by Tim Champlin
There was a slight hesitation. Then a man stepped forward into the firelight, his hands held out from his sides, one of them holding a Winchester.
“Put the rifle down—slowly.”
The man obeyed. Without being told, Marvin Cutter scrabbled over and pulled the weapon to him.
Jay and Fletcher Hall both got to their feet and approached, their guns trained on the intruder.
“Who are you?” Jay asked, eyeing the shabbily-dressed figure who stood about five feet, eight, but broad-shouldered and muscular. The firelight shone up under the slouch hat to reveal a face covered mostly with a full beard, trimmed short. He had a strong beak of a nose, topped by straight, heavy black brows.
“I was just coming up here to find out who you were,” he replied, the deep voice resonating from his chest. He glanced at the two grim-faced men holding pistols and the figure on the ground, his own rifle trained upward, and apparently decided to expand on his answer. “My name’s Vincent Gorraiz. Are you the men from the balloon?” He looked from one to the other.
“What if we are?” Hall answered. “You live around here? Where’s your horse?”
“Got a mule, but he’s back down in camp. Figured I could make this trek on foot in the dark better than he could. Saw your balloon go down in the trees. Thought I’d come and see if I could help. Anybody hurt?” He glanced at Cutter who still sat on the ground. He spoke in short sentences, like a man who didn’t trust his voice to convey his train of thought.
“Yeah, we’re the ones from the balloon,” Jay said, easing down the hammer on his Colt and sliding it back into its holster. “Name’s Jay McGraw,” he said, thrusting out his hand. This is Fletcher Hall and that’s Marvin Cutter. You a rancher around here?”
The bearded one answered with a rumbling laugh as he gripped each of their hands in turn. “Nope. Just the opposite, in fact. Just a sheepherder trying to stay out of everybody’s way.”
“You’re lucky you weren’t shot,” Jay said. “That’s not a good way to approach a strange campfire.”
Gorraiz shrugged. “Thought about that when I got close. Thought maybe that fella on the ground was the only one here. Didn’t hardly figure it to be cowboys chasing strays this far up.”
“How do you know we’re not cattlemen?” Hall asked.
“You don’t have that look about you. Besides, we’re pretty close to where that balloon went down. Figured it had to be somebody from that, if you weren’t killed or hurt bad.”
Jay noted that the man spoke very clear and precise English, but with a slight trace of a dialect he could not identify.
“Except for a twisted knee and a few scratches and bruises, we’re okay,” Hall said. “I’ve survived worse crashes than that. I’m a professional aeronaut,” Hall answered with a trace of pride in his voice.
“Aeronaut?”
“A professional balloonist,” Jay explained.
“What are you doing way out here?”
“We’ll tell you all about it later,” Hall said, impatiently. “Have you got any hot coffee at your camp?”
“Sure do. I forget my manners. I came up here to see if I could help. Put out the fire. I’ll lead you down.”
Cutter had not returned the Winchester. A good move, Jay thought. They didn’t know anything about this man. This whole story about being a sheepherder might be a ruse. He might be waiting for a chance to kill and rob them. He could be some wild mountain bandit. Jay thought of the sandbags that contained the gold and bank notes. He was glad there were no identifying marks on the outside of the bags. He would make sure the bags stayed in his hands.
“We’ll keep your rifle until we get to your camp just to make sure you’re giving us a straight story,” Jay said. Then he had second thoughts about leaving the rifle in the hands of Cutter. But he judged Cutter to be a sneak thief, not a violent criminal. Yet he might be desperate enough to use it to escape. If that happened, Marvin Cutter, the city-bred thief, would be on his own in the mountains with a bad knee. He had to believe the man would wait for a more propitious moment. But he couldn’t be wholly certain, so he held out his hand. “I’ll take that.”
Cutter hesitated for a moment before he handed over the rifle. Jay cradled the rifle on the crook of his arm and slung the tied bags over his shoulder while Hall and Cutter kicked the rocks apart and scraped dirt on the fire.
“Lead on,” Jay said, when the fire had been smothered to his satisfaction.
