Chapter 1

Sarah Jean Collins lay back and stared up at the dark blue sky, filled with fluffy white clouds. She felt the sun on her face and smiled. She wasn’t out in the sun quite as much as her father and brothers, and didn’t yet see it as a pain in the behind that one just had to deal with during the work day. Her body rocked, as the horse under her kept walking in the direction she had last urged it to go, but her muscles automatically took the horse’s gait into account and shifted subtly to keep her from sliding one way or the other. Her thighs, draped on either side of the horse’s neck helped too.

She felt Daisy’s haunch muscles bunch and move under her back as the mare stepped gracefully over the scrub, heading for home, and the pan of oats she knew Sarah would provide her when they got there. Sarah loved riding bareback, in direct connection with the magnificent animal that carried her, and she rarely used a saddle unless she was working on the trail, or doing other work with cattle.

But today she was just enjoying being with her friend, as the summer breeze swept across the plain. She had ridden over to visit Mrs. Settleton, on the ranch “next door”, and the new dress Beatrice Settleton had made for her was in the saddlebags connected by the wide leather strap that currently made a hard pillow for Sarah’s head. It was a red and white checkered gingham dress, and Sarah was going to wear it to the dance that was to be held in just two weeks. Travis Woods would ask her to dance and, as they swirled to the tune of the fiddle and washboard, he would fall madly in love with her and beg her to become his bride. And then ... she’d find out what made her mamma moan so loud when she and Pappa were alone in the dark of their bedroom at night.

Sarah had heard that moan clearly on a lot of nights since she was a little girl. The first time she’d been aware of it as a real sound was the first time it had awakened her. Her parents’ room was right next to hers in the big house her pa had built in the shelter of a geologic disruption in the mostly flat land they ranched. Her brothers had shared that room with her, but had recently been installed in their own newly added room across the house.

She had only been eight or nine that time, when her mother’s agonized sounding moans had come through the wall clearly, and she had awakened. Unused to being alone in her room - it was her room now - and used to the noises her brothers made while they slept, her mother’s voice had sounded like she was in pain. Sarah had been instantly frightened, thinking of Indians, or some other danger that had overtaken her mother. Those piteous moans had broken into an agonized plea of “Pleeease Jonas ... don’t tease meeee.”

Jonas was her pappa and the noises that had followed had made her get out of bed and pound on her parents’ door. She would never forget the sight of her pappa’s huge body, holding the lantern in one hand as he opened that door, a pistol in his other hand. He was stark naked, something Sarah had never seen before, and his gaze was over her head, searching for the cause of the pounding.

Then his eyes had fallen to see Sarah, somehow huddling, even though she was standing alone in the dark of the hallway.

“It’s just Sarah,” he said over his shoulder.

Her mother had appeared, concern on her face, closing a robe around her, but Sarah could see that she too was naked under that robe as it closed and was belted.

Then there had been the questions about what was wrong, and Sarah’s tear-filled complaint of the sounds she had heard, as if her mother was being killed.

Her pappa had laughed, standing there like he was proud to be buck naked, instead of ashamed, like all decent people were if they had on no clothes. Even at eight Sarah had been taught that.

“Send her back to bed, Molly,” he said roughly. “We’re not finished yet.”

Mamma had shot her husband a look that would have sent Sarah running, had it been aimed her way, but Pappa had just laughed louder and turned away, back toward the bed.

Mamma had taken Sarah back to her bed, and sat there in the dark, telling Sarah that what she had heard was nothing bad, but what husbands and wives did sometimes that was what they were made for during creation. She tried to convince Sarah that those sounds were pleasure, not pain, and that she must never interrupt them again when she heard them.

And so, over the years, whenever Sarah heard those noises again, her mind tried to come up with some scene that would account for them. She tried to think of her parents dancing, since that was fun, but who would dance naked? And why? When she started to bleed between her legs and her mother instructed her on what to do about that, she asked again about the sounds for some reason. Her mother simply said that, once she was married, she would understand. That was all she had ever been told.

Well, perhaps not all, though she didn’t know it. At various times she had been scolded for wrestling with a boy ... Junior Ridgemont, to be precise. She was fourteen at the time and he had said something she didn’t like, so she took him down and sat on him. He had cried, lying there in the dust under her, his eye already swelling where she had punched him. They were in town at the time, getting provisions, and her mother had seen from not far away. Her mother’s anger had been vitriolic, and full of talk about how civilized people didn’t behave that way, which was purely puzzling, since Sarah’s brothers acted like that all the time, as did most of the cowboys around, and nobody ever yelled at them about it.

