Chapter 3

Jonas, Buckshot and Peter arrived in Ute Canyon and located Sarah’s trail. Had they followed Molly’s tracks, they’d have arrived at the scene of Sarah’s kidnapping much sooner, but Jonas had gone with his gut instinct. As a result, they were four hours behind Molly when they arrived at the place where she had met Bobby Rocklin. Unfortunately, the signs that Bobby had read were gone.

Two or three hundred sheep had walked over them.

“Been sheep here,” said Buckshot needlessly.

“Do tell?” commented Jonas sarcastically.

By then it was getting dark, and the sheep following Bobby and Molly had wiped out all trace of their tracks. Buckshot rode wide, to the East, toward the Collins ranch, and located Molly’s tracks coming into the disturbed area. Those tracks were lost where the sheep had wiped them out. He rode back up to Jonas.

“Found tracks coming in. I figure it’s Molly. She’s riding Vixen, and leading Tulip,” he said. “Nothing going back to the ranch, though.”

“What the hell is she doing here?” Jonas’ voice was heavy with worry.

“Same thing you are, I imagine,” said Buckshot.

They ranged through the mess of tracks, finding prints of three other horses, all strange to them. Two were hard to read because the shoes were worn down and left little detail. The third had the distinctive bumps on it that indicated they were winter shoes, made to grip ice better. Most stockmen took them off in the summer because they were expensive and it was no use to wear them down in routine conditions. That horse was also a big, heavy animal too, with large hooves. All that told them was that there had been strangers in this place, along with Sarah and Molly.

Had there been a little more daylight, and had they ranged wider, they might have picked up some of Molly’s tracks heading toward the mountains, or the small cairn of stones, with two large ones piled on top of each other, and a smaller one set to the side. Bobby had left that sign for anyone who might be following them. The smaller rock pointed in the direction he thought he’d be headed for a while. But, while Charley would have known instantly what that meant, the cattlemen weren’t used to following that kind of trail, and it wouldn’t have made sense to them. In any case, darkness caught them, and they had no idea where to go next.

“What do you want to do, Boss?” asked Buckshot.

“Damned if I know,” said Jonas. “I thought to ride out here, find her and then get home. We didn’t bring supplies to camp overnight.”

“Maybe they went over to that sheep farmer’s spread.” suggested Peter.

“That sheep farmer doesn’t have a spread,” said Jonas angrily. “He’s a squatter.”

“Now Jonas, the way I heard it, old man Johansen said he sold his ranch to the man,” said Buckshot. He immediately wished he hadn’t said anything.

“Johansen didn’t know they were bringing sheep here,” said Jonas.

“If he’d a known that he wouldn’t have sold.”

Buckshot didn’t want to argue. His arthritis was acting up. He idly thought that it must be going to rain soon. “Boy could be right Jonas” he said, ignoring the outburst. “Mebbe they did go over to ... Johansen’s old place.”

“Let’s ride.” barked Jonas. Jonas never apologized, but if he recognized a proper course of action, he took it.

The three men headed for the ranch now owned by a man named Rocklin. It would be the first formal meeting of men who, as the world saw it, were neighbors. Jonas Collins didn’t think of it that way at all. He loosened the rifle in its scabbard by his right knee.

In the house now owned by Brad and Amanda Rocklin, there was a serious conversation going on. It was almost dark, and supper was on the table, though no one seemed interested in eating it except Enid. She was fourteen years old and had a healthy appetite to go with the stocky body she’d inherited from her father, much to her mother’s dismay. The only thing Enid had inherited from her mother were a pair of proud, thrusting breasts that, according to her, were a bother because they always “got in the way”, whatever that meant. Amanda often looked at Enid, and then her other daughter, Elizabeth, and wondered how they had both come out of the same womb.

Beth was tiny, like her mother, almost delicate, with thin wrists, and a narrow waist to match. Like her year-younger sister, she had the same large, lush breasts that Amanda had, but Beth’s figure was more proportioned to that of a woman, with swelling hips to match. Enid’s hips were slim and boyish. Beth worked hard too, but it didn’t show on her like it did on Enid. Beth’s skin was milky white, while Enid had freckles and darker skin that was darkly tanned by the sun.

