Basque Moon

by Julie Weston

  Through the afternoon, Nellie dozed off and on, her head still aching, but she was aware of the burying detail returning, the end of the shooting, the sounds of a fire being replenished, a pot being stirred, wood being chopped, a dog’s desultory barking and a command to shut up. Voices, male and female, drifted in and out of her consciousness, not as words, more as an accompaniment to the tumbling creek water. The soporific heat lessened and she sat up, aware of pain in her shoulder. Her canteen still rested by the dancing shoes, so she took several draughts of now warm water and turned to her pack. Her camera was safe, but she situated it carefully, packing the ruined film around it. No reason to keep the broken carrier, but she tucked the separated wood parts in a side pocket and found the knife she’d taken and the jerky.

  What else could she use? Matches, more food, more water, more clothes. She sorted through the items folded in the box and found a sweater and a wool hat and stuffed them in her pack, re-stacking the remainder so Pearl wouldn’t see anything amiss. As hot as the days were, the nights were cold, even in July. She stuffed the long coat in, too.

  A vague plan had formed while she dozed. If this was Fourth of July Creek, then Alphonso was somewhere on the mountainside with his sheep. She could find him, although how, she wasn’t certain. Eventually, the camp supplier would return and she could return to town, to Charlie, even to Gwynn and she hoped, Moonshine. Despair flooded her. All of them had become much more precious to her in the last several hours. And what were they doing? Were they worried? What happened to her dog? She took a deep breath and stepped out of the tent. Somehow, she had to get away while it was still light, not difficult in the long twilight, unless a guard had been established to keep her there. The first thing she spied as she exited the tent was Cowpie, still tethered, but pacing at the base of a tree. The other dog slept.

  Pearl stirred the pot over the fire, looking up as Nell appeared.

  “I heard shooting.”

  “Target practice,” Pearl said. “That was me.”

  “Is there an outhouse or somewhere—” Nell let the question dangle. Her need was urgent, but she also wanted to scout out as much as she could without being sent back to the tent.

  “Down that way.” Pearl pointed with a big wooden spoon toward a grove of trees behind the tent. “ ’Member what I told you about the dogs.”

  Without speaking, Nell walked slowly in the direction indicated, limping as if she were still sore. She found a smelly pit with a makeshift bench with a hole in it straddling a vile mess. She couldn’t. Instead, she walked a little farther to find a private spot in the woods and squatted there, using a tissue she’d brought with her. Then she explored the area quickly, knowing she would be missed if she took too long. On her way back, she stopped at the tent to see how firmly the lower edge hugged the ground, and found it tight. If she reset one or two of the stakes around which the tent ropes were wound, the canvas could be lifted enough to push her camera pack, tripod, and maybe herself out the back. But moving the stakes presented a problem when she tested one; they’d been hammered into the ground. Still, she tried wiggling one back and forth, and gradually, it shifted. The earth was so dry, the dirt crumbled around the wood.

  “Nell,” Pearl called.

  “I’m here.” She stepped from behind the tent and strode toward the other woman. “That place was awful. I went farther into the woods. Is there a wash basin?”

  Pearl gestured toward the creek. “That’s it.”

  When Nell returned, she offered to help Pearl cook. Clearly she had been handed the women’s work part of the chores, and she didn’t like it. “I wait bar with a bunch of rowdies, and then I gotta do the same up here. Damned men.” She offered Nell the spoon. “Stew. That’s all I know how to cook in a pot like this. They don’t care, long as their guts are filled. Then they drink their own corn likker and pass out.” She stamped her foot. “Ain’t so bad when we got someone playin’ an accordion and we’re celebratin’ a good batch. Then I get to dance.” A slow blush moved from her neck up to her face. “I’m not a dancin’ girl, understand, or anythin’ cheap like that. I only do it up here, not down at the saloon.” A thought checked her. “Well, once I did it—” Pearl turned to walk away, then looked back. “Put that metal lid on, then some coals on top, and it’ll cook itself.”

