Monthly Archives: February 2019

Survivor

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Weather-wise, there was nothing special about the day. No rain. No snow. Or smog or fog. Or heat waves radiating over the road. Nothing but feathery clouds scattered across a bright blue sky.

Stan Ellis sat right behind his father who drove staring straight ahead, one arm draped on the armrest, the other loosely gripping the steering wheel. Stan was too young to understand the mechanics of driving. At eight all he cared about was getting there. Sometimes he paid attention to whatever was happening outside the car, but mostly he read or listened to his parents talk or followed along with whatever song came on the radio.

On this day, July 14, they were going camping at Hebgen Lake somewhere near Yellowstone. Stan’s family had never been there before, but that was what made it special. They loved to check out new places and this was one that they’d heard good things about.

Stan’s mom had planned out the details. Food. Campground. Packing the station wagon. She had given Stan a list of stuff to bring and he had packed all that and more.

One thing his mom loved was music. Their station wagon was old, so it didn’t have a CD player. Only a radio. So his mom was constantly searching for a station that came in loud and clear.

Whenever a news program came on, his parents rehashed every topic. Stan didn’t understand politics and didn’t really care. Instead he read. He was currently immersed in a Louis L’Amour book, Down the Long Hills, a story in which a wagon train is attacked, only two surviving. Two kids. A seven-year old and a three-year-old. He imagined himself being there, hiding during the attack, then trying to survive on his own.

Just like the kids in the book, he would have to keep moving, searching for help, building shelter, finding food. Stan thought he would be thoughtful like the older kid, for he had grown up camping and hiking. But would he be too terrified to think clearly? Hopefully he’d never have to find out.

The road climbed into the hills, twisting and turning. His father complained about his limited view, fearing that a careless driver would cross the dividing line or that something would jump out in front of the car or that something would go wrong mechanically and he would lose control. When his dad worried, things got quiet. So no radio, no conversation, just tension.

When it happened Stan wasn’t paying attention. He’d leaned back and closed his eyes, picturing himself alone in the wilderness, searching for berries, not afraid, but approaching each task in his usual logical manner.

When the car suddenly swerved to the right and the tires screeched, he sat up, instantly alert. The crash jolted him, sending him forward, banging his head against the back of his father’s seat, then flinging him backward into his own, hurting his neck and shoulder. Shattered glass flew everywhere.

When the noise stopped, Stan realized that they were jammed up against the hillside to the right, the front caved-in, the windshield spider-webbed. Stan leaned over the back of his father’s seat and saw blood pouring down his mom’s forehead, the funny angle of his father’s neck. Stan knew enough from watching television shows that his parents were in bad shape. Possibly even dead. The only hope for their survival was him.

He slid across the seat and climbed out on the right side, forcing the door open with his feet. Once he was free, he surveyed the situation. The other car, a silver Honda, was jammed against the left side of their car. That driver was immobile, just like his parents. Stan looked inside that car and noticed that the man’s legs were at funny angles. And blood was everywhere.

Knowing he needed to have a strategic plan, Stan found a good sized boulder and sat in the sun. His first thought was that his parents would wake up and tell him where to go and what to do. But as time passed and they didn’t wake up, Stan figured he was on his own.

He got his bag out of the back seat, then took off down the road, heading back where they had come from. As he walked he sipped from his canteen, but also kept an eye out for a fresh water source.

The road wound down and down, twisting around one hillside, then the other. He never saw any traffic. Stan got tired, but knew he couldn’t quit. Too much was at stake.

Night approached. Stan saw no lights of nearby buildings, no indication that anyone was about, so he turned into the woods to seek shelter. The kid in the book used low-hanging tree branches as shelter, so that’s what Stan looked for. He found none, but he did find a hollowed-out tree with an indentation just big enough for him to squeeze into.

Before it got completely dark, he gathered fallen leaves into a body-sized pile for him to sleep on. Then he carried more over to use as covering. Even though it was summer, it would get cold as the night progressed.

Stan was normally a brave kid. He stood up to bullies when a little kid was being picked on, he volunteered to go to the blackboard whenever he could, and he explored his neighborhood with friends, always the leader. But this was different. At home he knew his parents would be waiting for him, dinner cooked, a soft bed, a warm embrace.

