by Julie Weston
“Yes, somewhat.”
“ ‘Somewhat?’ What does that mean? Either you ride or you don’t.”
Whenever the old man did something thoughtful, he nearly always added some teeth to it. Nell wanted to think she was growing fond of him, that in some ways he was replacing her father, but it was all sentimental slop. He was a hard man, caring more for sheep and dogs than for people, except perhaps his sheepherders, and he definitely felt those men belonged to him.
“I learned to ride in Chicago, in a park, on an English saddle.” She decided not to add that her lessons all took place when she was ten years old, while her grandparents were still alive and wanted her to have some treats.
Gwynn snorted. “Guess you’ll have to relearn with the western saddle. Anyway, here it is. Alphonso can help you get on.” He turned to the Basque who watched the scene, his face impassive as always. “She’s gonna take pictures of you, the sheep, the bee-eautiful landscape. Your first responsibility is the sheep and dogs, but help her out if she needs it.” And then he had left them alone.
Nell spoke to Alphonso in English. She never knew for certain when he understood her and when he didn’t. He spoke to her from time to time in a combination of Spanish and English words, when he spoke at all. Maybe it was Gwynn’s English that she missed. It was almost like being alone in the mountains to be with Alphonso.
The sheepherder went about his business and Nell followed him or not, as she chose. The first few days, she did what he did: arose early, before dawn, to see that the sheep didn’t scatter as they began to graze at first light. He stayed with the herd as they ambled along to find grass, using the dogs to keep them from scattering widely. Sometimes he rode his horse, sometimes not. At midmorning, the sheep lay down in whatever shade they could find, chewing their cuds and looking like big-nosed preachers about to deliver sermons, and both Alphonso and Nell ate a sandwich and drank from a leather bag filled with water.
Around midafternoon, the sheep stood, rising in clumps like wool bundles, to graze again. Alphonso or one of the dogs moved the lead sheep back in the direction of camp, and slowly the mass of yarn followed. After feeding the dogs, including Moonshine, Alphonso fixed supper, usually beans and biscuits, often with chorizo sausage, one night mutton chops, and another time, a large ham that he and Nell ate for several days.
While Nellie wandered nearby seeking good photographic material, Alphonso sometimes rode off on his horse. She didn’t know what he did while he was gone, but twice he brought back unusual-looking rocks and once a spear head. His explorations seemed more fruitful than hers. He allowed her to photograph him in several different poses: on his horse, standing in front of the camp, working at the stove, resting with his arms behind his head on a grassy slope, and calling the sheep for salt. “Brrrrr, brrrrr.” It was a pleasant sound and the wooly animals clearly knew what it meant for they moved more quickly than usual to crowd around a salt lick, a block of salt, their tongues rasping, reminding her of a bee’s nest that had been disturbed.
The aspen grove near where they camped gave Nellie a place to sit and plan her photographs while she basked in the sunshine, breathing in the smell of green leaves and sage. The continuous rattle of aspen leaves sometimes lulled her to sleep. Then she discovered the carvings in the white bark: names and dates and on one tree, two sheep. Alphonso identified them as the markings of earlier sheepherders, and then pointed out one carved by Domingo. She insisted on a photograph of Alphonso carving his own name.
Moonshine stuck by Nellie and steered clear of the sheep dogs. The wounded animal had been up and around quickly and, although the two males had circled one another, a few words from Alphonso had settled whatever challenge they were thinking about. Occasionally, her black dog wandered close to the sheep and one of the sheep dogs would herd him away from its charges. Moonie didn’t seem to mind. Mostly, he ran the hills, looking for ground squirrels to chase or trees to mark. Often, he lay beside Nell as she once again set up her tripod, fastened her camera, leveled it, peered through the lens, studied scene, animal, or man from under her black cloth, and shot photographs.
Nell’s boot slipped in the muddy track she was following and she was jolted out of her reverie. The rain had stopped, but fog and clouds still hovered around her. Moonie wasn’t by her side. She turned backward to be certain the horse was still at the end of the rein she held in her hand. How far she had walked was a question she couldn’t answer, but judging by the state of her boots, at least a mile, perhaps two. She estimated she was at least two miles from camp, a warm fire, and the cozy sheep camp, which Alphonso shared with her during dinner and in the evening, until she stepped down to her tent for the night.
