Authors: Russell Rowland
At a sharp bend, the ground pulled at my boots, and I led Ahab away from the water, around a stand of willows. Behind the willows, a cow held her head just above the mud, where she had sunk to the base of her neck. I approached, leaving Ahab behind. The cow’s head dropped to the ground, weak from the strain of her cry. Her tongue
hung loose and dry. Her eyes were wild. The thick gumbo behind her was stirred up and thrown around in a way that indicated she had escaped one trap, only to find herself closer to the water, in still softer mire.
I didn’t even think for a moment that I had any option about what to do with this cow. I knew it would take several hours to free her. But the value of every single head of livestock to the operation of a ranch like ours was immeasurable. It meant a source of calves for the next several years. It wasn’t just one cow.
So I filled my sheepskin flask in the creek. The cow rolled her head away from me as I came closer. Although she fought, she was weak, and I cradled the weary skull in my lap and poured water into her mouth. But this made her choke, a deep hollow wheeze that shook the ground around her. I realized that if I didn’t keep her head upright, I could drown her.
I tried pouring water into my cupped hands, but it leaked through my fingers faster than I could get it to her. I tried my hat, holding my hands underneath, but the water also seeped through the straw. Finally, I swung the saddlebags from Ahab’s back, emptied them, and laid one in front of the cow’s broad, panting nose. I placed my fists in the center of the bag and leaned into it, forming a hollow, which I filled from the flask. The cow pushed her nose into the water, and emptied it in seconds. I trotted back and forth, wearing myself out trying to keep the leather bowl filled. The cow sucked it dry faster than any man could run.
After many trips, I decided she’d had enough. I rested for a few minutes.
The cow faced the creek, so I positioned Ahab on the opposite bank. She didn’t have any horns, so I had to tie a rope around her neck. I tied the other end to Ahab’s saddlehorn.
“Okay, old girl. Get ready.” The cow gazed up at me, her eyes startled, her breath racing. I smacked Ahab’s flank and yelled. He plunged forward, the rope twanged, and the cow squeezed out a strangled
“Maaaaaaw.” She rose like a mythical creature, the black mud flying, her bawl climbing. But she managed only a few feet of progress before she was exhausted. And she sank back to her chest.
Ahab was spooked, and straining at the rope, so I grabbed his reins to calm him, talking softly in his ear. “Easy, boy. Whoa. Easy. Easy.” I stroked his neck, holding the reins taut a foot below his nose.
When a person can see for miles around them, it’s not often that something unexpected happens. And because you tend to feel as if you can’t be surprised out in the middle of nowhere, the unexpected scares you ten times more than it would if you were in an enclosed space, or in the woods, where you might be on the lookout.
So when a gunshot rang out from behind, my heart felt as if it would beat right through my ribs and dive into the creek. Ahab reared to full height, and I dropped to the ground, trying to make myself small. Ahab wanted to run, but the rope held him back, so he bucked from one side to the other, his hooves stabbing the earth in frustration each time he came down. On one lunge, I rolled to one side just before his front hoof plunked me in the hip.
I jumped up and groped for the reins, managing to catch one of them. But another shot sounded, and Ahab reared again, whinnying, trying to bolt, throwing his head from side to side. The rope jerked like a fish line, and I could hear the cow choking. I ran to Ahab’s flank, pulling the single rein as hard as I could to twist his head to one side. I yelled until my throat hurt, not really thinking about what I said, but hoping my shouts would give the sniper something to think about.
Finally, I was able to pull Ahab back just enough that I could slip the rope from the saddlehorn. Without the rope holding him back, he lunged and jerked the reins free of my aching fingers. He took off, kicking his hind legs high into the air.
I chased him for a few frantic strides, until I realized how useless that was. Then I stopped, staring after the dust, so caught up in wondering what to do next that I forgot that some bastard was out there shooting at me. Another shot rang out, echoing across the plain, and I fell to the ground. I scrambled back down into the creek bed, my heart pounding into the earth.
The cow rested her muddy nose on the mud, looking near death. I crept to the top of the bank, scanning the prairie for signs of life. I saw nothing.
“What are you doin’ on my land?”
