by Julie Weston
In the morning, Nell felt as if she had not slept a wink. When she heard Alphonso stirring before dawn, she dressed herself in the tight quarters of her tent and joined him in the camp.
“Alphonso, I think I’ll leave when the camp tender returns. I have the photos I need, and someone should tell Gwynn about what is going on up here.”
The sheepherder watched her as she talked. He was so quiet and his face so still, she had no idea whether he understood, cared or not, wanted her to go or stay. They had seemed companionable in the hours they spent together, but Alphonso never seemed to mind when Nellie wandered off with her horse and dog and camera equipment. Only his dark eyes exhibited anything like emotion. Sometimes they twinkled with reflection of light; other times, they shaded into black holes.
Nell searched for some Spanish words to convey what she intended doing. Pointing to herself, she said, “Vamos a la Galena Store.” She mimicked taking a photograph by holding air in front of her and saying “click click.” “Photographs finished, un, finito.” Then and there she resolved to learn more Spanish when she returned to town. Learning Basque was probably out of the question.
While she waited for the camp tender, Nell resolved to stay close to Alphonso. If the cowboys returned, she didn’t think they would try any tricks in her presence. Knights of the range was what Zane Grey had called them. So far, they failed to live up to that billing.
As dawn rose in shades of pink and purple, Nell and Alphonso walked with the sheep. The bells on the lead ewes tinkled softly and Nell felt as if she could be anywhere in time, perhaps centuries back, tending animals as herders had done since the days of the earliest Indians in the West. A slight breeze ruffled the meadow flowers, loosening their delicate scent. The wings of two hawks flapped with a brushing sound as they passed over and a meadowlark’s burbling song announced it would be another clear, warm day.
The two kept a sharp eye out for coyotes, as sunrise was as dangerous a time as sundown. Nell hoped Moonshine’s presence was a deterrent. He didn’t run at the sheep or interfere with the sheepdogs who kept pace at the outer fringes of the band, but he did scamper back and forth behind them as they stepped slowly through the sagebrush and grass. Nell carried her camera pack.
The morning passed quickly as Nell set up her tripod in several different locations, trying to capture the way sheep flowed like water around a bend or through a gully. By midmorning, she returned her camera to its case because the sun was getting too high. All the interesting shadows had disappeared. She and Alphonso sat down on a large flat rock to watch the sheep bed themselves down for the midday cud-chewing session. The heat of the rock and the warmth of the sun conspired to send Nell to sleep.
“Yah-hooooo!” The wild yell startled Nell awake. She was alone on the rock.
“Alphonso! Where are you?” Moonshine, who had been sleeping next to her, leaped up and toward the yell. The sheep had all risen and some were beginning to move. A lead ewe, her bell tinkling madly, dashed and stumbled around the sagebrush.
A horseman came up over the ridge, swinging a lariat. While Nellie watched, he threw the circle around the head of the ewe with the bells and stopped his horse, tugging the loop tight. Then he backed up, dragging the ewe through the roots and branches of the sage. The clumps of sheep scattered in every direction.
“Stop it!” Nell screamed. “Stop!” Moonshine raced toward the horse and rider as they dragged the sheep, its head at an angle that told Nellie it was dead. “Murderer!” She scrambled off the rock and began running after Moonshine. “Get him, Moonie. Sic’em!”
The cowboy looked in her direction. From the distance, she saw his mouth form an “O.” He reined his horse in, unwrapped the rope from his saddle horn, did something to loosen the sheep from the noose.
“Sic’em,” Nell called again, with as much force and anger as she could.
Moonie reached the horse and rider and leaped toward the man with a ferocious growl. The cowboy grabbed a rifle from the scabbard tied to his saddle and raised it to club the dog, but not in time. Moonie knocked him off and the gun dropped as the man fell to the ground and rolled. He scrambled to his knees, hatless, and was upright before the dog recovered from his own tumble.
“Goddamn dog. I’ll kill you.” The man searched hurriedly for his gun, but Nellie was faster. She reached the melee and grabbed the rifle as she stumbled into the brush, then righted herself, standing.
