Gone to Ground

by Cheryl Taylor

  The man made his way down the canyon, listening to the soft tinkle and chuckle of the water running across the smooth black, pink and yellow stones lining the stream. The unusually abundant spring rains had caused the water to run on the surface of the creek for further than normal. For most of the year the water had a tendency to flow above ground for a hundred yards or so, sink out of sight, then suddenly reappear as if out of nowhere. It all depended on the type of land it was traveling through.

  He remembered his high school science teacher talking about the porosity, or some such thing, of different minerals and rocks, but all it meant to him was that some years Adobe Creek would be in sight most of the way to the Verde River, and some years it would play coy, like some of the girls he’d admired in school. Only putting in an appearance occasionally, then disappearing again out of reach.

  Nearly a mile down the canyon, a second wash carved its way down through the land to join the main canyon, creating a slightly larger gap between the vertical multicolored walls. Some long ago rancher had built a small catch pen at the opening to this wash using juniper staves and wire. He’d stretched it across the wash and the canyon, building easily replaceable sections at the water gaps for when the flood waters ran high and debris tore out everything in its path.

  Gates opened in all three directions and were left open most of the time so that cattle traveling down the trail that followed the wash from the plateau could move through to get to water or travel through to other areas of the pasture. At other times, though, when a cowboy wanted to gather a small group of cows without taking them all the way back to the camp, he would close the main canyon gates, go gather his herd and push them down the wash and into the catch pen.

  Now the man led his horses inside and closed all three gates. He pulled the saddle off his stocky buckskin gelding first, then turned to the other three horses, unloading the packs and setting the supplies outside the fence, then returned to remove the pack saddles themselves. With all the horses freed of their tack they began to wander the pen, heads down, looking for the ideal sandy spot to roll and scratch their sweaty, itchy backs. Then, having comforted the body, they began to fill their stomachs, grazing on grass that had sprouted inside the pen since it was last used, and that had grown to lushness unusual in this harsh land thanks to the creek’s abundant water.

  The man leaned on the fence a few minutes watching the horses, then in a voice, scratchy with disuse, he bid them stay put, and he’d be back in a bit. The sound of his own voice startled him. Never what one would call a talkative man, over the days since he’d left the Laughlin Authorized Population Zone, he’d spoken less and less often, until he might go an entire day without uttering a sound. His ears had become accustomed to the quiet sounds of nature - the susurration of the ceaseless wind, the quail’s chip-churring, the eagle’s cry, the coyote at night, the occasional low of a cow, and the answering bawl of a calf - and the sound of his voice seemed harsh and out of place.

  It amused him to think that most women mentioned the quality of his voice as one of the things that attracted them. He knew it was deeper, softer and huskier than average, but out here it just seemed loud and grating, and he felt the urge to look around and see where the strange sound had come from.

  After leaving the horses in the catch pen, he made his way quietly back up stream, heading for the overlook that he and his brother discovered many years ago. It tickled the two boys that they could sit up on the cliff side, watching all the action in the pasture, yet no one knew they were there. They’d first found the overlook when they came to Hideaway with their father while checking the waters for the pasture. Even though the luck of the draw had surrounded this piece of deeded land with a designated wilderness, making the manning of the camp a thing of the past, the cows still had to be checked, and the waters maintained. His father, as the resident of Eagle Camp, held this pasture as part of his duties. Cowboying isn’t just a job, however, it’s a lifestyle and often when his father checked this remote pasture his wife and kids came along, especially if it was going to be a several day trip.

  As the man drew near Hideaway, he moved slower, his scuffed brown leather boots making little sound on the hard packed dirt as he looked for the boulder that marked the narrow, water-eroded crack in the rock that led upward to a narrow trail. Finally, just as he’d begun to believe that past twenty-one years of weather and floods had rearranged the landscape to such a degree that the overlook was gone, he spotted the familiar rock formation on the left side of the canyon.

