The Hollow Man

This Is Cactus Land

The Two-M Ranch was not in the desert proper but set several miles up a shallow canyon that rose toward wooded foothills. Beyond the foothills snowcapped peaks were visible through the haze of heat and distance.

“Ranch” was hardly an adequate word for Miz Fayette Morgan’s spread. The main house was a modern Spanish hacienda perched between two boulders the size of low apartment buildings. The sprawling hacienda was set on a shelf of land that looked out over the grassy fields and cottonwoods of the stream-fed canyon toward the desert beyond. Half a dozen large dogs came baying at the Toyota; they ceased their growls and howls only when Miz Morgan stepped out and shouted at them. She patted each in turn as it groveled its way to her legs. “Come on into the main house for a beer,” she said. “It’s the only time you’ll be invited up here.”

The house was furnished with expensive southwestern antiques, decor, and art in a finished, interior-designed way that would have looked at home in a spread from Architectural Digest. It was air-conditioned and Bremen stifled an urge to lie down on the thick Stark carpet and go to sleep. Miz Morgan led the way through a gourmet cook’s kitchen into a breakfast nook that looked out through bay windows at the south-facing boulder and the barns and fields beyond. She twisted the caps off two cold Coors, handed one to Bremen, and nodded toward the bench across the table as she sprawled out in a sturdy captain’s chair. Her denim-covered legs were very long and ended in snakeskin cowboy boots. “To answer your unasked questions,” she said, “the answer is yes, I do live alone except for the dogs.” She took a swig of beer. “And no, I don’t use my hired men as stud service.” Her eyes were such a light gray that they gave her a strangely blind appearance. Blind, but in no way vulnerable.

Bremen nodded and tasted the beer. His stomach growled.

As if in response to the growl Miz Morgan said, “You do your own cooking. There’s adequate supplies in the bunkhouse and a full kitchen there. If we run out of something you want … basic stuff, not booze … you can put it on the list when you go in to shop each Thursday.”

Bremen took another swallow, feeling the beer hit him hard on his empty stomach. That and the fatigue made everything seem to have a faint, hazy halo of light around it. Miz Morgan’s dyed-red hair seemed to burn and flicker in the midday sun through the yellow curtains. “How long do you need a hired hand?” he asked, taking care to enunciate each word.

“How long you intend to stay in these parts?”

Bremen shrugged. The white-noise mindroar surrounded the woman like a constant crackle of some wild electrical apparatus—a Van de Graaff generator perhaps. Bremen found the effect soothing, like a constant wind that drowns out lesser sounds. The release from the whisper and burble of neurobabble made him want to weep with gratitude.

“Well,” said Miz Morgan, finishing her beer, “until Deputy Dawg gets some wanted poster on you, we’ll see if you can do any useful work around here.”

“Deputy Dawg?”

“Howard Collins,” she said, rising. “Deputy Dawg’s what most folks around here call him when he ain’t within range. Thinks he’s a tough character, but he hasn’t got the brains of Lettie … that’s the dumbest of my dogs out there.”

“About the dogs …” began Bremen. He got to his feet, his beer only half-finished.

“Oh, they’ll tear your arm or leg off, all right.” Miz Morgan smiled. “But only on a command from me or if you’re someplace where you shouldn’t be. I’ll introduce you to them on the way down to the bunkhouse so they can start gettin’ to know you.”

“Where is someplace I shouldn’t be?” asked Bremen, holding his beer bottle tightly as if it could steady him. The glow around things had turned into a pulsing now and he felt the liquid in his stomach slosh and shift somewhat alarmingly.

“Stay away from the main house,” she said, not smiling. “Especially at night. The dogs’ll go for anything that comes up here at night. But I’d stay away during the day, too.”

Bremen nodded.

“There are a few other places that’re out of bounds. I’ll point them out when I show you around the spread.”

Bremen nodded again, not wanting to set the beer bottle on the table but uncomfortable holding it. He was not sure if he could get through an afternoon of ranch work the way he felt now. He was not completely sure that he could stay on his feet the way he felt now.

Miz Morgan paused in the doorway as he followed her back outside. “You look like shit, Jeremy Goldmann.”

Bremen nodded.

“I’ll show you the bunkhouse and you can make yourself something to eat and settle in. We’ll start work at seven tomorrow mornin’. Wouldn’t do to break in the hired man by killin’ him.”

Bremen shook his head. He followed her out into the heat and light, into a world made luminous and almost transparent by exhaustion and relief.