Wyoming Heather

by DeAnn Smallwood

  “Ever heard of Tasunka Witko?” His question broke the silence.

  “Tasu who?”

  “Crazy Horse? Tasunka Witko. I met him. He came into the Lakota camp once, full of fire and purpose. Scared the hell out of me.” He grinned at the memory. “Buster and I stayed up late that night, wide-eyed and still as field mice around the campfire, listening to him talk. Buster said to give him great respect. I did. He commanded it. I also walked a mile around him.”

  “I would have, too,” Heather agreed. “We have been fortunate in that we’ve had no Indian problems. My father always treated them fairly and they in turn left us alone.”

  “Well.” Whip rose lankily to his feet. “Enough stories of me. I don’t know what there is about you, Heather Campbell. I’ve met you all of three times, and here I am telling you things I’ve never told anyone.”

  “I’m honored, Whip. Thank you.” She slipped on her boots and rose, dusting off the seat of her skirt. “I think I’d better be getting back to the ranch. I’ve stayed far longer than I planned. You’ve had quite a life. I’m hoping you’ll share more of it with me.” Their eyes met. She gave her head a small shake and turned away, mounting her horse.

  He didn’t want her to leave, yet he had no reason to ask her to stay.

  “Heather.”

  “Yes.” She turned toward him.

  “Ride with me to the top of the rise. Maybe two sets of eyes would be better than one. Maybe we’ll see some sign of that herd of mine.”

  She waited a second then said, “Okay,” not letting her voice reflect any of the relief she felt. “I almost rode off with your steaks anyway.”

  “I’d be cussing myself tonight when a good steak would be mighty tasty. I hate my own cooking, but I usually can burn a good steak. Just cook it till it quits mooing. Black on the outside, raw on the inside. I hired a cook, least he claimed to be, in Cheyenne. He should be following behind the herd. But, I probably won’t need him. I’ve got me several home-cooked meals to look forward to. You see, my neighbor owes me. And”—he winked at her—“I always collect my debts.”

  Chapter 11

  They rode to the lookout point and quietly scanned the land stretched out before them. Whip rose tall in his stirrups, shaded his eyes, and with fierce intensity looked in all directions. Heather did likewise.

  Nothing. The land was still and shuttered, the only sign of life a lone hawk circling lazily in the sky.

  “Damn,” Whip said to himself.

  “I’m sorry, Whip. How overdue are they?”

  “Several days. Something’s happened.”

  Heather nodded, not wanting to voice any further concern that would add to Whip’s worry.

  Whip started to turn his horse around when she stopped him.

  “Whip, when you left them, they were headed in this direction?”

  “Yeah,” he said, a question in his voice. “Buster knows this land like the back of his hand. No way he would vary from the trail. No way.”

  “Just a minute,” Heather said excitedly. “You just said it. You just said what has happened.”

  “Sun getting to you?” A wry smile quirked the corners of his mouth.

  “Listen, you just said Buster Walking Tall knows this country like the back of his hand, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, and you just said there was no way he would vary from the trail, right?”

  “Right. You’re beginning to sound like an echo, Miss Campbell.” He was feeling a frustration that had nothing to do with Heather, but her questions were leading nowhere.

  “Bear with me a minute, Whip. There’s a back way into your ranch. I know. I’ve explored it looking for strays. It’s a lot rougher trail, not one that would be your first choice. It winds through a couple of rocky canyons before it drops down behind the Powder River and then onto your land. What do you think? I know it’s unlikely, but herds just don’t disappear and—she looked back over the empty land below them—there’s certainly no sign of it out there.”

  Whip tipped back his hat, squinting at the sun devils dancing in the heat. “Doesn’t make any sense. Why would Buster take off through wild country when there’s a reasonably good trail?” He answered his own question. “Had to be a good reason. Something’s happened.” He glanced over at her. “I’ll ride back with you to your ranch,” he said decisively. Pick up the trail from there. Hope you’re right, Heather. Rough and wily as that country is, I’d far rather find them along that trail as to have to back track to Buffalo or Cheyenne.”