The moon was just beginning to appear above the trees. Once they got their night vision, the moon cast just enough light to be able to follow the broad back of Gorraiz moving down the slope in front of them.
Vincent Gorraiz led, followed by Hall helping Cutter. Jay brought up the rear with the rifle. His nerves were on edge. He worked the lever of the Winchester twice and ejected a cartridge into his hand, then slid it back into the loading gate. He was taking no chances; he intended to be ready for anything. He eased the hammer back down. It wouldn’t do to trip in the dark and shoot himself or one of his companions accidentally. He swept his eyes back and forth and around for any sign of an ambush, but knew anyone lying in wait could be on them before he could react. The darkness was just too thick to penetrate.
Apparently, Gorraiz was very familiar with this mountain. He led them slowly, but unerringly, down the slope, sometimes descending a steep, rocky pitch where Hall, with the thief hanging on him, had to follow a step at a time. Fletcher Hall was grunting and puffing after a few hundred yards. Then the unseen trail leveled off and wound on a long, circuitous route through the trees, breaking out into an open meadow, and then back into the stands of big ponderosa that totally shut out any light, and they slipped and slid on the cushion of slick pine needles as the way led downward again. If there was any trail here, Jay could not detect it. Either this man had an uncanny sense of direction, or he was so familiar with this area that he needed no light, like a man finding his way through his own dark house at night.
They must have traveled a good two or three miles before they finally came out of the trees onto a gentle slope. By this time, Jay was helping the hobbling Marvin Cutter, and Fletcher Hall was following with the rifle. Gorraiz stopped and Jay paused. Cutter stood up straight with a groan, leaning lightly on Jay’s shoulder.
Jay smelled the sheep before he saw them. Then he heard some faint bleating. He strained his eyes. There, in the middle distance, he detected a slight movement where the light from the rising moon was reflecting dimly from the gray-white wool of several hundred sheep.
“Chuck!” Gorraiz followed the low command with a quick, sharp whistle. An unusual whistle.
A few seconds later a dog came trotting up to him out of the darkness.
“This way.” Vincent Gorraiz started forward again, the dog ranging at his side. He finally stopped about forty yards from the flock at a point where his gear lay scattered about near a fire ring. A slight breeze stirred the ashes and the red eye of a glowing coal was revealed. Gorraiz took a few sticks from the stack nearby and knelt by the fire, blowing it back to life. The new wood caught and flared up. Jay squinted at the blinding glare.
“Coffee will be ready in a few minutes,” he said, amiably, setting a full pot on the small, iron, spider-shaped grid he set across the flat rocks. The pot began to steam quickly, giving off the delicious aroma of coffee. Jay suspected the man had just been preparing his supper when he saw the balloon go over and down and had quickly set the coffee pot on the ground, grabbed his rifle and started up the mountain toward the spot where he thought they had come down. Jay eased himself gratefully to the grass. He was feeling a lot more comfortable. Apparently, this man was just what he had told them he was—a solitary shepherd who intended only to help them.
“I’ve got some mutton stew if you’re hungry,” Gorraiz offered. Jay hoped he couldn’t hear his stomach growling as he replied that he might have a bite or two if there was enough.
“I’m hungry as a horse,” Hall replied, gruffly. Cutter sai
d nothing.
Gorraiz set the small iron pot on the fire and went about cutting up a few more onions and potatoes into the pot. The stew was soon simmering and the aroma it gave off made Jay think he hadn’t eaten in days.
“I’ve only got two cups and two plates,” the shepherd said. “You’ll have to share.” He handed them the two tin plates and cups, and three spoons. He, himself, took the lid off the coffeepot and ladled in a helping of stew. After he had served his visitors, he used the spoon from the pot to eat with.
Jay thought he had never tasted anything as good as this stew. He could have eaten three times as much as the portion he got. But there was no more. Gorraiz had divided it equally and scraped out the pot. Jay was finished and sipping his coffee before the fry bread was finished cooking in the pan. Gorraiz forked out a smoking piece to him and he gingerly tore off a piece and dunked it in the black coffee.
