Sons of the Dawn

Sons of the Dawn A Basque Odyssey Hank Nuwer

Sons of the Dawn All rights reserved Copyright 2014 Hank Nuwer This is a work of fiction. Disclaimer: Sons of the Dawn is drawn in part from actual historical events that occurred in Idaho and Spain from 1897 through 1937, as well as from the experiences of the author with Basque herders trailing sheep for magazine assignments. Except for historical persons, all characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people is coincidental and unintentional. Reproduction in any manner, in whole or part, in English or any other languages, or otherwise without the written permission of publisher is prohibited. For information contact: Shalako Press P.O. Box 371, Oakdale, CA 95361-0371 http://www.shalakopress.com ISBN: 978-0-9892917-6-7 Cover design: Karen Borrelli Front cover art provided by Will Caldwell Back cover and page 4 photographs provided by © Susan Fleck 2008 Author photograph provided by Dennis Cripe Copy editor: Jenine Howard Printed in the United States of America

Dedication This book is lovingly dedicated to my sons Christian and Adam, grandchildren Aden and Zoey, and daughter-inlaw Susan. But it also is for fellow author Gary Eller, lifelong pal Ben Pesta, and my confidante Thelma Moore.

Chapter One: The Stonelifter October 15, 1897 Young giant Anton Ibarra guided a blue oxcart from a wisp of a Spanish town called St. Mammes to the bustling, walled city of Guernica. The rain had pelted the earth all that morning, and spray flew off the cart’s wheels as it passed the Tree of Guernica. Today was a day of celebration called the Basque Games, and Anton planned to compete in the stonelifting event. A tremendous gust of wind bent back the oak’s top limb like a bow. The ancient tree trembled and moaned. The ox raised its head and bellowed. Anton’s little brother Nicky sat beside him, having his ear talked off by Padre Paulo Bilboa, the guardian to the orphaned brothers. “This oak is not any ordinary tree, Nicky,” the padre said, clearing his throat in between words. “The great council of Guernica held democratic assemblies under this oak. In 1492, the Catholic king and queen of Spain wished to unite the far-flung outposts of Spain into one nation. They swore an oath that promised we Basques would enjoy certain privileges for all time.” “So this tree is a national treasure?” Nicky said. “Yes, a sacred space revered by poet and shepherd alike,” the padre said. “But we Basques don’t want to be part of Spain any longer, do we?” Anton asked. “No,” the padre agreed. “We want Spain to declare the Basque country an independent state. We are a proud people with a culture apart from the other peoples of Spain.”

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“We are special?” Nicky said, running his hands through cropped hair black as a raven's breast. “Well, different, anyway,” Anton said. “We are a people hailing from villages so ancient and isolated that scholars think our language began in the late Stone Age.” “That makes us special,” Nicky insisted. A great shout like a crashing rockslide came from the Guernica plaza. “Hurry, hurry, Anton,” Nicky said. “The games must be starting. You’ll miss your event.” “Run ahead, you two,” the padre said. “I will bed down this slowpoke ox in the town stable and join you when I can.” The boys jumped from the cart. Anton jogged toward the town square of Guernica, ignoring the pain in his toes caused by boots too snug for his growing feet. Nicky followed, taking two steps to every one of Anton’s. Shouts of “Here he comes” from townspeople greeted Anton. He pumped his fist to acknowledge his supporters. A dozen boys and girls ran behind him, annoying Nicky because they had cut in front of him. Stonelifting was a revered sport of the Basques. Strong competitors like Anton hoisted quarry stones as tall as a wagon wheel. The event thrilled spectators but harbored danger. A slip of an ankle brought hundreds of pounds of rock crashing around an athlete’s ears. The greatest Basque stonelifters achieved local fame as legendary heroes. Anton knew the accomplishments of many lifters long after they had retired from competition. Do I have what it takes to be a champion? Anton often asked himself. As he passed the town's blacksmith shop, Anton glanced at a mural that he had painted on one of its exterior walls. The padre could not afford to buy Anton more than one or two sturdy shirts in a year. Commissions on wall paintings allowed Anton to make small purchases of art 2  

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supplies and, now and then, to take the padre a slab of bacon from the butcher. The blacksmith had hired Anton to paint a mural to brighten the walls of the livery stable. “What scene would you like to paint for me?” the blacksmith, a brawny man with a right arm larger than his left, asked Anton. “A local legend,” Anton had replied. “In the twelfth century the feudal lord Falcones rang a church bell to assemble nobles plotting his overthrow. The soldiers of Falcones ambushed the gathered men.” “Not one escaped,” the blacksmith agreed. “A great tale.” Merchants swatted the stonelifter's broad back as he arrived at his event on a congested street. Anton was a sentimental favorite, competing against two older opponents. They were twins, known by all to be gruff braggarts. The shouts of idlers as they placed bets for or against the stonelifter echoed off the russet roofs of village houses. Anton felt pressure on his huge shoulders to win. He represented his family honor as an Ibarra. Basques from Guernica and the close-by towns of Muxica and St. Mammes counted on him to defeat the newcomers. They were twins, but not identical. Bernard and Henry Navarre had moved to Guernica after their papa had purchased a large tract of land outside the medieval walls, adding to his already ample lands in Durango and Pamplona. The shop owners of Guernica locked their doors all afternoon to join the spectators drawn from each bay and hilltop in Biscay. Loudest of these was the blacksmith. Anton’s patron boasted to visiting revelers that they were about to see the strongest boy in all Spain. “Just look at him,” the blacksmith said, pointing to the boy’s muscles straining his tunic. “I’ve watched him lift a colt as easily as if it were a kitten.” Anton favored his knees as he did exercises on a stage used for the stonelifting event. His boots pinched his 3  

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toes. He vowed, when this was over, to paint more murals to pay a cobbler to make a new pair. Nicky squeezed past the bulging bellies of shopkeepers in the crowd, hoping to get a closer view of Anton. “Excuse me, excuse me,” he told one and all as they let him pass. “This is my brother’s event. Let me through.” Nicky found a place to stand near the stage. He saw Anton take small, even breaths to steady his nerves. The stonelifter stretched the big tendons in his arms, shoulders and calves to avoid pulling or tearing a muscle. He looked over the heads of the villagers in the crowd, tuning out the cheers and catcalls. He took courage and calmed his nerves by looking over his beloved ancient hills and the tops of the silver-leafed, sinewy olive trees. A young woman’s shouts of encouragement distracted Anton. He scanned the crowd. Clarisse Millex, tallest and boldest of the village lasses, chanted doggerel she always was making up about Anton. “Anton the stonelifter, big and tall. Show us who is the strongest of all.” Anton gave a shy wave. Eleven months older than Anton, Clarisse reddened the big boy’s cheeks by waving at him now. Nicky giggled. Clarisse inspired his brother to do silly things such as carving the initials “CM” into the bark of madrone trees. Among the Guernica girls in their long black dresses and veils, Clarisse stood out in her traditional Basque white dress with blue silk sash like a songbird among ravens. The organizers of the Basque Games had selected her as one of the dancers to open the ceremonies that morning. She still wore her costume to show it off for Anton. Clarisse’s mother had accompanied her to the stonelifting event as she was obligated to do for her daughter’s reputation. The sour grimace on the older woman’s face told the world how her frisky daughter had misjudged how a “raised right” Basque girl needed to act. 4  

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Anton turned his gaze away from Clarisse lest he drop all concentration and poise. Focus on the competition, he scolded himself. Focus on the competition. One of the three judges for the event pressed a goatherd’s horn to his lips. After the harsh notes silenced the crowd, he addressed the opponents. “The man who draws the longest straw lifts first,” he said. The three contestants drew straws from a cup. They compared them. Anton’s was the longest. His two opponents scowled. “You go first, son,” the judge said to Anton.

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Chapter Two: The Avalanche The padre was out of breath when he ran up and joined Nicky as Anton approached the huge stone. He stretched a gnarled hand from under a long black sleeve and touched the boy on the shoulder. “Let us pray that Anton’s performance will honor the memory of your dear late parents.” “Yes, yes,” Nicky said. “He will win, don’t worry.” The padre looked at the boys, so vigorous now, and pondered that day in the Pyrenees when Anton was four years old and Nicky but two. He and his half-brother Raoul had left the monastery after a long pilgrimage to the Pyrenees. They wore snowshoes and were headed back to their separate homes in St. Mammes. They were getting past a mountain summit when far below them an avalanche started that was to claim the parents of Anton and Nicky. He could still see the mother stuffing two frightened boys into the slit in her coat as the white torrent descended like a relentless hunter. Beneath its surface, the avalanche carried loose gravel and boulders as large as a wagon. The padre witnessed the tragedy unfold as if it were a tableau. The husband had pushed his staff hard into the snow. He had tried to reach his wife and sons with the obvious intent to throw his body over them. The mother extended her hand. A scream choked off in her throat. It was the last sound her husband heard before a bounding rock caught him full in the head. 6  

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The padre and Raoul hurried to the site of the tragedy as quickly as they could. Although they were safe atop the ridge, they saw that any creature below the surging white tide was soon to know the fragility of life. They covered their ears as the avalanche broke apart pinnacles of rock beneath the snow. They watched tons of rock shards, boulders and snowy ice hurtle down the slope. Raoul had been the first to witness the parents in peril. "By the saints, look over there, Paulo." The padre saw the white wall below the summit spread like the sea in a tsunami. "Those poor people are doomed." In that moment between life is and life is no more, the priest chewed his mittens and said a prayer. “Forgive them their sins, Oh, Lord.” "Hurry, Paulo. We must try to save them." "All heaven collapsed on their heads," the padre yelled as he descended. "Watch for crevasses or we too will be lost." As the men hurried downward, they mumbled oaths of frustration. The avalanche limited all visibility. Thick clouds of white powder carried to the sky. The two men fell repeatedly in their haste to reach the victims. Using a bent, but still-standing tree as a landmark near where they witnessed the parents being swept away, the priest and Raoul arrived at the location of the catastrophe. They swiveled their heads this way and that, looking for life even as they expected to find death. The priest uttered a prayer to the Blessed Virgin for assistance. His prayer turned into a cry of relief. “Mother of God!” The jutting end of a shepherd’s crook protruded from a high drift. "Over here, Raoul," the priest shouted. Using their mittens to scoop snow, the men uncovered the lifeless papa first, then the mother, her neck broken. They clawed at the bulges in her coat and tore at her buttons. 7  

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“What have we here?” the padre said. “The mother’s wool coat has provided an air pocket for these buried children,” Raoul said. The two men pounded the backs of the children, trying to reawaken their lungs. The younger child wailed. The older sucked breaths of air that drove the ghastly cyan from his cheeks. The priest fell on his knees in the snow. “Bless these miracle children,” he cried. After mumbling a prayer over the parents’ bodies, the priest stuffed the younger boy into the great pocket of his woolen coat. Raoul dumped the contents of his deer-hide knapsack and placed the older boy inside. Then the rescuers trudged up the banks on their snowshoes back to the monastery faster than either had traveled before. Their lungs burned with exertion, but neither cared. Now and then one spoke a reassuring word to the bundle he carried, but otherwise all was silence. Snowflakes dropped like loose change into a church poor box. In no time the shoulders of the two men carried epaulets of white. Although they were in good physical condition, the exertion of the return winded them. Once the rescuers reached the safety of the monastery walls, they shouted for help. Two sturdy monks in dark robes came running. Astounded to find the two boys blue from exhaustion and cold, they wrapped them in wool blankets and placed their feet in tubs of warm water. As the monks labored, Raoul and his brother sat on an oak bench to warm their hands in front of a fireplace eight feet across at the opening. “It will be summer before searchers can find the mother and father to receive a church burial,” Raoul said, his eyes on the blazing logs. “One of us must help these boys,” the padre said. “Yes, one of us.” The monks invited Raoul and his brother to stay until the futures of the two young boys could be determined. Monastery baptismal records revealed that the names of the 8  

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two surviving boys were Anton and Nikolas Ibarra. Days of prolonged search by Church authorities at the parents’ village produced no relatives willing to adopt the brothers. "Their parents owned no land, working hand-tomouth as tenants for a landlord who provided them a cottage barely large enough for beds and a table," the monastery's abbey informed the priest and Raoul. After praying for guidance, the padre asked the abbey to make him the guardian of the boys, counting on the isolation of St. Mammes to overcome any potential resistance that the Vatican might voice concerning a priest taking on the role of guardian. He brought Anton and Nicky before the abbey. The abbey tried to comfort the boys, handing them a loaf of buttered fresh bread and two glasses of goat’s milk. "The two boys will be safe with me," the padre told the abbey. He made the Sign of the Cross over the covered heads of the two frightened boys. The padre’s decision led to an argument. Raoul countered that he wanted to adopt the boys and take them with his wife and daughter to Idaho, what he called “a land of limitless opportunity.” In the end, after hearing pleas from Raoul and the padre, the abbey made a decision. “I recommend that the two boys remain in Spain,” he said. “Who knows what hardships may endanger your own family across the sea, Raoul?” Raoul squeezed his wool hat between his hands. “I will help Paulo transport these lads to his rectory, and then I will book passage for my family on one of the great ships bound for America,” Raoul informed the abbey. “If these two poor boys ever want for anything, I ask only that my brother write me to help them.” The two men put Anton and Nicky on a sled with painted red runners donated by the abbey. They made the long journey to the padre’s parish in the heart of the Basque country near Guernica. Once there, Paulo enlisted his 9  

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housekeeper and some of the widows in his congregation to convert a back room in the rectory into a nursery. "Anton and Nicky are a gift from God since the Church has forbidden priests to marry," he told his congregation from the pulpit during his first sermon back from the monastery. “I am their papa now.”

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Chapter Three: The Competition With the summer sun roasting the back of his neck, Anton touched his toes again and again as he addressed the quarry stone. He used his leg muscles to protect his spine when he lifted. Ever since the padre brought him as a tot to his first Basque games, he had studied the techniques of the champion lifters. Nicky never failed to tease Anton at the rectory when the younger brother caught him in front of a looking glass, practicing his form or flexing his biceps. All warmed up, Anton riveted his eyes on the two burly opponents seated on a wooden bench waiting their turns. The hairy-armed, muscular twins glared at Anton, intending to intimidate. Like all stonelifters they looked for any psychological edge to win. The contempt on Henry's face, in particular, was as dark as his unshaven beard. Anton folded his powerful forearms and ignored their psychological games. A hush swept the onlookers as Anton poised his powerful legs to use as levers. His strategy was to raise the stone in a single motion, taking as much pressure as possible off his spine. Other competitors preferred sacrificing their bodies by slowly rolling the huge stone up their legs and bellies and then thrusting upward. A few who did so injured themselves by using their backs without leg thrusting and ever hence walked as if bent in two. A single shrill voice pierced the silence. “You can whip anyone, my brother.” 11  

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“Quiet, Nicky,” hissed the padre, waving a finger in his son’s face. “Let him prepare in peace.” “All right, Padre,” Nicky said, pouting. Anton squatted, ready to throw his muscles into the lift. Before he could move, a tiny white dog placed its paws on the stone and licked Anton's nose. The spectators erupted in laughter. Anton shook his head with amusement, his long, curly hair falling over his forehead. Nicky let out a sigh, relieved that his brother remained unflustered. The stonelifter patted the dog on its rump. “Run off to find love elsewhere,” Anton said, his joke making the judges cackle. Anton hunched over the four-hundred-fifty-pound granite stone reposing in a ring made from whitewashed rocks. When he made his move it was too swift for all but the sharpest eyes to follow. One moment the stone rested on the ground, and the next it balanced on his right shoulder. The veins in Anton’s forehead and biceps bulged like rainswollen streams. The onlookers screamed and applauded, save for the hooting villagers who held wagers putting their dinero on Bernard or Henry. Clarisse whistled through her teeth. “Good job, handsome,” she shouted, while her mother tried in vain to subdue her for fear of scandal. “Good job, handsome,” Nicky shouted in imitation of Clarisse, stretching each syllable and giggling. The padre wagged a finger. “Stop making a scene, Nicky.” Anton’s friends Ramiro and Etienne hurried to relieve the stonelifter of his burden. The two brothers were special favorites of the padre because each planned to become a Benedictine monk. They plucked the boulder from Anton’s shoulder and grunted. The stone was too much for them. Their knees shook and wobbled. “Give us a hand, Anton,” Ramiro croaked.

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“Of course,” Anton said. He wiped the sweat from his neck with a towel and rushed to help them lower the boulder. Once he had helped put the stone on the ground, the stonelifter’s eyes went back to Clarisse. Her lustrous chestnut eyes stayed on his. She pointed to the stray white dog gathered in her arms and giggled. When her mother turned her head away, Clarisse gave an exaggerated wink, causing Anton's cheeks, already pink with exertion, to redden like roses. Anton waved to his supporters and strode to the bench. Henry greeted him with a sneer heavy with contempt. One of the judges pointed to Bernard who fidgeted and rubbed his hands as he stood. The crowd saw that the impatient Bernard Navarre could not wait one second longer to lift the stone. He wanted to show this upstart and Henry a lesson they never would forget. Bernard flexed shoulders that were as wide as the yoke of an ox. He had a hateful look that would frighten a lion, caused in part by decayed front teeth. Bernard, the elder by one hour, possessed the confident air of a firstborn son destined to inherit his family’s farm. The Basque way of life made younger siblings—unable by custom and law to inherit property—scramble from the nest to work in distant countries lest they stay in Spain and endure poverty. To divide up property among all sons and daughters was unthinkable for a landowner. To do so meant that all one’s substantial property eventually would be reduced to mere splinter holdings. A family would lose all the status it once had if the property should be divided and divided and divided. Bernard glanced at Clarisse to see if she watched him. She looked away. But her mother lifted a tentative hand and waggled it at Bernard.

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“Clarisse doesn’t like you,” Henry said. He looked for any edge over his brother, even if it meant personal cruelty. “Maybe you’ll have to marry her mother.” “No matter,” Bernard said, his bulging jaw set. “Her father will order her to marry me. She will learn to love me after we marry.” Anton’s features darkened as he listened to their jabbering. How could he, a poor boy with no prospects, hope to persuade Clarisse’s father of his worth? Especially when he had to compete with Bernard’s family wealth? Anton’s attention went to his aching feet. He slid off his tight boots and kicked them under the bench to get a minute of relief. Henry pursed his thick lips in a crafty sneer that vanished as quickly as it appeared. The judge waved Bernard into the ring. Those supporting this twin cheered as he waved a broad arm aloft. He wrapped his huge hands around the quarry rock with a spread-fingered grip that gave him leverage. He roared like a bear with its nose caught in a beehive. The stone shot off the ground as if weightless. Bernard balanced the boulder on his left knee. In another two counts, he tried hoisting the stone to his chest. He lost momentum, causing him to stagger out the ring. The townspeople gasped as the competitor’s left leg bent as if on a swivel. He grimaced and displayed his blackened, rotted teeth. He weaved from side to side and toppled, screaming as pain shot through his chest where he had strained a muscle. He dropped the stone and it stuck in the sandy soil. The injured lifter twisted in the dust, heaving and squeezing the fleshy part of his chest where he felt excruciating pain. Henry put a hand over his mouth to muffle a chuckle over his twin’s misfortune. He stayed glued to the bench while Anton ran over shoeless to assist Bernard. Anton patted the unfortunate opponent. “It is only a muscle pull.” Bernard gasped as a spasm of pain overtook him. A spray of saliva came from his mouth. The foul juices covered 14  

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Anton’s shirt, and he choked on the scents of garlic, wine and meat. “I am sorry, Anton,” Bernard said, mortified and humiliated. “You could not help it.” Anton lifted a hand to signal two big men serving Bernard as his seconds. They wrapped the injured lifter’s arms over their shoulders and spirited him away to see a doctor. Bernard’s boots dragged in the dust like the talons of an injured hawk. Retching as he tore off his shirt, Anton failed to notice what Nicky had observed. Henry had snatched two sharp small pebbles and inserted one each into Anton’s goatskin boots as Bernard was led away to the village doctor. Nicky tried to warn his brother with frantic hand signals and then a shout. “Anton,” he screamed. His brother heard nothing, preoccupied with getting clean. Ramiro and Etienne brought him a bucket of water and a towel. Anton washed up. He felt embarrassed that Clarisse and everyone else in town had seen him without a shirt. He plopped down on the bench next to Henry and tried to ignore the smirking giant beside him. Nicky again tried shouting a warning to Anton. The padre clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth. He had enough of Nicky’s impudence. “You hush or go back to the oxcart and wait, my son,” he said. “You will break Anton’s concentration.” Nicky watched, agitated. He stayed quiet, however. Neither brother argued with the padre, ever. Henry Navarre waved to the crowd when he entered the ring. He was a roaring hellion, a man mountain of three hundred pounds. He was as strong as his twin but far more fleshy. Henry’s stomach hung over his rope belt. His face, pitted with acne, bore a permanent grimace. He resented his black-toothed, elder brother inheriting the property. His envy had turned him bitter as a shriveled lemon. 15  

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His sleeveless dyed sheepskin vest displayed upper arms as wide as fence posts. Although his wealth was limited as the second-born son of a landowner, he owned no lack of ego because of his size and strength. Henry spat on his hands. He bent to wrestle with the stone. When the boulder reached his ponderous belly, his arms quivered but never dropped. He extended his forearms to get the boulder past his roll of abdomen fat. “Don't let that young pup beat you, Henry,” shouted a tailor who had specially made Henry's sheepskin vest. “Let the pup see how the better man always wins.” Henry grunted. He pulled the stone from his navel to his left shoulder, and his supporters crowed like roosters. His hoarse bellow of triumph could have been heard in distant Madrid. Having been taught proper sportsmanship by the padre, Anton joined the villagers in applause, lifting his hands to ask his supporters to cheer his rival. Nicky folded his arms until the padre nudged him hard in the ribs. Only then did he clap his hands together two or three times. The first bout between Henry and Anton was a draw. “End of the round,” a judge called to the crowd. Henry’s brawny helpers snatched the immense stone from him. Three bulky townsmen, directed by the judges, placed a granite block with lead inserts weighing five hundred pounds inside the ring. The crowd buzzed. “Few expected the competitors to require a stone so enormous,” the blacksmith informed another visiting spectator. Nicky closed his eyes to relieve the tension. Anton put on his boots and edged his way into the ring. He felt the pressure of Henry’s stones in his boots and winced, but he thought better of returning to the bench to remove them. A kernel of doubt stirred inside Anton. Could he even get the extra weight off the ground, let alone shoulder the massive stone? 16  

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Clarisse called out her belief in him. “You can lift twice that, Anton.” The determination he saw on Clarisse’s saucy face put doubt out of his mind. In his soul he followed an unwritten eleventh commandment: Thou Shalt Not Quit. The stonelifter concentrated. He listened with his heart and head. Give the lift your best and be done with it. Think about failing and you will fail. Oblivious to the shouting of the crowds around him, Anton addressed the stone. Concentrate on technique and good results will follow. Nicky whispered to the padre. “That cheater Henry put pebbles in Anton’s boots.” “That miserable skunk, Henry,” the padre said. “Why didn’t you say so?” Nicky’s mouth dropped. He never had heard his guardian so angry. The padre never said a bad word about anyone but the devil. Anton wrestled with the quarry rock. When he brought the stone up fast, the stones cut his heels like diamonds on glass. Instead of bringing the stone cleanly onto his shoulder, he began to sway. Anton positioned the rock chest-high in spite of his agony, but no higher. He roared like a speared lion. The stone fell from his hands, bounced an inch from one boot, and rolled on the floor of the ring. Spectators cheering for Anton emitted a collective groan of disappointment. His remaining opponent smirked at Anton’s humiliation. “Oh, too bad, boy,” Henry said. Anton resisted the urge to bury his fist in the ape’s jaw. He had done nothing wrong, done nothing to be embarrassed over. He kept his head high. A single set of hands began clapping. Clarisse whistled through her teeth. Nicky and the padre applauded. The noise inspired the supporters of Anton to cheer, drowning jeers from Henry’s followers. 17  

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Anton limped to the bench and removed his boots. He shook out the pebbles and rattled them in one fist. He wanted to throw them into Henry's sneering mug but instead let them fall at his own feet. He blamed himself for his predicament. Why hadn’t he paused to extract the stones the second he felt them? One judge saw the stones drop, realized the trickery, and frowned. “I'm sorry,” the judge said to Anton, his palms down in an expression of helplessness. “Nothing can be done.” Henry went to work inside the ring. He flexed his muscles under his sheepskin vest to show off for the crowd, and then bent low to protect his spine. Using momentum, he raised the granite block to his knees. The padre watched Henry’s technique with a critical eye. “He almost came up too quickly, I think,” he said to Nicky. “No, the big ox adjusted in time,” Nicky said. Henry regained his center of gravity. He fought to keep from capsizing sideways and brought the stone up inchby-inch until it rested on his shoulder. Henry gave a murderous yell of triumph and then shouted a profane word that made mothers in the crowd clap their hands over their children’s ears. The padre shook his head in disgust. Henry's helpers staggered as they took the block from him and let it thud on the earth. The judges huddled. Their jaws worked in unison. At last, one judge blew the goat horn for attention, and he announced the decision to the plaza. “We have a winner,” the judge, a slender merchant named Emile with a patch over one eye, called to the onlookers. He tapped Henry on the shoulder. “You don’t deserve this but here you are,” Emile whispered. He presented Henry with a small silver trophy cup and then turned his back on the winner. Anton approached the strutting Henry and threw out a congratulatory hand. 18  

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Henry spat on the ground, his hand at his side. “You have learned a lesson,” he said. “Boys should not compete with real men.” Anton chewed his lower lip. Nicky confronted Henry like a terrier baiting a mastiff. “Real men do not cheat to win,” Nicky shouted for all to hear. Henry gave a snort of contempt. “This little rooster fights your battles for you, huh, Anton?” Anton fumed but the padre caught his eye. His beloved guardian always preached turning the other cheek, in part because he feared Anton did not know his own strength and, if angered, might kill someone with his powerful fists. Anton’s shoulders slumped. He turned away and gave Henry a view of his broad back. He dared not disrespect his foster father by indulging in a lowly street fight. “Oh, it is a coward you are, Anton,” Henry roared. He threw a parting boast as he headed for the café to celebrate with punch. “I can outlift, outgun and outfight any man.” Nicky stuck his tongue out at Henry’s back. “Henry can out-throw more bull than any man,” he screamed. “Enough, my boy,” huffed the padre, restraining his impetuous son with a hand on the shoulder. Henry turned and glared at Nicky. The padre stepped in front of Nicky and addressed Henry. “You are a lummox, son,” he said. “Have no doubt of that.” “Bah,” Henry said. He looked for any follower of his eager to buy the winner a picon punch at the café. Clarisse escaped her mother for a moment and ran to the stonelifter’s side. “Be proud, Anton,” she said, and then let her mother drag her off to the family’s cottage. The padre clapped Anton’s back when she released the boy. “A splendid effort, my son,” he said. 19  

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The helpers Ramiro and Etienne shook Anton’s hand. “You were both so kind to assist me,” Anton said. He gave each a bear hug of thanks. Anton threw up both arms, acknowledging the few lingering cheers from his supporters leaving the plaza to take a siesta. Three workmen stopped their oxcart in front of the stone to carry it away to the quarry. They struggled with the rock. They could not budge it. Anton walked over to the stone, bent, and jerked the weight to his shoulder. When he put it under control he took a step forward and placed the weight on the back of the cart so the workmen could haul it away. Sweat poured from his neck and back. “Thank you, son,” one said, apologizing. “It was too much for us.” “That lift proves you were better than Henry, Anton,” Nicky shouted. “Next contest you will beat that cheater.”

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Chapter Four: Soldiers on the Hunt The trio made their way from the event stage toward the stable. Before they had walked two blocks, the sound of beating hooves reached them. In a matter of moments, they saw mounted cavalry officers waving swords aloft as if in battle. Behind them raced a wagon attached to a team of mules with a soldier at the reins. Prisoners trussed in ropes lined the back of the wagon bed like cordwood. The padre made the Sign of the Cross. “Run, boys, run fast.” Anton and Nicky matched the huffing padre long step for step over the cobblestone streets of Guernica. Anton grimaced as his too-small boots pinched his toes. The trio took a side street that led them into an alley intersecting ancient row houses with walls made from hard-baked mud. The three made their way back to the blacksmith’s stable where the blue cart awaited them. The padre's head jerked this way and that as they slipped inside the stable, and he rushed to push the ox into its traces. The brothers popped their heads out an open window in the stable. They saw that some of the soldiers in blue uniforms had dismounted and swarmed the main street in pursuit of two fleeing, broad-shouldered young men. “They are after Ramiro and Etienne,” Nicky said. Anton balled his fists. He watched as Ramiro tripped and skidded on his knees. 21  

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Etienne helped him up, but the delay allowed the soldiers to reach the pair. They grabbed the brothers by the shoulders and threw them to the paved street. A husky brute found a broken tree limb on the ground and broke it over Ramiro’s head. “They clubbed Ramiro,” Anton said to the padre. “Keep your voice down,” the padre hissed. In minutes the soldiers had hogtied Ramiro and Etienne. They tossed them onto the back of a mule-drawn wagon with the other conscripts. Rivulets of blood ran from Ramiro’s forehead. Anton could stand this no longer. He took a step toward the stable entrance to intercede but the padre grabbed him by the arm and held on. “They have guns and swords,” the padre said. “If you interfere they will kill you.” Nicky pleaded for Ramiro and Etienne. “You must help them, Anton.” The padre rebuked Nicky. “I am not saying Anton should never fight,” he said. “But to confront soldiers is to display recklessness, not valor.” The soldiers looked around the empty street for more prey. The padre and the boys pushed deeper into the shadows of the stable. In ten minutes the invaders departed to scour the west side of the city and kidnap more young men for the Crown’s service. The widowed mother of Ramiro and Etienne chased after the wagon, her screams poignant and in vain. “They want to be monks, not fighters,” she cried as the soldiers and wagon turned onto a main street and out of her sight. She slumped to the earth; as sure as she could be that her sons were out of her life for a long time, perhaps even forever. The padre hurried to her side. He helped the sobbing woman up and let her cry on his chest before releasing her. Her pitiable moans as she tottered off for home distressed Anton and Nicky.

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“Back to the cart,” the padre ordered his two charges. “If we dawdle here the soldiers surely will come back and snatch you both.”

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Chapter Five: At the Rectory The oxcart ride back to St. Mammes jangled the nerves of the trio. The padre and brothers were ready to leap from the wagon and bolt at even the suggestion of trouble. They wondered aloud if the soldiers might have posted sentries on the road, but they relaxed as they passed the sacred oak tree without incident. Tired, they looked forward to whatever meal the housekeeper might serve after they arrived at St. Mammes. That evening, safe for the moment, the brothers recited the Lord’s Prayer. They joined hands with the padre to chant an additional prayer for Ramiro and Etienne before they dug their forks into salted cod prepared in a tomato and pepper sauce. “Do you boys like what I fixed?” the rectory housekeeper Senora Laka chirped. A small wren of a woman, she hopped like a bird from task to task. “It tastes wonderful,” Nicky said. The old woman beamed with hands perched on her ample hips. “I like to cook with wine,” she said to the padre. “Yes, sometimes you even add the wine to the food,” the padre said, teasing her until she blushed. While Senora Laka washed and put away the dishes, the padre beckoned the brothers into his book-lined study as he had done hundreds of times over the years. Here the padre taught them all he had learned in the seminary and much that his philosophic mind had gleaned from life. He himself was 24  

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the son of a poor scholar admired for the depth of his knowledge in the arts. The books of the padre added breadth to the brothers’ schooling. The padre loathed all censorship, and all he asked of a book was that its ideas challenge the mind. The brothers long had haunted these walls of shelved volumes to use reading as a means to while away the lonely hours in St. Mammes. In addition to novels of adventure and romance, the boys most loved the stories they read in the Bible. Anton liked to draw pen-and-ink illustrations of his favorite scenes. A number of precious volumes contained art reproductions, and these illustrations and paintings Anton copied by hand, never satisfied that his skills could ever match the great talents of a Francisco de Goya or a Rembrandt. Thanks to the patient insistence of the padre, the brothers learned many languages and perfected their own guttural Basque. This love of learning distinguished the brothers from oafs in neighboring Guernica who dismissed studying as foolishness fit merely for monks, nuns and the daughters of wealthy merchants. Anton studied the familiar names on the leather bindings: St. Augustine, Aristotle, and Cervantes. The padre had consumed many poor meals of rice and sardines to buy those volumes. Senora Laka set up a samovar on a small, ornate table in the library and poured three cups of tea. “You boys did not eat all your vegetables tonight,” she said, scolding them. “We loved the cod,” Anton said, hoping to appease her. “Eat your vegetables next time,” she said. The two came over to deliver appreciative hugs. She claimed no children of her own. The Ibarra boys filled a need for spirited boys in her life. The padre dismissed Senora Laka for the night. She shuffled to her own cottage a short walk from the rectory. 25  

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The padre brought a plate of sweets into his study and bade the brothers join him. Their loving guardian looked uncomfortable. His wire spectacles threatened to fall from the tip of his nose, and he poked them into place with a bony finger. “I want to talk about your future,” he said. “Have you thought about what happened to Ramiro and Etienne? “Yes, we have thought of little else, Padre,” Nicky said. “What are you trying to say?” Anton said. “Some months ago I heard rumors that the military of Spain began combing the villages to conscript young men,” the padre said. “Now I know it is true.” “But why does the military seek conscripts?” Nicky asked. “Spain once ruled the world, but greedy monarchs fought the world in wars, and today it rules only Cuba and the Philippines,” the padre explained. “Now even those countries demand their independence,” Anton added. “If Spain didn’t send armed soldiers there, the people would revolt entirely.” “Spain requires soldiers to protect its colonies in Cuba from the Americans,” the padre said. “The American president and many rich business leaders want their country to become a world power.” “If war breaks out, do you think the blood of many Spaniards will blot foreign soil?” Anton said. The padre nodded gravely. “Some time ago I began to dream of worlds that stretched beyond my imagination, where my sons might find a better life,” the padre said, sipping his tea. “Boys, I think God has his design for you outside the boundaries of Spain.” Anton raised a hand to protest. “We are happy here, Padre.” “How long can that last?” the guardian said. “As a priest I have taken a vow of poverty and have no land to leave you. I fear now that my sons will die in Cuba.” 26  

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“Nicky is too little to be a soldier,” Anton said. “I am not too little,” Nicky said with pouted lips. “No, Nicky is not too little,” the padre said. “He could serve as a cabin boy on a troop ship or carry a drum into battle. He is not too young to die. And you are massive, Anton. What an easy target you would make for an American marksman.” The padre cleared his throat. He reached into his satchel and handed the brothers a newspaper that a traveler had dropped on the cobblestones that morning in Guernica. A headline read, La Guerra Es Cerca—War Is Nigh. “The American press lusts for war,” the padre said. “The too-proud Spanish government would have every one of its soldiers fight to the death—even though the cause is hopeless.” “Why hopeless, Padre?” Anton asked. “Cuba lies right off the coast of Florida,” came the reply. “America’s Navy can ship fresh battalions to the harbors of Havana in a day. Spain’s military takes weeks to get reinforcements across the sea.” “What has war to do with us Basques?” Nicky demanded. “You said yourself we want to live independent of Spain.” “My son, Spain’s monarchs have forced our people to become soldiers or conquistadors for hundreds of years. Many a Basque has shed his precious blood in the Americas, and many a boy like you became a brute soldier and shed innocent blood of native peoples.” “They cannot make us fight in Cuba and kill Americans,” Nicky said, finishing his last sip of tea. “Anton and I have no quarrel with anyone.” “What could they do if we resisted?” Anton snapped. “Shoot you in a firing squad,” came the answer without hesitation. “The soldiers would say you were a traitor if you refused to take up arms.” Anton frowned and reached for another pastry. “Conscription is illegal in Spain, isn’t it, Padre?” 27  

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“No, the old law forbidding military conscription of Basques has been abolished by the Crown,” the padre said. “When negotiations with Spain break down, America will refuse to allow any more Spaniards into the country. You would be refused entrance and even treated as an enemy. The government of Spain cannot touch you if you get to Idaho before there is war.” Anton and Nicky exchanged looks. “Idaho?” Nicky said. “Your mind already is set on sending us away?” Anton said. “With all respect, you plan to exile us to Idaho?” Anton pronounced the state’s name as if it were a profane word, his broad shoulders drooping. “Bah, everyone knows that is where Basques go to earn a fortune and come back to Spain with their hearts broken and pockets empty.” “Yes, that has happened, but not always do they fail,” the padre said. “My half-brother Raoul left this province for America many years ago. He sailed with twenty dollars, steamship tickets and boundless energy when he took off with his wife and baby. He worked hard and made a new life, a decent life in Idaho, in spite of many hardships.” “No disrespect, Padre, but what is this Raoul to us that he wants us with him?” Nicky asked. “He is the only family you have outside me,” the padre said. “Tonight I plan to write a letter of inquiry to see if he might offer you two employment and protection.” “Who is he exactly?” Anton asked. “My parents adopted him when his mother and father died,” the padre said. “Raoul and I were never close since he is a decade younger than I am. He was much loved by my own scholar father, because Raoul used his mind to guide his hands. He once put a new terra cotta roof on my father’s house that he had designed all on his own. Perhaps I am a bit envious how much my father cared for Raoul.” The padre seemed to want to say something else but swallowed the thought. “Is there something else?” Nicky asked. 28  

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The padre hesitated, his face flushing lest he commit the sin of criticizing a relative who was not around to supply his side of things. “I valued praising God and he valued collecting wealth,” the padre said, his voice a whisper. “But yes, there is something else. We quarreled when I said I would take you into my home at the rectory. He and his wife Dominique wanted to take you both to America with them.” “He did not think you could be a mother and a father to us?” Nicky said. “He said I was a hopeless dreamer, and that you two would grow to be village loafers.” “He was wrong,” Nicky said, teasing again. “Only Anton has grown to be a loafer.” “So he is not a brother by blood,” Anton said, thumbing his nose at Nicky. “We are unrelated by blood. His daughter Martina is no direct relation to either of you. I always consider him a good man, as secular men go. He has other good qualities such as thrift.” “Will we live with him in Idaho?” Nicky asked. “No, Raoul has need of herders to watch over his great flocks of sheep on grazing lands,” the padre said. “Shepherds in the American West live outdoors, not on a ranch. He does raise some penned sheep, mainly less hardy breeds known for producing superior wool that need more protection from the cold and elements. However, his main need is for herders to guard flocks of sheep of two thousand or more all year round.” “These herders stay outside with the sheep?” Nicky scoffed. “All year?” “Not all year,” The padre said. “Much of the year, however. When a season is over, they get paid and have a little time to spend what they earn or see if they can buy a ranch or few acres of their own to make their own lives prosperous in time.”

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“But when the flocks are on graze land the herders work seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, Padre?” Anton asked. The padre held his hand up to stop the whining he detected in Anton’s voice. He kept his own voice even. “Yes, it is the custom in Idaho.” “We only keep four or five sheep at a time here in our pasture at the rectory,” countered Anton. “How will Nicky and I get the know-how to manage the care of thousands of sheep?” “You will learn, my boy,” the padre said. “Be patient.” “How can this Raoul fit thousands of sheep on a little piece of hillside?” Nicky asked. The padre chuckled and ruffled Nicky’s dark mop. “Grazing sheep isn’t like here in Spain where a small flock eats grass on a hillside. The government gave Raoul a plot of land for a ranch and since then he has bought lots more land,” he said. “He also leases public lands for grazing that take a herder a week to walk from end to end.” Nicky, always ready for a romp, plucked an atlas off a bookshelf. Many of adventure-loving Nicky’s thumbprints already marked its page corners. The youngster maintained a stamp album, and he looked up these countries each time one of the padre’s congregation members brought him a stamp as a souvenir after a journey. “Idaho—here it is,” Nicky said, thumping the book’s page. “What does its name mean?” “Some say it is an Indian word meaning gem of the mountains,' but some dispute that translation,” the padre said. “I like gem of the mountains myself.” “So there are high mountains like in Spain’s Pyrenees?” the boy asked. “Yes, Nicky,” the padre said. “The Sawtooth Mountains they are called because of their shape at the crest.” “Where is Raoul’s ranch?” Nicky asked. 30  

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“Near the towns of Hailey and Ketchum in the center of the state,” the padre said. “His occasional letters to me refer to a Big Wood River. In winter, there is much snow, and so in October or early November the herders and dogs trail the sheep to lower elevations far from his ranch.” Anton took the book and squinted at the page. “Lots of Idaho is nothing but forsaken plain.” “One can find beauty there,” the padre said in a stern tone. “God created the plains just as he did the forests.” Anton blushed. “I spoke out of turn. I am sorry.” “Will you come with us, Padre?” Nicky asked, a tremor in the boy’s voice. “My home is here, my boy,” the padre said. “I am responsible to my little congregation at St. Mammes.” The padre’s face was solemn. The brothers once had seen him cry after a telegram announced the death of his aged father. Now his eyes possessed that same squinty, wet look. Anton inspected the padre as if he were seeing him after a long voyage away. What he saw was a spindly man of forty-five, tall and stoop shouldered, a fringe of gray hair encircling his bald skull. “With all respect, Father, this is our home. Have we displeased you that you send us away?” “No, never have my boys displeased me. How can you even ask that, Anton?” “Still you make us leave?” Nicky asked, scratching the budding hairs under his chin. “I am sorry, Nicky, but yes, if Raoul gives his blessing, you must depart,” the padre replied.

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Chapter Six: The Cave As was the custom of Anton and Nicky after supper, they took the short walk up the rocky hill above the rectory to disappear into the hidden cave that served them both as clubhouse and refuge. When the brothers first used to go out on their nocturnal visits to the cave, their guardian, always overprotective, tried to discourage them because it was dark. “Padre, in a cave it is always dark inside,” an exasperated Nicky would say until the point sunk in with their guardian. “You don’t have to understand, just let us go.” Nicky uncapped a fresh container of preserved peaches and divided the spoils equally with his brother. As Anton ate, he contemplated the first time his brother had revealed the cave’s location to him. “How did you ever find this cave, Nicky?” he had exclaimed in awe and astonishment. “As I picked berries off a bush, cold air brushed across my face,” Nicky had said. “I found this tiny opening, squeezed inside, and saw two glowing yellow eyes that vanished as soon as they appeared.” “Why did you not keep this wonderful secret to yourself?” Anton had asked Nicky. “We are brothers and friends and orphans,” Nicky had replied. “We share all.” In the two years since the discovery of the cave, Anton had taken to storing his paints and brushes in a small footlocker in the cave. The brothers also kept a cache of 32  

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preserved foods and a few treasured books. The cave was their special place, and even the padre swore never to reveal its location after they at last shared its secrets with him. Nicky savored the peaches in silence, the juice running down his chin. His mind went back to the initial discovery of the dark, gloomy cave. He had scooted back to the rectory and had made a torch from an oil-soaked rag tied around a branch from a silver birch. After lighting the torch, Nicky had begun exploring. He discovered evidence that human beings eons ago inhabited these caverns. On the cave floor he found dried and fresh scat, bits of primitive stone weapons, the blackened remains of a fire pit, and faded paintings of a bison, a deer, an enormous fish, a maneless lion and a horse. The paintings thrilled Nicky, and he imagined an artist, seated on a rock many thousands of years ago, painting in darkness save only for the flickering light of a campfire. Now as the brothers devoured their meal and tried to absorb the meaning of the padre’s decision to send them away, Nicky told Anton his latest discovery in the cave. “Two days ago I climbed to a ledge down a corridor where the roof had collapsed many hundreds or thousands of years ago. There I found a blackened wall and a dust-covered fire pit alongside it. I began digging near the fire pit, and I found something I need to show you.” The two brothers maneuvered through the caverns with the aid of hurricane lamps. “This is what I want you to see,” Nicky said. Anton aimed the light at a small stack of bones. He saw two skulls and well preserved bones that Nicky had reconstructed to show the clear skeletal outlines. “Babies,” Anton observed. “Human remains.” “I think maybe they died many thousands of years ago of cold weather or perhaps sickness.” “What makes you say that?”

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“I checked all the bones,” Nicky said. “Not a mark on them. If they died violently, their skulls should show fracture marks.” Anton thought this over and nodded. “Why would someone bury them near the fire pit though?” “Maybe some broken-hearted mother buried her two infants here,” Nicky said. “Maybe she wanted the souls of her babies to feel safe.” Anton pondered this. “So you think the mother buried the babies near the warm fire?” “It’s just my theory.” “I think it is a good theory, Brother,” Anton said. “What do you think about the purpose for these paintings?” “Maybe a hunter painted them to thank his gods for good hunting.” Anton scratched his head. “Or maybe he painted them before the hunt, praying that his aim be true.” “We need to rebury these infants deep in the ground lest a wildcat scatter the remains,” Nicky said. They did so, the burial place showing as a mound.

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Chapter Seven: A Letter from Idaho The padre and brothers endured many restless days and nights until a letter came from America with Raoul’s return address in the corner. Under no circumstances were the brothers allowed to visit Guernica lest they be captured. The brothers were milking the goat and feeding the chickens one evening when Paulo received the thick envelope in the mail. He considered calling the boys in to be present when he slit the envelope open, but thought better of it. He never was one to endure much suspense. He summoned the boys to his office. “Raoul has made up his mind,” he said. “You go to Idaho.” “Can we stay with you?” Anton implored. “Please, Padre.” Anton, for an art exercise, once had drawn the padre’s soft hands. His guardian had long fingers that extended like talons. Now the priest’s fingers drifted over two pieces of paper on the long wooden table that served as a desk. “He offers an opportunity that the Basque homeland cannot offer you two boys,” he said. “The answer is no.” Out of the folded letter dropped two bank checks, one for the padre to cash for two steamship tickets and a smaller check for the brothers to cash in New York for the train and food expenses to get them to Idaho. The envelope contained a hand-drawn map of New York City with a route to take them from the seaport to the train station. The envelope bore 35  

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Raoul’s return address and carried a cluster of red United States stamps depicting Benjamin Franklin. Nicky bounded from the table. He came back clutching his stamp album. “I don’t have these Ben Franklin stamps, Padre. Can I steam them off the envelope for my collection?” The padre removed his glasses and polished them with a white handkerchief he pulled from one long black sleeve. “Yes, Nicky, but wait a minute.” He regained his patient demeanor. “Anton, my son, please read the letter.” Raoul’s letter was written in English. Anton saw that the letter had been written sometime in the past. Mail apparently traveled at a snail’s pace from America to the Basque lands in Spain. Anton cleared his throat and began reading. My Dear Brother: Thank you for your letter and the holy cards. Your kind words reached us on a cold fall day and warmed our hearts. Yes, I am well, as is my daughter Martina. She is strong and smart and beautiful like her late mother. I have considered your request that I take Anton and Nicky into my care as sheepherders. As it happens, I am shorthanded a couple men capable of working sheep on the open range. Your two boys will need to be trained. I have a good man named Tubal whose rheumatism limits his time outdoors, but he is wise and knows the Idaho backcountry. Attached are checks that will cover all the costs of getting Anton and Nicky to Idaho. They must work off this money. It is a loan and not a gift. You will need to get them to the seacoast of France where they can board a ship. The Spanish Navy keeps an eye on all harbors to pluck sturdy boys like grapes off a vine to turn them into soldiers. They cannot depart from Spain. 36  

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Tell the boys to always speak English in America, not Basque or Spanish. This conflict with America is no time for anyone to advertise that he is a Spaniard. Popular songs here in America urge a war with Spain. May God bless and keep you and give you good health. Your brother, Raoul “We have no choice?” Anton asked. He considered how empty life might seem without the padre, without life in beautiful old Guernica and St. Mammes, and—he gagged at this thought—without saucy Clarisse to tease him. He knew he would even miss Senora Laka’s gentle, constant nagging. “I implore you to accept this departure as the probable will of God.” The padre got up from the table, placing his big hand on Anton’s broad shoulder. “There in Idaho you will be safe from soldiers trying to snatch you away. Now that the decision is made, we must hurry. If America does wage war with Spain, all its borders will be closed to entry for you and Nicky. Tomorrow I will ask my parishioners for ideas on a way to smuggle you two to France.” “Let’s go to the cave, Nicky,” Anton said, his shoulders stooped and sagging as he shrugged off the padre’s hand. Inside their rocky clubhouse, Nicky handed his brother a dish of peaches. “America is a strange place,” he said to Anton. “If we go to Cuba, the Americans shoot to kill us. If we go to America, they give us jobs.”

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Chapter Eight: On the Run The next morning at dawn, Anton and Nicky performed all chores by rote, their minds clouded with apprehension. After brushing the ox and turning it out to pasture, Anton and Nicky milked the cows before heading toward the rectory along a path created with flat stones. Anton paused when he heard horses on the road near the hillside. Anton saw the flash of swords swung overhead in the sunlight. “Soldiers here in St. Mammes,” he yelled. “Run, Nicky.” The leader of the soldiers heard the shout. He wheeled his big bay horse to head straight at the brothers. His comrades raced right behind on their mounts. “Head up the hill. We have only one chance,” Nicky said. His short legs pumped like pistons. “Yes, the cave,” Anton replied. The brothers scrambled up the brushy, rocky hilltop above the church. Nicky turned to watch five soldiers dismount. Hampered by swords and riding boots, the men lumbered up the hill in the dim light of morning. They passed white boulders made of fossilized seashells that dotted the slanted slope, evidence that this hilltop once was submerged in the ocean. The brothers left the stone path and plunged into a thicket of bushes. They halted in front of the boulder that made the entrance to the cave on their property undetectable. Nicky turned and saw that the brush blocked his sight of the 38  

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pursuers, which also meant the soldiers could not see the brothers. Another glance confirmed that the rocky soil showed no detectable footprints of theirs. “Hurry, Anton.” Anton bent before the monstrous boulder. After he had rolled it back as if it weighed no more than a teacup, Nicky grabbed a brush always hidden behind a berry bush and brushed away any possible evidence of their presence. Nicky crawled along the entrance of the cave until the ceiling clearance became higher and allowed him to stand. The boulder now blocked all view of the entryway from the outside. Breathless, Anton sat with his back to the boulder for a moment and then scooted after his brother until he too could stand tall. In another moment, Anton joined Nicky in front of a white stalagmite. The brothers navigated the cave until it opened into a cavern with a ceiling twenty-five feet tall. Nicky lighted the hurricane lamp he kept on a ledge inside a cave. “Safe at last,” Anton grunted. He shook his fist at the bluecoats trampling the earth in confusion overhead. “They must be asking one another how two people could vanish,” Nicky said. “We better stay the rest of the day and night.” “Our father will worry.” “By now he’s seen the bluecoats searching the hillside. He’ll figure where we must be hiding.” “I’m still hungry,” Nicky said, nodding his agreement. “Let’s eat.” The brothers set out tins of evaporated milk, sardines and peaches on a small table. They took out empty feed sacks that served as blankets and shawls. The cave was cold but not unbearable. Anton and Nicky swathed themselves in the flour sacks, hoping the soldiers would find it easier to kidnap victims in the bigger cities. “It is decided then,” Anton said, turning in for the night. “We go to Idaho.” 39  

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“Should we take something to America that reminds us of this place?” Nicky asked the first thing at dawn as he stretched and cracked his knuckles. “We can’t carry much on a steamship. Maybe something small.” Nicky brought the lamp to a crevice in the side of the cave. On a ledge, he and his brother had cached spear points and arrow flints. There also was a blow tube made from a bird’s hollow bone marked by a paint mixture that a primitive artist used to color his drawings of wall animals. Nicky pondered the choices. He handed Anton a flint spear point that still held the grooved opening where some unknown warrior fifteen thousand years ago had attached his spear. “Here is your lucky piece,” Nicky said. “You can fit it with a strip of rawhide and wear it around your neck.” Anton touched the sharp edge of the spear point.” Aii,” he said, examining his index finger where a drop of blood bubbled. “It is sharp.” “The warrior who made it knew what he was doing.” “He had to,” Anton said. “Only the savvy, smart and swift stood a chance of living more than twenty years in those times.” “You would have been an old man back then, Brother.” Nicky’s thoughts went to the trip halfway around the world that the padre dictated that he and Anton take. “We must be both smart and swift, too,” he said, hanging the lamp before crawling out of the entranceway. Anton put out his lamp. He breathed a farewell prayer directed at the ancient bones of the children before he rolled back the giant rock at the entranceway. “Please God, make it so one day I can return to St. Mammes.” Anton murmured. “I wish to die here in the land of my dear parents and be buried here, not in a foreign land called Idaho.”

