Travelling Light by Peter Behrens Page B

wheat. Land is cheap. I don’t know a lot about horses but I could learn. I’ll get my brothers out there. We’d all be happier than on the rigs.
    Duane I don’t think owned more than the clothes he wore, plus a cowboy hat kept hanging on a peg, and his old half-ton. Sometimes I would ask him, “You want to come into town?” because I pitied him and not because I wanted him around, but he never wanted to come. The only person he had any time for was the kid, Pete. When we came in from the fields, the two of them would get to work under the hood of Duane’s half-ton, as long as there was light to see by, or until Pete’s mother called him in to bed.
    Half the time the piece of junk wouldn’t even start. Pete fiddled around with pliers and a screwdriver while Duane sat pounding the wheel. Then Pete would yell, “Give ’er!” and Duane would grind the starter, smacking the dash with his palm and cursing. Pete and I would have to laugh. The motor would finally catch and the whole truck would be shaking and coughing blue smoke. Duane gunned it until it warmed up, then Pete jumped in and the two of them would head out on a test drive. Sometimes they’d stall in the middle of the road and Pete would prop up the hood and start fixing the problem while Duane just hunkered down and pitched gravel at cattle in the pasture.
    I asked Pete about Duane’s truck.
    â€œIt’s crap,” Pete said. “Compression’s no good. He hasn’t really let me drive but I can tell the front end’s wobbly, so the ball joints are probably shot.”
    â€œWhy bother working on it?”
    â€œIt’s fun. I like old trucks. You learn a lot. You know what Duane’s doing with his harvest wages?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œPaint job. Two thousand bucks. In Red Deer.”
    â€œMaybe you should talk him out of it.”
    â€œHe’s nuts,” Pete said. “You can’t talk him out of anything.”
    One night I went to town but my friend wasn’t there. I had a couple of beers and came back to the farm. We were going to finish threshing in another few days if the weather held. We’d been working eighty hours a week and we were all tired.
    Driving down the section road I was thinking about where I’d go when the crop was in and we got paid. Half a mile before the farm, I passed Duane’s heap coming in the other direction. Duane was in the passenger seat and Pete was driving. He waved as I drove past.
    I was lying on my bunk when Duane came in an hour later. I heard him pull off his boots outside and then the squeak of the springs when he lay down. He always slept in his clothes. He turned on one of the overhead bulbs and picked up a skin magazine. I could hear moths crashing into the screen.
    I was nearly asleep when the door smacked open. I sat up in a hurry. Steve DiCesare took two steps over to Duane’s bunk, grabbed him by the shirt, and hauled him to his feet. The magazine Duane had been looking at fluttered away.
    â€œThey ought to hang people like you!” Steve shouted. “They ought to cut off your balls!”
    He punched Duane in the face and you could hear his nose crack. Steve slapped his head from one side to the other and Duane’s blood sprayed on the plywood wall.
    â€œWhat’s he done?” I said.
    â€œYou stay out of this. He went after my boy. I’ll teach him.”
    I got in between them and began pushing Steve back.
    â€œKeep out of this!” he said.
    He tried to get around me but I kept shoving him back.
    â€œYou’re as bad as he is!”
    â€œYou’d kill him — you don’t want to do that. Go back to the house. I’ll get him out of here.”
    I pushed Steve outside. The trailer’s flimsy door had been pulled right off its hinges. Behind me Duane was snorting through his busted nose. Steve was about ready to take a swing at me, I could tell. There was a light