California Bloodstock Read Online Free Page A
Author: Terry McDonell
contents came away in his fist.
—
When she came to, Taya was alone with old T. D., whom the boys had left dangling in shock and bleeding to death over a puddle of blood. She cut him down quickly and, without thinking, began to treat him like a gelded colt. First she tied off the spermatic artery then cleaned him out and packed him with pledgets of tow that she dipped in a bottle of tincture of muriate of iron. Either he would heal by adhesion or he wouldn’t. As she rubbed him dry she wasn’t so sure about herself.
THREE
14
Taya
When she could walk again, Taya made her way to one of the deep pools above the crumbling Mission San Carlos Borromeo on the Carmel River. Easing in and out of the still water, she carefully examined herself. Over and over, her delicate hands stroked down her body, coming together ultimately like two streams at the mouth of her own mysterious ocean.
She knew what had happened. When she was twelve, she had seen Mexican soldiers take the wife and daughter of a renegade Worm Eater behind the horse barn next to the customhouse. And she knew what happened next. The word would go around and she would be expected to put out for every horned freebooter who staggered through with a hard-on.
Thus a dense garden of vengeful plants began to grow in her mind, and when it reached the proportionsof a forest, she walked to the beach, using the timber to build herself a fort, a storeroom really, for the twisting and urgent tortures she began designing for Sewey and the Burgetts. As the sun faded behind the ocean she stepped back from what she had built and heard wind rushing through the beams.
The rent was due.
15
Hasta la Vista
It warmed every rattlesnake heart in California that nobody ever stayed in cahoots with anybody else for very long. Maybe it had something to do with the land itself. What with opportunities crystallizing every morning like dew hardening into candy on the bright petals of lilies, fireweed, and pussy-paws. Who knew what tempting chances would show up like specials on the daily menu, along with the glazed oranges carmelized in wheat porridge and the sweet and sour calf hearts soaking in
chilimato salsa.
Even three old pals like Sewey and the Burgetts didn’t stay together long once they digested the possibilities.
They had ridden out of Monterey in the dark. At dawn they were passing out of the Carmel Valley, headed for the Salinas River. By noon, the sun was blasting at the dry brush and they heard insects clicking like bones in the sandy dust. Galon’s lungs felt like sacks of hot dirt and he coughed over and over in the brittle air. Suddenly, he pulled up and dry-puked from the saddle.
Millard wondered if Galon was feeling bad. He was always concerned about his brother. Sewey thought it was funny.
Yeah, Galon, he goaded, you feeling okay? You been doing that with some regularity lately, I’ve noticed.
Fuck you, Galon shouted, gagging again with the effort. Fuck both of you! Who needs you!
When Galon composed himself, they rode on in anxious silence, all three brooding over what Galon had said.
They stopped for supper at the Mission San Juan Bautista and demanded to eat inside. Galon had some broth and closed his eyes. Millard and Sewey gobbled up a rabbit fricassee and some lime chicken while a fat old padre bemoaned the shortage of Worm Eaters to tend to the work of the mother-shepherd church. Out the window, Sewey counted more than thirty scabby Worm Eaters scratching in the dark with crude hoes. A fat untended ox dragged a splintering wooden cart with a broken axle aimlessly among them. Sewey found the scene inspiring.
The next morning he rode off alone with only a loose agreement to meet up with the Burgetts at some later date. He seemed in a great hurry.
See you around, is all he said.
Or in hell, Galon shouted after him and told Millard they would ride west, toward Santa Cruz.
They found it growing up around a defunct mission and took up immediately with a
—
When she came to, Taya was alone with old T. D., whom the boys had left dangling in shock and bleeding to death over a puddle of blood. She cut him down quickly and, without thinking, began to treat him like a gelded colt. First she tied off the spermatic artery then cleaned him out and packed him with pledgets of tow that she dipped in a bottle of tincture of muriate of iron. Either he would heal by adhesion or he wouldn’t. As she rubbed him dry she wasn’t so sure about herself.
THREE
14
Taya
When she could walk again, Taya made her way to one of the deep pools above the crumbling Mission San Carlos Borromeo on the Carmel River. Easing in and out of the still water, she carefully examined herself. Over and over, her delicate hands stroked down her body, coming together ultimately like two streams at the mouth of her own mysterious ocean.
She knew what had happened. When she was twelve, she had seen Mexican soldiers take the wife and daughter of a renegade Worm Eater behind the horse barn next to the customhouse. And she knew what happened next. The word would go around and she would be expected to put out for every horned freebooter who staggered through with a hard-on.
Thus a dense garden of vengeful plants began to grow in her mind, and when it reached the proportionsof a forest, she walked to the beach, using the timber to build herself a fort, a storeroom really, for the twisting and urgent tortures she began designing for Sewey and the Burgetts. As the sun faded behind the ocean she stepped back from what she had built and heard wind rushing through the beams.
The rent was due.
15
Hasta la Vista
It warmed every rattlesnake heart in California that nobody ever stayed in cahoots with anybody else for very long. Maybe it had something to do with the land itself. What with opportunities crystallizing every morning like dew hardening into candy on the bright petals of lilies, fireweed, and pussy-paws. Who knew what tempting chances would show up like specials on the daily menu, along with the glazed oranges carmelized in wheat porridge and the sweet and sour calf hearts soaking in
chilimato salsa.
Even three old pals like Sewey and the Burgetts didn’t stay together long once they digested the possibilities.
They had ridden out of Monterey in the dark. At dawn they were passing out of the Carmel Valley, headed for the Salinas River. By noon, the sun was blasting at the dry brush and they heard insects clicking like bones in the sandy dust. Galon’s lungs felt like sacks of hot dirt and he coughed over and over in the brittle air. Suddenly, he pulled up and dry-puked from the saddle.
Millard wondered if Galon was feeling bad. He was always concerned about his brother. Sewey thought it was funny.
Yeah, Galon, he goaded, you feeling okay? You been doing that with some regularity lately, I’ve noticed.
Fuck you, Galon shouted, gagging again with the effort. Fuck both of you! Who needs you!
When Galon composed himself, they rode on in anxious silence, all three brooding over what Galon had said.
They stopped for supper at the Mission San Juan Bautista and demanded to eat inside. Galon had some broth and closed his eyes. Millard and Sewey gobbled up a rabbit fricassee and some lime chicken while a fat old padre bemoaned the shortage of Worm Eaters to tend to the work of the mother-shepherd church. Out the window, Sewey counted more than thirty scabby Worm Eaters scratching in the dark with crude hoes. A fat untended ox dragged a splintering wooden cart with a broken axle aimlessly among them. Sewey found the scene inspiring.
The next morning he rode off alone with only a loose agreement to meet up with the Burgetts at some later date. He seemed in a great hurry.
See you around, is all he said.
Or in hell, Galon shouted after him and told Millard they would ride west, toward Santa Cruz.
They found it growing up around a defunct mission and took up immediately with a