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Chapter Nine: At the Café At last the morning of departure arrived on a blustery December day. The brothers hugged Senora Laka and boarded the oxcart for Guernica. The plan was to meet the man charged with getting Anton and Nicky safely to France after the padre cashed the check for transportation by steamer. Getting anyone to agree to smuggle the boys had been difficult. All feared execution on the spot if detected. The padre took Nicky to a popular café to treat him to a snack before the rendezvous at the stable. With reluctance the priest allowed Anton to run to Clarisse’s cottage to say farewell. Nicky saw right away upon walking inside that the idler Henry Navarre sat alone at his favorite table. Henry nursed a picon punch. He stirred the bitter orange drink and grumbled after taking a sip. “So we are cheating our regular customers now, are we?” he said to the waiter, a bald old man with tufts of hair sprouting from his ears. “Henry, Henry, always the complaining,” the waiter said. He bobbed up and down like a puppet. “Me always complaining—no, no,” Henry said. “It is this café that takes advantage. This drink is nothing but seltzer water and ice.” “Henry, you complain and yet you come back here,” the waiter said. Nicky tried to eavesdrop, missing whatever the padre was saying. 41  

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“You will hear me complain no more when I am a rich man in America. There the café will give a man all the picon in his drink that he pays for,” Henry said. “In America? What you trying to say here?” the waiter demanded. Henry reached into his sheepskin vest and waved a letter in the face of a waiter. It was written in English with a sprinkling of Basque words thrown in, and the waiter saw the postmark from the United States on the envelope. He also saw the envelope contained a stack of American paper money. “What does the letter say, Henry?” the waiter asked. “My English is not so good,” Henry said. “Mine either.” The waiter waved to Nicky. “You read English, don’t you?” “English, Spanish, French and Basque.” “How wonderful,” the waiter said, bobbing on the balls of his feet. “I have an aunt who can read. She is a nun.” “The padre here insisted that we learn them all.” “Don’t brag, boy,” Henry said. “Just read.” Nicky scanned the letter. It had a fresh punch splatter across the signature. He began to read out loud. Henry’s uncle in Idaho promised his nephew a steamship ticket and a job to ride the range protecting the lives of the Navarre shepherds and their flocks. In return he would be paid in cash or lambs, his choice. “If you stay in Spain you may be captured as a conscript, Henry,” his uncle warned him in closing. “Act at once.” “So it is true? You go to America?” the waiter inquired. Nicky leaned toward Henry to hear his answer. Now even the padre tried to eavesdrop. “Yes, to the Wood River Valley in Idaho and my uncle’s ranch. The streets of America are lined with silver.” Nicky handed back the letter to Henry. He admired the envelope’s pretty eight-cent stamp depicting U.S. troopers guarding a wagon train. So Henry, too, was escaping conscription. 42  

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“Can I have that stamp on your envelope?” Nicky asked. Henry started to hand it over, but then stopped. If the boy wanted the stamp, it must have value. “Get away,” Henry said, shooing him off. “Take care you do not find a grave instead of silver in the ground, Henry,” the waiter said, tugging at the tuft in his left ear. “My family has sent three sons to America. One died when Wyoming cattle ranchers dragged him on the ground behind a horse. The other two have been gone three years to Idaho and not one word. America, fie. America is no good.” “No, you are wrong, sir,” Henry said. He thumped the table with his fist. “In Idaho I will make my fortune and come back to Guernica to buy more land than my brother Bernard can imagine. Oh, that he were dead. Then all would rightfully be mine.” The padre gasped. Was there no end to Henry’s selfpity and greed? He started to rise from the table to address Henry, but at that moment, two traveling merchants from Pamplona strutted through the front door. They wore frilled shirts and high beaver hats. The new patrons exchanged low whispers and glanced sideways at Henry and his stubbly cheek and sheepskin vest. They snickered and peeled off their gloves before choosing seats at a far table. Henry recognized their respectability but seemed oblivious to their mockery. When he returned home from America he would dress in apparel as stylish as theirs. Henry pushed his tangled black hair off his sharprising forehead. He used his fingers to give it a semblance of brushing as he pondered the unfairness of his fate. Why was it that his miserable brother Bernard was born with wealth like these two café patrons possessed? Henry had no chance of inheriting his father's farm. The land had been in his family for two centuries. The estate began a century ago when the first Navarre quit his lonely, 43  

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dangerous life as a whaler at sea and came to a strip of bare land in the Basque Country with his meager belongings and a pair of lambs strapped to his back. “What is on your mind, Henry?” the waiter asked after serving the merchants cups of coffee and sugar biscuits. “It is all so unfair, all inheritance depending on birth order,” Henry said. “Had I been the first-born twin, I would rule the roost and it would be me asking a fine woman like Clarisse to marry me.” “These are the way things always have been,” the waiter said, shrugging his sagging shoulders. “Bernard was born first. Maybe you should have switched places with him in the womb.” “Yes, I should have. Now that miser with bad teeth will inherit more acreage than a man could touch with a walking stick in a week,” Henry complained and ran a hand over his unruly whiskers. He folded the letter and returned it to a pocket in his sheepskin. “You see why I must go to America?” he said to the waiter, putting down his cup so hard it threatened to split the saucer in two. “Perhaps it is best you go, Henry,” the waiter said with a shake of his head. “Another cousin of mine from Pamplona wrote me the other day. The army snatched thirty young men from his village. Maybe the soldiers will take you to Cuba if you stay.” “If they try to capture me, they will take a beating with my fists,” Henry vowed. The two well-dressed men butted into the conversation. “To fight for the glory of Spain is an honor,” the elder of the two said, banging his hand on the table for emphasis. “You should enlist, not threaten our military.” “Glory?” the waiter asked. “What glory is there in war and death?” “I’ll tell you what glory, sir,” the younger of the two men snapped, storming with his companion from the café. “It 44  

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is the satisfaction of knowing one has acted like a man, not like a pipsqueak.” The waiter shook his head as the door banged behind them. Henry exited at their heels. “Brave talk from gentlemen so rich they can pay substitutes to serve in the army in their place,” the waiter said and shuffled to the padre’s table to take his order. Anton, an hour later, rejoined Nicky and the padre. Nicky insisted upon hearing all about his brother’s meeting with Clarisse. “I knocked on the door of her small cottage, and her father answered. He insisted that anything I said to her should be said in front of him, of course," recalled Anton. “He stood there like a prison guard frowning at me until I broke the news to Clarisse that I was leaving. My going caused him to grin like a wolf.” “This departure is definite?” Clarisse had said, her fingertips brushing Anton’s forearms. “You cannot change your mind?’ Anton had told her that it was the padre’s mind that would not change. “Clarisse reached for my hand, but her father slapped it away. He told her that she must forget this poor church mouse that had not so much as a goat to call his own.” “What did you do after he threw you out?” the padre asked “What could I do in his house but show respect?” Anton said. “I took my hat and left.” “Did she say anything?” Nicky asked. “You write me, Anton Ibarra.” “You told her you would?” Nicky frowned. “Of course I did,” Anton said. “I had to shout that I would write her, because her father already had started dragging her into another room.” The waiter brought Anton a pot of tea. The snoop had listened to every word from his outpost in the kitchen. He scratched an ear and shook hands with Anton and Nicky. “I 45  

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am sad because of this news, but the padre is right to send you away even if America is no good,” he said. “If you stay you will be put in a Spanish uniform or prison as sure as the moon shows at night.” The padre thanked the waiter and paid the bill. He left a coin under his saucer. “Now drink your tea, and let us meet the smuggler at the stable as arranged,” he said, addressing the brothers. “You have far to travel tonight to reach the ports of France.”

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Chapter Ten: The Voyagers December 12, 1897 The first night at sea, on a ponderous, slow-moving steamship bound from France to the United Kingdom and then on to America, Anton found he could not sleep. He thought back to the ship’s departure and how he had wished saucy Clarisse had been standing on her tiptoes at the dock to wave her kerchief to him. His mind seemed unable to rest, his body tossed like the ship itself. He listened to Nicky’s breathing, punctuated by the monotonous drone of seawater splashing against the ship’s sides. Many berths had been taken already, but the brothers found two cots they staked out as their own. More travelers would come aboard when the ship stopped in England to take on additional passengers bound for New York. Next to Anton on a cot this night, Nicky slept with his patched coat folded under his head for a pillow. They each clutched a small wool afghan crafted by Senora Laka to keep the chilled night air off their bones. Anton’s mind raced. He thought back to all the events of past days, and how his beloved home in the Basque country had been taken from him. As he and Nicky left, Senora Laka had presented gifts of new goatskin boots and warm peasant-style shirts cut from old blankets. She had dissolved in tears when they hugged her. “Oh, stop your fussing,” Senora Laka said, her face blushing bright pink. “I'll write you both every month.” 47  

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She had ordered Anton to accompany her into the kitchen. With infinite patience, she had instructed him in the basics of baking bread, grinding coffee beans and cooking staples such as rice, beans and mutton. “Always have spices and herbs on hand,” she said. “Sage or peppers can make even plain beans tasty.” “How much should I use of these spices?” Anton asked. “Oh, a smidgeon here, a pinch there,” she replied. “Just do it by taste. Put a spoon in and lick it as the meal cooks.” On the evening of departure, the padre tussled the hair of his sons. He gathered the brothers in his arms and asked them to kneel for a blessing before they left the stable for the long journey to a French seaport. A one-eyed Basque fisherman hid the brothers and their sparse luggage in his cart under a tarp. The covering smelled of mackerel and watered their eyes the entire journey. Twice in the night a cluster of Spanish soldiers on horseback galloped past the cart, and the fisherman swore with gusto each time the crisis passed. The smuggler assured their passages with paid steerage tickets before dropping the brothers in sight of the gangplank of a steamship that looked big enough to hold all Noah’s creatures. All they had in the world fit into a carpetbag and a suitcase. Inside the suitcase was a Bible. The padre had fashioned a hidden slit on the inside back cover to hide a little dinero and the check from Raoul. After a jowly steward had let them on the ship, Anton and Nicky stepped on deck. They halted midstride when they looked out to sea. Moored less than three hundred feet away, a visiting Spanish military cargo ship reposed, while dozens of men loaded crate after crate. The brothers scurried down a set of stairs, vowing to hide in steerage until the whistle to depart sounded.

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At last the ship sailed, and the brothers thrilled to their first sight of water surrounding them, and the novelty of spotting a few silvery flying fish. As they settled down for the shorter voyage to England, the brothers found unbearable the odors of sweat, fever and hoarded food. If the two ventured too close to trunks and packed boxes, other passengers growled at them in harsh tongues they did not recognize. The lighting was poor and made the area below deck heavy with gloom. The toilets were few and unclean. Some thieving passengers stole powdered soap for washing, and the crew replaced it infrequently. Anton and Nicky were two of the few in steerage to vow to take a sponge bath daily. They sought asylum on an open deck whenever possible to breathe the clean salt air. “Could you imagine yourself working on a ship, Anton?” Nicky asked shortly after the ship sailed. “Well, I love the sight of an unending sea, but the monotony might get to me.” “I guess guarding sheep may get monotonous, too.” “No doubt it may,” Anton said. “Seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day.” “Yet many of our countryman have sailed these seas as whalers.” “Yes, and how many of those whalers now are interred in the sea, Nicky?” On the second morning at sea, Nicky sat up on his cot to catch Anton staring at a massive man relaxing on a bench. He had a thick blanket pulled up to his chin. “What is it? “Nicky asked. “Look close—it is Henry,” Anton said. “Like a bad coin he has turned up.” Henry sensed them staring at him. He recognized the Ibarra brothers but limited that recognition to addressing a sneer in Anton’s direction. They kept an eye on him all the way to England. The brothers perceived that the voyage was excruciating for 49  

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Henry. He had a delicate stomach and hated the rocking of the ship, vomiting over the ship’s rail so often that the ship’s crew quipped about the big man who fouled his sheepskin vest like a baby. Conditions below deck became more squalid by the minute. Over one thousand passengers crammed like sardines into below-deck quarters of the ship. The quarters had been partitioned to separate single men from families and single men from a few single women who had formed an instant alliance for companionship and protection. One day, disgusted with the stench of bodies in steerage, the brothers tried to slip past a steward and enter the premium first-class area. They were intercepted. “Riffraff like you two Spaniards better stay away from passengers in the ritzy staterooms and cabins,” a steward with a face like a weasel’s muttered. “Keep in steerage with the other low-class passengers.” “Why do you call it steerage?” Nicky asked, biting his tongue to ignore the insult. “It’s down in the hold with steerage gear like the rudder,” came the reply. “Mind that you steer clear of trouble while you’re down there.” The man chuckled at this tired pun of his that he had uttered dozens of times to other passengers. The brothers later were told by one kind steward—a Basque like themselves who was to now and then smuggle them a loaf of fresh bread—that the ship’s crew treated the first-class passengers like royalty. “There is a reason for this privileged treatment,” the steward said. “When the ship docks, the crew expects to pocket tips from the wealthier passengers in exchange for favors such as dropping a favorable word with the entry stewards at Ellis Island. Passengers in steerage never offer them so much as a franc at journey’s end.” Other than talking to the steward, the brothers spoke English and kept to themselves in steerage. Always they guarded a carpetbag containing a change of clothes and the 50  

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check, as well as an additional suitcase containing a change of clothing and Nicky’s precious stamp album. In time, out of boredom, some passengers hauled battered musical instruments out of their valises. On occasion they chose hymns that made other passengers break out in song—sometimes in two or three different languages at once. To pass the time as the ship bounced like driftwood on the sea, the Ibarras read and reread a Bible, an English grammar, and a French newspaper they had purchased for a penny at their departure port. The paper reported that the government of Spain overstretched its reach when it maintained a colony so close to Florida. The brothers read an editorial opining that if Spain ever abandoned Cuba, American businessmen would grab millions of dollars in profits from sugarcane, tobacco and rum. The steamship carried all manner of passengers. Many were males in their teens and twenties from Spain who also left with the intent of avoiding conscription. Their families had taught them suspicion, and these young men started a rumor that Anton and Nicky might be spies. Few approached them all the way to America. Neither brother much cared for water travel, although each weathered the trip without getting seasick. The meals the ship fed the steerage passengers were greasy stews flavored with scaled, nearly inedible flakes of salted cod or over-boiled beef. For variety they ate rubbery macaroni or overcooked beans. They picked at their meals. By the day, each brother felt his pants grow looser around the waist. “I will never forgive the cook for taking a perfectly good codfish and turning it into tasteless muck,” Nicky grumbled during one unmemorable dinner. After every miserable evening meal, the brothers retired, hoping to fall asleep before the vicious snoring of their neighbors robbed them of rest. Always they cleaned up a bit before sleep, and sometimes they waited an hour or 51  

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more before the line of passengers went down so that they could take their turn in a crowded washroom.

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Chapter Eleven: A Fresh Start January 16, 1898 The steamship pulled into New York harbor on a frosty morning long past its scheduled arrival day. A malfunctioning boiler that the captain feared might explode at sea had caused a long delay at a British seaport for a replacement and repairs. In England, the friendly Basque had done the brothers another good turn. “While we are stuck in port, you two can earn enough to buy your meals by unloading cargo from visiting merchant ships,” he said. “Come with me. That’s what I plan to do myself.” When finally back out to sea, the trip seemed to take forever to complete. No longer did the brothers thrill to the expanse of water. Not even the leaps of the silvery flying fish excited them much any longer. At last, however, word spread that the Statue of Liberty bearing the symbolic torch of freedom now was in sight. Anton and Nicky cheered with the other passengers, many who called her the “Mother of Exiles.” The statue was a mere dot when they first saw it. As the ship steamed closer, the brothers could see every fold and crease in Liberty’s garment. Some passengers began weeping after the first exultation passed, knowing there was little chance they ever would see the relatives left at their abandoned homes. Anton was one of those who resisted weeping. He had to put on a brave face for Nicky. 53  

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The stewards ordered the steerage passengers to go below as the ship docked. The crew admitted stern, unsmiling stewards on board whose job required them to register the first and second-class citizens. Most of the welloff voyagers had their papers and were freed from confinement to enter the country. However, Anton and Nicky and the other thousand steerage passengers were ordered to board ferries for transport to the Ellis Island processing center for intensive Customs interrogations. Anton’s mind raced with fear and worry. Had war between Spain and America broken out in the last day so that he and his brother would be denied entry? Was this country going to operate so differently that he would find it impossible to function? He pasted a smile on his face to reassure Nicky and readied himself to do whatever had to be done in the next day or days to pass the immigration examination. The brothers said farewell to the friendly steward as they left the ship for the ferry, and Anton parted with a coin to tip the man. Not long after, they piled behind a seemingly unending line of peasants contained behind a rail on Ellis Island. “My legs wobble as if on mismatched springs after so long at sea, Nicky,” Anton said. Immigration officials at the holding pen shouted directions at other poor people disgorged from steerage. Many passengers were confused, having no understanding of English, and they milled aimlessly until corralled by staff. It took two days before the Ibarra brothers came to the front of the line for questioning. Finally, Anton and Nicky met with officials in stiff hats and gold bars on their shoulders. The stewards inspected the papers the padre had organized for them inside leather pouches that were tied around the neck of each boy. Anton’s wore his papers beneath the spear tip that he had selected as his souvenir of the cave. The interviewers humbled Nicky and Anton, using wooden sticks to pry open eyelids. They probed open mouths seeking sores or white patches. 54  

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“Why do you poke us?” Nicky asked, speaking English. “Never can tell what sicknesses we find in people,” an examiner said after sizing the boy up. “One time we had a ship with half the passengers sick with smallpox. We shipped the entire infested lot back home fast on the same ship that had brought them.” “You can see that my brother and I are healthy and strong,” chimed in Anton. “You speak English clearly enough,” the official remarked to Anton. “Just work on losing that accent. You should have no trouble finding work.” “My brother and I already have jobs,” Anton said, pulling Raoul’s letter from his carpetbag. “We will herd sheep for my uncle in Idaho.” “Why didn’t you tell me that you have a sponsor?” the official said. “We speed this immigration process up for those who have jobs waiting.” The steward stamped their papers, scrawled notations in a record book and welcomed them to America. After the brothers shook his hand and departed, they heard a passenger with a coarse, deep voice screaming curses in Basque. He was one of the passengers yet to be admitted to the United States. “It’s Henry,” Anton said. “His nerves sound frayed,” Nicky said. “Frayed?” Anton said. “They have snapped like crisp bacon.” The brothers rushed to assist Henry. A surly immigration official shook his fist in the big man’s face and threatened to put him on the next ship to Europe. Seasick and disoriented, knowing barely a dozen English phrases, Henry had stopped washing his face and arms two days before the voyage ended. His disheveled clothing was freckled with vomit. He was unshaven, and the skin on his cheeks was blotchy and flecked with scales. 55  

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“Henry looks like he came across the ocean on a sinking raft,” Nicky said. Anton ran back to the official who had been nice to him. “I know this man screaming curses over there,” he said. “He has a job in Idaho.” “That true?” The official walked over to Henry. He motioned the angry interviewer to step back. “Do you have employment?” Henry did not understand. Anton translated what the official said into Basque. “He wants proof of a job.” Henry held out the letter from his uncle. “Here, you will see.” “All right,” the official said to Anton after scanning it. “Tell your friend to clean up in the lavatory. We can admit him. Tell your friend not to lose these stamped papers.” Anton translated. Henry heaved a moan of thanks and tried to shake hands with the official. The man recoiled. “No, no, get away.” Nicky failed to hide a rippling smile. The brothers walked Henry to the exit where a guard inspected the documents a last time. They passed a line of dispirited persons in a holding pen. These were the aged and infirm the steward had refused to let into America. “Whole families have been split in two, knowing that they will never see one another again except in heaven,” Anton said. A part of him might have welcomed a forced return trip to Spain. “That was not going to happen to us,” Nicky said. “When I was back there in line I vowed that we both would enter the United States or we would return home together.” Anton nodded. “I made the same resolution.” “It was not going to happen to me, either,” Henry blurted. “Before going back, I would have taken that steward by the throat and shaken him like a rat.” Anton rolled his eyes. “No, Henry,” Nicky said. “That isn’t how you make someone listen to you.” 56  

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“What do you know?” snapped Henry. “You are only a boy.” Nicky started to retort. Anton held up his hand to stop him. “Trust me on this, Henry. You need to start using your head in this country, not your fists.” “You do not have to worry about me,” Henry shouted in broken English. “I have brains and brawns.” Nicky slapped his forehead. “Henry, I want to say you are your own worst enemy, but I know that’s not true.” “What you mean?” “With your attitude you’ll pick up worst enemies wherever you go.” Nicky said.

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Chapter Twelve: Big City That first day on the streets in New York, a cold wind burnt the cheeks of the three immigrants. Henry shuffled a dozen paces behind the brothers. His heavy footlocker dented his shoulder, and he sweated in spite of the cool temperatures. Anton and Nicky slowed the pace when they observed Henry huffing and short of breath. Their boots crunched through the light snow. Anton pointed to a street sign. “Wall Street,” he said. “Yes, yes, just like on Raoul’s map,” Nicky said. The streets bustled with luxurious carriages. Men wore topcoats and fashionable headgear. One tall man stood half a head over everyone else. He was conspicuous in Western beaver Stetson. He walked with a confident air, as if he owned Wall Street. In his company was a thin man wearing a homburg and pince-nez spectacles. The cowboy caught a glimpse of the brothers’ peasant wardrobe and shook his head in contempt. “I think we have seen our first cowboy, Anton,” Nicky said. “I wonder what he is doing way out here?” “The other man is also a long way from home,” Anton said. “Did you hear his accent? I think he comes from England.” “Did you see that look the cowboy gave us?” Nicky said in Basque. “Yes, that is why we must only speak English.” The map led the brothers to a bank where Raoul kept an account. They exchanged the check for U.S. paper dollars 58  

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and coins. The most urgent thought on the brothers’ minds was to get the first decent meal they had eaten since Senora Laka’s table. A block from the railroad station they entered what they thought was a café, but actually was a saloon where hard-looking men swilled amber liquid from enormous schooners. Anton and Nicky took a table in a corner. Henry put down his footlocker near the door, gave the boys an offhand wave, and marched to the bar in front of an oversized mirror lined with bottles. The big man had the American dollar bills his uncle had sent him. The brothers gave their order to a waiter. The two gasped at what he told them they needed to pay for a bowl of corned beef and cabbage with a slice of black bread. “I guess the money from Raoul isn’t worth as much as we thought, Nicky,” Anton said, handing over what was demanded. The brothers watched Henry point to a mug on the bar and gesture as if he were swallowing air. The bartender, a sharp-tongued little man who walked with a cane and a limp, rolled his eyes. “Another dang foreigner,” he complained to no one in particular. “Probably a Spaniard to boot.” Spreading his hands on the sticky bar’s surface the bartender glared at Henry. “Speak up, what do you want?” Henry tried to think of the English word for the beverage. Back home there was a foamy drink like this made from sloe berries. That was it. “Beer,” he said. “That’s better, fellow,” the bartender said, rolling his eyes. “All customers must speak English in my joint.” The bartender threw a schooner under a spout. In his haste he set the full glass down hard on the curved rim of the bar in front of Henry. The glass tipped and foamy beer slopped over the edge of the mug to soak Henry’s pants from bottom button to top. At a nearby table, two ruffians jabbed one another with elbows and cackled. It looked as though this big foreign vagabond had wet himself. 59  

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Henry reached the ends of restraint. He pounded the bar with his giant fist and sent another mug an inch into the air. With a roar he vaulted catlike over the top of the bar, his belly sweeping mugs onto the floor, and he accosted the surly waiter. The man turned white as a corpse. Henry smacked the waiter on the rump with the man’s own cane. Shouts of support or protest came from the patrons. A shrill whistle from the street sounded in response to the commotion. Anton and Nicky stood up in fear, not knowing if they should help Henry or stay out of the fracas. A policeman with a brass badge on his coat ran inside the main room brandishing his billy club. Henry yanked it from his hand and tossed him aside. Six more policemen came with clubs into the saloon. They subdued Henry and threw him out of the saloon. He landed hard on the street’s cobblestones. One of the patrons came out with Henry’s trunk and tossed it at his feet. He was down but defiant. “I am no foreigner,” Henry shouted, his back flat on the cobblestones. “I am Amerikanuak.” The brothers ran outside, their stomachs in knots, leaving their food untouched. Anton spoke quickly in English, telling the officers that the surly waiter was to blame for the ruckus. “I don’t know, son,” one officer said, rubbing his jaw where one of Henry’s fists landed. “Does this bum really have a job?” “Show them your letter, Henry,” Anton said. Another of the officers who seemed in charge read the soiled paper. He nodded to his companions. “He has a job.” Glad to be rid of this troublemaking foreigner—a “black Basco” one of them called Henry by way of insult— the police informed him that they planned to accompany him to Grand Central Station, promising that one of them was to keep him under watch until his departure for Idaho. 60  

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Henry stumbled off in custody, bleeding and frustrated, no doubt recalling the warnings about America that the waiter in Guernica had given him. “At least he’ll have plenty of room on the train to stretch out,” Nicky said. “What do you mean?” “Given the way he looks and smells, I bet no one wants to share a seat with him all the way to Idaho.”

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Chapter Thirteen: War at Hand The brothers went back into the saloon. Their bowls of food had vanished. “Probably in some other patron’s stomach,” Nicky growled. After spending more money for replacement meals, they decided to walk to Grand Central Station. There they checked a giant board filled with city destinations and times for departure. Anton clapped his head in disappointment. A train headed west had pulled out of the station five minutes earlier. “So Henry probably is already on his way,” Anton said. “The next one won’t leave for eight hours.” “No matter, no matter,” Nicky said. “Let’s have an adventure and see a little more of New York.” They walked outside and in minutes found themselves within a district of brownstone tenements. “I am amazed how many people can crowd into a single building to live,” Anton said. They risked getting lost, even with the map, their heads turning this way and that to absorb the unfamiliar sounds, scents and sights. Here, a horse-drawn carriage without a driver ran amuck and struck a tree. Over there, police beat an intoxicated man with their clubs. In front of a house lit by a red light, a crone wearing foul perfume approached Nicky with an offer that turned his ears crimson. Anton and Nicky formed differing conclusions about this loud, confusing island city. In the exclusive neighborhoods, men wore top hats and the women wore 62  

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dresses that showed off waists so narrow that Anton could have wrapped his hands around them. “I could see myself living in New York,” Anton said. “I would pick out a neighborhood where artists and writers lived. I could get work painting murals and signs for businesses. In three or four years I would have the money to pay for a ship’s passage back to Clarisse to ask her to be my bride.” “No New York for me,” Nicky said, putting his palms out as if shoving the city away. “I love open spaces too much. I can’t wait to get to Idaho.” As they walked, the brothers self-consciously observed one another’s goatskin boots, berets and ballooning homespun shirts. They saw no one remotely dressed as they were until they came to sections of the city where Italian, Polish, Chinese and Scandinavian languages rolled off the tongues of residents. Even there, however, Anton’s giant frame earned stares from boys and girls. “He is an ape escaped from the zoo,” one pockmarked boy shouted, taunting Anton. Anton turned his back. “He’s afraid of you, Mick,” hollered a second boy. A chunk of stone bounced off Anton’s neck. Mick ran away with the pack of gleeful urchins at his heels. Anton took a deep breath. So that’s the way American hooligans greeted a newcomer. The brothers stared at buildings so tall that the two nearly toppled over as they looked up. They passed shop windows displaying hams and plucked chickens that might feed hungry boys for a month. A street vendor sold them boiled meat served between slabs of black bread. As they sat on a building stoop and ate, a newsboy hawking copies of the New York Journal approached them. “War is a-coming. Read all about it,” he shouted. His ears flapped out from under his torn, dirty cap. Anton pressed a coin into a crusted palm that had not seen soap and water in a month. 63  

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“Thanks, big fellow,” the boy said. The front page contained a sensational editorial. The writer called for an immediate invasion of Cuba to send the Spaniards packing. Anton read the editorial aloud to Nicky and tossed the newspaper in a trash container. A tramp in torn shoes rushed over to the container to grab what would serve as his blanket for the night. “Not every man in America makes his fortune here,” Anton said. He walked over to the man, intending to hand him a coin to buy bread, but the other scuttled like a crab to hide in some bushes, terrified of the giant. The brothers went on. They stopped to read some advertising posters tacked to a theater wall. After a short consultation, they agreed to pay admission to see a short film depicting American soldiers training to do battle with Spanish troops. The flicker, as the ticket seller referred to it, showed footage of anti-American Spanish citizens rioting in Cuba, demanding the Yankees leave Havana. The text on the flickering screen was pro-war. One blurb said that America would vanquish the Spanish Navy in mere days if war were declared. The film was over in ten minutes. Anton and Nicky came out shaken. “Ramiro and Etienne might die for a cause they do not support,” Anton said. “If the padre did not send us to America, we would be in Cuba fighting for our lives,” Nicky said. Anton blew wind through his cheeks, the wisdom of sending them from Spain fully apparent to him. “These Americans lust so for war.” Silent for a time, the brothers decided to tramp alongside a river full of commercial traffic. They gaped at freighters two times larger than the ship they had sailed on from Europe. A plump, long-tailed rat ran past Nicky’s feet, and the boy’s eyes bulged. “We don’t even have dogs that big in Spain.” 64  

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Anton laughed. “Yes, maybe we can harness a couple rats to a stagecoach and save ourselves the train fare to Idaho.” With time to kill, Anton and Nicky decided to walk on Park Avenue for no better reason than they liked the sound of the name. Anton’s eyes widened when he saw the posh area contained many private art galleries. The window display of one gallery intrigued Anton with its paintings of Western life, and he asked Nicky to stop for a minute. A hand-stenciled sign on a window told them they had reached the Archibald Thatcher Art Gallery and Taxidermy Studio. A bell hanging on the other side of the door jangled to announce their presence as they ducked inside and whipped off their caps. Numerous statues made of bronze took Anton’s breath away. They reminded Anton of the wolves and birds of prey he loved to fashion out of clay back home. Anton recognized his own homesickness. His fondest handmade sculptures had to remain at the rectory, and he missed every piece. Anton’s eyes went next to a painting on the far wall depicting rugged cowboys and determined Indians locked in a struggle to the death. He admired the way the horses of the riders blended with the background hues of rock and prairie. “I wonder if Indians are still on the warpath with settlers?” Nicky said. “No, that’s all part of the past,” Anton said. “I read in a magazine that many of the great chiefs are either living out their days on a reservation or traveling the world with a Wild West circus.” “That’s sad,” Nicky murmured. He searched for the name of the artist who had conceived this raw, spectacular work. “C. M. Russell.” “C. M. Russell,” Anton repeated. “He certainly captures a mood and a moment, doesn’t he? I wonder what the initials C.M. stand for?” 65  

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Anton and Nicky next paused in front of a stunning sculpture of a cowboy taming a bucking bronco created by an artist who signed his name Frederic Remington. Cast in bronze, the sculpture looked authentic right down to the delicate whip in the horseman’s right hand. “Look Nicky. The back hooves of this rearing horse are all that connects it to the statue's base,” Anton said. “What talent, what mastery.” “Yes, yes,” Nicky agreed. “So delicate, so powerful.” Nicky inspected the next canvas. “This painting of troopers guarding a wagon train looks familiar. Where have I seen it?” Anton's eyes shifted to all the mounted animals lining shelves and walls. These trophies of mountain sheep, deer and wild boar seemed ready to leap for freedom from the walls, although Anton realized they were put there to advertise Thatcher’s apparently booming taxidermy business. On another wall were the heads of a mounted lion, gazelle and tiger. The gaslights bore the discarded antlers of deer arranged in artistic fashion. Even the chairs in the room used old antlers in decorative fashion. “You better watch it that this Thatcher fellow doesn’t put your head on his wall, Anton,” Nicky joked. “A bignecked fellow like you would make a fine trophy.” Nicky looked up as a footstep sounded behind him, and he clapped his hand over his mouth. A well-dressed man with graying side-whiskers stood with folded arms before stepping into the gallery’s main room from the stockroom. “Sorry, sir,” Nicky said, realizing his silly remark had been overheard. “I’m Archibald Thatcher,” said the man, his voice crisp. “Can I help you?” “We simply liked all your paintings in the front window,” Anton said. His ears had flushed pink and warm. He was sure also that the joke had been overheard. “So we came inside.” 66  

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Thatcher saw the humor in the remark. “No need to be sorry, boys,” the gallery owner said, his lined face breaking into a smile. Thatcher took in their peasant clothing and decided their interest in art was genuine. He also reflected that more than one artist he represented would like painting these two boys, dressed as they were in Old World clothing. He decided to joke with them to put them at ease. “Did you notice my rather unusual trophy over here on the wall behind the lamp?” Anton and Nicky blinked in surprise as they looked at an odd wall hanging. The trophy sported the head of a jackrabbit hare and the antlers of a pronghorn antelope. “It’s a jackalope,” Thatcher said. “They grow wild all over Idaho. They are rare. They can run forty miles an hour and hop over a sheepwagon. To catch one, you tie a string to a carrot and dangle it into his hole.” Nicky’s eyes grew wide but Anton chuckled. He understood that Thatcher was teasing them with a tall tale. “Everyone knows that you cannot eat one,” Anton shot back. Thatcher wrinkled his nose and smiled. “Why, son?” “Even if you skin them they jump right out of the pot.” Thatcher groaned and chuckled. Then he turned to business. “I see you boys find my art collection intriguing,” Thatcher said. “These paintings are wonderful,” Anton said, fighting for the right word. “They are perfect. I have seen such art only in books until now. They take my breath away.” “Which are your favorites?” “I have two,” Anton said. “The first is the rider taming the bronco.” “Good choice,” Thatcher said. “That's by my old friend Remington. He once thought he could make a killing 67  

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by raising sheep. Turned out his talents excluded ranching. He went bust.” “That may be the world's gain,” Nicky said. “He sure is a great artist.” “A good writer, too, but he is a raving war hawk,” Thatcher said. “Last year he was in Cuba for the New York Journal writing and illustrating stories about the conflict with Spain. He stirred up considerable anti-Spanish sentiment.” “Our guardian back home thinks war is inevitable,” Anton said. “It may be. Cuba sure is a powder keg,” Thatcher said. “What is your other favorite work of art, Anton?” “This one by C.M. Russell, the one with the Indians making camp.” “It's a favorite of mine as well. In fact, if you had been here yesterday, you would have met Mr. Russell and his wife. He dropped off his latest three canvases with me for the framing and selling.” “I wish I could have met him,” Anton said. “He is a fine painter and also a fine illustrator for magazines,” Thatcher said. “He stayed with his wife at my home here in the city. He is a lively young fellow full of stories and humor.” Anton blushed but blurted out a secret dream of his own. “One day I hope to get paid for my art also,” he said. “In Spain I earned a little dinero by painting murals.” “You don’t say,” Thatcher said. “Well, could you use a couple sketchpads? Mr. Russell left a couple here that he no longer needed.” “Would I ever,” Anton said. Thatcher went to another cabinet and extracted two nearly unused sketchpads. Anton accepted the presents with a smile. He flipped through them and saw they were empty except for one page with a practice sketch of a hawk’s wing. Thatcher turned to the younger brother. “What do you like in this gallery, Nicky?” 68  

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Nicky pointed to the painting of troopers guarding a wagon train he had pointed out earlier to Anton. “I saw this painting on a postage stamp.” “You have a good eye for art and a better memory, son,” Thatcher said. “Do you boys like this painting of a herder with his sheep and dogs?” Anton and Nicky voiced their appreciation of the painting. “Can you believe this painting was executed right here in New York City?” Thatcher said. “It is by a little known painter who died too young of tuberculosis, but I too love it.” “How can that be?” Nicky said. “Bands of sheep in New York?” “Sheep in this big city?” Anton said, echoing his brother. “Really?” “Do you have a little time for me to show you?” Thatcher said. Anton glanced at a clock on the wall. “We have several hours before we need to board our train to Idaho.” “No time to lose then,” Thatcher responded. The brothers strode alongside the energetic Thatcher. He had donned a woolen topcoat with a plaid scarf. His apparel contrasted with their homespun garb. They crossed avenue after avenue with small pounds of piled snow adjacent to the sidewalks. “Are we almost there?” Nicky asked after Thatcher led them on a jaunt past a few old barns that seemed so outof-place in a city. It began to get colder, and the breaths of the walkers turned to steam. “Yes, we’re about there,” Thatcher said. “Where is there?” Anton asked. “Sheep Meadow,” Thatcher said. “It is part of a beautiful New York park designed by famous landscape architects Frederick Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux. It is my favorite place to get away from work and relax. I have a friend there I think you will like meeting.” 69  

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“Why do they call this place Sheep Meadow?” Nicky asked. “You will see,” their host answered, laughing. “I think I need a leash for you, Nicky, lest you get excited and wander off. You hand me one question after another.” They stepped lively now and left all tall buildings behind. They passed green hedges and ventured into a pasture. The brothers gasped at the sight of hundreds of white wooly sheep foraging on the grass beneath a light covering of snow. A herder working with two Australian shepherds saw Thatcher, waved and ambled over to shake hands with him. “Mr. Thatcher, sir,” the herder said in greeting. “Have you come to visit me?” “I have, Moses, and I have brought two young men from Spain who soon will be herding sheep themselves in Idaho,” Thatcher said. After a brief introduction, the herder and the brothers clasped hands. Moses was squat and compact, at least a foot shorter than his shepherd’s crook. His skin was dark as polished wood. “How are Caesar and Brutus?” Thatcher asked. “Fine as frog hair—the best herding dogs in the world,” Moses said. He gave a piercing whistle. Two brown and white dogs left a balky black ram and came running, tails low and eyes focused on the visitors. They rolled at Thatcher’s feet like pups. “They remember the man who visits me and brings them treats,” Moses said. Caesar turned on his back and offered his belly for scratching. “I guess they do,” Thatcher said, laughing. He reached into a pocket and pulled out two biscuits. He tossed the dogs one each. “Can I pet them?” Nicky asked. “Just a touch, just a touch,” Moses said. “Don’t spoil them.” 70  

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“A herder wants them to stay working dogs, not turn into lap pets,” Thatcher said. Nicky stroked one dog, Anton the other. They stopped as directed after a few seconds and touched them no more. “So smooth a coat they have,” Nicky said. “I brush them every day,” Moses said. “Keeps the hair from clumping, especially with thistles all over the park.” “We will soon be working with dogs on our Uncle Raoul’s ranch in Idaho,” Anton said. “I can see that Nicky and I need to keep those dogs well groomed.” “You catch on fast,” Moses interjected. “Yes, you must.” “Who herds sheep in the middle of a busy city?” Nicky asked. “The city fathers want children to stay in touch with their farm roots, among other reasons,” Thatcher said. “Sheep Meadow is a New York tradition.” Moses seemed to know by instinct when a sheep wanted to run from the flock. “I see a couple rams looking ready to bolt,” Moses said. “I’d better get back to work.” Moses flashed a hand signal to the dogs. They hurried away to round up three potential strays. Anton tried to hide the worry inside him. Was it possible he could even display half the ability to herd that this Moses so evidently possessed? A nearby clock tower struck five notes. Anton counted each one. “Perhaps we should hurry off, too, Mr. Thatcher,” Anton said. “We don’t want to miss our train.” “Of course,” came the reply. “Let me treat you two to a ride in comfort.” Thatcher walked the boys off to a nearby intersection and whistled for a carriage. One pulled out of traffic and stopped near Thatcher and the boys. It was a mule-drawn carriage, guided by a small, spry man in his seventies. 71  

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Thatcher handed the man two bills and gave him the boys’ destination. “Put your bags inside and we are off,” the driver said. “You have my business card, Anton,” Thatcher said. “Let me know if your work ever becomes good enough to sell.” “Do you think you could send a telegram to our Uncle Raoul to let him know when to expect us?” Anton said. “Of course,” Thatcher said, pulling out a second business card. “Write his name and contact information on the back of the card.” Anton scribbled the information from memory. The art dealer shook hands with the boys and was soon a block away headed back to his business. The ride to the train station was marked by lightly falling snow, giving a picture-card beauty to the trees of New York. “I never thought I would love a city as I do New York,” Anton said as he looked through the carriage window at the crowds milling outside department stores. “I love all New York offers in things to see,” Nicky said, as the carriage halted in front of their destination on Park Avenue and 42nd Street. “But it has too many people for me. I’m ready to shove off for Idaho and none too soon.” The driver unloaded their luggage and left them with a wave. “This building could swallow all of St. Mammes,” an awed Anton said of Grand Central Station. They stood for a moment on the sidewalk and watched laborers unload crates of oranges and bananas. “I know we had lunch, but I am hungry again,” Anton said. “Even my belly button has shrunk.” “I am famished,” Nicky said. They passed by an itinerant peddler selling apples from a basket. He had big jug-handled ears under a thatch of orange hair and shabby hat. Overhearing Anton’s complaint, 72  

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he landed at their feet like a tricky cat and announced that he was at their service to help them. “My name is Reuben Bench, and I’m a friend to the friendless,” the peddler said with a smile that reminded Anton of white piano keys. “How about a special sale on fruit? Two apples for a nickel. You can’t find a bargain like that in all New York.” Anton did the arithmetic in his head. Back home he could get a full bag of apples for half that price. The peddler saw the look of doubt. “How about three apples for a nickel?” Anton hesitated until he heard Nicky’s stomach grumble. “All right,” he said. He opened the carpetbag that held all the American currency he had picked up at the bank earlier except for a few dollars hidden inside their Bible. Anton extracted a coin and returned the change purse to the carpetbag. “You’re a sharp negotiator,” Reuben said, his eyes darting from the carpetbag to Anton like spinning marbles. “Not even the slickest merchant in the market can cheat me,” Anton said. “Oh, most assuredly,” Reuben purred. “You’re a sharp one.” Reuben zigzagged on his stick legs when he spotted a policeman, and he went several yards to his left to steer clear of the officer. The station was crowded. “I’ll show you where to buy tickets,” Reuben said. “We don’t need help,” Nicky said. “We were here this morning. We know what to do.” The stranger seemed not to hear. He led them to a ticket vendor. “They want a train headed west,” Reuben said to the ticket seller. “To Idaho,” chimed in Nicky. “It is found north of Nevada.” 73  

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“Thank you for the geography lesson, young sir,” snapped the ticket seller, but he winked and pointed to the 45-star United States flag on a pole over his boot. “Idaho was admitted to the Union in 1890.” “Thanks for the history lesson, kind sir,” Nicky said, imitating the ticket seller’s voice perfectly. The seller’s hoarse laughter filled his booth. “You nailed me with that one, son,” he roared. Reuben’s eyes compressed into slits. He watched several dollars escape Anton’s carpetbag in exchange for two tickets. The bedraggled peddler accompanied them to the train platform. When a conductor with a pencil moustache and foghorn lungs called for all to board, Reuben said his farewell. “Goodbye, gentlemen,” he purred. “Keep your eye on that cowboy. He looks a little shady.” The boys’ heads spun to look. “It's that man wearing a Stetson we saw on Wall Street,” Nicky said. They turned back to Reuben but he had vanished. Anton shrugged. The pesky man was out of his hair. Nicky bent to pick up Anton’s cardboard suitcase and gasped. “The carpetbag is gone—with Reuben,” Nicky said. He looked up and spotted the thief running up a set of stairs leading to the city’s streets. Reuben had the basket of apples in one hand and the boys’ valise in his other hand. “Now who is the shady one?” Nicky complained. Anton took a step to charge after Reuben, but the conductor’s call rang out. “Last call for the westbound train—All aboard that’s going aboard.” “A friend to the friendless indeed,” Anton said. His heart dropped into his stomach. The realization sunk in that he and Nicky had a long train ride ahead and only about two dollars hidden in the Bible for food. 74  

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Nicky tried to cheer his brother up. He imitated Anton’s gruff baritone. “Not even the slickest merchant in the market can cheat me.” Anton tried to manage a smile but failed. He had acted like the rube from a small village he really was. “If I ever meet Reuben Bench again, I may crush his apples for him.” “Good,” Nicky said, trying to hide the deep worry he felt lest Anton feel even more ashamed. “I like cider.”

