by Will Hobbs
He knelt and examined it up close. He probed with his fingers. Turkey feathers and fur, probably rabbit: hundreds of tiny bits of feather and fur wrapped around cords of yucca fiber. A blanket, a whole blanket in the style of the Ancient Ones.
Carefully he folded the blanket back and gasped to see a very small human face with empty eye sockets. The brown skin and black hair were still intact. At once he knew he was holding a burial in his hands, one of the Ancient Ones. His grandmother talked about such things, but he’d never seen one in all his time in the canyons. Her advice came to mind: behave carefully, treat the buried one with the utmost respect, and don’t make any mistakes. The Ancient Ones are not people to be trifled with.
An infant, he realized. Buried in the position his grandmother had described, with the legs folded and tucked against the stomach. The best thing to do was think a good intention and return it to its resting place.
When Cloyd wriggled back with the bundle to the place where he’d found it, he saw the silhouette of a piece of pottery, a jar with handles and a short, slender neck. He brought it into the open where he could see it, and took in its beauty and wholeness. Before this he’d found countless shards with similar black-lined designs, but never anything close to a whole pot. It was said they were worth a thousand dollars unbroken.
As he turned the pot on its side to admire it, something moved inside. He let the loose object fall gently into his hand. His heart leaped to see a small blue stone about two inches long, worn smooth by long handling. Turquoise. Two eyes, a snout, and a humped back. A bear. Surely, a bear to accompany the infant on the long journey.
His grandmother had told him about bears. The most important of all animals to the Utes, she’d said—friend and relative of man, bringer of strength and luck. If you could make a bear your personal guardian, you would be a strong man and lucky. In the old days, she said, when the people lived side by side with the bears, they would not kill them. That would bring on themselves the worst of bad luck.
Cloyd turned the smooth blue stone in his hand. He felt he was meant to cross the cliff and find this stone. He had earned this bear-stone; his grandmother would understand. She was the only person he knew who remembered the old ways and believed in their power. He’d always wondered if there was anything to her tales. Now he was sure there was. With this token, he felt like a new and powerful person.
His grandmother had said that in the old days, people had a secret name that was known only to one other person—a name that described who they really were, not who the world thought they were. He had thought he would like to have such a name for himself, but this naming was no longer done. “I’ll take a name for myself,” he thought, eyeing the stone in his hand. “I don’t need a father; I don’t need anyone.” Then he said aloud, “My name is Lone Bear.”
Cloyd returned the jar to the Ancient One. He tried to talk to the infant in his mind, told it that it must have reached its destination by now, and please, he’d like to have the stone on his own life’s journey because he, Lone Bear, had great need of the strength and good luck it would bring.
Cloyd put the smooth stone in his pocket and started back across the precipice. This time his legs did not shake. His feet were sure, and his fingers exerted a powerful grip on the face of the cliff.
He raced down the mountain in the twilight, slowing his descent by clinging for moments to branches as he flew by them. With the bear in his pocket, he wasn’t afraid of the oncoming darkness. In an odd sort of way, he was looking forward to seeing the curious old man at the ranch. Maybe the summer job wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe he could follow the river to the high peaks.
At any rate, he had the bearstone. He kept checking his pocket to make sure it was still there.
It was dark. Walter tried to read his latest Mining Gazette in the parlor but couldn’t concentrate for worrying about the teenager. He might’ve run off, but he might’ve slipped into the river. Swift and cold, the Piedra had drowned more than a few. He went outside, called the boy’s name, and listened, but all he could hear was the river. Before too long he’d have to phone Susan James. He was supposed to call if Cloyd didn’t show up.
Walter went inside and turned the heat down on the breaded pork chops he’d fixed. Since his wife died, he hadn’t eaten regular meals. He’d eat a little of this and that, mostly from the canned goods in the basement. Old friends who dropped by would admonish him for not keeping up his strength, but as he told them, he was never hungry. With the boy coming, he’d had to get into town, do some shopping, plan some meals, and start thinking about how to cook them.
