by Tim Champlin
‘There’s no way to compromise—maybe have sheep on certain areas of the range and cattle on another?”
“No. The ranchers were here first, so they feel the entire open range is theirs to use as they see fit, or to keep it clear of sheep until they decide to use it.”
Gorraiz was silent for a moment, staring into the last flickering flames of the dying fire. The light reflected on the bold profile—the strong nose, balanced by the thick, black beard.
“I am a simple man with simple needs,” he went on. “I want to take care of my own business, and let others do the same. Yet. . . this whole idea of tending cattle—surely a humble occupation such as my own . . . I can’t understand why the cowmen act as if they are lords of the land and rulers of all they can see and touch.” He spread his arms wide as he spoke. “Is it because they sit high atop a horse and look down on other men afoot? Are we lesser men for that? Are we servants or peasants to do their bidding?” His voice rose with indignation. “I am a peace-loving man, but I swear I will kill the first man who tries to harm my sheep or me.”
“No sense getting yourself all worked up,” Fletcher Hall said, gruffly. “Nobody’s bothered you yet, and I doubt anything will happen tonight.”
Jay nodded in agreement. This man had been alone so long he apparently welcomed any friendly face so he could talk and unburden himself of his hopes and fears. Except for a question or two or a remark from the three of them, Gorraiz had done all the talking.
“If it will ease your mind, we’ll stand guard tonight,” Jay offered. Even though he was far from full, the warm stew and two cups of black, hot coffee had revived him. “I’ll take the first watch.”
He got to his feet and rinsed his cup in a small bucket of water nearby, then set the cup on a stone of the fire ring. As he did so he caught Hall’s eye. The aeronaut was plainly disapproving, as if he saw no need of a night watch, and was irritated that Jay had volunteered him for it. His red, puffy eyes were almost crying out for a good night’s sleep.
The food and coffee had given Jay a boost of energy so he felt he would be alert for at least two hours. Besides, he didn’t want the agony of being awakened once he got to sleep. Then again, there might not be much sleep in this camp tonight, anyway, if Gorraiz had no spare blankets. It would be the grass for a mattress and the sky for a cover, and plenty of cold air in between.
Hall had taken the bucket of dirty dishes to a stream that bisected the little valley to wash and scour them with sand, grumbling all the while that not only had Marvin Cutter come along uninvited, but now was worse than useless with a bad leg.
At the edge of the light Gorraiz was feeding the dog with some sort of dried food from the big pack.
“I’ll wake you in two or three hours,” Jay said as Hall returned to the fire.
Hall nodded. “There’s a single tree about forty yards out that way where you’d be out of the moonlight.”
“Good. It’ll be a couple of hours before the moon goes down behind the hills.”
Jay hefted the rifle and glanced at the dying campfire. He motioned for Hall to step away from the light with him.
“Forget about Marvin Cutter standing watch. I don’t think he can be trusted. I don’t think he’ll try to get away, since he can’t run. I just don’t want him to be tempted to rob us or take those two sacks and slip off into the dark.”
“Hell, I wish he would escape. He’s been a damn nuisance so far,” Hall snorted.
“Well, we’re stuck with him now. He’ll look for a better opportunity. He’s not real fond of the wild. Personally, I don’t really care what happens to him myself, but I’m sworn to protect what’s in those two sandbags. That’s the reason we went to all this trouble . . . ”
“And wrecked my balloon and almost got us killed,” Hall finished.
Jay ground his teeth to keep from making a retort. Instead, he said, “I’ll take the sacks with me on guard. If anything should happen tonight, they’ll be in the low fork of that tree.” He pointed at the lone tree where it made a blot of shadow on the moon-silvered field.