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Chapter Fourteen: Sinclair’s Threat Steam from the wood-burning locomotive boiler hung over the train cars like a dirty halo. The tracks seemed loose at times, tossing the brothers up and down in their seats, rattling their teeth. Inside the packed passenger car, a smoky stove radiated heat. The brothers took bench seats so far from the stove that they kept on their coats to fight the chill. During the long ride, sparks from the locomotive’s boiler smacked against the windows of their car. “I’m glad it’s cold enough that all the windows on the train are shut,” Anton said. ”Otherwise, we’d have scorched coats.” The brothers found creative ways to pass the time. Nicky salvaged a battered copy of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer that a passenger had abandoned, and his lively imagination pictured Tom and his gang visiting him in the St. Mammes cave back in Spain. Anton pored over the sketchbooks. He drew the portraits of passengers he found intriguing, then shifted to creating pen and ink renderings from memory of birds and barnyard animals. Whenever the brothers saw that the attention of the train porter on guard had been diverted, they strolled into the smoky, heated club car where men in fancy vests gambled and sipped drinks. No one paid the brothers attention unless a player looked up from his hand of cards to gawk at Anton’s size or his peasant clothing. The boys walked over to abandoned tables and palmed handfuls of salty pretzels and 76  

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roasted chestnuts left untouched by passengers that had returned to their compartments. On the third day out of New York, Anton went to the club car to forage for food. His stomach never stopped growling. That morning they had spent one of their precious dollars on a small basket of boiled eggs. Even those failed to satisfy their hunger pangs. From the doorway of the club car he watched four men thumping cards. Currency, bills and poker chips covered the table. The rancher from Wall Street sipped a drink as he studied his dealt hand. Four empty whiskey tumblers and an ashtray of cigarette stubs littered his place at the table. The cowboy wore a pocket watch with a gold chain. He kept on his enormous Stetson while his fellow players went hatless. Approaching his forties, he nonetheless looked fit enough to vault into a saddle. Every gesture, even the profanity escaping his lips as he drew three useless cards in poker, marked him as a man hungering for power. “Too rich a pot for this mess in my hands,” he muttered. “About time you lost a hand, Sinclair,” one player snapped. Faro Sinclair tossed his cards. His eyes went to Anton who stood at an empty table and filled his pockets with pretzels. The boy carried his sketchbooks and his suitcase. “What are you doing there?” the rancher snapped. He tossed back his chair and stood eye-to-eye with Anton. His hands formed fists, his eyes narrowed. Startled by the confrontation, Anton could remember no English. He put down his suitcase. Confused, he answered the rancher in Basque and then Spanish. Ashamed, Anton covered his mouth. Sinclair grinned a wicked smile. “What do we have here?” the rancher said to his companions. He eyed Anton’s olive skin. “We have us a thieving Spaniard—maybe a Basco no less—among us.” 77  

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The others squinted at the huge man-child, nervous, apologetic and no threat to anyone. Anton reached into his pockets and dug out the rest of the pretzel crumbs and set them on the table. “Ah, let the big boy go, Sinclair,” said one of the players, a portly man wearing a wrinkled suit. “He isn’t wearing a Spanish military uniform.” “Sure, I’ll let him go, Russell, but only after I search him.” Sinclair moved toward Anton and started to rifle the boy’s pockets. The rancher bumped the table and his abandoned hand of cards fell to the floor. Anton stammered. “I—” “I what?” Sinclair said. He grabbed Anton by the huge forearm. “Give it all up, Basco.” Anton dumped more pretzel fragments on the card table. “You see?” Sinclair said, as he shoved his jaw right in Anton’s face. “All Spaniards are thieves. That’s why we have to drive them out of Cuba.” The door to the club car opened and a small wiry boy confronted the rancher. “Stop it, Mister,” Nicky shouted. “Let go of Anton’s arm.” “Oh, Anton, is it?” Sinclair said. “Please let him go, Sinclair,” echoed the well-dressed man, the one called Russell. “Those two are only boys, and I think maybe they are starving.” “Let him go,” Nicky repeated. “You heard him.” Sinclair’s hand shot out, catching Nicky full on one cheek. “Don’t be mouthy with me, you—.” Nicky’s hand shot to his stinging cheek. He had never been struck, and he was a third this brute’s size. Faro Sinclair never finished his rant. Anton’s scrapbooks flew from his hands. He wrapped his forearm around Sinclair’s neck like a python choking prey. True, the padre had reminded him a thousand times to be a pacifist, but America was a wild new country where the old European laws of 78  

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civility evidently failed to apply. And the padre was not here to defend Nicky. The rancher’s white collar separated in two in Anton’s grasp. Sinclair dangled off the ground like a gigantic puppet on strings. “Don’t ever touch my brother again.” This time Anton spoke in English, and he put emphasis on every word. Sinclair tried to curse, but his wind was cut off. Anton held him fifteen seconds, then for a half-minute, while the other card players tried to free the rancher by pulling at Anton’s chunky fingers. A stocky porter who had been serving drinks folded his arms and confronted Anton. “Son, I saw the whole thing, and I don’t blame you for getting mad, but if you don’t stop I’m going to have to put you off this train.” Anton ignored the porter, his chin muscles set. Sinclair kicked helpless legs in the air, his air supply gone. Anton’s big forearm continued to press against the man’s jugular. “If he dies, you’ll get fitted for a rope,” the porter screamed. Now he and all the card players shouted, fearful they were about to see Sinclair die. They were on their feet, urging Anton to let go. Russell tried to pry away Anton’s fingers. He could not budge a one. “Please, Anton,” Nicky pleaded. “Just drop him. He’s not worth it.” Nicky's plea reached Anton. He let go of his death grip. The rancher’s backside hit the table. Money, chips and cards fell to the floor. Sinclair bounced once and then lay flat. Russell helped him up. Sinclair was as defiant as ever. “You’ll pay for this, Basco,” Sinclair squeaked after he found air again. “Don’t ever come near us again.” Anton put his finger in the man’s face. Sinclair accepted his fallen Stetson from a card player. He tried to regain his lost dignity as color returned to 79  

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his face. “You’re lucky my pistol is locked away in the baggage car,” he croaked. The porter helped Anton pick up his sketchbooks and guided the brothers out of the car. “Don’t come in here again,” the conductor said. Russell left the table and followed the brothers. “Why don’t you let these two come with me to the dining car?” he said to the conductor, slipping him a dollar bill. Sinclair yelled at Russell to get back to the table, but the card player ignored him. “Let me get you another drink?” the porter said to Sinclair, mollifying him. Over a whopping meal of fried potatoes and ham, Anton observed his benefactor. Under his rumpled suit, the man wore a blue striped tick shirt and a wide navy tie that only reached his third shirt button. His long hair was no more tamed than a wild horse’s mane. “Don’t let Faro Sinclair’s threats get to you,” the benefactor said. “Decent stockmen don’t approve of his strong-arm methods.” “Who is this Sinclair?” Nicky asked. “He owns ranches all over the West. He's none too particular how he acquires them. Wants to be governor of Idaho one day.” “What does he have against Basques?” Anton asked. The stranger sized Anton up. “He's a cattleman and he has struggled with bad winters when he lost more than half his stock. He claims it was because traveling flocks of sheep cleared the free graze lands of feed. He blames the Basques that he isn’t even richer.” “What he was doing in New York?” Nicky asked. “He boasted at the poker table about a big deal he pulled off on Wall Street,” came the reply. “He buys Western ranches cheap from those poor souls he’s driven off the lands, and his English broker in New York sells the properties in England for a huge profit.” 80  

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“He is like Robin Hood in reverse,” Nicky said. “He steals from the poor and gives to the rich.” “By golly, I never thought of it that way. I'll have to tell my wife that one.” “What is it you do, sir?” Anton inquired. “Just call me Charlie, son. I’m an artist and illustrator always looking for work,” Russell said. “That's why I was back in the East. An editor had me read some short stories her magazine intended to run, and I get to draw the illustrations to accompany them. The illustration assignments pay enough to support me to give me time to finish my paintings that I hope will sell at a New York gallery.” Anton’s eyes widened, amazed to meet a person who made a living with his artistic talent. “They pay you good money for this?” “Oh, yes, when I can land an assignment. If one of your illustrations goes on the cover of a really big magazine like The Saturday Evening Post it buys grub for almost a year.” “But your paintings sell also?” “Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t,” Russell said. “I’ve had tough streaks where the only meal I had all day was a half-plate of beans, and I was grateful for that.” “Will you tell us your full name so we can look for it in magazines?” Nicky asked. “Where are my manners?” the man said. “My name is Russell, C. M. Russell, or Charlie for short.” Anton and Nicky exchanged looks. They had heard this name somewhere, but where? “So you run your own business, Charlie?” Anton asked. “No, my wife Nancy chides me for being a poor businessman and spending too much dough on my pals. So she runs my business and gives me an allowance like I was a child.” The brothers laughed. “Where do you call home?” Nicky asked. “Montana is home now.” 81  

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“Have you always made a living with your work?” Anton wanted to know. “I couldn’t even give my work away when I started,” Russell admitted. “I even herded sheep to earn a buck, but don't tell Faro Sinclair that.” “Ever ride a jackalope?” Anton asked, a look of mischief on his face. “Ah hah,” Russell said, grinning. “Once I jumped on one’s back in Montana, and he bolted straight in the air. He didn’t come down until we reached Mexico.” Anton and Nicky laughed. Anton told Russell that he too liked to draw and paint. “I have painted murals on the walls of businesses in Guernica,” he said. “That’s in Spain.” “Anything with you that you can show me?” Anton handed over his now-filled sketchbooks. “Your choice of sketchbooks is the same as mine, son,” he said. Russell flipped through the pages. The artist had expected to see amateurish sketches. His eyes widened. “These pen-and-ink sketches are splendid,” Russell said. His voice raised an octave in appreciation as he looked over one of the New York sheepdogs that Anton had drawn from memory. “Have you had a lesson?” Anton shook his head. “My mother showed me a little bit, but I was four when she died.” “My brother is good on his own,” Nicky said. “So you are a natural and self-taught,” Russell said. “You are good, but good is not enough. You must work hard to achieve greatness.” Anton’s face brightened, hungry for any suggestions that might shape his work. “I appreciate any guidance you can give me, Mr. Russell—Charlie.” “Splendid,” Russell said. With a few deft movements, he demonstrated how to add shadows to a portrait of Nicky that Anton had half-finished. “If you are to become an artist your skill must improve until it equals your passion.” Anton next displayed a sketch of an egret. 82  

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“You have done a remarkable job working different shades into the body,” Russell said. “Now do the same thing with the all-white areas. Remember that advice when you paint with oils or watercolors. Sometimes I have almost three dozen shades of white and ivory in the horses I paint.” As the two worked, Nicky curled up on the bench and napped. Russell hovered over Anton’s drawings and stressed the importance of conveying light and color. “Such mastery is as evident to the viewer as the artist’s signature,” Russell said. “I want to make drawings that tell a story,” Anton confessed. “Exactly right,” Russell said. “Storytelling is a must. You must cultivate an eye that sees all and an ear no sound escapes. Only then will you become a great illustrator and greater artist.” “I have another ambition,” Anton said. “I also want to work in clay, making lifelike sculptures of animals. Or maybe make statues in bronze like that Frederic Remington creates.” “I have been working a little with clay myself but find sculpture a challenge that one day I must master,” Russell confessed. “Remington is a fop with a big ego, but he is a genius, no question.” Other passengers entered the crowded dining car looking for a table. Russell invited Anton and his brother to visit his private compartment. They passed through several cars to reach his. A stern woman with her hair collected in a bun answered his knock. “Nancy dear, meet Anton and Nicky Ibarra,” he said. “Boys, my wife.” Nancy Russell's eyes narrowed at this interruption by boys wearing rude peasant clothing. She invited the brothers to take seats in spite of her puzzlement. Her husband collected the strangest friends. “Pleased to make your company,” she said. 83  

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After more small talk, Nancy returned to the newspaper she had been reading. Russell opened a trunk and unrolled his latest work, a painting of American Indians on a buffalo hunt. The jaws of the brothers dropped. Now they knew why this artist’s last name sounded familiar. “I’ve seen your work in the gallery of a Mr. Archibald Thatcher in New York,” Anton said. “You use initials instead of your first and middle name,” Nicky said. “Why, yes, I know Thatcher,” Russell said. “He shows my work, sells my work, actually.” Nancy Russell’s eyes widened. “How do two poor boys from Spain know a wealthy man like Archibald Thatcher?” “We walked into his shop, and he showed us your work and took us to Sheep Meadow when he learned that we were new herders,” Anton said. “I wish you had bought one or two of my paintings when you were there,” Russell joked. “We were going to, but we came up just a few dinero short,” Anton said, laughing. Russell opened a suitcase containing the wings and talons and vertebrae of a hawk that he said he found while hiking in New York’s Central Park. Mrs. Russell wrinkled her nose, excused herself, and told her husband he could join her later for coffee in the dining car. “Good to meet you, young men.” Russell and the brothers stood as she exited. Anton opened a sketchbook and showed the artist the sketch of the hawk’s wing. “Well, I’ll be,” Russell said. “That’s my sketch. No wonder these sketchbooks looked familiar.” The artist pointed to the wing and then launched into a lecture. “You must become a student of anatomy, knowing every bone and organ inside the specimen as well as you know their exterior flesh or feathers, Anton,” Russell said. 84  

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“You also must spend as much time creating brambles and bushes on the canvas as you do creating the bear cubs that play in them. You want to achieve authenticity.” “I see how necessary that is,” Anton said. “That is true of drawings and of one’s life as well,” Russell said. “Too many great artists end up living ruined lives.” Anton allowed that he understood. Russell went on to stress that natural talent could take an artist so far. “I like a joke as much as the next guy, but when I work I am all business,” he said. “This is a profession that calls for, no demands, concentration, technique and skill—and playfulness.” “Do you think I can learn what I need to learn on my own?” Anton asked. Russell saw Anton’s pained look. “I do not know but don’t get discouraged, son,” he said. “I have drawn and painted since I was a boy, and yet my work was once unpolished. Genius is not enough. You have to work at creating, and play at creating. I can see plain as daylight that you see that also.” “What is the one thing that every great artist has?” Anton asked. “The will to succeed, no question,” Russell opined. “Anton has the will,” Nicky said. “He learned that from his stonelifting.”

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Chapter Fifteen: The Basque Hotel After the train stopped at a depot in Utah, Charlie and Nancy Russell grabbed their baggage and departed for a connection to their home in Great Falls, Montana. From a wooden station platform they waved to the Ibarra brothers. Charlie gave them a salute with his raised hat, and Nancy waggled a farewell finger. Before departing, the artist gave the brothers a handful of dollars to buy food on the train, and he sketched each of them a bison skull to keep as souvenirs. “Make every pencil or brush stroke count, Anton,” he said, pumping each boy’s hand in farewell. Under each of the skulls he wrote down his address. “Write anytime, fellows. I love getting mail and sending it, too.” The train continued. The brothers made sure Sinclair was not in the restaurant car before they went there to eat. They wanted no more trouble. The money from Russell bought them a stew. “I am so happy this long ride is almost over,” Nicky said. “America is such a big country.” “I will be glad to feel earth under my feet,” Anton agreed. It was dark when the boys departed the train to catch a connecting train headed north to Idaho. The next morning, as light snow fell, the train stopped with a squeal of brakes at the station in Hailey, Idaho. Upon hearing their destination called by the conductor, Anton and Nicky grabbed their 86  

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bags. They stepped outside and thrilled to the sight of snowcrested mountains and the bluest sky imaginable. “At last!” Nicky shouted. A cheery emissary from Raoul greeted the brothers on the platform. He was a stout fellow in his fifties with a huge chest that long ago had merged with his belly. “You must be Nicky and Anton,” he said. “Raoul got a telegram saying you should be here and here you are.” “And you are…?”Anton asked, having learned from the Grand Central Station theft to keep strangers at bay until he knew them better. “Tubal Buscal in the flesh,” the old timer said with a mock bow. “Here to take you to the greatest cultural institution in Idaho, the Basque hotel and boardinghouse.” The brothers blinked in confusion. Tubal spoke neither straight Basque nor straight English, but rather he tossed a mixture of both into the same sentence. Faro Sinclair strode past Tubal and the brothers. His eyes were daggers. Two lackeys in battered cowboy hats carried his trunk and two packed carpetbags. “We’ll meet again, Bascos,” Sinclair said, biting the end of a cigar. Nicky stuck out his chest. Anton clamped a big hand over his brother’s mouth. “No, Nicky,” he said. “Don’t shoot your mouth off at him.” Tubal scratched his head. Sinclair marched away with his boots thumping on the wooden platform. “I see you boys are popular with that big-shot Sinclair.” “Popular?” Nicky said. The brothers laughed as Tubal winked at them. Anton kept a wary eye on the departing rancher and his lackeys. A woman doused in perfume stood at the end of the platform. She wore a hat with a cluster of waxed fruit for decoration. “Never saw a woman wear her lunch on her head before,” Tubal said.

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“Welcome back, darling Faro,” the woman gushed. The brothers figured her for Sinclair’s wife by the glittering diamond ring on her left hand. “For once you’re on time, Maddie,” Sinclair snapped. Her smile faded at the rebuke. “I guess I am,” she said. “My, aren’t we cranky today? How was your trip?” “Perfect,” he said. “The Englishman took three ranches off my hands to sell to his countrymen.” She kissed his cheek, and then drew back. “How did you get those nasty bruises on your neck, Faro?” “I fought my own personal war with Spain,” he said, glancing backward at Anton. “It ain’t over yet, either.” He threw his arm around her plump waist and steered her away like a rowboat. Tubal piled the newcomers into a buckboard and drove along the wide Hailey main street. He pointed out the mercantile store, barber, livery stable, Catholic church, a Chinese laundry and other establishments. Tubal said that all the Basques in this small town either knew one another or were related. Several people in front of the stores waved to Tubal as he drove. They stared at his two passengers in peasant apparel. Tubal halted his team in front of a cheery, two-story building. Smoke curled upward from two chimneys. “Welcome to Xavier Xaga’s Basque Hotel and Boardinghouse, your home away from the sheep,” Tubal said, sweeping one sun-spotted hand with a flourish. Inside Xaga’s hotel, the atmosphere accompanying the noon meal resembled a beehive. This was different from the slow pace in the café back in Guernica. Young girls in traditional Basque dress ran this way and that, waiting on tables. Some of the older men warming hands by a fireplace called greetings to Tubal. He found an empty table and bade the brothers take seats. “Nicky,” Anton hissed. “Take off the cap.” The hotel owner sailed to the table like a kite. He was a widower with swept-back grey hair and a pointed beard. 88  

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“Xavier Xaga,” he said and threw them a hand to shake American-style. “Welcome to Idaho, home of rattlesnakes, coyotes and buzzards like my good friend Tubal.” Xaga’s ample belly shook with merriment. “These boys are Anton and Nicky Ibarra, the new herders for Raoul’s sheep,” Tubal said. “Has any mail come for them from Spain?” “Not lately,” Xaga said. “Mail from Spain takes forever these days to reach Idaho. But at least there still is mail. If war happens that will cut off many here from hearing anything from the Old Country.” Xaga called over one of his daughters to take their order. “Xaga has many daughters,” Tubal said, pointing to the young women carrying plates and glasses. “I don’t think he even knows how many.” One of them shot Tubal a rude stare. “That one does not look happy,” Anton said. “Or nice,” Nicky whispered. “Mara Xaga is the mean daughter,” Tubal agreed. “If it’s a choice of rattlesnakes or her, take the rattlesnakes.” Mara, an attractive young woman except for lips pinched tight, came by for the order. “Plates of spaghetti and leg of lamb served in spices,” Tubal said. “I love the aroma of fresh lamb,” Anton said, trying to be friendly. “I hate the smell of sheep even cooked,” Mara snapped. “And you reek of sheep, Tubal.” “Why, thank you,” Tubal said, batting his eyelashes as if he had been complimented. She left and went into the kitchen. She returned with three plates and a bowl of rolls. “Enjoy,” Mara barked. “That’s an order,” quipped Tubal with a snicker, but he dared say it only after Mara was past earshot. 89  

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Anton and Nicky chuckled. This Tubal was a mischievous young boy trapped in a middle-aged body. A white-haired Basque man in his eighties limped over to a piano in the corner and balanced his cane against it before sitting on a revolving stool to play. “That is Xaga's father, Lucien,” Tubal said. “He likes to play his music. Unluckily for us, he has minimal talent.” Lucien played a note or two and then an old man who was sweeping floors put down his broom and began to warble an old Basque tune. He was gifted with a lovely tenor voice, and the room quieted. “If you have one Basque in a room you have a singer,” Tubal whispered. “More Basques and you have a choir.” Tubal changed the topic to that of their new duties as herders. “You boys ready for whatever comes?” “What will life be like working for Raoul as our employer?” Anton asked. “The herder he has now with the sheep is on loan from the Navarre Ranch until I can train you two boys. The last full-time herder quit without notice.” “Why?” Anton asked. “Couldn’t stand his own company, I guess,” Tubal said. “He worked on the range all alone.” “But you have stayed with Raoul many years,” Nicky said, pressing him. “Raoul is a good man. He demands no less of himself than he demands of his herders.” “Yet I take it that Raoul generates a good income from his hard work, while you take home peanuts for your labor,” Anton said. Tubal’s eyes widened. He said nothing. “I don’t know,” Nicky chimed in. “If I owned a ranch I might want a profit just as Raoul does.” “You are even smarter than Anton, Nicky,” Tubal joked. 90  

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Mara brought over flan and brought the conversation to a standstill. After the three polished off dessert, Tubal paid the bill and stuffed a leftover dinner roll into his pocket. During the wagon ride to Raoul’s ranch north of Hailey, Tubal kept up patter nonstop. The wooden wheels of the wagon left tracks in the snow as they passed. What little grass lined the trail was brown and lifeless as the blades poking through the snow. Tubal loved history and sharing what stories he knew. “Idaho back in 1859 was home to maybe three hundred people in the entire state who were not Native Americans or Chinese workers hoping to save enough to return to their native land,” Tubal informed the brothers. “But a few years later the discovery of silver and gold brought greenhorns here like flies on a carcass.” “So the state of Idaho is growing?” Anton asked. “No, though maybe that will change one day,” Tubal said, munching on the roll he had snitched from Xaga's. “Idaho is full of ghost towns. The winking out of silver meant everyone who came then went. In the 1880s about sixty thousand people lived in the state but now there maybe are forty thousand.” “I guess fortune hunters didn't want to put down roots,” Anton said. “No, many weren’t fortune hunters. They merely had seen no future but starvation in their home countries. Many Chinese and Basques came here to work a spell and go back home with dinero,” Tubal said. “Some were abused bad by Sinclair or others like him, and they left in fear for their lives and ended up without two bits in their pockets.” “Anton taught that Sinclair a lesson on the train,” Nicky said. “Hush, Nicky,” Anton said. “What would the padre say about such boasting?” Tubal looked serious for a moment. “Sinclair is not a man to cross,” he said. “I would watch your back when you 91  

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and Nicky work on the range alone. Always have a carbine on you or in easy reach.” Tubal went on to address other topics. He had views on the weather, stonelifting, good food and religion. Before too long, Anton concluded he never had met anyone who talked so much as this Tubal, except maybe for the housekeeper Senora Laka. Tubal spoke his words rapidfire with no breaks in his sentences for periods. Nicky had no end of questions to ask Tubal. “How did you get here to America?” Nicky asked. “In Spain I was the youngest son with no chance to inherit land, and so I took a ship here in 1887 and came to Idaho.” “What was the name of your village back home?” Nicky said. “My village was Muxika,” Tubal said. “It is a tiny village near your Guernica.” “An old man named Busca owns the old mill in that town. He grinds grain with giant millstones,” Anton said. “I know him, Tubal. He is grouchy.” “That is my oldest brother, the one who inherited the mill,” Tubal said. “Yes, he is never happy unless he is complaining.” “Raoul came to Xaga’s where I rented a room and offered me a job to work side-by-side with him as a herder. He and his wife operated with no wagon and their first small flock of scrawny sheep.” “What was it like here when you arrived from Spain?” Nicky asked. “That first winter it was so cold that cattle and sheep in Idaho died by the thousands. Raoul never could sleep because of trying to save his flock. We worked day and night to move sheep to the lowlands away from the deep snow.” “Did Raoul lose many sheep?” Anton asked. “A few, you always lose a few, but stubborn Basques will always refuse to let the sheep die if they can help it,” Tubal said. “Cattle died too. You could walk for an acre on 92  

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the sides of dead cattle in some places. The cowmen like Sinclair blamed us sheep grazers for the deaths of cattle. They say sheep ate the grass to the roots, and there was no more for cattle.” “Were they right?” “Who is ever completely right or wrong?” Tubal said. “The herds of cattle get larger, always larger, and the flocks of sheep get larger, too. Lots of mouths, only so much good forage. Maybe both the cattle and sheep ranchers are greedy. When livestock grazes too long on rich grass, the grass disappears and sagebrush replaces it.” Nicky scratched his chin. “Sagebrush isn’t anywhere as good for livestock as grass is, am I right?” “You are,” Tubal said. “No livestock is kind to the land. Cattle tear up the banks of a nice trout stream with their hooves, and before you know it the stream is cloudy with silt and the water runs more slowly. The next time you pass, the trout are belly up in the water.” “Tubal, you have been here in Idaho so long,” Anton said. “I mean no disrespect, but didn’t you ever wish you owned your own sheep ranch?” The camptender scratched his beard. “I have not saved a dime.” He shrugged and joked. “My pay went for wine, cards and strange women.” “Well, at least you didn’t squander it,” Nicky joked with a giggle. “Don’t you want to go back home to visit Muxica?” Anton asked. “With nothing in my pants but my big bum?” Tubal said. “Only a fool goes back to Spain and meets his relations without dinero.” “Maybe one day you will make your fortune, Tubal.” “Not me,” he said. “Tubal is one of those Basques that strike it poor, not strike it rich.” “Do you ever wish you had money?” Tubal chuckled. “Sure, when a family member asks if I have money to send,” he said. “I have nothing but a pocket 93  

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watch, a mouth organ and a pipe. Save your money, Anton and Nicky. Save your money.” “Do you like working for Raoul?” Anton asked, his eyes on Tubal’s face. “Raoul told me that first year that I worked with him, not for him,” Tubal said. “That meant something pretty important.” “That is an important distinction,” Anton said. “I like that.” The ride continued. Not a single rider or wagon approached or passed them. Nicky went to sleep. A light snow started. Tubal put on thin gloves and held the reins in one hand. He blew into a mouth organ to play melodies from the Basque homeland. Anton felt homesick as he listened. In time the old man pocketed the harmonica. “I am a little nervous about meeting my uncle,” Anton said. “No need,” Tubal said. “He is a good man. His greatest love is his beautiful daughter, Martina. Raoul guards her like a miser guards his gold coins.” The wagon hit a rut, awakening Nicky. “Are we almost there?” Nicky asked in a sleepy voice. Tubal laughed. “Yes, there is here at last, Sleepyhead,” he said, pointing to a spot ahead on the trail where a trail of smoke curled from a chimney. “Welcome home.”

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Chapter Sixteen: Ends of the Earth Anton was nodding off in spite of Tubal’s jabbering when he heard barking in the distance. He saw a brown border collie with a chest as white as an egret’s plumage speed along the snow-rimmed path. Tubal stopped the buckboard and stepped onto the ground. He slipped a leather bag from his pocket and tossed the dog a dried treat. “Boys, meet the real boss of the ranch,” Tubal said. He roughed the sheepdog’s coat. “This is Peppy.” “Hola,” Nicky shouted. He jumped from the wagon to pet Peppy. The dog snarled and showed white teeth. Nicky yanked back his hand. “He is particular who pets him,” Tubal said, chuckling. “Better get acquainted with Peppy so he trusts you.” “I will,” Nicky said. He stayed close to Peppy to show he was unafraid but made no second attempt to pet the dog. “Peppy has been on summer and winter treks for five years,” Tubal said. “Having him is like having an extra herder.” Darkness came upon the land fast like a hood clapped over a falcon’s head. The air turned cold and went down into the twenties as the light of day vanished. The brothers turned up the collars of their shirts for protection after they clambered back into the buckboard. Tubal regained the 95  

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driver’s seat, and Peppy rested alongside him, his wet nose touching the camptender’s thigh. The wagon paused in front of two untapered twelve-foot posts bearing a hand-carved entrance sign. “The Two-Hearted Ranch,” Anton read aloud. So this is where the long journey has taken us. Patches of white ground to either side of the posts sparkled with snow-covered bushes. Over by the ranch house an orchard of leafless apple and cherry trees stood. To the brothers, everything they saw seemed barren. “So this is Raoul’s land?” Nicky asked. “It is so big and yet so empty.” “Almost like we are at the ends of the earth,” Anton added. “Ends of the earth were five miles back,” Tubal said, slapping his knee. “You way past them now.” “Why is the ranch called the Two-Hearted?” Nicky asked. Tubal’s smile vanished. “That was Raoul’s wife’s idea—her heart and his heart. After her death, the Boss kept the name.”

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Chapter Seventeen: Idaho Initiation Anton and Nicky much later would regard the next week as the most memory-packed time in their lives. They felt dwarfed by the vastness of Raoul’s acreage and spooked by how little they knew about ranch life. “We have moved to another world from Spain,” Nicky said to Anton as Tubal set the buckboard’s brake in front of a log bunkhouse. On that first night, after the team of horses was bedded down, Tubal had led them inside the low-slung bunkhouse. He said it was too late to visit Raoul who might be asleep already. The structure contained whitewashed walls that hurt the eyes and pine log rafters bearing clumps of dried red chili peppers. The entrance door, window frames and shutters had been painted bright red. The air in the room smelled like leather and oil from one of a dozen hurricane lamps. One wall held deer antlers, wild sheep horns, a calendar, and several washtubs. A second wall held bridles, reins, saddles, rain slickers and winter coats. The third wall bore a line of single and bunk beds with tick mattresses. The fourth wall sported a fireplace and stove on separate platforms of brick, as well as a sink with a long-handled pump for well water. “Do you think we can wash up?” Anton asked. “You can, but I hardly bathe myself,” admitted Tubal, as he lit the stove’s fuel to heat water for the tub. “The sheep don’t mind.” 97  

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“No,” Anton said. “Maybe Mara Xaga at the hotel minds.” “Good,” Tubal said. He grabbed tinder and newspaper from a tin washtub and fired up the fireplace hearth. “She stays away from me then.” After taking tub baths using soap made from lye and wood ashes, the boys felt refreshed for the first time since leaving Spain. Anton and Nicky staked out a bunkbed and put away their few belongings in a battered dresser shared with other ranch hands. The boys barely kept their eyes opened when two Mexican herders came into the bunkhouse to wash up. They yawned. Evidently they had put in a long work day. “Jesus and Joachim are brothers,” Tubal said while introducing them. He pointed out that Joachim’s nose lay flat and squashed on his face, making identification of the two easy. “That is a lesson to know, hombres,” Joachim said, shaking hands. “Never put your face anywhere near a ram’s head or he’ll butt you like a freight train. Don’t turn your back on a ram either. They’ll send you into the next state with their hammer heads.” The brothers made small talk for a few minutes until Tubal began dousing the lights. “Time to sleep,” he said. “We get up before dawn on a sheep ranch. There is an outhouse around back when you need to go. Always take the lantern and check for rattlesnakes before you sit.” “That is one piece of advice we will never forget, Tubal,” Nicky promised. “If you get bit where the sun don’t shine, don’t expect me to suck the poison out.” Tubal slapped his knee and roared with laughter when Nicky blushed. “Oh, I get it, Tubal,” Nicky shot back with a mischievous grin. “That was like humor, only not funny.”

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Chapter Eighteen: Sons of the Dawn The brothers jolted awake, startled by the clanging of a metal spoon against a frying pan. “Wake up, you sons of the dawn,” Tubal shouted. Anton sniffed the air. He caught the scent of crackling wood burning in the stove. “What is it?” he managed to croak, his mind trying to figure if he were in Spain, New York, or—that was it—Idaho. “What is it?” boomed Tubal. “It is morning, and you do not have boots on, Anton.” Anton wiped the grit from his eyes. “It is night, and we don’t wear our boots to bed.” “Coffee brews and eggs boil,” the old man said, lifting arms over his head to stretch his stiff back muscles. “What more could a man want?” “Um, two more hours of sleep and a less rude waiter,” Nicky quipped. He swung his legs onto the cold bunkhouse floor. “Whoa, whoa, now that’s cold.” Anton grabbed a hairbrush and razor from the dresser top. He tried forcing a stubborn cowlick down, gave up, and mashed his black beret into the tips of his ears to warm them. After shaving the stubble below his beak of a nose, he accepted a coffee from Tubal and greeted the two Mexican hands that slept in their day clothes. The white enamel cup warmed his hands. “How is it? Tubal demanded. Anton sipped, made a face. “Awful—strong and bitter.” 99  

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“Ah, perfect,” Tubal said, cackling. “It has the personality of a Basque herder.” Nicky sniffed the fumes coming from his thick beverage. “This coffee was made with the same hemlock leaves that killed the philosopher Socrates.” Tubal affected a hurt expression. “Here I boiled my best old boots to make that coffee.” Nicky and Anton pulled ladder-back chairs up to the table. Tubal washed the tabletop clean before slamming down the tin plates with peeled, boiled eggs sprinkled with chili pepper flakes. On the side were slices of black bread and smoked ham. Jesus and Joachim grunted thanks. Tubal kept up a cheerful clatter of words. “Nice fresh brown eggs,” he said, taking his chair. “Any fresher they would be inside the chicken. You two brought your appetites from Spain, I see.” “After eating nothing but spoiled cod on the ship, we appreciate even your cooking, Tubal,” Nicky joked. The faint outline of a white full moon in a cloudless bright blue morning sky greeted the diners through the bunkhouse window. After breakfast, Anton washed the dirty dishes while Nicky dried. They folded and put away the bedrolls given them by Raoul. Tubal swept the bunkhouse floor as they worked, and the Mexican herders departed to take care of the day’s chores. After the bunkhouse sparkled, Tubal taught the newcomers how to make felt liners to wear under their cowboy hats on cold mornings. They sat at a table and handconstructed the liners from unspun, long-fibered fleece, forming it into a malleable shape by adding hot water and soap. Tubal said he would show them how to make an ordinary bedroll snugger by sewing felt on the inside as lining after the felt dried. “With fleece you have a blanket and a robe,” Tubal said. “You always stay warm. Wool keeps you warm even when it is wet. No other material does that.” 100  

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“What about animal skins?” Nicky asked. “Won’t they keep us warm?” “Sometimes, yes,” the old man said. “Go and shoot or trap a rabbit or two, and I can teach you how to tan the skin.” When the brothers went outside to use the outhouse, a puff of snow blew past their boots through the doorway and into the bunkhouse. “We need to feed Peppy,” Tubal said when they returned. He pulled his fleece collar up to cover his neck, and then hauled battered gloves out of his bulging coat pockets. He took them to a small red barn and showed them where the kibble was stored. The brothers followed Tubal outside. He put down a tin of kibble and dried fish on a flat piece of slate. A sheepdog materialized out of the dark and nuzzled Tubal’s stained, oily pants. “Good morning, Peppy,” Tubal said. “Here is your breakfast.” The white and brown dog bent to eat and finished the meal in five or six gulps. “You mean, there was breakfast,” Nicky said. “Make sure a sheepdog eats every bite.” “Why is that?” Anton asked. “You don’t want to invite a coyote to have a meal with you,” Tubal said, again speaking in a combination of rapid-fire Basque and English. “All right,” Nicky said. He put forth a hand and held out a morsel of food to Peppy. The border collie took it, and Nicky rubbed Peppy’s coarse head. The sheepdog sighed his appreciation and then went to Anton for a second helping of affection. “Peppy has made up his mind that you two will do to ride the open range with,” Tubal said. “Soon you will get to pick out a pup that will go out on the graze land with you.”

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Tubal led them into a partitioned room in the barn. Raoul was up and milking the last of his eight jerseys. He was a wiry man with a neat moustache. “Hello, Boss,” Tubal said. “You mind showing these boys around while I do my errands?” “Happy to,” Raoul said. He threw out a callused hand for handshakes. “You boys were too young to remember me when I left St. Mammes, but I remember you two. Call me Uncle Raoul or just Raoul as you prefer.” “Thank you, Uncle,” they said in unison. “I won’t ask how was your journey,” he said. “I remember what a miserable time I had by ship and by train.” “We are comfortable in the bunkhouse,” Anton said politely. “Good, good. Did Tubal make you coffee?” Anton made a face. “Yes.” Raoul laughed. “Always try to wake up before him and make your own coffee,” he said laughing. “Tubal’s coffee is so thick it has to be cut with a knife.” The brothers laughed. “We’ll remember that,” Nicky said. “Is Tubal taking good care of you?” “Except for the coffee, yes,” Anton said. “He is a tough old bird. One year he was delivering supplies to my camp, and a cyclone caught him. He and the horse were banged up, and Tubal’s arm was broken, but he picked up every scrap of food and came straight to my camp so I wouldn’t starve. He never complained though it took four days before a doctor could set his arm in a cast.” “That is a tough old bird,” Anton said. “You boys want to see the puppies?” “Puppies!” Nicky squealed. “They are for herding sheep and not for playing,” Raoul said, wagging a finger of warning. Anton inhaled the scents of the stable and again found himself homesick for Spain. He missed the stable behind the rectory where his guardian boarded the lone ox 102  

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and where a nasty-tempered nanny had butted him into a tree. He recalled the comforts of the cave hideout he shared with Nicky. Nicky stood transfixed before the kennels in the barn, his heart melting. Inside the mesh cages were Australian shepherds. Ten were white or mostly white, but Nicky’s eyes stayed fixed on one big, six-month-old pup. He was blue with streaks of white on his chest and tail. “Nearly all are spoken for by buyers who want them,” Raoul said. “You boys get first choice to choose a pup to take out with you on the range.” Anton looked troubled. He felt something of a fraud. What if his inexperience made him choose an unsuitable pup? Nicky needed no urging. “I want to dive into the kennel and take all the pups in my arms, Uncle.” “I can see that,” Raoul said. Anton spoke in a grave voice. “I am not sure what I should look for in a dog.” “Ah, humility, modesty and honesty in a young man,” Raoul said. “What a rare combination.” “Maybe you can teach us?” Anton said. “What one looks for in a working dog is not what one looks for in a house pet,” Raoul said. “They must be able to protect their own lives and guard the sheep. They may be called upon to save a herder if there is an accident.” He went on to point out the breed’s ideal eyes, heads, body conformation, legs fore and hind, shoulders, neck, coat and disposition. “This one’s legs are too short,” he said, grabbing an all-white male. “He’ll never be a runner. No sheep ranch for him. He'll make a fine house pet in Hailey for some lady who likes to walk each day.” Nicky squirmed as he listened. He saw the blue pup was more aggressive than the others. He was everywhere, chewing on their ears, lips and tails. His chest was puffed out. He was proud and cantankerous. His triangular ears stuck out comically and his legs were long and sturdy. 103  

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“I like this dark blue pup,” Nicky said. “Why, son?” Raoul asked. “The blue pup shows—spirit.” “Nicky, you may be a future breeder,” Raoul said, sounding like a teacher whose student provided a right answer. “A dog’s personality is important. In this pup you may have a working dog that won’t back down from a predator, can control sheep, and is loyal to its herder.” Nicky stooped to engulf the pup in his arms, laughing as the blue pup licked him from jaw to brow. “He’s so friendly.” “The pup knows he is lucky to be alive,” Raoul said. “He was the last of eleven pups in one litter. He was not breathing when he came into this world. I held him to my own lips and breathed into his mouth and nostrils until his heart began to beat.” “It’s as if he came back from the dead,” Anton said. Raoul scratched his head. “I never interpreted it that way.” “What’s his name?” Nicky asked. “Oh, I leave the pup's name to you.” Anton was going to suggest a possible name, but Nicky’s seriousness silenced him. Dog-loving Nicky must be the one to pick a name. “Choose wisely,” Raoul said. “The pup must live with the name all his days.” “Well, sir, this pup came back from the dead.” “Yes, Nicky?” “Lazarus in the Bible came back from the dead,” Nicky said. “I remember our father telling us about the man who walked out of his own tomb.” “Lazarus?” Raoul said. “Unusual but a pretty name.” “Well, like Lazarus, he’s lucky to get a second chance at life,” continued Nicky. “You want to call him Lucky?” Anton asked. “No, Lucky is too commonplace,” Nicky said. “His name has to be Lazarus.” 104  

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“Ah, Lazarus, a good biblical name,” Raoul said, slapping his thighs in approval. The decision on the name was now up to the puppy. “Lazarus!” Nicky called. The pup opened sleepy eyes and seemed to smile. “He knows his name,” Nicky said. “He has a new name and soon, like us, a new home on the range,” Anton said. “Let’s work a bit with him,” Raoul said. “Australian shepherds respond to voice and hand signals. It is important you not confuse them by changing gestures, words or tone when you train them.” “Choose one signal and stick with it—right,” Nicky said. “Remember, these dogs descend from wolves. Herding is the instinct of a former predator chasing prey,” Raoul said. “Why do they call them Australian shepherds if their ancestors were from Europe?” Anton asked. “Who knows why a popular name catches on?” Raoul said. “These dogs were the pride of many Basque herders in the Pyrenees mountains west of your home, boys. Truly, Basque shepherd would have been a better name for the breed.” Raoul gave the pup commands. Lazarus sat, heeled, retrieved, rolled over, shook paws, and fetched a stick. “How much have you worked with him already?” Anton inquired. “Maybe four sessions, no more than that,” Raoul said. “He’s still young though long weaned.” Lazarus yawned. The pup was a fast learner and curious, Nicky observed. The breeder twice pulled on a leash to get the pup’s wandering attention, however. “Show patience with this one,” Raoul said. “He’s smart but has a bit of a mind of his own.” “You could also be talking about my brother, Uncle,” Anton said. 105  

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“Anton also has a mind of his own,” Nicky retorted. “Who else would want to share it?” Lazarus accompanied the brothers to the bunkhouse. Tubal was napping but awoke when he heard them. He gestured for the brothers to take seats at the battered wooden table bearing the carved initials of many herders. “Write those who miss you, but write small, because Raoul paid good money for that linen stationery,” Tubal said, rubbing his stiff back. The brothers hunched over notes to the padre, Senora Laka and Mr. Thatcher, letting each know they had reached Idaho. Anton penned a long letter to Clarisse, using the elegant cursive script that the padre long ago had taught him. He refused Nicky’s nosy insistence on having its contents read aloud. “Oh Clarisse,” Nicky said in a high-pitched voice after Anton protected his letter from prying eyes. “I am now in Idaho and am already a millionaire. Come kiss me passionately, and wash my dirty, smelly, stinky socks, and bear me fourteen sons who will work hard while I sit on my throne and paint pictures instead of working.” Anton rolled his eyes. He hit Nicky on the head with his beret. “Silly head,” Anton said, prompting Nicky to explode in peals of laughter. After the brothers addressed the envelopes, Tubal returned to collect the letters for mailing. He handed them a large wooden box. “Raoul says, ‘Time for dinner, Boys.’” “We don't have any nice clothes to wear,” Anton said. “You do now, compliments of Raoul,” Tubal said. He took the top off the wooden box and handed each of the boys a western-style hat, coat, white shirt, work shirts, two pairs of pants, stockings and several colorful neckerchiefs. “White shirt and kerchief for dinner required. Peel off those dusty peasant duds.” “This is nice of Raoul,” Anton said. 106  

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“Not so nice. He'll take the cost out of your wages, you betcha.” Tubal said. “Before you go on the range, you’ll need to be fitted for boots. When you’re not in the saddle, you are on your feet all the time. Some herders go through four or five pairs of footgear a season.” Anton held a shirt against his chest. “A little tight but not a bad fit,” he said. “Ready to wash up also, Tubal?” Nicky said. His voice crackled with mischief. He tucked in his shirt before hanging the washtubs back on a wall. Tubal sniffed his faded, stained shirt. “No need,” he said. “Maybe next year when this shirt gets a little riper.”

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Chapter Nineteen: Martina and Nicky Raoul's house reminded the brothers of the nicer homes of two or three of the padre’s parishioners back in Guernica. They admired the handmade furniture with linen coverings. Tubal had led them here but then scurried away as if he felt out of place. The twelve-foot ceilings made even Anton feel small. The single plate-glass window looked out on a snow-covered evergreen. The room’s color scheme consisted of dark walls with a brilliant white ceiling. No, not Raoul but a woman of taste had designed this room, most likely the late Mrs. Bilboa, Anton and Nicky decided in whispers. Or maybe the designer was Martina, that only daughter Raoul doted on. “What do you think, Nicky?” Anton whispered. “I want to ask Raoul for a raise,” he said. “A big, fat raise.” They laughed. A low, measured voice interrupted the reverie of the visitors. Raul came into the room from a stairway connected to more rooms on the second floor. “Much of the furniture in this room is handmade,” Raoul said. “Making furniture is a hobby and passion for me.” The brothers followed him into his den. Every shelf looked weighed down with books, a few with leather covers. On one wall in the library rested a portrait of a dark-haired woman with an assured expression and Mediterranean beauty. “That is my late wife,” Raoul said. “She was beautiful,” Nicky said. “Very beautiful,” Anton said. 108  

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“She is missed,” Raoul said. “Thank you.” A large mirror dominated another otherwise bare wall in the den. The wallpaper had a milky background with delicate roses completing the pattern. Overhead, a chandelier made from a wagon wheel and candles dropped down from the ceiling. In the corner was a rolltop desk with every bill and scrap of paper kept organized inside its many small drawers. “You have a nice library and office, Raoul,” Anton said. “Sit down here on the settee,” Raoul said, nodding his thanks. His hands extended in invitation as he patted the furniture. “Are you both readers?” Nicky spoke for both. “We are, sir, but we have different tastes. Anton prefers the novels that take his mind far away and nonfiction books that tell him all about birds and animals. I like novels but mainly I like helpful books on practical subjects such as agriculture and science.” “Take what you want to read to the bunkhouse or sheep camp,” Raoul said. “Just return every book and treat it like you would your own. Books are special. A hundred years from now that same book deserves to be in another reader’s hands.” “Yes, sir,” Anton said, impressed with Raoul’s manner of expression. “Do you also like to read books about history?” the host inquired. “The padre used to play memory games with us so that we could get familiar with events, dates and even the names of kings and queens,” Nicky said. “Idaho is a state full of ghost towns and dying towns. A lot of the hard-drinking miners and bad men departed, and good riddance to them, I say. Those of us who are left think it a good place to raise a family.” Raoul stood up and looked past the visitors.” Ah, you are about to meet Martina, boys,” he said. 109  

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Anton and Nicky jumped up from the sofa and turned their eyes to the stairway. A small, delicate girl with sharp, carved cheekbones lifted a petite hand and waved. She wore an embroidered blouse with ruffled sleeves and a gold brooch at the throat. She hoisted the bottom of her long skirt to navigate the stairs. Nicky smoothed his long black hair back as if a cowlick might betray him as a bumpkin. “I am Martina,” she said. “Would you care for lemonade?” They gave her their names in return and accepted the offer of refreshments. While Raoul exited to check on dinner with the cook, Martina walked across the room to fetch a silver pitcher that rested on a Chippendale side table. It glistened with beads of moisture. “Ask her if she washes dirty, smelly, stinky socks,” Anton whispered to his brother. “And folds them neatly.” Nicky shot an elbow into his brother’s ribs as Martina poured. “Truce?” he asked. “She's the most beautiful girl in the world.” Anton mussed his brother’s hair when Martina wasn’t looking. “Truce,” Anton promised Nicky.

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Chapter Twenty: Sausages Years later, the brothers and Martina doubled up in laughter whenever one of them recalled the brothers’ first meal at the ranch house. At the time, Nicky experienced such embarrassment he wanted to hide in a closet and curl up in shame. Raoul's cook had purchased a dozen Basque sausages from a neighboring rancher that were packed inside casings of spiced pig intestines. The cook, a wizened widow named Emma, served these before the main meal. While Martina, Raoul and Anton talked before picking up their forks, a hungry Nicky popped half a sausage into his mouth. The worst thing he ever tasted, the meat also smelled unpleasant, and he fought an urge to vomit. Raoul looked down the table at Nicky. “Finished that sausage already?” Nicky looked at Martina. What if she had made them? “Was it good?” she asked. “Oh, I have never tasted anything like it.” “Do you want more?” she asked. Nicky was going to get sick at the table. “I think no,” he said. “I’m full already.” Raoul popped a hunk of sausage into his mouth, choked and waved a frantic hand to stop Anton and Martina from taking a bite. He spit all the sausage into his large handkerchief and bade Emma take the plate away. “Somebody failed to wash the intestines,” Raoul said to the apologetic cook. “They taste ghastly.” 111  

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Nicky turned red as a furnace. “I can’t believe you got one of those awful sausages down your gullet, young man,” Raoul said. “They are inedible.” With Martina’s eyes on him, Nicky admitted he had spit out the sausage. “I didn't want to seem ungrateful in case Martina had put the meat in the casings.” She laughed at this. “Well, where did the sausage go?” Martina asked. Nicky pulled what was left out of one pocket and put it on a tray held by Emma, the buxom housekeeper who wore her hair in a severe bun. “Young man, has anyone ever told you that you are strange?” Emma asked. While Nicky sat in his chair steaming, his uncle, brother and the most beautiful girl in the world laughed so hard their stomachs ached. “I’m sorry, Nicky,” Martina said. “It’s just so funny.” She dissolved into yet another spasm from laughter that was so appealing that even Nicky stopped blushing and joined her in a rueful chuckle. After dinner, which concluded in far less dramatic fashion with tea served in porcelain cups, Anton and Nicky thanked their uncle and departed for the bunkhouse. They cleaned their teeth and fell into bed to surrender all thought to exhaustion. “Are you happy we are in Idaho?” Nicky asked in a low voice so as not to awaken Tubal and the two other hands from Mexico who snored in high-pitched whistles. “I know you are happy, Nicky,” Anton said. “I am happy for you.”

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Chapter Twenty-One: Lazarus and Peppy Anton and Nicky awoke early the next morning to the sound of Tubal chatting with the two herders. They bounded out of their cots to try to make coffee before the old man started a pot of his bitter java. “Too late,” the old man cackled. “Coffee fit for a real Basque is already brewing.” “Sorry, Tubal,” Nicky said. “It is fit maybe for me when I get old like you and lose my taste buds.” Tubal and the two Mexican hands roared with laughter. “Me lose my taste buds?” he said. “You have no room to talk, Mr. Sausage-in-His-Pockets.” Nicky slapped his head. “How do you know?” “Raoul stopped by to make us a present of a dozen eggs and a dozen sausages,” Tubal said. “He said to tell you to have another sausage, Nicky.” Nicky and Tubal went outside to feed Peppy and Lazarus. While Tubal fed Peppy, the blue pup ran up to Nicky, and the boy took a second mound of kibble and scraps and put it down for him. “Good morning, Lazarus.” Lazarus waited until Nicky gave a hand gesture, and then dispatched his meal in seconds. “That’s a smart dog,” Tubal said. After a breakfast with the Mexican herders marked with joking and tall tales, Tubal guided the brothers out the door of the bunkhouse to a low-slung outbuilding filled with additional harnesses, saddles and larger units of farming 113  

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equipment. Several sheepdogs rushed Lazarus to greet him, but the blue pup paid them no mind. After handing Nicky a wire brush to groom Lazarus, he outfitted the pup with a leather collar that made the puppy shake his head in defiance. Tubal reached into his deep pockets and found a tobacco pouch he filled with nutritious strips of lamb baked and dried in the sun. “Give lots of treats when you train a pup,” he said to Nicky. “See how even one treat distracted the pup from pulling off the collar?” Tubal and Peppy led the pup and herders to a fenced corral. Dozens of Raoul’s most prized sheep, less hardy than the range-grazing sheep and larger because they were fed grain daily, huddled on the frozen ground in their pen. Peppy ran at the sheep and made his leadership known, his body bent and low to the ground. Two big ewes tried to get out of the sheepdog’s way and ended up colliding like circus clowns. “Sheep look like they were out to pasture when God gave out brains,” Tubal said. “Actually, I think sheep are smarter than cows, but they have no claws or fangs and panic easily because they know they have no way to protect themselves. That’s why they run into each other like that.” “I just assumed that sheep are kind of dumb—like um, stonelifters,” Nicky said, throwing Anton a sly look. “That was a short truce,” Anton grumbled. Tubal was all business now, his weathered eyes intent on the pup. He called both dogs over. Tubal held the pup’s collar. “What did you name this one?” “His name is Lazarus,” Nicky said. “What kind of name is that for a dog? Why did you not call him something less fancy?” “Like what?” Anton said. “Like Lucky,” Tubal said.

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The two brothers collapsed with laughter while Tubal scratched his head. These herders Raoul hired were getting stranger by the year. Tubal opened the gate and shooed the flock out. “Stay, Peppy.” Peppy sat squirming inside the pen on his haunches. His panting formed clouds of steam as the last sheep faded into the distance, barely visible in the misty light. When the flock drifted about three hundred yards, Tubal lifted his hand over his head to signal the dog. Peppy was off like a wind gust, and the excited puppy toddled behind him. “Put the sheep away, Peppy,” Tubal shouted. Anton and Nicky marveled that any dog could move so fast. Peppy was a blur, nipping at the heels of the lead ewe without touching her to get the flock moving. In five minutes he forced the last stubborn straggler back into the pen. Lazarus imitated the other dog, worrying the hooves of two ewes to get them moving. Tubal rubbed his bristly white chin and pulled two small pieces of jerky from his pocket. Peppy caught the jerky in midair, making short work of it. Lazarus let his bounce first, and gobbled it. Nicky and Anton exchanged worried glances. So much to learn, so much responsibility. “See how easy is herder’s life?” Tubal said. “Dogs do all the work, the herders get all the credit.”

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Chapter Twenty-Two: The Apprentices The initial month of apprenticeship for Anton and Nicky threatened to break their backs with labor and repetitious daily herding of the sheep to get the brothers and Lazarus ready for their duties alone on the range. “Make your youthful mistakes here, not on the range,” Tubal said. “Here I can correct your mistakes. There, the coyotes eat your mistakes.” One brisk Saturday afternoon following breakfast, Tubal requested that the brothers replace all the boards in a small, battered corral where broncobusters hired by Raoul broke wild mustangs captured on the range. The rest of the first week, Tubal continued to test the brothers’ carpentry skills. They fortified pens and made sheds with straw bales for bedding that the shearing and lambing crew soon would use. The pens allowed the help to perform their backbreaking duties without having to chase the sheep to work on them. The second week, Tubal requested one even dirtier and equally necessary job. The brothers needed to give all the rams a cleansing dip in a trough connected to a narrow chute. The last task made the brothers sweat clear to their socks after which they reeked of disinfectant. Their hair stuck to their heads with sweat in spite of cooling temperatures in the low forties. The sheep-dip kept the stock free of blowflies, mites and ticks. Under Tubal’s stern eyes, the brothers prodded sheep through the trough, using a long staff with a hook on the end to immerse each sheep to make 116  

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sure the mixture killed every parasite. As each sheep passed through the chute into the funnel, one or the other brother pried open its mouth to estimate the animal's age. “Look for wear, small breaks caused by stones as they eat sage, and you can tell the age,” Tubal said. “An old gummer has nothing left but stubs.” “How old is too old on the range?” Nicky asked. Tubal chewed his pipe. “Raoul tries to have no sheep older than six years on a trek,” he said. “Any older and they begin to fall behind and attract coyotes or just slow the entire flock down. Older ewes that become barren are hard to handle. They attack yearling ewes and try to kidnap their lambs even though they have no milk to offer.” “Is there anything we need to know about driving sheep?” Nicky asked. “If possible, drive them into the wind so they can use their keep sense of smell,” Tubal said. “No creature is better at sniffing out water than a sheep.” “Tubal, do you think I will ever know all there is to know about sheep?” Nicky said. “If I live to be a hundred, I will never know all there is to know about sheep,” Tubal said. When the job was done, the backs of the brothers ached, and their eyes burned from the dipping solution. Nicky pulled the protective bandana off his mouth, looked over at Peppy and Lazarus sleeping belly up in the sun, and mimicked the old man’s speech. “Dogs do all the work, the herders get all the credit, you betcha,” Nicky said. Anton tried to resist and gave up, laughing on the ground until his stomach ached.

