Windmill

By Terry Maag

Greg is a rancher in the western United States. Burdened by generational alcoholism, he struggles to achieve personal happiness and at the same time hold it together with his family and friends. It is not without casualties to some of the characters in the book. In Windmill, the men and women are searching for personal freedom. In America, freedom is guaranteed but the methods and means of how to achieve it inevitabley clash. People from different parts of the country have different ideas, and being compelled to search for freedom each has to suffer the setbacks that life has to offer.

On the surface, life in the west seem more forgiving, more laid back. But in the end, no one in is guaranteed to find the easy road. Freedom is not easy for those living it.

Like the windmill, constantly being driven by the impeller of the wind, life is the impeller that drives the characters in this book. Each has to reach deep within to withstand the adult circumstances they are responsible for putting themselves in.

Through our own actions, sometimes life comes to a standstill. The impeller of life is a driving force. And like the windmill, if the wind stops or water below dries up, the living are bandoned to fend for themselves.

If we are lucky, time will restart our dynamos. If the people in the story are to survive, the forces of nature must be discovered without as well as within. There are many versions of the living, yet in function they seem all alike. Living in the modern west forces choices between retaining what is thought of as good and yet, bending to what has become designated as progress. In the end, are we able to take charge and judge, or must we simply take what the wind and water has to offer and make the best of it? Only our characters know for sure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 3, 2001
• ISBN: 9780595721009

Terry Maag

The author has lived and worked in the northwest. He has a Political Science degree from his home town, and he has studied in all of the major Universities of Idaho.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 

The early morning sun rose slowly over the tips of the snow-capped rockies, casting large pointed shadows over the valley floor below. Like giant fingers reaching across the open landscape, they soon began to release their grasp, unveiling the communities of Bend, Gem, and Salmon Falls.

The towns of Bend and Gem were as yet, only partially lit, parted by the tip of the outermost shadow—cast by the highest peak. Near the base of the mountains, the larger town of Salmon Falls was illuminated, only by the reflective, grayish morning light.

From the high ground behind Salmon Falls westward for nearly twenty miles, man-made structures dotted the landscape in various cavalcades. The roads, fences, buildings, and fields were evidence of a more temporary existence, in contrast to the permanence of the venerable mountains that rose above them.

During the first week in August—at 4:30 in the morning—Greg Brannegan’s grey ranch house emerged from the tip of the smallest shadow. It’s clean, newly painted light-grey trim, brightly reflected the early morning sunlight.

This morning, the sun’s rays had already penetrated the glass in Greg’s bedroom window; beaming past the window coverings, which had been left open during the night. The resulting solar effect quickly heated the polished red-oak flooring, next to his king size bed.

The lean, six foot two, middle-aged rancher lay sprawled upon the mattress, amidst an array of crumpled bed covers. He wore only a pair of jeans and one, limp crew sock. The sock hung loosely from the heal of his right foot. Only those that knew him would have recognized him as the owner of the Bar T ranch.

He moaned and rolled over; his calloused fingers groped underneath the sweat-laden pillow, searching for some remaining coolness. Barely conscious, he paid little attention to the moisture. Instead, his nostrils pulled in the rich, pungent aroma of sour beer—mixed with the smell of perfume and cigarettes.

It jarred him awake, enough to realize that it must be morning, and he felt the nasty sensation of having a severe headache. He tried to remember what had happened only a few hours before, but the thoughts jabbed sharply into his dull consciousness and a blurred image flashed into his mind. (His Realtor friend, Larry Randolf, was sitting across a table from him; and in the background, there appeared to be shelves, filled with whiskey bottles.) He recognized the interior of Tom’s Bar. The impressions soon became fuzzy and vanished. They were replaced by a throbbing sensation in his forehead.

Greg tried raising his eyelids. They grated on his eyeballs, like wet sand paper. Blinking painfully, he lifted his head toward the light that was now pouring in through the naked window. His tongue felt like cotton and his throat was dry. He tried to swallow, but nothing went down. He coughed and nearly heaved.

Thit, he moaned, Shthiii...t.

He slowly gathered himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed; trembling slightly and grabbing hold of the covers with both hands to steady himself. His jeans cut into his stomach, where they had folded on a part of his skin during the night.

Ah.. He winced out loud, when he tried to massage the hurt out of his wrinkled skin.

Noticing the one crew sock dangling from his right foot, he knew the other one had to be somewhere in the heap of clothing over by the window. He squinted trying to see across the room and it made him dizzy.