  Squeezing between the boulder and the cliff side, he was surprised at how much smaller the cleft had become. Surely he couldn’t have grown so much since leaving the ranch to live in town. He began to worry that he would either become stuck, or emerge on the other side sans buttons. The horrifying image of having to call for help, then having to explain himself to the woman gave extra impetus to his squirming, and he emerged on the far side of the boulder on a trail carved between a chunk of sandstone that had split off from the main body, and the cliff wall itself.

  Now, he thought, all he had to do was to get back through on the way out. At least he’d have gravity on his side in that direction. He hoped that the trail was still intact after all these years. It didn’t bear thinking about that he would make it all the way up here, only to be faced with a blocked trail.

  After a few minutes of slithering, scooting and crawling - Damn, how the hell did this trail get so much smaller, and the wall become so much shorter - he arrived at the low opening of a small cave eroded into the sandstone wall. These cliffs were filled with caves, some that meandered miles underground through the sandstone and limestone layers. There was actually a rumor that if you found the right connections, you could make it all the way to the Grand Canyon, just like the cave network that included the Grand Canyon Caverns. Tour guides told how smoke from a fire set in the Caverns could be seen emerging from caves in the Canyon itself. No one had actually tested these caves, but he and his brother had explored occasionally when staying at the camp, and had never come close to covering all the possible twists and turns.

  His destination in this case was only a small, singular cave, not part of any interconnected labyrinth. It was roughly ten feet by six feet, and about ten feet high at the peak with a crack that extended upward even further, possibly even to the top of the plateau, and which channeled in the water that had formed the natural enclosure and the trail he’d just followed. It was a dead end, except that at the far side a triangular crack opened, allowing visual access to the pasture beyond. The man slid into the cave and made his way across the sandy floor to the gap where he crouched, looking out.

  The view was just as he remembered it at least. He could see nearly all of the pasture, with the exception of the area just below, to the right and left of his position. He could make out the northern opening of the canyon, the gray, weathered barn and corrals, and a portion of the camp’s yellow and red granite and sandstone house with its nearby windmill. There was the woman’s horse, tied at the hitching rail outside the barn with its saddle off. In the pasture was the small group of cows she’d been pushing, as well as four or five others. A short distance from the cattle grazed three more horses.

  The man’s gaze was pulled back to the barn’s opening when a small blond boy, about ten or twelve from the looks of him, came running out, followed by two dogs and a young calf.

  “Mark,” came a voice from within the barn, faint but discernible.

  The boy skidded to a stop, only to be run into by the closely following calf, knocking him to the ground. He got up, pushing the calf’s nose away from his face and called back, “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Would you brush Hank then take him back to the pasture, please?” the voice called. “I’ve got to milk Lizzie if we’re going to feed Jenny and have some milk for supper.”

  “Sure, okay,” answered the boy, Mark.

  He walked to the hitching rail followed by his small entourage, and bent to pick someth
ing - a brush - from the ground near the base of the post and proceeded to brush off the horse’s back. Once finished, he untied the gelding and headed for the pasture gate, putting the animal inside and removing the halter. The horse turned, nuzzling the boy and apparently received a treat for his efforts, then ambled off to rejoin the other three horses in the band. The boy returned to his original trajectory, heading for the creek where it widened into a small pond. There he picked up a fishing pole, planted himself on a boulder and cast his line into the water. The dogs and the calf who had accompanied the boy down to the creek, settled in to await the outcome, the dogs curled up in the shade of some nearby willows, and the calf grazing in the lush grass.

  He saw the woman head out into the pasture toward the small group of cows, returning shortly with a small brown model and disappearing into the gloomy interior of the barn. Not long following this vanishing act, the sounds of banging and clanking and the occasional indecipherable exclamation wafted out of the structure, resulting in a soft chuckle from the observer. After about twenty minutes the woman emerged, looking slightly the worse for wear and carrying a bucket of what the man assumed to be milk. Toting her hard fought for treasure she headed toward the house, passing out of his sight as she made for the door.