Hall grunted his assent and returned to the fire circle where Gorraiz and Cutter were settling in to get some sleep. The Basque rolled into a sheepskin-lined sleeping robe. The herder had supplied Cutter with a spare blanket, Jay noted as he moved off. He took up a position by the solitary tree, a young oak that had somehow taken root here. He flung the bags over the lowest limb and settled down to watch. After the camp had quieted for the night, Jay could hear the soft gurgling of the small stream nearby. The wind had finally died, and the three-quarter moon was shedding its reflection on the valley, bathing everything in enough light to see indistinctly. Jay stayed in the black shadow cast by the tree and carefully scanned the valley. The sheepherder had chosen his campsite well. Here was plenty of grass and water. The sheep were all fairly bunched and lying down. The dog was resting somewhere beyond Jay’s vision. Even the hobbled mules finally stopped grazing. One stood quietly and one lay down. The scene was as peaceful as anyone could want. Jay leaned his back against the rough bark and scanned the valley carefully. If there was any trail or road through here, he was unable to detect it at night. Vincent Gorraiz obviously knew his way around, even in the dark. If any attack came, it wouldn’t necessarily come by road, but that was most likely. Any night riders would not be afraid of being heard as they rode up. They would be strong in numbers, and wouldn’t bother trying to ride crosscountry through the woods. Most likely it would be swift, relying on the element of surprise.
Jay could feel himself relaxing. After about an hour, the effects of the coffee began to wear off, and his eyelids grew heavy. He tried walking around the tree, stretching his tired muscles, yawning, pressing the cold metal of the rifle against his face. Finally, he slid to a sitting position, his back against the tree, the rifle resting across his raised knees, and tried his best to focus on staying alert.
It seemed he had only blinked, but when his eyes flew open, he knew he had been asleep. The moon was down behind the hill and a coyote was raising a long, mournful howl in the distance. Jay shivered at the dampness and struggled stiffly to his feet. He had been lucky. He had fallen asleep on watch, an inexcusable blunder that was punishable by death in the wartime military. He took a deep breath of the chill air to clear his head. No one had attacked. He had gotten away with it. He didn’t know what time it was, but it had to be time to awaken Hall to take the next watch. The nap had refreshed him and the cold made him more alert. He walked slowly around the tree, gripping the clammy rifle, senses alert for any unusual sights or sounds, while his mind worked on other things.
Where would they go from here? Maybe they could get directions from Gorraiz to the nearest town or ranch and strike off walking. He would surely know where the nearest ranch was. Maybe they could buy some horses and ride out. But they had no food or water for any long trek on foot. And Cutter was not up to walking any distance. This might be a good chance to leave the thief behind with the shepherd. That way Cutter could escape by his own devices whenever he got ready, and Jay McGraw and Fletcher Hall would not be held responsible—if anyone ever heard about it. Surely someone would be looking for them. The men on the train had seen them fly away, and knew generally which direction they had taken. Then a disturbing thought came to him. It was a memory that had been lurking in the back of his mind since before the balloon had crashed. That memory was the view through the field glasses of several mounted men riding hard in the same direction their balloon was flying. He had not been able to make out their faces, but it had been the same number of men—seven—who had attacked the train the last time. Of course, he told himself, the riders might have been some cowboys who saw the balloon in the sky and were riding to catch up with it, just out of curiosity, since such a sight was unheard of in this part of the country. But he could not convince himself. If the men were the would-be robbers, why were they so persistent? True, there was probably $30,000 plus in bank notes and gold in the two sandba
gs. A goodly sum, to be sure, and one that any gang of train robbers would risk much for. But, to have at least two or three of the gang wounded and then see the contents of the Wells Fargo treasure box suddenly fly away in a balloon, of all things, would surely be enough to discourage most men. But maybe they knew the Eagle could not fly far since they had shot it full of holes and were like hunters pursuing the quarry until it falls from a mortal wound. Whatever the case, Jay knew, deep within, that those riders had been chasing the balloon and might, even now, be camped within a few short miles of them, awaiting daylight to start the search anew. The thought crossed his mind that maybe he was getting paranoid, just like the sheepherder was about an imminent attack generated by the Cattlemen’s Association. Maybe the responsibility of all this money made him more nervous than he should have been. Maybe his imagination was just overactive. But then, it had not been his imagination that had stopped the train and blasted the express car. He shook his head. No need to be worried about things he couldn’t figure out. His main concern now had to be getting this treasure back in safe hands and the three of them back to civilization.