He breathed in deeply through his nostrils and the overall pain of his hangover eased somewhat. But the warm air inside the room smelled from last night’s drunk and a nauseous feeling rose in his stomach. He swallowed feverishly, trying to suppress a heave—it momentarily subsided. He desperately needed some fresh air.

He stood up and stumbled towards the morning light; but just before he reached the window, his foot slipped on the polished hardwood floor. He lost his balance, barely saving himself by grabbing onto the rounded window sill. More determined now than ever, he anchored his bare foot to the floor and pushed up hard on the window sill. A cracking sound from the window frame reminded him it was locked. Before he could get the double latch open, he was overcome by the heat.

Jamming one hand over his mouth, he slide-hopped across his bedroom toward the wood-grain door. Using his free hand, he yanked the door open and quickly hobbled down the hall towards the bathroom. By the time he reached his destination, he could barely control his stomach. He bolted inside, missing the light switch as he entered. His mind was focused on the toilet.

But it was too late. Out of his nostrils and open mouth spewed the remains of what he had consumed the night before. It splashed on the toilet lid and all over the clean, white linoleum floor. He managed to lift the toilet seat, in spite ofhis convulsive efforts toward self-control.

The briny liquid burned the back of his nose and throat. He heaved again. This time his aim found the outer rim of the open bowl. Trying to re-position himself for a better shot, he feverishly placed one hand on the back of the tank and the other one on the smooth, slick rim of the toilet bowl. His bare foot found the slick, wet linoleum floor, and with a wild gesture, in a vain attempt to maintain his balance, he sent the tank lid clanking to the floor. Unable to stop his momentum, he went down; head-first into the open toilet bowl.

He recoiled instantly onto his knees, refusing to believe what he had just done. He nervously wiped the stingy broth from his eyes and nose, then placed his hands on his thighs and bowed his head in self-disgust.

Marie Gustaffson came running down the hall in her nightgown, fearing the worst. She stopped at the bathroom door and peered in at her boss. There was enough light from the hallway for her to see his sandy hair dripping wet, and his big hands pressing tightly down on his legs. He appeared to be kneeling in front of the toilet.

His head turned slowly toward her and their eyes met. It was as if he was begging for mercy, having been caught in the middle of some strange diving ritual. He quickly tried to compose himself, by reaching up to flush the toilet. But his hand clumsily knocked the flusher handle off the tank. The handle went sploop as it disappeared inside the tank.

It was too much for her. She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh, but it was no use. She broke out into hysterical shrieks and retreated down the hallway to her bedroom.

Greg could hear her muffled laughter over the running water in the tank. He was totally humiliated.

Damn, he said to himself, sinking back onto the wet floor in defeat.

Once inside her room, the gross reality of what she had just seen, flashed before her eyes. Marie suddenly felt ill. Cupping both hands over her mouth—this time in earnest—she rushed into the kitchen.

Unlike Greg, she reached the faucet at the kitchen sink in time. A quick turn of the ivory handle, instantly released a column of clear, cold well water into the white, porcelain basin. She grabbed at it, splashing it on her cheeks, and gasping for air.

Marie Gustaffson had been working at the Bar T ranch for nearly three months and this was the first time she had seen Greg do anything quite so ugly. It topped the list of things she had seen—but that she never imagined people could do—since her arrival in the valley. It was a far cry from the lifestyle she had left behind on the east coast. Until now, her stay at the Bar T ranch had been a fun adventure.

Though it was her job to cook, clean, and do laundry, there were other, more pleasant things to do. She usually had time to read or sometimes sit around and chat with Greg in the evenings; and there were her errands.

The roads from the ranch to Salmon Falls were paved, except for the mile-long lane—bordered by poplar trees—which marked the entrance to Greg’s property. She liked taking the old, green Chevy pickup the twenty mile trip into town and could make the trip in thirty minutes without breaking the speed limit.

There was always some new aspect of town that attracted her interest. The library was full of books—estranged to her usual way of thinking—and there were the local cafes, where all sorts of interesting people gathered. She liked listening to the chit-chat among the locals, while she sipped coffee and read the local paper; and if she got bored, she could always go to her favorite shopping places. She especially loved being able to go about town without having to be afraid. Back east, the thought of crime was always a consideration, when a person planned to go somewhere; and then there was the traffic.

She had made some new friends at her church, though they were her friends, alone. No one from the ranch attended church but they didn’t begrudge her for doing so. She found life to be more laid back and the pace much slower than at home. And she was so glad to be away from her parents; she didn’t have to go around being defensive all the time.