Her mother had made her wear dresses after that ... all the time. You couldn’t fight or wrestle in a dress. You couldn’t move quickly in a dress. And your legs got tangled up, so you couldn’t kick. You could still stomp, but the soft soled shoes her mother made her wear weren’t any good for stomping. Now, the only time she could put on pants, or boots, was when she had to ride a horse.

Which was one reason Sarah Jean Collins was riding Daisy on this sunny summer day. Anybody could have picked up her new dress from Mrs. Settleton, but the excuse to be able to wear pants was too much to pass up. So, Sara was dressed in pants, and one of her brother’s cast-off blue checkered shirts, lying on her back, stretched out on the firm, swaying rump of her best friend in the world, riding along without a care in the world.

Then, her best friend stopped.

That was odd. Daisy wouldn’t stop on her own. She was too well trained for that. About that time Sarah heard a deep voice ... one that raised the hackles on the back of her neck.

“Well, looky what we got here,” growled the voice.

Sarah knew that voice. It belonged to one of the men who should not be anywhere near where she was currently located. It belonged to a man who would be beaten and dragged through the scrub if he were caught on her father’s range. It belonged to Buford Smith.

And Buford Smith was one of the men who worked for Brad Rocklin, who was, if not at war with her father, at least most unwelcome in this part of Wyoming. Brad Rocklin was a sheep man, and that made Sarah Jean Collins shudder.

Sheep were domesticated 10,000 years ago in Central Asia, but it wasn’t until 3,500 B.C. that man learned to spin wool. Sheep helped to make the spread of civilization possible. Sheep production was well established during biblical times, as is shown by the many references to sheep in the Old Testament. Sheep farming is man’s oldest organized industry and wool was the first commodity of sufficient value to warrant international trade.

In the 1400’s, Queen Isabella of Spain used money derived from the wool industry to finance Columbus and other conquistadors’ voyages. In 1493 on his second voyage to the New World, Columbus took sheep with him as a “walking food supply.” He left some sheep in Cuba and Santo Domingo. In 1519, Cortez began his exploration of Mexico and the Western U.S. He took with him sheep that were offspring of Columbus’ sheep. These sheep are believed to be the descendants of what are now called “Churros.” The Navajo Churro is the oldest breed of sheep in the U.S. Despite efforts by the U.S. government to replace them, the breed is still raised by Navajo Indians.

As useful as sheep were, though, they were also the cause of much contention during American history.

During the 16th and 17th centuries, England tried to discourage the wool industry in the American colonies. Nonetheless, colonists quickly smuggled sheep into what would become the states and developed a wool industry. By 1664, there were 100,000 sheep in the colonies, and the General Court of Massachusetts passed a law requiring youth to learn to spin and weave. By 1698, America was exporting wool goods. England became outraged and outlawed wool trade, making it punishable by cutting off the person’s right hand. The restrictions on sheep raising and wool manufacturing, along with the Stamp Act, led to the American Revolutionary War. Thus, spinning and weaving were considered patriotic acts. Even after the war, England enacted a law forbidding the export of any sheep.

George Washington raised sheep on his Mount Vernon Estate. Thomas Jefferson kept sheep at Monticello. Presidents Washington and Jefferson were both inaugurated in suits made of American wool. James Madison’s inaugural jacket was woven from the wool of sheep raised at his home in Virginia. President Woodrow Wilson grazed sheep on the White House Lawn.

The expansion of the sheep industry started in southern Wyoming in the 1870’s along the Union Pacific rail line. The coming of the railroad also led to large sheep drives from Oregon to Wyoming along the old Oregon Trail. On some drives in the 1880’s as many as 20,000 sheep would be trailed to Rawlins. Even after the construction of the Oregon Short Line, sheep would be trailed from Oregon rather than be hauled on trains. Even within the state, trailing sheep remained the general means of transport. In 1928, as an example, a herd of 1500 sheep purchased from the Yellowstone Sheep Company was trailed from Hudson to Douglas even though the railroad was available. The reason was simple. One sheepherder with a dog and a sheep wagon could herd as many as two thousand sheep. By 1910 there were over five and a half million sheep in the state.

But in the late 1870’s during what came to be called the U.S. range wars, violent conflicts erupted between cattle ranches and sheep herders as both competed for land to graze their livestock.

Which brings us back to Sarah Jean Collins, who sat, more or less, her horse, on a summer day in 1877.

