by Julie Weston
A tin cup pressed against her face and cool water spilled along her chin until she figured out how to let it fall into her mouth. Then she sucked greedily, letting the water soak into her tongue and gums and then soften the ridges along her lips. The cup went away and came back and she gulped, finally choking with all the air that accompanied the water, forcing her up, bringing back the piercing of needles at the base of her skull.
Still, the black could not be seen through. But it no longer threatened, rather comforted and warmed, a place she had visited in the past. Gradually, the water sound, flowing in, flowing out, resolved into soft bleating, now here, now there. Sheep. Nellie closed her eyes, lay back, and slept again.
When Nell next opened her eyes, she watched a slim, dark man light a stove, pour water, stir a pot. Candlelight cast a steady glow on the interior of a small room; dull gray turned pearl through a square at the end. Again, dry cotton filled her mouth, stretched her lips, swelled her tongue. Again, a brief sound brought the tin cup back and she drank. The pain no longer screeched, but throbbed. This time, her arm hurt more than her head.
As the cotton left to be replaced by a normal mouth, tongue, and lips, Nellie sat herself up, aware of the ceiling close to her head. “Alphonso?”
“Si. Como esta?”
“Am I in your sheep camp? I must be in your bed. Thank you for the water. Gracias.”
Alphonso went back to the stove and stirred a pot. He sniffed at it closely, made a face, and then opened the door and took the pot outside. Nell heard water spilling onto the ground. He came back in and spooned the contents of the pot onto a square of cloth that he then wrung out into the pot again. With one step, he was at her side, motioning for her arm, which she brought out from under the covers, trying to keep anything from touching it. Not without care, but more roughly than she expected, Alphonso took her arm, undid the packing, opened up the cloth, and laid wet, lumpy and smelly green stuff across the stitches. It looked like cooked spinach. The first contact shocked her with pain, but in seconds, the herbs, or whatever the spinach really was, began to draw out the pain and heat. With more care than the initial slopping of the mixture, Alphonso wrapped the cloth around her arm to hold the stuff in place. He studied her in the candlelight, seemed satisfied, grabbed his hat, and stepped down the short front ladder, causing the wagon to shift slightly. Then all was quiet. He had left the door open, and shortly, the wagon shifted again, and Moonshine came inside, walked over to her, sniffed, licked her hand, turned in circles, and lay down in front of the shelf upon which she lay.
Familiar sounds drifted into the camp: Alphonso’s low voice moving the sheep, occasionally instructing the dogs, the cinch of leather on leather and squeak of human on saddle as he mounted his horse, the faint thud of hooves on dirt, the silky sound of sheep moving, and the rising baaa, baaa, baaa, as the animals began their daily round of moving to a new pasture, eating and resting. Those sounds were replaced by the twitter of the occasional bird, the craak of magpies. She knew she was alone again.
Inside the wagon, the temperature rose. Or maybe it was Nell’s temperature rising that caused her to perspire and woke her up. When she raised herself with her good arm, she saw that Moonshine no longer rested on the floor beside the shelf-bed. The door remained open, the usual sign that the sheepherder was out with his sheep, an invitation to weary travelers to sit and rest, get water if need be, and food, but don’t abuse the privilege.
Gwynn had instructed Nellie to pour more moonshine on the stitches and rub them with salve. Her arm hurt less than it had since Pitts slashed her. She was reluctant to remove the cloth and the spinach-like goo that Alphonso had spread on it. Maybe she should dampen the whole mess. The question was whether she should use moonshine or water. She sat up, feeling human for the first time in days, and looked around the wagon. Alphonso’s living quarters were not neat, but neither were they messy. The wood stove had been cleared of all pots except one iron frying pan with a skim of grease, half-melted, half congealed; the fold-down countertop stood upright against one side of the canvas, held by a hook and eye hammered into the wood frame. A coat and pair of pants hung on a nail near the door. Heavy boots lay toppled over next to the stove with gray socks poking out the tops. Right next to them stood her own boots, looking almost dainty in comparison, although they were mud-coated, scuffed, and stiff. Several tins sat on a shelf below the countertop and also small bottles filled with unidentifiable contents, not liquid. No other bottles stood out as being there for her use. She knew there would be a bucket hanging outside filled with water, which would be warm by now.