He thought he’d take his flashlight downstream and look along the riverbank. In the mudroom closet Walter collected his wool coat and sat down on the bench to pull on his rubber boots. Two soft knocks sounded on the door. “Come on in,” he said.
The boy stepped inside, avoiding Walter’s eyes. Walter noticed the jeans first, wet from the knees down, then the fresh mud on the sneakers. The boy had gotten wet only minutes before, and not in the river. Crossing the irrigation ditch, Walter realized. Then he saw the T-shirt, with a fishhook-shaped rip across the belly. The shirt was badly soiled, yet white enough to accent the darkness of Cloyd’s face and arms, which were the deepest shade of brown. His limbs were rounded, undefined, and he was chunky overall in the way of Ute men. Shiny black hair hung straight to his shoulders. Cloyd’s large, round face was devoid of expression, unless it was the mouth turning dourly down at the corners. A bloody scratch shone bright red against his dark brown cheek.
“Got some supper here,” Walter said. “You like pork chops?”
Cloyd shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
Walter put away the coat and flashlight, thinking he’d best not embarrass the boy by mentioning his clothes or the scratches. But he wouldn’t have the boy tracking through the house in muddy sneakers. “I like to leave my outside shoes here in this mudroom,” he said over his shoulder as he left.
Cloyd joined him in the kitchen in wet socks. “I put your stuff up in your room,” Walter said. “That’s upstairs. The stairs are just off the parlor, and the bathroom is off the backside of the kitchen—that closed door over there. Would you like to shower and change clothes, or eat right away?”
“I’m hungry,” Cloyd said softly.
Walter caught the black eyes darting toward him, then quickly away. “That’d be fine. Why, I’m hungry myself.”
They ate quietly. Cloyd liked that. The old man wasn’t all over him with questions. He looked around. The old man had an old-fashioned cookstove alongside the modern one. The cookstove was much like his grandmother’s, only this one had bright blue enamel, where hers was all black and rusted in places. “You like that kind of stove?” he asked suddenly, pointing with a twist of the lips, as he finished up the food on his plate.
“Sure do. Still cook on it some, but mostly we used it for heating this side of the house in the winter. You can’t beat them old stoves. Say, whyn’t you have another go-round?” he said, indicating the pork chops and potatoes left on the platter. “Help yourself.”
Cloyd shook his head. He felt freer refusing food.
“No? Make a good snack for tomorrow, then. But hang on. I’ve got something special to bring up from the basement for dessert.”
On the old man’s return, Cloyd sneaked a look at him. He sure was little. And he was really happy about his peaches—he had a big smile on his face and he carried the quart jar like it was a treasure.
“Like some?” Walter said with his grin.
Cloyd wasn’t going to refuse this time; he nodded enthusiastically. These peaches were large as store-bought. He loved peaches. He allowed the old man to dish up two large scoops of vanilla ice cream with the fruit.
The old man dished himself up some peaches and joined him.
“We have peaches at home, too,” Cloyd said. “Not as big as yours.”
“Size don’t matter. That’s pretty country, Utah is. Any canyons where you c
ome from?”
“All over,” Cloyd said. “Lots of ruins … from the Ancient Ones.”
“Cliff dwellers? Like at Mesa Verde? Now ain’t that somethin’.”
Cloyd was curious. He had to ask. “Any ruins around here?” he asked carefully.
“Well, up on Chimney Rock Mesa, down the river a few miles and up the other side.”
“I mean real close.”
“Well, they say they lived all along the river—I’ve found a few grinding stones and whatnot, a few arrowheads and some potsherds….”
Cloyd felt the stone in his pocket. He almost wanted to tell, but he knew he shouldn’t. It was his secret. It had to do with his secret name.
“So you had a look around today, did you … Cloyd?” the old man asked awkwardly.
Cloyd wanted to tell at least some of the truth. “I climbed up above the cliff,” he said.
Walter perked up. “Why, that’s one of my favorite places around the farm. I used to climb up there myself. Haven’t for a good while, though.”