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Chapter Twenty-Three: Lonely February 7, 1898 One morning after breakfast, Raoul strode into the bunkhouse and announced that in the weeks left before the brothers took the sheep to the range, they needed to modify their living quarters in the sheepwagon the way they wanted. “You must live in that wagon the next two years,” Raoul said. “Better make it like home.” “Two years,” Anton muttered under his breath. “That isn’t a commitment, it’s a prison sentence.” Tubal and Raoul took the boys to yet another outbuilding and introduced them to the sheepwagon. The boys marveled at what they found inside the eleven-foot by seven-foot wagon: a cast-iron stove with a pipe to take its smoke outside; hand-polished oak cabinets; a small sleeping area, benches that doubled as storage areas for beans, potatoes and flour; a gun cabinet with glass front; and a dining table that folded into the wall when not in use. Every square inch of the wagon served multiple purposes. “We are like a tortoise taking its home everywhere,” Nicky said. “I hand-built much of the wagon, although the frame and wheels I bought from a manufacturer in Wyoming and shipped here by train,” Raoul said, displaying pride in his workmanship. “I have an engineer’s mind. I imagined all the conditions this wagon had to endure spring, summer and winter.” 118  

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“So you are a craftsman, Uncle,” Anton said. “First thing was to figure a way to conserve every drop of moisture possible,” Raoul said. “I came up with a method to strap barrels of water to the wagon sides and back.” He pointed out the network of pipes and gutters he put up lining the roof. “That’s so that the occasional rains refill the barrels,” he said. “Nothing tastes better than fresh rainwater.” “How do you keep bugs out of the water?” Anton asked. “Filters and screens,” Raoul said. “They can’t get in to the water supply.” Tubal took over the topic. “Sometimes barrels are not enough,” he said. “If they go empty a herder must find drinkable water in nearby streams or waterholes, or he is in big trouble.” Water meant the difference between prosperity and failure in sheepherding, Raoul explained. Water meant life or death for herder and stock alike. Herders trailed over hundreds of miles of public lands winter and spring in search of prime graze land available to any rancher for the taking. Occasionally when riding through the desert, herders passed deep ruts where overland travelers traveled in Conestoga wagons. Even these many years later, oxen ribcages and bones and broken schooners dotted the desert. Tubal explained how important it was to find water that was pure and drinkable, although even muddy water was potable in a pinch if it lacked alkali salts. “It is deadly for sheep or man to drink water too high in alkali salts,” Tubal said. “Herders that drink that water go crazy or die of dehydration and other problems.” Raoul pointed out that travelers deprived of water who drank alkali water often hallucinated and saw waterfalls in the distance that did not exist. “They fell down and raved in a delirium.” 119  

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Nicky looked troubled. “What happened to those who drank the stagnant water?” Raoul looked thoughtful. “I have not seen it myself but old prospectors told me how the bad water came roaring back out of the parched throats of their companions as fast as it went down,” he said. “They died horrible deaths marked by nausea, fainting, diarrhea and dry heaves.” “How will we know this bad water?” Anton asked. “By the stench,” Raoul says. “We call it stinkwater.” He recounted how leaders of wagon parties used to bark urgent orders to all in their party to resist the maddened urge to drink from stagnant waters, and yet thirst led many to disobey. “Those who resisted drinking the bad water at alkali flats somehow made it across the desert,” Raoul said. “And those who drank the foul water?” Nicky asked. “Their dead bodies were left on the desert for coyotes to find or buried in the shallowest of holes as the wagons rolled west, ever west, without them.” Raoul bent over a drawer in the wagon and pulled out topographical maps of Idaho. Basque, Spanish, and English notations marked the map. The marks indicated where the water was pure, but other water holes showed hand-drawn skulls. “Do those mean what I think they mean? “Nicky asked. Raoul’s lips tightened. “Yes, the skulls signify poisoned waters,” Raoul said. “There have been so many I decided to track them. A few occur naturally, but ranchers poisoned the other waterholes.” “W-w-what?” Nicky stammered. “Say again?” “One or two cattle ranchers, they do that so no herders and sheep can drink from this watering hole any longer,” Tubal said. “Mainly your cattleman friend Sinclair and his goons did this.” “Why?” Anton demanded. “That is cold-blooded murder if a herder dies.” 120  

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“Ask Sinclair, not me,” Tubal said. “Hate and greed make people do evil deeds.” “He who owns the water owns the West,” Raoul said. “A few like Sinclair stop at nothing to own it.” Anton and Nicky went to work on the wagon with Sinclair’s ruthless doings on their minds. “Think about the wagon instead,” Raoul said. “What has to change to suit you?” The first alteration, the youths decided, needed to be the tiny sleeping area. “The loft over the oak cabinets served a lone herder, but the two of us need twice as much area to sleep thanks to Anton’s bulk,” Nicky said to Raoul. Raoul agreed and said he could help the brothers construct a bunk bed out of pine boards in place of a loft. “It has to be a bit longer than standard to fit me,” Anton said. “Sure, we can make it longer,” Raoul said, measuring Anton’s height with his eyes. “There won’t be much headroom, but your toes won’t hang over the end, Anton.” They bent to the work, turning the bunkhouse into a carpentry shop. Sawing, hammering and sanding lasted into the evening. The pungent smells of pine resin and sawdust permeated the air. While they worked, Raoul discussed his terms of employment. He guaranteed each brother a flock of forty sheep, a cash payment and a sheepdog of his choice if both lasted two years on the grazing range. “Will the forty sheep be younger animals?” Nicky asked. “We don’t want toothless six-year-olds that can’t survive a trek.” Raoul’s eyes blinked in surprise. “You’re a born negotiator, Nicky,” he said. “Look in the mouths of the sheep and turn down any gummers.” Raoul went on to stress that more than a few Basque herders started with a similar small grubstake and made enough money on wool and mutton to eventually own a 121  

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ranch. Many others sold their sheep and frittered away money that made impossible any sort of good life they might have lived, he warned. “I started with a shoestring operation when I came to this country with my wife and hired Tubal as a helper,” Raoul explained. “Then in 1888 the government offered settlers already in Idaho an additional 640 acres for less than a dollar an acre. I jumped on that deal, I tell you, and was I ever glad I had saved enough to make the purchase.” “Raoul, I mean not to be nosy, but how did your wife die?” Anton asked. Raoul stiffened. “Hard work,” he said. “God blessed me with a lovely wife named Dominique who bore us a lovely daughter. It was the will of God, I guess, that she pass away before her time.” “I'm sorry,” Nicky said. “My wife was a woman of courage, and she served as my camptender while I herded. She also worked for Xaga as a cook at the hotel in exchange for a room for the baby and her while I slept on the graze land with the flock. She labored with Martina strapped to her back when she cooked or tended camp. One November she brought supplies to Tubal and me and came down with influenza because she let herself get run down juggling all her duties. She returned to Xaga’s to work but died that night at the hotel in spite of care by a doctor. Her fever never went down.” Anton paused, dreaming for a wistful second that he would have the good fortune to face the challenges of life with Clarisse. “She sounds like the kind of woman every Basque man dreams about.” “She was, indeed,” Raoul said, his voice quaking. “Dominique was the daughter of a schoolmaster in the Old Country. I had just bought the land for this house when she died. Dominique designed and planned every room in this house. I built it from her sketches.”

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“She would be proud if she could see it now,” Anton said. “After she passed, who watched over Martina while you and Tubal herded?” “From then on Tubal stayed alone on the range while I raised Martina in a tiny shack right where the bunkhouse now sits,” Raoul said. “About that time Emma’s husband was killed in a mine accident. I hired her as a cook and helper. She’s been a second mama to Martina.” People tend to share their inner thoughts when their hands are busy. Raoul and the boys began to confide more and more as they completed the carpentry work on the wagon. Nicky told Raoul that his dream was to stay in America and own a ranch in Idaho as big and successful as his uncle’s. “I want to fill it with books and paintings, and…daughters and sons—and dogs like Lazarus,” he said. “That is a worthy goal, Nicky,” Raoul said. “You, Anton?” “I wish to work in America long enough to find the money to return to Spain,” Anton said. “Some day, I hope to earn my living as an artist and illustrator.” Raoul looked thoughtful, seeming to size up his nephews as the sons he might have had if his wife Dominique had lived and had more babies. “Neither of you has impossible ambitions,” he said, choosing his words with care. “The person who can visualize the future can shape that future. Still, you want a life as an artist, Anton? So many end up in a gutter or mental hospital. Even sheepherding is less of a gamble.” Raoul and the brothers cheered when at last the bunk beds in the sheepwagon stood finished. Nicky chose the upper bunk. Each brother sighed as he lay down to test his own mattress for a moment. That task done, the brothers repainted a scratched and faded long bench with a cushion that would serve as a bed for Tubal when he brought grub and necessities to the sheepwagon. The bench doubled as a place to store bags of potatoes, beans and other grub. Raoul next showed the 123  

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brothers how to build shelves to store books and Anton’s sketchpads and art supplies. A smaller shelf held Nicky’s stamp album, a Bible, books on Idaho geography, sheep caretaking guides and a thick ledger to keep a daily log. “Now you must name the wagon,” Raoul said. “Is that the custom here?” Nicky asked. “Oh, it is, indeed.” “Lonely,” Anton said. “It has to be named Lonely.” Tubal chuckled. “‘Lonely’ says it all about the sheepherding life.” Anton hand-painted “Lonely” in script on a wooden plaque and attached it to the side of the wagon. Only one task remained before Raoul pronounced the job finished and ready for the wagon to leave the ranch in April. “We must replace this old canvas on the wagon tomorrow,” Raoul said. “We’ll stretch the new one across the frame.” The backbreaking job took from early morning to late evening. Raoul, Tubal and the brothers stretched the canvas with the aid of ladders and, after dark, hurricane lamps for light. “It will insulate the wagon to keep it cooler in summer and warmer in winter, “Raoul said. When they finished, Anton asked Raoul what he planned to do with the old covering. “Take it to the dumping ground on the back part of the ranch,” Raoul said. “I’d like it, “Anton said. “You’d like what?” Raoul asked, puzzled. “I’d like to keep the old canvas to use it for my paintings,” Anton said. “There is enough for twenty paintings, at least.” Nicky chimed in. “I can find wood and help you make frames, Anton.” “Thank you, Nicky,” Anton said.

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Raoul’s face brightened. “I have taught myself to frame paintings with wood,” he said. “I would be happy to teach you if you like.” “I would, Uncle,” Anton said. “Yes, I would.” Tubal shook his head, puzzled. This new herder thought he was an artist? “Okay,” Tubal conceded, rolling his eyes. “I guess the wagon canvas is all yours, Senor Goya.” “Who is this Goya exactly?” Nicky asked. “I know I have heard of him.” “He is a Spanish painter, known for his nudes,” Tubal said. “And much more, Nicky, much more,” Anton said, exasperated by Tubal’s narrow-minded view. “Goodness, Tubal.” “No, Goya painted only nudes,” Tubal insisted. “Maybe one day I will paint you, Tubal,” Anton teased. “No problem,” the old man replied. “Do I get to keep my drawers on?” “Of course,” Anton joked. “I’d need the whole sheepwagon canvas to paint your big backside, Tubal.” “No respect from the younger generation,” Tubal grumbled. Then he roared a great laugh, showing that he enjoyed Anton’s ribbing. “Lie a little and paint my butt to look tiny.” “I am sorry, Tubal,” Anton said, chuckling with mischief. “I’d have to lie a whole bunch more than I am capable of doing.”

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Chapter Twenty-Four: Remember the Maine February 17, 1898 One morning Anton woke up early and beat Tubal to the coffee-making chore. The old camptender accepted a cup, and said this might be a good day to visit the cobbler in Hailey to outfit the new herders in several pair of boots. “You can each wear one pair and keep a spare in the wagon,” Tubal said. “I’ll keep the replacement boots in the bunkhouse and bring them to you as needed. You’ll wear out many a pairs of boots on the range.” That task took merely an hour in town. Lucien and several older Basque men were singing songs from the old country at the piano when Tubal and the brothers arrived in the mid-afternoon at the Basque Hotel. Xaga held up his hand for silence when the song ended. “Attention, everyone,” Xaga said. “I need to say something. Then I let you go back to your fun.” He held a copy of the Hailey newspaper in trembling hands. “The news from Cuba is bad,” he continued. “A battleship called the USS Maine has blown up in Havana harbor killing hundreds of sailors. The American press blames Spain and calls for a declaration of war.” All in the room looked shaken. Many had been born in Spain. Many Basques from France shared kin in Spain. Some knew relatives who were soldiers stationed in Cuba. And then there were all these poor men blown to pieces. 126  

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Tubal was the first to break the silence. “What proof is there that Spain was responsible?” “Maybe it was a boiler that blew on its own,” Lucien said. “We had boiler trouble on the steamship coming over,” Nicky said in an aside to Tubal. “Quiet a minute, Nicky,” Tubal said. Xaga held up the paper. “The newspapers don't seem to need proof,” he said. “The reporters have made up their minds that Spain somehow smuggled a bomb under the hull.” “No,” Tubal said. “The reporters work for publishers who tell them what to write. Too many reporters are like sheep. They have no minds of their own.” “I fear a bloodbath in Cuba,” Xaga murmured to Tubal. “Wait until Faro Sinclair reads this,” Nicky said. “He'll be screaming for war.” “Poor Ramiro and Etienne,” Anton said. “They must be in Cuba by now.” He told Tubal the story of the two friends’ capture by soldiers. The old man pursed his lips, worry creasing his brow. Patrons spoke in hushed voices. No one much felt like singing. Lucien picked up his broom and swept. “Has any mail come from Spain?” Anton asked the hotel owner. “Yes, probably the last from Spain for a long time,” Xaga said. He went into a back room and returned to the dining room, waving letters overhead like trophies. Lazarus ran over to Xaga and was rewarded with a treat of gristle. Anton and Nicky perked up at their table. “Mail, mail, mail,” Nicky repeated. “Yes, yes, yes.” “Nothing like mail to cheer up a lonely Basque boy,” Tubal said, taking a sip of his coffee. He accepted the mail from Xaga and peered hard at a postcard in the small stack. 127  

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Nicky grew impatient. “Anything for me?” he asked. “Postcard for you from the padre,” Tubal said. “Nothing too interesting.” “Wait, wait—Tubal, are you reading my mail?” Nicky sputtered. “Of course,” Tubal said. “It is not in an envelope, and it is written in Basque. What do you expect?” “What does he write?” Anton said, playing peacekeeper. Tubal handed Nicky his mail. “It’s old news,” Nicky said, scanning the postcard. “Judging from the postmark it was mailed one week after we left St. Mammes.” “The world could change hands in that time,” Anton said. “Everyone here worries about the bad news from Cuba,” Nicky read, deciphering the padre’s crabbed handwriting. “I am well and miss you both. I pray to the Virgin Mary to watch over my boys.” Tubal waited and tapped his foot. “Enough from the padre,” he said. “Here you have a letter to both of you from a Senora Laka.” “That is the padre's housekeeper,” Nicky said. “No use opening it.” Tubal's face expressed his shock and outrage. “Not open a letter from home?” he said. “I never have heard such a thing.” “She prints the address on the envelope, but she writes in cursive on the inside,” Anton explained. “No one on earth can read her handwriting.” “Does she write in Basque?” Tubal asked. “Yes,” each boy said. “I am sure I can read anyone’s handwriting,” he said, while slitting the envelope with his pocketknife. He stared at the letter, disbelief written all over his face. Squiggles, loop-the-loops, crossed-out letters, inserted letters, and numerous ink blotches marred the page. 128  

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“Her scrawl is terrible,” he said. “I cannot read a single word.” Nicky grinned, his teeth white as a lamb’s fleece. “We warned you, Tubal.” “But how will you know what to write back to her when mail can be sent to Spain again?” “She is a woman of few words, all of them clichés,” Anton said. “She is sweet and simple. Her letters will say what she always said to us back at the rectory.” Nicky chimed in. “Boys, eat your vegetables, say your prayers, give thanks to your Lord Savior every day.” “Overthrow the government of Spain,” Anton said. “She said that?” Tubal said with a gasp. “He's pulling your leg, Tubal,” Nicky said giggling. Anton joined his brother in a hearty chuckle. Tubal sputtered, jammed the letter back into its envelope, and tossed it on the table for Nicky to take it for his stamp collection. Now he moved to the grand finale. He produced another envelope and rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he sniffed a faint scent of perfume. “Now, good Master Anton, here is a letter from Guernica written in female hand. Ooh, la la.” “From Clarisse?” Anton asked, knowing that instant he had made a mistake. The old man now enjoyed prime information. He chewed it the way a dog chews rawhide. The old man waved the letter.” Cla-aa—aa—rise, yes.” Anton snatched the letter. He plopped onto his bunk and stared at the envelope’s handwriting. “Basque girls always say same thing,” Tubal said. “I dream of you. I want you madly. Now hurry and pay for my ticket to America.” Nicky giggled. Anton pursed his lips as he slit the envelope. Would she tell him how much she missed him? “Save me those stamps from Spain, Anton.” He saw Anton’s grim expression. 129  

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“Tubal, come outside, please,” Nicky said. “Help me check on our horses at the stable.” “But I want hear to hear the letter from Claaa—aarisse,” Tubal protested. Nicky grasped the old man by the arm. “Come outside, please, Tubal,” he whispered, throwing open the door. “Something is wrong in that letter. Did you see the look on Anton’s face?” Lazarus followed the two out, leaving Anton alone. The heavy boots of Tubal and Nicky rattled the wooden deck outside, but Anton never looked up. He read the letter a second time as if he could edit its contents. Anton recalled where he was the day it was mailed. Oh yes, aboard the train, probably looking out at endless prairie and thinking of Clarisse, and their unsatisfactory parting. He returned to the letter, drawn to its flowing, graceful perfect penmanship and remembering the fountain pen he had surprised Clarisse with for her sixteenth birthday with the money made painting a business sign for a Guernica baker. Dear Mr. Ibarra: There is no way to write what I must say except to write it. We talked about our hopes and dreams for you to become a great painter in Spain before you left, but then you did leave. My father and mother lectured me about the need to be practical. They said I am in Guernica and you are in America, I did look around me. The villages are full of nolonger young women who promised their hearts to handsome young Basques who went to America. The stories vary. This young Basque took to drink. This one met a woman in Boise and lost his heart. This one bought a ranch and is married to his work. But always the 130  

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stories end as they started. The women are here, and the men are in America, and never will their fat dream of marriage become reality. Some of these women waited three, five, ten years. What do they have now to show but worry lines and no hopes? They are virgin widows who never married. One day after you left Spain, Bernard Navarre came to visit my father. The rumors of the Spanish soldiers coming here to take away the young men were not rumors at all. All over the Basque villages, mothers tore their hair and young girls lit altar candles. Bernard told my father that he expected to be taken when the soldiers came. He is older than I am, but the soldiers take anyone fit. He did not want to die without an heir, and he asked if he might take my hand in marriage. I fought this. I told my parents you were honorable, and you meant to return to me. Bernard gave them a deadline of forty-eight hours. My parents never left my side, never let me sleep. Let me skip saying that which can only hurt you, Mr. Ibarra, and I so hate being formal with my dear sweet Anton, but I am a married woman now, and formal I must be. Before the soldiers could find Bernard and abduct him, the padre consented to marry him and me immediately in the chapel at St. Mammes and forgave us the normal posting of the bans. Your father loves you so much, and I know this marriage hurt him so, but he could not deny our request. During our wedding celebration, the Spaniards raided us. They took Bernard and four other young men in the wedding party. We never shared the marriage bed. My head spins at all that has happened. I must stop now and mail this before I lose my nerve and fail to write at all. Sincerely, Clarisse

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Anton stayed silent all the way back to the ranch, his cap pulled down over his eyes. Nicky left his brother alone and went to the ranch house to see if Martina might have baked anything this day. He and Lazarus returned to the bunkhouse hours later. Anton bent over his sketchbook, working with a flurry of strokes. Tubal and the Mexican herders snored in their bunks. Nicky peered over his brother’s shoulder at a caricature his brother at first tried to conceal. At an altar facing the unmistakable back and head of the padre stood a couple taking their wedding vows. Nicky peered at the image of Clarisse wearing a wedding veil and carrying a withered rose bouquet. Next to her in a wedding suit stood a monstrous leering fat goat with blackened teeth. Nicky recognized the contorted face as Bernard’s despite the animal whiskers and horns. “Do you want to talk, my brother?” Nicky asked. “Never once will I discuss this.”

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Chapter Twenty-Five: Toil and Trouble Raoul kept his best wool-producing sheep at the Two-Hearted Ranch and never let them breed with coarsewool range sheep. Thus, he hired shearers for lambing season on the ranch in late March or early April, and then he brought the shearers back for lambing on the open range some weeks later. “In another month you two will be needed night and day when some two thousand sheep start dropping lambs on the range. The deaths of hundreds of lambs can be heartbreaking if herders are incompetent,” Raoul told the brothers during a visit to the bunkhouse. “You’ll get practice very soon with the lambing here on the ranch under my supervision.” Anton and Nicky looked puzzled. “Why do they have babies here this month and on the range in later months?” Nicky asked. “Why not at the same time?” “Well, since the gestation period for a sheep is five months more or less, Tubal and I introduce the rams to the ewes a month earlier on the ranch because here we can control the operation in our corrals and pens even if the weather is bitter cold,” Raoul said. “You breed the range sheep at a later time so those lambs will drop when the weather is more likely to be mild,” Anton said. “Exactly,” Raoul said. “This way we cut losses at birth by the dozens. Winters in Idaho can be deadly right through Easter. Some stubborn ranchers have lost half their 133  

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lambs when the ewes gave birth in a March blizzard on the open range. This way we improve the odds that the lambs will survive.” “Why don’t you just introduce the rams when the weather gets hot?” Nicky asked. “They aren’t as fertile in hot weather,” Raoul said. “The heat seems to interfere with the quality of their semen.” A couple days later, several buckboards filled with Basque, Mexican and Peruvian shearers arrived at the ranch to shear the more valuable but less hardy rams and ewes. The crew listened to barked orders from Raoul, Jesus and Joachim and immediately set to work. Anton and Nicky took quiet pride when they overheard one shearer express admiration for the workmanship in the lean-to lambing sheds that the brothers had constructed. Raoul and Tubal took considerable time to show Nicky and Anton how to shear sheep. At first the brothers were slow. They clipped one animal for every three or four that Jesus, Joachim and the professional shearers clipped. Each sheep had to be restrained in a clamp-hold while the shearer worked with shears as sharp as razor edges. Raoul demonstrated how to position each sheep by grabbing its mouth and one hip simultaneously to cradle the head against the shearer’s belly. “You must shear without cutting the sheep or yourself, boys,” Raoul cautioned. Nonetheless, the first sheep Nicky held slammed him in the jaw with the top of its head, stunning the boy for a second. “They are wriggly critters,” Raoul said. “Hold them in a firm grip.” Like the other shearers, the brothers carried a piece of wood in one pocket to cut a nick for every sheep they sheared. The cuts in the wood told Raoul what to pay each shearer. Any worker who lied and cut extra cuts in the wood was fired if caught and never again could work for the TwoHearted Ranch. 134  

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The brothers struggled to learn the job of looking after newborn lambs. That an early spring turned the air hot and muggy also added to the torture of the backbreaking work. At one point, a shearer sent the brothers off on a fool’s errand to get a left-handed shepherd’s crook from the equipment shed. “The men are teasing you because you two are greenhorns,” Raoul explained when the confused brothers came back and told the laughing shearers they couldn’t locate such a crook. “There is no such thing as a left-handed crook.” “Oh, the joke is on us,” Nicky said, scratching his head in bemusement. “I get it.” “I’m surprised they didn’t send us to bring back a jackalope,” Anton said. Anton and Nicky soon became aware of the challenges of such a massive undertaking. Often they had to assist an ewe if her lamb twisted inside her and needed turning, or if an umbilical cord wrapped around a newborn’s neck and required fast cutting to stave off suffocation. Some ewes bore twins and a few even birthed triplets. The brothers and crew performed lambing duties day and night. They slept in shifts of no more than three hours at a time. One lambing task was the docking of tails to prevent the accumulation of fecal material on the rears of animals. “Unless the tails are shortened, blowflies and ticks get in there,” Raoul informed the brothers. A few days later, Anton and Nicky took on the bloody business of castrating the newborn males unneeded as breeding rams. Jesus and Joachim demonstrated how to castrate the sheep. Although not perfect, the greenhorns showed skill that impressed the instructors. “Why don’t we castrate the rams as soon as they are born?” Nicky asked. “Why wait?” “The newborn males don’t drop their testicles into a sac for about ten days,” Jesus explained. 135  

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“Do we call them rams after they are castrated?” “No, a castrated male is called a wether,” Jesus said. “They are easier to herd than rams—not so excitable,” Joachim added. “Wethers tend to be smaller as adults than are rams.” Jesus showed the brothers how to pick out leaders. “Look for the dominant sheep in the flock. You can tell because the other sheep follow them around,” Jesus said. “Put a set of bells on these lead sheep so you can track the flock at night. Sheep like to huddle in large groups by instinct because they are then less easy prey for predators.” “Anything else I should know?” Nicky said. “Sheep have excellent hearing but poor to fair eyesight,” Joachim said. “For that reason they spook if there is a loud sound. Never shout to one another if you’re in the middle of a flock. You could stampede them.” On the last day of work, the crew branded the flock with identifying red paint on the rumps. The brand consisted of two hearts side-by-side. “What makes other sheep outfits respect the brand?” Nicky asked Raoul. “All the brands are recorded in the county seats wherever the sheep graze,” Raoul explained. “To take another ranch's sheep is a serious offense. We call it rustling. No rancher has ever killed a rustler, but many a man who rustled never was heard from again. That’s a saying here in Idaho.” The last day of work ended with a feast in the bunkhouse. Martina and Emma served the meal. Martina gave each worker a plate loaded with mutton slices, fried potatoes, turnip greens, cornbread and Basque sausages. “I think you'll like these sausages better than the last batch, Nicky,” Martina said, trying to hide her mirth. “Don't remind me,” Nicky said. He stabbed a sausage with his fork and pronounced it excellent. Laughing, he turned his pockets inside out to show Martina he hadn’t hidden any casings. 136  

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At dawn the crew packed their equipment in wagons to depart. The brothers shook hands with each of the men in turn. “We’ll see you in a few weeks on the open range,” one of the Peruvian shearers shouted from a buckboard driver’s seat. “Make sure you don’t forget to bring a left-handed shepherd’s crook.” “Most definitely,” Anton called with a laugh. “What a lonely life they have,” Nicky said as the buckboards retreated. “One of the men said he has not seen his girlfriend in Spain in five years. Now that he has a little dinero he cannot go back or he would be sent right to Cuba as a soldier.” “We can have a better life,” Anton said, though again he recalled Clarisse’s sorrowful letter. His life would not be spent with her. Anton’s earlier mirth withered like a plant in a drought. The brothers had the rest of that day free. “Do you boys want to go to town with me?” Tubal asked them. “Raoul said you could help shop for your own supplies.” The once-new clothing of Nicky and Anton needed replacing after the sheep dip and lambing duties. “Sure,” Nicky chirped. “I’m getting tired of these stinky duds.” “Anything to get off the ranch for a day,” Anton added. “I’m coming, too.” They hopped on the buckboard and Tubal drove them to the Hailey mercantile store. The old man played a dozen tunes on his harmonica to make the ride seem shorter. As they shopped, they heard some commotion on the street and ran to the doorway with the storeowner. A halfdrunken cowboy mocked a Chinese miner who was trying to get away from the man’s grasp but failing. The cowboy was tall, even for these parts, standing six-two. “What is he doing?” Anton asked. “He’s hazing that Chinese man,” the mercantile owner explained. “What is this hazing?” a puzzled Nicky asked. 137  

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“‘Hazing’ is how cowboys push cattle to keep them moving. They use that same term to describe their bullying of immigrants or ‘tenderfeet.’” Anton fretted as the cowboy picked up the man and threw him on the ground. “Help that man,” Tubal said. Anton hesitated. “Help him,” Tubal repeated. Anton marched out of the store with fists balled. Tubal, right behind him, shouted encouragement. As the cowboy snatched the miner's pigtail and steadied his bowie knife to cut it off, he got the surprise of his life. “Try someone your size,” Anton said. He grabbed the man's knife and tossed it far away before forcing him over to a nearby horse trough. He held the man under the mossy water for thirty seconds. “I was just funning him,” the cowboy said, sputtering, when Anton let him breathe again. “Just having a little fun.” “Doesn't look like he was having too much fun,” Anton said. “In fact, he looks like he’d like to be anywhere on earth but in your company.” “I know you,” the man said. “You’re the big Basque ape Sinclair told us to watch out for.” “Ape, huh?” Anton said. He ducked him again in the trough and then let him up. “Who might you be?” Anton demanded. “That's for you to find out,” the cowboy said. “This devil's name is Barnes,” the Chinese miner said. “What’s your name?” Anton asked, turning his back on Barnes. “Sing Lee. I’m a gold miner.” They shook hands. “You’re the first person from China I ever met.” “Thank you,” the miner said to Anton. “In China, an enemy who cuts off a queue can be condemned to death. It is the worst form of disrespect.” 138  

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“Sing Lee, I would like you to meet my brother Nicky and my countryman Tubal,” Anton said. “You taught this devil Barnes a lesson, Anton,” Tubal said after shaking hands with Sing Lee. “Let’s hope he has learned one, anyway.” The two brothers and Tubal returned to the general store. The white-bearded storekeeper covered his face with his hands in mock horror, pretending that he feared Anton might hit him. Anton laughed. Tubal handed the storekeeper a long written list of items needed to stock the sheepwagon for the brothers' first trek with the sheep. Three sacks of flour One-gallon maple syrup and one-gallon olive oil Two hundred-pound sacks of mixed cereal, ground meal and wheat germ for the dogs A fifty-pound sack of pinto beans Twenty pounds of bacon One sack of white rice One sack of new potatoes One sack of green apples Salt blocks for the sheep and table salt Spices (pepper, dried oregano, rosemary, thyme, bay leaves, curry powder) Dried chili peppers Two boxes of canned peaches, vegetables, bouillon, crushed tomatoes Borden’s evaporated milk, ten cans Salt pork Lye soap Molasses Liver oil for dogs and the herders Coffee and tea Artist paints and a palette, fine line pencils and clay for sculptures

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Jack Rooker, a merchant known to be a charmer who bowed from the hip for his female customers, pointed his finger at all the spices on the list. “I've never heard of herders using anything but salt and pepper and olive oil,” he said. “This is what Anton wanted,” Tubal said. “He thinks he's a chef.” “Our housekeeper said spices and herbs can make even bacon and beans a little tastier,” Anton said. “Your housekeeper?” Rooker said. “Back home,” Nicky said. Rooker filled the order but read the last line and raised his eyebrows. “Artist paints?” he said, questioning Tubal. “Don’t ask,” Tubal said, shaking his head sadly at Anton who blushed again. “These new Basques are not like us old Basques.” “I guess not,” boomed the mercantile owner, chuckling. “I do happen to have a supply of paints and art supplies in the back room. Sinclair’s wife fancies herself an artist.” Rooker left and came back in a minute with an armload of art supplies. “Thank you, Tubal and Jack,” Anton said, inspecting the lot. “These will last me a long time.” “What is this Sinclair’s wife like?” Nicky asked Rooker. “Her name is Maddie Daedalus. She has a hankering for gaudy gowns.” “Gaudy?” Nicky repeated. “Yeah, she dresses up in brilliant colors, sort of like a poisonous snake.” This drew a chuckle from Tubal. “How did she end up with Sinclair?” “Sinclair met her while visiting Virginia City in Nevada on business,” Rooker said. “She was performing at a saloon called the Bucket of Blood.” 140  

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“A most genteel establishment, no doubt,” Tubal chuckled. “So she acts and sings? Professionally?” Anton wanted to know. “That’s all Sinclair’s doing,” Rooker explained. “Sinclair pushes opera houses to give his wife a bit part or a backup role in their productions in exchange for a donation.” “Is she a good singer?” “Depends who you ask,” Rooker said with a smile. “Maddie or the people running out of the opera house with their hands over their eardrums.” Tubal and the brothers chuckled. It was time to get back to the ranch. They loaded the buckboard with all the supplies. The wooden wheels sank an inch into the muddy street from the weight. The old man tied the reins, dismounted, and ran back into the store. Puzzled, Anton and Nicky watched him go. “Better give me black licorice straps, too, Jack,” Tubal said to Rooker. “I bet the boys have a sweet tooth.” Rooker put his lands on his hips and laughed. “You must like those boys an awful lot to go spoiling them like this.” “I tolerate them,” Tubal said, determined that Rooker would not think him soft. “I think you tolerate them an awful lot,” Rooker said, chuckling.

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Chapter Twenty-Six: Graze Land The appointed day arrived when the brothers and Tubal were to take the sheepwagon to join Raoul's big flock of two thousand sheep and to bring them on the long trek from winter grazing range to summer grazing range. Anton and Nicky were scheduled to take the place of the lone temporary herder who watched the flock all winter. Hours before dawn, when the brothers rolled out of bed to start moving the sheep, they found Martina with a surprise ready for them. She came to the sheepwagon with her father and pressed fresh-baked apple pies into the hands of Nicky, Anton and Tubal. Nicky, packing ground dog meal to put in the wagon’s storage area for the dogs, looked up when she approached and gave her a bug-eyed stare. She wore a simple long yellow dress with a sash around her narrow waist that complimented her figure. A jaunty bonnet completed her outfit. She and her father soon would take their horse-drawn carriage to attend Mass. “I thought you three might enjoy pie later,” she said. “Will we ever,” Anton gushed, holding the crust close to his nose to take in its aroma. “Thank you, thank you,” Nicky said. “You’re a terrific baker, Martina.” She smiled, and then giggled. Raoul saw that his daughter now seemed a younger version of her mother. Daily, it seemed, she grew more and more into womanhood. 142  

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“You were busy last night, Little Bit,” Tubal said, using the pet name he had invented when she was a toddler. “I thought a pie might satisfy that sweet tooth of yours, Tubal,” she said. Tubal had the two big draft horses ready in their traces. He gave each horse the same name, because that way he only had to give a command once when he called the horses in from pasture. Gus One was black, and Gus Two was white. “They are like chess pieces,” Raoul told the brothers. The brothers tied Big Luis and Bertha to the back of the wagon. They were two five-year-old mounts for Anton and Nicky to ride on the range. Neither was an expert rider, but Raoul had assured them they would learn fast. Big Luis, Anton’s horse, was so wide across the belly that a special saddle had to be handmade to fit his girth. Bertha was only thirteen hands high with narrow, almost delicate legs, but she loved running and never tired. Also tethered to the back by Tubal was a third horse named Dolly, a placid mare of fifteen, that the old man would ride back to the ranch after teaching the brothers what he could about herding. The brothers stashed saddles and bridles into the wagon. “Listen to Tubal, boys,” Raoul said. “He has been around sheep so long I swear he is part ram.” “I will not ask which part of the ram, Boss,” Tubal said, his grin demonstrating that he appreciated the compliment. “We better go now,” he said. “No use wasting daylight.” After the brothers safely placed Martina’s dessert inside the wagon, they climbed next to Tubal. He clucked once. Lonely’s oversized wooden wheels lurched, and in another few minutes the sheepwagon passed between the posts of the Two-Hearted Ranch. Lazarus ran excitedly alongside the wagon, while Peppy, older and a veteran of many a sheep drive and knowing the need to conserve energy, moved much slower. 143  

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When the dogs reached the public graze land they would have the task of moving two thousand sheep of all ages, each marked with a brand of washable red paint to signify ownership by Raoul in case they wandered and mingled with the sheep of another herder. “Another adventure, little brother,” Anton said. “That it is, that it is. Don’t you think Martina looked beautiful this morning?” “I think my little brother’s smitten, that’s what I think.” “My heart does seem to have gone on a wild jackalope ride,” Nicky acknowledged with a blush.

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Chapter Twenty-Seven: Sheep Camp Getting to the winter camp in the Snake River valley region required a substantial journey from the ranch with the draft horses pulling Lonely. As he drove, Tubal gave the boys a few warnings about what could go wrong on a trek from winter camp to summer pasture at much higher elevations. “Why not just leave the sheep in the same place all year?” Nicky asked. “There is no way the sheep could survive that high up in the winter,” Tubal stressed. “Plus, the wagon would be stuck in slush turned to ice until the thaws came.” The chalky sun marked the noon hour overhead when Tubal drove the wagon onto a grazing area chosen by the herder loaned to Raoul by the Navarre Ranch. Tubal parked the wagon alongside the herder’s white tent. Peppy and Lazarus wasted no time. They streaked right for the flock. “We call the graze land a bed ground,” Tubal said. “This was a good bed ground once, although the sheep have eaten the best forage and need to be moved.” “How can you tell it is a good bed ground?” Anton asked. “See the fast stream over there by those tall white pines?” Tubal said. “That means plenty of water for the sheep. And over there, way to the south, is a box canyon.” “So the herder can drive all the sheep inside and count them if he's worried a few have run off?” Anton asked. 145  

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“Not bad,” Tubal said. “You, Senor Goya, might have a future in the sheep business. Our first job will be to count all the black sheep.” The brothers knew that Raoul stocked his range flock with a few black sheep but wasn't sure why. “What exactly are the black sheep for?” Anton asked. “I’ve meant to ask you that.” “Blacks are markers,” Tubal said “You like to have one black sheep to every twenty-five white sheep. If two blacks are missing, you probably are missing fifty sheep more or less.” “So you just count the blacks instead of all the sheep?” Anton asked. “Usually you do, except when you count them for sale to a buyer at the stockyards. Then you count all the black and white sheep to get an exact number.” “Do you ever count them all when they are all in the canyon?” Nicky asked. “No, they mill around too much and dart like minnows,” Tubal said. “Before you know it, you've counted the same ewe ten times.” “So what do you do?” Anton asked. “When they're all inside the canyon you stand in a high place with a bunch of pebbles in your hand. You pop one in your mouth for every hundred you count.” Anton looked hard at Tubal. The old man's twitching lips told him that a joke was coming. “So that way not only can you tell how many sheep you have but you can also tell if a herder is a Basque,” Tubal said. “OK, I'll bite,” Nicky said. “How do you know the herder is a Basque?” “To be a Basque herder you must have rocks in your head,” Tubal said, snickering. The brothers rolled their eyes and laughed. All three looked alert as the sound of wooden wheels told of a buckboard’s approach as it came out of a draw at top speed. 146  

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A mixed breed sheepdog belonging to the temporary herder lay panting on the driver's seat, a thin hemp rope connecting his collar to a small iron ring. “How come he is tied?” Nicky asked. “If the dog were not tied, he never would leave the flock,” Tubal said. “He would not want to drive away in the wagon with his master who, I betcha, is eager to hand over the job to you boys.” The herder, a wizened character named Pete Azkuna who was born in France, jumped down and began tearing down his tent. He stuffed the small stack of bills Tubal paid him into a pants pocket. “If I hurry I can make it to town before Xaga kicks out his customers,” Pete said. “I can taste the wine already.” “Everything nice and quiet then?” Anton asked Pete in French. “Too quiet,” Pete said. “Now I want loud music and cheap wine at the hotel.” “Don’t get into any trouble,” Tubal warned him. “More music, less wine.” “At my age? What mischief could an old man do even with lots of wine?” Tubal laughed and then turned the conversation to business. “You still have two thousand sheep more or less?” Tubal asked. “Any problems?” The herder untethered his mount and tied it to the back of the buckboard. “One coyote been around,” he said. Pete pointed to the fresh tracks with four toes on each paw, the front two tracks slightly larger than the rear two. “I shoot at him but I hit only air.” Pete scrambled aboard the wagon. He clucked to the horses and with a wave was off to Hailey to squander his pay. Tubal didn’t share Pete’s hatred of coyotes. He camped outdoors long enough to observe that rodents and rabbits made up a good part of a coyote’s nutrition needs. 147  

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Without the predators, the smaller critters would breed in disturbing numbers. He and Raoul believed coyotes had as much right to the range as ranchers, but both knew better than to try persuading other Basques. Sheep men such as Old Pete swore that the only good coyote was a pelt hanging on a bunkhouse wall. Nonetheless, unless Tubal ran into the occasional coyote who killed lambs just for sport, leaving their bodies uneaten, or ripping the bag from a ewe’s belly to get at the milk, he was content to shoot his rifle in the air to send the predator packing. Besides, most herders, like Tubal, were no marksmen. Raoul liked to point out that sheep or other herders were more likely than a coyote to stop a bullet when an untrained shooter took aim. After Pete’s buckboard departed and turned into a dust cloud in the distance, Tubal addressed the brothers. “I have known Old Pete a long, long time,” he said. “When he was young he was a terror. Xaga would not let him drink at the boardinghouse unless he left his gun in the buckboard. Xaga eventually chained Pete to a chair to keep him out of fights.” “They chained him?” Nicky said. “Yes, always he fell asleep in his chair. In the morning Xaga unchained him and Pete went on his way, meek as a lamb, with a coffee in his hand.” Anton looked thoughtful. “Pete had an interesting face—lots of lines and wrinkles,” he said. “Maybe someday I will sketch him.” “Oh, Old Pete, you can’t make him sit still for a portrait,” Tubal said. “Always he has ants in his pants. He has got to keep moving.” “Maybe you can buy a camera and take his photograph,” Nicky said. “Then you can paint him from that image.” “Nicky, you get the best ideas,” Anton said. “One day I must buy a camera.” 148  

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Tubal looked with amusement at the brothers and then with satisfaction at the tight flock, not a straggler to be seen. Old Pete had kept a well-organized, spotless camp. Tubal walked to the edge of the flock and gave a hand sign to Peppy and Lazarus. The dogs ran off to circle the flock to keep any leaders from entertaining ideas about bolting. “Peppy and Tubal will teach Lazarus and you boys good habits in herding,” Tubal said. “Bad habits never go away. Use the hand signals, but if you must give commands out loud, give them short words in Basque and English. Many a dog gets sold that only knows Basque, while the new owner knows only English.” “The result is a disaster, I take it?” Anton said. “That is putting it mildly,” Tubal said. “Some good dogs that know only Basque commands have been shot by the American rancher who bought them. Instead of rounding up the sheep, the dogs had split the flock into small groups that ran off.” Anton perceived that Tubal was a born teacher. The old man never tried to humble dog or boy, encouraging them to think and become self-reliant. “Sometimes other herders’ sheep and even wild sheep will join the flock,” Tubal said. “Drive them away. If any are ill, the sickness could spread to our flock.” “Good point, the wild ones never take a bath in disinfectant,” Anton said. “Look at Peppy and Lazarus work,” Nicky said. “They made a couple would-be stragglers move closer to the flock for safety.” “A straggler makes an easy meal for a coyote,” Tubal said. “The dogs know to keep them bunched.” “Are the stragglers always old?” Anton asked. “No, some sheep, like some people, cannot keep up with their leaders,” Tubal said. “The ones the coyotes pull down are weak or injured. They feed on whatever poor sage the other sheep have left or trampled. One time in a dry year Raoul brought in wagons of hay to keep them alive, but even 149  

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then the leaders pushed the weak aside for the choicest bites. Some of the weak got barely one mouthful or no hay at all.” Anton thoughts went to how the politicians, newspaper publishers and merchants of America and Spain ensnared the nations into the conflict over Cuba. “Sometimes it is the leaders who are moral stragglers and cannot keep up with the times.” Tubal thought this over. “Nothing worse than a weak, corrupt leader.” “Do you think Nicky and I are leaders or stragglers, Tubal?” “Too soon to tell. Ask me in a year.” The next morning, long before dawn, Tubal awakened the lightly snoring brothers. They roused themselves and sat at the table for bread crusts washed down with condensed milk and molasses. On the stove boiled a pot with six brown eggs from the ranch. Tubal wiped the crumbs from his lips with a shirtsleeve. “You stay with the flock and the dogs, Nicky,” Tubal said. “Make Lazarus listen to Peppy.” “I will,” Nicky said, chewing his crust. He went to the door and tossed the last bites to the sheepdogs. “Every meat treat for dogs you must cook,” Tubal said. “Raw meat is bad?” Nicky asked. “Oh, very bad. Sheepdogs that taste blood turn no good and you must shoot them,” Tubal said. “They will kill a lamb for its blood.” “No brittle bones from a sage hen or chicken, either,” Nicky said. “When a dog chews the bones the sharp ends can stab a dog’s insides and kill him.” Tubal nodded. It was time for Anton and him to leave Nicky here to do his job alone. “Anton and l will find a nice, grassy place to graze, and Anton will make camp there with the wagon,” Tubal said. “I will come back alone and help you drive the flock to him, Nicky.” 150  

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“Understand, Nicky? This is a big responsibility for you to watch all the sheep alone,” Anton said. “Lazarus and Peppy will locate any bolters,” Nicky said, his head bobbing a promise to do his best. “I don’t want to lose any sheep for the coyotes to dine on.” After the dishes were cleaned and stacked, Tubal and Anton perched on the front seat of the wagon. “Haw,” shouted Tubal. The vehicle lumbered off with Gus One and Gus Two pulling, while Dolly and Big Luis followed from their tethered position in the rear. Nicky, holding his bedroll, the pot of six eggs and canned goods for the day’s nourishment, stood with the dogs and waved. It was the first time he ever had been apart from Anton, and he felt pride but also fear. Far off in the brush, a coyote pup howled. Nicky cupped his hands and answered the wild call. The little coyote in return yipped and yipped again, causing Lazarus to howl as well. Peppy cocked his head and listened to the boy and pup howling in tandem, his head shifting from one to the other. “Sorry, Peppy,” Nicky said and grinned. “I guess like Tubal you think I am strange.”

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Chapter Twenty-Eight: Making Camp The sheepwagon rolled along rough land that lifted the two occupants off their seats. Anton studied the old man at the reins talking nonstop. Tubal’s eyes shifted from this rocky landmark to that withered juniper, always looking for grass and sage to fatten the flock. “You read the land the way a sea captain reads the ocean,” mused Anton. “I also keep one eye looking out for Sinclair and his stooges,” the camptender said. “Like in the ocean, there are sharks here.” By mid-afternoon the wagon covered so many miles that Anton’s sleepy mind grew numb. Tubal, however, chattered away, his eyes and mouth never still. “You always stay so alert when you work?” Anton grumbled. “An old ram knows when to work and when to relax, Anton.” At long last, after traveling miles along ever-higher ground that made the horses huff, Tubal announced that they were at a fitting place for the new bed ground. “See how nice it is?” Anton saw abundant grass and a wide creek with cold, rushing water from the melted snow of winter. Although the ground here was devoid of trees and full of tree stumps, there were many bushes that Tubal said would be used to tie ewes during lambing. Less than a half-mile away, stands of aspen, hemlock and lodgepole pines waved in eyesight of the camp. Anton estimated that the ground here 152  

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was several thousand feet higher in elevation from where Nicky now guarded the sheep. “Do you notice how the trees here are much different from the ones back where we left Nicky?” “You betcha. Not all trees are hardy enough to stand the cold and moisture of the high country,” Tubal said. Tubal pulled Lonely into a draw and unhitched the black-and-white team, while Anton released Dolly and Big Luis. Anton watched with interest as Tubal located a dozen flat rocks and stacked them in a high pile. “What is that you build?” Anton asked. “A kind of marker. The old Basques called them ‘Big Boys.’” “For Nicky to find?” “For all herders to find.” “I do not understand.” “When you locate a good camp with water, share it with the next herders to come here.” “Oh, so if I see a stack of Big Boys like that, then grass and water cannot be far away?” “Yes, and one day when you are without water those Big Boys may save your life,” Tubal said. “Then when you drink the water, thank the herder who put down a pile of rocks many years ago.” “I’ll build us a fire,” Anton said. He began hunting tinder and sticks of greasewood, his gathering covering a half-acre for the better chunks of dried wood. Tubal saddled Dolly and rode to the spring that fed into a waterhole. He took along three horses that were packing empty containers and goatskins to fetch water for the wagon. At the spring he noted the inner-curved tracks of wild sheep imbedded in the banks. Tubal returned thirty minutes later, the horses loaded down with fresh water. He found Anton about to light a fire with a stick match. “You have not checked for the wind.” 153  

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Anton flushed the color of a brilliant sunset. “You’re right,” he said. “I did not check the wind. The smoke would blow right back into my face and smoke out our camp.” Tubal showed Anton how to wet his finger to check the wind current. Anton held up a finger, wet it again. “From the west, I think.” “West, yes,” Tubal said. “Now get me some flat rocks.” “But I am hungry.” Tubal was patient but firm. “You will eat soon enough, Anton,” he said. “You must build a fire the right way, not any old way. Always watch for sparks. Always check the draft.” “Like a fireplace?” “Yes, if you are not careful, you may start a grass fire and send the scared sheep running in all directions. All Hailey still talks about the herder who burned down a sheepwagon when the canvas caught fire.” Tubal arranged and rearranged the rocks into back and sidewalls with the care of a poet putting together the right words. Satisfied, he went into the sheepwagon and brought out willow poles and two iron rods a little over a yard long. As Anton watched, Tubal lashed the pole corners with rawhide and fashioned the rods into a primitive holder to hang the cooking pots. He piled the firewood to one side and lit a small pile of tinder. Once the blaze started, he added larger chunks of wood and additional stones to the fire pit. “You see why you need flat stones?” Tubal asked. “So the fire will bounce off the stones on the back wall and give more heat?” “Yes, remember this in winter if you use a stove for heat and cooking. Winter days are short, the nights long. You get much rest in sheepwagon if you do things right the first time.” “More time for drawing and making clay animals, too.” 154  

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Tubal ignored this, shaking his head. “Never gather wood to make one fire, always bring enough for two or three fires, Senor Goya.” “Why is that?” “You have the wood if there is rain or a blizzard. A herder with cold, wet feet is no good as a herder. Wood is hard to find in some parts of Idaho where the sheep graze. Men from the mines cut down so many trees, never replacing them. Probably that is what happened right here.” “Oh, yes, miners cut trees to burn to get charcoal to process the ore in their furnaces,” Anton said. “How shortsighted,” Tubal scratched his bristly jaw. “People make do when they have to make do,” he said. “They were not thinking of the future back then. They were providing for their families.” Tubal had the fire blazing. He chewed the end of his pipe until the flames died out, leaving hot coals for cooking. “Why are you still talking, Anton?” he said, grinning. “Make us a plate of beans and lamb stew. Tubal is a hungry man. How about some fresh bread, too?” “Yes, your Lordship,” Anton quipped. “Coming right up.” Anton mixed flour and cornmeal in a cast-iron pot coated with olive oil. Positioned over the hot coals, the mixture soon baked into two crusty but delicious loaves of bread to accompany the beans and stew. “If you can’t work as an artist you can open a Basque hotel,” Tubal quipped as Anton set the table with plates and utensils. “I wonder how Nicky is making out all by his lonesome,” Anton said. “Did you ever get lonely when you herded, Tubal?” “You betcha I got lonesome,” he said. “But never did I go crazy.” “What do you mean?” 155  

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Tubal confided that a Mexican herder of Raoul’s could not adapt to the isolation, the grim Idaho alkali flats, and the ever-present threat from cowmen. “What happened to him?” “This poor herder ran bootless on bleeding feet from the camp to the ranch with a dead bum lamb in his arms,” Tubal said. “Raoul paid his way back home to Mexico.” “I hope I am made of stronger stuff.” “Maybe you are,” Tubal said. “Something strong is in the soul of every Basque.” “Our people are survivors.” “Don’t worry if you talk to yourself when you camp all alone.” “Really?” “Sure, but if you answer yourself, come quick to the ranch for help,” Tubal said with a cackle. “Tubal, were you ever in love?” Tubal stopped short, at a rare loss for words. “Yes, my heart once was taken by a young woman from Muxica whose father was a poor laborer. We held hands many times before I get on a ship for America, and my heart soared like a hawk. After I come to Idaho, I find a letter waiting at Xaga’s hotel from her priest. My Anderoza had died, burned in a house fire.” Anton patted Tubal on the shoulder, each lost in long, sad thoughts neither could or wanted to share.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Slaughter After the two finished their preserved peaches in silence, Anton began scraping the plates. He washed them with a dash of soapsuds in a white enamel pan while Tubal saddled Dolly for the return trip back to the bed ground to fetch Nicky and the flock. Anton packed the old man cold beans and bread crusts and bacon to take back to Nicky for the trek back here. “What should I do with the cans and bottles after we eat?” “Burn or bury all your trash far from the wagon,” Tubal said. “Leave nothing on the ground that wasn’t there when you came. Don’t build a latrine too close to your sheepwagon, either. You don’t want to attract flies to your camp. With two thousand sheep you have enough poop around already.” Tubal and Dolly were hardly a half-mile out of camp when Anton decided to beat a bit of lonesome pining by exploring the distant stands of trees. To his delight he found a tiny pond fed by an underground spring amid a grove of aspens. Dutifully he piled a stack of rocks as Tubal had taught him. Then he took fishing line and hooks out of his pocket and in minutes had five sturdy small trout, enough for his supper. “Nicky would be proud of me,” he said aloud, for back in Spain, his brother caught fish every time he went angling. Anton walked amongst the aspen trees with the trout on a stringer made of twine, marveling at the profane and 157  

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sacred messages he found carved into the bark by long-ago passing Basque herders. Although many trees in Idaho had been sacrificed to mining, many more vast forests of aspen like this one yet prospered. Carvings scarred the white bark, mostly primitive drawings of horses, sheep and women. The drawings reminded Anton of the ancient cave paintings in St. Mammes. On impulse he took out his knife and carved Clarisse’s initials with his on white bark. Thoughts of her flowed through his head like water from a pump that would not shut off. “You need to grow up and forget her, Anton,” he said aloud, scolding himself for his weakness. “She is married and no longer yours even in your dreams.” Anton hiked to a high ridge, and then discovered a curious sighting. He observed mysterious white objects imbedded in the grass and sage for an acre or more. After a few more steps, he knew what he had stumbled upon. Tears ran down his high cheekbones. The objects proved to be the bleached bones of a thousand sheep. Among them he discovered the bones of three small sheepdogs. Everywhere he looked he found rifle casings. Someone or many somebodies had gone to great expense to shoot all the cartridges needed to destroy an entire flock. He traversed the area looking for human bones but was relieved to find none. Either the buckaroos that did this shameful deed had spared the herder, or he had run off, or perhaps a worried camptender had come looking for the flock and carted the corpse away. If there had been a young Basque murdered here, Anton was sure there was a virgin widow wailing in the Old Country, certain her intended husband had abandoned her. “What’s this?” Anton murmured. He bent and snatched up a leather saddlebag lost by its owner. On the leather was burnt an Ace of Spades. “Someone’s brand,” Anton said through gritted teeth. He looked inside. Nothing but paper and tobacco to roll cigarettes. An hour later he was back at the wagon, a teakettle on the stove and the fish sizzling in oil. Anton unlocked the 158  

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rifle cabinet, vowing to step out shooting should Sinclair’s lackeys invade his camp. After his meal and washing the plate, he unwrapped his art supplies and opened a sketchbook. He worked with short, deft strokes. His mind went back to the day of the avalanche. Before his mother strapped him and Nicky to sled, she had straightened a drawing of a bear that had been tacked to an otherwise bare wall. His father, a short man who stuffed newspaper into his shoes to make him appear as tall as his six-foot wife, had started in with his usual teasing. He had laughed at Anton’s drawing. “What is that, a clown?” Anton had looked down, ashamed. “Stop baiting him, Husband,” the mother had said. ”That is a bear you have drawn, isn’t it, Anton?” “A bear, yes.” Anton had said. He added a stubby tail to his drawing. The mother flashed her husband a dangerous stare with squinted eyes. “Oh, yes, Anton, it’s a nice bear,” the father said, squirming under his wife’s iron eyes. ”I see it now.” “I see it, too,” little Nicky had said. Now inside the wagon, it took him an hour to draw his mother pulling two small boys on a sled. When finished, he put down his brushes and cried for the first time since the padre had informed Nicky and him that their parents never were coming back.