But this morning, so early, and choking back a heave—she thought perhaps there was some merit to what her stepmother, Lydia had said. According to Lydia, people living out west were uncivilized, due to the fact that the white people had never completely conquered the Native Americans. In her opinion, Westerners had no choice, but to share in the remnants of a once, savage culture.

Marie was determined to make the most of her decision to come to the ranch; and so far, practically everyone in the valley had treated her with the utmost decency and respect. Out west, there existed an underlying social current which disregarded the stricter codes of behavior she had grown up with; but Marie chose to resist the emblems of her upbringing. Instead, she embraced what she termed these, petty differences. Besides, she felt that anything coming from Lydia had to be taken with a grain of salt. If Lydia was in any way right about the gregarious nature of western folk, Marie was certain—at least this morning—that the Indians weren’t to blame for any uncivilized behavior.

Despite the way she felt today, in reality Marie had only admiration for Greg. He was so much more interesting to her than the stodgy, straight-faced young men her father had thrown at her—hoping to marry her off before she finished college. Even though he was fourteen years her senior, Greg was tall, well proportioned and very handsome. He had greying, light brown hair and there was not an ounce of fat on him. He didn’t lift weights, jog or do exercise fitness programs like the young men with square-shaped bodies back in New York. His lean physique came from years of ranch work.

Because it was so unlike Greg to come home late from the bar and on a regular basis, Marie was thinking that perhaps he and his wife Sylvia had some sort of argument. She hoped not, for Greg’s sake, and felt a twinge of remorse for having laughed at him only moments ago in his dispirited condition. She immediately forgave him. It was easy for her to do, since she had seen her real mother forgive her father many times when she was a child.

The cold well water flowed quietly from the swivel faucet into the large, single-basin, porcelain sink. Marie splashed her face and patted her cheeks, taking a few more deep breaths. After drying her face and hands with a clean dish towel, she replaced the towel on it’s metal hanger. If it had touched any dishes, she would have placed it on the long, kitchen counter top, neatly folded, to be taken later to the laundry. She was feeling much better.

She stood there for a moment..., there was nothing left to do but go to her room. She was glad that she didn’t have to pass by the bathroom, where Greg was busy cleaning up his mess.

Once inside the safety of her room, she found herself admiring her own reflection in the oval-shaped dresser mirror. She had never considered herself to be beautiful; moreover she thought of herself as top heavy. She, like so many women in America, had developed a basic dislike for the features of her own body—a body that was different from those prescribed by the large advertising agencies.

Marie’s long, dark brown hair—previously cut short and combed forward to hide her freckles—was now pulled back into a pony tail; exposing her high cheek bones and prominent eyebrows. In truth, she had a pretty, young face.

Her figure was attractive by most western standards, but she hid it under the loose clothing her father had purchased for her, prior to her leaving home. Marie had since considered buying some of the more popular, tight fitting stuff that everyone in the valley seemed to wear; especially after seeing how well her new boss looked in his snug-fitting jeans.

She liked working for Greg, though lately his presence at the ranch had diminished. Ifhe wasn’t off on one ofhis cattle trading trips, Marie could find him at Tom’s Bar, hanging out with his friends. He wasn’t a drunk, by her own standards. His usual behavior was proof of that. And by his own admission, he seldom downed more than two or three of Tom’s large, 16-ounce frosty mugs of draft beer in one sitting.

His recent departure from moderation had raised a few eyebrows, but Marie had kept her feelings to herself. She didn’t consider it to be any of her business and it hadn’t really affected her job at the ranch, until now.

She sat down on the bed in her nightgown. It was the only old piece of clothing she’d brought with her; something her real mother had given her. It was a small comfort to her this morning.

Having been awakened earlier than usual, she resolved to make good use of her time. She picked up a hair brush from the night stand and went over to the dresser mirror. Running the bristles through her hair and gazing at the reflection of the antique furniture brought back pleasant childhood memories. She cherished the times she and her real mother had shared together; though she could only remember those last two years of her mother’s life. The padded oak chair was similar to the one her mother had sat in, while reading bedtime stories to Marie. For a moment, Marie felt as though she was at home and that her mother was with her again.

Marie had never met Greg’s mother or father. They were presently in New Mexico, testing some mining equipment. They owned a very nice home in town, but really preferred to travel in their RV. Greg often talked about them during his and Marie’s evening conversations. She envied Greg’s relationship with his mother. She wished that her real mother was still alive and despised her father for remarrying twice; each time to a younger woman.