  The man saw no one else, nor any indication that anyone but these two were at Hideaway. As he worked his way back down the trail to the canyon bottom he deliberated his next move. It was time, he decided, to make his presence known. Regardless of where it went after that, it had to start somewhere.

  4

  Maggie, unaware that she w

  as being followed, drove her small group of cattle down toward the barn. She was trying to steer them toward the pasture instead of the garden when Mark came running up from the creek, followed by Jack, Gypsy and Jenny, the small orphaned calf Maggie found next to its mother’s dead body two weeks ago. She waved to him, and received his wave in return.

  “Mark, run down and open the gate to the pasture,” Maggie called out as the boy approached. “Then stand off to the right so that the cows don’t turn the wrong way. And keep those dogs from spooking the cows, got it?”

  “Okay, Mom.” Mark turned and headed for the large gate next to the barn. The dogs hesitated, but responded when the boy let out a loud whistle. Jenny, the calf, started to head toward the cows, then suddenly cranked her tail high into the air, let out a strangled bawl and tore off after the threesome.

  The gate Maggie had indicated opened into a large pasture that ran down to the stream and across to the far wall of the canyon and all the way down to the northern end of the pasture. Another gate at the far end opened into the canyon where it narrowed again. That trail followed the creek to where a spring burst out of the canyon face several miles further on, then up a wash to the pasture that bordered the canyon on its eastern edge.

  Three cows, two calves and a bull were already in residence in the large meadow, as were the other three horses. The grass, fed by creek and spring rains, was deep and green, and the new cows headed gladly into the pasture through the open gate where they immediately began grazing on the unaccustomed abundance.

  Maggie turned Hank and rode back to the barn where she dismounted, tying him to the hitching rail outside. Having shut the gait, Mark ran over, followed by his animal bodyguards.

  “What were you up to today?” Maggie asked Mark as she started unsaddling Hank “Did you get your school work done?”

  “Yes, Mom. I finished all of it except I had some problem on the fractions in the math,” Mark answered, looking up from the kneeling position he’d taken while playing with the dogs. “Then I watered the garden and I took Jack and Gypsy out into the pasture to try some of that stuff they talked about in that dog training book. You know,” he said, face animated, “if we can train Jack and Gypsy like that book says, then they can gather the cows and horses, and you won’t have to work so hard.”

  “Yeah, that would sure be great,” answered Maggie, smiling into the saddle where Mark wouldn’t see. “So, how did it go?”

  “Well, not so good, I guess. I think I need to read some more in that book. Jack went out like they said, but he only got the calf.” Mark paused looking down at the dog’s ruff gripped tightly in his right hand. Then he glanced up with a hopeful look on his face, his green eyes flashing with excitement.

  “But he did bring it back to me. It’s just that Gertrude, the mom, got angry when the calf bawled, and took out after him full blast.”

  Maggie stopped what she was doing and turned to look at Mark. “What did you do?”

  “Well, Jack wouldn’t stop when I yelled at him, so I ran for the fence. Gertrude caught Jack and rolled him over, then took her calf back.” Mark ducked his head again, sure what was coming.

  Maggie took a deep breath and counted to ten. “I think from now on we’ll wait until we’re both here before we do any more dog training, okay?” Maggie stated, looking at Mark’s bent head, the dark blond hair floating lightly on the breeze. “I do not want you taking those dogs into the pasture without me. Understand?”

  Mark blew out a sigh of relief, glad that his chewing out was relatively mild. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed, “but I really think we can get the dogs trained so that they can help us. That book talks about cool things and Jack and Gypsy are awful smart. They just get so excited sometimes, see, and they just can’t help it.” The excitement started to light his face again.

  “Alright, alright, we’ll try,” Maggie said. “Just remember, not without me. And would you get this blasted calf away from me before I turn it into a pair of calfskin boots and a plate of veal fettuccine!”