“Who do you work for?” Jay asked, sitting cross-legged with his cup on the grass in front of him.
“My uncle.”
“Who’s that?”
“Milo Gorraiz,” Vincent replied. “My father’s younger brother.”
“A family business, then.”
Gorraiz nodded.
“Gorraiz is a funny name,” Fletcher Hall said, in his bluntest manner. “How do you spell it?”
Vincent spelled the surname for him.
“Spanish?” Hall asked.
“No. Basque.”
Jay had heard periodic tales of the Basque people. They had originated, as far as anybody knew, in the Pyrenees Mountains between Spain and France, and their language was unlike any other known. That accounted for the faint dialect. Jay had a sudden desire to know more.
“Were you born in the Wyoming Territory?”
The bearded shepherd shook his head. “California. My family came here about ten years ago when I was a young man. More have come since. Now I feel as if this is home.”
“How long have your people been in this country?” Hall asked.
“Most of them came here from South America two or three generations ago. But we had been sheepherders for many years before that. It is in our blood. It has been our way of life for generations.”
“Where did your people come from?” Jay asked, expanding on his earlier thought.
“As I told you—California.”
“No, I mean, where did the Basque people originate?”
Vincent Gorraiz did not answer for several seconds as he pondered the question. Finally, he said, “No one knows for sure. We do not have a written history. The old ones who have handed down the tales of our past are not in agreement. Our language is different, our customs are different. We have lived in the Pyrenees Mountains for about two thousand years. Before that. . . ?” He shrugged. “It is a mystery, and one that is not likely to be solved.”
Jay had heard that the Basques were very clannish, stayed to themselves, and preserved their own customs and traditions.
“Have you always been a sheepherder?” Jay asked.
Gorraiz nodded, staring into the fire. “Yes. Since I was a young boy. I feel that I have been at it all my life.”
“Must get mighty lonely and boring, traipsing around the countryside after a bunch of smelly sheep,” Hall remarked with his usual tact.
Gorraiz glanced up at him, and then back at the fire. “Actually, I prefer a little solitude to mixing with many of the people I have come across,” he answered, pointedly. “Certain times of the year, such as at lambing time and shearing, it’s hard work, no doubt about it. But other times, it’s like caring for a bunch of children who are totally dependent on me.”
An apt simile, Jay thought, considering how their bleating sounded so much like human cries.
“This life gives a man plenty of time to think and reflect on things,” Vincent continued, removing his hat and placing it on the grass beside him. “I do a lot of reading—whatever books I can find and wherever I can find them. I am surrounded by this beautiful country, fresh, fragrant air, beautiful clouds and sunsets. Would not most men who live in the noise and dirt of the cities wish to trade places with me? There are trout in these mountain streams, my bedroom ceiling is spangled with stars, my clothing requirements are minimal . . . ”
“Speaking of clothes,” Hall interrupted, “how the hell do you stand it in the winter around here, living in the open like this?”
“One gets accustomed to camping out. I pick sheltered places, and I have warm fires and sheepskin-lined clothing. Even this beard is protection for my face for the coming cold weather. I carry what I need on my mules.”
Jay had noticed the two mules picketed and grazing nearby.
The man spoke as if he were educated, even though he stated he had spent most of his life as a shepherd. Probably self-educated from the books he had read, Jay thought.
“Yes, it is a good life. I could ask for no better.”
“Don’t you ever miss seeing any women?” Hall asked.
Gorraiz nodded. “I will marry someday before long. It is my job to foster the flock and build it up so that when my uncle turns my share over to me, I will have earned it, and it will be enough to live and support a wife on. For now . . . it is enough. God has been good to me.”
“Where are you taking these sheep now?” Jay asked.
“Autumn is coming on quickly. Chuck and I are bringing them down from summer pasture in the mountain meadows to lower ground for the winter. We will winter along the base of these foothills and in the small, grassy valleys that are protected from the worst drifts and winds.”