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Chapter Thirty: A Song from the Old Country Anton waited two days at the new bed ground for the flock to arrive. Tubal wanted the dogs to let the pregnant ewes move at a manageable speed. As Nicky traveled with the flock, he found that what surprised him most about Idaho was not the starkness of the grey and purple mountains, but the absence of fences except for the rare homesteader’s property. He anticipated a house approaching every ridge, but none ever appeared. Even Tubal on Dolly stopped chattering on this trek as if conserving his strength. If it were not for the bleating of sheep and the sound of wind, both a comfort to Nicky, the silence of the landscape might drive him to shout aloud to crack the eternal stillness. At last, Nicky saw with relief the outline of Lonely in the distance, and dense smoke curling from a campfire. Anton heard the sheep before he spotted them. “Hello, you two,” Anton shouted with a wave of his flat cap. He saw right off that his brother's skin had turned brown as a saddle in the sun and wind. Anticipating their arrival, Anton earlier had bagged two fat sage grouse with well-pitched rocks. Tubal and Nicky washed up in the wagon and sat at the folding table to a meal of grilled fowl stuffed with wild rice. “Not even Xaga could cook a meal that good, Anton,” Tubal said, patting his own ample belly. “I am stuffed like that bird was,” Nicky said. 160  

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Pushing back from the table, Tubal pulled out his mouth organ. He played a song from the Old Country. Anton after that requested a special tune, a raucous, passionate melody that reminded the boy of the celebrations that followed the Basque games. “That tune has always been my favorite.” “It suits you, Anton,” Tubal said. He launched into the tune while the brothers clapped and stomped feet in the Old World way. When the tune ended, Nicky put his fingers to his mouth and showed appreciation with a whistle. Tubal noticed the faraway look in Anton’s eyes. The old man put the instrument away and fetched his pipe. “What is on your mind, Anton?” Anton took a heavy breath and informed the others of the massacred sheep and dogs he found. Neither spoke, too shocked to comment. What could either say that would make a grave wrong seem right? Nicky and Tubal glanced at the gun cabinet, seeing it unlocked and slightly open. “This is the only clue I could find,” Anton said. He displayed the saddlebag with its prominent Ace of Spades brand. Tubal had no doubts. “Faro Sinclair’s men,” he said. “The ace stands for the top card in a card game called Faro.” “Can you get him arrested, Tubal?” Nicky asked. “Probably not,” the old man said. “No way a sheriff could prove the sheep were killed at the same time this bag was lost.” Tubal sat silent for the next twenty minutes, chewing his pipe and stewing. He had not heard of any well-known rancher losing an entire flock of late, and so he deduced it had been a lone herder just starting out who had run into an ambush. Nicky pulled out his stamp album and worked in silence. Anton straightened out the wagon’s contents and washed the cups and plates. 161  

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“Why don’t you smoke your pipe, Tubal?” Nicky asked at last. “I've never seen you actually light it.” “Tobacco costs money and chewing costs nothing,” Tubal said. “Besides, I do not like the smell of smoke.” The brothers laughed, the tension broken. “Us either,” Nicky said. After a long silence, Tubal clapped his hands for attention. He wanted to get the brothers to think of something other than the slaughtered sheep. “Time for me to teach.” Tubal’s schoolhouse was gigantic for it consisted of all outdoors, mused Anton. “What is the evening’s lesson?” Nicky asked. “Knot tying with rope and string.” Tubal taught the brothers the half hitch and bowline. They went outside and, after making a campfire for light, learned to drop a braided lariat over a water barrel that Tubal had substituted for a sheep. “This is a flexible loop called a hondo,” he explained. “Why is your lariat so dirty?” Nicky asked. “A lariat is made from horsehair,” Tubal said. “It kinks and is hard to control unless you stretch it first on the ground. That’s why it looks dirty.” Nicky with his long-fingered, quick hands proved a natural at throwing a lariat. Anton struggled, too musclebound to swing the rope back over his head to get the right arc and distance. He persisted, and got a little better, though clearly he was no match for Nicky. The lesson concluded back inside the sheepwagon after the brothers took a break to check on the sheep and dogs. Tubal sat at the head of the small table and taught the boys three useful knots to tie fishing line strong enough to hold even a twisting, fighting bull trout. “In three days we will all be very busy,” Tubal said. “I will leave at dawn to bring back the lambing crew. It is time for these ewes to give birth.” “How do you know?” Nicky asked. 162  

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“Tubal must have looked at our calendar and counted the days,” Anton said, answering for the old man. “Tomorrow must make nearly five months since the rams were introduced to the ewes.” “You are right, Anton,” Tubal said. Nicky looked thoughtful. “I noticed that the bellies of many of the ewes seemed swollen, and their udders look more pronounced.” “That’s right, Nicky,” Tubal said. “You may make a herder yet.”

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Chapter Thirty-One: Lambing on the Open Range Tubal wasn’t gone long enough for the brothers to even miss him. Two ewes dropped lambs early and there were no complications. The herder brought with him Raoul and a lambing crew in the buckboard. “Where is Jesus?” Nicky asked Joachim. “Raoul wanted him to stay at the ranch to protect Emma and Martina,” Joachim said. “The word in town is that Sinclair has been badmouthing Raoul for employing you two.” “Jesus also has got his hands filled keeping tabs on all the new lambs,” Tubal said, changing the subject. Raoul went into Lonely to inspect, smiling a bit when he saw that the table had been scrubbed clean and that every bit of food was stored. The crew hunkered down around the campfire and tore into bowls of hot beans with cornbread made by Anton. They passed a bottle of whiskey supplied by Raoul, teasing Anton and Nicky who refused to partake. After eating, the crew began to throw together makeshift lambing pens and sheds and then fell into their bedrolls. They slept but a few hours. The barking of the two dogs announcing the first births made all the men jump up to hustle to assist the ewes and lambs. It would be many days before anyone managed more than two hours of sleep at a time. Anton performed triple duties. He helped with the lambing, cooked for the men and kept the log of each day’s lamb count. He saw that the quality of the food supplies 164  

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Raoul packed with him was far better than the ordinary meals the brothers ate on the range. The saddles of the packhorses carried lamb and mutton strips, fowl and chorizo. Raoul reminded Anton the hard work and long hours meant the crew required four meals a day. “Nice change to have meat instead of beans over and over,” Anton said to Nicky. Peppy and Lazarus contained the ewes in an area of the graze ground that contained many bushes. The dogs proved tireless, and Tubal made sure they too were fed many small meals day and night. Raoul and Tubal anticipated that some ewes might rebel at the role of motherhood. “The lambs, if deprived too long of the essential mother's milk, either succumb on the spot or lack the immune protection to last very long,” Raoul said. Tubal continued to give the brothers practical advice. “If a sheep rejects her lamb, tie her to a bush and chalk a number on both the ewe and baby,” he instructed. “Even if she breaks free, we still might match the two of them up.” “Do some mothers not want their babies?” Nicky asked, his mouth open in shock. “It happens a lot with younger ewes having their first lamb,” Tubal said. “Do we have to tie them all, Tubal?” Anton wanted to know. “No, first see if the lamb is nursing,” Tubal said. “If the sheep lets the baby nurse, there is no need to tie it up. Sheep know their babies by their smell first, and then by how they look or the sound of their bleating. Tie only the bad mothers who reject their lambs.” “What if a sheep gives birth to twins?” Nicky asked. “Good question,” Tubal said, chewing on his pipe. “She may accept one and push away the other with her snout. Tie her in that case, and put a number on her and the same number on her lambs.” “Do we tie the lambs?” Nicky asked. 165  

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“They know where their next meal is coming from,” Tubal said. “They are not going anywhere. No need to tie the lambs, just the ewes. The lambs need milk from their mothers until they’re weaned.” At last the final ewe gave birth, and Anton counted all the lambs and recorded the number in the logbook. Most of the tied ewes eventually accepted their lambs and allowed the tiny, spindle-legged creatures to nurse. Those rejected by their mothers died from hunger, and had to be carried in the wagon by Raoul or Tubal to a distant ravine where they were dumped for predators to digest. Thus far, this dumping of dead lambs was the job that most distressed the brothers. Not even Tubal's assurance that some lambs always died could spare them the niggling thought that the deaths could have been prevented if the two of them had been more experienced. After the lambing and docking of tails, the men had a chance to rest and to stretch their cramped legs for a couple days before starting the castration of the male lambs. The job was backbreaking and the stench of sheep clung to the clothing of the men so that they could never escape it, not even in the few hours allotted for sleep. Tubal informed Anton that he soon would need to fry the testicles in flour and oil. “We call them lamb fries,” Tubal said. “They are a treat. Men and dogs love them.” “If you say so,” Anton said. “I’ll give them a try.” When at long last the duties ended, Raoul, Jesus, Joaquin and the crew packed their gear to ride back to the ranch. With hostile ranchers such as Sinclair around, Raoul always felt uneasy leaving Martina alone with only Emma, Joachim and one or two herders to protect her. “You're doing a fine job, boys,” Raoul said before departing. “I don't think I've ever had a herder who cooks a meal so well, Anton.” “Thank you, Uncle,” Anton said. “I even got to like the taste of those lamb fries.” 166  

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Tubal readied Dolly so he could depart with the crew. “You boys are all on your own now. I’ll be back every three weeks with fresh supplies.” “Any last words of wisdom?” Anton asked. “Be like Tubal,” he said with a flash of his strong yellow teeth and a wink. “Always perfect.”

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Chapter Thirty-Two: Trouble in Camp The first lonely week in camp without Tubal or the lambing crew passed slowly but certainly for Anton and Nicky. The Ibarra brothers were no longer ignorant beginners who needed Tubal’s constant oversight. They bunched the flock nightly on higher ground than where the wagon sat so that they would hear if the flock wandered off or a predator sneaked past the dogs. The sheep always slept with their legs pointed downhill. Tubal explained that it was if sheep knew by instinct that they might be forced to run hard with a predator on their heels. One extra step might mean the difference between life and death in the event of an attack. Even in their sleep the herders kept track of the bells jangling from the necks of the bellwether sheep. If bells rang in the distance, or if there was dead silence and no bells at all, the sheep must have bolted to find unfamiliar places to feed. The brothers had to then jump out of their bunks on the instant to locate the bolters by torchlight. Every wasted minute might find a coyote or two on the trail of the stragglers. One night Peppy stirred and whined under the wagon in his cot of straw and rags. He wasn’t sure what troubled his sleep so. Peppy listened for some other clue. Had it been a broken stick of greasewood he heard under the feet of a runaway? Was he simply responding to an internal warning passed down to him from an ancestor? 168  

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Peppy’s ears cocked forward, and he stretched, awakening the puppy alongside him. Lazarus shook himself, always eager for a romp or work. Peppy trotted toward the sheep to inspect. His masters slept in the wagon, but his independent nature needed no herders to solve a problem for him. Lazarus whined uneasily as Peppy left, hoping the wagon door would burst open and there would be Anton or Nicky to give him a pat and an order. When they failed to come, Lazarus took off hard after Peppy, already a long sprint ahead. An eager pupil, the blue dog was ready for whatever lesson the older dog had to teach him. Inside his bed in Lonely, Nicky bolted upright. He shook his head and listened. Nothing, he thought, or maybe the wind. It was quiet, he mused, too quiet. He opened the wagon door and called. “Come inside, Lazarus,” he said. “Peppy?” Only the wind bending back the sagebrush and bushes answered him. Far from Lonely, the two dogs streaked past the last of the flock. They had the scent of a wandering ewe and her lamb now far from the resting band. There would be no sleep for them until they found their quarry.

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Chapter Thirty-Three: Snake Bit The brothers decided to hunt for the dogs. Nicky told Anton he had felt in his gut the night before that this day was going to be a hard one. They threw on sweaters and clambered down the wagon stairs. In the predawn darkness, they called yet again and again for Lazarus and Peppy, but the winking stars were all that greeted them. “Don't eat so much stew before you go to bed, Brother, and you won't have premonitions,” Anton said, kidding Nicky. “I am going to call you a misfortune teller. You’re worse than the padre who is always predicting dire events.” Nicky failed to answer back with a retort as he usually did. He worried about the absence of the dogs. He ran back inside Lonely and came back with two carbines and a Colt pistol belonging to Raoul. Anton’s mind went to the unthinkable. How could they manage a flock if the dogs had run away or been killed by some thug of Sinclair’s? Working fast, they saddled Big Luis and Bertha and were on the move with some dried lamb and crusts in their pockets to eat as breakfast. Each unsnapped the carbine flap holder for a fast draw in case of trouble. As soon as light broke, they separated their mounts by about one hundred feet to cover more ground while searching. The temperature was unseasonably in the midsixties, and would reach the high eighties soon. They each removed their sweaters, warm enough in their shirts. The sky was a mean smoky gray and wind gusts made the hot air feel 170  

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even hotter. Snow covered the top of the Sawtooth Mountains, but the peak was hidden by a fast-moving thunderhead. The furious wind made the brothers bring their bandanas up nearly to their eyes to protect their faces. “You look like a train robber,” Anton said. “Stick ‘em up,” Nicky joked. An hour passed. The wind still whistled, and tumbleweeds blew past the horses and riders. They pushed past a series of craggy rocks, stunted trees, and deep ravines. Ahead was a canyon, from which came the sound of barking. Nicky called to Anton. “Over here,” he shouted. They quickened the horses’ pace, but only a bit, for the cracked, rocky surface in the canyon might injure a mount's hooves if they were not careful. They dismounted a few yards from the dogs. Neither Peppy nor Lazarus looked back as the brothers pulled out their carbines. What they saw froze the boys. The dogs had halted in a steep-walled canyon. A few feet away, a five-year-old ewe focused its weak eyes on a coiling Western rattlesnake that she had disturbed. Instinctively she placed herself between the snake and her lamb. The next instant she trembled in pain and surprise, the fangs of the rattlesnake driven deep into her muzzle, and white venom working through her arteries. Her front legs wobbled and then gave way. The snake kept its hold as Anton and Nicky lifted their carbines, hoping for a clean shot. Peppy hesitated until the rattler stretched to its full four feet as the ewe flopped on the ground. With a low growl, he sprang as if his legs had coils. Lazarus moved right behind him. The brothers lowered their carbines. Peppy twisted in midair with his fangs buried inside the yielding flesh behind the giant snake’s triangular head. The dog spun and danced, darted and leaped, while Lazarus barked and lunged at the snake’s elusive tail. The snake’s jaws stayed wide open. Drops of venom fell harmless as 171  

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raindrops upon the ground while Peppy’s jaws worked away, his body a whirlwind. Nicky again raised his carbine, but Anton pushed aside the barrel. “No, you might shoot Peppy.” Peppy feinted and darted, the rattler’s strength fading by the minute. The dog used its powerful neck muscles to shake the snake back and forth. At the end, the rattler writhed and wrapped around Peppy’s front legs. Even in the throes of death, its muscles kept working. When he was sure it was dead, Nicky ran to Peppy’s side to undrape the snake from the dog’s legs. A worried Peppy kept the snake in his mouth another few seconds until Nicky shouted “Release!” in Basque. At the command, he at last dropped the reptile and pawed the twitching body. Lazarus raced forward to grab the snake behind the head as Peppy had done. Shaking it, he streaked in a circle with the snake trailing like a pennant. He dropped the prize at Nicky’s feet. “Big monster,” murmured Nicky. “Good dogs, good boys.” Lazarus and Peppy watched, panting, as the brothers turned to the ewe. She no longer took a breath. Her lamb nudged her body and bleated. The brothers separated the lamb from its dead mother, and Anton rubbed its underbelly to reassure it. Nicky knelt before the ewe and frowned. Puncture marks and a faint trace of blood marked the ewe’s muzzle. The muzzle had swollen to three times its normal size and turned bluishpurple. “Are those tooth patterns on the muzzle?” Anton asked. “Yes,” Nicky said. “The ewe must have wanted a drink and surprised the rattler. What now?” “Nothing we can do with the ewe,” Anton said, noting the blowflies already congregating around her eyes and backside. “The meat is ruined or soon will be.” 172  

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Twenty feet from the orphan a trickle of mountain water flowed, no wider than a puddle, but clear and running and valuable in this arid land. A grove of aspens bore the initials of previous herders. “I can wash her in that stream,” Nicky said. Anton knelt and tasted the spring water. “It’s cold and good,” he said. Lazarus and Peppy also filled their bellies. After Nicky finished cleaning the lamb, he moved upstream and also drank until full. “Ah, much better than rain barrel water, no matter what Raoul thinks.” “Let’s head back to the wagon,” Anton said. He collected several rocks in his big arms and piled them as a marker for others to find. Nicky mounted Bertha and extended his arms. Anton handed him the bleating lamb. The orphan seemed nothing but wool and bone, weighing little more than a sage hen. “Think I will name this little girl ‘Bum Deal,’” Nicky said. They galloped back to the flock, the dogs running behind them. The brothers checked the flock for a surrogate mother after putting away the saddles and rewarding the horses with grain. “How about her?” Nicky asked. He pointed to a fiveyear-old ewe. She had a single lamb nuzzling her for milk. “We can try,” Anton said, raising his eyebrows. “What if she drives Bum Deal away?” “Maybe rope her and milk her by hand?” Anton suggested. They eased the lamb onto the ground. The ride had spurred energy and hunger in the rested orphan. She struggled to get up, fell, and then recovered her legs. “Poor thing is exhausted after following her mother all that way,” Anton said. Nicky picked the orphan up to hold under the ewe. Driven by hunger and instinct, Bum Deal fumbled for a teat with eager lips. 173  

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Anton guarded the ewe’s head, ready to act should she turn her teeth on the intruder. No need, he saw, relieved. “She’s taking Bum Deal as if she were her own.” “She’s acting as if she were his mother,” Nicky said. “Now you have two babies, old girl.” “Bon appétit, Bum Deal,” Anton said. “I’ll stay with the dogs and check the flock for stragglers. You mount up again and go back to the stream with the goatskins to bring back fresh water.” The sun burned directly overhead when Nicky and Bertha arrived at the stream with the packhorses. Ravens picked at morsels left on scattered bone fragments. Nicky examined the tracks. One set had been made by an animal with big outer toes and narrower inside toes. Scratch marks in the dirt showed where the ewe’s carcass had been dragged and ripped apart. Three additional sets of tracks were smaller, but the overall pattern was the same. Coyotes, thought Nicky. Bertha shied at the wild scent still in the air, neighing in displeasure and tossing her head. Nicky reached past her ears and stroked her pink muzzle. “Don’t worry girl,” he said. “They’ve had their meal already and probably are miles away sleeping it off.” Nicky whistled in surprise. On the ground he observed rounded prints some four inches or so wide with thick indentations where the pads touched. No claw marks showed. An animal that retracted its claws had made these. Now he surmised the real source of Bertha's fear. She had expected a big cat to land on her back. His gaze moved to a small aspen. Scratch marks covered the base of the tree. “Panther, a big one, too,” he murmured to Bertha. He looked toward a rocky hill covered with boulders in the distance. He collected his carbine from its scabbard in case the big cat was in hiding and fancied horsemeat. Nicky was calm, reasoning that the big cat likely had vanished after catching the man scent. He worried more about Bertha and the packhorses running off and leaving him 174  

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than he did a panther attack. Nonetheless, it paid to be vigilant. Working quickly, he bent to fill the goatskins with pure water. Porcupine tracks and scat lined the bank along the bubbling water. This was an oasis for many critters. Before departing, he took out his knife and carved Martina’s name into the bark of a white aspen. Then he added his name and encircled both with a heart. “Hope Anton doesn’t find this,” Nicky muttered to himself. “He’ll be making fun of me for years.”

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Thirty-Four: Hard Lessons May 1, 1898 On a lovely, cloudless day, Tubal arrived at camp with fresh supplies and a cake smothered in frosting that Martina had baked. “Happy seventeenth birthday,” shouted Tubal, handing the cake to Anton who pretended to hide it from Nicky. “Wait until your fifteenth birthday in a few days, and I will bake you a cake made of beans, Nicky,” Anton said. He brought out a knife and plates. “How appetizing,” Nicky said with a grin. The trio dug in. “Not one crumb left,” Tubal, announced twenty minutes later, patting his ample belly. That evening the camptender pointed out the many bare patches of ground in and around the flock. He said that it was time to move the petered-out camp to a fresh summer feeding ground at an even higher elevation. “I remember camping many years ago at a spot about a half-day’s journey,” he said. “We’ll see if it is still a good place.” The next day proved unexpectedly long and challenging. Right from the start, the entire flock balked at moving. Tubal took over the reins to the sheepwagon and moved way ahead of the flock. At one point he stopped and waited an hour so that the brothers could keep the sheepwagon in sight. The young lambs in particular traveled at a snail’s pace. 176  

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“Should we speed them up?” Nicky asked his brother. Anton agreed it seemed best to direct the dogs to drive the sheep at a fast clip. Peppy cocked his head at the command, and Nicky gave it a second time. The sun was a blotch on the horizon when Lazarus and Peppy brought the flock to the new camp. Anton, though tired, found the energy to whip up a one-pot meal of beans, rice and raisins. Tubal drove home a lesson near the end of supper. He had watched from his wagon view with disapproval while Anton and Nicky pushed the sheep, but he had withheld constructive criticism until now. “Today, you covered many miles on the trail,” he said, his tone alerting the youths that he had something important to teach. They looked up from their half-eaten dishes of canned pears. “Yes, yes, the lead sheep at last turned so frisky,” agreed Nicky. “I see that,” Tubal said, taking his pipe from a shirt pocket.” All the sheep were this eager to travel?” “No, Tubal,” Anton said. “We had to sic Peppy and Lazarus on the sheep and lambs that lagged behind.” “Why did you do that?” “Otherwise, the first sheep leaders would have gone way ahead and might have run into a coyote.” “Hmm, I see,” Tubal said. “Tell me this, boys. Do we raise race horses or sheep?” Nicky sensed a trick question. “What do you mean?” “How much weight do sheep gain in a day?” “Maybe a half-pound, I guess, or maybe a few ounces more?” Nicky said. “Maybe a pound a day if the grass is high and the water is good and the lamb is in prime health,” Anton added. Tubal fondled the bowl of his pipe and chewed the end. “Today, do you think the sheep gained a pound when they ran like that?” 177  

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Nicky looked pensively at Tubal, and hung his head so that his long black hair fell over his forehead. He knew the answer. Anton took off his beret and twisted it in his hands in shame. “The trailing sheep, they probably lost weight, Tubal.” “Lost weight, hmmm?” Tubal said. “We have two thousand sheep here, yes?” “Yes, two thousand sheep,” Nicky said, already miserable. “If you run them like this, what happens?” Anton understood the point. He deserved this lecture from Tubal. “Raoul will lose maybe seven or eight pounds of meat per sheep.” Tubal acted surprised. “I never have been to school, but that sounds like a lot,” he said. “Does that sound like a lot to you boys?” Nicky and Anton answered as one. “Yes.” “That comes to much dinero. I think Raoul might get mad,” Tubal said. “Now in winter if snows come you may push sheep to walk fast to get them safely to low ground. In winter only, if feed is scarce or the weather is threatening.” “Well, the next time what if we put the dogs on those frisky leaders and make them turn back to the main flock while the slowpokes graze or suckle along the way?” Nicky asked. “Good idea,” Tubal said. “Then we bring big fat sheep to market, not skinny ones.” Anton and Nicky nodded. “Good boys. I think I’ll go turn in then and sleep. I need rest more than you two youngsters do.”

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Chapter Thirty-Four: Bum Deal’s Misadventure Awakening before the slumbering brothers, Tubal lit the sheepwagon lamps and boiled coffee and eggs, soaking bread crusts in evaporated milk. He tapped Nicky to wake him, informing him that he was accompanying him for the day while Anton herded. “You collect stamps, no?” Tubal said. “Yes, yes,” Nicky said, not quite awake. “Today you will collect plants.” Anton awoke and listened, wanting to be invited. “Plants?” “Yes, Anton, the boy will come with me to look for certain plants. The sheep, they are always hungry and eat any kind of vegetation. You boys must learn to keep them from the plants that could kill them.” “So I have to stay alone with the sheep?” Anton said. “Next time you get to go with me. You get the dogs for company now, Anton.” After the two left the sheepwagon, Anton spent a restless day with the sheep. He was bored and nearly fell asleep on Big Luis. He wondered how any lone herder could work without the comfort of another human voice like Nicky’s. The dogs had left him, keeping the rear third of the flock from straying. His horse shied as a grey shadow left an outcrop of protective rocks and streaked toward a lamb munching on button sage twenty feet from its adopted mother and her natural lamb. Anton was alert at once. “Bum Deal!” shouted Anton. 179  

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Forty yards, now thirty, then twenty, the coyote—this was a big one—raced at its prey. Anton yanked the carbine from the saddle holster. He had it level and elevated. “Steady, Big Luis,” he murmured. At the last half-second, Bum Deal saw the threat and jumped sideways. Growling and snapping, the coyote snatched only a thick clump of wool and a strip of skin, missing the lamb’s vulnerable throat. Anton narrowed his eyes and squeezed off a shot. The coyote took a step forward as if about to charge, lowered its head and forelegs, and collapsed. Anton kicked his spurs into Big Luis’s side. The big horse wanted no part of getting near a predator, and he went forward only when the spurs went in a second time. Anton approached the coyote with caution, remembering Tubal’s teaching to make sure the hunted was not merely stunned or wounded. “Many a herder has lost a couple fingers to a ‘dead’ coyote,” Tubal warned Anton. Anton wanted to rush to Bum Deal’s side, but Tubal’s warning stopped him short. He clucked and used his heels to back up Big Luis. He saw little blood on the canine and feared his shot merely creased its neck. This one was five feet in length and two feet paw to shoulder. “You’re a big one, all right,” he called out to the coyote.” I wonder how many rabbits a day you eat to get you so fat.” Peppy and a panting Lazarus came running out of a ravine in answer to the rifle shot. They tried rushing the body of the coyote, but stopped dead at Anton’s command. “No,” he shouted, first in Basque, then in English. The coyote regained his senses and rolled to his feet, his neck hair bristling. He snarled as he faced the dogs. All three animals bared their fangs. Lazarus looked menacing and ready to fight. “Stay,” yelled Anton. The dogs remained frozen. The hair on the back of their necks went straight and bristly. 180  

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The coyote saw he was outmatched. With his tail tucked, he raced away. The two dogs whined but stayed where they were, pleading eyes fixed on the herder, begging to go after the predator. Anton considered firing his carbine at the camp robber but held the shot. “Maybe Mr. Coyote has learned his lesson,” Anton told the dogs, dismounting and rubbing their backs until the standing rough hairs retreated. “Lazarus and Peppy, you see now that the prairie wolf is dangerous and must be approached with caution? And Bum Deal, you seem to find trouble wherever you go.” Anton sprinted over to Bum Deal and hugged her like a child when he saw her wound was superficial. “I’ll patch you up.”

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Chapter Thirty-Five: Deadly Plants A red sky and then a blanket of darkness settled on the camp when Tubal and Nicky arrived back at Lonely. They unsaddled their mounts and hobbled them. Anton's beef stew spiced with dried chili seeds bubbled in the cast-iron oven. The sweet smell of burning wood chips filled the room. Tubal rolled his eyes when he walked through the door. Anton had brought the injured lamb into the sheepwagon. He had an old newspaper spread on the floor to catch droppings. “What do you have there, soft-hearted one, a new pet?” “Yes,” Anton said, flashing a wicked smile. “I have named her Tubal.” “Oh,” Tubal said, noting the iodine-stained neck of the lamb. “No, a ‘Tubal’ is too smart to let Mr. Coyote get that close.” Anton laughed. “All right,” he said. “Her name is Bum Deal.” “Next you’ll be teaching her tricks like a dog,” Tubal said. “Watch this, Tubal,” Anton said, laughing. “Bum Deal, come here.” The lamb snapped her head up and came to Anton. As a treat, he handed her a sugar cube. Bum Deal ate it and licked his hand. Anton patted the lamb’s head. “I don’t believe it,” Tubal said. “Next you’ll be teaching this bum to herd the other sheep.” 182  

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Nicky struggled through the doorway, clutching plants to his chest and chin. Lazarus bounded through the open door behind him, frisky and eager for attention. Nicky started to dump plants on the table, but Tubal shook his head and pointed to the wagon floor. Tubal shook a stubby finger. “Put the blue pup outside,” he said. “If Lazarus licks or eats these, he could get sick, even die.” “Oh, right, right,” Nicky said. “I’ll put Bum Deal outside, too, with her adopted mother. I’ll have to wean her from Anton, her daddy.” “Good, good,” Tubal said, chuckling and softening his tone. “First we eat, then we talk about plants.” Anton poured large glasses of water. He draped a towel over his arm and imitated the obsequious waiter back at the café in Guernica. He pretended to tug on tufts of hair in his ears. Nicky giggled. He and Tubal snapped fingers for service. After the meal eaten at leisure, Tubal pulled out his pipe and pointed in turn to each plant. “Now Nicky, tell Anton what you learned today.” “We found this one in large clumps by a creek bed,” Nicky said. “Purple larkspur resembles a geranium until you look closer. Eating one or maybe even a couple plants causes no lasting harm. But just one day’s feeding on these makes an ewe bloat and then stagger and then twitch on the ground terribly ill.” Tubal twitched his shoulders as if remembering what he witnessed one time in the field. “That is very good, Nicky.” “How do you save them?” Anton asked. Nicky jumped on the question. “By then, there is no saving them,” Nicky said. “You must shoot the sheep to be kind.” The lesson continued into the evening. Here was the aptly named Death Camas with leaves like an adult onion’s and a pretty whitish-yellow flower in the center. Then there was lupine. “Tubal says the name 183  

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comes from the Latin word for wolf, because it grows so fast and takes over everything.” “See the gray hairs here on the pods?” Tubal said to Anton, pulling on his own fringe. “Like an old man’s, no?” Anton nodded, the analogy clear. Tubal continued the lesson. He pointed to water hemlock, goldenrod, rabbit brush and locoweed, describing all as if he were a botany professor. “All these could be deadly or at least lay a sheep low for a few days, making it unable to walk,” Tubal said. “Even if the sick sheep should be Bum Deal, you must never neglect the rest of the flock for one and shoot it.” “I understand,” Anton said. “Are there no edible plants, Tubal?” “Oh, plenty,” Tubal said. “Clover is good. Sheep eat the flower, leaves and stems. In a pinch, you can, too. Then there are dandelions, pine needles and seeds, oak acorns and pigweed leaves.” Long after dark, Nicky and Tubal washed their faces and announced plans to bed down. “Good night, Brother,” Nicky said and yawned. “I’ll turn in after a bit,” Anton said. “I want to sketch some of these plants while they are fresh.” “Of course you do,” Tubal said. He had begun to adjust to Anton’s strange ways. “Put plants in the stove to burn when you finish playing with them. Don’t scatter them outside the wagon.” “I promise to remember, Tubal.” In the morning, when Tubal awoke from the sidebench bed and lit the wood stove and hurricane lamp, he saw that the light illuminated a half dozen sketches pinned to one wall. The old man’s eyes traveled from sheet to plant. Seen this way, the plants displayed characteristics not even the camptender had noticed. Nicky awoke as the old man took a coffee can off a shelf. The boy eased from the upper bunk to the floor without waking Anton. 184  

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“Your brother sees with his eyes and soul,” Tubal said to Nicky, pointing to the artwork. “I do not think Anton will remain a herder after his two years for Raoul end. He lives for his art, not for ranching.” “I wish I could draw like that,” Nicky said. “That would sure make Martina notice me.” “Do not worry, Little Rabbit. She notices.” “How do you know?” “I am losing a little of my hearing, but not my sight,” he said. “Now I better ride back to the Two-Hearted Ranch. Daylight is burning. Raoul will soon be checking his clock and asking where that lazy Tubal is keeping himself.”

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Chapter Thirty-Six: The Ambush May 21, 1898 Three busy weeks went by since the camptender had left camp. Neither looked forward much to a barebones supper, particularly Nicky who wished he were at the ranch with Martina to celebrate his birthday this night. “You think Tubal is still at the ranch?” Nicky said. “He’s never a day late,” Anton said, getting ready to fry the last of the potatoes for supper. “I expect him through the door any second.” Nicky marked another day with an X on the calendar from the Hailey mercantile store. The brothers treasured the calendar’s illustration of a glamorous female model. “Another day closer to our freedom,” Anton said. “Salud,” Nicky said, lifting a water glass. “Happy birthday, Little Brother. If Tubal doesn’t get here soon with flour, I may have nothing but beans to make you a cake after all.” “Would you really bake me a cake of beans?” “No, Nicky,” Anton said. “I put aside the fixings for cornbread. It won’t taste as good as Martina’s cakes, but it won’t be half bad either.” Anton again checked the near-empty storage space as the cornbread baked in the Dutch oven. He sighed and fretted. This was his second day without coffee on hand, and he had a headache. “I wonder what could be keeping him?” Nicky said. 186  

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The brothers wanted fresh victuals brought in from Rooker’s mercantile store, but more so they wanted assurance that their friend Tubal was safe. Anton reminded Nicky that Tubal had other duties besides camptending. “Perhaps there is a reasonable explanation for his lateness.” “I hope so.” “If Tubal doesn’t come tonight, we’ll have to eat a coyote,” Anton said. “My stomach is touching my backbone,” Nicky said. Anton looked at Nicky’s sturdy frame. “Yes, I can see you have been reduced to a skeleton,” he quipped. Compared to most sheepherders, Anton was an excellent cook, but even his meals a day or two before the camptender came tasted bland. As he served the fried potatoes with tiny bits of the last bacon, he recalled Senora Laka’s fine stews and casseroles. The memories made him salivate and long for the Basque Country of Spain. Well, if nothing else, he would bathe, he decided, before even the dogs avoided him. After the brothers completed the ritual of checking on the sheep yet again, Anton fired up three pots of water on the cook stove. He hauled out the shallow tub in which he and his brother took their baths. Anton and Nicky differed from most other herders. The brothers bathed at every watering hole and washed their clothing at every opportunity. They wore their hair somewhat long but nonetheless clipped one another's locks to appear presentable even though they had only the sheep to impress. Some of the herders they knew wore the same shirt, pants, and underwear all the days they were with the sheep, and their hair often was tangled and matted and greasy. “It is a toss up which smells worse—the herder or the sheep,” Nicky once said to Anton after running into a wretched-smelling herder from Chile at a watering hole. Tubal still failed to arrive by the time Anton had bathed and set the table for the birthday boy’s treat. He placed a plate of warm cornbread on the table as Nicky came 187  

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in with Lazarus. “This will have to do us,” Anton said. “Unless you want dog kibble. Still a bit of that left.” Anton gave his brother a homemade card. On it he had written “Happy Birthday” beneath a caricature of his brother and Martina eating a plate of sausages. Nicky grinned and made small talk, but after a few words, Anton gave no answer. Nicky saw that his big brother’s eyes gazed inward, his longing thoughts were far away. “What are you thinking?” Anton blushed. “I was trying to guess how many days remained before I could buy my freedom and go back to Spain.” Nicky nodded. He knew that Anton itched to leave this enforced apprenticeship. The beloved Basque province called Anton even with Clarisse an unavailable married woman. “Your head is here, your heart in the Old Country,” Nicky said, reaching across the table to punch his brother on the arm. “But the war in Cuba continues. You couldn’t go back even if you could go back.” Anton chewed the last of his cornbread. He and Nicky sipped weak tea after the meal. “That’s the last of the tea,” Nicky said, turning his empty cup upside down. “Today it is your turn to wash the plates,” Anton said. “Without much food your job is an easy one tonight.” “Yes,” Nicky replied. “And if that slowpoke Tubal does get here tonight with fresh supplies, you can fry us bacon and eggs.” “Look who is giving the orders now that he is a year older,” observed Anton, but he said so with a smile. The brothers turned toward the door as the dogs scratched on a panel. “Lazarus and Peppy want supper,” Anton said. “They are getting impatient.” Anton threw open the door. Lazarus bounded up the portable steps. The steadier, older Peppy followed him inside. Lazarus in no time would become a mature dog like 188  

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Peppy. Tiny splashes of his mother’s ivory white on his ears and tail offset his blue coat. He had one whitish blue eye and one dark brown, making half his face look inquisitive and the other half look intelligent. His daily running toughened the bottoms of his paws so that even the spines of cacti could not injure them, and he displayed an obsessive willingness to bark at passing coyotes to ruin their dreams of a fresh mutton meal. Lazarus had a few bad puppy tendencies to work out of him, although the blue dog often showed the instincts of a much older working dog. Still, when work was done, Lazarus liked teasing Peppy by biting the older dog’s tail. Peppy’s patience kept him from snapping back. Raoul had provided them with Peppy, intending that the older dog teach Lazarus all that was necessary to keep the sheep from bolting. Now Lazarus marched into the wagon as if he were the king of Idaho, lording it over Peppy, who was stringier than the growing pup. The blue pup bent his back and invited each brother to pet him, pausing first to snatch a piece of gristle that Anton offered as a gift. Anton put out a dish of water and a tin of dried food for Lazarus and some of the same for Peppy. Lazarus stood quivering with excitement, while Peppy waited with patience until Anton gave the hand signal that permitted both dogs to start the meal. While the dogs ate, Nicky swept the wooden planks of the wagon. Both brothers loved order, and they kept their camp and wagon spotless. They tucked every jar and tool away in its place. Anton often repeated an old Basque saying learned from Raoul that you could judge a herder’s fitness as a shepherd by how well he tended his camp. “If a man cannot take care of himself and his camp, how could he be counted on to take care of his sheep?” Anton once said to Nicky who had joked about his brother’s compulsive neatness.

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The heads of the dogs snapped up in the middle of their dinner. Gunfire broke the stillness. The brothers jumped to their feet. Lazarus growled and both dogs bristled. “Those were revolvers, not rifles,” Nicky said. “Pistols for sure.” The brothers grabbed loaded carbines, and Anton put the Colt in his belt. Each filled a pocket with extra cartridges. As they put on their hats, two more pistol shots rang out. “Tie up Lazarus,” Nicky said. “I’ll make us a torch.” Anton tied a rope to Lazarus’s collar. The dog never was restrained and now made a fuss. They put no such binding on Peppy, who never strayed. Nicky pulled his hat brim low over his eyes, surprising Anton by how menacing his dark-faced kid brother looked. The two knew that many a shepherd had died at the hands of renegade buckaroos. A few had been found by camptenders with their hands tied and bodies riddled with bullets. An ambush in the vast Idaho outback was easy enough. Killers merely had to wait at popular waterholes. “Should we take the horses?” Nicky asked. “No, those shots were close enough for us to walk,” Anton said. “No sense calling attention to ourselves with hoof beats.” “Could it be Tubal shooting to get our attention?” “No, those shots were random.” A lunging Lazarus threatened to tear Anton’s arm from the socket as they went out the door and down the pulldown stairs of the wagon. Alert and calm, Peppy trotted alongside the brothers. “You ready?” Nicky asked. “No, but we must go, anyway.”

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Chapter Thirty-Seven: Tubal in Trouble The brothers concurred that the gunshots had come from a stand of aspens and willow trees about a twentyminute walk from camp. By the time they neared the grove on foot, the sun nearly had slipped away. The mountains had turned a glorious purple and red. They were cautious and kept under cover. The waterhole looked deserted. Lazarus had accepted the rope leash and stayed close to Nicky’s side. Peppy ran a dozen feet ahead of the brothers. Often he looked back to make sure they stayed close. “I don’t see anyone,” Nicky whispered. “Be sure before we’re dead-sure.” “Let the dogs search?” Anton considered the idea, agreed, and slipped the rope from Lazarus’s collar. “Go,” Nicky said in Basque. The two dogs bounded away. A minute passed. Peppy and Lazarus yipped and barked. “Let’s move,” Nicky said. The brothers trotted toward the dogs, rifles ready for a snap shot. The brothers heard a weak cry and investigated. They found an old man fighting for his life. He lay sprawled in a small ravine downhill from the aspens. His arms were tied behind his back. Nicky moved the torch close to the man’s face. 191  

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“It’s Tubal,” Anton cried. “He’s hurt.” Anton untied the dazed old man. Nicky checked for a pulse, found a weak one. The fear in Tubal’s belly worked into his legs, and they cramped, paining him. “I was scared, very scared,” he said. He shook his head, slowly recovering his equilibrium. “Did someone jump you?” Nicky asked. “Two someones,” Tubal said. “They must have spotted me on the trail and followed me. One threw his lariat and pulled me off Dolly.” “We heard shots,” Anton said. “They shoot and shoot and make me dance. I shook so bad I wet my pants. They laughed and shoot some more. A ricochet hit my leg.” “Those cowards,” Nicky muttered. “They stopped laughing. They told me they didn’t mean to shoot me,” Tubal said. “But since they did, they had to make sure I couldn’t turn them over to the law.” Nicky examined the old man’s left pant leg. A bullet had exited through the fleshy part of the leg. The oozing blood filled one boot. Anton held Tubal steady while Nicky yanked off the boot and sliced the pant leg off. “I think the bullet went clear through and missed the bone, Tubal,” Anton said. “If a slug were still in there we'd have to dig it out. You were fortunate.” “We’ll bandage this at the wagon,” Nicky said, inspecting the wound. “You might have bled to death.” Anton’s face flushed with outrage. “Who did this?” “The man who threw the rope is Bart Jackson,” Tubal said. “The shooter was Clyde Barnes, that same fool you threw in the horse trough.” A look of fear came over Tubal’s face. “What’s wrong? Anton asked. “Well, this old head hit the ground hard,” he said. “I see two of Anton and two of Nicky.” “You can’t see?” Nicky asked. “I see,” the herder mumbled. “But I see too much.” 192  

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A bark came from Peppy on the far side of the grove, followed by a long whinny. “That must be Dolly,” Tubal said. In a moment they heard hoof beats. Tubal’s Dolly and a pack mule loped toward them. Peppy and Lazarus nipped at their hooves. The wooden frame of the packsaddle clung by loosened straps to the midsection and chest of the mule, but on first inspection by Anton, at least some of the supplies appeared intact. Nicky pointed. A cloud of dust rose in the distance. “There go the two cowards who did this to Tubal,” he said. “Should I take Dolly and go after them?” “No,” Anton said. “They’ve got a head start. Plus they might notice you and double back to bushwhack you.” Nicky brought Dolly and the pack mule to the trickling stream to let them drink. Anton grabbed each of Tubal’s arms and guided the old man to his feet. Tubal stood on one leg with Anton’s help. The old man inspected Dolly and the mule. The attackers had slit one gunnysack and the flour whitened the nearby sagebrush. “If I were ten years younger,” Tubal snarled. He left the threat unfinished. Nicky came over to them with the horse and the mule. “I found a message to Anton and me stuffed in an emptied saddlebag on your horse,” he said, waving it. “What does it say?” Tubal demanded. Nicky handed him the note. “Blast it, Boy,” Tubal said, his frustration turning to anger as he pointed to his eyes. “I see two notes where there only should be one.” Nicky blushed with shame and read the note. “You Bascos are trespassing on cattle territory. Move these sheep in twenty-four hours or blood will run.” The note was unsigned but had an ace of spades drawn where the signature normally would go. 193  

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“More threats, always threats from Sinclair and his goons,” Tubal said. “I wonder whose blood will run?” Anton asked. “Ours or Sinclair’s?” “Sinclair and his cronies want war,” Nicky said. He stroked the stock of the worn and scratched carbine that Raoul issued him. “Maybe Anton is right. They should worry about their own blood staining the earth. Raoul has every right to put sheep on this free-graze land.” Anton admonished him. “This is not your country, Nicky,” he said. “You should not risk so much.” “Brother, it is not your country,” Nicky said. “Idaho is now my home.” “Because of Martina?” “Her, sure,” Nicky said. “But also I love the land, the people, the opportunities. I feel like a man here already, or at least a boy doing the job of a man.” “That you are, little brother,” Anton said. “That you are.” “Let’s put Tubal back on his horse and get back to the wagon before it turns completely pitch black,” Nicky said. “He looks as if he might pass out.”

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Chapter Thirty-Eight: Back to the Ranch The brothers managed to get Tubal atop Dolly with Nicky riding double. The younger brother held the torch aloft as they made their way back to the sheepwagon. Anton trailed behind, leading the pack mule with supplies. They used the light of the hurricane lamp seen through the wagon windows to make their way in the dark. Once in the wagon, Anton spread a bandage over a cut across Tubal’s forehead. While Nicky put the supplies away and boiled water for tea, his brother dressed the bullet wound in Tubal’s leg, frowning as he did. “You need a doctor,” Anton said. “Someone with more skill than I have. I’ve swabbed it with ointment, but you’re going to have a bad scar.” “This not the first scar Tubal get,” the old man replied. “Tubal is all right, just woozy.” Nicky and Anton conferred. “One of us needs to take the stubborn cuss back to the ranch to see a doctor,” Anton said. “Of course,” Nicky said. “I’ll bring some extra fresh supplies back with me after I return.” “Oh,” Anton said, chuckling. “So it is you who should go back to the Two-Hearted Ranch with Tubal, not me?” “I will make the enormous sacrifice and go,” Nicky said, trying to keep from laughing. “Yes, the enormous sacrifice of seeing the smiling, pretty face of Martina,” Anton said, pretending to be stern. 195  

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“Not to mention the sacrifice of eating good food and pie while I chew beans.” “Always the bickering with you two brothers,” grumbled Tubal. But he managed a grin in spite of his throbbing head. Of all the herders he had known during his long years of service to Raoul, these two were the most fun to work with. “Wait until you get old and girls are a memory, boys,” Tubal said. “Anton must already be old,” Nicky said. “Girls are already a distant memory.” Anton reached for his carbine. Nicky’s eyes grew big. “Kidding, kidding.” After Tubal rested for the night, he and Nicky set out for the ranch at dawn on Dolly and Bertha, the pack mule trailing them. A quarter-mile from the wagon, Nicky saw that Lazarus followed them. He dismounted and grabbed Lazarus affectionately by the ears. “You must stay, Blue Dog,” he said. “You have sheep to guard.” Lazarus licked Nicky’s hand, shook himself, and began to trot away. “That is smart one, that Lazarus,” Tubal said. Other dogs you have to throw stones at so they stay at camp with the sheep. He is as good a stockdog as Peppy.” Lazarus stopped a hundred feet away. “Go on with you,” yelled Nicky. “Go on.” Lazarus loped back toward the flock. Nicky and Tubal watched the pup until he was a blue dot in a sea of white wool. Lazarus went right to work nipping at the heels of Bum Deal. The lamb had paused at the edge of a deep fissure. Lazarus turned the bolter back, preventing a fall that might have broken her legs. “How does a lamb that smart act so dumb?” Tubal said to Nicky, turning back to the trail ahead.

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Chapter Thirty-Nine: Reader Ruffin An hour before dawn Anton threw off his sleeping bag. Three days had passed after Nicky and Tubal left. He rolled out the bottom bunk of his bed, landing on the balls of his feet as light as a cat in spite of his bulk. In the darkness he found the chair where he’d left his clothing before turning in for the night. He threw on trousers and the coarse shirt that the housekeeper at St. Mammes had fashioned from an old blanket, and which he kept in spite of stains and holes because it was a reminder of home. He yawned and stretched, noting that this favorite shirt had become way too snug across his broad shoulders and chest. He liked the way hard work put muscles on a fellow, he mused, as he thumped his feet into a pair of work boots. A little warmer now, he walked a couple feet to the folding table and fumbled in the total blackness until he located a canning jar filled with long wooden matches. He unscrewed the top of the jar that he kept covered, worried that a field mouse might bite a match head and accidentally start a fire in Lonely. Anton trimmed the lamp’s wick before lighting the match. He opened the cook stove in the sheepwagon and ignited the dried sheep dung that Tubal taught him to use as fuel. “Whenever practical, wherever good wood was to be found, it was used for building houses and furniture, not for firewood,” Raoul had instructed him. As he moved around the wagon with the light from the hurricane lamp, he looked at his latest artwork and pronounced it “not bad.” But not bad isn't good enough, he remembered, thinking back to Russell’s advice on the train. 197  

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The night before, Anton had created ink sketches for clay sculptures of coyotes, eagles, and wild bighorn sheep. How would Mr. Russell do this? he asked himself. He shivered. The night sweat on his body dried in the coolness of the sheepwagon. How will it feel in December when mercury plunged on the wagon’s outdoor thermometer? Yesterday had proved a challenge for Anton’s resourcefulness. He had encountered crisis after crisis. The flock had stampeded when an eagle grabbed a small ewe in its talons, and he had to locate the bolters. A stiff wind snapped a clothesline and blew his spare trousers into fresh sheep dung. Finally, Lazarus lost a tiff with a spotted skunk. Anton popped a mutton chunk into a Dutch oven with onion and potato and olive oil to make a breakfast stew. The morning provided perfect light, and the warm scent of stew comforted him. He leaned over his easel with an unfinished portrait of Lazarus and Peppy sleeping. He paused when the dogs barked. Anton charged out of the wagon. “One rider coming,” he told the dogs. “Only one— but he’s coming fast.” He ran back inside for his carbine, and then he rejoined the bristling dogs. “Maybe it is company, not an enemy,” he said to the dogs. “Quiet, boys, quiet.” Out of the dust cloud came quite a sight. The rider, a boy in spite of his lanky build, waved his hat. “Hello to the camp, hello.” Drawing nigh, he displayed a wild banner of curling black hair, mahogany skin and a huge marionette’s smile. “Hope you don’t mind company?” the stranger called. Anton shot the dogs a look. You see? He’s company. He gave a gesture of welcome to the stranger.