Enid was already taller than Amanda, and had the sturdy look of a young pioneer woman, with callused hands and short, usually dirty fingernails. Not that she didn’t appear to be a female. Her long strawberry blond hair, not quite so red as Amanda’s, was tied back with a ribbon. Her young, but already large breasts pushed at the soft buckskin shirt she was wearing, above pants made of the same material. Beth had on a proper dress. Amanda would rather have had both girls wearing dresses, but the only ones Enid owned were two or three years old and had been made for a much smaller girl. Amanda hated sewing, and, come to think of it, Enid had inherited that from her too. Beth, on the other hand, had probed to find what sewing skills Amanda possessed, and had pulled them from her on cold winter nights beside the fire. Beth made her own clothes. Amanda could spin wool into thread that made the finest cloth, like most women of that day, and Beth was fast on her way to becoming just as good with a spinning wheel. But the weaving and cutting and sewing of that fine wool cloth was something Amanda had no patience for. She’d just as soon buy ready-made dresses.

That happened infrequently, though. It was rare to get to town, and even more rare to have the money to spend on things like that. The only proper dresses Amanda still owned were the one’s she’d brought with her from Oregon, and one that Beth had made for her.

On the other hand, the Rocklins had good relations with the local wandering tribe of the Batcinena, or Red Willow Men of the Arapaho Indian tribe. In the uneasy peace between former enemies, enforced by the infrequent appearance of soldiers, the tribe traded with other tribes who wove wool into beautiful blankets, and the Rocklins were able to trade good wool thread for both good will, and fantastically well-made clothing of animal skins. Elk skin made the best clothing, thick and almost indestructible, and as long as you didn’t wear the same outfit too long without airing it, the leather maintained its sharp, pleasant smell.

As a result, Amanda’s children often dressed in clothes that were more suited for a wild Indian than a civilized sheep farmer. For that matter Amanda herself owned two sets of sturdy Indian garb.

Her husband refused to wear leather clothing, preferring jeans and cotton or wool shirts, depending on the weather. His chaps, though, were Indian made. They were a gift to him by an Indian woman who had showed up on foot at the ranch, handing them over and saying her son’s name. Brad had found the boy with a broken leg and had splinted it and carried him to where the tribe was located at the time. At that time, that had been thirty miles away, and the woman had made the chaps and walked the whole distance ... round trip ... to thank him.

The other nice thing about leather, Amanda had to admit, was that it stretched as the body grew into it. She glanced at Enid’s swollen breasts, pushing the leather away from her chest, and sighed. Her worried mind was drawn back to the issue at hand as her husband spoke.

“I shouldn’t have sent him out there,” he said.

“Nonsense,” said Amanda. “He’s a grown man. Well, almost. And he should be back by now. I’ll tan his hide good for making us worry like this!”

“He’s probably dead,” said Enid. She had argued with her brother that morning about whose job it was to clean the chicken coop. Being two years older he had simply informed her that he had other things to do, and it was her job, and if she didn’t do it he’d tell their father. She realized it had gotten very quiet at the table, and looked up. Her mother and father, along with Buckshot and Xian Bai, their other lead shepherd, were all staring at her.

“Why would you say that?” asked her mother, her face darkening.

“Why in the world would you say that, Enid Rocklin?”

Enid knew that tone of voice, and knew she’d made a tactical mistake. But the odor of chicken manure on her hands ... the odor she couldn’t get off no matter how much she washed them ... made her compound the mistake.

“Well? He’s just so stupid!“ she said forcefully.

Oddly enough, Amanda relaxed and sat back in her chair. She recognized that tone of voice. Sibling rivalry. She glanced at Beth, who had her eyes on her food, like she was trying not to get involved in the conversation.

Charley tried to defuse a situation that really didn’t need to be diffused any more. Of course he didn’t know that. He was a man, and didn’t recognize those tones of voice.

“Your brother is not a stupid man,” he said patiently. “He should be back by now and your mother is worried.”

Xian Bai spoke from the other side of the table. “Your Brother is very smart, Missy,” he said, grinning. Xian Bai had somehow attached himself to the party as they moved from Oregon to Wyoming, herding five hundred sheep along the old Oregon Trail. He had been walking alone, with only a sack hanging from a six foot long pole as he was surrounded by sheep. He had just kept walking until the Rocklins caught up to him. Queen, their lead dog, had ambled up to him, sniffed him and then ambled off.

That, in itself, was an endorsement. Amanda had been exposed to Chinese immigrants, and invited him to eat with them when they camped. He’d been with them ever since. He picked up sheep ranching as if born to it, and he had an almost magical way with the dogs, as if he could speak to them somehow. He took his pay, when they had money to give him, but often Amanda found it back in the big clay jar she kept loose cash in. He was also a wizard with the weaving of rope, and made all the rope they used on the ranch.

Enid, knowing that she had gotten off easily, started eating again.

