Under the Wild Wyoming Skies

"All right. I guess you'll hear about it sooner or later. Miss Compton is from Gilbert. Her daddy's got a nice place south of there and, well, he's doing okay. Diana is his only daughter, he's got five sons, so off to college she goes.

"When she shows up here for a teaching job. Holly Cow! What a looker! Her hair was much longer then and she always wore a dress, nothing too short mind you, a church going dress if you know what I mean, but a dress nonetheless. She had guys lined up clear to the expressway wanting to date her. That is until this thing with Boyd Nelson popped up."

"What happened?"

"You want to tell the rest of story, Floyd?"

"Boyd's murder certainly got the public's attention. Boyd, rest his soul, wasn't much to look at. So here's this pretty young schoolteacher that's known around here for wearing dresses, and she's the last person seen with Boyd, and guess what? She's wearing a dress when that farmer finds her on the road. Well, shucks, the paper had a ball. They called it the 'dressed to kill murder.'"

"Go on and tell him the rest," Walter said.

"I'm not making this up, Jack, but somehow the entire town knew the prosecutor let it leak out. He wanted in the worst way to hang Diana for Boyd's murder. Heck, there hasn't been a murder in this county in forty years. Personally, I think he did it just to ruin her life.

"Then when the young hotshot prosecutor can't solve it, well, shit, the press had a grand old time with that, too.

"Anyway, according to the information leaked, every opening in Boyd Nelson's body had been filled with red Shell grease."

I noticed that Pete stopped working on my hair. "Every hole?" I asked.

Floyd leaned out from his chair. "Jack, I'm telling you this because you seem like a decent sort of fellow, but yes, Boyd had grease in his ears, eyes, and down his throat."

"Tell him the rest," Pete said.

Floyd leaned back and placed the palms of his hands on his knees. "Very well. Whoever killed Boyd Nelson pumped at least three tubes of grease inside his bowels. The pathologist was reported to have found at least half a tube of grease pumped into Boyd's penis."

"Jesus, why?"

Floyd pushed back into his chair. "That, Jack, is the ten million dollar question. While no one ever came forward to take the responsibility of leaking that to the press, it served whatever purpose the person that leaked it wanted."

"How so?"

"It isolated her from society. News of how Boyd had his private parts filled with grease spread like a wild fire in August. Even though Myers was able to keep Diana's job, the Diana Compton that we knew three years earlier vanished. She cut her hair back and from that day on, no one, and I mean no one, has seen her in a dress. Heard tell she won't wear one no matter what.

"And dating? Not around her. I'd bet she'd have to go the Montana or perhaps Texas to find a guy that would diddle her. She hasn't had a decent guy court her in years, and if she finds one, once he finds out about Boyd's penis full of grease, he'd hightail it out of here faster than a scalded pig at a BBQ."

"She carries a gun all the time now, too," Pete said as he put the finishing touches on my haircut.

"A Browning 1911. Heard tell her daddy bought it for her," Walter said.

"Rumors have it she's a fairly good shot, too," Pete said.

With that, the conversation about Diana Compton seemed to quietly die away. I wondered if she had an agenda that could be harmful to me. I had to ask.

"Floyd, do you think Diana Compton killed Boyd Nelson?"

"The grand jury didn't indict her."

"That's not what I asked. Do you think she killed Boyd?"

"No, I don't believe so." Floyd shook his paper and pretended to read it.

"What're you runnin' from, son?"

"I don't know what you mean? I'm not running from anything."

"Sure you are. You don't get on a bike and ride from the East coast to this two horse shit hole town if you're not running from something or looking for something. Maybe a little bit of both, maybe a little bit of neither. Somehow, I can't believe you woke up one morning and decided to ditch everything you own, pack the saddle bags of that bike with clean shorts, and head out here to be a farmer."

He looked over his glasses then returned to the paper. "It was a woman wasn't it? Bet she hurt ya' bad to hightail it out to the Bookmen farm. You got yourself a job yet?"

"Not yet. I've turned in an application."

"Where in God's name?" Walter asked, "Not much around here that a city boy like you could possibly do. You sure as shit don't look like no cowboy."

"I applied at the high school. I'm a teacher. I teach American government, mostly, with a bit of science thrown in. I taught in NYC school number twenty-two in Hell's Kitchen in Manhattan."

