“Look, Paco,” I say, staring down at the hand-drawn root beer label. “I'm sorry about your dad's leg. I'm really sorry. My dad should have checked the map better, or chosen a different route, or gone himself.”
I'm searching for other should-haves when Paco cuts me off by setting up our bottles to be goalposts and shooting the root beer cap through.
“S'okay,” Paco says, concentrating on his shot. “Now I know how it's all going to come out.” He flicks the cap and it slides through the goal, ringing against a bottle as it passes.
“You know how you wonder, What if they die or what if they get captured or what if they just never come home?”
He slides me the cap so I can take a few shots, and I'm glad I don't have to answer, because I know exactly what he's talking about.
“Well, now I know,” Paco goes on. “Dad turned into a gimp with a hot temper, and Mom turned into a person who smokes. It's not great, but the bad things I imagined happening to them—they were a lot worse.”
I focus on shooting the cap between the root beer bottles.
“So Grandpa says we're butchering a pig next week. You want to come over and help?”
Paco waits until I've taken a sip from my root beer and says, “Is that a seventh-grade pig or an eighth-grade pig?”
I laugh so hard, brown foam comes gushing out my nose.
Fortunately, the grown-ups are too busy tuning up instruments to bug us about foaming boogers. Old Benz has a fiddle, Father Ziegler sets up a washtub bass, Mr. Ugarte unpacks his accordion, and McTigue has one of those Irish drums with the short double-ended drumstick. Mr. Ugarte squeezes out a few measures of something kind of familiar and calls out, “Rosita, Paco, dance for me.”
Paco groans, but only loud enough for me to hear.
“Don't worry,” I whisper. “I won't tell a soul at school. Promise.”
Paco takes Rosita's hand and they do a silly bow and curtsy to each other, and then I see Rosita make him wait and count out a measure so they start on the right step. I don't remember what the dance is called, but it's got a lot of hops in it, and Paco gets to swing Rosita in a circle really fast. Pretty soon people are clapping, and the aunties are singing along, and Paco gets Rosita laughing, and Mr. Ugarte is playing with gusto while big tears roll down his face. Paco and Rosita go faster and faster, but they've still got all the steps perfect. If he weren't my best friend, I'd accuse him of practicing.
AUGUST
“Almost ready,” I say to Grandpa, stretching a new piece of barbed wire across a metal fence post and clamping it in place. I look up at him and nod. It's blistering hot in the back pasture, and we've got more than a mile of fence to replace today. I have a sweat stripe down my back, and the sun reflecting off the new wire makes my eyes water.
“Hands free?” he says.
I hold my hands up so they won't get pinched when he pulls the wire tight. “Hands free.”
Grandpa rolls the spool of barbed wire half a dozen paces to the next fence post.
We have been mending the pasture fences all week so they will be ready to hold the cattle when Frank, Jim, and John bring them down from the mountains a few weeks from now. It's hard to believe we'll be able to keep cows alive on this land. After three straight months of hot wind, there isn't a living blade of grass, and even the crickets have moved away. I wipe the sweat off my face with my shirtsleeve. A few inches of good rain in September is all it will take, and the ground will be green and soft like summer never happened.
“Let's straighten up this post,” Grandpa says. He pulls the leaning post upright. I jam pieces of shale from the ground into the hole at the base of the fence post, kick in some dirt, and stomp to pack it down.
“Better?”
“That'll do.”
Grandpa cranks out a little more barbed wire, and I take the wire clippers from my belt. I clamp the wire in place, tighten it until it is level between the fence posts, and clip it.
“Hey!” Grandpa jumps back. The end of the barbed wire arcs through the air and snaps back with a metallic hiss.
“I'm sorry, Grandpa. I'm really sorry.”
It's the second time I've made that mistake today. Grandpa has a rip down his sleeve and a cut on his arm from the last time I did it.
“Jeez, Dad would yell at me if I did the same stupid thing twice.”
“Your dad made his share of mistakes.”
“I bet he was better at this than me.”
Grandpa straightens up and takes in the sky. “The question you want to ask yourself is not, Am I as good as my dad? That's just practice. Ask yourself, Do I love it as much as my dad? Talent is not your problem, Brother. Deciding what to do with your talents, that's the tricky part.”
