I still had my crow problem and it didn’t seem likely that Hagerty was going to help me fix it any time soon. At least not directly. Uncle Dave and I agreed it was time to try and call them boys back up for some guidance, or at least some new music. It was our understanding that they was all up in Denver somehow, somewhere, as was Hagerty when he wasn’t out here scarecrowin’. That’s what Westword was sayin’ at least. So maybe they were crossing paths down in that tryptamine underground. And maybe they could give us some insight as to how we were gonna evict them corvids before they drove me right outta my gawdamned head.
Uncle Dave still had that blotter he’d picked up in Cortez. Didn’t look like a batch from Lars but there was enough of it that we were pretty sure it would do the trick. No football at home that week ‘cause the boys were playing on the road in Pagosa. We’d of liked to have gone, but that’s at least four hours of driving in total and Uncle Dave’s leg wasn’t up for so much time behind the wheel on this particular day. So we packed up the truck, headed out to the cemetery after feedin’ the herd and watching the crows come and go. Hagerty was out there in the field, kinda dancin’ in a little circle for a few minutes before he melted. We settled in, chewed up them hits and waited for whatever was gonna manifest.
Even though they weren’t Lars-brand doses, we could tell they were gonna be the business about an hour in. Real good body high came on, creepin’ up from our toes and into our hair. (Mine was pretty well grown back in by now, but looked like the scars on my face were gonna stick around a while longer.) I was gettin’ a bit cotton-mouthed so I went to the truck and brought back a couple beers. We cracked ‘em open and that sound just boomed out like we was holdin’ two sea caves belchin’ breakers into the great wide open. Got some good trails off the spots of foam that came arcing out too.
Some movement out in the field caught my eye. One lone coyote. He was about fifty yards out, turned right towards us and started tryin’ to stare us down. I had been responsible enough to leave the air cannon at home this time, so I went back to the truck and pulled the .243 off the rack, thumbed a shell into the chamber and closed the action. Uncle Dave sat there sippin’ his beer and grinnin’. Then he said, “Git ‘em, Ollie.”
I took a knee and steadied my arm on the lawn chair. With a scope I coulda made this shot in my sleep, but I’m an open-sights guy. Sporting chance is the right way to do things, even when it comes to coyotes. I tried to put a bead on that rat bastard’s head but the stock and barrel were melting and bowing all over the place like the trunk of some drunken elephant. I let it do its thing for a few seconds, got into the rhythm and waited for it to lock on to the target. Soon as it did I gave that trigger a nice even squeeze and dropped that sketchy little shit-hound like a sack of beans.
Uncle Dave let loose with a nice long, “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OLLIE!” as I levered the spent shell into the dirt. The cordite tang tasted metallic blue and painted three swimming paisleys in the air that I sucked in through my nostrils.
“Fucked that boy up proper Ollie. Some nice shootin’ right there I tell you whut…”
The planchette gave a little jump down there on the board, and we knew we were in business. Rows and rows of Chinese stop signs echoed across the sky and them last few slivers of clouds still catchin’ some sunset revved up and shot over our heads like a fleet of top fuel dragsters, layin’ rubber west to east. The echo from that gunshot just rolled off into the distance and went headfirst over the La Platas, about fifty miles off. I looked over at Uncle Dave just as his eyes fused together in a cycloptic contraction that made my stomach do a little somersault.
I averted my gaze and saw a figure comin’ up outta the field. Just one, but it weren’t no Hagerty. It was one of our mudpuppet boys for sure. Comin’ in solo for some reason. He grabbed that coyote’s carcass by the scruff of the neck as he passed by it and started draggin’ that thing along as he closed in our position. Uncle Dave was laughin’ and jabberin’ away like a toddler who just discovered peekaboo, and that coyote dragging silhouette kept lurching right towards us.
“Here comes mah SWEETHEART!”, Uncle Dave screamed into the palms of his hands. He turned that single eye on me and peered right down into the pit of my sad sorry soul. I could feel him seein’ me. Seein’ me hard. Our guest was only steps away when the sky tore open and out come a sandstorm of crows. It all smelled like a tire fire.
Them crows rorschached around the sky for a few moments before coalescing into an angry peloton that was headin’ right towards us. Our mudpuppet was bent over the Ouija board, movin’ the planchette with one hand while he shook that coyote so hard it’s hide came right off its meat. Boy was spellin’ out something on the board as them crows came right at us, and then he draped that greasy hide over his head. All them crows just dropped right outta the sky, coverin’ the ground with feathers and feet just as far as we could see.
That boy looked up at me from under that pelt and suddenly I knew where I’d seen him before. Back in Pueblo. At the Slaughterhouse gig. It was Elijah.
Uncle Dave was covered in a heap of dead crows. Elijah pulled that coyote pelt back down over his face and started walkin’ west, draggin’ that skinned critter with him. The planchette kept movin’ of its own accord, spellin’ out;
“D-E-N-V-E-R-H-Z-C-X-D-E-N-V-E-R-J-X-Q-K-D-E-N-V-E-R-Y-P-8-3-1-D-E-N-V-E-R-3-1-D-E…”
Elijah picked up the pace and disappeared over the western horizon, leaving a vapor trail of gamey meat and saffron, and foot wide smear of coyote guts. And I finally had a pretty clear vision as to where I was supposed to go now, if I was to finally rid myself of these gawdamned birds that is.