Out here he was on his own, and as it became darker, Stan lost confidence in his ability to survive. Every sound terrified him. Every snap of a twig was a predator coming to eat him. Every grunt was a gun-toting killer. Stan shook from head to toe, and not just from the cold.

He pushed himself as deep into the tree as he could, then covered himself with leaves, only his face sticking out. He hoped that he was invisible to whatever evil forces were out there. And when he got cold, he curled up, trying to contain his body heat as best he could.

When the sky lightened, Stan stood and brushed off as many of the leaves as he could. He picked up his bag and headed downhill, moving as quickly as he could. He was hungry, thirsty and tired, but he kept moving, taking only the tiniest sips of water in order to make what he had last as long as possible.

The land flattened out, thankfully, and off to the left Stan saw a ranch. When he got to the dirt road that seemed to be its driveway, Stan picked up his pace. He listened for charging dogs, not wanting to be bitten before he could get help for his parents.

Laundry swung from a rope line stretching from a pole to the barn. The buildings were bright white with green trim and seemed to be in good repair. No rusted-out vehicles or appliances were visible. Flowers bloomed in trim gardens running along the driveway. There was nothing threatening, nothing that indicated danger, so Stan approached.

Just as he was about to go up the first step, the door opened. A grandmotherly woman smiled at him. “Whatcha doin’ out here, young man?”

Stan told her about the accident and about the condition of his parents and the other driver. He held back the tears that threatened to fall, but it was hard. He thought of the kids in the book and how brave they had been. He wanted to show this woman that he was also brave.

“Come in,” she said. “Would you like some lemonade?”

“No, thanks. Can I wait out here?”

She smiled. “You’re a smart boy. I wouldn’t go inside a stranger’s house either. How about you sit on the porch while I phone the sheriff and then bring you something to eat and drink?”

“Thanks, ma’am. That would be great.” Stan sat in a rocking chair to the right of the door. He thought that someday he’d want a chair like this one, out on a porch so that he could look out over his land.

The woman returned with a glass of lemonade and a tray of sandwiches and cookies. “The sheriff is on his way. He’ll go up the mountain first to check on your folks. The ambulance is also coming. And the doctor.” She sat in the chair next to Stan. “Is there anything I can get you? A blanket or a jacket?”

“A blanket would be nice,” he said. “And can I use your bathroom?”

“Sure.” The woman opened the door, saying, “It’s down the hall. Second door on the left. I’ll wait out here so you feel safe.”

After using the toilet, Stan looked in the mirror. He had a cut in his forehead, but it wasn’t deep and had already quit bleeding, but it was bruising. Purple and blue and red radiated out across his face. He looked as if he was wearing paint for Halloween. Stan wondered if he looked that bad, what did his parents look like?

Stan didn’t see the sheriff go by, but he did hear the siren of the ambulance. The wait for information was horrendous. He rocked, ate, maybe even slept after he wrapped the blanket around himself.

In time, in what felt like late afternoon, the sheriff drove up. He knelt before Stan. “Hi,” he said. “Were you in that accident?”

Stan nodded. “How are my parents?”

The sheriff sighed as he put his large hand on Stan’s shoulder. “I have bad news. Both of your parents are dead. The only consolation I can offer is that they most likely died right away, with very little pain.” He sat next to Stan. “Now, let’s figure out what we can do for you.”

“Okay.”

“Who should we call to come get you?”

Stan thought for a bit. He knew he had aunts and uncles somewhat nearby where they lived, but he seldom saw them. His mother’s parents were both dead. All that was left was his dad’s parents. “My Grandpa and Grandma Ellis live near Bozeman.” He dug in his bag and pulled out a spiral notebook. He opened it to the back cover. “Their phone number is right here.”

“Can I borrow this?” the sheriff asked. Stan handed it to him and then the sheriff went inside. After a few minutes he returned, a smile on his face. “Well, the good news is that they were home. They are leaving now to come get you. Mr. Ellis said it would take them a few hours, but they wouldn’t stop along the way.”

The sheriff looked at the woman. “Ma’am, thanks for taking care of the boy. I told his grandparents that he’d be at my office, so we’d better leave now.”

Stan smiled at the woman. “I never asked your name.”

“Mrs. Willoughby. My friends call me Norma.” She handed Stan a slip of paper. “That’s my number and address. If you need anything, no matter how small, send me a note or give me a call. You hear?”