Moving with extreme care in order not to bump her arm, Nellie swung her legs around to rest her feet on the floor, but the bed was too high for her to do so. She slid off to stand up, and waited for the whirlies to settle down. Her headache no longer battered her skull. She almost felt good. It was such a relief to be alone that it took a while to wonder where her dog was. Probably off chasing squirrels or getting a drink from a rivulet or a creek. Where was she, other than in Alphonso’s sheep camp?
It was only then that she realized what else was missing. Her camera pack! She remembered the sheriff handing it to Gwynn, who treated it nonchalantly. She remembered the sheriff walking ahead of the horse with the camera pack on his back. No other images came to mind. She turned back inside, hoping she had missed it. She hadn’t opened the drawer underneath the bed. It wasn’t easy to do with only one operable arm, but she managed to slide it out by pulling on one handle, then on the other. As before, it was jammed full of supplies and tools, even a rifle, which she pulled out, not knowing if it was loaded or even if it worked. Still, a gun would be handy to have if anyone other than Alphonso came around. No camera.
Would Charlie know what to do with the film in the camera back? He might open it and expose the whole roll, her grand experiment. Maybe Gwynn had left it outside, unprotected. She hurried down the steps to the fire-round. Nothing. She leaned over to peer under the wagon. Nothing except several wood boxes, none of which could hold her pack. She circled the wagon, hoping the camera hung from a hook or nail, and found the water bucket, the sheep crook, two more pots, rosemary drying upside down, an extra bridle, the kerosene lamp. No camera.
Without a livelihood, she could see herself descend into poverty. She would have to write her mother for rail money home, admit she had failed in the West, beg for her job back, live once again in the apartment with her mother, and, finally, lower herself to finding a husband to take care of her. Doom and gloom. Of course, she could marry there in the West, become a housewife for someone to cook and clean for and take care of children. She knew the sheriff was fond of her; she was fond of him. Or she had been.
Her arm began to hurt. She was working herself up over nothing. Charlie had taken the camera to keep it safe. Undoubtedly, it was safe. He was nothing if not competent. No need to borrow a whole new, disappointing life. She couldn’t marry him. He didn’t even approve of her working as a photographer, in spite of all the stories she’d told about other women photographers, about Julia Cameron and Imogene Cunningham.
Moonshine trotted into camp, as if he were coming in to check on her. He pushed his nose under her hand and she petted him, talking and moaning. A squirrel scolded from a nearby pocket of brush, and he was off, chasing and playing games with wood creatures, disappearing from sight, but she felt assured he wasn’t wandering too far away.
She used the dipper to dampen the cloth on her arm and sat down near the fire pit and realized she was hungry. Surely, Alphonso had left her something to eat. She scavenged again in the sheep camp and found on the lower shelf another cloth wrapped around bread heavily slathered with butter and in which was a slab of mutton. Rarely had any food tasted so good.
While she ate, she mulled over the mystery of the hole in Wolfman Pitts’s head. She had assumed Pearl killed the dreadful man, but Pearl had been halfway around the lake not too many minutes later. Nell thought she had recognized the gun as being her co
mpanion’s, but there could have been more than one such gun. When Nell pulled the flashlight out of the woman’s satchel, she had assumed the gun was gone, and then that she had been mistaken when she picked the weapon up off the ground. If Pearl didn’t do it, then someone else was in the woods and the most likely someones were Goodlight and his henchmen. Why would one of them shoot and then drop the gun, unless it was to place blame on either Pearl or Nellie?
She thought about following the sheep leavings and finding Alphonso, but realized she really was weak. Losing all the blood hadn’t been good, even though she’d heard letting blood used to be the main treatment for illness, disease, and perhaps even wounds. Surely that theory was discredited now.
