by Julie Weston
“I’ll take a couple of photos of his head and the wound. I won’t be able to develop them until I get back to Ketchum.”
“There ain’t no sheriff these days up here in Custer County. Your friend Azgo’ll probably be the one to investigate up here. I want nothin’ to do with him. I’ll tell him about the body and he can come up or not as he pleases. In the meantime, Al and I’ll get him buried and see where the sheep went off to. This place’ll need airin’ out. I’ll get a tent set up for you so you can have some privacy. You’ll be pretty lonely up here, Lassie. Al ain’t used to having women around and he’s got sheep to watch. Sure you want to stay now that you seen some of the trouble?”
Nellie’s visions of rambles in the high country, watching and listening to sheep, getting friendly with the talented dogs, maybe conversing in broken English and Spanish with the Basque sheepherders now seemed like something out of a book or a column in an eastern newspaper. The railroad man wanted scenic landscapes, romantic shots of a calm, western occupation, interesting and time-worn visages of cowboys and, if possible, noble savages. These were what tourists wanted to see when they came out West. Maybe this was what Nellie herself had expected. She wasn’t immune to the vivid descriptions Zane Grey included in his romantic western stories nor the heroic cowboy characters he wrote about. Never mind that most of his novels took place before the turn of the century into modern times.
“I’ll stay,” she said, and pulled the black cloth over her head and her camera. She focused for a second picture of the body, this time taking the whole man, not just his head and the grim hole.
“Thought you would. Never seen a woman so determined as you to act like a man. Just remember, you ain’t one.” His legs and feet moved back to the camp. “Al and I got to bury Domingo here, then see about roundin’ up the sheep.”
Nellie abruptly pulled out from under the cloth. “Can I help? I can scramble up these hills more easily than you can.”
“Shore you can. But I’m gonna take the horse. You can follow Al around if you like. Your dog might be some help, if he don’t run into a mutt again. Or a coyote.”
Nellie released the shutter and called toward the sheep tender coming down the trail toward them. “Alphonso, I’ll come with you.”
The Basque looked from Gwynn to Nell, his face impassive. She hadn’t really studied him before. He bore a surface resemblance to Sheriff Asteguigoiri, his name shortened by most people to Azgo, also a Basque. Neither was truly handsome nor as noble-looking as Indians were often pictured, but both had a centuries-old air about them, embodied in high cheekbones, dark eyes that seemed to reflect little or no emotion, arms almost too long for their builds but that seemed capable of great strength. Summers alone in the mountains might account for a certain stillness about them, although Alphonso had less of that mysterious air that emanated from the sheriff. The sheepherder was younger, too. His dark skin, the color of burnished bronze from the sun, had few lines.
“Do you mind?” she asked Alphonso. “Maybe Moonshine can find the sheep or dogs faster than we can.”
“He don’t speak much English, but he can understand some of what you say. Keep it simple,” Gwynn said. “And he’ll mind or not, whatever I tell him. You know any Spanish?”
“Por favor and gracias. That about does it. Maybe I can learn while I’m here.”
“Mostly he speaks Euskara—Basque. You won’t never learn that. Only God’s devils can understand it, and the Basque. Language all their own even if most of ’em do come from Spain. Best damned sheepherders there is.” Gwynn’s face became almost as impassive as Alphonso’s. “Domingo—well, he went through a lot up here with the cattlemen. A good man. I’m sorry to lose him.” He motioned to Alphonso and the two of them carried Domingo away from the camp into an area shaded by a rock outcropping. They took turns with a single shovel until a shallow grave was finished. Alphonso laid the dead man carefully into it. He motioned to Gwynn to wait and walked back to the camp, apparently looking for something on the ground or in the bushes off the trail.
“What do you need, Alphonso?” Nell walked over to him.
He looked at her and she saw that tears had sprung into his eyes. “Wool.” He continued to pace around the area.
“Wool?” Near the stream on a crooked branch of a small tree, Nell saw what she had assumed was white fuzz from blossoms, seed pods. She stepped closer and felt it. Wool from a sheep. “Like this?” She held it up.