"Seen some shit I bet," Pete said, "It's on the news about how those big city schools are full of drugs. It's too bad."

"And you think your schools out here are drug free? If you do, I'm sitting in a room full of fools."

"I didn't mean it like that, Jack," Pete said. "We know there's a problem in our schools, too. We certainly have our share of no-good kids."

"I don't believe kids are inherently bad. They're raised badly."

"You have yet to meet Vincent Cookson. Now he's a piece of work."

"Pete's right," Walter said, "he's been held back a few times in middle school, but now that he's in high school, the teachers are pushing him through the system so they won't have to deal with him a second year."

"That bad?" I asked.

"He's rotten. If you look under a fresh cow pie, you'll find Vincent Cookson."

"What about his parents?"

"His old man drives a truck. Runs from the west coast to someplace in Florida, so he's never home much."

"And his mother?"

"No one can remember seeing her leave. According to Vin, that's what he's called around here, Mom ran off with a man she met at the truck stop."

"How will I recognize him?"

"Oh, that's easy. He'll be the one holding a knife to your throat."

No one said a word for the longest time. The only sound was that of the scissors as they opened and closed.

Finally, I asked, "So where's a good place to get a bite to eat in this town?"

"Can't go wrong with Russ's place," Walter said.

Homer looked at him. "I won't take my worst enemy to Russ's place. Their salads taste like rotten hay."

"You'd know, too, you old horse."

"And what's that supposed to mean? Just because your daughter-in-law works there, doesn't make it the only place in town to eat."

Floyd never lowered his paper, yet I could see his head moving side-to-side. It was time for me to leave. "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. First one is on the house."

"I can't let you do that." I reached for my wallet when he put his hand on my shoulder.

"Anyone that bought the Bookmen farm needs all the money he can get. I'll catch you the next time." He pushed a business card into my shirt pocket. "We take appointments, but come in anytime."

"I'll be sure to do that." When I turned toward the door, the three of them were going at it with gusto about where the best place to eat was. The front door slammed closed when I stepped outside.

Russ's place seemed as good as any, and besides, it was only a block or so from the barbershop. It wasn't busy, and the sweet looking young girl wearing a cowboy hat and a black tank top took me to a table by the front window. I ordered, and while I waited I pulled out the card Pete gave me. I let the card slip through my fingers as I tapped it on the table. I flipped it over and that's when I noticed there was some writing on the back.

In small block letters it read: 'Only a fool would sleep with a murderer like Diana Compton.'

************Chapter four*********

At last I had a local bank account, and was able to move some money from New York to Culver. Things would be tight until I fount out about the teaching job at the school, and the old guys in the barbershop were right, it was hard to find a job around there that I was able to do. I sure wasn't a cowboy.

I pointed the Indian toward my house and when I came down the lane, I noticed a red pickup truck with a blue tailgate. There was only one person that I knew of who drove a truck like that, and that was Diana Compton.

I heard the sound of a hammer driving home. Around back, there she was nailing some lumber together. She wore a white cowboy hat and she was completely unaware of me. She slipped the hammer back into her work belt. Within arms reach lay that Browning 1911. I wetted my lips and kind of scuffed the bare soil with my foot.

"Oh, there you are. Been wondering when you'd get back. You can't be a farmer without some chickens, and you can't have chickens without a chicken coup. This old one needed a few fixes."

"What is it about you and hammers? I didn't ask for this."

"I know."

"Then why are you here?"

She shrugged. "Thought you and me might hook up tonight."

"I told you the other week I'm not able to do anything like that yet. Car accident, remember?"

"We could try... Look." She pulled out a white cooler from under a small blue tarp, and when she opened the top, it was filled to the brim with beer and booze."

"What makes you think I want to?"

Something snapped in my head and I kicked the cooler across the yard. Its contents exploded across the dirt and rocks. It's not too often that someone can gets my wagon out of the barn, but she did. I really didn't know why, but she did. "I'll pay for your material and your labor as soon as I am able to, but right now get out of my life! I didn't ask for your help and I sure as hell don't want your help. Move! Get off of my land!"

I could see her eyes turn watery and she threw her hat on the ground. "I thought we might have something between us. I came over here because I thought you might have felt something for me, too. I thought wrong! No wonder she dumped your ass!"