  Decision made, Heather saw the strength in Whip. He didn’t ponder or vacillate. He was a man of action, one who would look at a problem from all angles, then move forward, usually in the right direction. He might not agree with her theory of where the herd was, but he wasn’t so pigheaded he wouldn’t check it out.

  “I’m going with you.”

  His eyes were dark in his sun and weather-tanned face as he absorbed her words. Then he gave a nod.

  “I need to stop at the Circle C. I’ve got some chores that won’t wait all day to be taken care of. My animals need to be fed and watered. It won’t take long.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “I’ll help. We’ll probably be gone most of the day,” he warned, “maybe late.” He looked at her, watching for any sign she wanted to reconsider her spontaneous offer. There was none.

  “I know. That’s why I need to check my animals. But I think you’ll rescind your offer of help.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Okay.” But her eyes danced. “Just remember, I warned you.” And with that she gave Patch a nudge and, leading the way, left the puzzled man no recourse but to follow.

  They dismounted in front of the ranch house. Heather took her saddlebags off Patch. “I’ll put your steaks back in the smokehouse. I’ve danced them over enough country.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Just don’t forget they’re mine.” He wrapped Buck’s reins around the hitching post as Heather headed in the direction of the smokehouse. Sassy, he thought. Walks like she owns the place and everything on it. He chuckled, Come to think of it, she does. How in the Sam hill does she keep it all up?

  He met her halfway and followed her around to the back of the house. The minute they rounded the corner they were greeted with a variety of sounds.

  Built into a hill, Whip could see what looked to him like a root cellar. Yet it wasn’t like any root cellar or dugout he’d ever seen. It was big for one thing. Bigger than any root cellar had a right to be. Still, that wasn’t what caught his eye. It was the pens.

  The cellar itself had two log-hewn doors blocked open into what looked like a large, cavernous room. No, to be correct it looked like someone had built a barn, all right, but instead of placing it out in the open, they’d went to a hell of a lot of work and built it against and inside a hillside. They would have had to tunnel back and haul off a pile of dirt to make a room that large.

  He wondered how far back it went. The doors were strong, big and sturdy enough to withstand the elements. He wanted to look beyond the immediate front of the room in the back, but his eyes were riveted on several cages of various sizes, taking up most of the front space.

  In the first was one of the ugliest coyotes he’d ever seen. It paced from left to right, stopping in the middle to give a menacing snarl, lips curled back, muzzle quivering, as narrow, yellow eyes bored through him. It was giving a series of short, warning yips, and was obviously favoring its right paw.

  Next to the coyote, sitting on a perch, was a bald eagle, with its uniquely white-feathered head and neck. It was perched regally on a tree branch, but one of its large wings fanned out and drooped down its side. Talons gripped the branch as easily as they would grip and kill any of the smaller animals it would normally prey on.

  A few years back, he’d come across one flopping in a field, trying, to no avail, to rise and soar in the air. When he got closer, he could see what had happened. The young, not fully-grown eagle had swooped down on
a rabbit and locked its talons into the animals flesh. What the eagle hadn’t taken into account when he’d made his strike was the size and weight of the big jackrabbit. His wings beat the air, frantic as Whip had approached. All it was able to do was rise a few, flopping inches into the air and then fall back to the ground. It would try, even exhausted, fighting against itself, until it perished, not realizing the way to freedom was to relax and let go.

  Whip had dismounted and slowly approached the bird. Its mouth opened menacingly at him, and he knew that if he got within reach of its sharp beak, it would tear him to shreds.

