Page 95 of The Killing Plains

He helped her onto the pinto and adjusted the stirrups. “You won’t fall off Maisie unless you jump.”

“I’m not good with reins.”

“Just hang onto the horn. She’ll follow me.”

“We can’t talk if I’m ten feet behind you.”

“I know a place we can talk on the way back.”

Russ mounted the gelding and led the way out of the barn. To Colly’s relief, Maisie followed placidly. At the bottom of the hill, they turned onto a trail heading north. Russ’s mount, frustrated at being held back, snorted and tossed his head but eventually settled into a walk.

Russ was a relaxed and confident rider, Colly thought. He moved with the animal as naturally as if he’d sprouted from thesaddle, hitching one shoulder slightly higher than the other, just as Randy used to. It was these little similarities that got to her the most, especially when she wasn’t prepared for them. Why had Russ lied to her the other day? Did he know about the crimes at the turbine plant? If he was complicit, then what? The thought made her stomach churn. She felt nothing but contempt for Lowell. But it was different with Russ. Though she seldom admitted it even to herself, Colly was lonely. And in the last few days, there’d been moments with him when she’d felt—something. Was it only that he looked like Randy? Was her treacherous subconscious making some pathetic substitution, trying to recover what she’d lost?

She couldn’t afford to think about it now. With an effort, she forced herself to focus on the rocking rhythm of the pinto’s easy gait.

For half an hour, they rode through the scrubland. The ground began to rise, gently at first and then more steeply. Finally, they crested a ridge, and Colly found that they were on top of a low bluff overlooking a grassy plain. Near the base of the bluff stood an enormous white circus tent surrounded by booths and food trucks. Shading her eyes, Colly saw workmen, ant-like in the distance, stringing lights along walkways and marking off a makeshift parking lot with orange traffic cones. At the booths, vendors busily arranged merchandise. A crew of men in hardhats was assembling a Ferris wheel at the eastern edge of the grounds. From the top of the bluff, the whole scene looked like a child’s toy model.

“I pictured something smaller,” Colly said.

Russ nodded. “When Dad was a kid, it was one tent and some bleachers by the highway. Now we get hundreds of people.”

“Ever have trouble?”

“Not much. A few pickpocketing incidents, maybe a fight or two. I have every cop I can spare running security, plus a few guards from the turbine plant.”

“I meant with the snakes.”

“Oh.” Russ laughed. “A handler got bit on the thumb a while back, but never any civilians. We keep a paramedic and some antivenom on-site, just in case. Are you coming?”

“Satchel’s begging me, but I don’t know. When does it start?”

“Tomorrow night. Runs all weekend. Lowell and me will be here most of that time keeping an eye on things.”

He goaded the gelding forwards. The bluff, which appeared steep, actually shelved down to the plain in a series of jagged stair-step formations. They descended a switchback trail along these natural steps.

At the main entrance to the big tent, they dismounted. Colly rubbed her backside. “I forgot how sore that makes me.”

Russ grinned. “Only cure’s practice.”

He tied their horses to a signpost, and they went inside. A few workers were moving about, but the preparations seemed fairly complete. Bleachers ran along the two longer sides of the tent, while at either end, booths, tables, and portable kitchens were clustered. In a line down the center of the huge space stood four circular enclosures, like the rings of a circus. The walls of the rings were chest-high and fitted at intervals with plexiglass windows so young children could look inside. From within the ring nearest to them came a muted buzzing noise, like a thousand maracas being shaken in the distance.

Colly moved instinctively backwards. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s okay. Come on.”

Russ took her hand and led her across the grass. As she peered over the wall of the ring, Colly went cold. The floor was covered a foot deep in a dappled tangle of writhing snakes. Some lay motionless. Others squirmed on their backs, trying to right themselves, their pale bellies making cream-colored streaks in the dark, mottledheap. A few slithered over the top of the living mass like crowd-surfers at a concert. A strong, rancid odor rose from the pen. Colly cupped her hand over her nose and mouth.

“This is the holding pit,” Russ said. “Don’t worry, they can’t climb the walls.”

“Are—are these all from the ranch?” Colly stammered.

Russ shook his head. “Only a couple hundred. Most are from off-site. We pay by the head, so the locals bring them to us. Helps with population control in the area.”

As he spoke, a young Latino workman wearing a greasy straw Stetson and dusty Wranglers entered from behind a partition marked “Staff Only.” He was carrying a broad, flat plywood box.

“Hiya, boss,” he said to Russ.

“Hey, Pete. How’s the prep going?”

---