She thought about Greg’s father, Sam Brannegan. He owned a machine complex in Salmon Falls that was now the headquarters for manufacturing large mining equipment for several of the surrounding states. Sam had begun with a small company and was able to build it into the sizeable operation now called ‘BC’—it stood for Brannegan Crane.

Greg had worked part-time at his father’s plant during high school and full-time following his graduation and during the first plant expansion. By the time he was twenty three, he had married his high school sweetheart, Sylvia Eclair. Their two children, Janice and Gregory got to be nearly four years old, before Greg vowed that he would never work for his father again; in his words: the cold, hard world of metal and machines.

Greg had said very little to Marie about his reasons for parting ways with his father; other than there had been union problems and that he had been injured in a fight at the plant. The truth of the matter was: that as a result of the altercation, Sam’s would-be competitors had considered Greg to be a failure at his father’s business and wouldn’t hire him. Sylvia had come to his rescue—at the impasse between father and son. It was Sylvia who had insisted on Sam helping Greg borrow the money to buy the ranch.

More than a few of the valley’s ranchers didn’t think Greg could make a go of it. Fortunately for Greg, some of them at least, were willing to help Greg get started; and it had taken him fifteen years to turn the once-failing venture into a working cattle ranch.

It had been a true success from the beginning; some said it was the man; others said it was luck. One thing was for sure; everything he did, seemed to work out to his advantage when it pertained to the ranch. In the valley there was a saying: It is so often so, when a person does something he loves to do.

Greg’s most recent project—the refurbishing of the old ranch house—had been hard work and not always to the liking of his wife and two children. But the results were well worth it—at least in Greg’s opinion. And Marie shared his opinion; she loved the appearance of the old ranch house.

The hardwood floors were restored to their original condition and the woodwork throughout boasted a wood grain luster that is seldom found in modern, scrap-wood trimmings. Greg was a stickler for quality, always keeping in mind the term wood butchers when he worked on a project that involved carpentry—something he had inherited from his grandfather on his mother’s side.

There was new tile in the kitchen, bath and laundry, as well as new formica counter tops. The rooms were re-fitted with the more efficient Thermopane windows lending the house’s southern exposure to a very comfortable, homey feeling. There were some spectacular views of the surrounding mountains and territory.

This morning, through a gap in the curtains, a small wedge of the August sunlight began to widen it’s smile on polished wooden floor, next to her dresser. She was admiring the reflection of her face in the mirror, when she heard the shower shut off. It reminded her of their plans for today. They were supposed to bring the cows up to the irrigated pasture and it would mean an early start for all. Vernal, Greg’s foreman, would soon be coming into the kitchen along with Jeb and Sid, the two hired hands. They would be expecting an early breakfast.

The clock on her dresser read nearly five. She quickly put down her brush went over to the closet, where she changed into her boots and jeans. In front of the mirror again, she pulled a black tee shirt over her rather large breasts, smiling complacently for not having to dress up.

Her smile faded a bit at the thought of Greg’s hung-over condition. Usually Greg would line everyone out at breakfast, but she couldn’t imagine that he would be all-there this morning.

When he was out of town, she felt uncomfortable around the hired hands. Vernal was ok; he didn’t say much and was always polite, but Jeb and Sid often stared at her boobs. They did so in a way that wasn’t really obvious to anyone other than herself, yet she knew what they were thinking.

The cool water from the draining faucet landed on Greg’s bare foot and he realized that he still wore his jeans and one stocking. His head ached, but he was beginning to wake up. With an effort to keep his balance, he wrenched the soaked clothing from his wet body and squeezed some of the water out. Then he drew open the shower curtain and tossed the lumped mass into the open-wicket hamper.

One towel remained folded neatly over the towel rack, just within his reach. He grabbed it and started drying himself. He was immediately reminded of the night before; his penis was slightly tender to the touch. He carefully finished drying his body and then used the dampened towel to mop up the remainder of his mess. His earlier half-hearted attempt, had resulted in yellow streaks all over everything.

It was hard work for a man in his condition. By the time he was through, he was as awake as he was going to be for all day. Feeling late, he threw the towel into the hamper with the rest of the soiled garments and decided to skip shaving. Instead, he opened the bathroom door and poked his head out into the hallway. He could hear the muffled sound of clanking pots and pans coming from the kitchen. Marie was already preparing breakfast. He tiptoed gingerly, and very naked, down the hall into the safety of his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

The air in the hallway had been cool and he was covered with ‘goose bumps’. He went straight to his dresser and opened the top drawer. Marie had kept things neatly arranged in there and his jeans were stacked in an orderly pile. He fished out a pair; careful not to disturb the others. His closet was lined with pressed shirts; all of them hanging with their top buttons fastened. Greg found one to his liking and retrieved it from it’s hanger; then went over to the bed, where his socks and shorts were waiting in the night stand drawer.