The sheepherder took it from her and bowed slightly. “Gracias.” He hurried back to the grave site where Gwynn had begun shoveling dirt and rocks over the dead man. Alphonso knelt, picked up Domingo’s hand, curled his fingers around the wool, and laid the hand on the chest. He said some words in his strange language, stood, and took the shovel from Gwynn to finish the burial. Nell helped pile stones on top of the mound, hoping the grave was deep enough and the rock pile high enough to keep animals from rooting up the dead body.
Moonshine trotted across the meadow toward them, making small yips. He nosed the mound, didn’t mark it to Nell’s relief, and sat down by her, waiting for instructions. His brown eyes looked mournful, as if he knew what had just taken place. “All right, Moonie. We’re going out to find sheep.”
Nell pulled her bags out of the pickup and opened one. She scrounged around inside and found a red bandana to wrap around her hair. She already wore pants, but tied a jacket around her waist for later. She had learned how cold the air was when the sun dropped behind the mountains. Her boots she had purchased in the winter and they were sturdy leather, already scuffed from use, but comfortable. “I’m ready.” She didn’t want to miss her chance to search for sheep. Even if it was a dangerous situation—after all, a man was dead—she had learned in the winter that she was braver than she ever thought she could be.
Sheepherder and sheep rancher looked at her and then at each other. Both smiled. Gwynn mounted the horse, struggling to throw his old leg up and over, settling into the saddle, groaning to let them know he wasn’t a young man anymore but could still do what needed to be done. “Better fix a rope around that dog so he don’t get into it if you come across the sheepdogs. With luck, they’ll have the band rounded up somewhere, waiting for Domingo. I’ll head up the way.” He gestured with his head, turned the horse, and began a slow climb to disappear around the bend.
Alphonso studied Nell. She didn’t know what to say, so just waited. He nodded his head, found a length of thin rope inside the camp, left the door open, and motioned to Nell to follow him. They scrambled around the hill in the opposite direction Gwynn had taken, Alphonso studying the ground as they walked, the rope over his shoulders. Nell found herself having to watch what she was doing. The sagebrush branches and roots tripped and scratched her until she figured that she could not take a straight line. She wove around and through the brush, smelling the fragrance as she went, avoiding ground squirrel holes, stepping high where necessary. Moonie kept apace.
If Domingo had killed himself, Gwynn would have found a gun. Therefore, someone must have shot him. Who would do that? And where? Gwynn said no blood was evident inside the camp. She was glad she’d have a tent to sleep in and wouldn’t have to enter the enclosed wagon. The state of the man’s clothes and the scratches on his body were troublesome, as if he had been ill-used. Her talent for composing a good picture accompanied her ability to imagine herself in someone else’s shoes, and she found herself trembling from the rage he might have felt if someone beat on him or worse, dragged him in this rough scrub brush and rocky scape.
During her musings, she lost sight of Alphonso and Moonshine. She stopped and turned around. Ridge lines met in a complex pattern. Sage and rabbit brush, just beginning to bud into what would be yellow clumps, turned the slopes gray-green. Looking south, she saw stands of dark fir on the north slopes of a series of small mountainsides, broken by chutes where tree trunks lay scattered like gray toothpicks from winter avalanches. Above and beyond her, white rock peaks lined up as far as she co
uld see—the White Cloud Mountains, Gwynn had identified for her. Snow, unmelted by late spring or early summer sun, marked a slope several ridges from where she stood.
As Nell watched, it began to move, lackadaisically, as if melting before her eyes. “The sheep! I see the sheep!” But no one was around to hear her. She began to hustle toward them, then tripped and fell on her face, breaking her fall with her hands. “Owww!”
Carefully, she sat up and examined her left hand, the same one she’d scraped at Smiley Creek. A small stone was lodged in the pad of skin below her thumb. Tears sprang to her eyes. She heard a bark and then Moonshine trotted over the ridge behind her and wound his way to her. “Oh, Moonie. Ouch. See my hand?” She held it up and he licked it. There was nothing for her to do but try and pressure the rock loose. The dog watched as she pulled her skin apart with her other hand, then tried squeezing from below, and it dislodged. A thin line of blood trailed to her wrist. She wiped it on her trousers and stood up. “I saw the sheep over there,” she said, pointing. The patch was marginally closer, and she saw the tiny figure of a dog herding them. “Let’s go.” This time she watched her step, stopping from time to time to call for Alphonso and Gwynn.