“Stop right there! You . . .” She didn’t know a word loathsome enough. “Moonshine. Come.” The dog hesitated. His quarry was grounded. When Nellie repeated the command, he walked to her side, a low guttural sound still rumbling in his throat. “I should put that rope around your neck and drag you. See how you like it.” She had little idea how to use the rifle, but the cowboy didn’t know that. Then she realized who he was—the man with two different eyes, Ned Tanner.
“You! How could you . . .?” She motioned with the barrel of the gun. “Get back on your horse and get out of here. I’m reporting you to the sheriff.”
He tried a smile. “This ain’t what it looks like, Nell Burns.”
“It looks like the murder of a sheep. What would you call it?”
“Protecting our range is what I call it. You’re grazing on cattle allotment.”
“And were you ‘protecting the range’ when you trashed our camp and beat up Alphonso yesterday?” Her voice shook. It was anger, not fright, but this man wouldn’t know. She raised the rifle a little higher, her finger on the trigger.
“What are you talkin’ about? We didn’t do nothin’ to that sheepherder.” His gaze passed Nellie and he said, “That one there?”
Nell turned and the cowboy grabbed the gun. Alphonso was coming over the ridge toward them. The man moved the lever and raised the rifle.
CHAPTER 4
“If you do anything, I’ll sic Moonie on you and he’ll kill you.” She didn’t know if her dog would do any such thing, but it was the most she could threaten.
The rifle barrel lowered. Ned Tanner studied Nellie. “I wouldn’t kill a man.”
“No? You’d kill a sheep. How much more would it take to murder a man?”
The cowboy caught his horse, mounted, and replaced the rifle in its scabbard. “I’ll take my leave now, little lady. If that dog gets near me again, I’ll kill it, that’s for sure.” His hat was dusty from his fall and he slapped it on his knee and replaced it on his head. As he wound his rope, Alphonso neared them. “Get these damned sheep to their own allotment, or worse will happen.” He rode off.
By the time Alphonso reached Nell, she was crying in relief that the gun hadn’t been fired, either by her or by the cowboy, and in sorrow over the dead ewe.
“I’m sorry, Alphonso. I didn’t protect them at all.”
The sheepherder whistled a command to the sheepdogs, and then mounted the horse he was leading. He looked down at her. “Hurt?”
Nellie shook her head and wiped her eyes. Her hands were grimy and her shirt torn at one shoulder.
With one hand, Alphonso made a circle. He would round up the sheep. She nodded. He leaned down and patted her head, the only time he had ever touched her. “Cowman pay. Wait.” That was as much English as he’d ever spoken to her. The pair, horse and rider, rode back over the ridge and Nellie was alone with her dog, who eyed her anxiously. He stood, took a few steps after the sheepherder, then came back to nudge Nellie.
“What are we doing here, Moonshine? This is the twentieth century and we’re lost in a western moving picture show.” She knelt and wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck, nuzzling him. Talking to him had become a habit, partly so she could hear English words spoken. Tears wouldn’t get her anywhere, so she stood and headed back to camp. “How does he know what allotment we’re in? There are no fences. How can you divide the West like that?” As she walked, a new determination came over her. Getting her photos back to the railroad man would bring more people to the West, people who would civilize the place, bring manners and understa
ndable rules. Men wouldn’t be able to run around killing sheep and men. Law officers would make sure crimes were solved and the perpetrators brought to justice. Even if the first people to come were only tourists wanting a “true West” experience, some of those people would settle in Idaho. This county didn’t even have a law officer if what Gwynn said was true.
The walk back settled Nellie. The open spaces calmed her; the distant bleating of the sheep floated on the breeze and she knew Alphonso had found most of the sheep and was settling them down, too. Off to her left, the rolling voices of grouse called to each other. Moonie dashed toward them, but only succeeded in flushing a covey into the air. He barked and ran in circles and returned to Nellie when the birds disappeared again into the sagebrush.