  After the stew was bubbling away in its pot, Nell ambled around the camp, moving closer to the back of the tent. She wiggled at the stakes, sauntered to the creek, then back again. No one seemed to notice either because they were working themselves—one man carried water to the large pot and the other chopped wood, rested, and chopped again. Pearl sat on the bench around the tree, doing nothing, just staring at the ground. Her foot tapped to some beat only she could hear.

  By early evening, Nell had worked the stakes to a standing position, which allowed her to lift the canvas from the inside and push her pack and tripod outside. She just had to trust to luck that no one would notice them under the couple of pine branches she’d found to lay on top. Other pine branches broken by winter winds or snow had fallen around the camp or been tossed aside. Pearl had donned a pair of the dancing shoes after brushing them clean while she sat on the bench.

  Because neither Pearl nor Nellie had done anything else about serving a meal, one of the men made up some biscuits and cooked them in another pot on the fire, reminding Nell of how Alphonso usually did the cooking in the sheep camp. She missed him and his calm efficiency. This camp cook swore and blustered, and managed to drop the dough twice on the ground before he finished. “Come and get it,” he called.

  The other man and Pearl dug into one of the boxes for metal plates and Pearl handed one to Nell. “Better eat up,” she said and winked. “This here’s Long John,” she said, pointing to the erstwhile cook, “and this here’s Bob.”

  Nell mumbled a greeting. Dressed in dirty overalls with unkempt hair and beards, they looked virtually identical. Neither said a word to her, but Long John plopped a serving of stew on her plate along with two dingy biscuits. Log rounds served as seats near the fire and Nell claimed one. She ate with gusto. Her fear had chased away her appetite for most of the day, but when the stew began to smell of cooked meat and potatoes, hunger had resurfaced. She had not eaten since the night before at the saloon. Already, it seemed days ago, in another life.

  The other three ate as if famished also, but talked desultorily about making moonshine—whether the corn mash needed replenishing, whether the temperature of the fire was hot enough, whether the wood would give out, how their compatriots were making out with their deliveries, which Nell determined had gone north rather than to Hailey or Ketchum. The towns of Challis and Salmon were mentioned. Mining took place at the former, she thought, but Salmon was a cow-town. Probably a good market there. Long John said he’d heard there were federal agents in Salmon, and Goodlight and Pitts and The Boss had better watch their tails. If he, personally, saw any strangers around the camp, he was hightailing it for good. He had no plans to spend time in the penitentiary at Leavenworth.

  “Why don’t you pull out that ukulele, Bob?” Pearl asked. “I’d like to hear you play.” She made the request shyly, as if she had never done so before.

  “Me?” His voice was almost as high-pitched as a woman’s. Nell wondered if that was who she had heard earlier in the day, rather than Pearl talking with the two men.

  “You.” Pearl stood up. “I saw the handle sticking out of your gear. You play, don’t you? Seems to me Dick said you strummed a lively tune. You never done it when I was around.”

  Bob stammered a minute, then Long John joined in. “Don’t be so damn shy, Bob. You play that uke whenever you think you’re alone up here, but we all heard you, one time or t’other.”

  “Get me somethin’ to wet my whistle,” he answered, “and I will. I surely will.”

  Pearl fetched a big cup, filled it from a jug over by the still, and handed it to Bob. “Here you go. Now you do your part.”

  The man took a huge swig
from the cup, probably downing half of its contents, and letting some of it dribble down the hair on his face, a scraggly beard matching the thin patch of hair on his head. He strode over to some gear outside one of the tents and pulled his musical instrument loose. For the first time, he glanced at Nell. “You object?”

  “Of course not. I’d love to hear you play.” What did Pearl have up her sleeve? This was obviously not normal routine. Even she had mentioned a celebration. There was nothing to celebrate tonight on their part, although Nell was happy to celebrate the absence of the other men. Even the dogs had been quiet all afternoon, as if they knew they were off duty.

