by Will Hobbs
Clay crossed the main street and followed the dirt streets on the other side toward the tall building made of large blocks of stone. He was surprised to learn that his uncle was living inside a building at all. He’d pictured him living out in a canyon nearby and cooking over a campfire. You wouldn’t think he’d be rounding up wild horses from a house in town, like a boardinghouse or something.
Clay could feel the goose bumps rising on his arms, on his neck, as he approached the big building. He was surprised to find that it was a public building. In fact it was the courthouse.
He tied Starbuck and Pal to a bench in the park across the street, and then he retied his neckerchief and straightened his hat. Burrito went to nursing; he was always hungry. The man under the truck had to be wrong, but he’d go inside and find out. Someone in there would know.
Clay walked up the broad steps, Curly right beside him, and he walked inside and down the hallway. It felt strange to be walking on a floor. He asked at the first office, the county clerk’s. The woman there looked at him and looked at the little dog at his feet, and said, “You better go back outside and ask at the office at the back of the building.”
People sure were different in Escalante, he thought. Maybe they don’t see many folks from the outside.
He led Starbuck, Pal, and Burrito around the back, and discovered it was the sheriff’s office. These people really were confused. On the other hand, it made sense that the sheriff would know where everybody was. He tied his animals to another bench, on the grass to the side of the building.
Inside, Clay stood at the counter and waited a long time for someone to show up. There wasn’t a bell or anything. At last a big lady walked in, kind of old but not real old, with a beehive of silver hair. She had a mop and a bucket in her hand. “Sheriff’s out for the day, dispatcher’s out for lunch—what can I do for you?”
He took off his hat and he picked Curly up. “I’m looking for Clay Jenkins,” he said.
The old lady kind of squinted, and said a little suspiciously, “And what’s your business?”
“I’m trying to find out where he lives. They told me to ask here.”
“Well he lives here, in a manner of speaking.”
“You hear that, Curly? Whereabouts, Ma’am?”
She put a few fingers to her chin. “What are you to him?”
“I’m his nephew. I’m Clay Lancaster. He’s my mother’s brother.”
Her face lit up and all the wrinkles in her face sang a different tune. “Why didn’t you say so? How far have you come to see him?”
“From Seattle, Ma’am.”
“Seattle, Washington?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“My, my … call me Aunt Violet, everyone else does.”
She opened the swinging half door for him and gestured with her head toward a set of wide stairs leading down. She took a small ring of keys out of her dress pocket and said, “Never said anything about relatives coming to visit.”
Clay followed her down the stairs. Just as soon as he turned the corner and met a fence of bars across the wide hall and could see into a basement full of cells, it occurred to him that his uncle was in jail.
17
Clay held his breath. Curly’s toenails clicked on the concrete floor as the old lady led them past the empty cells. All of them were empty. His heart was pounding. He didn’t know what to think. His uncle was in jail! The long walk ended as the woman called eagerly, just before they reached the last cell on the right, “Visitor to see you, Clay!”
The man had just risen to his feet and put down a paperback book.
He recognized his uncle at once through the bars and under that black hat, even though it had been a long time. Here he was at last, the lanky man with the angular face and dark eyes, those crow’s-feet around his eyes smiling even when he wasn’t smiling. And the dark, three-day beard. Still there, the faraway look in his eyes. But where was his All-Around Cowboy belt buckle, the big silver belt buckle?
His uncle was looking him up and down, looking at the jewelry, returning to his face. Then he broke into that beautiful smile with that chipped tooth. “If I live to be a hundred …” Uncle Clay marveled. “Look who’s all grown-up.”
“I’m workin’ on it,” Clay said with a grin.
“Well you’re nearly as tall as I am.”
“I grew about six inches just the last year.”
“If you aren’t a pair,” Aunt Violet said. “Two peas in a pod.”
Curly barked suddenly, wanting to be included.
“My dog, Curly,” Clay announced.
“I’m going to leave you boys,” the old woman said. “I’ve got some cooking to attend to.”
“I take it you’ve met Aunt Violet,” Uncle Clay said. “Best cook in the county, maybe the state.”
“I’m going to give you boys the run of the downstairs,” she said as she jingled her keys and opened the cell door. “Be back in a bit.”
Uncle Clay stepped out and shook Clay’s hand, firm and long. “Man is it good to see you. Where’s Mike? How’s your mother?”
“Mom’ll be back at the end of the month—she’s in Guatemala.”
“You were telling me she’d gone down there for the summer. Good for her—I was real happy to hear it.”
“Mike’s in Seattle. When you called, we had a really bad connection. I couldn’t tell anything you were saying.”
“I know. But at least you heard I was in Escalante.”
“I didn’t even hear that! What I heard didn’t make any sense to me. But what are you doing in jail here?”
“Oh, well, I shouldn’t be in here for long. I got into some trouble over some horses. I should be out soon. Here, let’s pull up a chair—” His uncle spun and pulled the chair out of his cell, then went for a second from another cell. Clay stared into his uncle’s cell, at the toilet, the bunk, the barred window that looked up to the outside. He still couldn’t believe his uncle was in jail.