He takes off his hat and wipes the sweat off his head with a bandana. “Now tell me what you make of that sky. “
He points to the thunderheads stacked on the eastern horizon, ash gray on top and olive green underneath.
“Wow, lightning for sure. Let's get all this metal off of open ground.”
“Now you're talking like your dad. We can finish this job later.”
We gather up our fencing gear and roll the spools of barbed wire across the pasture and into the barn.
Grandma is in the living room, sifting through the files, culling what we can't lose to fire and sealing it in a metal box. The radio drones out its usual country pop fluff, anchored every half hour with a weather and wildfire report. Grandpa heads out to mow the dead grass around the house down to a quarter inch of stubble. I fill the tub with clean water in case we lose power and the pump goes out. I roll up three sleeping bags and haul the emergency supplies out to the truck.
We've done this before. Every August, for as long as I can remember, the flames have touched down in another canyon, scorched someone else's land, devoured some other family's cattle and sheep. Custer, the barn cat, left first thing in the morning. Last I saw his ratty orange tail, he was scrambling up the rocks on the steep side of Red Rock Canyon.
That east wind picks up strong while we eat lunch, and carries the sound of thunder with it. I can see the horses in the corral cluster at the rail, eyes closed against the blowing dust and ears twitching in every direction. The cattle are going to be fine up in the mountains, but Ernesto and Donner have all the sheep at their summer grazing, maybe twenty miles northwest of the reservoir.
Ernesto took off weeks ago, with his bundle of gear strapped to the ATV and the new Stetson we got him for his birthday, smiling that broad, broken-toothed smile. You'd think he was the luckiest guy in the world, heading off for two months alone with Donner and 150 sheep, thirty miles from the nearest road. I try not to think too much about Bilbo and Frodo and short-legged Merry walking all those miles. Ernesto won't let them fall behind.
I load up the last of the emergency gear just as Grandpa is putting the mower back in the barn.
“The horses are dry,” he calls to me from across the yard.
I head over to fill the trough just as a patrol car pulls into the driveway. Deputy Himmel leans a deeply freckled arm out the window, shouting. Grandma fills up a mason jar with water and joins Grandpa in the driveway.
“All the roads except 20 are closed,” Deputy Himmel is saying. “There's emergency shelter at the fairgrounds in Burns. Winds are thirty miles per hour. You folks have fifteen minutes, tops.”
“Lightning?” I ask.
“A dozen strikes at least, a few miles over.” Deputy Himmel tilts his head to the east. He chugs Grandma's water with a grateful nod, spins in the gravel, and leaves. I search the east horizon. There's no smoke yet, and I don't smell anything but home.
The Grands trade a look. Grandma cradles his wrinkled face in her hands, and Grandpa kisses her once.
“I'll get the horses,” she says to him. “Did you raise Ernesto on the radio?”
Grandpa shakes his head.
“You'll find him,” she says. “No one knows the land out there like you.”
“Pig
s and chickens,” she calls over her shoulder to me as she heads to the truck and horse trailer.
There are just four old hens in the henhouse now, but I unlatch the door and shoo them out. Bacon and Sausage are pressing their fat shoulders against the gate and wrinkling their soggy noses at the wind. I have to set my boots and tug to get the gate open, but they head straight for the willow that hangs out over the creek. It's the coolest, wettest spot for miles around. The hens are already there.
“Guess you guys got the memo about the fire already,” I say to them.
Grandpa is shouting and waving his hat at Spud, trying to load her up. Spud hates the trailer. All the other horses are bigger than her, and I think they tease her in there. Smoke is just starting to blow up the canyon. I dash in the house and grab four carrots from the fridge and a handful of bandanas from the laundry basket. I splash the bandanas with water and touch Dad's coat peg for luck on the way out the door. I tie a wet bandana over my face and drop one for Grandma on the open truck window. I hop in the trailer, whistle for Spud, and show her a carrot.
“Come on, Spud. Get in here.” Spud snorts at Grandpa, but she hustles up the ramp to get my carrot.
“Get up, Patton; come on, Bradley,” I call. Our cutting horses pile in.