  Bob strummed his ukulele and to Nell’s surprise began to play what she thought of as a Hawaiian melody. To her even greater surprise, Pearl began to dance. She moved her feet softly back and forth on the dirt and moved her hands in complicated patterns. Long John drank heavily and watched the show, slumping lower and lower against the log end he leaned against. Soon, he was snoring gently and on his side. Bob stopped from time to time to take another giant swig, stretch his fingers, say a few words to Pearl, mostly about what song to play, took another swig, and continued his strumming. Pearl never flagged, dancing slower or faster depending on the songs, swaying her body as if it had been wound up and was winding down again, humming from time to time. None of her movements were crude or suggestive; rather, she turned like a doll on a music box, somewhat mechanically but still gracefully.

  Even though Nell had not been drinking any of the moonshine, she began to feel as if she were being hypnotized by Pearl, like a cobra in a basket in India. She shook her head, stretched her limbs, stood up and saw how dark it was beyond the fire circle, nodded to the others, and ambled back to the tent she was sharing with Pearl. Maybe Pearl would be so exhausted and the two men so drunk, they would never hear her leave. If she had a long enough lead time, the dogs might never find her track. But how would she see? Some stars already twinkled in the vast spaces above, but not enough to light her way. Nevertheless, if she moved carefully and followed the creek, she could get some distance by the time the moon came out. Then the going would get easier. She listened to be sure the music continued, but it did not. Neither did she hear any voices. Were they all asleep?

  Just as Nell had decided to escape under the back end of the tent, someone scooted in the front, the aroma of cologne announcing it was Pearl. The thought of striking the other woman over the head with her tripod entered her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It was outside anyway. “Shhhh,” Pearl whispered as Nell opened her mouth. “Get your stuff. We’re sneaking out. Now.” She grabbed a bag of sorts from behind the shelf, stuffed some clothes in it, dragged out a long flashlight, then changed her shoes back to her boots with hardly a sound. Quickly, she rumpled up the sleeping bag and the blankets to make it look as if two people slept in them. Then she thrust her head out the front flap, holding one hand up behind her, and motioned to Nell.

  Both women tiptoed out of the tent, turned immediately toward its back. Nell shouldered her pack with the camera and tripod, slung the canteen across her chest, and stayed close to Pearl, who had turned on the light, but held her hand over the front of it so only a pencil-thin beam of light led the way. They followed the path toward the latrine but angled off to meet the creek. Here, they could no longer move as quietly because branches and rocks littered the ground. Each snap and gravel rasp frightened Nell, certain they would be heard back in the camp. Nothing stirred, not even the dogs. She remembered Pearl giving them dishes with water, but maybe it had been moonshine, not water. Men and dogs—pie-eyed.

  When they reached the creek, Pearl turned to follow it down the hill. Nell pulled at her arm and stepped up close to the girl’s face. “No,” she whispered. “I think we should go upstream. They’ll think we went down and take longer to follow.” She was reluctant to say anything about Alphonso yet. Pearl seemed to be in league with Nell now, but she couldn’t be certain.

  Pearl paused and looked down and then up the falling water. “Maybe you’re right.” Still, she didn’t move. “But what then? We’ll be trapped ’cause they’ll be between us and the road.”

  Caution told Nell, again, not to mention Alphonso. And yet, what could he do? He was armed, but he was only one man. Maybe Pearl was right. “When do the others come back from their delivery?” she asked.

  “T’night. Maybe early mornin’.”

  “If we go down, how far is the Rocking O Ranch? Could we get there before the men return? We’d be safe then with cowboys and people around.” Nell wanted to move. Standing and arguing by the creek was dangerous.

  Without another word, Pearl headed back up the creek. “Stay close,” she whispered. Their progress was slow. Brush was thick near the creek bed and branches whipped their faces and arms. Often, they walked in the water to avoid the willows alongside, wetting their boots and legs up to their knees. The night was cool, but their efforts were strenuous and sweat dampened the small of Nell’s back and her neck. If they stopped to rest, she felt the chill immediately. The creek twisted and turned. The rocks in the bed were slippery and more than once, one of them stumbled and grabbed at a branch or each other to keep from falling. A bright, just-past-full moon rose and lit their way when they escaped the brush in short stretches, so their need for the flashlight diminished.

