The Last Shepherd

34. HOGEITA HAMALAUR

| 199 »« The law office of Mr. Thaddeus Steele, Esq. seemed shabbier than I remembered . Mr. Steele smaller. The darkness not as dark. “Well, son, you back from your a . . . a adventure?” Mr. Steele said from where he sat behind his metal desk, again using a plastic spoon to eat a Dennis the Menace Peanut Parfait. “I got home yesterday,” I said as I went into the adjacent room, retrieved a chair, and sat down to face him. “And did things a . . . a transpire the way you a . . . a planned?” “Not at all,” I said. Mr. Steele chuckled. “Life rarely does, son,” he said. “Luckily everything is negotiable, and so I am a . . . a presuming you have a proposition concerning ownership of the ranch.” “Why do you think that?” “Well, I’m guessing this ain’t no social visit,” Mr. Steele said. I studied the giant black-and-white map of Phoenix behind Mr. Steele. Searched for a pattern in the green and red pins scattered over it. “You have a red pin marking the ranch.” “Hoping to change that to green,” Mr. Steele said. “Now what is it you want, son?” “I want you to unfreeze my bank account.” “I’m talking big picture here,” Mr. Steele said and scooped into his hand the peanuts that had fallen off his ice cream and popped them into his mouth. “You’re more like me than you know, son. I never liked sheep either. Stupid animals. Don’t know why God made ’em.” 34 h o g e i ta h a m a l au r | 200« » “Maybe it was to give shepherds a job to do.” “Maybe,” Mr. Steel said. “But there’s a whole world out there doing just fine without sheep or shepherds. Don’t you want to start living in that world?” And I did want that—to live in that other world, far away from sheep and ranches and fallow fields and small towns. To just walk down the road and never look back. Or at least part of me wanted that. Maybe it always would. But another part of me, the bigger part, well, it wanted just the opposite. “I can’t sell the ranch,” I said. “‘Can’t’ is just a ‘won’t’ prettied up.” “Artzainaskena isn’t mine to sell,” I said. “So your aunt wouldn’t sign the quit deed,” Mr. Steele said as he tossed his ice cream container into the trash. “Decided to keep the ranch for herself—” “Oh she signed the quit deed.” “Then you own the ranch, son.” “No.” Mr. Steele narrowed his eyes. “Then who does?” “An owner who can never sell it to you.” “Don’t be too sure about that.” Mr. Steele chuckled. “When I want something , I can be mighty persuasive.” “I know,” I said. “That’s why I made sure the new owners couldn’t be persuaded.” “Everyone can be persuaded.” “Not everyone—not sheep.” “Sheep?” “Isabelle gave me Artzainaskena,” I said. “And I gave it to the flock.” “What are you talking about?” “I had a lawyer in France draw it up,” I said. “As long as there are sheep on the land, it can never be sold.” For a moment, Mr. Steele didn’t seem to have heard what I said. Then his face grew red and he began to breathe hard and spittle gathered on his lips. “You son of a bitch!” He started to get to his feet. And I tensed my muscle, not sure what he | 201« » might do. I wished I’d made sure he didn’t have a gun stashed in his desk drawer. But then Mr. Steele’s body went limp and he collapsed back into his chair and a funny, perplexed look washed over his face. “Sheep?” Mr. Steele said, as if trying to understand how a stupid animal had undone all his careful planning. Right then, I thought it was probably a good time for me to exit the law office of Mr. Thaddeus Steele, Esq. Besides, I had another appointment to keep. When I got to the diner, I waited until the lunch crowd filtered out before entering. The clank of the door’s attached cowbell never sounded so loud. Afternoon sunlight fell through the blinds of the front window and onto Dad and my’s booth and the bull with a saguaro coming out of its rear. The smell...