When she and Moonshine came within a hundred yards of the band, Nell stopped and held Moonshine close to her. She didn’t want another dogfight. The sheep dog, a black and white animal with one blue eye and one brown eye, eased over to her. The two dogs sniffed at each other, but neither growled or took a fighting stance. “Hey, sheep dog. Are you bringing your charges back? Why are they way out here?” Its eyes seemed to roll in its head and she laughed.
The dog ignored her and ran to herd a stray back into the band, then circled to the rear, continuing to move the band along. If Nell didn’t step to one side, she’d be in the middle of it, swallowing dust, so she, too, turned in the direction she’d come, feeling herded right along with the sheep. She noticed a number of black sheep and counted. Gwynn had said each black sheep was a marker for one hundred white sheep. This band was at least fifteen hundred sheep, based on the number of dark wooly backs. It didn’t seem that large, but the white backs moved like a small sea of dirty waves rolling up and over sagebrush, streaming around rocky outcrops. Bells on the lead sheep tinkled and a murmuring of “baaas” soon surrounded Nellie. She wasn’t moving fast enough, so she took the bandana from her hair and covered her nose and mouth with it. Their butting heads and thick bodies jostled her as if she were in a sheep stampede, and staying upright challenged her. Moonshine was smart enough to stay in front of the band and soon she saw him disappear over the next ridge.
Before long, her dog appeared again, barking. This time, a man followed and Nell saw that it was Alphonso. He waved and jog-trotted toward her, avoiding the kind of roots she had tripped over. He whistled to the sheep dog, made two hand motions as he neared, and the dog circled around to the front of the band, stopping their progress. Nell clambered through the knots of wool to the sheepherder.
She removed her kerchief to speak. “Are these the Campbell sheep? I’m so glad you’re here. They were going to pass me up soon.”
“Campbell sheep,” Alphonso repeated after her. “Dog?” He held up one finger.
“That’s all I saw. Should there be more?”
A look of concern crossed the young man’s face, the first one Nell had seen. He turned to point to Moonshine. “Dogs fight?”
“No fight.” She shook her head. She hated talking as if he were a dunce, so added, “It seemed to accept Moonie.”
“Señora.” He pointed to the dog at the side of the band. “Señors vamoose.”
“The missing dogs are male?” She turned around where she stood, scanning the countryside. Nothing else moved, except a hawk soaring high. It was so wild, and its markings, beige and white stripes on the underside of its wings, so beautiful, she hugged herself. A loud call pierced the blue. Was it calling to a mate, or had it found a victim in the scrub below?
Alphonso said something more, but Nell couldn’t understand. She shook her head. He motioned for her to continue back to the camp with the band and with Moonshine. He, apparently, was going to look for the other dogs.
“But where do I go?”
The sheepherder pointed with one hand to the sun lowering toward the west. Then he stood with his other hand pointed at a right angle. “South.” He touched his chest. “Find dogs.” He touched her shoulder. “South.” He jabbed his hand again in that direction.
“All right. But come back soon. I might get lost.”
He nodded. Whether he understood her was questionable.
Nell rewrapped the kerchief around her face, called Moonshine, and headed in the direction Alphonso had pointed. If she kept the sun on her right side, she should be all right. The sheep dog was much clearer about where to herd its charges, and soon, she was once again in the middle of the band and then behind them, choking from the dust and lanolin smell. It would be hard to lose her way from the rear. Small, dark round pellets marked everything. Not unlike Hansel and Gretel, she thought.
Familiar landmarks appeared. Aspen and cottonwoods marked the path of the creek and a rocky pinnacle and talus slide showed up across the water. Gold and green grass. The sheep camp hove into view, a welcome sight. The horse was tethered to the back of the camp, but Nell didn’t see Gwynn anywhere. Maybe he was inside the wagon, looking for the gun or blood. Then she saw that the pickup truck was nowhere to be seen. He must have driven back down that rough road and was returning to Galena Store and points south. A strong sense of abandonment filled Nell. Her elation over the photo assignment and her excited anticipation of a lark in the summer sheep range popped like big balloons.