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Upon dismounting, the visitor sniffed the good odors of cooking mixed with the bad scent of skunk. He tethered his mount to a scrub brush in the shade of the wagon. “I’d have asked my butler to leave my calling card, but he had the day off,” the visitor quipped. Anton chuckled. “Park your saddle and stay a while. I’ll show you around. Your butler has the same day off as my housekeeper.” The stranger announced his name and thus was something less than a stranger and someone not quite a friend. “I’m Orville Ruffin, just another broke cowpuncher,” he said and threw a hand through his wild, curly-haired mane. “My friends call me Reader.” “Why do they call you that?” Anton asked. “My folks always found me with my nose buried in a book,” he said laughing. “Now if I don’t get your name soon you’ll be one ahead of me.” Anton spoke his name and threw out a hearty handshake. “Forgot to introduce me to your dog there,” Reader said. “Lazarus,” Nicky said. “The other one is Peppy. He’s now under the wagon checking you out.” Lazarus trotted up to Reader who squatted and balanced weight on his haunches. “Can you shake?” The pup lifted a paw. “Sit?” Lazarus went back on his haunches. “Good tricks,” Reader said. “I don’t think I’ve known a working dog who was also a pet.” “He also robs stagecoaches.” “What?” Reader sputtered. He laughed and shook his head. “You sure like to put a guy on.” “Ok, don’t believe me,” Anton said. “Just remember that when you see Lazarus’s face on a wanted poster.”

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“Now that you mention it, I see his resemblance to the late Jesse James,” Reader said. “But no offense, Mr. Lazarus, you do smell something fearsome like a skunk.” Anton barked a command in Basque. Lazarus dropped to the ground and covered his face with his paws as if ashamed of losing his encounter with the skunk. “Now you have done it,” Anton said with a deadpan expression. “You’ve hurt Lazarus’s feelings.” “Oh, I apologize, Mr. Lazarus,” Reader said. “Your brand of perfume takes a might getting used to.” “Are you hungry?” Anton jerked his head toward the wagon. “I have a small kettle of mutton stew if that might fill your bones.” “Why, I am hungry, indeed,” Reader said. “I’ll eat anything that doesn’t eat me first.” Thus, Anton’s friendship with Reader Ruffin came out of a matter of life and death. Reader thought he would die if he had to eat one more beefsteak. Anton agreed that the monotony of beans, biscuits, mutton chops, lamb kebabs, lamb stew, grilled lamb, boiled lamb bellies and necks, lamb loins, and sweetbread had grown stale. “We cook with oil made from the fat in docked sheep tails—Tubal swears sheep-tail fat keeps his rheumatism from getting even worse—and we even snack on smoked lamb’s tongue,” Anton said. “I swear, if I eat one more bite of sheep I may turn into one.” “Mooooooo,” Reader said. “Too late for me—I have had one beefsteak too many—now I’m a cow.” Anton laughed. “Oh, and then there are the beans. Tubal said we could eat whatever we want so long as what we want is beans.” Reader groaned. “You described a big food staple for us cowpokes, too,” he said. The herder and cowpoke bent their heads and began negotiations. “So we have a deal?” asked Reader. “Our beef for your lamb?” 200  

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“A deal.” “I better get back to my buckaroo duties, but it’s been good to meet you, Anton.” The next morning Reader returned. He rode Patsy back to the sheep camp bearing a thick package. “These are the real goods, big steaks,” Reader said. “Our cook agrees that this is a fair trade. I also brought a bag of pinto beans.” “I guess you boys get as tired of beans as we do. You'll have all the lamb you want when my brother comes back from the ranch,” Anton said. “How is it that you came to a sheep camp when so many cowboys would shoot a Basque on sight?” “You herders got nothing and we cowpokes got nothing,” he said. “Why fight over it?” Anton fired up the stove and fried portions of beef, lamb and potatoes. He set out the meal for his guest. “Coffee will be ready in a minute.” Anton and Reader shared their life histories while they ate. The visitor clucked his tongue with sympathy when he learned how the Ibarra brothers had lost their parents. “My grandmother and grandfather were slaves in Kentucky,” Reader said. “They stayed on even after the Emancipation Proclamation. They did a good job, and the owner passed on and left them a cottage and some land. We were poor but we always had enough to eat because we grew our own vegetables.” “Your parents are still alive?” “My father tried to make extra money working in a coal mine, but one day he and a bunch of other workers were trapped in a cave-in. The company closed the mine without fetching them out. My mother tried her best to go on and even sent me to a Bible school, but the money ran out and I had to quit.” Anton expressed his sympathy. “Is she still alive?” “Oh, yes,” Reader said. “I send part of my pay to help out.” 201  

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Anton got up and went to the food cupboards. He found a last can of peaches. “What can you tell me about Faro Sinclair?” “Nothing good,” Reader said, accepting the bowl with thanks. “He’s my boss, but I hate to admit it. He detests all Basques because they raise sheep, and he especially hates Basques from Spain because he's one of those pro-war fanatics who sells his beef to the American military on contract.” “So the war with Spain has made Sinclair rich?” Anton asked. “Well, richer, let's say that.” Reader said. “Sinclair has his good points. He's not afraid of work, and he even stays out on the range with us overnight now and then.” “Sounds like a man who wants complete control,” Anton said. “Yeah, now that you mention it, he does.” Anton and Reader conversed as if they were old friends of many years instead of new acquaintances. “Raoul claims that Faro Sinclair is not particular about the men he hires.” “For everyday work Sinclair wants good cowboys who can ride well and stand firm if a herd stampedes— cowboys like me, for instance,” Reader said. “For his dirty work and thieving he wants men without a conscience who shoot true.” Anton listened carefully as Reader went on. “Sinclair hires renegades such as Bart Jackson and Clyde Barnes that other ranchers have fired for various offenses,” Reader said. “He has one rule for his cowboys: ‘Do it my way or you pay.’” “How is it you have you come to work for him, Reader?” Anton asked. “You seem like a decent sort.” “He pays better than any other cattleman,” Reader said, “but I’ve already made up my mind to move on soon as I can find another outfit.” 202  

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Now it was Anton’s turn to enlighten Reader. He told him how Tubal and other Basques feared the powerful Sinclair’s wrath. How he and his brother tangled with the stocky rancher on the train. And about the saddlebags he found next to the bones of many sheep. “How does Sinclair get away with all this?” Reader explained that Sinclair was a master of political maneuvering. “The other cowboys say he’s always backing a corrupt politician for Idaho governor or senator,” Reader said. “They tell me that man has big coat pockets where he keeps the politicians until he needs them for graft.” “Some say he wants to be governor himself,” Anton said. “I saw his wife at the train station. What’s she like?” “Sinclair’s wife was quite the looker back then and knew how to get what she wanted with her lipstick.” “What she wanted was Sinclair?” Anton said. “You got it,” Reader said. “She can cuss like a mule driver to get her way now. Buckaroos swear that she has poison in her veins and a heart of pure mercury.” Anton chuckled. “Sounds like she and Sinclair deserve each other.”

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Chapter Forty: Dangerous Meeting The attack on Tubal and Anton’s discovery of the slaughtered flock inspired the creation of the Basque Wool Growers Association. Determination marked the weathered faces of the diners convening in the main room of Xaga’s Basque Hotel. The meeting began with a prayer by the priest from St. Charles Borromeo Catholic church. Before the talking began, there was food, plenty of it. Xaga’s daughters of various ages, sizes and temperaments served bulging plates family-style. Tubal wore a wide white bandage on his forehead, and he propped his injured leg on a chair. A doctor had treated the herder, and the old man’s double vision had cleared up. However, Tubal continued to experience persistent headaches from the beating, and the doctor predicted that the camptender might forever limp because of the gunshot wound. Nicky’s stomach growled as the aroma of food wafted from the kitchen, overcoming even the rancid stink of cigar smoke. He salivated as Xaga’s daughters carried heaping plates of lamb grilled over grape vines—along with smoked ham, whipped potatoes, collard greens, garlicstuffed mushrooms and cornbread. “I’d better lie and tell Anton I ate beans at this meeting,” Nicky joked with Tubal. “Otherwise, he’ll be drawing pictures of me with a big fat rump for revenge.” Two of the youngest daughters waited on Nicky’s table. They were twelve and fourteen. Each giggled and 204  

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preened before Nicky, giving Tubal fresh ammunition for teasing. “Somebody has admirers.” Nicky’s face turned as red as his bandana. “I wish they would leave me alone. Anton is the one who needs a new girl, not me.” “Do like Tubal does—never take a bath,” the old man joked. “I can’t do anything that drastic.” “I bet you wish Martina was here,” Tubal said. “Oh, yes,” Nicky said. “She threw a fit when Raoul told her the meeting was for men. She reminded him that Idaho allowed women to vote two years ago.” Xaga refilled Tubal’s wine glass. The hotel owner confided some of the legends surrounding Sinclair. Over time the rancher was said to have bought, swindled, or bullied his way into possessing more than a dozen ranches in Idaho, Idaho and California. “Sinclair does business at home,” Xaga said. “Politicians come over for a steak and get Sinclair’s bribe money under their plates as a tip.” Later, as Xaga’s daughters removed the empty dishes from the tables, Tubal gave Nicky a rundown on the stock growers present in the room. “That is Old Man Zelala over there. He owns more land than a coyote has fleas.” Nicky observed a short squat figure with a thatch of slicked-back hair more white than black. “Next to him is Viktor Aragon, mean and tough as Satan,” Tubal said. “He once caught a rustler stealing sheep. He grabbed a whip and took the skin right off the thief's back.” Nicky’s gaze shifted to another section of the room. “That is Old Man Navarre—Felix Navarre,” Tubal said.

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Nicky’s eyes grew wide. Tubal followed the boy’s pointed finger. “I know that huge man seated next to him,” Nicky said. Tubal took note of the man. He wore ill-fitting pants tied with a rope around a huge paunch, but he possessed broad, solid shoulders and fists like boulders. “I do not know him,” the camptender said. “He must be Old Man Navarre’s nephew from the Old Country.” “He is,” Nicky said. Nicky’s lips twitched with tension. “So, who is he to you?” Tubal asked, putting down his glass. “He is Henry Navarre, a stonelifter who once cheated Anton in a competition back in the Old Country,” Nicky said. “I do not like his looks,” Tubal said. Henry scratched his patchy beard and absent chin. Nicky sipped his tea as his introduction to local politics began. Felix Navarre banged the gavel and stated the purpose of the meeting. He spoke in Basque, but with a pronounced French accent. The attendees contributed animated speeches as an association with bylaws took shape. Nominations for officers provoked more speeches and voting. The group by a show of hands named Felix Navarre president. They appointed Raoul treasurer. Felix Navarre lifted a glass to acknowledge Raoul. “Being the treasurer is a tribute to your reputation for thrift,” he announced to the room. Raoul waved his thanks. “That is a nice way to say Raoul is a stingy tightwad,” Tubal whispered to Nicky. Nicky used his bandana to cover a grin. Felix Navarre rose to his feet as the elections closed. The only noise came from the clinking of glasses and plates in the kitchen. “You all know me, but you know not my nephew.” Henry stood, one hand touching the table for support. He removed the long napkin fastened to his shirt and wiped 206  

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his thick lips. A nervous sneer framed his face. He raised one arm in greeting. “My kinsman is Henry Navarre, the greatest stonelifter from the Old Province,” Felix said. “Ha,” Nicky snorted. Tubal shushed him. “Let him enjoy his five seconds of glory.” Henry glared at Nicky but held his tongue as Old Man Navarre continued his spiel. “We have tried to live as peaceful men, but Sinclair and his kind will not let us. They have run off our flocks, poisoned waters, and now attacked and shot a herder and left him to die.” He pointed to Tubal. Tubal slumped in his chair, unused to attention. A nasty murmur went through the room. It reminded Nicky of a hive with stinging wasps. “Enough is enough,” Navarre said. “My nephew has been protecting my herd, and if you agree, he will ride his horse from flock to flock, overseeing all of your sheep too,” he said. “If the buckaroos leave him in peace, he leaves them in peace.” “If they harass us?” demanded a menacing voice from the back of the room. It belonged to Viktor Aragon. Henry pulled his dual pistols from their holsters. “My father gave me a matched set of Colt revolvers,” Henry said, his gruff voice filling the room. “I practiced until I could hit a tree knot at fifty paces.” The room hushed. Navarre folded his arms. “All in favor of my nephew guarding the association’s shepherds and flocks?” “Wait,” Raoul called out. He raised his hand and was recognized. “Remember the oak of Guernica,” he implored the room. “Our people stand for justice, not for vigilantism.” “I agree,” the priest said, speaking out. Raoul had supporters, especially among the older ranchers originally from Spain. Nonetheless, a hatred for 207  

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Sinclair and his ilk made many second-generation Basques present vote with angry hearts. The motion to approve Henry passed by two votes. Tubal, Nicky and the priest opposed the motion, but Old Man Navarre ruled that only votes by ranch owners counted. The meeting broke up at midnight. Raoul, Tubal and Nicky left through a side door into the night. They walked to the livery stable to fetch their horses. Raoul marched ahead of the two, his lips in a tight line, and his head down. Nicky whispered to Tubal. “What does all this mean?” “Bloodshed,” Tubal replied. The old man made the Sign of the Cross.

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Chapter Forty-One: Nicky’s Revenge The morning after the meeting Tubal decided to patch doors on the bunkhouse that showed signs of dry rot. “You want to help before you go back, Nicky?” Tubal inquired. “Yes, yes,” Nicky replied, grateful for extra time on the ranch with Martina. Nicky gabbed as he worked. “I can’t believe that everyone thinks Henry is a great stonelifter,” he said. “I want to get back at him for cheating Anton.” “Let Tubal think a bit,” the old man said. Tubal showed Nicky how to scrape away the dry rot and repair the old wood by applying caulk. “Never paint a hole unless you caulk it first, Nicky.” After the caulking, Nicky stripped a long twig clean of bark and stirred a gooey mixture of red paint. “Try not to get on your hands or clothes,” Tubal warned. “No matter how fast you wipe it, this paint sticks.” “I understand,” Nicky replied. But he stirred too hard, and some splashed on his pants. “I warned you, Nicky. If that paint touched the sky, it would stick.” Nicky kept stirring until the color turned dark as sheep’s blood. Tubal stroked his beard. “I have an idea for getting back at Henry.” “Yes? Tell me.” Nicky listened. Tubal outlined his plan. 209  

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Nicky painted the door in twenty minutes and cleaned the brushes with turpentine. He hurried to the ranch house to let Martina know where they were headed. The boy thrilled over his recent time with Martina, particularly when they held hands while watching ducks swimming in an irrigation ditch. Tubal hovered, always in eyesight, and ready to shake a warning finger in their direction. Martina folded laundry on the great dining table. “What do you look so pleased with yourself about, Nicky?” “Promise not to tell your father?” Nicky said. Martina raised her hand. After Nicky spilled the plan, she walked to the corral with him. He helped Tubal load the buckboard with red paint and long-handled brushes. “I wish I could come with you,” Martina said. “Can she come with us?” Nicky asked. “No, it may be dangerous,” Tubal said. Martina huffed and gathered her skirts and ran back to the house. Tubal clucked a command to Gus One and Gus Two. The buckboard plodded away. Their destination was the twelve-hundred-acre ranch of Henry's uncle, Old Man Navarre, east of the Wood River. Once there, some two hours later, Nicky and Tubal hitched the wagon to a juniper tree a safe distance from the imposing, whitewashed main ranch house. Nicky scrambled through the brushy fields with a bucket in hand. Tubal, armed with brushes and broom, followed crablike as fast as his sore leg allowed. Keeping a wary eye out, the two positioned themselves behind an outhouse near a low-slung bunkhouse, where they deduced Henry likely slept. The outhouse connected to a stone-lined path that led to the main ranch where the uncle and his housekeeper Mrs. Garcia lived. Adjacent to the path Navarre kept an acre of grape trestles for winemaking. The conspirators waited behind the outhouse, slapping at blowflies. One time Mrs. Garcia, a stout woman with her hair tied in a huge bun, came outside the main house 210  

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to beat a rug. They held their breaths and tongues until she went away. “That lady is almost as big as Henry,” Tubal said. Several boards on the back wall of the outhouse had separated from the uprights. Tubal used a pocket hammer to help them get a little looser. Through the opening they could see just over the top of the twin seats. Between the seat holes sat a cardboard box filled with corncobs and newspapers. The flies grew bolder as time passed, causing Tubal and Nicky to raise their coat collars. Their bubbly good moods vanished like a doused campfire as they slapped flies. “Maybe my plan won’t work,” Tubal said, rubbing his arthritic joints. “That lazy, no-good oaf Henry must have decided to sleep in past noon.” Dejected, the two conspirators about had decided to go back to the Two Hearted Ranch when the bunkhouse door opened. “There is he,” Tubal said. “Hush,” warned Nicky. “He might hear you.” Henry walked heavily from the doorway into the light. He dangled an empty coffee cup, while he stretched and yawned. His long underwear, tied with a rope, drooped beneath the trousers covering his bulging belly. “He scratches every place he has a place,” Tubal whispered. “Must have fleas,” Nicky said, putting a hand over his mouth to keep from nervous laughter. “Like a shaggy buffalo.” Henry set the coffee cup on a wooden trestle table. The two watched him scratch his bum again, and then he looked over at the outhouse. Pulling the makings for a cigarette out of a trouser pocket, he rolled one, licked the paper, and lit it. “Big Buffalo Butt now will come to take a dump,” Tubal said. “Sshh, sshh.” 211  

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Henry lumbered down the path. Nicky marveled just how big the man was. That rope around his waist might encircle a horse’s girth. The man’s hands were rocks. Nicky shuddered to think how a crushing blow might dent his chin. He and Tubal exchanged looks as they realized taking revenge for Anton might get them hurt. What if they were discovered? Nicky opened the tin of red paint, careful not to spill any on his hands or clothing. Tubal dipped the straws of a long-handled broom deep inside the can. Henry opened the outhouse door. The wooden latch sprang free, and they heard the door swing open on its rusted, squeaky hinges. “Yes, yes,” breathed Nicky, as the big buffalo entered the trap. Henry flipped a wooden peg to lock the door and set down the candle. The conspirators crouched behind the pried-open planks. Holding his breath against the outhouse stench, Nicky peeled back the boards. The moment for vigilante justice had come. Tubal poked the broom through the empty slat. He moved it this way and that, swabbing the seat but good with the sticky red paint. A hairy, corpulent bottom big as two half moons loomed before them. Tubal tried to jerk the broom back through the planks but was a second too late. Henry sat down hard. His bottom trapped the straw end of the broom. “Oops,” Tubal whispered, as he yanked hard on the unyielding broom. Henry’s thought he had plopped on a rattlesnake. His legs shot out and he knocked over the box of wadded newspapers and corncobs. His bellow raised the roof of the rickety structure. Tubal and Nicky abandoned the broom and can of paint. “Run,” Nicky cried. 212  

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Nicky ran toward the safety of the wagon. Tubal followed as fast he could, handicapped by his injured leg and his uncontrollable snorts of laughter. Liquid poured from his nose like rusty pump water. In the distance, they heard Henry roar like an angry buffalo bull with an arrow in its side. “Look, Nicky,” Tubal said, looking over his shoulder. “Mrs. Garcia needs to use the outhouse.” A moment later, all Hades erupted.

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Chapter Forty-Two: Nicky’s Return Anton made dinner by rote, the days on the June calendar page disappearing under X marks. With Nicky gone, Anton's loneliness increased, along with his sadness. Tonight his depression over Clarisse’s marriage made him wish he could lie down on his bunk and sleep forever. Anton looked in the mirror and saw dark circles pooling under his eyes. Raoul admitted to Anton that he had never gotten over his wife’s death and had no plans to remarry. Was he, Anton, doomed to go through life as a lovesick fool? Clearly, Nicky found his treasure in Martina. Was he, Anton, destined to become a lonely old bachelor like Tubal sipping punch at Xaga’s establishment? Should he settle for a pretty thing like one of the Xaga sisters and make the best of having a wife and children? Joyous barks of welcome outside the wagon from the dogs told Anton that his brother was back. His mood brightened. “I am glad you are home, Nicky,” Anton said, embracing his brother. “Just in time for I was going loco.” Nicky laughed. “So Anton now is calling Lonely our home?” “I guess I am,” Anton said. “Sometimes I think Raoul gives herders a dog for companionship to keep them sane, not to help him round up sheep.” They went outside to Bertha, stripped the extra saddlebags from her, and brought fresh supplies into the wagon. Nicky’s return meant the cupboard and storage areas 214  

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now had plenty of mutton to trade with Reader, as well as canned peaches and evaporated milk, bacon, molasses as a sweetener, a roast of corned beef, lamb slices, fresh horseradish, sardines in oil, vegetables, and flour. “What else did you bring?” “Surprise, surprise,” shouted Nicky,” I brought you beans.” “I think I will be ill,” Anton said. “Well, I did bring beans, of course,” Nicky said. “But this meal at least we will have bacon, fresh eggs and fried potatoes.” “Good,” boomed Anton. “Give the dogs the beans on the stove. I can't eat another single bean just now.” “Good idea,” Nicky said. He whistled. Lazarus and Peppy sprang into the wagon. They headed straight for the plates on the floor. “Look at them lap the beans up,” Anton said. “I had put a bit of pork fat in there.” “If they get gastric distress, we’ll have to keep them in the sheepwagon while we sleep under it,” Nicky quipped. “Otherwise, they will gag us out of the wagon.” Anton peeled potatoes and sliced six thin slices from a slab of bacon. Determined to get over his funk over Clarisse, he hummed the jaunty Basque melody that Tubal played on the mouth organ. As Anton worked, Nicky read aloud from the newspapers Martina had saved for them. “The news from Cuba is grim,” Nicky said. “American victories, Spanish defeats and the deaths of many young soldiers from both nations.” “How is Tubal?” Anton asked. Tubal was his old self, Nicky began. “He threw his cane away but limps with pain in one knee.” “I am sad for that,” Anton said. “Riding a horse will be hard for him.” A cup of brewed tea in hand, Nicky described the founding of the Basque Wool Growers Association. Nicky 215  

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summarized the meeting at the Basque hotel. “The sheepmen have hired a thug to protect their lands.” “Don’t they see a hired gun only antagonizes the cowmen?” responded Anton. “The cowhands will terrorize lone sheepherders, not respect them.” “True enough, true enough,” Nicky said. Anton’s eyes went to the carbines behind locked glass in the cabinet. “Such nonsense,” he said with irritation. “We came to Idaho to avoid the shooting in Cuba. What would our beloved father say?” Nicky finished his tea and ruffled Lazarus’s ears. “The padre does not understand Idaho and never will,” Nicky said. “Anton, you remember Henry?” “How could I forget?” “He is the thug that the association hired to protect its members.” Anton rolled his eyes. “Who is going to protect that incompetent Henry?” “Brother, I have one more thing I must tell you,” confessed Nicky. “Tubal and I took revenge for you on Henry.” Anton snapped to attention. “Nicky, please explain.” For the next ten minutes, Anton listened to his brother's tale with eyes as big as the stones he liked to lift. He roared with laughter upon hearing how Tubal had planted his paint-covered broom under Henry’s hairy bottom. “Then what happened?” Nicky sipped his cup of tea, pausing for dramatic effect. “As Tubal and I ran away, we saw Henry burst out the outhouse door in all his glory,” Nicky said, chuckling as if he were back there again. “Unfortunately for Henry, he did not know that Mrs. Garcia, the housekeeper, waddled up the path with the carpet beater in her hand. When Henry saw her, he screamed. She screamed right back.” “His pants were down?” “Yes, yes. So he turned his back to her.” 216  

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“His backside displayed Tubal’s red ‘artwork’ all over it?” Nicky shook his head up and down, tears of laughter staining his eyes. “All she could see was red, red, red. Henry, he was so embarrassed that he went back inside the outhouse and locked the door.” “Mrs. Garcia?” “Madder than a dog with a can on its tail,” Nicky said. “She thought Henry exposed himself on purpose.” “My lord, I almost feel sorry for him,” Anton said. “Almost,” he stressed with a satisfied grin. “First she tried forcing the door, but it stayed locked. She yelled and pounded and cussed in Spanish.” “Then what?” “She backed up and came running right at that outhouse with her hands outstretched.” “Oh, no.” “Oh, yes. Tipped it flat with one big heave. The door faced up. Then comes the strange part.” “The strange part?” “Henry opened the door and flames shot out. Henry’s candle must have torched those old papers and corncobs.” “Oh, helped by the gas in the outhouse pit, no doubt,” Anton said, his eyes soaked with merriment. “Henry climbed out of that fallen outhouse faster than he’s ever moved in his life. His long johns had caught fire, and he was all wrapped up in them, so Mrs. Garcia tackled him to beat out the flames. Once she got the fire out she whooped his fat red behind with the carpet beater.” Anton tried to talk in between snorts of laughter. “Then what?” “Tubal and I went back to the ranch in the wagon to tell Martina how well our revenge worked. I spent a little time courting Martina before I picked up supplies. Then I rode back to you and here I am.” His story finished, Nicky looked at his brother for a reaction. 217  

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“Didn’t you know that before you put fresh paint on a big hole you are supposed to caulk it first?” Anton said. Nicky’s eyes grew big as he caught the meaning of Anton’s joke. He pounded the rough-planked table with glee. The brothers roared with laughter so intense that their ribs hurt, and they thought that they might suffocate. Lazarus and Peppy looked from Anton to Nicky, Nicky to Anton. Heaven help us, they seemed to think. Our herders have gone plumb loco.

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Chapter Forty-Three: Gar and Goat Anton and Nicky adopted a regimen of reading and exercise to fight boredom when not herding the flock. They spoke always in English to banish their accents. Anton relied for mental stimulation on Mark Twain’s stories. In his free time he drew scenes with pen-and-ink from Huckleberry Finn. Nicky taught himself bookkeeping, anticipating the day he’d need to keep accounts on a ranch of his own. On Sunday mornings, the two read Bible verses aloud while Peppy and Lazarus patrolled the fields. They memorized the verses that moved them the most. Always the two practiced stonelifting when they came across boulders. Anton’s chest expanded to the size of a steamer trunk. He could dead-lift a stone weighing almost six hundred pounds and pull the sheepwagon a hundred feet from a stopped position with his gloved hands and a rope. Nicky remained wiry as he shot up in height, but he too had coils in his arms and easily lifted a boulder that weighed about two hundred pounds. Both brothers could swing an axe with either hand to chop a dead boxwood tree for stove fuel. Rarely did they come across other Basque herders. When they did, they rode out to meet them, lest the two flocks intermingle and need to be separated. On a morning in late June, they planned on a visit from Tubal with supplies. However, while Anton washed the breakfast dishes, Nicky rushed into Lonely to say he had counted the black sheep and come up two short. 219  

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“Let’s find the stragglers,” Nicky said While riding their horses to locate the strays, they came across the untidy camp of two herders from the Navarre Ranch. The two introduced one another as Gar and Goat. They hailed from a French Basque province unknown to the brothers. Nicky had first heard about this strange pair of French Basques from Tubal who avoided them when possible because they always asked him for dinero. Gar earned his nickname because he had leathery skin and a long, pointy nose like the fish. Goat rarely bathed, and this hygienic deficiency had not gone unnoticed by Mara Xaga who had given him that uncomplimentary sobriquet. Nicky and Anton conversed in French with the two herders. Old Man Navarre was somewhat a cheapskate and did not provide a sheepwagon for his herders except during the winter months. The rest of the year they slept inside a large tent made from felt. “Yes, I spotted your sheep,” Goat said. He and the brothers knelt in the dirt, and he drew them a map with a stick. When Gar and Goat invited the brothers into their tent for coffee, the stench of dirty cooking pots, unwashed socks and dog dander made the boys suffocate as if at the bottom of a barrel of onions. They gagged and ran from the tent. “I apologize, friends,” Anton said. “No insult was intended. The smell was too much for us to take.” “No matter,” Goat said. “Everybody runs out like that.” Gar and Goat asked the brothers if they cared to barter. “We trade out here, not in the tent,” Gar said. They left the tent with two wooden crates of goods. “We have this fine rosary,” Goat said. “We can take your axe for it.” 220  

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“Sorry,” Nicky said, “We can’t cut wood with beads and a cross.” “Your knife then,” Gar said, pointing to the sheath at Anton’s waist. “We pray just fine without the beads,” Anton said, noticing that the chain had been twice broken and that the beads were strung irregularly. Goat ran back into the tent. He came back with Western hand-tooled saddlebags. “These for the axe and knife?” Anton examined the saddlebags. The backs of them carried the Sinclair ranch stamp. “One of Sinclair’s men gave this to you?” Nicky asked, fingering the Ace of Spades. “Not exactly,” admitted Gar. “That means what? “Anton inquired. Gar smiled, his taste for rock candy revealing absent teeth. “One of their packhorses got away from Sinclair’s men,” he said. “He walked right into our camp with a heavy load, and we sent him on his way with a light load.” “We sent him on his way with no load,” Goat said, correcting him. “That’s stealing,” Nicky said, appalled. “No, finders keepers, losers weepers,” Gar said defensively. “Everyone knows that.” Anton and Nicky exchanged looks.” Not everyone,” Nicky said. Anton’s face showed worry. “We have to go,” he said. “You don’t want to trade?” Goat said. “We have to go,” Anton repeated. “We need to gather the lost sheep.” “Are either of you going to the Independence Day celebration?” Gar interjected, trying to keep the brothers in camp a little longer for company. “What's that?” Nicky asked. 221  

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“Every Fourth of July the town of Hailey goes all out to celebrate the nation's independence,” Gar explained. “It is one big party, you betcha,” Goat said. “There is a big parade and a pig roast, followed by games.” “Games?” Anton asked. “Gambling on horse racing, of course,” Gar said. “But there are also foot races, handball and stonelifting.” Anton could not believe his ears. “Stonelifting?” “Yes, the old Basque sport,” Gar said. “For prize money,” Goat said. “The winner gets a gold piece.” “Did you hear that, Brother?” Nicky said, waving goodbye to Gar and Goat. “What good does the news do me?” Anton said, his head low as he walked toward their horses. “I am here in camp.” “Maybe something can be worked out,” Nicky said. “We don't have a prayer of making money any easier than that.” “If I win,” Anton said with a shrug. “Henry had to cheat to beat you back in Guernica,” Nicky reminded him. “You can’t lose.” “I wonder if Henry will sign up to compete,” Anton said. “It would be nice to beat that cheating oaf.” The brothers rode back to the sheepwagon and picked up Lazarus. They followed the map by memory that Goat drew for them. With his nose to the ground, Lazarus drove the bolters out of a sagebrush-covered knoll. “He’s come a long way, that Lazarus, hasn’t he?” Nicky said to Anton. “Thanks to Peppy’s training and yours,” Anton said. Back at their own camp, Anton and Nicky saw Tubal's buckboard and tethered horses. Minutes earlier, the camptender had arrived at the sheepwagon while they were gone. “What is new, you sons of the dawn?” Tubal asked as he hauled a last sack of ground dog food into the wagon. 222  

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Anton started to give a report on the state of the recovered flock but Nicky interrupted him. In a breathless prattle, he related the misadventure with Gar and Goat. Tubal bit the tip of his unlit pipe. “Those two are insane crossing Sinclair like that.” Anton scratched the stubble on his chin. He shaved every other day now and his face felt itchy when he did not. “Those fools were wrong to steal from Sinclair,” Anton concurred. “I hope Gar and Goat do not end up dead wrong.” “We heard another piece of news, Tubal,” Nicky said. “We heard there is a stonelifting contest in Hailey. It is part of a big fair to celebrate July Fourth.” “I used to go,” the camptender said. “But one year I lost too much money in a faro card game. No more fairs.” “Perfect,” Nicky said. “If you stay here a couple extra days to herd, Anton can go. There is a gold coin for the stone-lifting winner, Tubal.” “A gold coin?” Tubal said. He spit on his hands as if about to lift a boulder. “Oh, maybe I will lift and show off my big muscles and win the prize.” Nicky held his breath. He sensed that Tubal was teasing him. “Will you spell Anton here, Tubal, so he can go?” Tubal chewed his pipe end. “I brought some salted fish along with the other supplies,” he said. “If Anton can make a good supper the old-fashioned way, I might consider it. But you may need some company, Anton. Do you think you can twist Nicky's arm to go with you to the fair?” The brothers rushed Tubal and each gave him a bear hug. “Hey, save those for your girlfriends,” Tubal grumbled.

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Chapter Forty-Four: Trading Trouble Although meetings with other sheepherders occurred infrequently for the brothers, Reader’s visits came every fortnight and helped them overcome loneliness. While Anton made Tubal’s special request meal from salted cod, he heard the sound of hooves. “Hello,” Reader shouted. As he entered the wagon, he spotted Tubal chewing the end of a pipe. “Hello, sir.” Anton made introductions. “I like that ‘sir’ title,” Tubal said. “Maybe you can teach Anton and Nicky that word, Reader?” “You'd have us call you “Your Majesty” if we let you, Tubal,” Nicky quipped. “I like that title, too.” That first trade between Anton and Reader had led to an enduring friendship that now included Nicky and Tubal. Reader, it turned out, was a lover of great authors such as Cervantes and Charles Dickens. He returned Raoul’s books to their shelf on the sheepwagon without so much as a dogeared page. Reader shared Nicky’s passion for collecting stamps. The two boys pored over Nicky’s stamp album as they waited for Anton to set places for dinner. Tubal eavesdropped on their bartering. “You have two of those Queen Isabella stamps from Spain,” Reader observed. Nicky heard the wistfulness in his new friend’s voice. “Yes, yes,” he said. “You want one?” 224  

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“I have an album in my trunk at my mother’s with two postmarked U.S. stamps with Columbus on them,” he said. “One has Columbus wearing a beard and the other is him without a beard,” Reader said. “Does that suit you?” They made the swap. “She’ll get it to me in her next letter,” Reader said. “I have some Cuban colony stamps I can show you,” Nicky said. “Those might be worth something when the war is over,” Reader said. Tubal could not resist interjecting a comment. “I think this war is not worth one life of the boys fighting over there.” “No, you’re right,” Reader said. “I know at least two cowhands who joined the American side to ride with the Rough Riders. That’s the nickname given Colonel Teddy Roosevelt’s unit.” “It’s too bad Spain and America cannot get along like we do,” Nicky said. “Yeah, why is it that our countries spat like that?” Reader asked. Tubal thought a minute. “Too many profits in war for too many somebodies.” “Well, I think war between countries that ought to get along is a durn shame,” Reader said. “Very shameful,” Tubal agreed. “What’s the latest from Cuba?” Nicky asked. “Roosevelt supposedly led a charge up San Juan Hill,” Reader said. “Supposed to be heavy fighting for the city of Santiago on the Cuba south shore,” he added. “We—I mean, the United States—shipped thousands of troops there, including the black buffalo soldiers from the Ninth Cavalry. The area is heavy with Spanish troops. Casualties are going to be heavy, they say.” The conversation between Nicky and Reader moved from the horrors of war to one another’s ambitions. Nicky said he wanted to own land in Idaho and run his own sheep 225  

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operation. Reader confessed that he hoped to become a ranch manager and save enough to get married. “I don’t have a gal picked out yet, but I will one day, maybe,” Reader said. “You have it backwards,” Tubal said, chewing his pipe. “You don’t pick a gal, one picks you,” “Well, I’ll be,” Reader said with a chuckle, now very much an educated man of the world. “So that’s how it works.”

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Chapter Forty-Five: Going for the Gold Coin July 3, 1898 Anton and Nicky stabled their mounts in the Hailey livery stable and made their way to Xaga's hotel right before the start of the dinner serving hour. Tubal had slipped them a few coins for expenses while they were in town. Their first agenda item was to see if they had any mail. “One postcard,” Xaga said after checking the mail slots. “There will be no more until the war ends one way or the other.” Anton read aloud. “All week long I worried because of a bad dream,” the padre had written. “I saw Nicky buried in a grave of snow.” Anton looked up. “He sends his love and hopes we both are happy,” he said. “There is a P.S. from Senora Laka. I can’t read the handwriting though.” After a meal of pasta and fresh vegetables as a change from the usual camp fare, the brothers took a quick run to the mercantile store to buy jeans, as well as a pair of gloves for Anton to protect his hands while lifting a stone. The owner locked the front door but was pulling down the shade when the brothers ran up. He invited them inside. It took but a minute to find and pay for their purchases. The owner was one of the few merchants in Idaho to refuse to haggle over the worth of every item in his stock. He charged a fixed price for each sale item, and he placed tags on all goods so potential buyers wouldn’t interrupt him with questions. 227  

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Anton looked at the change Rooker handed over. “I have just enough for a new sketchpad.” “One coming right up,” Rooker said, scratching his bald head and stroking a chin bunched with long white hairs. “No licorice, fellows?” Nicky looked at Anton who shook his head. “No extra money,” Nicky said. “What we have left goes for our livery stable bill.” “On the house,” Jack countered. “Pay me back when you have a ranch of your own. You Basques who work hard usually do get a ranch.” “Except for Tubal,” Anton said. “Yes, except for Tubal,” the clerk acknowledged. “The smartest man I know in the wisdom of sheep, and the worst I ever saw at managing a dollar. Him and Old Pete both can’t seem to get ahead.” Anton and Nicky ambled along Main Street with their clean shirts and trousers wrapped in brown paper and turned on to River Street. They chewed slowly on the licorice, intent on making the treat last longer. The area contained small, separate districts for Basque and Chinese businesses, as well as a clump of streets known as the Red Light district for its low-rent gambling halls and houses of prostitution owned by madams with colorful first names like Dot, Bess and Bertha. They returned to Xaga’s two blocks away to rent a small room and were met with upturned noses by the hotel owner's younger daughters. “You two smell like sheep,” said one. “You two are awfully handsome,” said the other. “But she's right.” Anton and Nicky blushed and fumbled for words. Xaga ran over to intercept trouble and to rescue them. “Will you boys be needing a bath and room tonight?” he asked. “Yes, yes,” Nicky said. “Get them a tub ready, my daughters.” 228  

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The brothers bounded behind the girls to a small shack in back of the hotel. The daughters readied two tin tubs to soak off the trail grime. “Need me to scrub your backs?” teased the younger daughter, her round face brimming with mischief. Anton and Nicky stammered, no words coming out. “Just kidding!” she said, laughing at the sight of their scarlet faces. “One of you must marry me to get that back scrubbed.” The two girls tittered and fled from the room while Anton and Nicky sighed, relieved that their torturers had left them alone. An hour later the brothers shared a newspaper and sipped cups of tea in the nearly empty dining room. The paper’s front page declared that Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders had won a great battle on the San Juan Heights. They looked up when a hairy giant barged into the inn and bellowed at Xaga to bring him a picon punch. Anton wanted no confrontation with Henry and slid low in his chair. The loudmouth spotted him and he strode over, a cigar in his hand, wiping a fleck of tobacco from his lips with one grimy shirtsleeve. “Ah, it is the big boy from St. Mammes,” Henry said in Basque, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “Are you here for the stonelifting? “He is,” Nicky said. “You pick up any stones off the ground to put into an opponent’s shoes lately, Henry?” “Your brother better keep his boots on this time,” Henry said. He flourished his cigar and chuckled. Anton and Nicky stared at the big man. He laughed some more at his own joke and walked to a back table to sip the picon punch that one of Xaga’s daughters brought over. “You cheating your regular customers now, Xaga?” Henry demanded after one swallow. “This picon punch has no punch in it.” “Let me make you a new drink,” Xaga said. 229  

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“Make it like the café back home in Guernica. The waiter there never cheated a customer.” “Don't let him get you riled, Anton,” Nicky said. He dropped a couple coins on the table for a tip and the tea, before following his brother up the stairs to their room. “Henry likes the smell of his own gas.” “Well, there is one bright side,” Anton said, his face splitting into a grin. “He doesn't seem to suspect you were the one to decorate his fanny in the outhouse caper.” “One day I’ll enlighten him,” Nicky said. The next morning Nicky awoke before dawn, as was the custom on the range. Anton was up and sat at a clawlegged table, sketching a portrait of Raoul from memory in a sketchbook. “I have to pinch myself,” Nicky said, stretching in bed. “Can it be true that we can grab a couple more hours sleep?” “I know what you mean,” his brother responded with a grin. “I keep waking up because I find myself missing the sound of bells on the sheep.” A little after 7 a.m. they washed their faces and hands from a basin of water in their room, climbed into the new outfits from the mercantile, and went to the dining rom. “Give us plenty of whatever is available,” Nicky said to Louise, youngest and prettiest of the Xaga daughters. Louise threw Anton a wink. “I’m available.” He reddened. Anton could not help himself and slowly smiled. With Clarisse unavailable, perhaps he needed to move on and, to be sure, Louise was pert and pretty and knew how to make a man laugh. These American women were so much bolder than the girls in Spain with their chaperones ever hovering. “I love seeing you big fellows blush,” Louise said. “I’m not available, but I can be—with a ring on my finger, Anton.” She sauntered away. Nicky pretended to fan himself. 230  

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After eating, the two started to head out the door toward a large empty lot where the Basque Games were to be held. “Come on,” Xaga said, as excited as a two-year-old as he hurried the brothers along. “I want to lock the doors and go to the fair.” A brass band marched toward the park, passing by the hotel as the brothers stepped outside. A jovial fat man banging a drum led the musicians. At least three of the musicians played washboards and one apparently tipsy fellow blew hard into a kazoo. Nicky's eyes lit up when he and Anton arrived at the park. “Look, Anton, do you see Martina and Raoul talking to some people over there?” Martina brightened and waved but Raoul looked concerned. The boys ran over to reassure him that Tubal and the dogs now guarded the sheep until they returned to camp. “Everything is good at camp then?” Raoul demanded. “No complaints,” Anton said. “None we'd share, anyway,” Nicky said, winking at Martina. She wore a traditional Basque red skirt with a white blouse. She had put on no makeup that morning, but her cheeks held a natural blush of red. After the band entered the park, played the last note and put away instruments, a local newspaper editor named Theophile Edelman Picotte—or T.E. Picotte as he signed his blistering Wood River Weekly Times editorials—blew a horn from a bandstand. “That horn means the games are starting,” Nicky said. “Why are we still here?” The four hurried to the bandstand. Picotte put out a piece of paper taped to a table and asked the competitors to sign in. Two hulking miners named Domingo Urrutia and Francisco Etchemendy scratched their names onto the page with an ink pen. Henry added his signature. Anton wrote his name. 231  

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Picotte removed his top hat, explaining that there were four pieces of paper inside. “Number one pick goes first, number two second, and so on.” Domingo drew the opening number, followed by Francisco, Henry and Anton. Picotte pointed to the long rectangular ring chalked on the ground that held three enormous rocks. “We figure that biggest boulder goes about six hundred pounds,” Picotte said. Domingo addressed the smallest boulder. “What’s this stone weigh?” “We figure three hundred pounds,” Picotte said. Francisco and Anton walked directly to the bench where they were to await their turns, but Henry went over to a small knapsack about thirty yards from the bench. While all eyes were on Domingo except for Nicky's, Henry took out a small jar of red pepper and spilled some into a hand towel. Henry joined Francisco and Anton on the bench, slipping the hand towel between his feet. “That cheating skunk Henry,” Nicky said to Martina and Raoul. “He poured half a bottle of pepper into his towel.” “You have to warn Anton,” Martina said. “Is there no end to this bully’s arrogance?” Raoul snapped. Domingo was a short, compact, powerful man. He grunted, raised the smallest stone to his belly and maneuvered it onto his shoulder. His fellow miners lifted their hands and pumped fists. Francisco was next. He was six-five and bulkier in the chest and shoulders than Domingo. He brought the stone chest-high, his legs wobbling for a moment, and then found his balance. “He did it,” a supporter shouted. Again the crowd cheered the effort. Henry stood next. He stripped off his outer shirt and kept the open-armed sheepskin vest to show his muscles, but 232  

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his unregulated eating and drinking had taken a toll on his body. His face looked much puffier and bloated than it had back in Spain, and a wattle of skin hung from his neck. His ponderous belly jiggled. “He’s hiding a fourth boulder under his skin,” Nicky quipped to Martina. Henry had celebrated the night before on picon punch. He sweated like a block of ice under the hot Idaho sun. Henry fell back a step as if about to drop the boulder, then gained control. The boulder paused on his shoulder and then Henry pushed it off him so that it bounced on the ground. Henry raised a disdainful fist in a victory gesture. Now it was Anton's turn. Martina pushed Nicky toward his brother. Nicky asked the judge for a second of time and then conferred with Anton. The younger brother pointed to the pepper-laced towel on the ground. Henry tried to hide the towel by putting his boots over it. “He'll try to get you to wipe your hands after the first lift,” Nicky said. “There is so much pepper in the towel you couldn't lift again without a sneezing fit.” “So, Henry cheats again,” Anton said to Nicky. “Don't worry—an idea just came to me.” He clapped his little brother on the back. Nicky rejoined Martina and Raoul. “Come on, son,” said Picotte. “You're holding back the wheels of progress.” Keeping a careful eye on Henry, Anton approached the first boulder. Then, silencing even a loud supporter of Henry, he abandoned the first boulder and then the second to step in front of the six-hundred-pound stone. He slipped on his gloves. “He's bypassing the first two stones,” murmured Raoul. “What if he fails? He'll lose the event automatically,” Martina said. Nicky realized Anton's strategy. Anton wasn't going to give his countryman a chance to employ the pepper stunt. 233  

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“Come on, big brother,” Nicky grunted through clenched teeth. “Sshh, Nicky,” Raoul said with a hiss. “Anton must concentrate.” “You sound just like the padre,” Nicky said, pouting. Anton flexed, stretched and brought his thick hands and forearms into position. The crowd gasped. In a single clean lift, Anton brought the ponderous six-hundred-pound boulder chest high one second, and the next rested it on his shoulder. He steadied it there a full three seconds, and then motioned to the waiting helpers to take the stone. They ran up and struggled with it. Anton had to assist them in getting the enormous rock back on the ground. The two miners from Rocky Bar walked over to Anton, shook his hand, and waved goodbye to the crowd. “No use throwing out our backs for nothing,” Domingo said to Picotte. “Indeed,” agreed the judge. “So it is your turn, sir,” Picotte said to Henry. Nicky watched the big man. His braggadocio had disappeared. Sweat beaded on the big man's forehead as he addressed the boulder Anton had lifted. Henry cupped his hands under the boulder and strained. He couldn’t budge it, let alone lift it. “Bah,” he said to Picotte. He showed his hands in a display of disgust and started walking away. The sweat came off him in buckets. “A winner by forfeit,” shouted Picotte, lifting Anton's right arm high. The crowd cheered, and Picotte tipped his hat. Nicky and Raoul raced up to Anton and pounded his back. Martina ran over to the bench to grab one corner of the pepper-loaded towel that Henry had abandoned. Henry tried stomping away. “Excuse me, Mr. Henry,” Martina called to him. When Henry turned, Martina tossed the open towel and Henry caught it in midair. Without thinking he wiped the 234  

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beads of sweat off his face. Henry's eyes watered and reddened, and he bent over double as he sneezed once, twice, and again. Henry sneezed his way to the Wood River. He jumped in clothes, boots, and all, trying to wash away the stinging red pepper. Picotte remembered his duty as a newspaper editor. He pulled out his notepad and motioned for a photographer from the Times to snap a picture of Anton with one arm around Nicky and the other around Martina. “You herders are my story for tomorrow's front page,” Picotte said, handing Anton his gold coin. “Tell me a little about yourselves.” The question puzzled Anton and Nicky. Did this newspaperman really expect them to talk about themselves? “Oh, come now, fellows, don't be modest.” Picotte said. He conducted the interview for ten minutes. His last question stunned the brothers. “You, young fellow, do you — do you have a girl?” Anton stammered, his mind on the lost Clarisse. Then he saw, relieved, that Picotte intended the question for his brother. Nicky's color left his face. Martina put her hands on her hips. “You better have the right answer, Mister,” she said. For one of the rare times in his life, Nicky stood tongue-tied. “I'll take that starry look in your eyes for a yes, Nicky,” Picotte said.