  While Maggie had been unsaddling Hank and talking to Mark, Jenny, apparently feeling that dinner was entirely too late in coming, began butting hard into Maggie, searching for milk and striking any available body parts, which unfortunately were all at rear end and crotch level. Maggie kept swatting it away, whereupon it turned its quest to Hank, who pinned his ears and stomped his feet in an irritated manner, apparently unappreciative of being butted in the stomach by the determined calf.

  Mark laughed, and grabbed the small black and white calf by its rope halter and dragged it off toward the barn. Maggie followed with her arms full of saddle, pad and bridle, heading for the tack room. The cavernous area was cool and dark, the only residents being a flock of blue-gray pigeons. The air smelled of dust, hay and old manure. Maggie set the saddle down with a thump just as Mark came up.

  “Mom, I left my fishing pole down by the pond. Can I go get it?”

  “Go ahead, kiddo, see if you can get us something for dinner while you’re at it,” Maggie agreed and watched smiling as Mark took off running out the barn door, followed by his posse. Then, as a second thought, she called out after him, asking him to brush Hank and put him away first so that she could get on with the milking, a chore she hated.

  Before finding Lizzie at an abandoned farm on the way to Hideaway, Maggie had never milked anything before, and she wasn’t sure that Lizzie appreciated her newly developing technique. Milking usually devolved quickly into a wrestling match. Over the past few weeks Maggie had improved so that now the milk was only kicked over two or three times during a session, but she still put off the activity as long as possible.

  Oh, well, she thought, heading for the pasture where Lizzie grazed with the other cows, I’d better get on with it. If I don’t do it, no one else will and waiting won’t make it any better. Besides, if I don’t get it done soon that damned calf will probably show up again and then I won’t be able to get anything done.

  Later that evening, after a meal of bread, butter - made with her own little hands, thank you very much - and fresh baked trout, only slightly burned in the huge wood range, Maggie settled down at the table with Mark to deal with the dreaded fractions. The two dogs were stretched out on the cool stone floor after dining on the bits of bread and fish that were too charred to be eaten by the humans, their paws twitching occasionally as they relived the e
xcitements of the day.

  It’s amazing how well Mark’s adapted to life at Hideaway, Maggie thought. Better than me, I think. I still miss the stores, and the restaurants, and the people. Mark’s content with his animals. At least for now. Maggie looked at Mark’s tousled blond head, bent over a math problem, a slight frown creasing his face as he chewed on the end of his pencil.

  The dogs were Mark’s constant companions since coming out to Hideaway, with Jack filling the post of special guardian. Their presence calmed Maggie’s worries when she left him for short periods of time while looking for cows. When Maggie brought the orphaned calf back one day, she’d joined right in with Mark’s animal posse, doing everything with them.

  It didn’t matter how hard Mark begged, though, Maggie drew the line at Jenny moving into the house with the dogs and the people. When night fell, Jenny was turned out into the pasture with her other bovine compatriots. Maggie refused to cave in to Mark’s sorrowful green eyes and his protestations that Jenny would be lonely in the cow herd without him. The house, no matter how bizarrely constructed, was not the place for a calf, especially one that was not housebroken, nor likely to become so anytime in the near future.

  The only thing we’re missing now, other than a regular bathroom, a proper kitchen, and a clue as to what we’re doing, Maggie thought, is chickens.

  Maggie had wanted to pick up some chickens at the ranch where she and Mark found Lizzie, but there was a limit to what they could carry on the already overloaded horses. Soon, she thought, I need to get back to the nearest ranch, before all the chickens are killed off by hawks and coyotes. It would be wonderful to have chicken for dinner again, and we need the eggs.

  But she was faced with a problem. While she could leave Mark for relatively short periods of time, the nearest ranch that she knew of was a full day’s ride away, and then it would take time to round up any birds left alive. She would be gone at least two full days if not longer, and if she took Mark, who would feed Jenny and milk Lizzie. Yet the chickens were necessary and she needed more seeds for the garden. Next week at the latest she’d need to make a decision and the dilemma was keeping her awake at nights.