After putting on his clothes, he found one of his boots underneath the bed. The old boots slid on effortlessly, over the clean pair of dry socks. If he remembered correctly, today was the day he and Vern had set aside for bringing the cows from the lower range up to the irrigated pasture.

The calves needed branding and Greg was anxious to see how they were coming along. Some of the older cows would be sorted; later to be sold at the auction. During the spring count, there had been only fifteen calves missing-lost to the harsh spring weather, coyotes and wolves. It had been a fairly good year.

Greg straightened the collar on his short sleeved shirt and rolled the sleeves up above his biceps. Now, he was ready to join Marie in the kitchen. He wanted to apologize to her for making such a mess in her clean bathroom. But before he traversed the length of the hallway, he heard the back screen door open. (Vernal was entering the kitchen with Sid and Jeb.) He would have to wait until later.

He walked slowly through the living room, listening to the sounds of conversation. The wonderful smell of Marie’s cooking filled the air. He gave a sigh of relief. There was nothing in the world better to wake up to than the smell of fresh coffee brewing; mixed with the rich, sweet scent ofbacon frying in the pan.

The large coffee pot burped a friendly greeting to him, as he entered the kitchen. He inhaled the rich aroma and shamelessly stretched his arms up toward the ceiling. The ranch hands were already seated in the early American chairs surrounding the table, waiting for their morning cup of coffee. Large blue and white, speckled porcelain cups were parked on the table in front of each man, also waiting for the dark, hot liquid to fill them. It would render their color more solid, more in harmony with thickly-moulded, dark-blue ceramic plates. Among other things, Marie had never liked Sylvia’s taste in dishes; but she was careful not to offend and kept her opinions on such things to herself.

Greg finished stretching. He felt much better now.

Ah, that sure smells good, Marie, he drawled. I think we’ll make a cook out of you yet.

His swollen tongue made it difficult for him, not to slur his words. Marie ignored his comment.

Good morning, Greg, she said. You are up bright and early this morning. A bit of sarcasm was present in her cheerful tone.

The others sounded out a greeting to their boss—each in their own way. Greg nodded and sat down at his usual place at the head of the ovular shaped, oak table. Greg looked up at Vern, who appeared to be waiting for someone to speak.

Vern, did you get Shorty’s shoe fixed? He asked. I think we’ll be needing him today, he added, casually.

The boss usually started the conversation in the mornings.

Yes, Vern said, nodding in a matter-of-fact way. He took his napkin from the table and placed it in his lap; the way Marie had done when she first arrived.

Jeb was staring at Greg; focusing on Greg’s bloodshot eyes. You look like you spent the night lookin’ into the sun, he blurted.

Sid burst out laughing and Jeb joined in. They were getting used to their boss having the red-eye tint in the mornings.

I may have been looking in the sun all night, because I see two spots opening up in front of them, he said, glaring at the men and nodding with his head in their direction.

Everyone knew he wasn’t serious; but this morning it was evident that it would take more than the usual revelry to revive Greg’s wanning, good sense of humor. They pretended not to have noticed the tension. There was some straightening of silverware and some innocent glances around the room.

Everyone sat at their same places surrounding the table each day. Vern sat opposite from Greg and Marie would sit in between Sid and Greg; opposite from Jeb, yet close enough to the cupboard so that it was a short trip—if anything was needed.

Vern chuckled.

Just remember, Jeb, the difference between you and him is that you will have to keep your eyes open all day. Vern motioned his finger toward the hired hand.

Marie stood next to the cupboard, waiting for the coffee pot to finish. It was just about done. Greg glanced over at her.

Is that just about ready? he asked—somewhat beside himself. After he spoke, he realized that the pot was still perking.

It is for you, but it sounds like these other three are already awake and don’t need any. Her sarcastic, yet witty tone was mindful of his feelings.

For the moment, she had succeeded in smoothing out relations between everyone and her boss. Her diplomatic demeanor was consistent with her upbringing and higher education. Most of the time, her timely comments went unchallenged; though she was not the only one in the room who could say the right thing at the right time.