  He looked around him for something that would break the killing grip. Something he could use to try and free one talon while not getting within striking distance. But there was nothing but baked ground and sagebrush. From the looks of the beaten ground around the eagle, this life-and-death struggle had been going on for a long time. It wouldn’t be much longer and this glorious bird would die. It probably had been without food or water for hours, maybe even days. Intent on ridding itself of the heavy weight binding it to the unfamiliar chains of the earth, the eagle didn’t realize that food and liquid was right under its nose, so to speak.

  That gave Whip an idea. It was a long shot, but a long shot was all the bird had. He slowly back stepped to his horse, reached into his saddlebag, and pulled out a biscuit that had been baked in a little bacon grease. He made his way back to the trapped bird whose struggles were intensified with the presence of man. Whip got as close as he knew he dared, then broke the biscuit in half and threw it at the eagle. It landed short of where aimed, and the bird pulled back with suspicion. He broke the remaining half in two and threw one of the pieces. Same thing. If this last piece didn’t do what he was hoping it would, there wouldn’t be anything else he could think of to try. One biscuit was all he had left from that morning’s breakfast. He inched forward, the eagle still, watching, waiting. Then he threw the remaining piece, aiming for the bird’s beak. The bird saw it and reacted at the same second. Its beak opened and grabbed for the bread. With all thoughts focused on striking whatever was in his beak’s reach, he involuntarily relaxed his hold on the hapless rabbit. The talons pulled back, free. Whip could tell the exact minute the bird realized this, for it spread its magnificent wings and effortlessly glided upward. He stood there and watched it circle, each time catching more and more wind under its wings until it became no more than a speck in the sky.

  The bird in the cage was bigger, much bigger. He looked over the rest of the cages. All held animals in various stages of injury and mending. It was as if every hurt or maimed animal within crawling distance of the Circle C had dragged itself to Heather’s doorstep.

  “I’ll take you up on that offer, now,” Heather said, grinning at his astonishment.

  “Huh?”

  “That offer to help me feed the animals. Why don’t you start with the badger? Careful of his claws. He’s just getting over an infected slash on his neck so he’s testy. Wants to lash out at anything—or anyone.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Yep. Only thing is, I’m missing one of my favorite critters.”

  “Yeah, what?” he asked warily, reluctantly taking his eyes off the cages.

  “Crawdads.”

  Chapter 12

  “You bide your time, don’t you, Heather Campbell?”

  “Why, whatever do you mean, Whip?”

  “Uh, huh. You gonna tell me about all this without me saying, pretty please? The whole time I was on your porch and then helped you with the calf, I had no idea”—he made a sweeping gesture—“this was back here.”

  “Hmmm, you have been nicer since the crawdad episode.” She grinned at the lean ex-ranger with laugh wrinkles at the corners of his sky blue eyes.

  “I’ve always loved animals.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And I guess they know it. They trust me. I can’t remember the time when there wasn’t a hurt animal to help.” She chuckled. “My poor mother. She never knew what I’d drag home next. I think it was after the turtle died and rotted under my bed that my father stepped in.”

  “Under your bed?” He wrinkled his nose. “Headstrong even then,” he muttered, but the smile on his face softened the words.

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it headstrong. I just thought he was hibernating.” She smiled at the memory and her mother’s reaction.

  “I’ve often found animals can be more needy and helpless than humans, but they are often times more grateful.” She waited, a challenge in her voice. Wisely, he remained silent, letting her go on with her story.

  “Take this one, for example.” Heather motioned to a fat, black and white spotted hog. “Got him from Bob Evans, a rancher east of town. Bob raises cattle, but has a few hogs for butchering.”

  The hog ignored them as it lay on a bed of straw, grunting. Every so often it wiggled its snout at the flies persistently irritating him. He was long without being overly fat and Whip could just imagine some mighty fine, lean bacon.

  “I call him Mr. Hog. He’s got the prettiest snout.”

  Whip watched the young woman reaching through the pen to scratch the animal’s ears. He squinted a quick look at her to see if she was pulling his leg with the pretty snout business, but she wasn’t. He wasn’t sure who was enjoying the scratching more, Heather or Mr. Hog.