“Get your saddle, Brother,” Grandpa says. “There's no time for a second trip. We're going to have to ride Ike and Ginger out.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “Spud is too old, and you know it. She can't outrun a fire.”
I know he's right, but Ike is Dad's horse. He's almost three hands taller than Spud, and he doesn't like me very much. I heft my saddle up on my shoulder, grab the blanket, and kick the barrel over to where Grandpa is saddling Ginger. The hot wind and smell of burning sagebrush have the horses twitching their heads around to find the danger. Grandpa's steady voice and firm hand keeps them in line. He holds Ike's head while I climb up on the barrel to throw the blanket and saddle over his back and cinch it down.
“Water,” Grandpa says, and hands me both sets of reins. I lead Ike and Ginger to the trough and tie off the reins to the fence so they can drink. I run to the barn for canteens. Grandpa is already there, pulling out the Pulaski, a folding army shovel, the medical kit, and the surplus silver fire blankets. He rolls all of it into two tight bundles, and we head back to the yard.
I look over my shoulder at the house. The sight of it freezes me—Grandma's green checkered curtains at the kitchen window and Grandpa's black rocking chair on the porch. I remember the look on Dad's face the day he left for Iraq. He stood in the yard and studied the house one last time, memorizing exactly how everything should be. I feel that look all the way down to my toes. What if we never see it again?
Gritty black smoke swirls between me and the house, and I run for the horses.
Grandpa ties on the bundles. I stand on the barrel to climb up on Ike. Grandma has already pulled the horse trailer onto the road, a stack of heirloom quilts beside her and the cashbox on the floor.
“Meet you at the fairgrounds,” Grandpa calls to her.
He turns Ginger, rides her across the pasture, and heads for the draw up Starvation Creek. Ike dances around like he's looking for Dad's weight, or maybe the sound of his voice.
I lean forward in the saddle and try to make my voice deep. “Aw, come on, Ike. Haven't I been taking good care of you? Get up now.”
He turns his head around and gives me a one-eyeball stare.
“You aren't going to let Ginger get there first, are you? Look, she's getting away!”
That does the trick. He breaks into a canter and catches up to Ginger and Grandpa. We pick our way up the dry bed of Starvation Creek.
“Grandpa, what's Ernesto going to do? Does he know what to do in a fire? It doesn't exactly burn like this in Ecuador.”
“He's as smart and careful a shepherd as I've seen, but if he's got the sheep up in the trees, we'll lose them for sure. On open ground, they have a chance.”
We come out of the draw and onto the high table of land that sits between our ranch and the Strawberry Mountains. That hot wind pulls at my hat. Ike turns to protect his eyes. Smoke and dust sting my face. I can hear a sound to the east like a jet engine warming up. Grandpa sizes up our situation.
“When he checked in yesterday, Ernesto was ten miles northwest of here, headed toward Lookout Mountain.” He turns to me. “Now remember, Brother, if the fire catches us, turn around and go back to the black. It won't burn twice.”
I nod, cram my hat down tighter, and go. Ginger leads at a steady canter. Between the smoke and the thunderheads, it's like twilight an hour after noon, and the freight-train roar of flames gets steadily louder. I feel sweat rolling down my body and pooling at my belt and in my boots. Ike breathes hard. I squint against the smoke, sweeping the horizon for some sign of the sheep.
A dozen miles on, I see an ATV. I shout and wave Grandpa over. The ATV is parked on a granite outcropping, with a yard of bare rock all around it. It's ours. I recognize the gray-corded rosary Ernesto keeps wrapped around the gas cap. His supply roll is still strapped on the back. I knock on the water can and hear a high note.
“A couple of gallons left,” I call to Grandpa.
“He wouldn't go far from his water,” Grandpa calls back.
“Ernesto!” I holler. Coughing cuts off my yell, and I spit black snot. Grandpa takes a whistle from his pocket and blows, then stops to listen. A minute later, I hear Donner bark. He bounds out of the smoke from the northwest. His white coat is coal-miner black, but I'd know old Donner anywhere. He circles us once and takes off.
“We're coming, Donner!” I yell, and kick Ike to a full gallop. In a minute, I can hear the sheep.