The dog once again circled the band and then lay down, her tongue lolling. She rolled in the grass. Moonie followed suit, then trotted over to the creek for water. The sheep, too, settled in groups. Nell rested on a log near a fire round, discouraged, tired, and dirty. A couple of weeks? She’d be lucky to last until the next supply manager arrived a week hence. On the other hand, walking down that wagon trail, for surely that was what it was, and then trying to hitchhike back to Galena held little appeal, especially carrying her camera pack and at least one suitcase. Those awful men at Smiley Creek.
Where were her things? She stood up. The ground was empty of baggage. Gwynn must have left everything in the sheep wagon. Nell strode over to it, but hesitated. The door was closed. Concern for her camera overcame any fastidiousness about entering into someone else’s home without permission. She climbed one step, peered through the small square window, and could see nothing. A squirrel scolded from a tree branch. As she reached for the handle, a rock rattled behind her. When she turned, she saw one fall to the ground from the rocky outcrop. “Who’s there?” A hush surrounded her and she thought she heard several more rocks fall, but somewhere up and beyond her sight. “Alphonso?” No answer.
On the trail leading from below into the camping area, she saw a horse and rider, and behind the first, several more. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the sheep dog stand up, holding steady to guard her charges. Nellie stepped down from the camp wagon and into the path of the rider.
“Whoa, Star.” The rider’s horse stopped a few yards in front of Nell. “Who are you, little lady? The sheep tender?” The cowboy laughed and turned in his saddle. “Whoa,” he called to the string of riders behind him. “We got an obstruction ahead.”
Nell stepped back. She didn’t consider herself an obstruction. “Who are you?”
“I’m Luke, head cowboy for this crew of tenderfoots. We’re on our way up Fourth of July Creek here to a camp that-away—by the lake.” He took off his hat, motioned beyond Nell, wiped dust off his forehead with a kerchief, and replaced the hat, shading the light blue eyes she’d caught a glimpse of. Well-worn chaps covered his legs. His flannel shirt bore signs of dirt and sweat. All he needed to complete his get-up was a six-shooter around his waist.
“Did you meet up with Gwynn Campbell in a pi
ckup on your way here?”
“Driving hell bent for leather down this godforsaken wagon track. Near run into me.” The cowboy’s drawl was slow and southern. Nell couldn’t decide if it were fake or not. “Didn’t bother to stop. Said to tell someone named Al that he’d be back ’fore dark if he could.”
Relieved with at least this little bit of news, Nell smiled. “I’m Nellie Burns. I’m not the sheep tender. I’m a photographer. Alphonso is on his way.” She glanced at the rocky outcrop, wondering why the sheepherder hadn’t appeared yet.
“We can’t stop to chew the fat, Miss Burns. Gotta get this passel of riders to camp, get ’em unloaded, and stir up some chow.” He tipped his hat. “Nice to meet ya. It ain’t often I get to see a pretty girl out here in the sagebrush. ’Specially not in the middle of those gol-durned sheep.” He turned in the saddle and called out. “Get ’em goin’.” He rode past. Six others on horseback followed, people clearly not used to riding horses as they gripped the saddle horn as well as the reins and looked to be in various stages of discomfort. Four men and two women, all dressed like a Chicagoan’s idea of what a cowboy looked like—ten gallon hats, sheepskin vests, shiny tooled cowboy boots, Levi’s without a scratch on the men and divided denim skirts on the women. Nell thought those looked like a good idea. At the tail end was the cowboy she’d met at Galena, Dick something. Goodlight. What a name for such a sour-faced person.
“Hello, again,” Nellie said, feeling as if she should acknowledge meeting him, even if his dog was a scoundrel. After Gwynn’s scolding, she thought Moonie might have had something to do with the attack, but she would not apologize. Certainly this man would not. Moonshine returned to her side, barked once, and sat by her feet.
The man removed his clean Stetson, not from any polite feeling she was sure, nodded his head, and wiped his neck and forehead. He stared at her as he continued on, leading two pack animals fully laden. Not a peep from him, but Nell’s hackles rose as if he had threatened her.