Sarah was a cowman’s daughter and, in her teens, was tougher than most men five years older than her nowadays would even aspire to be. Her five foot six inch frame, which was undeniably as female as any man could hope for, belied that toughness. Her hands would have convinced anyone that she was a hard worker, but her thrusting breasts, unfettered by undergarments that women in later years would wear routinely, drew a man’s eyes away from her hands. From there it was difficult to decide whether to look at those obviously sweet, soft humps under her shirt or dress, or at the pretty feminine face that was surrounded by a wild halo of bright yellow hair. That hair constantly got in her face when she wasn’t wearing a hat, or had it tied up in ribbons like floppy dog ears. Of course it would be normal to let your eyes linger on her hips too, as they swelled out from a tiny waist, and smoothed into legs that looked too long to fit the rest of her body.

A man’s eyes could get eyestrain, looking at this girl, from his eyes jerking all over the place trying to find a place to light.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, sitting up. Her voice held command. Among the men on her pappa’s ranch, she was untouchable, and her word held sway. Men who looked too long at her, or spoke roughly towards her didn’t last on the Circle C ranch.

“Y’hear that Chaps? We ain’t supposed to be here,” said Buford, sneering. “This here is open range girlie, and not you nor any of yore high fallutin’ folks cain’t say otherwise.”

It was then that Sarah saw the sheep. While they were still in the distance, they were everywhere, heads down, doing what she knew destroyed the range ... her father’s range... her range!

“This is Circle C land and you know it,” she sneered back. My pappa has ranched this land for years. You turn those dirty beasts around and get them off our land!“ she yelled.

Buford smiled widely, unaffected by her outburst. Then, in what was obviously supposed to be a lightning quick, smooth, and impressive maneuver, he jerked the pistol out of the holster he was wearing and pointed it in the direction of Sarah.

The only problem was that, while it was quick, it was by no means smooth, and as far from impressive as drawing a weapon could get. In the first place, Buford had been practicing that draw while shooting at tin cans, and meant only to draw the weapon to impress the girl. His muscle memory, however, caused his thumb to cock the hammer back. Buford’s brain realized that something was wrong, and he looked at the pistol, as his forefinger held the trigger back and he took his thumb off the hammer.

It might have been a comedic moment, as the Colt fired and flipped out of the startled man’s hand to spin, now gracefully, backwards as it headed for the dirt.

But the bullet grazed Daisy’s neck, where her mane erupted from the skin.

Daisy was a well-trained quarter horse who would turn on a dime, stop or start in an instant, and who would go up against a longhorn with not a care in the world. Gunfire did not faze Daisy. But Daisy had never been shot before, and she reared at the burn of the bullet that removed a .44 caliber patch of her mane.

Sarah Jean Collins slid helplessly off the back of her horse and landed square on the top of her head as Daisy scampered and bucked, and then ran for home at a full gallop.

Sarah saw stars, and then everything went black.

Both Buford and his even less intelligent sidekick, known only as “Chaps” stared at the girl on the ground.

“Yuh shot her Buford!” gasped Chaps. “What’d yuh do that fer?”

“I didn’t shoot her you idiot,” said a very pale-faced Buford. “The gun went off and skeered her horse.”

“She looks pretty dead to me,” said Chaps, taking his hat off and scratching his head. I don’t think yuh ought to have done that Buford.”

Buford sighed, once again, as he wondered why he had been saddled with this man. True, Chaps was probably the only human on earth who would call Buford his friend, but putting up with him was like putting up with sheep. It just rankled a man.

Buford thought hard, which meant it was quiet for fifteen seconds, other than the distant bleating of the sheep, and the occasional bark of Queen, the dog that actually did all the work when the sheep were being handled. Buford couldn’t talk and think at the same time.

“We got tuh get her to a line shack somewheres,” he finally announced. “You know, hide her away.” His cretinous brain ground on further and his excitement grew. “We can hold her for ransom! And make that damn pappy of hers pay for her, to get her back. And then we’ll have a stake and we can light out of here and live like kings. Yeah! That’s what we’ll do!”

Chaps screwed up his brow and put his hat back on. “I don’t know, Buford. That don’t seem right to me somehow. Won’t her pa be all upset?”

Buford looked at his ... friend ... and scowled. “Whatta you think her pa’s gonna do if he comes along and finds her here like this, and with us here too? You think he’ll ask any questions? He’ll gun us both down Chaps, fer sure. An she knows who we are now. If’n we just leave her here they’ll come lookin’ fer us fer sure. Takin’ her fer ransom is the only way out of this. Now get her up on behind me and let’s get the hell out of here before that horse of hers gets back to the barn and they know somethin’s up.”