There was an inquiry into Bob’s death. The sheriff had noted in his journal that the brake line on Bob Boyle’s vehicle had been chewed through by a marmot… Marmots, as groundhogs are called in the area, often chewed through the under-hoses of cars left parked outside for a long time. It was possible that a marmot chewed through the brake line of Bob Boyle’s truck; however, no one in his or her right mind believed it. Dudival, himself, kept a little piece of the questionable brake line in his evidence safe. Ultimate cause of death: brain trauma caused by bull’s horns.
Anyone you talked to in Vanadium was now convinced that Buster had not only killed Carlito Dominguez and Gil Svendergard, but Bob Boyle, as well. The question that weighed most heavily was why Sheriff Dudival was protecting him.
Mary had decided that Buster’s presence in the house would only be a constant reminder to her children of what had happened to their father. At the inquest over Bob’s death, she informed Sheriff Dudival of her decision. As one might imagine, Buster had become difficult adoption material.
As she tearfully left the courtroom, Mary stopped to kiss Buster goodbye. Banged up as she was, Mary was already Looking Better Without Bob—which should have been the title of a country and western song. She hugged Buster and held him close for an embarrassingly long time.
“You’re my hero,” she said, and slipped something into his hand. When Buster looked down, he saw that she had given him Bob’s championship rodeo buckle.
“Aw, Jiminy, Mrs. Boyle, Ah cain’t take somethin’ like this… A feller’s gotta earn it.”
“Believe me,” she said, “…you did.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Stumplehorst Outfit
The Women’s League of Vanadium was quickly running out of good Christian homes for Buster. Sheriff Dudival, who until now had worked behind the scenes on Buster’s behalf with no less cunning and resourcefulness than a Vatican cardinal-prefect, begged the League to give him one more chance to place Buster before they sent him off to the county orphanage.
He had one last good idea, the Stumplehorst family. The Sheriff would have to bring to bear all of his powers as a salesman, for this was not an easy sell. What he had in his favor was that it was round-up time, and the Stumplehorst Ranch usually paid for temporary hands. With Buster’s adoption, all it would cost them to have another able-bodied wrangler would be room and board. Sheriff Dudival scribbled that thought down on a napkin as he waited to meet Skylar Stumplehorst for breakfast at the High Grade.
“Can he ride a horse?” It was obvious that Stumplehorst knew very little about Buster.
“He’s probably the best rider and roper in this county now that Bob’s dead.”
“We have some strange hands in the bunkhouse, but I don’t think there’s a killer among ’em.”
“No one’s been able to prove he’s killed anybody.”
“I don’t want to die. Is that so unreasonable?”
“Stumplehorst, you’re not afraid of that boy; you’re afraid of what your wife is going to say if you make a decision without consulting her.” This was a sore point with Skylar Stumplehorst. Skylar Anderson had been a two-bit cowboy until he impregnated Calvina Stumplehorst in the back of his truck at the conclusion of “Rattlesnake Round-Up.” She was from a ranching family that only produced women—which was why her father, Calvin, insisted that Skylar change his surname to Stumplehorst. After Calvina’s mother and father passed, Skylar was sitting pretty. Calvina bore him four daughters, who, like their mother, treated him like the uncouth yokel he was.
“I call the shots out there.”
“Prove it.”
“All right, I’ll take him.” Stumplehorst regretted that statement immediately, but before he could say another word, Sheriff Dudival threw down three bits for his coffee and walked out.
That afternoon, Sheriff Dudival drove Buster up to the ranch before Skylar could change his mind. Rearing up above the massive timber gates were twin wrought iron rampant colts. They had been copied from the handles of the famous pistols—between them were the letters S-T-U-M-P-L-E-H-O-R-S-T.
“Cain’t ah just stay with you at the jail, Sheriff?”
“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
As they pulled up the road to the house, Buster could see three of the Stumplehorst daughters hanging laundry in the front yard. Hope, Faith, and Charity were fine examples of sturdy Lame Horse Mesa girls, but it was Destiny Stumplehorst, Buster recognized from the rodeo, who had him in her enthrall. She was in the corral brushing out her mare, Maple, who was named after the syrup and not the tree. Both Maple’s and Destiny’s ponytails had the same tight braid. Destiny had a constellation of freckles across her face as if she had held the wrong end of a can of Rustoleum. Buster had become, since living with the Svendergards, quite adept at imagining what people looked like without their clothing, and he imagined Destiny might just have the best figure of any girl in town, but there was more to his admiration than merely the physical. He liked the meticulous way she combed out her horse’s mane and tail. He liked the way she wore a red bandana in her hair to keep it clean. He liked the way she chewed gum in little inconspicuous movements like she was biting the inside of her cheek thinking about something important. Then, without warning, she turned and looked right at him. Their eyes met, and Buster quickly slumped down in his seat.
“What is wrong with you?” the sheriff said.
“Nothin’.”
“Come on now. Sit up. This is no way for a gentleman to make a first impression.”
At the head of the driveway stood Skylar and Calvina. Calvina’s father, Calvin Stumplehorst, was one of the most admired men in Vanadium. At nearly 450 pounds, he had to have extra-large saddles custom made by the Botero Leather Company in Valencia, Spain. In a bar fight, he would use his stomach to knock his opponent to the floor and then lay on them—like the famed Flat Rock in Arches National Park. Calvin Stumplehorst was the one who had put money into the refurbishing of the IOOF, the International Order of Odd Fellows. He was the one who had organized the building of a rodeo arena. He had three mistresses, one Chinese, one Mexican, and one albino. He had an extensive collection of Red Skelton records that he would listen to in the tack room and laugh and laugh until tears rolled down his florid face. It was said that Calvin Stumplehorst, until he got himself a bellyful of cancer, could eat a whole mule deer by himself in one sitting. After they removed his stomach and reattached it to his small intestine, his oncologist told him that if he ever ate anything larger than a Le Sueur pea, it would be the end of him. He followed his doctor’s instructions and lost 250 pounds. No longer the imposing figure that he had once been, he adapted to the person he now was. He took up the writing of poetry and chronicled in verse every aspect of the ranch and the land he loved. Some of his stuff made it into the local newspaper because he owned it. One poem was submitted to The Paris Review along with a contribution for $2,500. It was published in the fall edition of 1961. It went like this:
This is my damn house / This is my damn broke-down tractor / This is my damn dog / This is my damn horse / This is my damn rock / This is my damn ranch
But in the end, even being the poet laureate of Vanadium was not satisfying for a man of such Herculean appetites. And so, one Saturday night, he put four pounds of short ribs in his personal crock-pot with a bottle of red wine, a can of tomato paste, three onions, fresh thyme, and two bay leaves from his garden. In the morning, he saddled his favorite swayback pony, took one last ride around his property, and went to International Order of Odd Fellows where he hung an oil painting of himself that he had commissioned. Then he returned home, ate all the short ribs, retired to the tack room, put on a Red Skelton record and, unlike Socrates, died an exquisite death.
As big a life as Calvin lived, his eldest child and inheritor of his lands, Calvina,