“How come you call it a farm? This place is a ranch.”
“Well, my wife came from farm country in Missouri, and she always said a ranch was like a house, but a farm was a home.”
Cloyd finished the last of the syrup from the jar. He wasn’t hungry anymore.
As he went upstairs, Cloyd noticed the picture of the old man’s wife. It was on top of the bookcase by the stairs. He tried to imagine the white-haired woman with the friendly smile saying to the old man, “A ranch is like a house, but a farm is a home.” He thought about what it meant as he looked around his room, unpacked his things from his duffel bag, then lay down on the bed with the bearstone in the palm of his hand. This was a good place, Walter’s farm.
Walter knocked early on Cloyd’s door. Cloyd woke to a warm house cheerful with the smell of sausage and eggs. Walter had fired up the cookstove and cooked breakfast on it. Cloyd ate with an eye on the fire showing through the draft slot. The old man opened the warmer door by the stovepipe and brought out sweet rolls.
“My grandmother keeps the frybread warm in there,” Cloyd said.
“She raised you, didn’t she?”
Cloyd nodded. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. It sounded like Walter knew about his mother, how she died getting him born, how his father had run off. Walter wouldn’t know what had happened to his father. He was the only one who knew that, and he wasn’t going to tell anybody, not even his sister or grandmother.
“Where does your sister live?” Walter asked gently.
“Salt Lake. She goes to a boarding school. I haven’t seen her for a long time.”
“That’s too bad.”
Cloyd felt more uncomfortable. He didn’t want any pity. He wanted to talk about something else. “What are my jobs?” he asked.
The old man stroked the white stubble on his chin. “What needs doing worst around here is the foundation wall down in the basement. It has a bad crack in it. I don’t know about you, but summer’s no time to work indoors to my way of thinking, so I’m gonna put that one off. Irrigating the hayfields will keep me plenty busy, so I want to find you a project you can work on your own at. I’ve got something in mind, but I need to chew on it a little longer. Let’s take a look around while I think about it—I’m just getting the hang of things myself after lettin’ the farm set last year.”
They went outside. Cloyd followed Walter up the stairway inside the big red barn. The loft upstairs was huge, and empty except for a dozen or so bales of hay off in one corner. Swallows were flying in and out by the hundreds. There were nests everywhere with baby birds.
“Sure feels empty, don’t it?” Walter remarked. “I used to fill all this up with hay—fed a lot of cows. You see, Cloyd, I didn’t hardly hit a lick last summer.”
“How come?”
“On account of losing my wife. Hit me awful hard. Thought I didn’t have anything to live for, to tell you the truth.”
Cloyd didn’t know what to say. He pointed with his lips to the meager haystack. “You don’t have enough for your horses … for the winter.”
“Oh, you saw the horses then. Yes, sir, it’s time I baled some hay. Pretty soon the fields’ll run to foxtails if I don’t, and then they won’t be worth a darn to anybody.”
“Did you ever have any kids?”
“No, never did,” he said softly. “We’d of liked to, but it just never happened.” There was a long silence, and Cloyd regretted the question.
“Say, I’ve got something I want to show you,” Walter announced, and led Cloyd downstairs to the tack room.
Everywhere Cloyd looked were saddles and bridles and gear he didn’t even know what to call. It was a wealth of leather, and he liked the smell of it. “I always used to ride bareback ….” he said cautiously. “I don’t know anything about this stuff.”
Walter beamed. “I could sure show you. If you’d like to ride, you could take your pick of the horses. Most are packhorses, but there’s a few good saddle horses among em, and they need riding—I can’t seem to find the time.”
“What are packhorses?”
“Why, they’re for carryin’ loads—into the mountains, where there’s no roads.”
The mountains, Cloyd thought. He’s all set up for the mountains. He’s got the gear and the horses, and maybe he would take me…. “Do you go to the mountains?”
“That’s a long story…. I’ve been keepin’ horses for years, thinkin’ I was going to get back up there and reopen a mine I’ve got up in the high country.”
“You like mining?”
