Basque Moon

by Julie Weston

  The riders followed the track between the creek and the mountainside, which grew steeper before they turned a corner and left her view. This must be the dude ranch group Lulu mentioned. Nell wondered that Gwynn hadn’t told her about a ranch up ahead. On second thought, she doubted there was a ranch. These people were probably on an overnight cookout, the kind of thing the railroad man said attracted tourists from the East.

  The sheep quieted as they settled and the dog did not bark at all. A hush spread over the meadow. Where was Alphonso? She looked back at the camp. “What do you think, Moonie? Should I go in? I don’t know what I’m afraid of. The dead man has been buried. Surely, if there were anything else to worry about, Gwynn would have said so.” Not necessarily. He’d been worried about his sheep and his dogs, not Nell. A chill ran down her back. “Come on, Moonshine. I’ve got to see if my camera is in there.”

  Once again, Nell approached the door. This time, she heard a rustling sound inside. She reached out, turned the knob, and pulled the door toward her, ready to jump back. Inside, all was dark. Her eyes began to adjust and she saw a pile on the floor, almost as if Domingo were still there instead of buried out on the hillside. Moonshine brushed past her, growling. He sniffed at the pile, growled, then sat down in the tiny space at the other end.

  “What is it?” Nell knelt, still in the doorway, and touched a blanket. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A blanket was wrapped around something. She lifted it and found a dog underneath. Either he was a very sound sleeper or he was unconscious or dead. His fur felt warm and she could feel his chest rise and fall in a half-panting motion. Not dead, yet. His leg shifted, then jerked forward and back as if he were running. That was the sound she had heard. Two señors, she recalled Alphonso saying. Here was one, and in bad shape. Dried blood marked the scruff of his neck. He lifted his head. Moonshine licked the other dog’s face, but the animal only lay his head down again as if exhausted. Maybe Gwynn went to get help, but why not take the dog with him? A soft groan accompanied each breath.

  Nellie could at least get water, and looked around for a container to carry it from the creek. The camp wagon was like a little house with a wood stove, a table that let down for meals, a bunk at the end, drawers under the bunk, pans hanging on a wood structure along the side wall. On the bunk were her camera and tripod. Thank heavens!

  A pan with a handle would work. She grabbed one, stepped back outside and went to the creek for water. As she hurried back, she saw a figure up on the rocks. “Alphonso! Come down!” She waved her arm and returned to the prone animal, placing the water on the floor, moistening her hand and dribbling water around his mouth. She eased his head up so he could reach the water himself, stroking him while he lapped with his tongue in a half-hearted way. What was wrong with him? Moonshine had not moved.

  The clomp of boots on rocks preceded Alphonso’s arrival. His figure darkened the doorway above where she sat. “He’s hurt. There’s blood here.” She touched the animal’s neck and it flinched. “Ah, there. I’m trying to give him water, but I don’t know what else to do.” Her voice cracked.

  Alphonso said something in his incomprehensible language.

  “I can’t understand you. I think Gwynn went to town for help. He’s gone, but my camera is here. He left in a hurry, I’m sure. Only the tent was unloaded. Nothing else.”

  There wasn’t room for Alphonso, Nell, and Moonshine in the wagon, so she motioned for the sheepherder to move and she would leave, giving him room to examine the dog. “Moonshine, come with me. This dog might not like someone else in his home.” This dog might be beyond caring at any moment.

  In the doorway, Nell watched as Alphonso opened the drawer under the bunk, rummaged around, and brought out a wide, short tin. He moved his hands rapidly over the animal, feeling along his legs, his haunches, and then his neck. Again, the dog flinched and whimpered. Moonie made a noise in response and butted up against Nell. “Shhh, Moonie. There’s not room for us.” Alphonso opened the container and the smell, a combination of Mentholatum and something like rotten fish, instantly permeated the inside of the camp. “We’ll wait outside,” Nellie said, trying not to gag.

  Dust and the smell of lanolin still crowded the outside air, but it smelled fresh in comparison. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains in the west, but the dusk was a long time turning into dark.