At the second ridge, Nellie looked down again into the camp to discover an auto with a man leaning against the front fender. Both man and machine seemed familiar, but it wasn’t a camp tender or Gwynn Campbell. Although he wore a Stetson, he wasn’t a cowboy. She could see that much. As she drew closer, she recognized Sheriff Azgo, Charlie, from his square-shaped torso, balanced by long legs and arms. Her step quickened and her spirits lifted. Moonie ran down the slope, barking, and trotted up to the man, who leaned over to rub the dog’s neck. The two knew each other from other times.
“Sheriff!” She scrambled down the slope, for once not tripping and falling, and walked into camp. “I’m so glad to see you!” Then she flushed. She must sound like a . . . she didn’t know what. Still, she thrust out her hand to shake his vigorously. The sure, rough feel of his hand warmed her.
“Glad I am to see you also,” he said, his own wide smile mirroring hers. “I thought this camp might be deserted and I had the wrong place.”
“You came to find me?” Nellie let go the sheriff’s hand and automatically reached to her hair to straighten it, then remembered it was cut in a short bob like the pictures she’d seen in Ladies Home Journal. Unlike the long hair she used to tie back with a ribbon, the short hair always sprang around her head like it had been electrified. Mere patting wouldn’t tame it.
“Gwynn sent word to me that you had trouble up here. I called the state police and received permission to come and check it out, there being no one else available.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Gwynn.” Nellie patted Moonshine’s head. “Is he all right? Where is he?”
“Mad as a coyote in a hornets’ nest. He’s up in Stanley, finding out what he can find out.” He looked around. “Where’s the sheepherder? And where’s the dead one? Or are you the only one here? Gwynn wasn’t too clear on the telephone. He didn’t leave you here alone, did he?”
“Alphonso is bringing in the sheep.” Nell turned to go to the camp. “We’ve been attacked this morning. A cowboy—Ned Tanner is his name—killed one of our sheep and almost shot Alphonso. If it hadn’t been for Moonshine . . .” Her voice rose with anger. “I’m forgetting my manners. I’ll start a fire and heat some coffee for you. Then I’ll tell you everything that happened.”
While she was in the wagon, Alphonso rode up. The banked fire didn’t take long to rekindle nor the coffee to warm up. It was full of grounds, but then camp coffee always was. Nellie eyed the wine bottle. She’d prefer to drink some of that. Maybe Charlie would arrest Tanner, take him to jail. When she stepped down with two cups of coffee for the men, they were deep in conversation, one conducted in Euskara. What was it Gwynn had said? This language was spoken only in a small area of Spain and France and was thought to be one of the first spoken by man, long before Latin or Greek or any of the Romance languages. At the moment, all she cared about was being left out.
“What are you saying?” She wanted her own coffee and hurriedly retrieved it.
“Alphonso explained what you found here. Said Domingo was dead and buried over there.” He gestured toward the grave. “He said you found a bullet hole in his head.” He looked up at her. His face had regained the serious, thoughtful expression Nellie associated with him. “I am sorry that you see the bad side of life in Idaho.” Then his gaze lifted to the surrounding hills. “The sagebrush is like the sea, moving with the wind.”
A non sequitur if Nellie had ever heard one. “Maybe Idaho only has a bad side.” How would he know about the sea? Even she had only seen Lake Michigan and neither ocean.
“No. The land is neither good nor bad. It is there. People are bad. Or good.” He finished his coffee. “Did you take photos of Domingo?” He couldn’t keep the distaste from his voice. She knew what he thought of her profession as photographer. Like most people she’d met, he thought she should not wander the West seeking to do something only men should do.
“Yes, of course. We had to bury him and we wanted you to know what he looked like. No one else was equipped to do this job.” Maybe she would throw together something to eat after all. She was tired of this ongoing argument. She turned, but Alphonso was already bringing out bread, sliced ham, cheese, and wine. Her stomach rumbled.
“Hungry, are you?” The sheriff laughed. “Now you tell me what happened. Alphonso did not see all of it.”
Nellie wanted to walk away. She had been brave and now the sheriff, and probably Alphonso too, laughed at her. “You’d be hungry too if you chased after a man on horseback, attacked him, took his rifle, and saved a sheepherder.” She sat on one of the cut-off logs by the dead campfire and helped herself to a slab of ham and slapped it between two slices of bread. “My work,” she said as she chewed, “will bring people out West. They’ll tame this place, obviously something you men haven’t been able to do.”