The fog hugged the hillsides around her and she felt swathed in gauze, a suffocating feeling. “Moonshine!” Her voice was tinny and traveled no farther than the ghostly sagebrush and rabbit brush she could see. Her horse clopped to a stop behind her and wouldn’t move when she tugged on the rein. “Come on, Blade. Giddy up.” Still, he stood, nodding his head at her. A chill crept along her arms up to her neck.
Nell turned in a circle, forgetting which way she was traveling, the fog was so disorienting. Then she heard what the horse must have heard, a lowing and bawling, accompanied by a vibration in the ground. Which direction and how far away, she couldn’t tell. “Blade, I’ve got to get on you.” A quick glance around confirmed there were still no rocks, nothing to stand on, to mount the horse. She pulled on the rein and began to walk as quickly as the mud allowed. Even a steep-sided slant to the hillside would help. “Moonshine!” The track turned sharply and the sounds and vibrations surrounded her.
With her hands on the reins and the saddle horn, Nell talked to the horse while she placed her foot in the stirrup. “Hold still. Stop. Whoa!” For once, the animal cooperated, although his eyes showed more white than color. He was frightened too, not good for her. She managed to get herself up to his side, and just as she was swinging her other leg over the top, he began to sidestep again. “Whoa!” Panic almost made her lose her hold on the saddle horn. The pack on her back was an unbalancing factor and she could feel herself begin to slide off. Then Moonie showed up and barked. He acted like a sheep dog, herding the horse back on the track, then stopping the horse. Nell’s right leg swung over and she was on.
Before she could properly settle herself, a half dozen steer loomed close, coming out of the fog directly in front. They moved around her, walking and jogging in turns, like water eddying around a log in a stream as they continued up the track, followed by a herd strung out behind. The stench as they passed made her pinch her nose. Two riders clad in canvas ponchos and Stetsons brought up the rear.
“Hello,” she called, not certain what range courtesies might be called for, if anything.
“Hallo yourself,” answered one of the riders. “Rainy day to be out and about alone in the wilderness, ain’t it? You wandered off from one of them dude campouts?”
“I’m not alone. I’m with a sheep camp down the way.”
The rider came alongside. “Oh, you’re that picture lady I heard about.” The man’s voice was singular, deep and with the timbre of a singer.
“How do you know that?” Nell took in the man’s lean face, grizzled chin and cheeks, and his eyes. They were like one of the sheep dog’s—one was brown and the other blue. She tried not to stare at such a strange sight and glanced over his shoulder to the other rider, who sat hunched and looking miserable in the damp.
“We nattered awhile with the Basque,” the cowboy said, motioning with his head in the direction from which they’d come. “Damn, those sheep smell.” He shook his head, reached up under his poncho, and brought out a cigarette, which he stuck in his mouth while he fumbled with a wood match, striking it against something on his saddle horn, and then cupped his hand around the flame while he lit up. The expelled smoke hid his face a moment and Nell breathed in the burning tobacco odor, wishing she could do similarly. Smoking had become such an inconvenience, s
he’d given it up in the spring. It had been more for effect anyway.
“Not as much as those cattle,” she said. “Theirs is a constant dung smell. And the cowpies. How do you stand it?” She hadn’t meant to be so defensive about the sheep, but she was used to their lanolin odor, which wasn’t nearly as strong as the cattle.
“Guess it’s all a matter of what you get used to, ain’t it?” When he dragged on the cigarette, it quivered in his lips, which were a deep pink in color and shaped like a cupid’s bow. Then he took the cigarette from his mouth and smiled at Nell, before turning back to his companion. “You know this girl?” Then back, “What’s your name?”
“I’m Nell Burns.” The cowboy’s wide smile had confused her. He was one of the handsomest men she’d ever seen in her life, unshaven face and mismatched eyes notwithstanding. Before she could ask his name, the other rider came forward. It was Goodlight, the man she’d seen at Galena Store and again with the dudes the first day she arrived. He did get around. His surly face was unchanged.
“Yeah, we met.”
“Hello, Mr. Goodlight. We seem to cross paths often.”
“Ned, we’ve got a long ways to go. Let’s keep movin’.” Good-light nodded to Nell. He’d not yet been courteous enough to greet her with a word, but he didn’t seem so threatening this time.
