one out and took it with his lips so he didn’t get grease on the mouth end. He wiped his hands on a rag before reaching into his pants pocket for his silver lighter. He had a way of swiping it against his leg to open it, and then back up to strike it. Smoke surrounded his face as he snapped the lighter closed.

She’d find out. He acted like it was the smoke in his eyes that made him run the back of his hand across them.

Dad used a can opener on the oil cans. He told Bobby again how he could never quite aim them to hit the oil hole right, so he had to use a funnel to keep the oil off the valve cover.

The afternoon didn’t look so bright anymore. All Bobby saw were the shadows now. Dad leaned under the hood with his eye squinted against the cigarette smoke.

When the last can was emptied, Dad checked the oil level just because it was what he did. He knew how many quarts it took but he always drew the dip stick out, checked it, and slipped it back into the sheath. He pulled it out again and brought it around to hold it in front of Bobby, the thin metal strip of the stick like a cavalry officer’s sword blade cradled in Dad’s rag.

How’s that level look to you, son?

The fresh oil gleamed clear brown on the tip, up to the top measuring line. Looks full.

Dad wiped the end off again for no good reason and slid the stick back in until all you could see was the hooked end at the side of the engine. He glanced over to make sure Bobby was well back, and then slammed the hood closed.

The headlights hid behind the panels in the grill, so all you saw across the front was the black mesh and the lines of chrome, and the word Imperial to the side like someone had written it by hand in shiny metal. The day Dad brought it home and told Mom he’d traded in the Riviera for a brand new 1969 Chrysler Imperial, Mom said they’d have to change Bobby’s middle name now, because it was Riviera for the name of the car that took them to the hospital.

Dad ran the rag over the front of the hood where his hands had been and polished the winged emblem in the center. Forgot the old oil. He stretched out again on the big sheet of cardboard that kept his back clean under there, and slid the basin out with one hand, the old filter in the other. The oil quivered like hardening Jell-o, much darker than the clear gold on the dip stick. He put the old filter in the new box and then began pouring the oil out of the basin into the funnel that was now stuck into the top of an old apple juice jug.

"Mark’s mom, on The Rifleman, she’s dead. At least Mom’s not dead."

Dad set the oil basin down and straightened, using the roots of his fingers to pull his cigarette away from his lips. An inch-long strip of ashes fell away. He put the cigarette back to his lips and drew in some smoke. It smelled like stale sweetness to Bobby.

Dad didn’t say anything. He leaned over again and took up the basin. Inside the clear jug the oil rose to the top. When Dad started filling the next jug, Bobby said, I’m going over to Nelson’s house, okay?

Yeah. Okay. Be back before dark.

3

Bobby’s stingray leaned on its kick stand on the lawn next to the driveway. He pedaled into the street and his shadow stretched out like a long black finger. No cars were coming either way. Dodges and Buicks and Fords and a Chevy waited parked at the curbs. Mr. Baldwin’s convertible Sunbeam Tiger sat there green and British, but Bobby knew it had a Ford Mustang engine.

He crossed, and a station wagon crept up the street toward him. It was a white Rambler like his grandpa’s. He stopped pedaling and peered inside, ready to brake. But it wasn’t his grandpa driving. It was a woman with her hair pulled into a ponytail. Bobby sighed and pedaled on.

Achilles the pug dog barked at him through the front window of the house across the street as Bobby rode by. Bobby waved and called to him. Four doors down, the silver ghost head of Verner the Weimaraner popped over the side yard fence between his two front paws, and his deep booming bark woofed out at Bobby. That alerted Tina and Gina, the dachshunds across the street, who went into a yipping frenzy for exactly twenty seconds.

Nelson’s house was three houses from the corner on St. Joseph Avenue. The garage door stood open as usual, and Nelson was in the driveway playing a basketball game against opponents nobody could see but him.

Bobby let his Schwinn fall onto the lawn. Who’s winning?

Nelson didn’t look up. He pumped the ball once, twice, and then leaped up and shot, falling backward.

Airball.

Bobby didn’t say anything about the agony of defeat, he just went after the ball and passed it back to Nelson. He tried a different shot and missed, and then when he made one Bobby had to duplicate it or get an H. Nelson always beat him when they played one-on-one, so they usually just played HORSE.

Bobby had HOR and Nelson just had H when Mrs. Martz came out. Bobby held the ball against his hip with his forearm and said hello.

She stepped onto the driveway. Hi, Bobby. How are you doing?

Fine.

Nelson swiped the ball and drove in for a layup.

I’ve been thinking about you, Mrs. Martz said. You and your dad need anything?

No. We’re fine.

Her fragrance reminded Bobby of a rose bush. It was different from Mom’s. Mrs. Martz squeezed his arm and patted it like he was a dog. Her eyes seemed to search every inch of his face. Straightening, her hand went onto his head, and his neck stiffened.

You tell Ed if you need anything to just say the word. Burt and I would be happy to help. Okay?

She knew. That fast, the neighbors knew.

Okay. Thanks, Mrs. Martz. Can we finish our game?

Her hand lifted from his hair and she nodded and went back inside.

After Bobby lost on an around-the-back move followed by a two-footer, they went inside and upstairs to Nelson’s room. There was already an LP on Nelson’s record player. He switched it on and set the needle on the disk and Bobby heard spooky flutes and then some bass notes, and some girls’ voices sang out.

Nelson sat on his bed and handed Bobby a record album cover. His freckles bunched at his cheeks when he smiled, his smudged glasses lifting. Fifth Dimension, he said. The Age of Aquarius. He turned the record jacket to Bobby and showed him the picture of the Black band members, three guys, with two girls between them wearing short dresses, the guy in the middle crossing his hands in front of him. Around them all was a red circle with weird words written.

Bobby tried to make out the words, but they weren’t in English. What’s that mean?

Something about Aquarius I guess. Listen. Nelson went to the record player and flipped the record over and got it spinning again and found the gap between the songs on the first try. The speaker crackled for a few seconds, then the horns came on and the voices of the girls and guys singing about letting the sunshine in and opening up your heart. Bobby stared at the pictures of the band members on the cover. They sure looked happy.

When the horns stopped, Nelson vaulted from the bed and brought the needle away from the record. Pretty good, huh?

It’s okay. Bobby picked up one of Nelson’s MAD magazines and flipped through looking for Spy vs. Spy.

If it’s not The Beatles it’s no good, huh?

I like other stuff too.

Like what?

Bobby thought through the