“Thanks,” Stan said. He followed the sheriff down the stairs and got into the back seat. On the way into town, the reality of what had happened hit Stan. Tears poured down his cheeks. He mourned his mom and dad, his home, his friends, his school, all the things that were gone.

Life with his grandparents would be good because they were kind people. Whenever he visited them, he was allowed to roam the ranch at will, as if it was his. Now it will be.

The Visitor

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As Stan approached the gravel drive to his Grandpa’s ranch, he noticed an unfamiliar man dressed almost entirely in black standing near the mailbox. Stan stopped, opened his window and asked, “Can I help you?”

The man touched his left hand to the brim of his Stetson hat, saluted, then turned and walked down the road toward town. His knee-length leather coat seemed overdressed for spring, but especially so for a person traveling on foot.

As soon as the man rounded the turn, Stan got out and retrieved the mail. Back in his cab he sorted through the pile, noted nothing amiss, then put the truck in gear and drove home.

As he passed the first paddock, a trio of chestnut colored horses followed him, heads up and tails streaming behind. Stan chuckled. These were rescues, the newest horses on the ranch. Grandpa had bought them at an auction, seeing in them potential to train into trail horses that could be resold to a friend of his.

Initially they were skittish, skinny things. Both Stan and his grandpa spent hours with them every day, approaching with treats, brushing out the mats in their manes, digging clumps of dirt from their hooves. No names yet. Those would come as personalities were revealed.

Stan placed the mail on the table just inside the door, then poured himself a glass of milk. He ate two chocolate chip cookies and then dug three cubes of sugar from a bowl sitting on the counter.

Back outside Stan whistled for the horses, then smiled as almost in unison they nickered. They knew what was coming. But before Stan could offer the first treat, the horses ran to the opposite corner of the paddock, standing with heads held high and backs to the fence.

Looking for what panicked them, Stan saw the man dressed in black on their property, leaning against a fence post. His presence made Stan uncomfortable. Nervous. So nervous that Stan backed toward the house, thinking about unlocking a gun from the cabinet in case it was needed. He hoped that the man didn’t know that Stan an expert marksman.

When Stan stepped out on the porch, the gun held against his chest, the man touched his hat, like before, then disappeared down the drive.

Stan would have liked to lock himself inside, but because this was a working ranch, there were chores to be done. He lead the new horses into the barn, put them in the largest stall, fed them and gave them clean water. After patting each one on the rump, Stan headed out to call in the rest of the herd.

Within seconds of his whistle, there was a thundering of hooves and then amid a cloud of dust the other horses arrived. His grandpa’s favorite stallion, Joe, lead the way with flaring nostrils. Betty, his mare came next, followed by three more mares and a two-year-old colt. They were a handsome mix of horseflesh, each unique in terms of breed, markings and personality.

After stabling and taking care of them, Stan drug four bales of hay down from the loft and oiled the harnesses his grandpa had left out for him.

After all that it was time to concentrate on his schoolwork. This being his senior year, Stan wanted to get perfect grades in order to up his chances for a scholarship. Grandpa Ellis had said not to worry about money, but Stan knew enough about their finances that he felt a need to do all he could to pay his way.

In between assignments he worked on dinner. Tonight would be pulled pork sandwiches. Before going to school Stan had put the meat in a crock pot. It was now so tender that it shredded with the slightest touch.

Expecting Grandpa soon, Stan got a soda and went out to sit on the porch. The man was back, this time much closer to the house. “What do you want?” Stan shouted.

The man pushed back the brim of his hat, revealing a huge scar that ran from ear to chin. It was an ugly red worm, a straight line most likely made by a knife.

“This is private property,” Stan said as he stood. Stan was almost six feet tall, his height often intimidating to those bullies who were smaller. From his best estimate, Stan saw that this man was taller and buffer. Stan’s height would not be a factor in scaring the guy away. Hoping words would work, Stan said, “Leave now or I’ll call the sheriff.”

The man smirked and then silently left. Seconds later Grandpa arrived in a swirl of dust.

“Did you see a strange man?” Stan asked as Grandpa climbed the three steps to the deck.

“Yeah. He seemed a bit familiar, but right now I can’t place him. What’s for dinner? I’m starved.”

As they ate they talked about the training of the new horses. Stan mentioned how easy it was to get them in the stall, especially compared to how it was when they first arrived. And how peculiarly they acted when the man was on the property.