“Maybe we ought to see Miss Burns gets back to her camp. She’s wandered a bit off course, I’d say.”
Moonshine chose to bark.
“That mutt’ll get her back, or the horse will.” Goodlight pulled his horse’s head to the side. “All she has to do is follow the cowpies.” Then he gave his horse a small kick and continued up the trail.
Nellie and the unnamed cowboy looked at each other. “I can find my own way back. Thank you. Your friend is right. Moonie or the horse will get me there if I can’t.” She smiled, wishing she’d sounded more independent. “What’s your name?” The fog was making her addle-brained and forward.
“Ned Tanner. I’m a cowboy for the Rocking O outfit.” Again, he motioned with his head back down the trail. “Out of Stanley.” He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into the surrounding fog. “Take care now, Nell Burns. When you get down off this rise here, take the fork to the left and that’ll get you back to your sheep.” He lifted his hat briefly, winked the blue eye at her, and rode past.
The fog lifted as Nellie rode down to the sheep camp. By the time she arrived, late-afternoon sunshine broke through the clouds in several places, aiming streams of light at the camp and the aspens. The beauty of scenes in these mountains filled her with happiness. Then she realized something was amiss. Alphonso and the sheep should have been nearby, but they weren’t. No smoke came from the crooked chimney on top of the roof; the door was open and pots and pans were scattered about. Two of the wood boxes that held food supplies were broken into pieces near the fire and flour and sugar were spilled on the ground like lumps of paste.
Moonshine barked, dashed up the steps and looked inside the camp, returned, and barked again, circling around the area. Nell sat her horse, not certain what to do—wait or try to find Alphonso. If he’d been inside, hurt, Moonshine would have entered. Besides, his horse was gone.
“Let’s go, Moonie. This morning, he headed north. Grazing is getting a little skimpy nearby. He said we’d move in a day or two.” Her rump was sore from riding a good portion of the day, but maybe she could help Alphonso. He must be in trouble somewhere.
After crossing only two ridges, she came upon the sheepherder. He and his dogs were rounding up sheep ranged far and wide. Only a small band clumped together where one ridge met another. One dog urged another small group toward the band. As soon as they arrived, he circled and headed back over a ridge. A long whistle sounded and another dog appeared on the horizon, herding another bunch, followed by Alphonso on his horse. He stopped short and waved to Nell. She waved back, but stayed where she was. There was nothing she knew how to do to help. The words “Come by, come by,” a command to one of the dogs, floated toward her.
“Come along Moonie. We can go back and clean up, maybe get the fire started at least. I’ve never seen the sheep so scattered.” She turned her horse, glad to think of something to do. “Alphonso will be in a hurry to herd the sheep back near camp. Out here, we’re just in the way.” She waved once and the sheepherder disappeared behind the ridge she traveled down.
Nell salvaged all the flour she could, but the boxes were beyond her. “May as well use them for firewood,” she muttered. Most of the sugar had melted in the rain, but half a bag was usable, although already hardening. Several of the tins were squished open, their contents spewed on the ground, as if pounded or maybe stepped on. “The cattle. Did they come through here?” The ground was hard, but when she began looking, Nell saw the tracks of horses if not cattle. She didn’t remember that the ground had been churned up the same way it was on most of her trip back. At the fork the cowboy had mentioned, the churned ground had extended to the other fork where she turned. His offer to help her back had indeed been specious. She could hardly miss the trail of the steers.
Someone had done this damage on purpose. Her first thought had been that lightning had struck the sheep wagon, causing so much damage, but it wasn’t burned. The bunk was torn apart, but not so badly she couldn’t put things together again. No one had touched her tent, maybe because it was back in the trees and not clearly visible from the camp. “Those cowboys did this. I know they did. They ‘nattered with the Basque’ he said.” She stomped up and down the stairs, cleaning up, putting things back in their places. “ ‘Nattered’ my foot.” Moonshine followed her every step, responding occasionally with a drawn-out groan, as if he understood her.