Buster, who had been lying in a corner of the room, suddenly lifted his head, his ears up. A soft growl issued from his throat. The three puppies who had been sitting patiently under the table, hoping for scraps, began yapping loudly. Brad kicked one and Amanda shushed at them, picking two of them up and holding their muzzles closed. Xian Bai grabbed the third and did the same thing.

Buster was standing now, rigid and facing the door. His growl continued, but he did not bark.

Brad and Charley stood. Charley went to the wall and took down the double barreled Damascus twist black powder shotgun. He knew it was loaded. Brad went to the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a Navy Colt .36 caliber pistol. Charley headed for the back door of the house while Enid, all business now, turned the kerosene lamp down until it gave off just a dull glow. Xian Bai had disappeared without a sound.

“Halloooo the house,” came a faint yell from outside.

Brad opened the door, but stood to one side.

“Who’s there?” he yelled out into the almost dark. He could see the dark forms of three men sitting horses, out away from the house.

“It’s Jonas Collins,” came back the reply. “I’m lookin’ for my wife and daughter. They’ve gone missing!”

Brad frowned. He hadn’t met the cattle rancher. That had been intentional. When he’d moved onto an old cattle ranch with sheep he’d known that he would not be welcome. Cattlemen he saw in town wouldn’t even speak to him, shooting him hostile looks instead. He’d decided on his own to try to lie low and keep the flock away from his closest neighbor’s range, to avoid conflict. While surveying his new ranch he’d found grass that cattlemen wouldn’t want to use, and had capitalized on that.

He had four or five times as many sheep now as he had when he’d first arrived, and the operation was just beginning to make some money.

He intentionally left a broad piece of free range untouched between him and the Circle C ranch. Brad was trying hard not to get caught up in the general trouble between cattlemen and sheep men. The last thing he needed right now was trouble with Collins. He was uneasy about this “visit”, but when kinfolk were missing, it was a serious thing.

“Come on in,” yelled Brad, and he stepped out onto the porch. He put the pistol in his pocket, but did not let go of the grip. He knew Charley was at one corner of the house, covering the three riders.

The three horses stepped slowly toward the house. It was too dark to see the men’s hands, and that made Brad more nervous. As the men got closer he spoke to them.

“We haven’t seen any strangers,” he said, suddenly wishing he’d said

“people” instead of “strangers”.

Jonas sat his horse. He hadn’t been invited to step down. “Found sign of your sheep where her trail disappeared,” he said. “Over by that dry creek bed that comes out of Ute Canyon.”

“That’s impossible,” said Brad firmly. “We don’t graze the flock over there.

“Well, somebody does,” said a gravelly voice of one of the other men. The grass had been eaten to the roots, and there’s sheep tracks all over the place.”

“I don’t graze my sheep that way,” insisted Brad.

“Where is your flock, then?” asked Jonas.

“They should be on their way to the high meadows,” said Brad. I sent my son out to tell the men to start them that way this afternoon. He’s not back yet. We were just talking about that at supper.”

Brad suddenly remembered his manners. “You men eaten yet?”

“No sir!“ came a young man’s voice from the three.

“Shut up Peter,” growled Jonas, turning his head.

Brad had heard that tone of voice before. He’d never talked to Jonas Collins, but others had shown their contempt for him and his sheep.

“Well, we’ve got plenty. You may as well come on in and have a bite. If nothing else tell me what you’ve found. Maybe we can figure out what’s going on. My son should have been back by now and we’re a little worried about him too.”

Jonas sat there silent, thinking. He didn’t want to act friendly in any way toward this man, but his daughter and wife were missing. At least he should get a look inside the house. He didn’t think the man would just lie outright, but he’d like to look around a little ... just in case. His saddle creaked as he put his weight on his left leg and he swung down. The two other men followed suit.

When his booted feet hit the boards of the porch, Jonas smelled the food and his stomach growled. He hadn’t had anything except jerky since morning. He thought a curse to himself, but kept quiet. He didn’t want to take the hospitality of a sheep farmer.

Sarah came to and, through the fuzziness in her head, she realized she must have passed out again. The terrible pain in her middle was gone and she realized she was lying on the ground. Her wrists still hurt and as she tried to flex shoulders in fiery pain, she realized she was still bound. The first odor to get past the burlap bag still covering her head was smoke. She heard voices.

“Keep it small you idiot. We don’t need no smoke and flame giving us away.”

“Damn it Buford, I want hot vittles!” complained Chaps’ voice.

“You won’t get any vittles at all if’n they find us ‘afore we’re ready,” snarled Buford’s voice.