Grandpa said he’d met with Richard, the owner of the nearby dude ranch, and that he was looking for good horses. And if they were trained by Stan, he’d buy them without checking them out personally.

After dinner both men sat out on the deck. It was now dusk. The sounds of crickets filled the air, until there was a hiss, which silenced even the leaves of the surrounding tress.

Grandpa Ellis stood, his hands planted firmly on his hips. “Is that you, Musial? What do you want?”

The man stepped into the glow of the lights emanating from inside the house. “Yeah, it’s me. Why don’t you invite me in for a cup of joe?” He blew out a cloud of smoke, filling the air with the stench of a strong-tarred cigarette.

“Naw, not goin’to happen,” Grandpa said as he nodded Stan toward the door. “We got no business Musial.”

Musial took three quick steps, placing him at the base of the stairs. “Yeah, we do. Them three horses are mine. They was stolen from me, right off my land. I want ‘em back.”

“They was abused. Ribs stickin’ out. Hooves a mile long. Filthy. Standin’ almost knee deep in mud. Plus they was scared.” Grandpa sat back in his rocking chair, crossed his right leg over his left and leaned back, looking as casual as if he was at a Sunday picnic.

Stan watched from the safety of the house, but only after calling 911 and reporting the confrontation to the sheriff.

Musial leaned against the porch railing, staring intently at Grandpa. “I just rescued them myself. Hadn’t had time to fatten ‘em up. Paid good money for ‘em. Want ‘em back.”

Grandpa pulled his pipe out of the pouch he kept on a shelf to the right of his chair, filled it with tobacco and lit it. He blew out a cloud of aromatic smoke. He said nothing. Didn’t look at Musial. Just drew in another lungful of smoke, this time exhaling a perfect ring.

“Are you goin’ to give ‘em to me or not?”

In the distance a siren could be heard, coming closer by the second. Musial cocked his head to one side, then as he turned around, said, “This isn’t over, Ellis. I’ll be back.”

He disappeared into the darkness as silently as he had come, gone well before the sheriff’s car screeched to a halt next to Stan’s truck.

Stan went inside to read while the men talked. A few minutes later, Grandpa came in and fixed himself a cup of coffee. “I ain’t goin’ to tell you what that’s about,” he said. “Just that Musial is not a nice man. He’s a known thief and liar. As far as we know, he’s not dangerous, so you’ve got nothin’ to worry about.”

When Stan left for school the next morning, the man, still dressed in black, waved to him as he pulled out onto the road. As soon as Stan could pull over safely, he called his grandpa and warned him that Musial was back. Stan told his grandfather that he worried that Musial might steal the horses, but Granpa said not to worry, that he’d already moved them into the back pasture where he’d be working all day and that he had his shotgun with him.

During lunch Stan ate out on the front lawn with his friends. Just as he started telling them about the man, he was there, across the street. Standing with arms crossed on his chest. He nodded at Stan, then touched his brim, and walked away. Goosebumps broke out on Stan’s arms and he shivered.

Stan was so uncomfortable the rest of the day that he had a hard time concentrating on his classes. When the final bell rang, Stan hurried to his truck. The man was leaning against the door.

“Hey, Big Man,” he said. “Tell your Grandpa I won’t give up ‘til I get those horses back,” and then he walked away.

Stan got in his truck, locked the door and sat for a bit, trying to calm his nerves. Once he felt settled, he drove home. He found his grandfather in the kitchen working on dinner.

“This has to stop,” Stan said. “That man freaks me out. Can’t the sheriff make him stay away?”

“I spoke to the sheriff a little bit ago,” he said after swallowing a bite of spaghetti. “So far Musial hasn’t broken any laws. He can warn him, but he can’t threaten him. Sheriff Jim promised, however, that he’d look into Musial’s claim that he had just rescued the horses.”

After dinner Stan did his chores, working with the new horses individually, keeping watch in case Musial showed up. His nervousness affected the horses who were a bit jittery. Even so, all behaved on the long rope, doing whatever Stan asked of them. It helped that he rewarded them with sugar cubes.

After putting all the horses away for the night and closing the barn door, Stan saw the man again. This time he was sitting on the porch in Grandpa’s chair, smoking his grandpa’s pipe. Stan called Grandpa first, then the sheriff and finally locked himself in the barn.

Evening fell while he was there. He sat with Betty, repeatedly stroking her muzzle, more to keep himself calm than to comfort her, but she leaned into his hand, begging for more as if she hadn’t been stroked for years.