“I like the hat,” his uncle said with a grin. “I like the Navajo jewelry. So tell me, you’ve got me stumped. How in the world did you find me?”
“That’s a long story….” Clay said. “Take a look out one of those windows on this side. I’ve got three friends out there, and you might recognize one of them.”
His uncle stepped onto a bunk in one of the open cells. “Three friends … now who could that be …” He looked out, then looked again. “Lord, Lord.” His uncle’s voice was suddenly overcome with emotion. “Yes, I know that horse. It’s one of the first two.”
Stepping down from the bunk, his uncle said, “Sam Yazzie’s who made your bracelet!”
Clay nodded. “I’ve come a long way,” he said quietly. “I started out in Monument Valley—I came across Russell’s grandparents there.”
Tears were gathering in his uncle’s eyes. “To find me? You came all this way to find me?”
Clay shrugged. “It’s so different from back home out here … I really like it, and I thought it would be an adventure. I thought it was the kind of thing … that you would do.”
His uncle took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes, then blew his nose once, twice.
Uncle Clay was laughing through his tears. “Look at me. Bawling like a baby and honking like a goose. And here I thought I was pretty much alone in the world.”
“I know about what happened. That you were married, that you lost your wife.”
The man looked up, and then away. Clay had never seen desolation in his uncle’s eyes before. “It was hard, Clay, so hard I thought I’d just die from the grief. I’ve been alone my whole life, until Lily. When I met her, I could see the rest of my life in front of me. I loved her…. I’m awful sorry I didn’t write, Clay. I’ve been trying to work up to it, and that’s why I called finally.”
“I’m just sorry about what happened. I’m really sorry, Uncle Clay.”
“They say ‘don’t look back,’ but I’ll remember those days with her and her f
amily as long as I draw breath. They were the best of my life. It pleases me so much, that you’ve just come from the Yazzies. You and I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
“We waited at the Colorado on the twenty-seventh for you to bring the horses down. What happened?”
His uncle flashed that broken-tooth smile. “Got caught!” Then he winked and said, “I know Aunt Violet’s uncommon nice, but this isn’t a hotel she’s running, you know.”
“What happened to the horses?”
“It’s a real shame—that bunch is off to the slaughter-house, and now the same thing will happen to the last band up there.”
“There’s still some up there then?”
His uncle’s face lit up. “A buckskin stallion with a black stripe down his back and rings on his lower legs, a lead mare as blue as a mountain bluebird, and about a dozen other mares, mostly with colts. They’re the last ones. After that last bunch I was going to head for Seattle and look you and Mike and your mother up. Do some fishing with you, maybe even go back to working on the salmon boats.”
“How soon can you get out?”
“Soon I think. A lot of people around here don’t think all that highly of Barlow and what he’s doing.”
I’ve heard that name, Clay thought. Yes, from Sam Yazzie. “Isn’t he the one that’s selling the wild horses? The one that wouldn’t take your wife to the doctor?”
“The same. But let’s not talk about him. I want to hear all about your journey with Curly here and those long-eared rascals outside. Don’t you just love ’em?”
Aunt Violet was wheeling in a cart. She sang out, “You boys hungry for fried chicken?”
“This fellow’s come all the way from Monument Valley, Aunt Violet. Bound to be hungry. He’s a regular vagabond.”
“And they say they don’t make ’em like they used to. I’ve been thinking, it’s such a nice day, why don’t you boys take your trays outside—you could see your nephew’s animals up close, Clay.”
“I don’t see why not,” his uncle said with a wink. “We’ll be good.”
“I know you will. Sheriff Darling won’t mind. Behind the building you won’t raise much notice. No one’ll mind.”
“C’mon, Curly,” his uncle said. “We’re moving it outdoors. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do with your buddy here.”
“What did they do with your horse? Was it one of the wild horses once?”
“No, me and Loosa have been together a good while. She’s in the sheriff’s corral in the next block over here. She’s fine, they’re taking good care of her.”
“That reminds me—where’s your All-Around Cowboy buckle? You always wore that buckle.”
His uncle shrugged and said quietly, “I … I left it behind.”
Clay bought a few groceries at the general store in Escalante and then he headed out of town to find himself a place to camp. He felt drawn by the cliffs above a valley a few miles beyond town, and he steered that way. It looked inviting when he reached it: good grass and tall pines and a clear stream that ran steady if only a few inches deep. Above the valley, sheer red walls towered on both sides with fir trees clinging to the high ledges.
A road led up the valley, probably a logging road leading into the mountains. But he preferred to stick to the creek bottom.
The spot didn’t look different to him than any other spot on the sandy creekbed. Shallow water was rippling its way downstream in undulating waves over miniature sand hills. Not enough water to concern a burro.
He wasn’t watching that closely. He was walking in front of Starbuck, leading him because the pony had started to favor his left front leg as they left Escalante. There might have been something to see at that spot in the creekbed but he wasn’t looking all that closely. He was on the deck of a salmon boat with his uncle, and they were catching salmon until their arms were about to fall off. They were heading up the Inside Passage toward Ketchikan, Alaska, with the steep, dark mountains wrapped in mist rising straight out of the sea. He’d always liked that name, Ketchikan, and thought he might get there one day….