  Nell decided to erect the tent near the creek and behind the wagon. Twice, it collapsed on her until she figured out how the poles worked. As she finished and stood in front of it, proud of her handiwork, she heard two cracks of branches across the creek. The horse tied to the camp whinnied and side-stepped. She peered into the darkening woods and thought she saw a shadow move under the trees, reminding her of the rock falling earlier. Someone was hanging around, spying on her and the camp. Moonie had become bored with her struggles and ambled back to sit by a fire kindled by the sheepherder. Even with her dog and Alphonso close by, Nell shivered. Don’t be foolish, she told herself, but, rather than carry her bag into the canvas shelter, she hurried over to the fire, sensing eyes in the night aimed at the back of her head.

  Alphonso motioned for Nell to sit by the fire in the rock surround. “Hotz, cold.” Indeed, she had already discovered the cool air in the shadows where sunlight had been filtered by the trees. The wrap she had tied around her waist helped allay the chill, but the fire would help more. Not only was she chilly and wary, she was hungry. So was Moonshine. He nosed her lap, wandered around sniffing, then settled down next to her. The crackling of the fire cheered Nell.

  Alphonso had started a fire in the stove inside the camp, too. He opened several tins of beans that he had retrieved from the drawer under the bunk, poured them into an iron pot, then stirred together flour, water, lard, and salt and dropped biscuits on the beans as they simmered on the stove. From a sack tied inside the door, he brought out dried meat, tossing several pieces to Moonshine and taking more out to the dog with the sheep. Nell thought she could eat some, too, even if it looked older than dirt, as Rosy used to say.

  Nell wanted her camera near her, but didn’t want to disturb Alphonso at his chores. It was safe inside and too dark outside to take any photographs. Except for the hurt animal and wondering when the rest of her baggage would return, she was content to watch Alphonso, listen to the rustle of the sheep, pet her dog, and be warmed by the fire.

  This was a far cry from her life in Chicago before she came to Idaho. In the middle of winter, she had stepped off the train in Ketchum, a small used-to-be mining town in the south-central part of the state. Stories of the mountains and beauty of the area had brought her there. She had lost her job as a portrait photographer. After many hours at the library, she decided landscape would separate her from other photographers. She searched for an area of the country no one else had claimed, with the hope that she could build a reputation and support herself selling photographs. Then, too, she had wanted to strike out on her own, get away from the presumption that she was an old maid and therefore destined for unhappiness, although it meant leaving her mother alone.

  In the West, she didn’t feel like an old maid, even though she was almost twenty-six. She felt alive and vital with purpose. Although some of the people she met had questioned her traveling alone and seeking a career in something so outlandish as “taking pictures,” notably Sheriff Azgo whom she had come to like even though he thought along the same lines as her mother—she should settle down, get married, and have children—others accepted her as she was. Who her parents were, where she had come from, what her education was, even the fact that she was female—all these things didn’t matter so much in Idaho.

  Her musings were interrupted by Alphonso bringing a plate filled with beans and biscuits to her. He sat beside her with his own food, and they both ate with relish. The beans had a thick, smoky flavor, and the biscuits tasted as good as the ones Mrs. Bock made at the boarding house. The fire crackled; a piece of wood fell and rolled. Nell stopped it with her foot, set her plate down
, and retrieved several more pieces from the pile near the camp, then settled herself again beside Moonie. She noticed he had licked a few beans off the plate, but she finished what was left. Sometime between when Alphonso brought the plate to her and she replenished the fire, night had descended. Stars carpeted the sky, something she never tired of studying. The winter had been difficult, and she still didn’t know if some of the photographs she had taken under a full moon in a snowy field would be accepted at a gallery in San Francisco, along with a photo of Mrs. Bock baking pies and another of Rosy. Still, she didn’t regret for a moment leaving the city and coming to Idaho. She might yet, though. So far, her introduction to the high country hadn’t been auspicious. The smell of the ointment drifted from the sheep camp. Nell wrinkled her nose.

  A light bounced up and down the trees and rocks around the camp. Startled, Nell and Alphonso both set down their plates and stood. Then the sound of grinding gears told them an auto approached. Before long, the pickup pulled up by the fire, and Gwynn stepped out.