A voice boomed from behind, and I went stiff, expecting a shot in the back. But nothing happened, and I turned slowly, peering across the creek to see the lean, craggy figure of Art Walters.
Now I’m always amazed at how a person can feel two things at once—two very opposite things at that. When I saw a familiar face, I was so relieved that a part of me could have hugged Art. But at the same time, it was hard to overlook the fact that he’d been shooting at me. But the second emotion was a lot stronger than the first, so I responded to that one.
“Art, what the hell are you doing?” I walked toward him, right through the creek, arms outstretched.
Art studied me carefully, eyes scrunched, still aiming the gun right at me. His thick handlebar mustache hung down over his mouth, tickling the barrel of his rifle.
As I waded through the creek, arms still straight out from my side, I didn’t even consider that he would shoot again. I shook my head, the boil rising in my blood. “Goddamit, Art, you just ran my horse off and scared the hell out of me, and I’m not even on your land. This is our land. What’s gotten into you?”
Art remained poised as he was, the gun on his shoulder, and to my complete shock, another shot rang out, and a puff of dust jumped from the ground three feet to my right.
I was paralyzed for a second, but as soon as I recovered, I rushed
him. I lowered my head and ran straight at him, and I was just about to take him down when everything went black.
I think I was only out for a half minute or so, because when I came to, it only took me a few seconds to remember where I was, and what had happened. I was lying facedown, and I rolled over, ready to defend myself, but Art was crouching down over me, a wet kerchief poised above my face.
“You okay?” he asked.
My arms were wrapped around Art’s slight torso, gripping the front of his overalls as we rode his horse in search of Ahab. I could feel Art’s ribs, about to push their way through the threadbare cotton. My wet clothes were cool against my skin. There was a knot on my forehead, and a dull ache in my skull.
I was still angry, or maybe more exasperated, trying to decipher the contradictions of the man in front of me.
“Art, why in hell’s name were you shooting at me?” I asked. “You trying to murder me?”
Art didn’t answer right away, but after a deep breath, he turned to talk over his shoulder.
“I ain’t no murderer, Blake.” He shook his head, and kept shaking it, as if he needed to assure me, and keep right on assuring me. “Don’t be starting rumors like that.” The head continued to shake. “There’s been too much of that going on already.”
I frowned. “Too much of what?”
The head shook. “Rumors. Murders and rumors.”
Again I frowned. “Murders?” I asked. “What the hell are you talking about? I haven’t heard any rumors about any murders.”
Art shook his head. “I ain’t saying no more.”
I puzzled over this strange comment, reviewing the recent history of our little community. There hadn’t been anyone killed in our county for
many years, and the only death I could think of that was even accidental in a while was George’s. And then it hit me. And a sudden anger rose up in me again.
“Art, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Art’s head rotated again, back and forth, back and forth. “I ain’t saying,” he repeated.
“Well, what the hell is it that you ain’t saying?”
His jaw tightened, as if he was preparing to fight against any attempt to pry the words from his mouth. “I’m not gonna tell you what I ain’t saying.”
“Goddamit, Art.” I got worked up, wishing there was a way to force him to tell me what the hell he was talking about. But I knew nothing I said would prompt any more information out of him. “So what the hell…goddamit.” I thought about what people might say, and the only conclusion that made any sense was that there might be speculation about Jack. But it was just so absurd to me at that moment that I hardly even thought about it.
Then, out of the blue, Art decided to address something completely different. “Blake, I’m going to tell you something. Something important.”
“Oh?” I refrained from saying something sarcastic. “Okay.”
Art cleared his throat, in a great show of guttural gacking sounds. “Now listen here, Blake. I’m not a smart man. Everyone knows that.”
He paused. I bit my tongue.
“But I watch. I pay attention to things. More than people think I do.”
I said nothing, letting Art set his own rhythm.
“I never thought for one minute that I could go nowhere else, or do nothing else.” Art cleared his throat and spat. “But some people…some people are too goddam smart. Do you know what I mean, Blake? This place, this land, it beats hell out of people. Have you noticed that, Blake? Beats the holy hell out of folks. Do you know what I mean?”