Instead, she climbed back into the wagon and lay down on the blankets, but grew chilly as the afternoon passed, so pulled the bedclothes over her. They were well used, but she didn’t care. She had been poorly used. A menacing cloud filled the space beyond the doorway, turning the interior almost dark; an afternoon thunderstorm was approaching. She dozed, content to be lying still. Was her dog still chasing will o’the wisps in the woods? The first crack of thunder would send him in to crawl under the blankets with her.
Nellie wasn’t certain what woke her up. She remembered falling asleep to the sound of distant rolling thunder, dreaming of Rip Van Winkle, and then wondering if years had passed her by while she wandered the wilderness. The crack of a horse’s hoof on a rock? A clunk still echoed in the stillness, or was it just her imagination? She lay without moving, listening, and noticed, too, that Moonshine wasn’t with her. A second clunk, a rolling rock, and then horses’ hooves, more than one horse, so it wouldn’t be Alphonso. Her own hackles stood straight up. Was it Dick Goodlight?
CHAPTER 15
Lulu’s summer was one of the best ever. Tourists came and went. Outfitters stopped for supplies. The moonshiners had picked up a record order of sugar early on, paid cash, and hadn’t bothered her since. She was happy until the rumors began to show up. Nellie Burns, the photographer, was missing. Wolfman Pitts and his dog were holding her for ransom. The cattlemen and sheepmen were at each other’s throats. Domingo’s death had sparked a range war, and it wouldn’t end until there were more deaths, both animal and men. Lulu wasn’t old enough to remember the last range war, but her father had told stories of lynchings, murders, and mayhem. Surely, it couldn’t happen again in the twentieth century. There were lawmen and courts to handle fights over grazing allotments and water rights.
As if on cue, Sheriff Azgo turned up at Galena Lodge. Lulu had a dozen questions for him, but as he drove in, so did three other automobiles, each carrying three men dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and ties, and wearing hats, a rarity of fancy clothing in the West. They had to be revenuers, Lulu guessed, probably up from Boise or Salt Lake City. Only federal officers would dress like they were going to a fancy party in July in the wilds of Idaho. Beside them, the sheriff appeared dusty and worn out. His expression was as grim as she’d ever seen.
Half an hour later, maybe longer, Gwynn drove his old truck up to the Lodge. Pieces of sagebrush were caught in the front grill and aspen leaves flew out of the truck bed, as if he had driven cross-country. The sheriff and the federal men stood out by the automobiles looking at a map spread on the hood of the sheriff’s. When Gwynn stepped out into the open, the sheriff looked up. Gwynn nodded and climbed the porch to lower himself into a willow chair. He looked too old for words. Did either one know where Nell Burns was? Lulu couldn’t help but worry for the young woman.
The sheriff strode into the store, checking out one of the shotguns handed to him by the federal agent. “Lulu, we need shells for shotguns, water, canteens, and whatever meat and bread and cheese you’ve got that we can take along.” No chance to ask him questions.
“My icebox was raided this morning by a new group of tourists going on a campout, Sheriff. You can take what’s left, but it won’t be feeding all of you. My spare shells are up on a shelf in back. Help me reach ’em.” She led him to the back of the store. Indeed, he could reach the shells using a footstool, and as he handed them down to her, she asked quietly, “Where’s Nellie? I been hearing all sorts of stories. I know at least half of what I hear in the store is lie and the other half is exaggeration, but is the other half true? Is she all right?”
Sheriff Azgo didn’t crack so much as a glimmer of a smile. Lulu thought he wasn’t going to answer, when he stepped down and leaned close. “Nell Burns is not going to live to be thirty if she continues taking the chances she has been. For the moment, she is safe, but she has much to answer for. I will take care of that when we finish this . . . venture.” He took the boxes and stepped back to the cash register. “Tote the bill up, Lulu. We’re going back to the Basin, and you want to be paid now, I assume.” His grim expression vanished for just a moment, but she might have just imagined a ghost of a smile. “Federal Marshall Keefe here will pay you.” The sheriff motioned for one of the suited men to come to the counter. “In cash.”