  “Glad you found your way to camp. Did you get the sheep? Yeah, I see you did.” The animals had bedded down for the night up the hillside and path from where he stopped his truck. His headlights rested on several bunches, looking like spools of yarn. “Goddamned vultures been after us, Alphonso. Find the dog inside? He was bad, but the other one was worse. Didn’t have time to unload the pickup and fit both of ’em in.”

  “The dog you left is better,” Nell volunteered. It had limped toward the band a while ago.

  Gwynn nodded. “I took the other one to the vet in Stanley, not that he knows a goddamned thing or gives a—” he glanced at Nell. “—a hoot about my sheep dogs. He’ll live, unless that son of a—horse doctor fouls it up.”

  “I’m glad you’re back.” Nell was ready to regret her words when the old man smiled at her.

  “Get me some grub, Al.”

  Alphonso hurried into the wagon and brought out a plate of beans and biscuits for Gwynn. The sheep rancher took it and sat down on the log where Nellie shifted to make room. He shoveled in the food. “Sure needed this. Could use a swig of whiskey too. Got any?”

  The Basque stepped back inside, pulled out the drawer, and brought a bottle to Gwynn. Nell wondered what else was in the drawer. It was like a never-ending supply source. The bottle was dark green and about half full. “Wine,” Alphonso said, his teeth white in a grin. Gwynn took it, popped the cork out, and upended the bottle for a long swig. “Aaaah. That’s better.” He held the bottle to Nell. “Want some?”

  She did, but wasn’t sure she wanted to gulp from the bottle. Her face must have shown something, as Gwynn said to Alphonso. “Bring a cup. The lady’ll take a swig too.”

  “What was wrong with the other dog? This one seemed to have a wound on the neck,” Nellie asked.

  Gwynn shook his head. “Looked like this one got into a fight with a bear maybe. Or mountain lion. But that wasn’t what hurt the dog I took down.”

  Nell wondered if what she had heard and seen was a bear or a lion skulking around the camp. “Here, do you think?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but such an animal was more acceptable than the two-legged variety. There had been no sign of a scuffle.

  “Nope. Up yonder.” Gwynn motioned with his fork. He poured two inches of wine in a cup for Nellie and handed it to her. “Drink up. Good for what ails you. Basque wine.”

  The wine warmed Nell’s throat and all the way down her insides. It was tart and heavy at the same time.

  The rancher took another swig himself and the lines etched in his face relaxed. “I was fooling you. No animal did these things to my dog. Or maybe one of ’em.” Again he pointed with his fork, but this time to the camp. “Other one is a different story.” He paused for another swallow and his shoulders sagged. “Bullet wound in the haunches.”

  CHAPTER 3

  In the clearing where Nellie fell off her horse was a half-built log structure. By the time she recovered herself, groaning and rubbing her hip where she had landed, the horse had moved down the slope a hundred yards but seemed happy munching on grass, browsing his way toward the creek. The possibility that Gwynn had deliberately given her a stubborn animal crossed her mind, but she decided she was being uncharitable. She wished she could have driven up into the mountains. Her temperament was more suited to controlling a machine than steering an animal.

  Moonshine came back from whatever spoor he had been following and nosed her. He liked the mountains just fine. So did Nellie, but it was taking some getting used to. The beautiful vistas belied the mundane and often rough aspects of living in them.

  “Who began this log house and left it?” Nellie asked the dog. “Maybe they’ll come back and help me mount my horse.” Assuming she could catch the animal before it sauntered along to camp, taking her camera equipment with it.

  Under the warm sun, the meadow grasses were already turning gold, but in the shade, the mountain chill always lingered. Stands of aspen showed a pure green against the darker fir trees on the north side of the mountain near her. A few cottonwoods lined the creek—she was already pronouncing it “crick” like the other westerners—and the smell of sun on pine pitch mixed pleasantly with the chuckling of water over rock. Behind the log half-house, the white trunks of aspens standing straight and tall guarded the scree slope of a rock mountain, tumbling in on itself. Sagebrush dotted the south slopes of the mountains.