“An’ that’s another thing,” went on Chaps’ whiny voice. “Why’d you take her like that? They’s gonna be mad Buford. Real mad.”

“I already told you Chaps! That there pretty little slice of pussy’s gonna get us the stake we need to light out to better parts you fool. They’ll pay gold to get her back,” said Buford, trying to be patient. He couldn’t pull this off without Chaps’ help. He couldn’t manage the girl by himself. She was too damn heavy.

“What if she’s dead?” whined Chaps. “She ain’t moved in a long time Buford.”

“She ain’t dead,” grunted Buford. “Least wise she’d better not be. She ain’t worth nuthin’ dead. Plus I aim to get me a piece of that pussy. I’m tired of fucking sheep.”

“That ain’t right Buford,” said Chaps, his dim mind settling on sheep ... and what Buford sometimes did to sheep ... and forgetting the girl. “You shouldn’t ought to be doin’ that anyways.”

“You shut up. If you want to live with blue balls, fine.

But I’m a real man and I need some real pussy once in a while.

That there little filly’s gonna feel real fine wrapped around my dick.”

“I don’t like this Buford.” insisted Chaps. He was simple minded, but he was no fool. He knew the code of the West just like every man in that part of the country. He knew what was likely to happen just for carrying the girl off, if they got caught.

If she was raped they’d swing from a tree for sure.

But Chaps was scared of Buford. He’d seen Buford do terrible things to a sheep, things that hurt it ... sometimes even killed it. And the way he was unnatural with them. It scared Chaps a lot. So Chaps subsided into unhappy silence as he stirred the beans over the tiny fire Buford had allowed him to build using only squaw wood - small dead sticks pulled from the lower trunks of trees, or found lying on the ground. While Buford wasn’t looking he added a few sticks to the flames. Beans needed to be hot to choke down, in his opinion.

Sarah heard all this as though it came through cotton stuffed in her ears. Her head hurt horribly, and her face felt hot.

She knew she should be frightened, listening to Buford’s plans to rape her, but she couldn’t concentrate. Her eyes closed as her bruised brain cut off her consciousness once again.

Molly sat her horse in the dark, next to the boy. They hadn’t talked much. The boy’s attention was all on tracks and bent twigs and flattened tufts of grass, or scrape marks on rock. Molly knew a little of tracking, though she wasn’t much good if the trail was faint. But it was obvious this boy knew what he was doing. Whenever he lost the trail, he found it again within minutes. He seemed to have an instinct for it, or knew his men well enough that he knew what they’d do. The trail had not gone straight, like she thought it would. It often turned, for no clear reason at all.

She realized that each time they came to rock that the trail would turn and go in a different direction. She wasn’t stupid, and it didn’t take her long to understand that the people they were following didn’t want to be found. That made the pit of her stomach lurch, and a sour taste come to her mouth. Her baby girl was with men who didn’t want to be found.

“It’s too dark to go on,” said the Rocklin boy softly.

“I didn’t come prepared to camp out,” she said irritably.

“Neither did I,” he said. “Still, that’s what we’re going to have to do. We’ll pick up the trail in the morning. I know those men and they won’t ride through the night.”

“We can’t camp out here!” said Molly firmly. “It gets cold at night up this high.”

They had left the plains after a three hour ride, and had been climbing ever since.

“Yes, Ma’am it does.” he agreed. “We’ll just have to build a fire and live through it, I guess.”

“That’s insane.” complained Molly.

“You can’t go back in the dark, ma’am,” said the boy. “And if you did you’d lose hours on the trail. I thought you cow people were supposed to be tough,” he said mildly.

Molly bristled. “You watch your mouth, boy,” she grumped.

But there was no heat in her voice. She realized she sounded soft and pampered to be complaining about a single night out in the open. She’d done that when she was younger lots of times. She’d show him tough!

Three hours later she wasn’t so sure she was tough at all.

He had some food in his saddlebags, which he shared with her.

Then, finding a rock face, he built a fire right up against it. He dragged in two respectably sized logs and lay them next to the rock face, forming a V, and then built a fire filling the void between them. He added wood until the blaze was uncomfortably hot and she complained.

“The heat will soak into the rock and then reflect back out when the fire dies down.” he explained. “Whichever one of us wakes up in the night will need to add wood to keep it going all night, but the fire will eat down into those logs, and it will be easy to get it going again.”

“Aren’t you going to stand watch?” asked Molly. It had been a long time since she’d slept out in the open. She’d been a girl the last time she’d camped.