A big smile lit the old man’s face. “You bet I do.”
“What do you like about it?”
“Why, the gold, I suppose. Sounds crazy, but the price of gold yesterday was four hundred fifty-six dollars an ounce. When I was minin’, gold was around thirty-two dollars. Makes a difference, don’t it?”
“How come you quit if you liked it?”
“I got married, Cloyd. My wife made me promise to give it up.”
The old man lowered his voice. “She was scared to death of mines, thinkin’ they’re cavin’ in all the time. But what she never understood was that the Pride of the West won’t cave in—never. I used to tell her it was safer than this house. There’s not a stick of timberwork in that whole mine—it’s a hard-rock gold mine if ever there was one. But now, back to the horses … how’d you like to look ‘em over? We could take a feed bag and a halter up to the pasture and you could pick one out. I’m going to do some irrigating later, but you could—”
Cloyd shook his head. “What about my job?”
“We could line that out tomorrow. I want to see what you think of these horses.”
They each had a feed bag and a halter. They found the horses in the shade of the big pines along the river upstream. There were ten of them. “They’ll be pretty skittish,” Walter said. “Haven’t been rode.”
Cloyd knew immediately which one he wanted: the blue roan, a big, well-muscled gelding. White hairs intermingled with gray underneath gave the roan a blue tinge all over. He wanted to call the horse to him, but he felt embarrassed having the old man see him. What if the horse wouldn’t come? He had to try. “Hey—a, hey—a,” Cloyd called softly. “Hey—a, hey—a.” While the others shied away, the big roan came to him, slowly and alertly, its head held high to one side. Its nostrils flared as it caught the scent of the grain. Cloyd let the horse almost finish the grain before he slipped the halter over its head.
“Nice,” Walter said. “Very nice. You made that look easy. Fm partial to that sorrel mare yonder—got a real easy gait.”
They led the two horses back to the barn. Cloyd admired the roan’s lines, the way it carried itself. At every moment it seemed about to bolt, yet never did. The horse wasn’t giving up its freedom, he thought. We chose each other.
First they curried the horses, then Walter showed him all about how to bridle and saddle his horse. The old man talked slow and made it easy t
o understand. ‘This blue roan’s a smart’un. See how he puffs out his gut so you won’t cinch him tight? And then the saddle falls off later and you with it.”
Cloyd laughed. “Better not let him hear you….”
“He thinks he’s fooled us,” Walter whispered. He turned away as if he was done, then winked and quickly cinched in a few more notches. “I wasn’t born yesterday,” he said.
Outside, Walter coached him on how to mount the big roan. “Confidence is the main thing. He’s gonna be skittish—been too long since he had a man on his back. One quick move, and don’t quit halfway. Let him feel your confidence.”
As excited as he was, Cloyd calmed himself. He tried to talk to the big roan with his heart. You and me, blue horse, he thought. You’re the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen. I bet you can run fast. We’ll be friends, you and me.
In one motion, much the way he used to when he rode bareback, he swung up into the saddle. The big roan lifted his head and took a step or two, then settled right down. Cloyd patted him on the neck.
“Well, I’ll be,” Walter chuckled. “He really took a shine to you. That horse never gave me the time of day.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Never got around to it. None of ’em do.”
They rode up the river trail through the big pines alongside the rapids. They followed the river for many miles, until the trail left it and climbed more than a thousand feet. The horse was surefooted and enjoyed the work. Cloyd was thrilled with the feel of the horse. He liked riding with the old man. He liked the wind in the trees and the gray jays and the way he felt. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time. Finally he caught a glimpse of the river again, all white, in a gorge so deep and narrow it stirred his heart to beating loud. Like thousands of knives, the dark walls were flinty and jagged, so unlike the smooth sandstones of home. Cloyd remembered the snowy peaks he’d seen towering over the mountains. This gorge, he realized, was only the beginning of that higher country. He took the blue stone from his pocket and turned it slowly in his hand. Someday, he vowed, he’d see those peaks up close. He would see the home of the Utes.