By dark, the baaing of the sheep told her they were mostly together and Alphonso was close. The fire in the stove had heated the camp and she had a pot of mutton stew simmering. The meat had to be used and, after she’d cleaned off dirt and leaves and fir needles, was none the worse for wear. She’d rolled it in some of the damaged flour, browned it in the bottom of an iron pot on the stove, added wine and water and garlic, just as she’d seen Alphonso do, then cut up some of the potatoes after cutting off sprouts, and carrots she’d scraped of the hair they grew in the dark boxes. Wild greens grew along the creek, which served as a salad with a touch of vinegar. Nellie had no idea whether they were poisonous or not, but they tasted of nuts, so she figured they were edible. Alphonso would know.
While she waited, Nellie curled up on the bunk, making notes of the photos she had taken during the day before she forgot what she had done. One heavy step was followed by the door opening and Alphonso’s welcome face, even if he looked tired and drawn. A bruise welled up on one cheek, and dried blood marked where his lip had been split.
“Alphonso!” Nellie leaped up. “You’re hurt.”
He waved her off, lifted the lid of the pot, and sniffed. “Good. Hungry.” His face was almost blank, but she detected a movement of one corner of his mouth.
“What happened?” Nellie motioned for Alphonso to sit on the bunk while she served up her stew. First, she brought down from a shelf the bottle of wine she’d opened for the stew and poured him a cupful. She had already been sipping on her own cup of wine.
He took the wine, sat, then lifted the cup in a half-toast. “Sheep back. Not all.” Such a look of sadness crossed his face, Nellie thought he would cry. “Vaqueros.” He mimicked riding a horse, then uttered several baaas and moved his hands in circles, almost spilling his wine. He stopped and drank.
“The cowboys did this, didn’t they? Hurt you and scattered the sheep and tried to destroy the camp.” She pulled down the tabletop that was latched to the side of the wagon’s cover, spooned a huge serving of stew into a metal bowl that served as a plate, and plunked it down, along with a fork and spoon. Then she served herself. “I met them on the trail. Goodlight was one of them, and a man named Ned Tanner. I’m surprised he told me his name. He knew I would come back to camp and find this.�
� She had been taken in by his good looks. That wouldn’t happen again.
“Como va?”
“I went up there,” she said, motioning with her hand. “South I think. I got caught in the rain. That must have been when they came in here. Who hurt you?” She pointed to her own cheek and mouth. “Why were you here?”
Alphonso shook his head, drank again from his cup, and began eating from his plate. Both of them ate as though starved. Nellie knew she was.
In her tent that night, she couldn’t sleep. She’d heard of the difficulties between cow and sheep men, but what was happening with Gwynn’s sheep and the Basque sheepherders who worked for him was more than just a “difficulty.” One man was dead, Alphonso had been hurt, the camp turned out like so much trash. This country was so big, so empty, why couldn’t they leave each other alone? Although grass was not growing everywhere as it seemed to in the Basin floor along the Salmon River, a few bands of sheep and a few herd of cattle ought to be able to graze in widely separated locations without coming to blows over the presence of each other.
Men seemed determined to treat each other like vermin. The stories in the Chicago newspapers about how men and even women were treated in the slaughterhouses and rending plants were horrific. She had hoped for better conditions and more free-spirited people in the West who could honor each other’s humanity. How naive she was. She thought she’d found bighearted men and women in the small towns of Ketchum and Hailey, even in Twin Falls, along with the less generous. Finding herself in the middle of a range war was unsettling at best, but the photographs she had taken so far would satisfy the railroad man, even if they weren’t all that she had intended when she began this excursion.
Her tent was generally watertight, both because she had erected it in a stand of fir trees that protected the ground and because lanolin had been used on the seams. Still, the water dripping from branches pattered aimlessly, keeping her awake even after she had come to a decision. She would go down with the camp tender when he arrived in a day or two. When she picked up her auto at the Galena Store, she might spend a night there, taking photos. Lulu had seemed capable and Nell was interested in her story. So far, some of the strongest, most competent people she had met in the West were women. That, at least, was gratifying and accorded with what she had hoped when she left the city. Nevertheless, thoughts of Lulu, Mrs. Bock her landlady, and Mrs. Ah Kee, the Chinese widow in Hailey who withstood discrimination every day of her life, made Nellie feel slightly ashamed that she couldn’t stick it out for another week or two in the high country. Would any one of those women leave this situation? She didn’t know.