His phone rang. Grandpa said all was safe and to come inside. Stan patted Betty one last time, then joined his grandpa in the front room. “What happened?”

“Sheriff Jim arrested Musial for trespassing,” he said as he blew out a stream of smoke.

“Had the sheriff researched Musial’s claims?”

“Yeah. A bit. He verified that Musial was not the original owner, but he couldn’t find evidence of when the transfer took place. The issue of condition, however, has not changed. The horses were knee-deep in mud, there was no clean water and no food at the time they were rescued. So, even if Musial got them half-starved, he wasn’t providing proper care for them.”

The men sat in the dark for a bit, digesting the words. Grandpa rocked as he smoked while Stan stared into the darkness as if looking for boogeymen.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Stan asked.

“Probably not. The sheriff took him in. It turns out there was an outstanding arrest warrant for him. Domestic abuse. And another for a DUI. Could be why he was always on foot. Lost his license.”

Stan sighed. “Sounds good. It freaked me out. I’ve never liked stories where someone gets stalked. They make me as nervous as the person being stalked feels. Now I know what it’s like and I never want to go through that again.”

Grandpa Ellis patted his grandson’s arm. “It’s finished. Musial will never come back. Now, it’s time for bed.”

The men stood in unision, looked out into the darkness, sighed, then went inside, Grandpa locking the door behind them, something which he’d never done before.

 

 

The task

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It was supposed to be easy.  All Stan had to do was clean out the loft in the barn.  As a young teen, he frequently got assigned the “dirty” work.  Most of the time he didn’t mind, even when it meant mucking out the horses’ stalls.

So, here it was, a steaming day in July, and Stan was  going through the junk in the loft, organizing it, and getting rid of anything that was too broken to fix.

He knew what was up there for he was the one who dragged designated detritus up the steps to be stored.  Over the years, Stan had brought up a rocking chair with a cracked runner, an ancient bed frame that lacked one wheel, and at least five boxes of mismatched glassware.

How did his grandfather define too broken to fix?  He truly didn’t know, and rather than risk making a mistake, he decided to simply go for organization.

It was supposed to be easy.  That’s what Grandpa said, but he was wrong.  This place is a mess.  Where should I begin?  Stan picked a pile of junk just inside the door as a starting place.

There was a cardboard box filled with plastic hangers that no one had used since his grandmother died.  That can go.  Stan carried the box down the stairs and put it in an empty stall.  Back up the stairs again.

Next he tackled an old brown trunk whose hinges were made of leather, and the lock was so badly rusted that it would never latch again.  He lifted the lid, and found a pile of dresses.  Now what do I do with these?  Grandpa must want them, or he wouldn’t have stored them all these years.  Does he ever look at them and think of Grandma? Maybe I should leave them alone.   He gently closed the lid, lining it up as carefully as he could.

In the corner he found several broken tools.  The handsaw was badly rusted and the handle cracked.  The other tools were in equally bad shape, so Stan carried them down.

As the sun rose, the temperature in the loft soared.  It had no windows that opened, and the swamp cooler broke last summer.  Sweat poured down his face, back, and legs.

Stan moved on to Grandpa’s old chest of drawers, covered in dust.  It needed to go, as the back leg could not be repaired, but it was too heavy for Stan to move alone.  I’ll go through the drawers and see what I can get rid of.

The top drawer was filled with county fair ribbons.  Most of them were for prized horses, some for the cows, and a few were for sheep.  They spanned the years from the early 1980s to 1995, when Grandpa quit showing.  That was the year that Nightingale had died.   Grandpa was so devastated, that he almost quit living.  He went days without eating, and refused to work the ranch at all.

I think these can go.  They’re pretty old now.  Stan found a paper bag stuffed behind the dresser, and put all the ribbons in it.

The second drawer had a bunch of colorful handkerchiefs and some rope ties.  Since his grandfather hadn’t worn any of them in years, Stan added them to the bag.

The bottom drawer held photo albums.  Stan gently lifted out the top one.  Its leather cover was faded and frail.  Stan sat on the floor, and put the book in his lap.  When he turned to the first page, he smiled.  There was his grandfather as a young man, standing proudly next to his wife.  Nightingale was dressed in her white leather wedding clothes.  Her hair was braided, and piled on top of her head.  On her feet were the beaded moccasins that her sister had made.