I pointed toward the lane. "Get out of here you psycho bitch!" I kicked a pile of wood scraps and sent them flying.

I forgot about the gun until she reached out for it. That was it, I was as good as dead! She wrapped the belt around the holster and tucked it under her arm. She took a dozen steps and stopped.

"I'm lonely! I wanted a friend. Maybe a friend with benefits. You go to hell, Jack!"

She stormed down to her truck and it started with a puff of blue smoke. She smashed the accelerator and sprayed rocks across the front of the house. I watched as the blue tailgate vanished down the lane.

Before the dust settled across the front of the house, I went back to survey the damage I had done. It's so not like me to act that way. Perhaps it was all that talk the other day in the barbershop. Everything was so damn strange. Maybe this was all a colossal mistake on my part. Did I really want to live in Wyoming?

The ice cooler had a large gaping slashed down the side, and its contents were spewed all across the backyard. There were at least four broken half-pints of bourbon that the parched soil soaked up, tainting the ground a dark brown. There was a chirp, chirp, sound coming from a cardboard box. When I opened the top, there in the middle huddled a dozen peeps. Great, that all I need; more mouths to feed. I turned the box on its side, and the little ladies made a mad dash out into the world.

Diana's hat lay where she had thrown it, and it made no sense to leave it lying in the sun. I snatched it and put it under my arm.

The front door slammed closed behind me and I paced the floor before finally settling down into a chair. Right now all I wanted was a good stiff drink and to be left alone.

********Chapter five**********

It had been over a week and I had yet to hear a peep from either the school board or from Diana. I stayed on the farm, trying to fix what I could with what little money I had. With every journey to town, I kept my eyes out for that red truck with the blue tailgate. I hadn't seen Diana. I guess deep down inside I wanted to talk to her, and tell her I was sorry about how I acted. Could she had been right? Were there feelings I had been trying to mask that seemed to grow stronger with each day? I was confused. I was lonely, too. Mistakes were made. No matter where I looked, there was no sign of Diana. I wanted to talk to her.

There was no news from the school. I was thinking that I may had been a bit hasty in signing my name on the loan for the place.

Days passed and the nights were becoming unbearable. It was so quiet. There was nobody around. In New York, there were millions of people in a city that never sleeps. I hated the night and the quiet it brought. I longed for those days before Alexandria, when I could do what I wanted when I wanted for as long as I wanted.

I was so lonely. All I wanted was someone to talk to. Why did I come out here?

Seconds seemed like hours. I had kept my promise to Alexandria. I brought her out here to Wyoming. And that promise I made to her mother? I fulfilled it as well. I was under no obligation to stay. I needed a drink, and that was what I was going to do!

The Indian started with a few kicks and I pointed her down the road. Alexandria told me my drinking was a monster and I must never let the monster out. I felt the need. Don't let the monster out. Don't let it out!

The Indian surged with the twist of my wrist. Gravel exploded from the rear tire. I needed to feel the burn one more time. Keep the monster inside I told myself yet I knew better. Another twist and the Indian roared down the road as though the bike owned it. Feed the burn. Faster. Trees merged into a solid blur as I went by. Faster. I felt the burn. I needed to feed it!

*******

By the time I got into town, the stars were shining while a crescent moon sat high in the sky. I pulled up front to a place called Mint. It looked like every bar I've ever gotten shit faced in.

The place wasn't busy, it was early in this cow town, so I settled down in front of the bar. The ashtrays were overflowing with cigarettes butts. George Jones sung of a lost love on the jukebox.

How many dreams, wishes, and regrets had this plank of bleached wood heard? The thousands of tears from men that fell upon it? A lost love? A cheating lover? Broken dreams? And all those problems were smoothed over by the bottles lined up neatly behind the bar. But only for a sliver of time. Then it wears off, and you're back again, elbows on the wood, crying to yourself. Dying inside. Feeding the burn...

"Hello, cowboy, what's your pleasure?"

Standing behind the bar was a woman with huge boobs that were about to overtop the wife beater tee shirt she had on. She wore a black cowboy hat. I was beginning to hate those things. She blinked her mascara-laden eyes, and leaned in allowing those tits to damn near tumble onto the bar.

"I'd like two..."

"I bet you would. But we're talking drinks aren't we? Two of what, cowboy?"

