BY LARRY MCMURTRY
Literary Life: A Second Memoir
Books: A Memoir
When the Light Goes
Telegraph Days
Oh What a Slaughter
The Colonel and Little Missie
Loop Group
Folly and Glory
By Sorrow’s River
The Wandering Hill
Sin Killer
Sacagawea’s Nickname: Essays on the American West
Paradise
Boone’s Lick
Roads: Driving America’s Great Highways
Still Wild: Short Fiction of the American West 1950 to the Present
Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen
Duane’s Depressed
Crazy Horse
Comanche Moon
Dead Man’s Walk
The Late Child
Streets of Laredo
The Evening Star
Buffalo Girls
Some Can Whistle
Anything for Billy
Film Flam: Essays on Hollywood
Texasville
Lonesome Dove
The Desert Rose
Cadillac Jack
Somebody’s Darling
Terms of Endearment
All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers
Moving On
The Last Picture Show
In a Narrow Grave: Essays on Texas
Leaving Cheyenne
Horseman, Pass By
BY LARRY MCMURTRY AND DIANA OSSANA
Pretty Boy Floyd
Zeke and Ned
RHINO RANCH
A NOVEL
LARRY MCMURTRY
SIMON & SCHUSTER PAPERBACKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Larry McMurtry
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First Simon & Schuster trade paperback edition June 2010
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Manufactured in the United States of America
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
McMurtry, Larry
Rhino ranch : a novel / Larry McMurtry.—1st Simon & Schuster hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. Older men—Fiction. 2. Thalia (Tex. : Imaginary place)—Fiction. 3. City and town life—Fiction. 4. Regret—Fiction. 5. Texas—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.A319R47 2009
813’.54—dc22 2009019648
ISBN 978-1-4391-5639-1
ISBN 978-1-4391-5640-7 (pbk)
eISBN 978-1-4516-0652-2
In memory of Luke Smith
and Howard Lyles:
Top Hands
And for James and Curtis,
Top hands in another sphere
PART I
1
BOYD COTTON AND Bobby Lee Baxter—friendly but not yet quite friends—surveyed the faint south plains dawn from their comfortable cots atop Observation Post Number One—in effect the north gate to what, it was hoped, would someday be the world-famous Rhino Ranch.
A species near extinction, the African black rhinoceros, was being transferred in toto to West Texas, where, with luck and skill and lots of money, the species had a chance of being saved.
Boyd Cotton and Bobby Lee Baxter had long known one another well enough to wave, if they happened to meet on the road, but now this noble project—saving the black rhino—had thrown them together professionally. After most of a lifetime as mere nodding acquaintances they were the first two local employees of Rhino Enterprises, and were being paid top hand wages to manage the North Texas end of a very ambitious operation; though, of the two, only Boyd Cotton was a genuine top hand, in cowboying terms. Having spent his life as a much sought-after working cowboy, he had certainly never expected to end up saving rhinos.
But in fact most of the local ranches on which Boyd had often been employed had been chopped up into hunting leases, which meant fewer and fewer jobs for the handful of skilled cowboys that remained. And, though his abilities had not diminished, Boyd was seventy-eight; for him and those few like him, the end of cowboying was not far.
Bobby Lee Baxter—except on divorce papers his last name was seldom used—had scratched out a living in the oil patch, working mostly for his friend Duane Moore, the most prosperous small producer in the area.
The term top hand, seldom employed at all, was never employed in the oil patch. Top hands—there had never been many—were always cowboys, on the south plains of Texas.
Despite the hour and the nobility of their great project, Bobby Lee’s thoughts drifted off toward what had been a longtime preoccupation: sex.
“Would you believe I’ve been married twice in the last five years, and that’s just in eastern Colorado,” he said. “Those are the actions of a dick-driven man. There’s days when pussy’s pretty much all I can manage to think about. How about you, Boyd?”
“I give more thought to horses—always have,” Boyd said. “What I’ve been applying most of my thought to lately is whether a good well-winded Texas quarter horse could outrun a black rhino, and for how long.”
The Rhino Ranch consisted of one hundred and twenty thousand acres of short grass prairie, with a scattering of mesquite thickets and chaparral patches for the rhinos to plod through.
At the moment the only rhino in sight was an old bull named Double Aught, who, as dawn broke, was eating hay out of a hay rack about one hundred yards away. Fourteen more rhinos were off keeping to themselves in various parts of the big pasture. In time, it was hoped, many more would join them.
To the north a soft pink dawn was spreading color along the horizon. The lights of nearby Wichita Falls were just beginning to blink off.
Closer in, not much more than a mile away, Bobby Lee spotted two small fires, deep in the brush land.
“Meth’s being cooked,” he said, pointing toward the fires.
“That’s true, but it ain’t being cooked on the Rhino Ranch,” Boyd pointed out. “Even a stupid meth head has better sense than to cook their shit where a four-thousand-pound animal could ram a horn as big as a fence post through the cook.”