Suddenly Clay was chest-deep in the creekbed. Quicksand! He tried to kick his way out, but succeeded only in kicking his way out of his cowboy boots and worsening his predicament. Now only his head and shoulders were free. He thought he’d better quit struggling and breathe easy with his arms out as wide as he could keep them, and see if it would give him time to think.
Curly stood wisely back from the soft spot and eyed him one way, then the other, finding it unusual that his companion had only a head and arms and a hat.
“Throw me a rope, Curly,” Clay joked desperately, trying as fast as he could to think of only one of the dozens of ways he’d seen dogs rescue kids in quicksand in shows like “Lassie” and “Rin Tin Tin.” He couldn’t think of even one. Apparently Curly couldn’t either.
Curly reacted by barking in his high-pitched voice while Pal and Starbuck waited patiently for him to extricate himself. It crossed Clay’s mind, even at a time he couldn’t afford distractions, that Pal had been right about not trusting water. Her big eyes, ringed with white, seemed to be saying, “You didn’t listen” as she nudged Burrito away from the danger.
At least he wasn’t sinking any further. Curly continued to bark, and the minutes went by. Days it seemed like. The quicksand had him locked up but good. At least it’s cool, he thought. What a way to beat the heat. If I’d thought to wear a whistle around my neck, I’d sure blow on it about now.
Then he heard barking, not Curly’s but deeper barks from bigger dogs, and suddenly those black-and-white dogs he’d met earlier in the day showed up, those Border collies. One of them started toward him to investigate, but stopped and lifted one paw in the air, then wheeled around and returned to the bank. In a minute Clay was looking at the girl riding up, the dark-haired girl of the clouds and mesas and rainbows, the girl with the gray Stetson and the long braid down her back, the one who had taken his breath away. Somewhere close by, those two steers were complaining to the afternoon.
“We meet again,” she said with a smile. All he could think of was to be polite, and so he lifted his hat from his head, and greeted her with a gentlemanly nod.
18
“Stay still,” she said.
“Okay,” he replied. “I won’t go anywhere.”
The girl with the long braid smiled as she reached for her lariat, and she dismounted in a smooth motion. Whirling the lasso around her head, she took a few steps closer. He looked up into her face, all concentration. She wasn’t laughing at him, at least.
This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, Clay thought. I should be saving her.
One thing he was glad of: his brother wasn’t here to see this.
She roped him on her first try. As she mounted her horse she said, “We’re going to pull you downstream so you can come out on your back with your face up. Try to backstroke if you can help us. Just like you’re swimming.”
Her palomino horse responded as if he were trained for the occasion. It all worked like she said. He flopped around like a fish, but at last he found himself on solid ground. Clay picked himself up, freed himself from the rope, and said quietly, “Thanks. Thanks for pulling me out.”
“It wasn’t anything,” she said with a shy smile. “Roping a calf is a lot harder.”
There he was, standing in front of her in his bare feet. He couldn’t have looked more ridiculous. He knew he’d never see those expensive cowboy boots again.
“I like the baby burro, and its mother, and your little dog.”
“Thanks,” Clay said dispiritedly. It had taken a lot out of him, making a fool of himself twice in one day with the same girl.
“And your horse—I think that’s the most beautiful horse I’ve seen in my life.”
“Thanks. Something’s wrong with his foot, the front left one.”
“Really? I’ll take a look.”
Clay went to unrigging Pal’s diamond hitch to get at his hiking boots.
“Monument Valley.” He felt a small surge of pride saying it. Maybe he could talk to her, even if he had made a fool of himself—twice. Maybe that would even help. He’d gotten it over with.
“Really? No kidding—you came from Monument Valley? I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“That’s where I started,” he said, taking his first deep breath since the creekbed had squeezed the starch out of him.
“You out here on your own?”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s amazing. Here’s the problem, he had a big pebble in his frog.”
“Frog?”
“The soft spot in the center of his hoof. Funny name, eh?”
Clay laughed. This girl made you feel good. It was easy to be with her, even if she was so pretty.
“I like your bracelet, and your hatband.”
“Thanks.” He was lacing up his boots. “I’ve seen a lot of places since I started out, but this valley’s special. It’s got the red cliffs and the big trees at the same time.”
She seemed so pleased. “Really?”
“Sure.”
“I live here—just a couple miles up. My family’s is the only place in the valley.”
With an occasional hand signal and not a word spoken, she sent the dogs to outflank the steers whenever they strayed. As they rode up the valley side by side, they were looking for a good place for him to camp. But they got so busy talking they weren’t looking for campsites anymore. Her name was Sarah and it was the easiest thing in the world to talk with her. It didn’t matter that he loved her—and that it was hopeless. He could set that aside. He could talk to her about the country he had seen. She had that look in her eyes. She loved the wild places the way he did.
Clay tried not to talk too much, to make big of himself. He didn’t want to hear himself talking that way. He wanted to set himself aside and tell her what it was like, just being out there.