Jay felt secretly glad that he was not facing the prospect of spending the winter outdoors on the Continental Divide. Whether he knew it or not, this man was a lot tougher than most.
The dog, Chuck, a black and white border collie, had not come up to share the light and warmth of the fire with the humans. Apparently, from good training, he lay quietly in the darkness about twenty feet away, head between his paws, facing the bedded sheep.
“Is this where you’re going to spend the winter?” Jay asked, noting from the light of the moon that they were in some sort of long, narrow valley.
Gorraiz shook his head. “No. Farther down.”
Vincent suddenly stopped and cocked his head to one side, his eyes probing the darkness. He looked toward his dog, who had raised his head, but still lay in the same spot.
Gorraiz got up and picked up his rifle.
“What’s wrong?”
He stepped out of the firelight without answering, walked away a few steps and stopped, listening and turning his head this way and that. Finally, he came back and set the rifle down. “Thought I heard something. Must have been a prowling wolf or coyote,” he said. But he still seemed nervous as he hunkered down by the fire and reached for the coffeepot. Jay noticed his glance flickering out into the darkness.
“Didn’t rouse your dog,” Jay observed.
“Oh, he heard something, all right,” Vincent said. “But he knows better than to go chasing off after every sound or smell that comes along.”
Jay saw the dog get up and trot away in a wide circle around the sheep. Gorraiz did not seem disposed to talk; he seemed preoccupied. A few minutes later the dog came back into view. He walked around in a circle a time or two and then lay down once more.
“I don’t know where you boys are headed,” Gorraiz finally said, to break a long silence. “But I’m going to have to be honest with you and tell you there may be more out there than just four-legged predators.”
“Oh?”
“Yeh. There are some ranchers in this area who aren’t sold on the idea of sharing the range with sheep. In fact, there are some that are downright hostile. If some of their hired guns come calling tonight, can I count on you boys for help?”
He looked at Jay, then at Hall and Cutter with large brown eyes under the thick brows. He was chewing his bottom lip. There was no fear—only concern and a quiet plea for help.
Jay felt his stomach tig
hten. What had they gotten themselves into now? Had they escaped deadly danger in the skies only to find themselves in even deadlier danger back on earth?
Chapter Thirteen
“This is not some practical joke?” Hall asked.
“I only wish that were the case,” Gorraiz replied. “I started not to say anything about it, what with you being strangers here and all, and my guests besides. But I think it’s only fair to warn there’s at least a possibility of attack. Maybe it won’t come tonight or next week, or next month, but it will come eventually.”
“How do you know?” Jay asked, thinking that maybe this was just a touch of paranoia in a man who had spent too much time alone.
Gorraiz looked offended at the dubious tone of the question. “The Cattlemen’s Association is big and powerful hereabouts. All of the big ranchers belong to it. They’ve got an interest in holding on to this free grazing land, and they’re going to do it by any means, legal or otherwise. Lately, they’ve taken to bringing in hired guns to protect what they consider to be their land.”
Jay had heard some rumblings of this growing dispute, gleaned mostly from back page articles in the San Francisco newspapers. But it was like reading of something that was happening in a foreign country and he had paid little attention to it.
“What possible harm could a few hundred sheep cause in a land this big?” Jay asked.
“It’s not just a few hundred anymore,” Gorraiz replied. ‘There are thousands here already and the number is growing every year as more herders realize there is plenty of good grazing here and good profits to be made. But overcrowding isn’t the problem. The ranchers think the sheep eat the grass down too close to the ground so it ruins the range. There’s even a notion that the sheep leave some kind of stink on the ground they’ve passed over so that no cattle will graze on it afterwards.”
“Any of it true?”
“No. But when people want you out, they’ll believe anything. The Cattlemen’s Association is even calling the Basques a bunch of dirty, smelly foreigners. There are other men running sheep in Wyoming, too, but I guess the Basques are just easier to single out as a group.” He shook his head, sadly. “Some of the herders have been attacked by night riders in masks. These men clubbed and shot a bunch of helpless animals and beat up the herdsmen. Warned them to leave the Territory or expect more of the same or worse.”