He switched on a cell phone and called the sheriff’s office in Thalia, a hamlet four miles away. Soon lights from two police cars were flashing on the road toward the fires.
“I wonder if the meth cookers have figured out that we’re the snitches?” Bobby Lee said.
Boyd shrugged. They had both been equipped with powerful rifles, a bullet from which would reduce a meth dealer to a very small smudge.
“You’re not much for talking pussy, I guess,” Bobby Lee said, as they prepared to climb down from their observation post to go in search of breakfast.
“I like to think I’m still a cowboy,” Boyd told him. “Cowboys don’t talk about it much. You can’t be worrying about your dick if you’re working cattle and trying to work them right.”
Bobby Lee was undiscouraged.
&nb
sp; “I guess you heard I went so far as to have a penile implant,” Bobby volunteered. It was a subject he found himself unable to quit talking about, even when his listeners would rather not hear any more about the matter.
Of course Boyd did know about Bobby’s implant, but he didn’t want to enter into conversation about it. He also knew that Bobby had only one testicle, having lost the other to cancer some years ago. He climbed down from the platform and walked over to his pickup, which was not new.
Bobby Lee, however, proved hard to shake.
“People like me—sex addicts I guess you’d say—need support groups,” he said. “I doubt I can scrape up much of one in this miserable place, though.”
Boyd Cotton’s only response was to lean against his pickup and have a smoke.
2
THE RHINO RANGERS, as Boyd and Bobby were encouraged to call themselves, were not supposed to leave their observation site until the next shift of Rhino Rangers were in place. The next shift, in this case, consisted of the Hartman twins, Bub and Dub, late-nighters who were prone to oversleeping.
Bub and Dub were called the Hartman twins because they had been delivered by their mother and one of her boyfriends during a particularly popular episode of the almost forgotten sitcom Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. Since their unorthodox birth, Bub and Dub had distinguished themselves mainly by growing, tipping the scale at a robust two hundred and sixty pounds apiece.
“Very little of that’s brain matter,” Bobby Lee had been heard to say, in a caustic tone.
Sure enough when Boyd Cotton called the twins they were sound asleep, but Boyd Cotton’s voice had a way of bringing the most comatose sleeper awake—not more than six or seven minutes later the twins came bouncing over the big cattle guard. Their Rhino Ranger T-shirts were not tucked in, but they scurried up the ladder to the observation post with surprising quickness, given their weight.
“I’m told rhinos can move fast too, when they want to,” Bobby Lee said. He was tired of trying to make conversation with the mostly unsociable Boyd Cotton, but, unless he wanted to stand around being silent, he had little choice but to try.
“When do you reckon we’ll get to meet the boss lady?” he asked, as the two of them got into the heavily reinforced Range Rover they had been assigned and headed north for breakfast, their destination being a nearby crossroads deli run by Mike and Tommy, two hardworking Sri Lankans who had made a go of their unpromising enterprise, the Asia Wonder Deli, where they served tasty fresh spring rolls, crab and barbecued pork to grateful oilfield hands who had previously had to make do with microwaved burritos.
“Our boss lady’s supposed to be a billionairess,” Boyd reminded him. “People with that much money are hard to predict. Hell, I’d be hard to predict if I had that much money.”
“You’re hard to predict anyway, Boyd, and your damn pickup’s ten years old,” Bobby Lee mentioned.
Since their shift was over, Boyd felt no obligation to make conversation with Bobby Lee—especially not before breakfast, which he always looked forward to.
The boss lady Bobby Lee had referred to was a South Texas heiress named K. K. Slater; she was six two, fifty-two years old, preferred to dress as a cowboy and flew her own planes, which included a Cessna and three helicopters. It was said that she brooked no opposition, and suffered fools not at all. She had been brought up in the feudal manner on a very large ranch and was thought to have the habit of command.
So far her only visit to the range she hoped to fill with black rhinos was a quick flyover in her Cessna, on which occasion she came solo.
As they approached the Asia Wonder Deli, Boyd Cotton’s mood improved. Bobby Lee often exasperated him, but then most people exasperated him—the likely effect of too many years batching, he supposed.
As usual the Asia Wonder Deli was practically surrounded by muddy pickups, most of them the property of the Moore Drilling Company. The pickups were parked willy-nilly, wherever their drivers could find a spot. Bobby Lee, master of a splendid Range Rover, built to withstand rhino attacks, drove across a small creek and parked on its bank.
“It’s about this time of day that I miss old Duane,” Bobby Lee said, as the sun rose over the mesquite. “Me and him have probably seen as many sunrises together as any people on the planet.”
Boyd didn’t really know Duane Moore, though of course, through the years, he had often seen him around. He let Bobby Lee’s comment drift away.
“His boy, Dickie, mostly runs the company now,” Bobby Lee went on.
