The cubs were rounded up and sold on the black market. She was still a cub when poachers decimated her pride, killing the lions for their teeth and claws and bones. She was a golden lioness, born on the grasslands of Africa, sired by a black-maned king of the savannah. He snapped the rag at the end of one long, dark arm. He stood before the open bay, squinting at Lope. In one hand he held a double rifle, like for shooting elephant. He wore a bush hat, the brim pinned on one side, and the small round eyeglasses of a small-town clerk, his nose smashed broad and flat against his cheeks, as if by God’s thumbs. He was a square-jawed bantam, built like a postage stamp, bowlegged like the old jockey he was.
Little Anse Caulfield jumped down from the cab, his backcut cowboy heels clacking in the gravel. The truck skidded to a halt before the firehouse bays, rocking on its wheels, as if summoned here. A turbocharged diesel came whining up the drive, a black Ford dually with smokestacks risen over the cab like a pair of chrome horns. Lope started to part his lips, to sing to the sleeping engine, when a whistle rose in accompaniment, like the train songs of old. There was heat in the blues, he knew, as if the singer’s heart were held over the blue hiss of a gas flame. Lope let the words hum against his lips, unvoiced.
Muddy Waters or Howlin’ Wolf, begging his baby not to go, not to be her dog. Lope knelt before the fire engine, rag in hand, polishing the silver platters of the wheels. The following is an excerpt from Chapter 2 of Taylor Brown’s newest novel, Pride of Eden, out March 17th, 2020.
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