Grandpa wore leather leggings, a buckskin jacket, and rows of beads around his neck.

This is a keeper.  No way would Grandpa ever let this go.  Stan turned a few more pages, and saw photos of Nightingale’s father, who was a chief in the tribe.  Her mother, a shaman, in a different photo.  There were pictures of horses,and people on horses, and the building of the ranch house and barn.

Stan put the album back away.  He really wanted to look at the rest of the photos, but the heat was worse and he was feeling somewhat dizzy.

I’d better go get some water before I pass out.  Stan closed and locked the loft door, then went downstairs.  When he stepped from the darkened barn into the morning sun, the brightness blinded him for a few minutes.  It didn’t matter, as he could make this walk in his sleep.

Across the drive, up the five steps onto the porch, and then through the front door.  The swamp cooler was doing its job, for the house was comfortably cool.  Stan went into the kitchen and fixed himself a tall glass of ice water.  He carried it into the front room, and settled into “his” chair.

Even though he wanted to turn on the television, he didn’t.  Grandpa had rules about when it could be on, how long it could be on, and what type of programs could be watched.  Stan had learned quite young that the risk was not worth the limited enjoyment, so he left the set off.

He was reading a Louis L’Amour book called Bendigo Shafter.  It takes place in an area of Wyoming that Stan knew.  What he liked about L’Amour’s books was that he wrote about cowboys and ranchers.  Stan identified with the author, as he also wrote poetry and short stories.

Bendigo had just met the widow Ruth Macken who was both beautiful and crafty.  Wanting to know if the hero would put aside his dreams of finding gold to settle into married life, Stan found his place and began reading.

The afternoon sun came in through the front windows, falling across Stan’s chest and lap.  Soon he fell asleep.  In his dreams, he became the leading man.

Ruggedly handsome, he swaggered up to Ruth’s front porch.  She stood in the doorway, leaning suggestively against the frame. “Howdy, Miss.” Embarrassed by his dusty boots, he wiped the toes against the back of each leg.

“Come in and have some water.  Or would you prefer somethin’ a might stronger?”

Bendigo followed the beautiful woman inside the cabin.  Ruth’s furniture was more elegant than anything he had ever seen before.  Out here, living was rough and fancy goods were hard to come by.

He headed for a stuffed armchair near the fireplace.  It looked strong enough to hold his muscular body. 

“Don’t sit there,” she said.  “That was my husband’s favorite chair.  Come in the kitchen.” Bendigo did as told.  The kitchen was painted a bright yellow.  Sunlight filled the room, and the smell of flowers wrinkled his nose.

 

The table and chairs were store-bought, a might too fancy for Bendigo’s taste.

“Here’s some whiskey.  So what do you want?  Men never just drop in.”

“Well, I was hopin’ that you’d step out at the dance with me.  I don’t dance too good, but I have fun.  Are you gong’ with anyone yet?

“Why would I go with you?  You’re a runt, you don’t own a durn thing except for a beat-up horse and a patch of land with a might small cabin.”

Bendigo shrugged.  She was right about everything.  After downing his shot, he got up and headed for the door.

“I’ll go.”

“What?”

If you really want to take me dancin’, then I’ll go with you.”

Bendigo walked out the front door.  “Seven.  I’ll come by and escort you.”

Stan didn’t hear his grandfather’s old truck pull into the drive, or the angry voices just outside the front door.

Stan awoke, somewhat disoriented.

A shot rang out.  Stan, ran over to the rifle cabinet and pulled out his favorite gun, a Browning cynergy 28-gauge sporting rifle, with a walnut oil finish that he kept well polished.   He liked the feel of the gun, the way it nestled against his shoulder, and the lightning smooth pull of the trigger.  It made shooting easy and accurate.

After closing the cabinet, Stan hustled to the front door, afraid of what he might find.  His Grandpa was a bit of a character.  He frequently “riled” the neighbors, to use Grandpa’s term, by scheming against them in poker games, auctions, and even in drinking contests.

“Git off my land.” Grandpa stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips.

“How am I supposed to do that when you drove me here?”

Stand stepped outside, his rifle held against his chest.  “What’s going on?”

“This dang-gum liar says Rosie isn’t a Mustang.  He won’t pay more’an a hundert for her.”

