dish, and, only after he went back inside, did she eat.
Sitting at the kitchen table Bill stared at the distant mountain. His heart started pounding in his chest and sweat popped out on his forehead. “You can kill me if you want,” he said grimly, “but I’m coming, I’m coming.”
As his heart slowed down, Gypsy strolled into the backyard. She barked at two robins, which flew into a tree, and then she lay down in the sun.
Bill smiled. “You’re a good dog,” he said looking at the old graying German Shepherd, “you’re a good old worthless dog.”
When Bill came out of the house with a can of saddle soap to clean up his tack, the dog beat him to the barn. When he started rubbing the soap into the first saddle, she lay down on the floor and shut her eyes. “You remember too,” Bill said to the dog. “You remember, you’re just stronger than I am.”
Late in the afternoon Bill opened the door to his pickup truck. No sooner was the door open then Gypsy was in the truck and sitting by the other window.
Gary Lindsey, foreman of the 150,000 acre Stone Ranch, saw the approaching truck, and spit a gob of tobacco. He had three horses to shoe and he did not really have time to talk. But, when he recognized the truck, he was sad.
Gary approached the truck, trying to hide the pain in his back. Bill got out and Gypsy darted by him. Gary held out his hand to shake. “Haven’t seen you in a long time,” he said, looking deeply into Bill’s eyes. He then glanced at the dog. “You want to sell that dog yet?”
“No,” Bill replied simply.
Gypsy ignored them as though she knew she was being talked about.
“Going to be able to hang on?” Bill asked.
“Who in the hell knows? Boss is trying to do some deal with the state so we can give them land and not have to pay taxes for a few years. Maybe, maybe not.”
“I need two horses,” Bill told Gary. “Two mountain horses.”
“Buy or borrow?” Gary asked.
“Borrow.”
Gary spit a gob of tobacco. “It’s about time you went back Bill,” he said, in only a manner an old and trusted friend could.
“I know,” Bill replied.
“You could get you another string and start guiding again,” Gary said.
“How’s the wife?” Bill asked, ignoring the statement.
“Not as good of company as that dog,” Gary smiled. “Kid is Rodeo Queen this year.”
“She always was good with horses.”
“All I got to do now is keep her from getting knocked up by some dumb rodeo cowboy.”
“Good luck,” Bill said, smiling.
Gary nodded toward a large corral. “I got two horses over here a green horn like you can handle. One packs good, a little stubborn, but easy to handle, not mean,” Gary said.
“I’ll pick them up in a few days,” Bill said.
“That’s okay, I’ll bring them over tomorrow,” replied Gary. “I have to go into town and get some truck parts.”
Bill opened the door to the truck, Gypsy jumped in. “Sure you don’t want to sell that dog?” Gary asked.
Bill shook his head as he shut the door.
“I’m glad you’re going back,” Gary said, reaching into the truck and putting his hand on Bill’s shoulder.
“Thanks,” Bill said.
“You take care of this worthless old cowboy,” Gary said to Gypsy.
Gypsy laid her ears back and growled at Gary. “That’s a damn good dog,” Gary said. “A damn good dog.”
After Bill got home, he sat out on the back porch. Gypsy chased away the robins and went to lie down by the tree. Bill glared at the distant mountains. “I hate you,” he said. “I hate you.”
The Woman Pocahontas
Sheila Abrams was sitting cross-legged and barefoot in the middle of her living room floor. She had on a pair of red cotton short pants and a loose fitting T-shirt that read, “I’d rather have a dog than a man.” The deep weave of the peach-colored shag carpet was like cool grass caressing her toes. The radio was turned to a classical station. Standing, she turned off the radio and examined the array of camping gear arranged neatly on the floor. Erected in the corner was a blue nylon, lightweight, two-person tent. She had taken it down and put it up over a dozen times so it was now no harder to erect than making the bed. In the tent was a roll-up sleeping mat and a goose-down sleeping bag. After sleeping on it the night before, she was mildly surprised when her back did not hurt in the morning. Next to the tent was an aluminum framed pack, also blue, with two large compartments, four smaller ones, and elastic cords with hooks on the end to attach her tent and sleeping bag. Placed around the pack, like a display in an outdoor shop, were: a folding aluminum mess kit complete with knife, spoon, and fork; a canteen; a flashlight with extra batteries; a small portable propane stove with two gas cylinders; a candle powered lamp with five spare candles for her tent; twenty packs of waterproof matches; three disposable lighters; a plastic jar of biodegradable soap which she could also use to brush her teeth; a compass; four pairs of socks; two small forest green towels; a toothbrush; a brush and comb; a bottle of bug repellent; a small medicine kit; and, three large plastic bags to haul out her garbage.
Several yards from the pack were: two pairs of brown hiking shorts with double pleats; a long pair of pants, also brown; two loose fitting short sleeved shirts; a sweater; an orange stocking cap in case a poacher would mistake her for a deer; a light weight coat; two jogging bras; three pairs of cotton underwear; and, a yellow rain suit with a hood. Sheila ran her hands through her hair and inspected the gear one more time with a discerning eye. “I don’t know how the Indians made it without all this stuff,” she said jokingly to herself.
Sitting on the sofa she put on two pairs of blue cotton socks, which reached to her knees before she rolled them down. She then put on a pair of tan hiking boots that she bought after being told by the clerk they did not need to be broken in. She made sure she did not lace the boots too tightly. After she bought the boots, she had listened like a young child to his first grade teacher about how she should wear two pairs of socks and to make sure she dried her socks every evening. It was also better to sleep in her sleeping bag at night with no clothes on—an idea she did not like, as she could picture herself running stark naked from a bear, only to be saved by two fishermen who would not give her any clothes and would laugh at her ‘pinch-an inch.’
She went to the kitchen, wiggling her toes in the new hiking boots as if testing the word of the salesman. She examined the packets of dried food on the kitchen table as intensely as if she were an infantry soldier heading into battle. There were packets of noodles with garlic butter, rice and chicken, beef stew, pudding, dried apples, dried apricots, raisins, chicken bouillon cubes, and a box of assorted natural teas. Satisfied she had enough food, she went back to the living room and removed the boots and socks, checking the red nail polish on her toes. Putting on a pair of reading
