California Bloodstock by Terry McDonell

searching among the stars of some inner midnight, waiting for the night to fall away. He looked over at her. They heard a scraping beneath the folded mountains, teeth perhaps, tearing into the earth somewhere under the crust. Without speaking they gathered their gear and saddled the horses. And soon they were climbing again, higher into the mountains, riding out the night together in silence.

NINE
40
Petaluma Adobe
    The frontal perspective on Galon Burgett’s health was confusing. Sometimes he looked pretty good and sometimes he didn’t. His energy seemed to depend on the weather. Heat bothered him and on days like this, with shimmering lines rising from the needle grass and greasewood, he was a ragged quiver of symptoms. He coughed a lot, his eyes turned yellow, and there were irregularities in his stool.
    He walked across the courtyard of the huge adobe that had served until recently as the working headquarters for the Rancho Petaluma, with its endless acres and its long-horned cattle by the thousands, its fine horses and its wheat and tallow and wine. It was almost deserted now, most of the Worm Eaters gone back to their scratch hills and Vallejo’s trusted foremendead in their own workshops and corrals. Only a few half-breed vaqueros and their saggy-breasted whores still hung around. Fremont and the Bear Flaggers had driven off the livestock and stripped the place of anything they could carry. Who cares? thought Galon. He passed through the front gate and sat down against the thick adobe wall. His face was puffed and flushed bluish pink, like the belly of a dead fish. His own breathing made him dizzy. A short distance away he could see his brother and a gang of the half-breeds having a little fun. Beyond them the dry low hills pulled toward the Coast Range like the waves of nausea Galon felt rolling through his body. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
    Millard was sad that Galon hadn’t wanted to join in the new game he was learning. It was a good one. The vaqueros told him it was very old but still popular. It was called
carrero del gallo.
    A chicken was buried up to its neck in the dirt. Then the participants took turns charging the squawking bird at a gallop. The idea was to swing low out of the saddle and pick off the bird’s head with one hand in passing. Millard was very good on a horse in spite of his age and came up with the head on his second pass. The half-breeds cheered and Millard felt very proud. He couldn’t wait to show Galon. He raced over to his sleeping brother cupping the bug-eyed chicken head in his bloody palm like an egg.
    Wake up, Galon, he shouted, shoving his prize in Galon’s sleeping face. Look what I won!
    Galon woke with a start, eye to eye with the mangled chicken head. Something snapped inside him.He slapped Millard’s hand away from his face and fought for breath. He sucked at the still air but it settled in his mouth like fine dust. He coughed and grabbed for the canteen lying next to him. The water was warm and stale. Millard’s smiling babble grated on him like a sandstorm.
    Look here, Galon, Millard persisted, shoving the chicken head back under Galon’s nose. I done good.
    That was it. Galon kicked out at his brother, catching him in the stomach and sending him buckling backward into dust. Galon slid his back slowly up the wall till he was standing and glared at Millard.
    Is that what you got for me, Millard, a shit old chicken head? Galon wheezed. I spend my life looking after you and that’s what I get when I ain’t feeling good. Well, you get the hell away from me. I’m through with it. You ain’t never done good. You’re on your own and I don’t give a fuck.
    Millard didn’t understand. He stared blankly at his brother and tried to think of what to say. But it was no good, and he was still sitting there in the dust when Galon got on his horse and rode off without him.
    Galon headed west, toward the coast. He wanted moisture. He wanted to stand naked in the