Blue-Tail Fly

The Escarpment

28 The Escarpment Mexico, 1848 Sometime after the American soldier finds himself alive, alone He pulls the stinking coyote behind him. Its neck furless from the rub of the rope. A dog for his son. Jumping fleas fleck his wrist. Taking no notice he continues. Every boy needs a pup. The side of his neck thick and prickled as cactus.  When the mule died he made a bed of its gut and slept under a canopy of skin. He woke to the smell of bacon, his wife’s toilet water, cow’s milk on his son’s breath.  The dog town looks emptied. An ocean of heat. No dog’s head peeking from the dank relief of a cool clotted hole. Midday, he caught a jack-ass rabbit. It bounces noiselessly 29 against his leg. The tin cup is dry as his mouth— he drains the mottled hare, cuts a waterhole in its throat. Beet stew. A man with a knife can live to eat another day. Something ate part of the coyote—gone mostly— even the stench. Buzzards circle. ...