Digger 1.0 by Michael Bunker Page A

live again.
    “I never shoulda gone,” said Jim, and heard
himself above the night winds that seemed to thunder and roll
across the grassy plains, buffeting everything from their clothes
to the old boards that creaked and groaned.
    They left the car and walked out into the
headlights that rested on the sagging sides of old clapboard.
    “The only reason we ever found your tunnels,
Mr. Vo,” yelled Jim. “Found ‘em back in your country, was because
the Australians found ‘em first. Didn’t occur to us that you guys
would just tunnel under a battlefield. I don’t know why. Just
didn’t. So for a long time, as you well know, you could move around
whenever and wherever you wanted. You could choose when and where
to shoot at us when it was good for you to do such.”
    Silence.
    “Yes,” said Mr. Vo, fidgeting and feeling
more talkative without his cigarette. “For a long time it was very
safe for us down there in the dark.”
    “Well Mr. Vo, that’s what I was thinking
too. You see, this was my home. It is my home. Bank took it away
from me and now I want it back. I busted my hump for years after
the war, down in the gulf trying to make the mortgage and pay the
back taxes. But see, the game was stacked against me. Big bunch of
ranchers banded together with some corporation called Allied
Growing Concern. They’re buyin’ up all the land in the Basin.
Wasn’t no way in hell I was gonna keep this land as far as they
were concerned. They were all in on it together. Local government,
the land commissioner, Wall Street, all of ‘em makin’ a buck on my
land.” Silence. The wind grew and pitched, and somewhere within the
ruins it found a scream. “This land’s been in my family since Texas
was its own country. Did you know that, Mr. Vo.? Did you know Texas
was once its own country before America? It’s the only state that
ever was.”
    “So what that have to do with tunnels?”
    Jim watched the old place. Watched all the
memories come in and out of its doors. The Fourth of Julys. The
winters. The funerals. The children. Dogs he remembered following
him everywhere.
    Where did they all go? he asked
himself again. Where do they all go?
    “I’m gonna build tunnels and take back
what’s mine, Mr. Vo. I’m gonna steal from them what they stole from
me. I’m gonna rob banks and steal equipment and do whatever I can
to take their money away from them. And maybe one day, if I get
enough, I’ll buy this back.”
    “You going to become a cowboy?” asked Mr.
Vo. “Like the wild west days and John Wayne?”
    Silence. The wind. The night. The big Texas
starry sky.
    “I always was a cowboy, Mr. Vo. Since I was
a kid, I rode horses and worked this ranch alongside my dad. I’ll
die a cowboy, no matter what. Same as if I’d never made it out of
those tunnels back in your country.”
    Jim Howard turned toward Mr. Vo.
    “No, Mr. Vo. Now I’m gonna turn outlaw. Like
Jesse James and Pancho Villa did. Y’know them ol’ boys, Mr. Vo? I’m
gonna make war on my enemies ‘til I have what’s mine again.” He
paused for effect. “And then some.”
    Mr. Vo walked back to the Cadillac, opened
the door and slid into the passenger seat. Jim took one last look
at the old place and walked back to the Caddy.
    Behind the wheel, he muttered, “Alright,
let’s go get you some cigarettes.”
    They found a gas station that was like an
island of bright white hot light being drowned in a sea of darkness
and wind. It was still open and Jim parked next to the pumps.
    Mr. Vo went in alone as Jim topped off the
Caddy, listening to the guzzle, thump, and ding of each devoured
gallon.
    That was dumb, Howard, Jim thought. Real
dumb. What if he tells someone later? He don’t seem like he wants
to play outlaw. No, he don’t seem that way at all.
    A few minutes later, Mr. Vo came out tapping
a fresh pack of cigarettes. He wore a big black Stetson cowboy hat
he’d purchased inside. He slid into the Cadillac and closed the
door.
    Jim finished