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Chapter Forty-Six: The Spotted Fish A sense of duty sent the brothers back to camp immediately after Anton’s event. They bade goodbye to Raoul and Martina who planned to stay for the remaining Basque games, and then the dancing and singing. They found Tubal chewing the tip of his pipe in the wagon with Lazarus and Peppy under his feet. Nicky told him how Anton had won the stonelifting competition. “So you beat this Henry fair and square, Anton?” Tubal asked. Anton blushed but allowed that he had. “You should have seen him, Tubal.” Nicky boasted. “He lifted a boulder big as a house.” “Not that big, Tubal,” Anton said, blushing even deeper. “Oh, I’ll bet I will hear about this from everyone in town,” Tubal said. “Now Mr. Champion, it is time for me to leave. Can you bake me a loaf of bread? Throw in some sardines with it, and I’ll be on my way back to the ranch.” The next weeks passed without incident. Reader had been kept busy babysitting a new herd of Sinclair’s longhorns, and so no visits from the cowboy occurred to break the monotony of watching the flock. One Saturday at dawn in August, Anton awoke and listened for the familiar bells of sheep. He relaxed once he heard them. He struck a match and lighted the lamp. He looked to the top bunk where Nicky snored. His little brother’s head rested on a pillow he had fashioned from 236  

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rabbit skins with Tubal’s help. As the sheepwagon filled with light, the sleeper covered his eyes with both arms. “Wake up, you son of the dawn,” Anton called, doing his impression of Tubal. “Grab some fresh boiled eggs or they go back inside the hen.” “You’ve ruined my dream, Anton,” quipped Nicky in a voice husky from sleep. “I was a powerful rancher about to propose to Martina Bilboa, the most beautiful girl in Idaho.” “Oh, it’s a good thing I stopped your dream,” Anton said in mock seriousness. “In another moment, Martina would have told you she likes your handsome big brother and wants to move with him to Guernica.” He ducked. Nicky's pillow sailed harmlessly against one wall. Anton exploded in belly-shaking laughter. Nicky, whose voice had begun to crack and change, added his own throaty laugh. It was an unusual day when one Ibarra brother failed to tease the other. Anton opened a flour barrel whose wooden bottom was visible. He scraped out the last two cups. He located three crusts of sourdough bread and an apple. “I’ll need a hammer to break those crusts apart if I don’t soak them,” Anton said. He opened two tins of evaporated milk and put the crusts in to soften them. He used the last of the flour and sliced apple make flapjacks. Then he boiled more beans. Nicky pushed his way out of bed and put his clothes on before the warmth of the stove. He peered at the breakfast. “Have we nothing else?” “Tubal should be here today with fresh supplies,” Anton said, pointing to the calendar. “Anyway, we won’t starve. We have almost a full gunnysack of beans.” “Beans, beans, beans,” Nicky grumbled, swinging his long legs out of the bottom bunk. “They make me toot like a train engine.” “Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Anton said, pinching his nose. “Close your eyes and pretend you are back at St. Mammes eating a special meal of salted cod.” 237  

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“I will close my eyes and pretend your ugly mug is the face of the lovely Martina Bilboa,” retorted Nicky, pulling on his boots to get his bare feet off the cold, wooden planks. “It’s hard herding without permission to eat even one lamb.” “It’s our job to get every one of them to market,” Anton said. He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “What if I watch the sheep and you ride out to catch us fresh trout after breakfast?” “Yes, yes. I’ll take Lazarus for company.” Anton served the meal, such as it was. “Anton, you will make a good wife,” Nicky teased, holding out the half-eaten plate of beans. “This salted cod is fantastic,” he said. “It only looks and smells like boiled beans.” “I though a day’s fishing might improve your outlook.” Anton curtsied like a maid, a comic sight at his size. While Anton washed dishes, Nicky pulled out his pole, line and hooks. In a half-hour he and Lazarus had hiked southwest of camp where Tubal said he had fished at a clear, cold trout stream at the base of a purple mountain. En route he walked past an abandoned sheep spread. A post sign nailed over the top of the name of a previous owner declared it now was the property of Faro Sinclair. “Stolen no doubt,” Nicky grumbled aloud. At the stream he rested for a moment on deep grass along a bank. Lazarus rested his paws in the cool water and drank. Insects abounded under rocks and in the grass. Nicky decided to use dragonfly larva for bait, figuring the trout craved fat and protein. He tosses and retrieved, tossed and retrieved. No fish hit his line for twenty minutes. He strolled along the bank, casting into drop-off holes and riffles. Increasing his concentration, Nicky cast into a deep pool under a fallen tree, and the bait rested for a second on 238  

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the surface before sinking. A dark shape glided the length of the log and snatched the bait and hook full force. The trout leaped free of the water, looking like a gold bar in the sunlight. Nicky pulled hard and backpedaled to get the fish away from the downed tree lest the fish wrap the line around a sunken limb and break free. Lazarus came closer for a better view but made no sound. Bringing the trout to the bank challenged the boy’s skill. Nicky fought the fish for ten minutes, barely daring to breathe lest the thin line snap. Lazarus gave a rare bark when the fish flopped in the grass. “He’s a big one, pup,” Nicky said, holding the speckled beauty by its hooked jaw. “It’s a cutthroat trout.” Nicky took off his shirt, wet it, and wrapped the trout inside it to discourage flies. As he did, Lazarus growled. Nicky heard the approach of horses. He scrambled back into a thick clump of shrubs and high grass, placing his hand over Lazarus’s muzzle. The riders came through the high grass. A tall, reddish roan showed an ace of spades brand. “We’ll let them drink here and rest a bit, Barnes,” the rider said. Nicky recognized the gravelly voice as Sinclair’s. “Wish I had my fishing pole with me, Faro.” Nicky held his breath. The big, thin-lipped man with the pockmarked face and stubbly weak chin must be Clyde Barnes. A third rider joined the two. Her face flushed red as a piglet’s cheeks. The three waved their Stetsons to swat at the stinging insects swirling around them as the horses drank from the stream. Maddie began nagging her husband in a low voice. Nicky heard him repeatedly deny some request until he gave in after repeated turndowns. “All right, Maddie,” Sinclair said. “Have it your way.” “What is it, Boss?” Barnes wanted to know. “You mind riding back to the ranch alone, Barnes?” 239  

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“Guess not, why?” “Maddie complains she is hot and wants to cool off in the stream,” he said. “Can’t talk her out of it.” “Sure, I'll go on ahead.” “Stop at a waterhole or two on your way to the bunkhouse,” Sinclair said. “Make sure no sodbusters or stinking sheepmen have taken them over.” He dismounted and removed the saddles and bridles from the two mounts. The saddles were handmade and costly with gilded, decorative work. As Barnes road off, Sinclair took rawhide thongs from his saddlebags and hobbled the mounts to let them graze. Maddie removed her long outer riding dress, modestly if comically left with a pair of scarlet bloomers. Nicky stifled a giggle as she walked along the bank not twenty feet from him and piled her outer clothing on the grass. Lazarus stirred but calmed with Nicky’s hand on his muzzle. Maddie plunged into the stream, wetting her knees. Soon the cool waters covered her plump belly. She began to swim with short, practiced strokes. Sinclair stood by the side of the stream, skipping rocks across the water. He yanked off his kerchief to soak it in the stream and squeezed water over the back of his neck. Maddie wanted to play. “Come in, Faro, you stick in the mud.” “I don’t want to come in.” “Afraid of a little water?” she taunted. “Who’s afraid?” He sounded like a whining fouryear-old. “You are.” Sinclair released a puffed sigh. “Is there a day you don’t get your way, Maddie?” “Is there a day you don’t get your way, Faro?” The rancher stripped to his long white underwear. He tossed his remaining clothing and gunbelt on the bank's grass 240  

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alongside her dress and boots. Sinclair had a once muscular body now gone in part to suet. He toe-stepped into the water, making comical whimpering noises as the cold water hit his baked flesh. On impulse, he jumped atop his wife, dunking her as she screamed and giggled. Soon they splashed like otters. Nicky thought back to the train recalling how Sinclair had abused him and Anton over pretzel crumbs. He remembered how it had taken weeks for the bruise on his slapped cheek to fade. Seeing Sinclair playing confused him. Here was a clearly evil man, romping in the water with his mate. Yet Nicky knew Sinclair would transform from an otter into a wolf in a heartbeat. “Time for revenge,” the boy whispered to Lazarus. He crawled through the tall grass and scrub brush to the horses. His knife flashed, cutting through each mount’s rawhide hobbles. He gathered the piled clothing, leaving the boots so the two could walk on the blistering ground. Nicky zigzagged away from the stream. When he came to a ravine, he tossed in the gunbelt and clothing. Hours later he was back in the sheepwagon, telling all details of his escapade to Anton and to Tubal. The herder had arrived in camp earlier that afternoon with supplies and now sipped a cup of hot dandelion tea. Anton cleaned the trout and covered it in breadcrumbs, milk and olive oil to bake it. “I was maybe a quarter-mile away when those horses realized they were free and bolted,” Nicky said, choked with giggles. “I saw the Sinclairs in their skivvies trying to catch them.” “Did either of them see you or Lazarus?” Anton asked. “Nope,” Nicky said. “I made a clean getaway. This ‘getting revenge’ business is certainly a lot of fun.”

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Chapter Forty-Seven: Trailing Sheep September 28, 1898 The day arrived to trail the sheep into the Hailey stockyards at the train station. Tubal and Raoul led the flock of close to two thousand sheep, while Anton and Nicky protected the rear. Nearly every shop owner, customer and town idler came to watch the sheep, rushing back inside if it looked like they might get knocked down by an aggressive ewe. If a sheep paused, tried to go down an alley, Peppy or Lazarus worried its heels. The hooves of the sheep threw up a cloud of street dust that coated the faces and clothing of the brothers with a grey film. Lazarus was now a seasoned stockdog. Although he still had some growth ahead of him, he no longer chewed Peppy’s ears or acted much like a pup. Lazarus respected Anton, but he adored Nicky. Anton waved to Jack Rooker standing in the doorway of his mercantile store talking with Sing Lee. “Got something for you boys.” The owner tossed the brothers pieces of rock candy. Sing Lee ran over and gave each boy a coin. “Have some fun when you’re through working.” On a street corner in front of a café, Martina waited with the housekeeper. She threw Nicky a wild wave of her hand. “The fly is in the spider’s web,” Anton joked. “Only who is the fly and who is the spider?” 242  

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Anton and Nicky began to watch where they stepped. The flock dropped piles of manure everywhere. “Henry was wrong about the streets of Idaho being lined with silver,” Nicky said. “Clearly, the streets are lined with poop.” The sheep reached the pens for a buyer’s count. Raoul was prepared to haggle over the selling price. Anton and Nicky brushed the trail dust out of their shirts and pants. “What would you like for us to do now, Uncle?” Nicky asked. “The dogs can stay at the pens with Martina and me,” Raoul said. “You boys are free to wander around town.” “Let's go over to that school, Anton,” Nicky said. “I see some boys playing in the schoolyard.” Anton and Nicky took seats on a bench next to a field where one player stood holding a wooden club while another player threw a ball to him. Whenever the batter made contact with the ball the other players in the field ran over to retrieve the ball. “Hey, big guy,” said one strapping, red-haired youth of about sixteen. He was the pitcher. “Do you want to try hitting a ball?” “I do,” Anton said, smiling over being asked to play. “Have you ever played baseball?” Baseball, thought Anton. So that is what this game is called. “Never,” he said. Anton gave the redhead his name and learned the pitcher’s name was Harmon. “Here, hold it like this,” Harmon said. “It's called a bat.” The instruction over, Anton stepped up to hit. Harmon threw the ball and Anton pivoted his hips and connected. The ball rocketed off the bat. It sailed over the heads of the fielders, over the roof of the school, and disappeared somewhere in the center of town. “I am so sorry,” Anton apologized. 243  

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“I think you lost their ball,” Nicky said, his eyes on the ball’s downward trajectory. “I hope you’re not in trouble.” “Don't worry,” Harmon answered, his mouth still agape over how far the ball traveled. “They'll find it— eventually. You have to be the strongest person in all Idaho.” Anton blushed and shook hands with the boy. The other fielders ran off in search of the ball. Nicky clapped Anton on the back. They walked back over to the train tracks. Raoul and Martina came out to meet them. “Are you done already?” Nicky asked. “Yes, I stated a price, and before long we had a deal.” “Did you sell Bum Deal?” Nicky asked. “No, your pet is safe,” Raoul said. “She’s one of a few ewes for breeding I kept. You’ll drive them tomorrow to the ranch.” Raoul handed each brother three crisp dollars each, even though he owed them no payment until the following September. Raoul invited his nephews to eat with Martina and him at Xaga’s Hotel. There, he studied a mail-order catalog lifted from a box of free used books and magazines. “What do you think?” he asked Xaga. “Should I buy one of those new-fangled horseless carriages?” “Put your money into a good horse,” Xaga cautioned. “Automobiles are a fad.” After a meal of beef and noodles, Raoul and Martina departed for the Two-Hearted Ranch. The brothers had to stay overnight to fetch Bum Deal and the other ewes. Anton scoured a box of free magazines. He grinned when he found a tattered 1897 copy of Recreation Magazine with a story and illustration by Charlie Russell. Anton pocketed the treasure. He and Nicky went over to sit with Tubal who had ordered a glass of punch.

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“After all this time all we have worked off is the price of our steamship and train tickets,” Anton said to Tubal. “We have three dollars each to show for our labor,” Nicky added. “Don’t be upset,” Tubal said. “Next year at this time Raoul pays you boys in sheep and cash. The first year is the hardest, and you two have survived it.”

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Chapter Forty-Eight: Trouble on the Graze Land Raoul replenished his range flock with younger sheep purchased at low cost from Old Man Navarre who had a reputation for good breeding stock. After a week at the bunkhouse, Anton and Nicky drove the flock on a trek to bed grounds at a higher elevation. The separation from Martina caused even Nicky to complain about the long days and nights of isolation. In mid-October, Tubal came with supplies. “Another two weeks, and we must head to a lowland winter range near the Snake River before the snows fall,” Tubal said. The camptender told the boys his worry that this winter of 1898-99 might prove bitter. “Look at those early thick coats on Lazarus and Peppy,” Tubal said. “Plus, ducks and geese are migrating away from Idaho already.” “I fear you are right, Nicky said. But instead of cold, the weather in late October surprised the brothers by staying mild. Temperatures remained high by day, though cooler by night. All that changed on the first of November as bad weather hit the Wood River Valley. Torrents of rain and sleet came down hard and steady around the clock. The brothers had to mop water every time they came back into Lonely. The brothers fretted, stuck in camp and aware that time was getting short for them to take the flock before the snows fell here in the high country.

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“The sheep are a sorry-looking sight, their coats filthy and their udders caked with mud,” Anton complained to Nicky as they ran a comb through the dogs’ coats. Nicky concurred. “I’m afraid that if the rain turns to a killing blizzard, we could lose fifty percent of the flock.” The appointed day on the calendar for Tubal to come help came and went. The brothers assumed that his lateness was weather-related. The downpours had turned the trails to soup. They realized it was dangerous to move in the rain lest the wagon and the flock sink or flounder in mud. The brothers prayed for a cold snap to harden the ground. “If we get any more rain, we will need Noah’s Ark, not a sheepwagon,” Anton said after he returned from a predawn check on the flock. “Amen to that,” Nicky said. “Mud or no mud, as soon as Tubal comes we better move these sheep to lower ground—even if we must leave Lonely behind. To stay here is madness. We'll end up feeding mutton to the ravens and coyotes.” On November 6, there was still no visit from Tubal. “We have no choice, brother,” Nicky said. “We must take our chances and move camp.” “Without Tubal?” Anton said. “What if Sinclair’s men find the sheepwagon? They’ll set it on fire.” “These sheep have about run out of grass,” Nicky countered. “If the leaders take it into their heads to bolt, we’ll never round them up.” “All right, tomorrow we leave, with Tubal or without him,” Anton said. “With Lonely or without Lonely.” That evening Mother Nature took pity. The rain quit and temperatures dropped into the teens, freezing the ground at last. Around midnight the clatter of beating hooves in the distance interrupted their sleep. “Hola, boys, hola!” shouted Tubal as he pulled up Dolly in front of the sheepwagon. The boys saw that he could not dismount from exhaustion, and they helped him down. Anton held out two cupped hands, and Tubal put one 247  

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foot into the giant’s palms while Nicky helped his free leg swing over the saddle. The old man and horse looked as if they were coated in plum pudding. On the ground, he tried to take a step, and his game leg gave out. Anton caught the old man by one arm to prevent him falling on his face. “I tried twice to reach camp and twice I turned back. I would not give up though,” he said. “And here I am.” “And here you are,” Anton said. “Take a seat in the wagon and rest up.” “We are so glad you are safe,” Nicky said. Much later, when Tubal looked a little less done in, he asked the usual question. “Tubal, what kind of treats did you bring us?” “Beans,” Tubal said. The brothers groaned. “Better beans and bacon in peace than cakes and ale in fear,” Tubal said. “Aesop said that,” Anton said. Tubal shook his head. “No, Xaga said that. I heard Xaga say it.” He dissolved into a fit of chuckles. “Oh, never mind, Tubal,” Anton said, realizing that Tubal was teasing. “What did you really bring us?” “An apple pie Martina baked,” he said. “Now we all better eat, then sleep and move before dawn. When my knees ache like this a bad storm is coming. I have a new joke for you, too.” Tubal never knew what mood he’d find the herders this entire fall. One time he arrived to find out that the brothers had quarreled over dishwashing duties and refused to talk to each other for two days. Because herding in solitude got on anyone’s nerves, Tubal always memorized the jokes he heard at the hotel to tell them. Anton sliced the pie into three chunks and waited for the joke Tubal had promised. “A cowboy got fired from his ranch job and shows up at the camp of a Basque looking for work,” Tubal said, telling the joke in exaggerated broken English. 248  

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“Go on,” Nicky said. “The Basque he say, ‘I don’t know if I can hire you. You got no experience with sheep.’ “The cowboy says, ‘Trust me, I got plenty experience with the sheep.’ “’Ok, OK,’ Basque rancher says and he gives the cowboy a try. ‘It is shearing season,’ he says. ‘Think you can shear and cut their tails and castrate them?’ “’Oh, yeah, yeah,’ cowboy says. “They go outside and the cowboy takes the shears and his knife. He grabs the first animal he sees and it’s clip, snip, snip, and he’s done. “‘Pretty fast, huh?’ the cowman says. “‘Oh, very fast,’ says the Basque rancher. ‘Only I got just one question.’ “‘Yeah?’ “‘Why you do dat to my dog?’” Nicky and Anton choked with laughter. Tubal reached into his pocket for his pipe with satisfaction on his face. Lazarus whined and looked into Tubal’s eyes. “Don’t worry, boy, those cowboys not snip-snip you,” Tubal said. He tossed a treat high, and Lazarus snapped it up. The three finished supper and went to sleep without the usual flurry of conversation. Anton was first to awaken and to light the lamp. Hours before sunrise, he set down plates of steaming hot bread with sardines in tomato sauce and fried potatoes. He hated to wake Tubal, but knew he must. They had to get the flock on the trail to lower ground. The old man creaked when he sat up but made no complaint. “Anton, please give me a hand with the boots,” he said. “Nicky, you get out Raoul’s maps with trails marked. I will show all the landmarks you must pass to get down to the Snake River plains.”

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The brothers memorized the map as they ate. “A snowstorm is inevitable,” Anton said to Nicky. “I have no wish to drive the flock in circles.” Nicky collected the tin dishes to wash them. Tubal threw on his coat to go outside to relieve himself but gave a frantic shout in the doorway instead as he flashed the hurricane lamp this way and that. The brothers looked out over his shoulder and could barely see ten feet ahead. Huge wet flakes made the air look as if a featherbed had been sliced open. “Must leave now,” growled Tubal. “Dress warm.” “Throw the dishes in the empty flour barrel so they don't fly all over the wagon, Nicky,” Anton said. “I'll saddle our horses.” “I will hitch Gus One and Gus Two to the wagon and go on without you,” the old camptender said. Anton tied Dolly and the pack animals to the back of the sheepwagon, and then saddled Bertha and Big Luis. Nicky put canteens and tins of food in the saddlebags. As if sensing the urgency, Peppy and Lazarus had the sheep rounded up in no time. “Drive the sheep as fast as they will go,” shouted Tubal. “Don’t worry about them losing weight today.” The sheepwagon lurched away. In seconds the brothers could no longer see the wagon but heard the turning wooden wheels, the creaking axles, and the sound of hoof beats. The brothers knew Tubal would not stop until he reached the agreed-upon rendezvous point. If the sheepwagon should stick in a snowdrift along one switchback or another, Tubal and the horses had to break it free. Somehow, game leg and all, the old man knew he had a job to get done, and he’d get it done. Nicky and Anton pulled their hat brims low for protection. They yanked the felt liners over their ears. The dogs yipped and goaded the flock, working to get all the sheep in as tight a grouping as possible. The 250  

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flock’s leaders needed little urging. The jangling of bells filled the air. “You think this blizzard will let up?” Nicky yelled into the wind. “No,” Anton hollered back, cupping his hands. “This is the legendary storm Tubal warned us could happen.” All that morning the brothers and dogs drove the sheep. A few weakened sheep dropped behind, but the brothers assured one another that could not be helped. A pair of coyotes that caught a scent dispatched an older straggler. The brothers heard the frightened bleating, fierce growls, and then silence. “We have to save the majority of the flock,” Anton said to Nicky, stopping his brother from dropping back to help a single doomed sheep. The sound of at least a halfdozen yapping coyotes now trailing them began to sear their nerves. “The bad weather perhaps has kept the coyotes from the rabbits and rodents they usually eat,” Nicky said. Anton fired his carbine in the air. “The stragglers the coyotes eat probably weren’t going to last to the end of the trail,” he said. “But maybe a blast now and then will make those varmints less bold.” Anton rode ahead of the flock on the switchback trail, satisfied that Peppy and Lazarus had the sheep in a tight bunch. Nicky brought up the rear on Bertha. The snow pounded the trekkers as they drove the flock over a narrow cliff-side route that Tubal had recommended. The hairs on Nick’s chin turned to ice, and when he pulled on it a tuft came off in his fingers. Neither brother could feel his toes any longer. The riders and sheep had to pass under a rocky overhang that held three feet of drifting snow. “Keep them close together up front, Peppy,” Anton called to the brown dog. “Lazarus, drive the rear sheep.” The last stragglers had made it past the overhang when Nicky arrived beneath it on his mount. Bertha started 251  

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to sidestep, and one back hoof found a deep rut in the trail. She floundered and fell. As she went down, Nicky sprang from the saddle to save a leg from a crushing, but one flailing hoof nonetheless caught him in the head. The splat of the horse crashing to the ground caused the unstable, overhanging snow to slide. In a second, Nicky and his mount were buried. Bertha struggled to her feet, but the dazed Nicky stayed down. Dimly, Nicky realized he might experience hypothermia, his body temperature dropping too low to sustain life. Then, although he struggled to stay alert, the blow to the head was too much. He passed out. The blue dog raced to the collapsed heap of snow. He began digging out his master, his paws working with purpose. Lazarus managed to clear the snow from Nicky's face and torso. One long bleeding scratch marked Nicky's face where a dewclaw scraped flesh. Nicky awoke to the sensation that he was being kissed by Martina. Then he realized that the blue dog had one paw on his chest and was using his tongue to remove some of the ice on his cheek. “Lazarus,” he said, looking around until he found his missing hat. “Thank you.” Other than a bump on the back of his head, Nicky was unhurt. He brushed away as much snow as he could, and then trudged toward the penitent Bertha who waited, the reins trailing on the ground. “I don't think I'll tell Anton about this, Bertha, at least not until after we are safe,” he said as he climbed into the saddle. “And the next time the padre writes that he has had a premonition, I plan to take heed.”

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Chapter Forty-Nine: On the Snowy Trail The long trek continued. The brothers took no rest breaks, chewing hard crusts of bread and sardines for nourishment. They brought the flock down the trail a thousand feet here, another thousand feet there. The whiteness of the snow itself helped illuminate some of the trail on the way down, but when the gusts of snow blinded them they had to depend upon the horses and dogs to lead. Around mid-afternoon, the winds increased and blew right through the brothers’ protective clothing. The gusts created deep snow drifts that the sheep and dogs avoided as best they could. At one point a small ewe slipped into a drift and went in over its head. Nicky located its air hole in the snow created by its steaming breath. Rescuing the sputtering sheep out of its predicament, he was reminded how the padre and Raoul has pulled Anton and him out of a similar tight spot. The brothers continued to drive themselves and the flock right into the late afternoon. They tied scarves around their faces to block the cold air, but their lips nonetheless became raw and chapped. The exhausted sheep leaders wanted to halt, but Lazarus and Peppy refused to let them. An hour before dark, the nimbostratus clouds in the sky broke apart, and a cold sun turned the snow surface to glass, improving visibility. The snow dwindled to a few scattered flakes and then ceased altogether. The brothers pulled their hats even lower, hoping to avoid snow blindness. 253  

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Nicky rode around the flock and pulled up next to Anton on Big Luis. “We’ve got to stop and rest,” Nicky said. “All right, let’s do it.” Their feet felt like frozen steaks. Anton took a handful of tinder from his pack to build a fire protected by a clump of boulders. He wasted the first match with the futile striking of his numb fingers, but he created a spark with the second. When the tinder caught, he added chunks of brush and greasewood. The fire burned with oppressive smoke that irritated their eyes, but the licking flames comforted them. Neither brother complained, huddling quietly before the fire to dry their wet boots and damp socks. While their oatmeal cooked, they fed strips of mutton gristle to Lazarus and Peppy, along with a portion of ground meal and wheat germ. The water in their canteens had frozen solid, but they melted snow in tin cups to wet their parched tongues. “We’ve gotten through the worst of it,” Nicky said. “I pray so,” Anton said. “You never know in Idaho when a storm is truly over.” “Even so, the storm has to let up sometime.” After the fire revived them, they lit the lanterns and led the flock to even lower ground where the snow lay in farflung patches, displaying great swaths of vegetation. At one point they paused at a stream alongside a cottonwood grove where wheel tracks showed that Lonely had paused. Here, the brothers rested another hour and let the dogs, mounts and sheep drink. The sheep grazed on whatever grass, weeds and sage they could find. They fed the dogs a double portion of food to reward them for their exertion. When they felt a little rested, they moved on and, at first light, Anton whooped. He had spotted the light of a lighted window in Lonely and a roaring campfire. Not long after, the flock, dogs and riders reached the new bed ground. The boys cheered as one upon noticing that Tubal had suspended a pot of coffee on a rod over the campfire.

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Anton saw that Tubal had hobbled the horses to graze, but he saw no sign of the herder. “I wonder what Tubal is doing?” Anton said. “Snoring inside the wagon, you betcha.” They ran inside the wagon and pulled Tubal to his feet. “Time to eat,” they shouted. “Up, you grandfather of the dawn.” Tubal pretended anger but gave each of the brothers a hug. “I have bread baking in a Dutch oven.” Nicky grabbed a coffee cup and stepped outside. Anton and Tubal joined him. He took a tentative sip and looked around at his surroundings. “How can anyone make coffee this bad, Anton?” he said. “Don’t complain,” Tubal said. “It serves to clean out your colon.” Nicky pointed to a cliff punctuated by a huge snowtopped boulder whose top had the outline of a human profile. “As the discoverer of this rock I hereby dub it Tubal’s Nose,” Nicky said with a grin. “You boys always name things after me,” the old man snorted. “This is supposed to be an honor when you name a big ugly rock after Tubal’s snout?” Nicky and Anton laughed at Tubal’s mock outrage. They were giddy with the relief of cheating death, of bringing the flock to safety with few losses. “Do you mind so much, Tubal?” Nicky asked. “I do not mind if you name it after my nose,” the herder said. “Just don’t name it Tubal’s Big Bum or I might get mad.”

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Chapter Fifty: No Longer Greenhorns The winter passed in the lowlands in monotonous fashion for the herders watching over their flock on the bed ground. It was Christmas Eve when Tubal returned to the sheepwagon again, leading two packhorses weighted down with supplies. “Tubal has big news.” The old man flashed a newspaper at them in English that he himself barely could read. A bold headline proclaimed that Spain, after months of bickering, had relinquished all claim to Cuba and agreed to a treaty that the United States would draw up. “The war is over?” Anton asked. “Over,” Tubal said. “You can go home maybe.” “We can get mail again,” Nicky said, exulted. “I hope it is the last war the world will see,” Anton said. “The weapons get more and more destructive. One day the planet will vanish in a plume of smoke unless man stops this savagery.” Tubal cocked an eyebrow. For once he did not feel like joking. “Too bad the world does not have your wisdom, Anton.” Nicky had another perspective. “Sounds to me that Cuba hasn’t broken free of foreign governing,” he said. “Cuba just went from Spain as its master to the United States as its master.” The brothers remained in the winter lowlands with the sheep until they returned to the Two-Hearted Ranch in March to help Raoul with the lambing and dipping of his 256  

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prized flock. To relieve the boys, Old Pete and his sheepdog took over the range flock. The brothers were busy building lambing sheds, but always there was time after twilight for Nicky to take short strolls with Martina, so long as the couple stayed in sight of an anxious Raoul. On one occasion, Raoul loaned Nicky his treasured Crescent bicycle and the boy and girl rode all over a cleared pasture. “I wish I could go with you in Lonely when it is time to leave,” Martina said to Nicky on one such stroll. “Do you think you could stand the quiet and loneliness?” Nicky asked. “My mother did, and so I know I could, too,” came the answer. “If two people are in love and together, there is loneliness no longer.” Nicky gripped her hand and fumbled for words. So this was how Anton had felt about Clarisse. No wonder her loss cut him to the point of agony. “I think you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” Nicky gushed. Martina could not resist teasing him. “I think you are the handsomest young man in this state,” she said, giggling. “Although in Idaho most men look and smell like Tubal, so don’t let your head swell.” Anton at night began practicing his skill in making paintings of wildlife and ranch life. He boxed a smaller painting of Lazarus and Peppy confronting the coyote. He requested that Tubal mail it to Archibald Thatcher in New York. His accompanying letter thanked Thatcher in advance for whatever opinion he might offer on the work. On an impulse, Anton also asked Tubal to send Charles Russell in Montana a small clay statue that he had created of a mountain lion. By day Anton and Nicky once again helped Raoul and Tubal prepare the sheds for the lambing crews. They made sure the sheds were up and ready when the first ewes 257  

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gave birth, and the teams of shearers arrived at the ranch to get to work under the watchful eyes of Jesus and Joachim. The ranch seemed alive with blooming hollyhocks, honeysuckle, day lilies and tall evergreen shrubs. Deep irrigation ditches cut and crisscrossed the vast fields, with earthy colors so compelling that Anton ached to paint an additional landscape on the spot. Anton and Nicky kept the same fast pace set by the visiting crew for the shearing of wool, birthing and castrating. Anton noticed the respect that the visiting shearers accorded them. The two of them cut as many notches on their wood sticks as any shearer there. “They won’t try to send us out for left-handed shepherd’s crooks any longer,” Anton said. “No longer are we greenhorns.”

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Chapter Fifty-One: A Letter from Spain In early April, their lambing duties on the ranch completed, the brothers returned to the main flock in Lonely and moved them to a spring range in the high country for lambing. They brought Old Pete the money Raoul owed him for his service and watched him race off in his wagon to spend every dime at Xaga’s hotel. The brothers herded the flock as if they had done it all their lives. It was a rare day any longer that sheep turned up missing. When Tubal and Raoul came to camp with fresh supplies and a lambing crew, the camp was in such good order that Tubal’s only complaint was that he had nothing to complain about. Most of the lambing on the range was tedious, but they rejoiced when Bum Deal had her first lamb, a cute fellow they named Pokey. Tubal brought the boys newspapers and magazines well thumbed by Raoul and Martina, which they always devoured. One time, to his delight, Anton discovered an illustration by C.M. Russell and taped it to the wall of Lonely. In early May, the brothers rejoiced to read about continuing peace negotiations between Spain and the United States. A newspaper reported that many nations had agreed to meet in the Netherlands in mid-May to begin disarmament talks. Tubal continued to entertain the brothers with stories on his visits. “Many years ago Paiutes on the warpath killed many settlers,” Tubal informed the brothers on a May visit. “But 259  

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one Pony Express guy rode three hundred miles in thirty hours to deliver the mail. Some say he used eleven horses. The Indians tried but never did get his scalp. He’s a dentist now in the town of Rigby, not so far from here. I once met him at Rooker’s store.” “I can’t believe he risked his life for mail,” Nicky said. “Oh, you’d want him to risk it if it meant you’d get a perfumed letter from Martina,” Anton said. “Anton has your number there, Nicky,” Tubal said, nibbling on the stem of his pipe. “Well, has any mail come for us?” Nicky asked, feigning a pout. For months as the war raged on, not a single letter reached the brothers that had a postmark from Spain. “Finally, he asks,” Tubal said. “Yes, there is once again mail for you two from Spain.” He dropped two postcards and two letters on the table. The first postcard was for Nicky, hand-addressed to him with Martina’s name in the corner. She had handed it over to Tubal to hand deliver, and so it had no stamp. Tubal looked pleased with himself. Martina earlier read it to him. She said that she was thinking of Nicky and looked forward to his next visit to the ranch. Nicky read the postcard and blushed. She apparently neglected to tell Tubal that her salutation read, “Dear Sweetheart.” The second postcard came from the padre. He had the sad duty of informing the brothers that twin funeral wreaths hung over the door of the widowed mother of Ramiro and Etienne. “I am sorry for your great loss and their grieving mother’s greater loss.” Anton and Nicky made the Sign of the Cross. Their faces stayed grim as Tubal produced a letter from Senora Laka. “No use opening,” Tubal murmured, tossing it aside. “Eat your vegetables, boys.” The brothers managed a smile in spite of their sadness over the loss of Anton’s friends. 260  

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Tubal had one remaining letter. It was for Anton. The three stamps on it were from Spain. “Do you have those stamps, Nicky?” Tubal asked. “No,” Nicky said, his eyes on his brother’s face. “Is it from Clarisse?” Tubal asked. He looked anxious, worried for Anton, as did Nicky. What could the letter say? Anton slit the envelope open. Dear Mr. Ibarra: Please accept my apologies for intruding into your life like this. My mind has been all disordered lately, and I seem to be thinking less clearly with all my emotions stirred. The news from Cuba has devastated my father-inlaw’s household. My husband Bernard is dead, shot through the head while on guard duty by a sharpshooter on Kettle Hill near the city of Santiago, according to the information we received from the military. He is one of many dead from Guernica, Muxica and St. Mammes. My father-in-law has taken his time composing a letter to Henry. He plans to ask him to return home as the next in line to inherit the family lands. I must ask a favor. I hope you do not hate me for asking it. My request is that you spare Henry some of the pain he surely will feel when he gets the letter by breaking the sad news of Bernard’s death to him in person. My life here is miserable. Bernard’s sisters resent me. I take my meals in my room. I do not want to burden you with my troubles, Mr. Ibarra. I close now and pray that God protects you and Nicky. Sincerely, Clarisse Navarre 261  

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Nicky, seeing the pain in Anton’s face, started to exit the wagon. “Let us wipe down Gus One and Gus Two,” Nicky said to Tubal. The camptender, sensitive for once, agreed. Anton stopped them before they went out. “You both can know what it says. There is some news from home.” “If you're sure,” Nicky said, taking the letter. “I want to show you something first,” Anton said. He strode to the little-used storage compartment and pulled out a rolled canvas. He unrolled it and showed it to his brother and the camptender. The canvas contained a portrait of Clarisse, painted entirely from memory. She looked older to Nicky somehow, perhaps because of the pained lines beneath her eyes. “It’s a magnificent likeness of Clarisse,” Nicky said. “Why do you torture yourself painting her portrait, Anton?” Tubal wanted to know. “It helps me remember what Clarisse looked like,” Anton said. “I am afraid her face will disappear from my memory the way the faces of our dear mother and father have faded for me.” “I have no memory of either our mother or father,” Nicky confessed. “Sometimes I close my eyes and I picture my mother feeding us, but that is my imagination at work, not my memory. I was too young to remember.” “She looks down from heaven over us as our own personal angel, don’t you think?” Anton said. “You betcha,” Tubal said, throwing a rough arm around the shoulders of both young men. The image of his own late love flickered in Tubal’s mind. “Old men know that time takes away grief and leaves you the joy of love.” From outside the wagon came a warning bark from Lazarus. The brothers and Tubal scrambled for their carbines. They opened the door of the wagon cautiously, standing off to one side lest someone pump bullets through the door. 262  

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“It’s Reader,” Nicky said, spotting a lean figure on horseback. “It is Reader, but he’s not coming for mutton or small talk,” Anton said. “Not the way he’s pushing his horse,” Tubal agreed. Reader Ruffin’s mare, Patsy, shuddered with soapy foam flying. He leaped from the saddle, stuttering and sputtering, trying to say too many words at once. “Slow down, Reader,” Anton said. “Would you like water or something to eat?” “No,” Reader said. “They’re on the warpath.” “Paiutes?” Tubal asked. “No, it is Sinclair’s men. They surprised Navarre’s herders Gar and Goat who were with that gunslinger Henry for protection. Your herder friends were filling up bags of water at the old Jensen homestead now belonging to Sinclair,” Reader said. “They tied Henry up but the other two ran away.” “How many men have taken Henry?” Nicky asked, his voice low with concern. “Sinclair and his wife and two men,” Reader said. “I came up over a ridge. I was going there to water Patsy, my mare, but I stopped cold.” “Did they see you?” Nicky asked. “No, Sinclair’s men were cussing and shooting into the brush, hoping to nail the herders with a lucky shot,” he said. “I came straight here to fetch you.” Tubal jammed his unlit pipe between his clenched lips. “Better take the buckboard, boys,” he said. “I will stay with the sheep.” “We’ll take Peppy and leave you Lazarus,” Nicky said. “Peppy will warn us should someone try to get the drop on us.” “Better rest Patsy and rub her down, Reader. Tubal will dry your saddle blanket by the fire,” Anton said. Anton and Nicky hitched the big team to the buckboard, tying Big Luis and Bertha behind it in case they 263  

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had to flee on horseback. Every rifle in camp went inside the wagon except for Tubal’s carbine, which never left his side. “If you get drop on them, good. If not, get the law,” Tubal said. “Good plan,” Anton said, checking the cylinders on the Colt. Nicky for once was silent as he held the reins in the buckboard seat. The wagon rode off with a great rattle from axles and wheels. Tubal helped Reader cool down Patsy. The mare finished off several pans of water. Afraid she might bloat, Reader held the reins and allowed her small sips at a time. Her sucking of wind turned into normal breathing. Lazarus pushed against Reader’s knee, grateful for the small head pats he received. In short order, Tubal finished rubbing down Patsy. “You are welcome here anytime, Reader Ruffin,” Tubal said. “Now ride off and help Anton and Nicky. Take my horse Dolly.” “Thanks, Tubal,” Reader said, saddling up. “When I own my castle you can put your feet up on my desk. Only, promise me you'll wash your feet first.”

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Chapter Fifty-Two: Range War Reader’s directions led Anton and Nicky to a waterhole near an abandoned homestead. Barbed wire put up by Sinclair’s thugs surrounded the oasis, keeping life-giving water from a Swedish settler named Jensen and his wife. Refused access to the water, the homesteaders had seen their crops wither and milk cows grow barren. With no choice, Jensen had surrendered his place to Faro Sinclair for little more than the price of steamer tickets for two back to Europe. A high stand of weeds and grass grew where lilacs and vegetables once thrived. “Do you smell smoke?” Nicky asked. Peppy’s nose was high in the air, sniffing. “Over there,” Anton said, pointing. “Keep your carbine ready.” The horses tossed their heads uneasily as they came onto the old Jensen homestead. The acrid smell of smoke irritated their nostrils. They brothers hid the buckboard in a draw. “Keep Peppy here,” Anton said. “If he gets too far ahead of us, he’ll blow our cover.” “Stay, Peppy,” whispered Nicky. He grabbed a piece of twine from his pocket and tied the dog to a bush. “Quiet.” They moved toward the abandoned ranch house. They kept their heads low and stayed wary. They pushed through brushy terrain that tore at their shirts and trousers. Nicky stayed right behind Anton as they moved closer to the fire in the center of what once had been a sheep 265  

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pen. Jensen’s sod house and a sod barn were west of the pen, untouched by the flames. Thick piles of burning straw and alfalfa lined a circle inside the pen to form a ring. No one seemed anywhere around, but—wait, was someone or something moving in the center of the ring? “What do you make of this?” Anton whispered. “I think that’s a man in the fire,” Nicky said. Anton put his flattened hand to his eyes. “Let’s go.” The brothers felt an adrenaline surge as they rushed toward the flames. As they got close up they saw the fire spreading toward the man in the ring. Talons of flame— whipped by a steady east wind —leaped skyward. Feeling the heat sear their faces, they jerked their bandanas up from their necks over their mouths. “He’s been staked to the ground,” Anton shouted over the crackle of the flames. “I see rakes and a shovel,” Nicky said. “Grab a shovel, Anton.” They put down their weapons and turned their heads to gulp clean air before they moved deep into the smoke. Instead, they choked on soot and grit. They reached the fiery ring surrounding the bound man, tossing dirt on the cascading flames. Their first efforts looked hopeless, but then they managed to open a path in the ring wide enough for a mouse to pass. Anton’s muscles bulged as he worked the shovel to dig, lift and throw. Throwing his body into every movement, Anton managed to widen the tiny path. He reached the big man’s side, tearing from his neck the ancient stonecutting tool from the St. Mammes cave. In three deft movements, he sliced the rope binding Henry. Nicky, now beside him, tossed aside the straw and dry alfalfa hay that covered the victim and looked about to ignite. Anton bent his knees and wrapped his fists around Henry’s rope belt and collar. “On count,” shouted Nicky. “One, two, three—lift.” 266  

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Anton grunted and hoisted Henry on his back and shoulders. The effort bent him in half. He felt every one of Henry’s three hundred pounds. Sparks from the flames burnt holes in the rescuers’ pants and singed their stout boots as they squeezed through the small hole in the fiery ring. Anton’s thick legs quivered as he put Henry safely on the ground well away from the flames. Nicky ripped the feed sack from Henry’s head. Nicky and Anton beat their caps against Henry’s charred trousers. Stinging brands had slipped through the fabric into his flesh, but the brothers had reached him in time. “Let’s get him into that sod house,” Anton said. “He’s swallowed a lot of smoke.” “You do that, Brother,” Nicky said. “I’ll be right back with the weapons.”

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Chapter Fifty-Three: Henry’s Confession Anton threw Henry’s arms around his neck and maneuvered him to the sod house. Henry was dead weight, his stomach hanging low over an empty gunbelt. He moaned as Anton moved him to safety, but he seemed to regain his legs and determination with each step. Inside the house Anton saw that the former occupants had left many of their possessions behind. The parlor table looked set as if the family would be back any moment for supper. Anton cleared the table and lay Henry atop it. The table groaned under the man’s weight but held. Against one wall was a barrel of water, and Anton picked up one of the cups to fill it. Nicky came inside the house and gave Anton his carbine and Colt. “Stand guard in the doorway just in case those men come back,” Anton said. Henry roused himself from unconsciousness. He sat up but coughed and coughed. He had taken the smoke into his lungs. Anton found a barrel of water in the house and poured a cup. He trickled water from the cup past the big man’s lips. “Thank you,” Henry said, taking the cup from Anton and swallowing the rest. “How did they ever get the drop on you like that, Henry?” Anton asked. “I tried to help Gar and Goat get away from Sinclair’s men,” Henry said, his voice hoarse and raspy. “When I emptied both my guns Barnes got behind me. He knocked me in the head with a shovel.” 268  

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“That’s a big lesson, Henry,” Anton said. “You should have kept one bullet ready to shoot in the second gun while reloading the first revolver.” Henry peered into Anton’s face, and his eyes closed in shame. “I tried to cheat you twice,” Henry said. “I am so sorry.” “That’s good enough for me,” Anton said. “Henry, I have some terrible news from Cuba. Clarisse wrote and asked me to tell you.” “My family?” “Yes, brace yourself, Henry. Your brother Bernard died fighting for Spain in Cuba.” Henry looked as if Anton had put a knife in his heart. “It is my fault,” he said. “I killed my twin. I am like Cain in the Bible.” “No, no,” Anton said. “It is not true.” “I was jealous of my brother inheriting my father’s land. I prayed God would take Bernard so I could inherit all.” “God does not work that way,” Anton said. “Your prayers had no connection with Bernard dying.” “You are sure?” “God never listens to evil prayers. A good padre taught me that.” “I will pray for my brother’s soul.” Anton cleaned the wounds with alcohol he found in the kitchen. All of Henry’s injuries were superficial. In another couple minutes, Anton knew, the flames would have spread and his skin would have burnt and fallen right off him. “Now what those men tried to do to you, Henry, that was pure evil.” Nicky left his post to check on Henry. “What do we do now, Anton?” Nicky said. “Keep an eye on Henry. Give him swallows of water from time to time,” Anton replied. “I have a plan.” 269  

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After Anton gave Henry his Colt and left, the injured man insisted he could get on his feet. “You’re a tough hombre, Henry,” Nicky said, giving him a shoulder. “I’ll give you that.” The ringing of the bell in the yard caught Henry by surprise, but Nicky smiled. The wild clanging intensified. “The bell will bring the men who set me on fire,” Henry said. “That’s right,” Nicky said. The bell ringer could only be Anton, and his brother was no fool. “Do you know the story of Falcones, Henry?” “Of course,” Henry said, alert now that the ordeal was past. “I learned the story on my mother's knee.” “Anton is trying to duplicate the ancient ruse of Falcones, luring those men back to the yard with the bell.” Minutes later, the pounding of hoof beats reached the open window. Nicky covered the window with his carbine ready. He spilled a pocketful of shells on the sill of the open window for fast reloading. Sinclair’s stooges Barnes and Jackson dismounted and crouched low as they approached the bell. They had their guns drawn. Through the window Nicky saw the arrogance plastered all over their faces. “Nobody around,” Barnes said. Jackson raced over to the now-dying fire, Barnes on his heels. “The big oaf is gone,” Jackson said. He pressed the point of his revolver against his broad-brimmed hat, and a shock of untamed hair spilled out as he considered the situation. “I tied him myself,” Barnes said, as the two ran back to the bell. “Not even a galoot big as him could break free. He had to have help.” A warning shot made the heads of Sinclair’s cronies swivel. Anton lay flattened on the earth behind an abandoned iron ploughshare and had his weapon aimed at Barnes. 270  

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“Drop the revolvers and step toward me with your hands behind your necks,” Anton shouted. “Do it.” The two men hesitated, and then did as ordered. Nicky at the window pointed his carbine at their legs, ready to fire if they rushed his brother. Anton stepped into the open yard and crouched low behind two spools of fence wire. Gar and Goat ran into the yard. “We heard the bell,” Goat said. “We grabbed our guns and ran over here,” Gar added. “Take their weapons,” Anton said. “I'll cover you.” The herders’ carbines were cocked and ready. They disarmed Barnes and Jackson and kicked away the weapons. The herders threw Sinclair’s men to their knees. Anton edged over to the horses belonging to Barnes and Jackson. The reins of the horses trailed on the earth. He placed the reins back over their heads and slapped the rumps of each mount. As the horses ran off, Goat and Gar began taunting their prisoners, pointing carbines at their heads. “Well, well, if it isn’t the stinking Bascos,” Bart Jackson said in defiance from his knees. His sunburned, stubbly bearded face contorted in a false grin. “You soon stinking also, hombres,” Goat said, speaking broken English. “Maybe you will rot in a grave.” Through the windowpane, Nicky saw that Gar held an ancient rifle in two nervous hands. It was a battered affair and the wooden stock was splintered as if it had been used as a hammer. Goat had a Henry repeating rifle in his hands and gazed coldly at the pair of cowmen as if he were one breath from pulling the trigger. “Hey, that’s my Henry rifle,” Jackson said. “You two must have been the skunks that stripped all my goods off my packhorse.” “Maybe I give you back your bullets in your belly,” Goat said. Anton swallowed hard. Goat looked nothing like the fool he had been when the brothers visited his tent. He was 271  

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in control of another man’s life, and he looked dangerous. He was dangerous, Anton moved fast. Goat meant a nasty business. Anton could not hesitate or Jackson’s blood would run on the ground. He and his brother would not be part of any coldblooded killing. He yanked the weapon from Goat. “Walk away—now,” Anton said. “So help me you will go to jail if either of these men is harmed. Cowardly shooting is not the Basque way.” Goat hung his head. Anton turned his attention from the cowmen to Gar and walked with purpose toward him with his weapon pointed low. “Put the weapon down, Gar,” he said. Gar dropped his hands. Nicky looked out the window and groaned. During the confrontation, Faro Sinclair and Maddie had slipped inside the yard. Nicky surmised that they had left their horses back in the fields and come on foot to investigate the ringing bell. “Drop 'em, all of you,” Sinclair said, his voice a thunderclap. He held a revolver steady with both hands. “If you don’t you’ll have a third eye.” Goat and Gar kicked their weapons away from them. Anton stayed put, his finger inching toward the trigger on his carbine. “Don’t try, Basco,” Sinclair said, his voice raspy and mean. “Drop it.” Anton hesitated. Could he hit the ground rolling and fire at the same time? “Drop it or I drop you.” Anton tossed away his weapon. Maddie ran over to Barnes and Jackson. “What are you two birds doing on your knees?” she shrieked. “Get up.” Barnes and Jackson scrambled back on their feet. Barnes retrieved his Henry rifle. Jackson picked up the carbine Anton had tossed. In the farmhouse, Nicky clutched the carbine and gasped. Sinclair laughed and raised his big 272  

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revolver. The cattleman intended to fire at Anton and kill him where he stood. A brown blur raced past Anton and leaped at Sinclair with a ferocious snarl. A length of broken rope trailed from Peppy’s neck. “No, Peppy,” Anton screamed, but it was too late. The dog went straight for Sinclair's left thigh and tore flesh. The rancher hollered in pain but kept his feet. He knocked Peppy in the head with his weapon, and the dog lost his grip. Dazed but game, Peppy charged the rancher again. Sinclair’s weapon boomed. Peppy dropped to the ground, his brown head blackened by powder burns. Sinclair cursed and fingered his bleeding thigh. Anton felt a fury he had never felt before. Taking advantage of Peppy's sacrifice, he rushed Sinclair. For well over a year now, he had carried lambs, practiced stonelifting, and built his body with healthy outdoors work. His shoulders were rock hard. Years earlier an experienced brawler like Sinclair might have fought Anton to a draw, but he had grown soft, addicted to cigars, bourbon and fine eating. When a hard left went into his stomach, he doubled in pain, and a right broke his nose cleanly and knocked the rancher flat. Maddie cursed and bent over her man, her derringer pointed at Anton. Anton turned toward Sinclair's men to find two more weapons aimed at him. Barnes and Jackson looked eager to fire. Nicky at the window aimed the rifle at Jackson’s chest. He hesitated. Even if he dropped Jackson, Barnes surely would shoot. Anton or the herders might die. Help came from a hidden ally. “You’re covered, all of you,” a voice shouted. The speaker yelled from alongside the protection of a sod shed. “Don’t move, none of you snakes.” Jackson whirled and fired wildly. 273  

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The rescuer returned fire. He put a bullet through Jackson's Stetson, blowing it and a patch of grey hair and flesh away. The gunshot echoed in the yard. Nicky left the window with his carbine, leaving the Colt on the wood sill of the window. He bolted out the door with the carbine elevated. Jackson went to his knees, dropping his weapon and putting one hand to his head. Blood gushed from the head wound and covered one cheek, but he'd live. “Now put the other hand there,” screamed the shooter. Jackson complied. Blood flowed onto his shoulders. Barnes stealthily raised his revolver. Before he could squeeze a shot at Anton, a bullet slammed into Barnes’ gun hand, shredding his thumb and a finger. Anton and Nicky spun and eyed the house window where Henry was leaning out, the smoking Colt in his hand and grim resolve on his face. Maddie had seen enough. She tossed her derringer and let Sinclair's head in her lap fall to the ground. Sinclair's broken nose bled a torrent. The rescuer came into the open. Henry also left the house, walking with trouble, but walking on his own power. “Reader Ruffin?” Barnes screamed, squeezing his damaged hand. “What the blazes do you think you’re doing? “You’re a cattle man,” Jackson whined. “I’ve developed a taste for mutton,” Reader said. Barnes directed a string of curses at Henry. “You’ve ruined my shooting hand.” “Where you’re going you won’t need to shoot,” Henry said. “You can eat bread in jail with your other hand.” The danger over, Nicky rushed to Peppy and rocked him. The sheepdog, although in pain, licked the boy’s hand. The bullet had gone through one ear, shredding it. During the crisis, Nicky stayed composed. Now tears flowed as he ministered to Peppy. “Keep your eye on that bunch, Reader,” Anton said. 274  

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Anton took Peppy from his brother and carried the dog inside the house. Henry now could stand and helped Anton minister to Peppy. Using torn curtains as wraps, Anton cleaned and covered the ruined ear. Then, and only then, he went outside with the torn strips and tended to the wounds of Sinclair and Barnes so they could travel for a visit to the sheriff in Hailey. “Tie them up,” Anton said. “But don’t hurt them.” “You betcha,” Gar said. The two tied the rancher, his wife and the cronies with fencing wire. Anton supervised them to make sure no harm came to the prisoners. Nicky went inside the house to check on Peppy. He found Peppy trembling, the violence against his small body making him quiver. “Oh, Peppy, you saved Anton’s life,” Nicky said, trying to control his emotions. Henry came up to Anton and handed him the borrowed Colt. “I am all right,” he said. “I just need a little time to heal.” Nicky came back outside. He fetched the hidden buckboard and drove it to where the prisoners lay bound. Henry now had more control of his legs. “I can walk,” he said. Anton gave the big man a shoulder and heaved him on to the wagon’s front seat. “He has one or two nasty burns on his leg,” Gar said, wincing. “Yes, they are nasty,” Anton said, “but nothing a big strong Basque like him can’t recover from.” Anton stacked the prisoners one at a time on the wagon’s rear as if they were kegs of nails. He tried to be gentle, even though the prisoners cursed him and his heritage. “One of you two take Henry to the doctor and these varmints to the jail in Hailey,” Anton said to Gar and Goat. “I can do that, Anton,” Gar said. “My brother needs to get back to the flock.” 275  

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“I'll ride off on Dolly to help Tubal with your sheep,” Reader said. “Looks like I'll have time now that I'm out of a wrangler job.” “Thanks, Reader,” Anton said. He went into the house and gathered Peppy in his arms. He set down the injured dog on the wagon bed right behind Henry. Maddie looked Anton in the eye. She had decided cursing hadn’t worked and now tried to sweeten her tone. “I'm sorry about your dog.” “You're not sorry, but you are pathetic,” Anton replied. He was having none of her charm. Now Nicky joined in. “And I have to tell you that you looked like a plump chicken when I saw you in your red bloomers, too.” For a second Maddie looked puzzled, then her face pinched as she recalled that day when her clothes went missing on the streambed. “You were the one?” she screamed. “My back is still sunburnt.” She launched into a string of oaths and continued cursing for a good ten minutes. “Well, I'll be,” Anton remarked to Nicky after she finally ran out of words. “Reader was right. Maddie sure has a potty mouth.”