Stan looked at the man, and recognized Mr. Werner, the principal of his school.  Decked out in jeans, cowboy shirt, and high-top boots.  Mr. Werner was a good guy.  He was fair and honest and liked kids.  Stan lowered his gun and quietly came down the steps.

“Put your gun down, Grandpa.”

“Nope.  Ain’t a gonna do it.  Not ‘til this here cheater is long gone.”

“I’ll take him home.”

“You don’t have a license, do you?”  Mr. Werner knew every student, so there was no use lying.

“No, sir.  I can drive on our land, though.  That’s legal.  I can take you just over the bridge and out to the highway.  From there you could walk home.  It’s only a couple of miles.”

Mr. Werner backed away from the cocked rifle.  Step by step, he slowly moved.  Stan pulled open the creaky door.  He kept an eye on his grandfather, whose arms now shook from the effort of holding the gun.  He still glowered, and Stan knew that look.  He had seen it many times when he had disappointed his only living relative.

 

Werner got inside the cab. Stan turned the ignition.  The truck, as always, didn’t catch the first time, or the second.  Thanks goodness it kicked in on the third try, as his grandfather had stalked up even with the truck and was pointing his gun right at Werner’s sweat-streaked face.

“Don’t you never come back unless you offer a fair price.  You ain’t no charity case.  You make more at that school than I do in a good year.  You got no business cheatin’ ranchers that way.  It’s disrespectful, that’s what.”

Werner sat still, staring straight ahead.  His face had a peculiar green tinge around the lips and eyes.  Stan thought the man was going to puke, right there in the cab.

After putting the truck in gear, he turned left and headed toward the bridge.  Just as they pulled into the shelter of the surrounding quaking aspens, a shot rang out.

“He’s old and cranky,” Stan said.  “He hasn’t been feeling too good lately.”

“Humph.”

“He’ll get over it, Mr. Werner.  He works hard on the ranch.  Lots of folks laugh at him, as he never finished school.  He reads some, and is pretty good at math, but he has a hard time writing.  It embarrasses him, ‘cause he feels stupid compared to the college-educated ranchers moving in.   Grandpa’s a proud man, and he does get upset when he thinks someone is cheating him.”

After crossing the bridge, Stan turned off the engine.  “This is as far as I can take you.  There’s a bottle of water in the glove compartment.  It isn’t cold, but it’s wet enough to get you home.”

“Thanks.”  Mr. Werner’s hands trembled so badly that he couldn’t open the bottle.

 

“Let me do that,” Stan said as he reached over and twisted it open.  “I’ll see you Monday.  If you want, you can call me and let me know that you got home safely.  Grandpa never answers the phone.  He says he’s too old for gadgets, yet he owns a pretty good tractor that he maintains himself.  He’s good with his hands.  Did you know that he built the house by himself?  For my grandmother.  It was his wedding gift.  She was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.”

When Mr. Werner got out, he looked at Stan, as if for the first time.  “Thanks.  I appreciate your help.  That old man had me pretty scared.”

“Next time you want to buy something from him, don’t haggle over the price.  Folks think it’s easy to cheat him, but they’re wrong.  He’s a smart man.  Smarter than most.”

Werner nodded, and then shut the door, the rusty squeak filling the blue skies.  “I’d still like to buy that filly.  Think he’d sell her to me?”

“Give him a few days to calm down.”

Werner patted the truck door, and then stepped away.  Stan watched him amble onto the paved highway and head south, toward town.  As the man’s figure got smaller and smaller, he thought of Bendigo Shafter.  Bendigo might not win the heart of Ruth Macken, but there were lots of other women out there and lots of other battles to fight.  Like Bendigo, Grandpa Ellis was a handsome, proud man, who would pull a gun rather than be thought back down on a fight.

Stan smiled when the engine kicked in on the first try.  He smoothly turned around and headed across the bridge.  Grandpa was standing in front of the barn, with a scowl on his face.

 

“You were supposed to clean out that loft,” he said as soon as the motor died.  “It was an easy job, and you didn’t follow through.”

“It wasn’t easy at all.  You got all kinds of memories stored up there.  I was afraid to throw much of anything out.  Maybe you could help me a bit?”

“Let’s tend the horses first.  Then we’ll go take a look.”

Stan followed his grandfather into the barn.  The horses whinnied at the promise of fresh hay and oats, and maybe an apple or two.  Like Bendigo, Grandpa knew good horseflesh, and only bought and bred the best.  That part was easy for him.