  When the creek at last intersected with the road and a rough bridge, they stopped. Nell brought out the beef jerky and unscrewed the top of the canteen, offering both to Pearl first. “I’m tired. Here, have something. How far do you think we’ve gone?” She feared not far, but she didn’t whisper anymore. She thought she could still smell the burnt sugar and mash, and hoped the smell came from her own clothes, not the air.

  A long sigh was her answer. Pearl chewed on a strip of jerky, drank from the canteen, and handed it back. “I don’t know. I’m thinkin’ we should have gone downstream. What’re we gonna do up in these mountains?”

  Nell no longer thought her plan was a good one. Indeed, what would they do? How far was Alphonso? As she chewed her own piece of jerky, she became aware of sounds in the night. They had stopped in a small grove of aspen and the leaves were clattering. A breeze had begun to riffle them, a familiar, comforting sound during the day, but at night, it seemed threatening. Was a storm coming in? A rock rattled over by the creek. Had one of them destabilized it or was someone walking behind them?

  Pearl’s head leaned against a white aspen trunk. Nell couldn’t tell if she had fallen asleep or if she was listening, too. As she sat there, trying to interpret every sound, Nell became aware that she was shivering. All of her seemed wet. She dug into her pack and pulled out the sweater she had stolen from Pearl and pulled it on over her clothes. If Pearl could see her, she didn’t say anything. Nell dug into her pack again and brought out the long canvas coat and handed it over to Pearl. “This is yours. I took it.” Once again, she spoke in a whisper. The moon had cleared all of the trees and the mountainsides angling down sharply on either side of them.

  Loud yips startled them both so much, they grabbed each other. A chorus wound up and down an off-key musical scale, stopped, then began again with first one howl and then another.

  “Damn coyotes,” Pearl said, her voice shaky. She unclutched Nell and stood up. “We better get movin’. I’m cold.” She grabbed the coat and donned it. “Thanks. Glad you was carryin’ it and not me. It’s heavy.”

  “But the coyotes. Will they attack?” Hearing coyotes when she had been camping with Alphonso had frightened her at first, but she’d grown used to it. They had represented a danger to the sheep, but not to her, then. Alone in the wilderness with another woman increased her feeling of vulnerability. With no sheep around, maybe the coyotes would want people. The two of them had no dog or gun to frighten them away. Once again, she felt keenly the absence of Moonshine.

  “Nope. Wolves might, but I ain’t seen any around here. Pretty much they been killed off by the cowboys.” Her rustling and matter-of-
fact voice calmed Nellie’s fears. “C’mon.”

  They began their trek again, this time walking along the road in the moonlight and making faster progress. The yips stopped when the moon slid behind a cloud, but then Pearl had to use her flashlight again. The sound of their footsteps on dirt and rock—an uneven scrunching and scraping—was much too loud to Nell’s ears. Surely, anyone looking would hear them.

  A sharp, shrill scream pierced the night, rising and then falling to a strangled cry that etched the night and hung in Nell’s ears like a firecracker’s image on the eye, long after it had died away. She held her breath and heard her heart pound. Pearl, too, had stopped short. She swung her flashlight around, no longer bothering to cover most of the light. It flashed off grass, aspens, rocks, logs, pock-marked road, sagebrush, wildflowers drained of color in its bright light. No animal.

  “Go back! Go back! The logs!” Nell stepped from the road toward what she thought she had seen in the quickly moving light.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Flash around again. I saw some logs. Didn’t you?”

  This time, Pearl moved the light more slowly. Up against a talus slope, logs again appeared in the light and she stopped its motion. There was the log structure Nell had photographed in what seemed like a different country and long ago, during her sojourn with Alphonso. “It’s a half-built cabin. I know where we are now.” She couldn’t keep the triumph out of her voice. She stepped off the road to make her way to the rough cabin.

  A second scream, sounding even more like a woman being tortured and strangled than the first one, shattered them. The sound might have been ten feet away and came from behind. Pearl began to run. Nell almost gave in to panic, too, her whole body one big goose bump.

  “Wait. Stop!” Nell called. “It’s a mountain lion. Don’t run!”

  Pearl must have heard the urgency in Nell’s voice because she stopped and then stood as if paralyzed. “Flash the light around again,” Nell ordered.