It was time to prod Hall up to take the watch for the rest of the night.
Chapter Fourteen
“Try some. It’s very tasty.”
The cheery voice of the sheepherder penetrated Jay’s consciousness and he forced his gritty eyelids open a crack and rolled over, hugging the blanket around him. He had used Hall’s blanket when the latter went on guard duty sometime earlier. He didn’t know how long he had slept, but it wasn’t enough. In spite of the hard ground, Jay felt as if he could use another hour or two. But the smell of something cooking and the cold air brought him awake. He threw off the blanket and reached for his shoes.
It was daylight, but the sun was still well down behind the mountains to their backs. A low ground fog lay in wispy patches along the valley floor. Most of the sheep were on their feet and quietly grazing on the dewy grass. Gorraiz was squatting on his heels by the fire, stirring something in a small pot. Hall was kneeling on one knee, watching the proceeding. He looked tired and out of sorts. Marvin Cutter, silent as usual, sat cross-legged on the ground, a blanket draped over his narrow shoulders.
The bearded shepherd looked as if he had not bathed or changed clothes for some time. But his hands and nails were surprisingly clean, Jay noted as Gorraiz dipped out a glutinous mixture from the pot, flopped some on a tin plate, and handed it to him.
“What is it?” Jay asked, taking a spoon and preparing to sample the hot food.
“Dried fruit. I just mixed it with water to boil it and soften it up.”
“What’s it called?”
Gorraiz shrugged. “Don’t reckon it has a name. Just a mixture of wild plums and grapes and some berries.”
“Not bad,” Jay remarked, tasting the slightly tart mixture.
“It’s better with a little brown sugar, but I’m out of that,” Gorraiz answered.
“How do you make it?” Jay asked, noting the unappetizing purplish-gray color. Hall was dabbing at his small portion with a sour look on his face.
“I cook the fruit to the consistency of a thin paste, then put it through a sieve to strain out the seeds and stems and stuff, then spread it out on a flat platter by the fire to dry it. Looks like pieces of leather when I get through. It won’t spoil and it’s light and easy to carry. Wards off scurvy through the winter, too.”
Hall had set his plate on the grass and was sipping dourly at a cup of coffee.
“What the hell’s wrong with this coffee?” the short aeronaut growled, spitting a mouthful to one side.
“We drank the last o’ the regular coffee last night,” Gorraiz answered. “Should have warned you. I’ve been up in the mountains all summer and I’ve run short of provisions. Had to make this coffee up myself.”
“Another one of your original recipes, I presume?” the redheaded aeronaut growled.
Jay had to turn away to hide a grin. This man was used to putting on his aeronautic demonstrations before large crowds, being treated as a celebrity, and wined and dined at receptions and dinners by civic leaders wherever he went. Substitute coffee was not something he was eager to become accustomed to.
Gorraiz ignored the sarcasm and said, “Not original with me. Just mix two tablespoons of molasses in about a gallon of bran, parch it good until it’s brown. Then use it like you would roasted and ground coffee beans. Some favor roasted dandelion roots, but I like this better, when I can’t get the real thing.”
Hall made a face, but gulped the bran coffee without further comment, then reached in his coat pocket for his pipe.
Cutter ate his meager fare and even asked for a little more, which Gorraiz supplied proudly.
Hall stood to one side, puffing on his pipe as Jay and Vincent washed and stowed the camp gear. The blankets and sheep robe were rolled and stuffed into one of the bulky packs. As the pack lay open on the ground, Jay saw at least four books inside that were adding to the weight the pack mule had to carry. Food for the mind, Jay thought. As he slipped his blanket inside, he surreptitiously glanced at a couple of the titles. Don Quixote was the largest volume. Another was Diseases and Treatment of Domestic Sheep. Jay couldn’t see the others before Gorraiz came over and stuffed in the frying pan, clean coffeepot, tin plates and cups that rattled together in a cotton flour sack.