I didn’t really know what to say. This was a side of Art Walters that I’d never seen before, and I’d known him all my life. I’d never seen him, even with other adults, show any inclination toward carrying on a serious discussion about life. And I had a feeling that this was a rare occasion, that maybe nobody else had ever seen it before, either. It didn’t exactly explain why he was shooting at me, and yet I think in his mind, it did.
“I’m sorry,” Art said after a moment of awkward silence. “I’m outta line talking to you about this. That’s your business, and I ought to know better.”
“No, no. It’s okay, Art. Don’t worry about it. I’ll think about it. Really.”
“Will you?” he asked, and he sounded genuinely surprised.
“Yeah, I will. I mean it now.”
“Okay,” he said, and I could hear in his voice that this pleased him. I was glad I had managed to look past my anger, and figure out what he wanted to say.
Neither of us spoke again while we rounded up Ahab and went back to finish freeing the cow.
For the next two hours, Art and I tugged, rested, watered, and tugged, rested and watered some more. Art had plenty of experience pulling cows from the bog, so he was full of good suggestions, like stuffing grass under the cow’s nose to give her some strength but also to firm up the mud a little. We secured ropes around each front leg, with one tied to each horse, once we had the cow’s torso clear of the mud. I don’t know if I would have been able to get the cow out without him. The ache in my head didn’t get any weaker, but it didn’t get any worse either.
Once she was free, the cow stood unsteadily for a moment, her legs shaking. Then she lumbered across the pasture, giving a weak kick of
her heels. We stood watching her, and I felt the warm satisfaction of pulling a life from the brink of death. But then I noticed her brand, which had been covered when she was in the mud. I started laughing.
“I’ll be damned, Art,” I said, pointing. “That’s your cow.”
Art squinted, checking the old cow’s flank, and turned, laughing, showing his toothless smile under that thick, drooping mustache.
By the time I returned home, the bottom of the western sky was smeared bright orange as the rest of the sky darkened to blue-black. The sound of the river brushed my ears as I rode back toward the house, almost putting me to sleep with its soothing flow. The wagon was out in front of the barn, so I knew that Dad and Jack had returned from Belle Fourche.
After feeding and combing Ahab, I went inside and sat up to the table, where a plate of food waited. I could hear Muriel playing outside, and I figured that Katie must be with her. Bob was wrapped in a blanket, curled up in a chair. Like Katie, he had been battling the flu. But unlike her, he didn’t show any sign of recovery yet.
Mom had torn the whitewashed flour sacks from the walls to wash them, and she scrubbed one against the washboard. Dad dug at his thumb with a pocketknife. From the moment I entered the kitchen, I felt tension, and I knew my parents had been arguing again. Ever since George’s disappearance, they had fought more than I could ever remember, sometimes raising their voices to the point that the only relief was to go outside.
“I was just about to come looking for you,” Dad said, his voice tight.
“Yeah?”
“How’d it go today?” Mom asked. But her voice was also strained, and I knew I was only being addressed as a diversion. A wisp of red floated from one side of her head.
“All right. I found an old cow caught up in the bog over at Hay
Creek.” I decided not to mention what happened with Art, thinking it would only add fuel to a combustible situation.
“You got her out?” Dad pulled a splinter from his thumb, then studied both. I bit into a chicken leg.
I nodded. “It was Art’s. He helped me out. Where’s Jack?”
“He took Katie fishing,” Mom answered.
“Good.” I wiped grease from my chin. “What time did you guys get back, Dad?”
“Around three.” Dad sucked blood from his thumb. “What’s that?” He pointed at my forehead.
“Oh, nothing. Just banged my head against the hoe.” I touched the knot.
Mom squeezed murky water from a flour sack and shook it out with brisk, angry strokes. She hung it on the line she’d stretched across the kitchen.
“Did you stay at the road ranch, Dad?” I asked.
“Yep. That second Roberts gal, Sophie, I think it is…she ran off to Oregon to marry some older guy.”
“Really?” Despite her mood, Mom’s ear for gossip was strong.
“Is she the tall one?” I asked, knowing perfectly well that she was. Sophie Roberts, the second daughter of the couple that ran the ranch where people could bed down for the night on their way to or from Belle Fourche, had been a striking figure from the time she finished grade school. She had the kind of flour-white complexion contrasting her shiny black hair that, when she entered a dance, everyone lost a step.