The sheriff ruminated on his own sandwich. “The wild in men, no one will tame. And it will be sorry for all of us if the animals and wild spaces be tamed.”
Alphonso sat between them, looking from one to the other. He and the sheriff shared the square body build, but otherwise, they appeared worlds apart. Charlie’s features already had taken on town proportions and his dress was modern—khaki pants tucked into polished black boots, a short brown leather jacket over a collared shirt. The sheepherder’s worn Levi’s and scuffed boots, the poncho affair he wore as a shirt and that exposed the sides of his chest, his brush of black hair standing almost on end, and his skin, darkened already by the sun, made him seem part of the land and the wild spaces.
“What did Tanner say?”
“That we were on the cattle allotment, but I haven’t seen any fences. He lassoed the lead sheep and dragged it, breaking its neck, I think. Moonie jumped him and when they both fell to the ground, I grabbed the rifle. He tricked me, took it, and pointed it at Alphonso.” Nellie wished there were a more heroic way of describing what had happened. “He said he wouldn’t kill a man. Someone beat up Alphonso yesterday. I accused him, but he said not.”
When Nellie stopped talking, the sheriff nodded his head. “Rough bunch of cowboys.” He stood and walked over to the grave. “I’ll need to dig the body up. Why don’t you go watch sheep or take a walk.”
“Why don’t you go after those cowboys?”
“I’m not here to find sheep killers. And Alphonso said the sheep had been scattered into the cattle allotment. Tanner may be a good-for-nothing cowpoke, but I doubt he’s a killer, or would beat up on a sheepherder. Killing a ewe is more his style.” He motioned to Alphonso, saying something in their mutual language. Alphonso took a shovel from his wagon and began to unearth the dead Basque sheepherder.
Nellie felt trapped. She didn’t want to see the dead body again, but she also didn’t want to appear squeamish. She clutched her cup and began walking up the track in the direction of the sheep, then turned. “But where is the cattle allotment? Why didn’t I see it?”
The sheriff had been watching her. “See any stone piles? Marks on trees or rocks?”
“There are stone piles everywhere.” She shook her head and began walking again, aware of his eyes, studying her. But when she chanced a glance back to the camp, he and Alphonso both worked over the grave.
Sheep, unlike cattle, flock together.
Moonshine had remained with the men, but she found one of the sheep dogs resting in the shade of several aspen trees, keeping his eye on his charges. She joined him and rested her back against a tall rock. She felt wrenched with the emotions of the last few days: fear, anger, scorn. Life in Chicago, working at the portrait studio, had contained nothing like this. A tedious schedule, day after day, with hours spent posing people and pretending to be happy and smiling, had ground her down. Only the time in the darkroom seemed worthwhile. When the head of the studio accused her of taking credit for one of his photos—a photo that she had taken—he had fired her. Her mother and one or two friends tried their best to marry her off. She would have none of it. The tedium of the studio would only be replaced by the tedium of cooking and keeping house. Her talents lay elsewhere, and she’d make the effort or die trying, she had sworn to herself.
Her daydreams of wandering the west, an itinerant photographer, taking photos of the stark and beautiful landscape, being acclaimed as a female Alfred Stieglitz, soon shattered on reality. She was not a man. Unlike Edward Curtis, she did not know how to fund expeditions into Indian territory. She knew no other photographers with whom she could work or anyone who would support her ambitions. She was alone and never had she felt it so keenly. Her small portrait studio in Ketchum was successful enough to pay for her board and room, film and chemicals. Her work for Jacob Levine in Twin Falls added a few extra dollars a month. But unless her photographs garnered a favorable reaction from the group in San Francisco, she was still no further ahead with her dreams than if she had stayed in Chicago. And now she was once again mixed up in Idaho mayhem. So far, the only photos people really wanted from her were those of murdered men. Nell Burns, Crime Photographer. This time, she’d send the sheriff a bill.