“From what I can see here they’ve got no shortage of pickups,” Boyd said.
“Duane’s a kind of top hand, like you—only in the oil business,” Bobby went on. “You know, the go-to guy.”
“Being the go-to guy can get irksome,” Boyd said. “You might not always be in the mood to be gone to. Probably why Duane left town.”
“Oh no,” Bobby Lee said. “He left because that long-legged wife of his didn’t want to live here—which is reasonable enough, once you think about it.”
Soon they were enjoying an excellent Asian breakfast, after which Bobby Lee dropped Boyd off at his pickup, back at the North Gate. Since the Range Rover was supposed to be for company business only, Boyd gave Bobby Lee a lift into Thalia, where the one stoplight continued to blink and blink.
3
IF YOU ATTEMPT to force me to eat egg whites I may jump up and rebel,” Duane said, good-naturedly. In fact he hated egg whites—in his youth there had even been the belief that the two things that caused blindness were egg whites and masturbation.
Annie, his wife of almost five years, came to the table in a caftan that covered her completely, from neck to ankles. She gave no response to his joking complaint.
They were breakfasting on the deck of their adobe home hear Patagonia, Arizona. Doves were cooing, the sunlight was strong and a small covey of Gambel’s quail skittered across the deck. Two young coyotes loped along a gulch below the house.
“You won’t rebel,” Annie said firmly, putting a rosy Texas grapefruit before him. Though nearing thirty, Annie looked about sixteen. Duane was charmed by her, as he had been more or less since the moment they met.
“You can always have all the fruit you want,” she reminded him. “Your problems lie in the nonfruit areas.”
In their years together Annie and Duane had developed a few codes, which, if followed, kept their marriage fairly harmonious. The all-enveloping caftan indicated that Annie had a lover, which meant a period of chastity for Duane. The fact that they had separate bedrooms made this chaste state easier to tolerate. Duane didn’t challenge the arrangement, in part because he knew that Annie was inconsistent and would show up in his bed every few nights anyway, out of a need to be held.
Just before his heart surgery. Duane had nearly died while making love to Annie, an experience that left its mark on both of them. A few years after the operation his potency had returned almost to normal, but the death-fuck, as Annie still referred to it, caused both of them to wonder if he would survive all-out lovemaking. As a result they settled for a kind of stutter-step sex, their fears causing them to miss pleasures they might well have enjoyed.
Annie’s present lover, Duane suspected, was a young carpenter they hired to do some repairs around the house. Like most local carpenters he worked shirtless and was nicely bronzed by the Arizona sun. Duane had to reconcile himself to the fact that he himself was only going to get older and less vigorous, whereas golden young carpenters would never be in short supply.
Annie was a topflight geological analyst, who worked, technically, for Duane’s son, Dickie. As part of her duties, she went to high-level petroleum conferences all over the world; the conferences provided the opportunity for many brief romances, though Duane didn’t think Annie had many brief romances—mainly, he thought, she did her work and came home.
While he was eating his grapefruit one of the Gambel’s quail jumped up on the table and made off with a blueberry. Duane liked birds and usu
ally had half a dozen or so milling around his feet when he breakfasted outside. Indeed, the little birds provided a bit of company when Annie was gone. There were times, as he aged, when he felt marginal—the presence of the quail and dove seemed to help a little.
4
ONE DAY, WITH Annie in Vancouver, Duane had a deeper than usual depression—deep enough that he broke his own rules and called Honor Carmichael, his first psychiatrist, who was retired and was living on Long Island with her slightly crippled girlfriend, a famous American painter.
“That’s not a happy voice,” Honor said, the moment Duane said her name.
“Are you busy?” he asked, nervously.
Honor laughed. “I’m a kept woman, Duane—and handsomely kept, at that. I’m never again likely to be ‘busy,’ not in the real sense anyway.
“So why’d you call?” she asked.
“I’m more depressed than I have any reason to be,” he admitted.
“And Annie’s where?”
“Vancouver.”
“Lover?”
“I think she might have something going with a carpenter we hired,” he said.
“A common choice,” Honor said. “Carpenters are usually good with their hands.”
“I don’t know whether I should bring it up with her or not,” he added.
“Don’t you utter a word,” Honor said. “She didn’t marry you for your tolerance.”
“I don’t feel that tolerant,” he said.
“No, but your love is her safety,” Honor said. “It may not always be comfortable for you, but it’s important.”
“I don’t make a good retiree,” he said. “I’m not used to sitting on the deck with absolutely nothing to do.”
“Then go home for a while,” she suggested. “Go back to Thalia and see how you feel.”
“What?” Duane said, wondering if he had misheard. Honor had been to Thalia. She knew what was there, and, even more importantly, she knew what wasn’t there.
“Last time I left home I had the feeling I was leaving for good,” he said. “I’ve had to go back a couple of times because of the oil business and I feel about as marginal there as I feel here. Except for one thing.”