The Bird Saviors Read Online Free Page A
have enjoyed the pure sport of itâ the aiming, the hitting of the targetâ but now when he's called out to exterminate another murder of crows sighted near town, he feels the spider- on- your- neck creep of guilt. And today's detail is just pathetic, sent to the west side of town to track and kill a flock of cowbirds massing on feedlot scraps. A job like this would make Crazy Horse turn over in his grave.
    Interested in a little extra cash? asks Mosca. I got something going on the side. Bet I could get you on, easy.
    You're full of bets today, aren't you?
    Mosca grins. I'm a betting fool, that's for sure. I tell you about this, you promise not to breathe a word? It's somewhat wide of the law, if you catch my drift.
    Do I look like a snitch?
    Mosca explains that he's part of a crew of cattle providers. With the price of beef higher than ever, a man can make good money liberating a few head of cattle at night, taking them to a slaughterhouse out of state. Black- market beef.
    You have to know your way around a steer, says Mosca. I'm guessing you probably do. Plus it helps to have some muscle. It's all quick and fast and these dudes I work with, they don't fuck around.
    You're cattle rustling?
    You could call it that. I like to think of it as a Robin Hood kind of deal. Taking from the rich and selling to the poor.
    That's supposed to be giving to the poor.
    We can't be that old- fashioned, can we?
    I don't like the sound of it.
    I didn't either at first. But once you get used to money, it makes you feel like the king of Denver.
    They near the western edge of town. The wind picks up and grit blasts the windshield. Crowfoot flips on the wipers. The rubber blades squeak and shudder on the cold glass, clearing two arches. Mosca says they're screwed. No way in hell they're going to do any bird killing in this duster. They watch as the dust storm rears up in front of them. It comes on like a cloud of bricks.
    Crowfoot and Mosca sit in the cab and wait it out. The sand sifts across the windshield in a hypnotizing swift drizzle. It's as if time is moving faster than it should. Mosca says sometimes it seems that the end is near and this is nothing but hourglass sand running out.
    They watch as the dust storm swallows a billboard advertising topless dancers in the Wiggle Room.
    After a half hour the storm slackens. The wind dies and the dust sifts down on the back side of the wind gusts. Traffic begins to crawl. Mosca and Crowfoot drive on, straining to see the taillights of the vehicles ahead.
    Crowfoot asks for more dope about this cattle- rustling gig.
. . .
R u b y  h u r r i e s  a c r o s s the prairie, the roiling bulge of the dust storm looming like the debris cloud of a demolished building. She coughs and squints, the grit in her eyes and mouth. A gulch opens before her. She stumbles at the edge and into the shadows she falls.
    She trips and slides down the steep ravine walls. Cactus rakes her face, neck, and arms. She hits the bottom of the gulch hard, landing in a jumble of stones and grass. When she comes to a stop, she winces and rocks in pain. Her left arm burns and aches. She clutches it to her side. She feels for wounds, finds a swelling on her head. Her hand is wet. She holds it before her eyes. She can see nothing but a finger and palm shadow in the brick- red haze.
    The dust storm swirls above the gulch like a bloody tornado. She huddles in the hollow of a boulder, finds a windbreak behind it. She curls on the grassy floor of the dry- wash streambed, feeling the stab of cactus spines embedded in her cheeks and arm. She can feel the sand trickling into the gap of her collar and down her back. After a time
    Interested in a little extra cash? asks Mosca. I got something going on the side. Bet I could get you on, easy.
    You're full of bets today, aren't you?
    Mosca grins. I'm a betting fool, that's for sure. I tell you about this, you promise not to breathe a word? It's somewhat wide of the law, if you catch my drift.
    Do I look like a snitch?
    Mosca explains that he's part of a crew of cattle providers. With the price of beef higher than ever, a man can make good money liberating a few head of cattle at night, taking them to a slaughterhouse out of state. Black- market beef.
    You have to know your way around a steer, says Mosca. I'm guessing you probably do. Plus it helps to have some muscle. It's all quick and fast and these dudes I work with, they don't fuck around.
    You're cattle rustling?
    You could call it that. I like to think of it as a Robin Hood kind of deal. Taking from the rich and selling to the poor.
    That's supposed to be giving to the poor.
    We can't be that old- fashioned, can we?
    I don't like the sound of it.
    I didn't either at first. But once you get used to money, it makes you feel like the king of Denver.
    They near the western edge of town. The wind picks up and grit blasts the windshield. Crowfoot flips on the wipers. The rubber blades squeak and shudder on the cold glass, clearing two arches. Mosca says they're screwed. No way in hell they're going to do any bird killing in this duster. They watch as the dust storm rears up in front of them. It comes on like a cloud of bricks.
    Crowfoot and Mosca sit in the cab and wait it out. The sand sifts across the windshield in a hypnotizing swift drizzle. It's as if time is moving faster than it should. Mosca says sometimes it seems that the end is near and this is nothing but hourglass sand running out.
    They watch as the dust storm swallows a billboard advertising topless dancers in the Wiggle Room.
    After a half hour the storm slackens. The wind dies and the dust sifts down on the back side of the wind gusts. Traffic begins to crawl. Mosca and Crowfoot drive on, straining to see the taillights of the vehicles ahead.
    Crowfoot asks for more dope about this cattle- rustling gig.
. . .
R u b y  h u r r i e s  a c r o s s the prairie, the roiling bulge of the dust storm looming like the debris cloud of a demolished building. She coughs and squints, the grit in her eyes and mouth. A gulch opens before her. She stumbles at the edge and into the shadows she falls.
    She trips and slides down the steep ravine walls. Cactus rakes her face, neck, and arms. She hits the bottom of the gulch hard, landing in a jumble of stones and grass. When she comes to a stop, she winces and rocks in pain. Her left arm burns and aches. She clutches it to her side. She feels for wounds, finds a swelling on her head. Her hand is wet. She holds it before her eyes. She can see nothing but a finger and palm shadow in the brick- red haze.
    The dust storm swirls above the gulch like a bloody tornado. She huddles in the hollow of a boulder, finds a windbreak behind it. She curls on the grassy floor of the dry- wash streambed, feeling the stab of cactus spines embedded in her cheeks and arm. She can feel the sand trickling into the gap of her collar and down her back. After a time
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