A hundred yards further and I can hear Ernesto's deep, steady voice: “Tranquilo, no temas.”
He has the sheep in a tight bunch, and he's trying to dig a fire line around them. For a second, I can only sit and stare. It's the most heroic thing I've ever seen. He could have left the sheep hours ago and been safe in Burns by now. But here he is, alone in the wilderness, fighting this war, just Donner and him, for sheep he doesn't even own.
“jHola!” Grandpa calls. He swings down from his horse with one smooth motion, unpacks the Pulaski, and tosses the army shovel to me. With a sweep of his arm, he shows that he gets Ernesto's plan and he's on board with it. He turns the Pulaski so the pick end faces down and the ax end faces up and begins to dig at the edge of Ernesto's line.
I run to the other side. Just as I'm about to dig, a wave of animals runs by: rabbits, mice, a porcupine, skunks, quail, a couple of coyotes, and a mule deer. Dread hits me. I look west, and for the first time I can see the red-orange line of flames. Donner circles the sheep, totally focused on keeping them together, and Ernesto's voice is still calling, “No temas, tranquilo,” just as solid and confident as a spring morning at home.
I start turning over dirt. The bitter taste of smoke is in my mouth, and I don't have enough spit to get it out. I can see Grandpa swinging the Pulaski. A wide sweat mark sticks his faded work shirt to his back. The knee-high flames pick up speed going up the little rise that's a hundred yards away. I can feel the heat on my arms and face. Bits of dead grass and tufts of wool start blowing toward the flames as they suck in air to fuel the fire.
We'll never finish the line. The fire is licking up the parched brown grass faster than sheep can run. Grandpa is kneeling on the ground, and I run to him to keep him up out of the flames. I am about to tug him by the arm when I see he's holding a match to a clump of weeds. It goes up like it's been drenched in gasoline.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
Grandpa ignores me. Ernesto takes one look at him, pulls out a lighter, and starts to do the same.
“Are you crazy?”
I run to the horses and lead them away shooing the sheep back from the new fires that are only a stone's throw away. Grandpa and Ernesto stand up as the fires take hold. Grandpa leans a hand on Ernesto's shoulder. There is
nothing but smoke and two lines of flame in front of us. There's no room to run. Fatigue washes over me, and every molecule in my body is screaming for water. Even Ike stands with his head down, like there's nothing to do but accept fate. I uncap the canteen and take slow swallows of warm water. I lift up Ike's chin and give him enough water to at least wet his mouth. He rubs my shoulder with his nose for thanks. I unpack Grandpa's canteen and a spare for Ernesto. The flames are just a few feet apart now. Grandpa takes the canteen and stares hard at the two lines of fire.
They meet up, and where they touch, the flames snuff out like a candle. Boom! and it's over—not even smoke, just a heat shimmer rising up from the black earth.
“Aha!” Ernesto dances in a circle, his palms up to the sky. He takes Grandpa by the shoulders and kisses each cheek. He spins me in a circle, laughing, but a tear slides down each side of his dusty face. He throws an arm over my shoulder like we are brothers, points to Grandpa, and says, “Wise old man. Gracias. jM.il gracias!”
I just shake my head. The fire sweeps on, a hundred yards away on either side, but we are standing in a golden patch of untouched prairie. The sheep are amazed to complete silence, and even Donner can see that none of them are going to wander off. He works his way to the middle of the flock, lies down, and falls asleep instantly
I make a count of the sheep, keeping track on one hand of the ones that have my tag. Grandpa and Ernesto are deep in conference about where to take them. Water is only a few miles away, but they'll have to walk through the night to find grass that's not burned. Grandpa is massaging his left shoulder as he talks, like he's pulled a muscle. I gather up the tools, oven-hot from the ground, and look at the sky. It's hard to tell the storm clouds from the smoke, but the growl of thunder has moved up into the Strawberries, and the smoke has more of a brown-orange cast in the direction I'm guessing is west. I picture the BLM map Grandpa keeps on the wall in the hallway. Eighteen miles to Burns, maybe twenty, and I bet it's after three o'clock. It'll be dark before we get there.
Heart of a Shepherd Page 8