 

Raging Insanity

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“Never again would they dare to call me insane,” Joe Witherspoon said as he rubbed his hands rapidly down his thighs.

“Why do you say that?” Steve’s forehead wrinkled with curiosity.

Joe slapped his hands on the table in front of them, causing their coffee mugs to rattle. “Come on. You know what really happened, don’t you?”

Steve stared into his friend’s deep blue eyes, wondering if the doctors were right about Joe’s emotional status.  “I’ve heard Sarah’s version, but never yours.”

Sighing, Joe picked up his mug and brought it carefully to his mouth, his shaky hands causing the hot liquid to spill.  Not noticing the drops falling to the table, Joe allowed the steam to caress his face as he inhaled deeply, drawing the soothing aroma into his trembling body.  “I’m not insane.  I never have been.  Sarah made up all that nonsense about me throwing that butcher knife at her.”  He sipped cautiously, staring into Steve’s eyes for confirmation.

“You admitted in court that you threw the knife.” Steve leaned forward, his eyes focused on Joe’s.

“So what?  I was drugged out and so I have little recollection of whether or not I did. It might have been you that threw it, for all I know.”  Joe placed his cup on the kitchen table, and took a minuscule bite of a freshly made chocolate chip cookie.

“Sarah was shaking like a leaf.  It took a strong sedative to calm her down.”

“She’s the nervous type,” Joe responded as he meticulously scraped crumbs into his open palm which he then poured into his mouth. He brushed his hands together, then resumed rubbing his thighs. “She’s nuts, you know.  Sarah can’t sit still for more than a few minutes and never sleeps.  And she lies.  She makes me so mad.  Sometimes I feel like strangling her.  She tells her friends that I’m nuts.  I’ve heard her.  She goes downstairs when she thinks I’m sleeping.  She calls everyone she knows and makes up stories about me.  That’s why people think I did it.  That I was trying to kill her.”  Joe stood and began pacing the floor.  Three steps to the sink, four to the back door, two to the refrigerator, one to the table, and then start all over again.  “Sisters shouldn’t do that.  Sisters shouldn’t do that.  Sisters shouldn’t do that,” he chanted.

“Settle down, Joe.  You’re making me nervous with all that walking,” Steve said.

“Can’t do it.  Once my feet get moving, I can’t stop them.”

“Did you take your meds this morning?”

“Don’t need ‘em.  Doc says I’m cured, remember?”  Joe’s speed picked up to a trot.  His hands twisted into knots, then untwisted, then twisted again, in time to his steps.

Steve quietly stood and then walking backwards, moved toward the kitchen door, never turning his back on his friend.

“I never did it,” Joe intoned.  “I never threw that knife, but I wanted to, I tell you.  She makes me so mad.  So mad.  I hate her!  I hate that lying woman!”  Now pounding his forehead as intensely as splitting logs, he moaned with each blow of his hands.

Steve tiptoed out of the room, barely breathing for fear of distracting the crazed man.  Joe dialed 911.  When the operator answered, he explained the situation.  When told to leave the house immediately, he complied.

Standing out in the freezing Seattle rain, Steve watched as the police arrived, followed shortly thereafter by an ambulance.  After knocking at the door and receiving no response, the officers entered the house, guns drawn.  Within minutes, one of the officers stood at the door.  He signaled the waiting paramedics, who grabbed their medical kits, clipboards, and the gurney before going inside.

Steve felt sorry for Joe.  Joe had struggled with mental illness since his teenage years and had been hospitalized several times.  When on the proper medications, Joe seemed like any other guy.  Without the drugs, he went ballistic, with superman strength and fearsome rages.

Within minutes the paramedics guided the gurney out the front door toward the waiting ambulance.  One had his hand on Joe’s right arm, patting him as one would a dog.

“Don’t call me insane,” Joe whispered. “Don’t ever call me insane again.  I swore that no one would ever dare to call me insane again.”

Tears ran down Steve’s face.  He knew that Joe couldn’t control the obsessive rages, but it scared him.  Sarah, too.  After Joe threw that butcher knife at her, she packed her bags and moved to New York, swearing to never return.  Shaking his head, Steve walked back into the home and tidied the table and counters.  He rubbed and rubbed and rubbed some more, trying to erase the remnants of Joe’s craziness.