It was next to impossible not to stare at those creamery mounds of delight, but I managed to say weakly, "Bourbon. Two shots of Bourbon whiskey. I don't care what brand."

She allowed me a few extra seconds to admire her cleavage before she went to the bottles behind the bar. My fingers were beginning to sweat. I could almost taste the burn of the alcohol as it flowed down the back of my throat. My heart pumped. The hairs on my arms began to tingle. What's she waiting for? Jesus Christ! Bring me my damn drinks!

She slipped a paper napkin on the bar and gently placed them down without spilling a drop. I'm in love with the woman. She knows how to serve a thirsty man his booze.

I slipped her some money and she brought back the change. "If you want anything else, just whistle... You can whistle can't you? All you do is pucker your lips and blow."

"I just might do that." She winked at me.

The shot glasses were in a row like a short train of pleasure and I was about to get onboard. Two years and a handful of months I'd been on the wagon. I quit counting the weeks long ago. What had it gotten me? Nothing! Absolutely nothing. Stay sober she said, that's all Alexandria and her rich bitch friends would tell me.

It didn't matter if she would snort up two or three lines of coke. That was fine. Just fine. I'd catch hell if I had a beer. But wasn't there. She was dead, and I didn't have to listen to her anymore. I reached out for the first shot glass when someone stopped my hand.

"Let's go!"

I turned, and there stood Diana.

"You don't tell me what to do, besides, I ain't going no place until my drinks are gone."

"Jack, let's go. Let's go now."

I ignored her. "Not until these are gone."

My fingers were almost around the first shot glass when she snatched it out of my hands, put it to her lips, and downed it in a matter of seconds. Before I could say another word, she picked the second glass from the bar and polished it off.

"They're gone and we're leaving. Don't make a scene, Jack." Her hand rested on the butt of that cannon she carried strapped to her waist.

"All right. All right. I'll go." She and I walked out.

"Get in the truck." She pointed a finger toward the passenger side.

The truck rumbled to life. She started to drive south out of town. "You taking me out here to shoot me?

"No. We need to talk."

"Out here? In the middle of absolutely nowhere, you and I are going to have a nice little chat?"

We had run out of pavement miles ago. Gravel hammered under the old Ford. I wondered what she was up to. Diana was the one with the gun. Should I try and take it from her? There was not much of her but damn, she was strong. The truck slowed and she pulled it off along the road, then down into a sort of clearing. The truck shuddered and then stopped. It was quiet. Too quiet for me.

"Let's go," Diana announced. She pulled a flashlight out from the center console.

"You have my grave already dug?"

"I'm not going to hurt you. I only want to talk to you."

"Out here? Way out here?"

"We needed someplace private to talk."

"The whole God damn state is private. I could fuck a kangaroo in my front yard and nobody would know about it."

We followed a path while the flashlight cut through the darkness. I didn't see her gun in the holster; it was empty. She must have had it in her hand.

"Where are we going?"

"This place is called Sparkle Rocks by the kids. They come out here to neck and have a good time."

"Why do they call it that?"

Diana didn't need to answer me when we stepped into another clearing. There was an outcropping of black and gray granite that was about half the size of a football field. The quartz in the granite twinkled when the moonlight hit it just so. Depending on where you looked, the rocks seemed to sparkle in blues and white. They almost seemed to move. We walked to the middle, surrounded by the never-ending display of light.

"This is quite amazing!"

She slugged me—hard— I staggered for a few seconds trying to catch my balance on the uneven rock. I clinched my fist. "What the hell was that for?"

"You lied to me."

"What are you talking about?"

"I went back home to see my family and you know what? I ran into a woman that happens to be the mother of twin girls I went to school with. We started to talk and the conversation soon centered on this man that showed up on their farm. He said he was from out of town. He told her about his girlfriend that he promised he'd take out to Wyoming. She said he talked with an accent, and was from the East coast.

"I asked her if that man drove an old motorcycle. It was you! Why didn't you tell me that your lover had passed away?" You came out here to spread the ashes of your girlfriend in the wind. My friend said you're an alcoholic, and you've been on the wagon for a while. You were going to drink. Why now?"

I settled down on the rock and pulled my knees up, and I wrapped my arms around them. "I was in love. She was stolen from me. She died in my arms."