  “C’mon, Moonie. If we have to walk back, we’d better catch the horse now and get started. I’m not sure how far we came, but it must have been several miles. I still haven’t seen a clear vista back to the Sawtooths, and, oh, how I wanted to photograph them in the morning sun.” Noon had passed and her stomach grumbled. The lunch she packed included sourdough bread and two thick slices of mutton smelling of garlic, intended for a picnic after she finished photographing. If she couldn’t catch Blade, she might go hungry.

  “Nice horse. Nice Blade.” Nellie clambered down the slope in her boots, tripping on rocks and sliding on grass. The sheepherders wore boots, too, but they moved with more grace and ease. The horse glanced at her, and then stepped closer to the creek, lowering its head to drink. Moonshine trotted to the downward side of the slope and barked. Blade halted its sidestepping and Nellie managed to grab a rein and hold the horse while she searched for a tall rock or a fallen log to stand on in order to mount. Nothing was high enough and the logs of the structure were too high.

  “Walk we must,” she told Moonie. The dog didn’t care. While Nell led the horse down the slope and along the rough track she had ridden up in the morning, he ran up and down, back and forth, stopping once to roll in a patch of scarlet gilia. She rounded a bend and there in the west was the scene she’d been looking for all morning. Three mountains of the Sawtooth range cut the horizon like the lower half of a giant bear’s jaw, framed by a sagebrush slope on one side and alpine fir on the other. A dark pewter anvil of a thunderhead billowed up behind the peaks. She’d forgotten her rule of turning around from time to time to see what was behind her. The sun was high in the sky but white puffs were growing and extending like a line of laundry to the north. Soon, their shadows would mottle the light and Nellie might have just what she hoped for. This time, she remembered to tie the horse to a tree limb while she unloaded her gear.

  Nothing was easy about setting up her large-format camera on a rocky hillside. The tripod’s legs extended easily enough, but finding firm footing and then leveling the camera always took time, once she had found a suitable foreground. A plain photo of mountains in the distance wasn’t enough. Good composition required interesting foreground as well. She calculated the black and white zones with her meter and then the time she would expose her film. On such a bright day, the actual photograph would take the barest fraction of a second—.125 with the fstop set at 22. For the long distance, she set the focus at infinity. Even as she worked, the clouds swelled, the light dimmed, the air cooled. She studied the scene through the lens while protected with the black
cloth over her head and the camera. If the sun disappeared behind clouds, the whole scene would look gray. She needed the contrast of bright light in some places, shade in others, and preferred that at least one peak stand out.

  By the time Nellie finished and repacked her gear, raindrops were sprinkling and Moonie had begun warning her to hurry with a combination of whimpers and barks. Distant thunder rumbled around the Basin, echoing off the rock faces of the Sawtooths. A zag of lightning was clear warning.

  “Darn, now I won’t be able to eat.” She eyed with regret the pack on the horse where the lunch lay hidden. Again, she looked for a place to stand so she could mount. Being short didn’t usually bother her; today it was a real difficulty. “Let’s keep walking, Moonie. Maybe we’ll find a place.” After a short debate with herself, she took the camera pack from the horse and donned it herself, the straps around her shoulder. She didn’t want to lose the camera if the horse bolted from lightning or thunder.

  The drops thickened and fell faster. She stopped the horse, tied the rein to another tree limb, and retrieved a canvas poncho and hat. With those items placed over the camera pack on her back, it wouldn’t matter how hard it rained. The lightning was still a concern. The trees around her were tall, Douglas fir instead of alpine or lodgepole, and if she moved up the slope, she’d stand out like a lightning rod in the sagebrush. Don’t stop, she warned herself, and hoped she wasn’t near the tallest tree.

  Another group of “dudes” had walked their horses through the sheep camp the night before. Nell wondered how they liked the rain. About as much as she did, she suspected. The clouds had settled in and she could see nothing ahead of her. She kept her head lowered, her eye on the trail, her hand on a rein. Her first week was almost finished. She missed Gwynn, who had left the next morning after taking the dog down, but had returned with a horse tied to the rear of the pickup, possible because the road was so rutted, the pickup could only go as fast as a horse could walk. “This here is yours to use while you’re up here. You ride, don’t you?”