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Chapter Fifty-Four: Nicky’s Vision August 29, 1899 With Sinclair jailed and no longer a threat, Anton and Nicky returned to the monotony of everyday herding. The days seemed a couple hours longer, and they ached for company in addition to each other’s. Reader had been hired by Raoul to assist on the ranch, and both brothers missed his visits. Anton sensed that Nicky’s boredom was even more pronounced than his own because of the long separation from Martina. At the sheepwagon over breakfast one Sunday, he encouraged Nicky to leave the sheep camp to catch some fish. “Bring back another big one or two,” Anton said to Nicky. “Yes, I’ll find a stream where I have to walk on the backs of the small fish to cast for the big ones.” “Maybe you’ll catch a Goblin Fish, Nicky,” Anton said. They are very rare. You can only catch them in October, and they only feed on June bugs.” “Big brother, your humor is getting worse than Tubal’s,” Nicky said, frowning. “Next you’ll be sending me out to shoot a jackalope for dinner.” Before long, Nicky found himself guiding Bertha through a steep and almost impenetrable canyon lined with trees. He passed a wooden sign with the name Hidden Spring scratched into the wood. After stopping at the spring to water 277  

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his horse, Nicky had an eagle’s view of the valley thousands of feet below him. He located a single small cottage with another room tacked on the back, but judging from the weeds in what had been a garden, the home’s occupants had either abandoned farming or been driven off the land. “So you discovered a new paradise?” Anton asked, after Nicky rode back to the camp the next day with a full stringer of trout. “No, not discovered,” Nicky said. “I rediscovered a paradise. A family had settled there once, but now the house is vacant.” He emptied his pockets of faded red and cream and black bits of pottery shards to show his brother. “I found these on the property. My guess is that once it had been an Indian village.” “These could be hundreds of years old,” Anton said. Nicky went on to describe the canyon. He praised its small alpine lake with deep pools hiding darting trout. He said several bubbling creeks undoubtedly turned into roaring streams in spring to feed the lake. “The walls of the canyon go straight up and take on a purple cast in the late afternoon,” Nicky said. “It is a landscape you must visit to paint one day. Dozens of mountain sheep trek straight up the sheer walls, hopping from ledge to rock, snatching mouthfuls of forage along the way.” “No cowmen, no domestic sheep?” Anton asked. “Not that I saw,” Nicky said. “No settlers anywhere?” “Not now,” came the reply. “There was a brokendown corral and a few fence posts, although the barbed wire had been trampled into the ground.” “No signs of life?” “Only signs of death. I found two wooden grave slabs under a cottonwood tree near the cottage.” *

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A few days later, Tubal visited the sheep camp with fresh supplies and brought along two young border collies from Raoul's ranch to help Lazarus with the shepherding chores. “These pups are pretty green,” Tubal said. “How is Peppy?” Nicky asked. Peppy has recovered enough to serve as a temporary house pet for Martina, Tubal informed the brothers. “He not quite as pretty as before without one ear, but he just as or’nery,” Tubal said. Lazarus inspected the new pups but failed to wag his tail. He made it clear that these blasted newcomers needed to prove themselves before the blue dog would accept them as the equal of Peppy. Nicky informed Tubal that he was ready to look into owning a ranch and that he had come across an abandoned spread. “Tubal, tell me all you know about filing claims and checking on ownership of abandoned ranches.” Tubal took out his pipe and chewed the end. “Boil some coffee in the wagon, Nicky, and I will teach you how to file,” he said. “You must make every attempt to find the owner and make an official offer with paperwork. Many a Basque has fixed up a rundown house only to be kicked out by some owner who had second thoughts and came back with the law on his side.” “Is it possible to buy a ranch for little money?” Anton asked. “If the owner has cleared out and moved away, sometimes you can make a deal,” Tubal said. “The owner gets nothing when a ranch is abandoned. Something always is better than nothing, eh?” Anton went over to the pillow on his bunk and took out the gold coin he had won stonelifting at the Basque Games. “Nicky, here is a little dinero,” he said. “Like Tubal said, it’s better than nothing.” Nicky looked at the coin. “But it is yours, Anton.” 279  

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“No, as you once said, we are brothers,” Anton said. “America is not like Spain where the older Basque gets everything. We share everything.” Tubal pulled out his change purse and handed Nicky a fistful of coins. “These would only have burned a hole in my pocket and dropped out at Xaga’s,” he said. Tubal agreed to stay a few days to help Anton with the flock so Nicky could ride Bertha into the tiny community of Bellevue, Idaho, a pretty town with the last flowers of fall gracing gardens in front of cabins and places of business. It once had held thousands of miners during the boom days, but now mainly permanent residents lived there. At a deed recorder’s office that doubled as a post office, the recorder gave Nicky a drink of water and some advice. “Sounds to me you’re talking about the Widow Zane’s place in that valley,” the recorder said. “Lady moved here to town some time ago after losing a couple family members. Come outside and I’ll point out her town cabin.” Nicky came to the cabin and tied Bertha to a hitching rail. He banged his cap against his pants. Puffs of dust rose into the air. He kept his cap off when a woman with a sun-lined face answered the door. Her eyes and mouth bore the wrinkles that heartache, loss and illness carve. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Nicky said, hoping she spoke English. “Nicky Ibarra is my name.” “Call me Mrs. Zane,” came the reply in a cultivated Midwestern accent. “Folks here call me the Widow Zane, a name I detest.” Her voice was a raspy croak, but her face was kind, and Nicky leaned forward to hear her. “I understand you own an abandoned ranch in a valley some miles from here?” “Yes, my husband and I named it Hidden Spring Ranch.” 280  

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“I saw the spring and the fencing around it,” Nicky said. “I saw a sign, too.” “Yes, my husband burned the name into the wood plaque himself,” said Mrs. Zane. “Near the springs is a broad creek. My family had nice picnics around there.” “The creek is a trickle now, but there has been no rain since August,” Nicky said. The woman looked at the sky, blue and cloudless. “No rain since August?” she said. “That’s not news in Idaho.” “The creek should fill up in the spring after the heavy snows melt on the mountains,” Nicky said. “I am no engineer, but I think it would be possible to divert some of that water for a reservoir where there is a natural cup in the earth.” Mrs. Zane brought her hand to her lips to cover a cough. “Constructing a reservoir was my husband's plan also,” she said. “Do you drink tea, Mr. Ibarra?” The room contained a sitting parlor with small bed and a kitchen no bigger than a ship’s galley. She went to work on the wood stove and came back with teacups on a silver tray. Nicky recalled how the padre’s housekeeper had served tea on a tray like that of Mrs. Zane. He felt a flash of homesickness but quickly recovered with business on his mind. “A relic of more prosperous days back in Ohio,” she said, giving a tight smile. “I come from Zanesville, right off the National Road.” Nicky sipped his tea. It was minty and pleasant and warmed him. “Named for your people?” “My great-grandfather,” she said. “Tell me why you have come.” Nicky took a breath. “I wonder if you might sell me your ranch?” he said. “I will have some money to call my own when our 281  

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commitment with a sheep rancher, my kinsman, ends soon. I have a little with me now as a down payment.” “You are a Spaniard?” she asked. “A Basque from Spain,” Nicky said. “Is that a problem?” “No, no,” she said. “It was merely an observation.” Nicky felt relieved. She seemed to have no quarrel with his heritage. “How did you come to leave Ohio and live in Idaho?” “My husband always wanted a homestead,” she said. “We were given one hundred and sixty acres by the government so long as we worked it.” “You were happy here?” “We were happy for a time,” she said. “We ran enough sheep to keep us in wool clothing and meat. We grew enough vegetables to keep us fed. We were poor but happy.” “We?” “My husband, James, our daughter, Bella,” she said. “Gone now.” “I’m sorry, ma’am.” “A beastly rancher named Faro Sinclair caused their deaths,” she said. “After we put up a fence his men called us nesters and drove off our horse.” “Did they say why?” “A henchman of Sinclair’s named Barnes actually tipped his hat to me,” Mrs. Zane explained. “Sorry ma’am,” he said. “The Boss’s orders.” “And that caused their deaths?” Nicky asked. “James and Bella came down with influenza,” she explained. “I had no horse to go for a doctor. Bella lasted two days, James a day more—long enough to hear that his daughter was gone. If the influenza didn't kill him, his grief did.” “I have no words.” “This ranch would be for you and the brother you mentioned?” Mrs. Zane asked. 282  

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“No, my brother Anton plans to return to Spain,” Nicky said. “I have a friend named Reader Ruffin who could help me manage it.” “You are too young to have a wife help you, yes?” Nicky's face turned to a pained expression. “Too young to have a wife,” she said, laughing, ”but not too young to dream of one.” Nicky flushed. “I might.” “Got a pretty one chosen, do you?” Nicky’s expression prompted more laughter from Mrs. Zane. He saw that her eyes once must have delighted a suitor. “I loved my James since we were classmates in a one-room schoolhouse,” she said. “When we married and came to Idaho I had my dream come true, or I did until Faro Sinclair ruined it.” “Sinclair and his men are in jail awaiting a circuit judge,” Nicky said. “If justice is done, they will grow old in their cells.” “I won’t get my hopes up, and that way I won’t be disappointed,” Mrs. Zane said. “Laws stand for something decent even when they don’t hold up in court.” *

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Long after dark, Nicky returned to the sheep camp. He looked bone-tired but happy. Anton had thrown together a late supper of fried potatoes and eggs when he heard Bertha ride up. Anton set a pot of tea in front of his brother. “Are you going to keep me in suspense?” “I made an offer for a valley paradise to a woman named Mrs. Zane,” Nicky said, nibbling on a cracker. “What did she say to your offer?” Anton asked, handing his brother a cup of tea.

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Nicky inhaled the aroma and removed a loose tealeaf floating in the brew. He paused, keeping Anton in suspense. He set the cup on the table. “I am a property owner,” Nicky said, jumping up to bear hug his brother. “She accepted your gold coin as the deposit. I pay her so much a year for five years on one condition—” “One condition?” Anton sounded suspicious. “I agree to care for the graves of her husband and daughter,” Nicky said. “Tending them once or twice a year was the only thing keeping her from joining her folks in Ohio.” “You will honor her family as we would want our own dear parents to be honored,” Anton said. “This sad story reminds me of the buried children in the cave of St. Mammes.” “I guess all people have something in common,” Nicky said. “Burial grounds are sacred lands.” “You’re right, Brother,” Anton said. “Human beings need their sacred places. The padre taught us that. I sure miss him.” “I also,” Nicky said. “I am happy you will rejoin him one day at St. Mammes.” “Any chance you might join me on a voyage?” Anton said. “Any chance you’ll stop drawing and painting and breathing?” “I didn’t think you would,” Anton laughed.

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Chapter Fifty-Five: Decisions September 25, 1899 The final season in Raoul’s service rushed to its end for Anton and Nicky. The day came at last for the brothers and dogs to drive the flock to the Hailey train stock pens. Their debt to Raoul was nearly paid. The flock trekked through the streets with Lazarus in command and the two new border collies brought in to help as best they could. The day seemed festive. The townspeople of Hailey seemed to come out altogether to welcome the lonely herders. In addition to shipping sheep by rail, many local ranchers trailed their sheep twice a year from desert to the Sawtooths and back again. Anton and Nicky waved to Xaga and his daughters as they passed the hotel. Even Mara waved back. The brothers met Raoul at a railway office. They herded the flock into railroad pens for an inspector to check the brands. Nicky loved herding and ranch life more than he could ever imagine, and he dreamed of the day that Martina and Reader would help him achieve his dream of owning a spread. Anton’s dislike for the long hours, monotony, and loneliness of the life had increased in equal measure. The only thing that sustained Anton during the long tedious months had been his art. He had completed no fewer than ten 285  

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paintings this year at the wagon. One of his best works was a portrait of his uncle. Raoul was touched by the gift and framed it to hang on the wall next to the portrait of his late wife. In lieu of payment, his uncle had established an account for Anton at the mercantile store. Now the artist could buy canvas and art supplies anytime he needed. Raoul hoped to keep these dependable brothers as herders. He recognized, in particular, Nicky’s talents training dogs and his knowledge of sheep. He concluded, albeit guardedly, that the younger Ibarra could be trusted with his daughter. He reminded himself that he and his late bride had been their ages when they had courted. As the brothers brought the sheep to the pens, Nicky blurted a truth that had come to him. “I hate to say this, Anton, but you and I have grown big and strong on a diet of beans,” he said. “I don’t know how it happened, but I have developed a taste for beans and cornbread.” Anton scratched his head. “I was going to tell you the same thing back in camp, but I was afraid you would think I had gone plumb loco.”

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Chapter Fifty-Six: Sinclair’s Trial The Sinclair trial began at the courthouse the day a circuit judge named Garland Cramer drove to Hailey from Boise. His black Ford horseless carriage stampeded more than one horse along the way. Nicky pointed out to Anton that Cramer was a dandy. “Look at his gold pocket watch and hand-tied silk tie,” Nicky said. The brothers gasped at the sight of Gar and Goat in the courtroom. They look more like bankers than herders,” Anton said. The two herders had left their foul-smelling tent to testify for the prosecutor on the murderous attempt on Henry’s life. Old Man Navarre purchased each herder a suit and tie. At the Basque hotel, Goat and Gar had bathed and Mara Xaga had cut their hair. Henry wore Levi’s, but this time with a leather belt, not a rope. He had bathed and shaved and appeared a credible witness. The rumor around town was that Henry now had a girlfriend. He had lost thirty-five pounds while recuperating and looked fit and clean-shaven. In his testimony he told the court about the buckaroos trapping him in a ring of fire trying to kill him. At the judge’s request, Henry rolled one pant leg and displayed the scars from burn marks. The scars drew mutters from the courtroom packed with sheep and cattle ranchers alike. Henry caught the eyes of Barnes and stared hard. Barnes dropped his gaze. 287  

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“Can you tell us the person or persons in the courtroom who did this to you?” Judge Cramer asked. Henry pointed out Barnes, Jackson, Sinclair and Maddie. “That man gave the orders,” Henry said, signifying Sinclair, whose shattered nose bent toward his right cheek. “Barnes and Jackson carried them out. They wanted me to die in the most painful way possible.” “Why is that,” the court asked. “To send a message to the other Basque ranchers who had hired me for protection, Judge.” “Did Maddie do anything to you?” the judge asked. “No, Your Honor,” Henry said. “She rode off on her horse while Sinclair’s men tied me to the stakes, but she did not try to stop them, either.” Other homesteaders and sheep ranchers took the stand. All testified against Sinclair and his henchmen. They told similar tales. Of waterholes poisoned. Of sheep driven over a cliff. Of herders who disappeared and homesteaders driven off. Tubal took the stand and told the judge about the humiliating attack he had endured at the waterhole and how he might have died if the brothers had failed to locate him. He removed his boot, rolled up his pants, and showed the court a jagged scar from his bullet wound. “Barnes told me there were only two things lower than a dog,” Tubal said. “One was a Basque, and the other was a sheepherder. Then Jackson said since I was both, this was not my lucky day.” Tubal exited the stand and could not resist. “Maybe this isn’t your lucky day, Barnes,” he said aloud. Judge Cramer had to tap his gavel to halt the ripple of laughter in the courtroom. The next witness called was Mrs. Zane, wearing the once-fashionable outfit with bonnet she had worn on her 288  

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honeymoon. She delayed her departure for Ohio to take the stand and to raise her right hand against Sinclair and his killers. “Your honor, many a man has gone to the gallows in Idaho for rustling,” she testified. “To deprive a whole family of the use of their horse is a serious matter, particularly when the deaths of my child and husband resulted. What these people have done was nothing less than murder.” The six-hour trial ended with multiple guilty convictions against the Sinclairs and Barnes and Jackson. The judge gave each of the two henchmen a ten-year sentence, and then ordered a stunned Sinclair to serve a thirty-five year term. “Ten years is for what you did to Henry Navarre,” Judge Cramer said. “Ten years is for what you did to Mrs. Zane and her family. Ten years is for what you and your men did to Tubal and to these other witnesses who testified that you stole their ranches from them.” “What are the other five years for?” Sinclair’s attorney demanded. He was an oily man with cheeks the color of blood sausages. “Everything this snake of a client of yours did that nobody knows about,” the judge barked. “I could sentence you to hang, Sinclair, but I prefer you die an old man in prison and think about all you did.” The courtroom silence disappeared. Everyone seemed to be talking. “If they did hang Sinclair, you betcha there be lots of people at his funeral,” Tubal said to Raoul sitting alongside him. “Because he has so many friends?” Raoul asked, puzzled. “No, because everybody would come to make sure that skunk is really dead.” Judge Cramer thumped his gavel for quiet. He ordered Sinclair’s ranches sold and the proceedings used to 289  

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compensate as many people as could be found who lost their homesteads. “I also fine you the sum of five thousand dollars each payable to Mr. Henry Navarre and Mr. Tubal Busca for injuries received.” Anton and Nicky exchanged looks in their seats. “They are rich,” Nicky said. The judge sentenced Madeline Daedalus Sinclair to six months in prison, but he suspended it if Maddie “promised never to show her face in Idaho again.” “You got it, Judge,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “I’m on the next stage out of town.” “You won’t have to.” Judge Cramer said. “Meet me after the trial, and I’ll give you a ride in my automobile.” “Why thank you, Judge Cramer,” she said, using her seductive stage voice. Sinclair, seated next to his attorney, began to rise but the lawyer pushed him down. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” Judge Cramer said. “I’m giving you a ride to a stage stop in the next county so that nobody arranges a vigilante hanging for you. If you show your face anywhere in the state of Idaho again, you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars with your husband.” The judge slammed down his gavel, the noise drowning out Maddie’s angry oaths. “Her face gets redder than her red bloomers when she’s mad,” Nicky whispered to Anton. “Court adjourned,” Cramer shouted. Hailey’s most notorious trial on record had ended. “Did you see the way the judge listened to those two mangy herders all spiffed up like that?” Barnes whined as a bailiff led them out of the courtroom. His ruined hand was wrapped in a sling. “I think we’re lucky to get jail time,” Jackson said. “Looked to me we were headed for a hanging.” “Shut up, you two magpies,” Sinclair said. “What makes you think you’re the boss anymore?” Barnes fired back. 290  

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Mrs. Zane started to leave the courtroom, slipping past Sinclair and a marshal. That evening she planned to head for the train depot and the resumption of her old life in Ohio. “You’ve ruined me,” Sinclair said, his hands bound behind his back. “No, I didn’t,” Mrs. Zane replied. “You ruined yourself, you awful man.” Mrs. Zane hugged Nicky and shook hands with Anton. Nicky promised that he would tend the graves of her husband and child. “I know you will, dear,” she said. “Write me now and then.” Tubal waited until she left. “Only one letter at Xaga's for you,” he said. It was addressed to both brothers. Neither needed to see the mailing address to know it was from Charlie Russell. The familiar horns and head of a bison were drawn in one corner of the envelope. Anton grinned at Nicky before his brother could speak. “No, Nicky, you can't have the stamp,” he said. “I want to keep this envelope intact as a souvenir.” Anton tore open the correspondence. There was a letter and a small sketch of a determined Anton holding Sinclair by the throat while three shocked card players watched and a furious Nicky shook his fist. A hand-drawn arrow at the bottom of the page pointed to the picture. “This will be my next painting,” the scrawled note from Charlie said. “I call it ‘Revenge of the Greenhorns.’” Nicky pouted when he saw himself depicted. “I’m much bigger now than that,” he groused. “Another unhappy art critic,” Anton said, cracking a wide grin. In the accompanying letter, Charlie Russell sent his greetings from his wife Nancy to the brothers and then moved on to business. “I loved the clay statue of the mountain sheep you sent me, Anton,” Charlie wrote. “I am experimenting with a 291  

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new process to create sculptures through a wax process before casting them. Why don't you come out for two weeks to visit me? We'll practice our sculpting skills. I am sending along a check for a train ticket from Hailey to Great Falls, Montana.” Anton's smile couldn't have been broader if he had just become the stone-lifting champion of Spain. He read the letter aloud. When he finished, Tubal slapped him on the back. “Congratulations, Senor Goya,” Tubal said. “Congratulations, Big Brother,” Nicky said. “Tell Charlie he needs to make me bigger in that new painting.” “Oh, the vain demands we artists get,” Anton said, hiding a smile. “You want to look bigger and Tubal wants his butt smaller.”

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Chapter Fifty-Seven: Changed Plans Anton and Nicky rarely saw Raoul so animated. They met their uncle at Xaga's for dinner as soon as the last boxcar filled with sheep left for Chicago. Xaga let the brothers bring Lazarus to the table. Xaga's daughter Louise spoiled the dog with table scraps. After Raoul ordered meals for the brothers, he waved his coffee cup. He was so animated that he splattered some drops on the table. “Last week we shipped the sheep wool to San Francisco, and now we ship the mutton to the stockyards in Chicago,” he said to Nicky. “What other business pays you twice like that for the same animal, huh?” “No other,” Nicky said. “Chickens?” Anton said. “Eggs and meat.” “Well, all right, chickens, too, Anton,” Raoul acknowledged grudgingly. “If you must get technical.” “But chickens do not pay as much as sheep,” Nicky added. Raoul reached across the table and punched Nicky affectionately on the shoulder. “That’s right, that’s right.” As Louise delivered the meals, the rancher praised his nephews as the best herders he had hired since Tubal worked the range. “He’s buttering us like bread rolls,” Anton whispered to Nicky. “Will you work another two year-term for me as herders?” Raoul inquired. Nicky took a breath. 293  

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“I appreciate your offer, Raoul, but I have other plans.” “Other plans?” A crestfallen Raoul turned to Anton. “What about you?” “With the war over, it’s safe for a return to Spain,” he said. “I plan to go to Montana and study with Mr. Russell first. Then maybe I’ll go to New York and see if Mr. Thatcher would like some help in his gallery so that I can learn the business. When I have earned enough dinero, it is back to St. Mammes for me.” “Maybe you get some illustration work from magazines when you’re in New York,” Nicky said. “I had thought of that,” Anton said, beaming. “I can try.” Raoul managed a smile and a handshake for each brother. From the roll in his money clip he paid the promised wages and threw in a bonus since so few sheep had died in spite of harsh winter conditions. “The sheep I promised you both have been taken by Jesus to a pen at my ranch,” Raoul said. “Tubal asked me to include the sheep you call Bum Deal and its lamb Pokey. He said they had become your special pets.” “Thank you,” Nicky said. He hesitated. Now it was his turn to try a sales pitch. He looked at Lazarus on the hotel floor. The blue dog’s tail thumped the boards. “Something else you wanted?” Raoul asked, puzzled. “I think that’s all we had agreed on, Nicky.” Nicky pointed to Lazarus. He closed his eyes, wondering what Raoul might decide. “You might as well take Lazarus,” Raoul said, chuckling. “Tubal tells me that dog thinks he’s your third brother.” “We also think Lazarus is our third brother,” Anton said, laughing. Nicky dropped to his knees in front of Lazarus and hugged him. “Besides, no matter what Tubal says I do have my moments of generosity,” Raoul said, blinking as if a speck 294  

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entered his eye. “Especially when it concerns a certain young man who seems to have captured my Martina’s heart.” Anton and Nicky thanked Raoul before leaving with Lazarus. They went to the mercantile store and ordered Levi’s, cotton work shirts, socks and work boots, planning to burn their well-patched, sheep-reeking duds. Tubal entered the store to buy a peppermint stick. “Where are you boys headed?” “We are opening checking and savings accounts at the bank,” Nicky said. “Anton doesn’t want to return to Spain with dinero in a suitcase. That didn’t work out so well the last time in New York. We were robbed.” “Maybe I should hold your money for you,” Tubal suggested. The brothers laughed. Tubal pouted. “Maybe you should bank the money you get from the court settlement, Tubal,” Nicky said. “No, I have only one thing I want to do with the money.” “What’s that?” Anton said. “Buy a round-trip steamship ticket to Spain.” Tubal said. “I must visit my family in Muxica and treat them to the biggest feast ever. Let them think I am a rich man before I come back to Idaho.” “That’s all?” Anton asked. “I want to buy flowers and tend a grave in Muxica,” Tubal said, rubbing the back of one fist over his eyes. “My Anderoza has waited a long time for me to return.” “I am happy for you, Tubal,” Anton said. “I am happy for you boys also,” Tubal said. “Anton, you asked me once if you and Nicky were leaders or stragglers.” “I remember.” “You are leaders,” Tubal said. “You boys want a peppermint stick?” Xaga rented the brothers a room. Each used the hotel’s tub downstairs to rinse off the trail dust. Before 295  

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spilling the water, Nicky gave Lazarus a bath. The three turned heads when they came back into the dining room. “You herders clean up good,” Xaga quipped. “But you might want to take the price tags off those new shirts.” Nicky looked at his sleeve and tore off the tag. “Glad Martina didn’t see this,” he said. “She still hasn’t let me forget the sausage I hid in my pocket.” “And never will,” Anton said, laughing. “I know that much about women.” The brothers walked across the main room to the map of Spain on one wall. Anton put a thick finger on the little dots marked Guernica and St. Mammes. “The stonelifter returns,” Nicky said. Xaga motioned for them to sit family-style at his best table. “I have a proposition for you, Anton,” the hotel owner said. “My oldest daughter Mara gets married tomorrow to a wealthy Basque and is moving with him to Spain.” “Yes?” Anton responded, not seeing how he fit into this arrangement. Anton recalled how Tubal referred to the oldest Xaga daughter as the most snappish of all the hotel owner's offspring. What fool had found her pleasing enough to wed? “I want you to paint the bride and groom’s wedding portrait tomorrow,” Xaga said. “Can you do that? I can pay you three gold pieces.” “Oh, yes,” Anton said. “That is a commission.” Xaga clasped Anton’s hands. “I will put your painting of Mara and her husband above the fireplace mantle here. Surely you will get other commissions from my customers.” A long and delicate feminine arm reached over Anton’s shoulder and set a basket of bread on the table. “Anton the stonelifter, big as a tree,” a voice from the Old Country chanted inches from his ear. “I wonder if he remembers me.” 296  

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Chapter Fifty-Eight: Clarisse’s Journey Many hours later, after the last hotel residents had swilled their final cups of coffee and gone to their rooms, Clarisse broke free from server duties to sit with Anton and Nicky. Louise came downstairs from her room and saw the new server from Spain talking with a smitten Anton. She burst into tears and ran back upstairs. “Where do I start?” Clarisse said, a smile covering her nervousness. She played with the large tortoiseshell comb in her dark black hair. “How did you get here?” Anton asked, finding his tongue. “Same as you, a long ride by ship and a long ride by train.” “But that was dangerous for a girl—a young woman—to travel alone,” Anton protested. “It was tiring but not bad since my father-in-law bought me a first-class ticket for the steamship to get rid of me,” Clarisse said. “A mangy red-headed apple seller named Reuben Bench tried to rob me at the train station in New York, but I grabbed his arm when he picked up my valise and held him until a police officer came to help.” “Oh,” Nicky said, winking at Anton. “I guess anyone could tell that Reuben was up to no good.” “But what led you here?” a blushing Anton persisted, ignoring Nicky’s gibe. “I knew that if there were Basques in Hailey there had to be a hotel. I wrote to inquire if there was a position as 297  

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a server,” Clarisse said. “Mr. Xaga wrote that his oldest daughter was moving to Spain with her future husband. He offered me room and board, and so here I am.” “Xaga never told me,” Anton said. “I asked to keep it a surprise. Are you surprised?” “Flabbergasted,” Anton said, “but happy.” “Just room and board, Clarisse?” Nicky said. “No salary?” Clarisse shrugged. “I wanted to get away from those harpy sisters-in-law, and I did not want to go back to my father’s cottage,” she said. “After Bernard died, the sisters tried to convinced my father-in-law that I had no right to the family inheritance. They were happy when I said I was leaving for Idaho. That cleared the way for the family to invite Henry back home.” “It is sad you come here just as Anton, too, goes back to Spain,” Nicky said. Clarisse looked stricken. “What did you say?” Anton kicked his brother in the knee. “He is mistaken,” Anton said. “Here in Idaho a Basque from Spain can find a good life if he is willing to find out what his talents are.” “Yes, my mistake,” Nicky said, his eyes watering from knee pain. “Anton loves Idaho.” “In fact, my little brother wants me to help him run a sheep ranch and let me work on my art to perfect my craft,” Anton said. “Isn't that right, Nicky?” Nicky swung his legs out of the way in case Anton wanted to kick him again. He grinned and imitated Tubal. “You betcha,” Nicky said. “Equal partners.” The heavy wooden door of the hotel swung open. Raoul entered with Martina, Tubal and an energetic man wearing a wool suit and herringbone cap. “This man was at the mercantile store asking about you two, Anton and Nicky,” Raoul said. “I think you boys know him?” 298  

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Anton and Nicky stared bug-eyed. Nicky recovered first. “Look who just rode in on a jackalope,” he said. “Welcome to Idaho, Mr. Thatcher.” “There is no greater pleasure than when one meets up again with old friends who were far away,” Anton said, grasping Thatcher’s hand. Anton introduced Clarisse to one and all. “So this is Claaaaaa-rissse,” Tubal boomed. “You are twice as beautiful as Anton says. You were holding out on me, Anton.” “I think you are something of a flirting rascal, Tubal,” Clarisse said. She excused herself. “I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.” “As strong as you can make it,” Thatcher said. “Is there any other way a Basque makes coffee?” Clarisse snapped back, charming Thatcher. “Anton, how is it possible that you have gotten even bigger?” Thatcher said. “Nicky, you too have shot up like an oak. I saw you as boys, and now look at you, practically grown men.” “We have,” Nicky said. “But what are you doing here?” “You are a long way from New York, sir,” Anton said. “That I am,” Thatcher said. “You asked for feedback on your art, Anton. It has been years since I hunted for biggame elk in Idaho. I thought I’d combine a little recreation with a visit.” Raoul saw an opportunity and took it. He addressed the brothers with another proposition. “Perhaps I can interest you both in living at my bunkhouse with Reader and taking care of my prized sheep,” he said. “Jesus and Joachim can take your place on the rangeland.” “Actually, Anton and I now have our own ranch, Raoul,” Nicky said, enjoying the astonishment on his uncle’s face. “In just two years?” Raoul said. 299  

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“Nicky is a fast worker,” Martina said. Raoul’s head spun around to confront his daughter. “He’s not fast that way, Daddy,” Martina said. She flushed scarlet as a traditional Basque skirt. “My heavens!” Thatcher broke the uncomfortable silence. “Will you let me work as your agent at my gallery, Anton?” Thatcher said. “I want to display your work in my gallery in a section I reserve for emerging talent.” “I am honored,” Anton managed to gasp. Nicky slapped Anton on the back. “Yes, yes. One day you’ll be more famous than the jackalope.” Tubal had listened as long as he ever had while keeping silent. Now he could not stay quiet one minute longer. He frowned. “Say Mr. Big Shot Artist,” Tubal said. “When are you going to paint that picture of me that you promised?” “Maybe Anton can hang your portrait in my gallery,” Thatcher said. “You would be famous, Tubal,” Martina said. “Famous or no, I won’t take off my drawers for Senor Goya here,” Tubal said, standing his ground. Anton laughed. He reached under the table and set a battered valise on the table. He opened it and thrust a rolled canvas into Tubal’s hand. “What is this?” “A surprise,” Anton said. “I’ve already painted your portrait.” With the expectant eyes of all upon him, Tubal unrolled the canvas. The camptender saw his own face perfectly captured by Anton’s brush. There were lines on the subject’s face, softened by his handsome eyes. In the distance, behind Tubal, was a flock of sheep, every brushstroke perfect. “When did you paint this?” “While you visited the wagon the last time,” Anton said. “I did it while you were napping.” 300  

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“Good thing I sleep on the job,” Tubal said. “Oops, sorry, Raoul.” “It’s a wonderful likeness of Tubal,” Thatcher said, leaning in to inspect the painting. “I will have it framed and shipped back to New York to hang. What do you call it, Anton?” “The Camptender,” Anton said. “A perfect title,” Tubal said. “And you see that I have kept my pants on for Senor Goya, Nicky?” Clarisse came through the kitchen door with cups and an enamel coffee pot on a tray. She had lined a plate with sugary biscuits. “Clarisse, maybe one day you will make a Basque man a fine wife,” Tubal declared. “Are you asking me to marry you, Tubal?” she said in a deadpan voice. “It’s awfully sudden, but I’ll consider it.” Tubal took a second to catch the put-on. He exhaled with relief when he realized that she was joking. Clarisse’s lips quivered nonetheless. She sat next to Anton and draped one delicate hand over Anton’s big paw. He put his other hand atop hers. Anton began to speak, but the hotel door slammed open, and he merely patted her hand. Henry barged inside, greeting all with a hearty wave. “I did not find the streets in Idaho paved with silver,” he said. “Now I go back to my family as its rightful heir with my new wife.” Henry recognized Clarisse, and his joy disappeared. “My father wrote me that you had left his home,” he said. “Please accept my condolences over your husband’s death.” “Thank you and please accept mine,” Clarisse murmured. “Your father’s heart is broken over this, and he is not well. He will be happy you are coming home to take over.” Clarisse poured Henry a cup of coffee. Anton tried to lighten the mood. “Henry, are you looking forward to the voyage to Spain?” 301  

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“Only the end of it and getting home,” Henry said, sipping his coffee. “I do not look forward to losing my insides to seasickness again.” Xaga and his daughter Mara came down the hotel stairs. She wore a gold dress with a wide white collar. “I think you all know my bride-to-be?” Henry said. “I want to invite you all to the wedding,” Xaga said, beaming. Anton and Nicky sputtered but recovered to offer congratulations. Henry and Mara had chosen each other? Everyone all at once offered Henry handshakes and wide smiles. Mara gave all a wide, open grin. “My goodness, she knows how to smile,” Tubal whispered to Nicky. “I heard that,” Mara said, frowning as usual. “I have bought us first-class steamer tickets,” Henry said to the room. “No steerage for us.” “Henry,” Nicky said in as innocent voice as he could muster. “I need to ask you one thing before you get hitched and go back to Spain.” “Yes?” responded Henry. “How long did it take you to scrape all that red paint off your butt?” Henry digested the words. The coffee cup he had in his paw slipped and crashed on the floor planks. “Run, Nicky, run,” Anton shouted, his voice alive with merriment. Nicky made it through the outside door first, but Henry was close on his heels. All the weight he lost now gave him newfound agility. They raced down Main Street, apologizing to the mercantile shopkeeper who almost was knocked down as he strolled with his dog. “I hope that Xaga doesn’t mind if the wedding gets postponed,” Tubal said, shaking with laughter. “I don’t think Henry will come back until he catches Nicky.”

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Epilogue: 1937 Guernica called Anton and Clarisse back to Spain many years after they had married and their only child, Dominic, had finished his doctorate in history and accepted a professorship at the University of Idaho. Nicky had offered his brother a fair price for his share of the ranch, and Anton was free to leave after shaking hands on the deal. All eight of the children of Martina and Nicky had married after they graduated from college, and one son had majored in agriculture and business with the intent of taking over the business after Nicky retired. True to his word, Thatcher had championed Anton, helping him attain a minor but respected reputation as a painter, illustrator and sculptor. Clarisse managed his business affairs as Nancy Russell once had done for Charles, the latter now dead over a decade and mourned by Anton. Anton had designed the Hidden Spring Ranch brand: a curved cross with four points representing the Basque regions of the Middle Ages—Araba, Biscay, Gipuzkoa and Navarre. Now that brand long had been burned into a high post above the entrance to the ranch. Ranch manager Reader Ruffin lived on the spread near the main house in a log cabin with his pretty wife Sally, a widow he had met while purchasing supplies at the Hailey mercantile store. He and Nicky cherished their weekly Wednesday lunch hour to talk and trade stamps. Anton’s decision to leave Idaho came after they received a letter from the padre that they shared with Nicky. 303  

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“Our father wrote that he can no longer walk without two canes,” Anton revealed to his brother at a Saturday night dinner on the Hidden Spring Ranch. “Clarisse and I plan to build our dream home behind the rectory.” “It is right that you two take care of the padre as he took care of you and me,” Nicky said. *

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The padre recovered from a small stroke in the care of Clarisse, but he was not his energetic self. He no longer had a housekeeper. Senora Laka now occupied a grave in the church cemetery alongside her husband’s remains. Nonetheless, in spite of infirmity, the padre still said Mass on occasion when he was up to it, and he visited Clarisse and Anton each Sunday for lamb dinners. Anton and Clarisse’s arrival preceded another time of turbulence in Spain. The 1930s burst into political chaos that divided the country in a bloody civil war. The Basque provinces staged numerous acts of defiance against Spanish dictator Francisco Franco that infuriated him. Politics and civil unrest aside, everyday life in St. Mammes and Guernica went on much as when Anton was a boy. Anton painted and sculpted, and he filled a trophy case with silver victory cups for stonelifting at festivals. Occasionally the couple visited back and forth with Henry and Mara Navarre, the wealthiest landowners in Guernica. Anton and Clarisse were impressed with the immense changes in Henry who performed his duties as family patriarch and employer with relish. Mara doted on the nine children she and Henry now had and sent photographs often to her sister Louise who ran the hotel in Hailey after her papa died. Unrest in Spain reached a boiling point in the spring of 1937. The dictator Franco, leader of the rebel Nationalists, courted the diabolical German Chancellor Adolph Hitler. Anton and Clarisse considered fleeing to New York, but 304  

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instead remained at St. Mammes, convinced that the ailing padre’s health would not allow him to complete a demanding journey with them. Then the unthinkable occurred. Germany hatched a plan to destroy an ancient and peaceful Basque city. Hitler obtained the approval of the tyrant Franco. Germany selected Guernica for a bombing mission. On April 27, 1937, Hitler tested his military strength on the defenseless Basque city, sending his mighty Air Force on a raid. Guernica since ancient days felt protected by the stone wall that had surrounding it. To German bombers a wall was no impediment. The lovely city in hours became ashes, rubble and fallen brick, accompanied by a sorrowful loss of many lives. Clarisse in St. Mammes saw the smoke and heard the bombing, and she clutched her rosary and prayed. In time, the massacre would be immortalized in the famous work of art painted by Pablo Picasso. For days after that treacherous event, Nicky and Martina scoured the mails and newspapers for any news from Spain. They exchanged worried phone calls with Anton’s son Dominic who also had heard nothing from his parents. They tried phoning Anton and the padre, but telephone service there had been cut off in the destruction. Now grey around the temples but still fit enough to sink his own wells, Nicky ran his business from his office on the Hidden Spring Ranch. One day he looked up as Reader came back from town with mail, including a large box bound with hemp cord and splashed with air-mail stamps from Spain. “Here you are, Boss,” Reader said, setting aside the less important mail before leaving Nicky his privacy. “It sure is heavy.” Nicky tore at the wrapper with his penknife. Inside the box was a letter in Clarisse’s strong hand. A foreboding overtook Nicky as he began reading. With his rough hands he flattened the letter on the surface of his worktable so he could concentrate. 305  

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Martina entered the room, a glove on one hand held to her mouth. Reader had gone to the garden to tell her that a package from Spain had come. Nicky kept reading, then paused, blinked and gazed into his wife’s face before breaking her heart as his had just done. He had lighted altar candles at church hoping that his brother was one of the lucky ones to survive, but all hope extinguished like a campfire in a flood. “Tell me,” she said. “It is Anton, Anton,” he said. She crossed herself. “How?” “Clarisse writes that he was one of the hundreds of civilians killed by the German bombers.” He read a sentence aloud. “Some were killed by the bombs. Others were killed by machine guns from the air as they tried to reach the edge of the city. They left St. Mammes untouched.” Nicky read on, gripping the letter so tight it would bear his fingerprints forever. “Anton had left that morning for the market to bring back the goat’s cheese he so loved, and that spring day was so beautiful he rode his horse to town instead of taking his car,” Nicky read aloud. “My husband promised to meet Henry at their favorite café where they loved teasing one another and reliving old memories of Idaho.” The letter confirmed the little news Nicky and Martina had gleaned from reading the newspapers. The evil Hitler had selected a Monday market day when all in town would be shopping for food. “When the bombers went round and round, Anton and Henry were at the café. They helped many people rush into a merchant’s mansion and down the stairs to the cellar. The two managed to lead a hundred or more market shoppers to safety,” Clarisse wrote. “They could have stayed downstairs in that crowded basement where they were protected, but Anton and Henry elected to save the lives of citizens if they could. They 306  

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stepped back outside into the city now burning like a bonfire. It must have broken Anton’s heart to see so many treasured buildings in flames, including many with his painted murals on scorched and blasted walls. “They found a brother and sister wandering and raced through the streets with them to try hiding them in a park. A pilot saw them and buzzed his plane low over them with machine guns blazing. Henry dove into a gulley, and he and the little boy lived. But Anton was cut down while covering the little girl with his own body. Your brother’s last action was to shake his fist at the pilot in the sky. He died in Henry’s arms.” Nicky’s voice broke. “Poor Clarisse, twice now a widow.” He returned to the letter. His eyes burned with salt. “We buried him in a little cave on the high hill above the church. His will asked that he be placed alongside an ancient fire pit and mound where he was sure to have good company with babies from the spirit world. One day I will join him there.” Nicky could read no more. His wife took the letter from him. “In the year before his death, Anton worked on a small painting he wanted you to have,” Martina read in a whisper. “He finished it right before the bombing, but never found a chance to send it.” Nicky tore at the rags, tape and protective packaging. The painting had been done in oils. He saw Lazarus and Peppy depicted as they nipped at the heels of a balky lamb. Behind the sheepdogs were two sturdy boys, one a giant and curly headed, and the other strong and wiry with a lariat ready to throw over Bum Deal. The painting thrust Nicky back in time, and he choked back his emotion. On the bottom of the wooden frame was a bronze tag. “Martina, my brother titled this the “Sons of the Dawn.” Martina watched Nicky rub one thumb over the tag that had been placed there by Anton himself. 307  

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She rummaged through the box. “There is something else here,” Martina said. “Nicky, she sent us acorns from the great tree of Guernica.” *

*

*

On a bright blue Idaho Sunday, Nicky arranged a memorial ceremony at the family burial plot on the ranch. On a grassy, irrigated patch of land, near a stand of Douglas fir, red cedar and cypress, Nicky’s youngest grandson, nicknamed Little Anton, began the ceremony by planting the acorns into holes Nicky had earlier dug. Raoul stood with the aid of a cane and read a prayer and then Nicky, with Martina holding his arm, finished the ceremony with a eulogy. “You lifted more than stones, Anton,” he said in conclusion. “You lifted all our hearts.” Reader Ruffin and Anton’s son Dominic struggled to unload a two-hundred-pound quarry stone from the back of a ranch wagon and set it upon the Idaho earth. On the stone a local stonecutter had chiseled “Anton Ibarra: Artist and Stonelifter, 1881-1937.” Below the name was Anton’s favorite Bible verse. “The mountains skipped like rams, and the little hills like lambs.” The stone cast a shadow over the adjacent flat memorial stones for Peppy and Lazarus. Peppy was never quite right after Sinclair shot him and had died in his sleep at nine years old. The blue dog, however, lived seventeen years and sired many sons and daughters for Nicky to use as guardians of his sheep. Not far away from those memorial stones, covered with fresh flowers, were the graves of the three Zane family members. Mrs. Zane’s will had requested that her ashes be interred alongside the remains of her husband and daughter. Her family had sent the ashes from Ohio. Tubal Busca, shuffling his feet with a walker, but his mind sharp even at one hundred, wet his tongue and brought 308  

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his mouth organ to his lips. He ended the memorial playing the jaunty Basque melody that Anton had requested long ago. The music awakened a coyote pup sleeping in a sagebrush-protected den. Muzzle to the sky, the pup sang a lament. Little Anton heard it and smiled. He cupped his hands, answering the wild call with a prolonged howl of his own.

309  

Acknowledgements The opportunity in my youth to accompany trailing herders formerly from Spain’s Basque Country occurred because magazine editors Bruce Kinnaird and James W. Wiggins assigned me stories on Basque sheepherders in the American West. I interviewed Basque ranchers, herders, and scholars from Nevada to Wyoming. All provided hospitality and stories. Ranchers Simon and Dollie Iberlin of Wyoming welcomed me, and Simon, now deceased, made me howl with his true tale of stuffing a rancid sausage into his pocket that inspired a joking passage in this book. Rancher Ray Corta of Jiggs, Nevada, allowed me to spend an extended time at the sheep camp and wagon of herder Jacinto Madrieta, formerly of Guernica, Spain, and a bombing survivor, on a winter’s trek to low country in White Pine County, Nevada. I also had the benefit of long conversations with many other Basque herders, some working and some disabled and retired to Basque hotels where I spent many a night with a thermos of coffee in hand. Author Gerald Haslam introduced me to Basque cuisine and author Robert Laxalt convinced me that embarking on a writing career was far more important than staying in a Ph.D. English program. Basque expert William A. Douglass of the University of Nevada’s Center for Basque Studies generously gave his time and expertise for those early magazine stories I wrote. A sabbatical from Franklin College enabled me to conduct first-hand research in the American West and the Basque Country of Spain. These research centers included the Museo de la Paz de Gernika, the caves of Santimamine, Euskal Herria Museum, Boise Basque Museum & Cultural

Center, the C. M. Russell Museum and Elko’s Northeastern Nevada Museum. The Franklin College Pulliam School of Journalism provided me an opportunity to visit our Pozuelo de Alarcón sister campus Francisco de Vitoria University. In nearby Madrid, I conducted research on the Spanish Civil War and saw firsthand Pablo Picasso’s Guernica at the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía. On another research visit to Spain, I conducted research in Malaga, Rondo and the cave country of Spain. Franklin College administrators Jay Moseley, David Brailow, John Krull and the Faculty Steering Committee supported my writing and teaching with Rinker and Runkle Faculty Excellence Grants. In addition, my colleagues Ray Begovich, Joel Cramer, Dennis Cripe, Ann Barton, Cindy Reese, Shelia Rosario, Bill Bridges, Chris Bavender, Wendy Shapiro, Jerry Miller, Susie Fleck and Diana Hadley provided a creative and supportive atmosphere for me to write—as did my wonderful students. Friends Nancy Campbell, Gary Eller, Helen O’Guinn, Layla Lusty, Jim Garlits, Susan Kopala, Gwen Florio, Joe Jansen, Holly Lorincz, Monique Raphel High and Claudette L. Kiely made manuscript recommendations. Rick and Rosemary Ardinger of Limberlost Press in Idaho City gave me a warm and comfortable bed, the company of their loving dog, and no small amount of good literary conversation as I conducted research in Idaho. Other old Idaho friends and neighbors I ran into during my research included Steve Frye, Claire Fenton and Judy Stoltzfus. Early on, I was pushed to write this book by my friend and fishing buddy Jim Noble, a Missouri logger, as well as Fraser Drew, a Buffalo State College professor and my mentor. I regret that neither Jim nor Prof. Drew, a centenarian, lived to see the novel published, although Drew read the first draft Others who supported me at the outset of this novel’s creation were Jenine Howard and Lizabeth Klein. Howard worked hard as the copy editor on this novel and helped me  

immeasurably with manuscript recommendations. I’d recommend her sharp-eyed work to any novelist unafraid of unflinching, helpful criticism. Klein accompanied me on one lengthy trip to Idaho, Nevada and Oregon for research and worked hard as my assistant. I also wish to acknowledge the collective influence on my writing of journalist Patrick O’Driscoll, photographer Max Aguilera-Hellweg, friend Adele Cook, writer Kevin McKenna, filmmaker Gian-Carlo Bertelli, author Toyomi Gibson Igus, novelist Paul Engleman, author M. Thomas Inge, author Steve Nash, attorney Cheryl Martinez, professor Mike Spear, historian Robert Waite, author Steve Rogers, Idaho historian Bob Waite, attorney Dave Westol, artist Alice Cerniglia, friends Mark and Jo Steadman, Roy and Eileen Stevens, Alice Haben, bull-riding mentor Cleo Sutherland, writer Diane Raines, Darryl Nitsch, Steve Jensen and John Cirilli. And thanks to my brothers, sisters and family for support. Thank you to Buffalo State College, which not only awarded me an honorary doctorate, but also established the Hank Nuwer Collection to preserve my manuscripts and papers. Here is a major thank you to Buffalo State Dean Charles Kenyon and Butler Library friends Maryruth Glogowski and Dan DiLandro. I also cherish the fact that HazingPrevention.org established the Hank Nuwer Anti-hazing Hero Award and that Ball State’s Department of Journalism elected me to its Hall of Fame. I am grateful to my Western Writers of America mentor Phil Mills, Jr., my Shalako Press editor and publisher Major Mitchell, and especially to you all, my readers. Thank you to art director Karen Borrelli for the perfect cover design. Finally, here is a thanks to Lucien Millox, a Basque herder of my youth. He was beaten to death by thugs and his body stripped to look as if he had been robbed on a lonely Wyoming highway. R.I.P., Lucien.  

Onward to the next novel. Hank Nuwer, Montello, Nevada and Waldron, Indiana

 

About The Author Hank Nuwer has a compelling interest in the study of Basque life and culture. That fascination began in 1978 when he trailed sheep with ethnic sheepherders and interviewed Basques and experts on Basque life from Reno, Nevada to Buffalo, Wyoming for a series of magazine articles. He also is an internationally known expert on hazing prevention, and he tours the country putting on his one-man play “A Broken Pledge” at universities and high schools. Nuwer is a professor at Franklin College in Indiana, teaching investigative reporting, creative nonfiction and reporting. He spends part of his time on his acreage in Tok, Alaska and Montello, Nevada. A fan of rodeo, he incurred seven broken ribs riding undomesticated bovine stock before deciding he belonged in the stands, not the arena. He once lived in Hailey and in a homestead cabin in Poverty Flats on the Wood River in Idaho. Nuwer is a member of the Western Writers of America and holds an honorary doctorate from the State University of New York’s Buffalo State Campus. His web site is www.hanknuwer.com. You can find him on Twitter: @hanknuwer [email protected] is his email address. Photo by Dennis Cripe  

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