Only the sheriff wore boots; the other men wore regular shoes. Lulu figured they were going on a raid, probably Dick Goodlight’s operation, which she knew was in the Basin somewhere. While the revenuers and the sheriff filled their autos with gasoline, she plumped down beside Gwynn, who leaned his forearms on his thighs and watched the activity. “My gawd, Gwynn, you look bushed. Where you been? Anything to do with Nell Burns?”
The face he turned to Lulu was creased with dirt, but faintly ashen under the deep leather-like tan. “I’m tired out, Lulu. I can’t keep up with the sheriff or no one else these days. Women are changin’ and men are dastardly. Sheriff swore me to secrecy, but I’m fit to burst. Got somethin’ to wet an old man’s whistle?”
Without a word, Lulu went back inside, fetched a bottle from under the counter, and poured two fingers, no four fingers, into a glass and brought it out to Gwynn. She cast an eye on the federal agents, but they weren’t paying any attention. She could always claim it was cola. The whole Prohibition thing was a joke, as far as she was concerned and most everybody else in Idaho, but it was apparent these men took it seriously and intended to stop liquor operations. Might as well try to stop snow in winter and thunder and lightning in summer. She brought in a small stock of real liquor from Canada shipped down through Montana. The moonshine cooked up in the hills was dangerous stuff from what she’d heard. She didn’t want any of her customers to go mad or blind. If her supply was a little iffy, so much the worse for those that needed it. She’d make money on selling good stuff, or none at all.
“All right, Gwynn. Talk.”
“As near as we can figure out, Nellie took off with the moon-shiners. Don’t know if it was her idea or theirs, but knowin’ how she likes to take pictures of gawd-all, the sheriff thinks maybe she followed them up Fourth of July Creek.” He swallowed again and closed his eyes. “That’s a secret, Lulu, where they’re holed up. I know you won’t say anythin’ but be sure you don’t.”
“You know me better than that. I’ve kept secrets here for years, including some of yours.” Lulu leaned her head back. She was tired too. “Go on.”
“When we found Nell, she was with that tart Pearl at the campout at Fourth of July Lake, frolicking about like she had no sense in her head. Told the sheriff she’d been kidnapped and Pearl rescued her and she couldn’t leave Pearl. You know, she’s the strumpet of that moonshiner, Goodlight.”
“Some says she’s married to Dick. I’ve seen her with Ned Tanner, too,” Lulu said. “Tart might be just the right word for her. Looks pure as the driven snow with all that blond hair though.”
Gwynn snorted and drank the rest of the brown liquid. “Any more?”
“Careful. You’ll pass out if you drink much more in your condition.” She took the glass and only added two fingers.
“Nell told the sheriff where the moonshine operation was, but she wouldn’t come down with us. We found the still and the whole operation, just where she said. No one there, but it was clear th
ey were comin’ back. We headed down to Stanley where the sheriff placed a call to the government.” He shook his head. “God knows I tried to talk him out of it. Who cares if them damn crooks brew up some juice?”
Lulu’s sentiments too.
“Just as we were heading out yesterday afternoon to meet these. . . .” He gestured to the group around the automobiles, at a loss for a name. “Hank somebody comes to Stanley with a dead body in his Model T. Wolfman Pitts. He says Nellie murdered him. Shot him in the head. He and Luke somebody else saw the whole thing. And what was the sheriff gonna do about it? He was off chasin’ moonshiners when a cold, calculated murderer was on the loose up in the mountains.”
Lulu whistled. “I imagine the sheriff didn’t much like that kind of talk.”
“You got that right. There was murder right there, lurkin’ in Charlie’s eyes. He told the barkeep to put the body on ice somewhere, made a couple telephone calls. Surprised you didn’t see a big black auto comin’ through here on its way to Stanley to get the bastard. Pitts was a worse man than I’ve ever known, bar none. If Nellie murdered him, he musta needed it, is all I can say. Him and that half-wolf varmint of his.”
Marshall Keefe stepped over to the porch. “Put the gas on a bill for us, Miss . . . I’ll pay when we get back.” He turned on his heel and gestured for the men to load up. Lulu followed him. “Marshall. I need cash. No credit here.”