  “Uh, Heather.”

  “Yes? Oh, yeah. He had what my father’s book on animal husbandry called Black Tooth. When Bob unloaded him, he was slobbering, hanging his head to one side and off his feed. Bob left him with me hoping I could figure out what was wrong.”

  “How’d you figure out what it was?”

  “When animals are hurting they often lose their fear of man. He let me poke and prod enough to determine the only source of pain was near his mouth. So,” she said, drawing out the word, “I gave him some whiskey.” Her voice lowered to a whisper and she turned her head as she uttered the word.

  “You gave him what?”

  “Whiskey,” she said only slightly louder, then peered up at him, her green eyes full of devilish, repressed laughter. “I gave Mr. Hog a snout full of whiskey. In fact, I gave him several. I’d say he became drunker than a skunk, but that sounds odd, doesn’t it?”

  “Odd! Sure, let’s worry about something sounding odd when you’re telling me you purposely got a hog drunk. You poured perfectly good whiskey down a hog? What’s next?”

  “Well, as soon as he was out, snoring, his mouth open, tongue lolling to one side, I just opened it wider and, sure enough, there it was. One of his teeth was darker colored than the other. I knew that the tooth had to come out. If it didn’t, Mr. Hog would be in so much pain he’d soon quit eating entirely. Bob couldn’t afford to lose such a fine animal, since his family depends on what they can raise. So,” she said, smiling up at him, “I pulled it.”

  “You reached inside a hog’s mouth and pulled a tooth? How?” he asked incredulously.

  “I wedged his mouth open with a piece of wood, then tied a strand of rawhide around the tooth. Mr. Hog didn’t even notice. He was out, Whip. You should have seen him.”

  “I am. I’m seeing it right now, and I can’t believe it.” Whip’s voice was strained as he tried to hold back the laughter threatening to overtake him. Heather took obvious pride in her accomplishment and laughing probably wasn’t wise.

  “I knew I needed to get it out first try and all in one piece.”

  “Mmm, hmm.” His words were muffled as he turned his head to the side, choking on the swallowed laughter.

  “I gave it a yank and out it came, tooth and root, all in one piece. Whip, I don’t mind telling you, I was relieved. I poured some more whiskey into the cavity and took out the wooden wedge.”

  “And Mr. Hog?”

  “He just snored on, every now and then grunting happily. I put some soft mash in his trough and got out of there. I figured it best not to be around when he came to. If he had a headache, or a hangover, I sure didn’t want to b
e in his path.” Heather looked over at Whip who had turned his back to her and stepped a few feet away. His shoulders were shaking and funny sounds were coming from him.

  “Whip, Whip, are you okay?”

  His words were muffled. “Snout full, drunker than a skunk. A hungover hog.” And his shoulders shook even harder, his hand wiping his eyes. He reached up and took off his hat, swatted it against his leg, then put it back on.

  “Whip?”

  “I-I’m fine, Heather. Just had something in my eye. Gone now.” And he turned back toward her.

  “So, as I understand it,” he said, trying to maintain control, “you’re the local hog, skunk, rabbit, badger, coyote”—he looked through the pens— “eagle, and whatever else you’ve got back there, doctor?”

  She nodded. “And that’s why my father built this underground barn. He knew I would only get more and more animals to care for especially as word got out of my ability. He had been planning something on this order for our livestock, because of his grave concerns about the Wyoming winters with blizzard conditions and below zero weather. Our first winter here we tied a rope from the house to the barn. During those whiteout blizzards when you can’t see your hand in front of your face, we’d follow along that rope while going out to feed or milk. Father swore he’d not put in another winter like that. He poured through his books and drew up plans. The next summer, we started in on our dugout barn. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of it.”

  He walked over to the remarkable woman and gently put his arm around her. It felt right to both of them. And, feigning unawareness of their shared closeness, they walked past all the cages until they were further inside the cavernous room.