The fire was doused with the dishwater, and the black and white border collie, Chuck, had the flock moving down the valley before the sun had topped the mountain. Gorraiz had offered to let Marvin Cutter ride the saddle mule, since he still claimed to be unable to put weight on the injured knee. The thief accepted as if it were his right, without a word of thanks. The rest of them walked, following the sheep, who moved along at a leisurely pace, grazing as they went. The rifle was slung in a sheath on the saddle mule. Jay carried the sandbags with the bank notes and gold and the extra .38 caliber ammunition slung over one shoulder. It was uncomfortable, but he was determined not to let the bags out of his possession.
Jay and Fletcher Hall both wore their Colts. It was a beautiful fall morning, and Jay had to force himself to think in terms of danger. Summer was making a last fling along the backbone of the continent as the sun came up to warm the valley. The mountains appeared completely deserted. The foothill valley they were descending was devoid of any human traces. It was as peaceful a pastoral scene as he could imagine.
But Jay also saw the fresh hoofjprints of many cattle. The grass and water were good here in this valley and probably in others like it in these foothills. They would offer considerable protection from winter blizzards. If Gorraiz intended to winter in this area, Jay could see why there would be trouble.
“How about telling me again how you got here?” Gorraiz asked abruptly as they walked along.
Jay went over the story, adding more details of the attempted train robbery and their escape in the balloon.
The sheepherder was incredulous. He pushed his hat back on his head and glanced sideways at Jay. “Mr. McGraw, I may be a simple sheepherder, and live my life mostly away from people, but that’s a tall tale if I ever heard one. Why don’t you tell me where you really came from?”
Jay had lost his cap that identified him as a Wells Fargo messenger. He took a chance and pulled one of the canvas sacks open and took out a bound stack of bank notes.
The sheepherder’s eyes widened at the sight. “If that’s real, that’s more money than I’ve ever seen in my whole life.” He looked dubiously at Jay, then averted his eyes, saying nothing more.
Suddenly Jay understood. “You think we’re robbers, don’t you?”
Gorraiz did not reply.
“Wish there was some way I could prove our story.”
“That’s no Wells Fargo sack,” Gorraiz said, indicating the canvas sandbag.
Jay explained that they had jettisoned the green and white Wells Fargo treasure box. He went on to explain who Marvin Cutter was and how he happened to be with them. Vincent Gorraiz n
odded. “I reckon that story is so fantastic it has to be true.” He glanced at the slim back of Martin Cutter who was astride the slow-walking mule a few rods to one side of them. Jay followed his glance and wondered if the herder was looking at Cutter or at the rifle that hung in its sheath beneath the rider’s right leg. Leaving the rifle on the mule with Cutter was probably not a good idea.
Then Jay remembered he still had his Wells Fargo badge pinned to his cowhide billfold. He pulled the billfold out of his hip pocket and showed the silver badge to Gorraiz. “All right. I believe you.” He jerked his head at Hall who walked a few steps behind them. “He’s not with Wells Fargo, then?”
“No. He just happened to be on the train and was hauling his balloon back east. He’s a professional aeronaut. Ever seen one before?”
“No. That balloon was the first I’ve ever seen.”
“He performs for big crowds. People pay to come and see him. He even jumps out in a parachute from a thousand feet or more.”
“What’s a parachute?”
“Sort of a big canopy made of silk. He hangs underneath from ropes. It floats him down to the ground like a leaf from a tree.”
Jay almost laughed at the look of disbelief on the Basque herder’s face. He had to be careful not to push this man’s credulity too far, just when he had gotten him to believe their story. Now that he had him convinced, the next job would be to convince him of the urgency of their situation. They had to get to a town that had a Western Union office to telegraph his company of the safety of the contents of the express box.
“Where’s the nearest town from here?”