She smiled forgivably at Greg. The hired hands were about to protest, but before anyone could say a word, she sang out.

Would anyone like orange juice to start with? She took devilish pleasure in reading the blank stares.

How could she not have known that these men were ready for coffee, not orange juice?!

I was just kidding. You look like you could all use a nap if you don’t mind my saying so. She shot a whimsical look in Greg’s direction— testing him to see if she had overstepped her bounds.

Now, who put you in charge? He grumbled, covering up a smile.

Just trying to help, she responded, cheerfully.

The coffee pot gave a wheeze, a double-burp, then a final sigh. Marie removed the electric cord and picked up the large stainless steel container. The four men waited in silence, while she brought it around to each of their cups. All eyes were on the spout, as if at that moment, it was the only thing in the world that mattered to them. She silently filled each cup to the brim. All but Marie took their coffee without sugar or cream.

Vern lit up a cigarette. Even though Marie detested the smell of cigarette smoke, she never complained about anyone smoking in her presence. He sensed her disregard for it and always left the kitchen door slightly open to create a draft. During the cold weather, he refrained from smoking in the house.

Vern’s consideration for other people’s feelings carried into every aspect of his life. Of the three hired hands, one would have thought he was too gentle to be the lead-man; though his outwardly quiet manner merely masked a more fierce living force within. Those who knew him, understood.

In the valley, it was wrongly assumed by a large number of white people, that Native Americans were an inferior breed. Though the prejudice has it’s basis in religion, the bigots outwardly resented the fact that these Native Americans received government payments. And because a few disparaged souls drank liquor and hung-out on the streets around town, this negative social stigma was conveniently attached to all Indians.

In reality, what a small number of Native Americans did, was merely an open expression of what most white men did behind closed doors. It had been a way for the white men to cloud their collective memory of the past and at the same time, hide the trail of tears they had left behind in the early days; on their westward campaign; together carrying the banner of ‘manifest destiny’.

In their evening discussions, Greg had often argued with Marie over the white man’s cultural march toward dominating nature and along with it, the Western United States. He was convinced that some white men of today went about cloaking their sabres in the form of crosses; still going on, as if their self-righteous journey—ultimately their vain search for power—would never end. These white men were backed by a civilization torn apart by the highs and lows of drugs and alcohol. To this last remise, Greg knew he was no more a victim than a saint.

Vern was a Native American, educated in white schools, in the nearby town of Gem. He never complained about the discrimination against his people. He accepted the white man’s need for power over others—in lieu of their inharmonious relationship with nature.

Vern sat calmly at his end of the table. He was in no hurry to start up a conversation about the upcoming work. His thick, jet-black hair was pulled back over his ears, exposing his forehead and revealing three, small scars. All present knew that the scars were put there by the fingernails of a local farmer; one whom Vern had worked for in another county, some ten years ago. It was a constant reminder to the others of the how he came to work at the ranch.

At the time, Vern was in charge of fencing for a farmer’s large herd of sheep. On one occasion, the farmer had been in a hurry to get to town. He wanted first-pick from of a group of newly-arrived Spanish farm laborers. In his haste, the farmer left the gate to his field open. The sheep found the opening and pressed through it. They succeeded in tearing a section of the fence out and found their way to some nearby railroad tracks. Before Vern could get to them, fifty or so were slaughtered by a train.

With the help ofhis dogs,Vern had safely returned the sheep to their pasture and had managed to fix the gate. But when the farmer returned from town—unsuccessful in his bid for laborers—he found Vern repairing the remaining section of fence. His work on the gate had gone unnoticed. The farmer assumed that Vern was simply fixing a large hole in the same fence that he was hired to maintain.

Having seen the slaughtered sheep—in a rage and assuming the worst—the farmer had scratched and clawed at Vern; scarring Vern’s face and calling him a damn red-skin, and a no good son-of-a-bitch.

Vern had weathered the man’s temper tantrum without killing the bastard; although those who knew Vern, were aware that he was more than capable of doing so. He never told the farmer that it was the farmer himself who had caused the death of his own sheep. He had simply and quietly, quit. He had gone to work for Greg the following day.

The ‘earlier than usual’ breakfast, had everyone but Marie yawning and staring, while they sipped at their coffee. The conversations were kept to a minimum and she bustled around putting the finishing touches on breakfast. The results were the same as usual: fried potatoes, pancakes, bacon and eggs. It took five pounds of potatoes, a dozen eggs, two pounds of bacon, three quarters of a loaf of boughten bread— made into toast—and any number of pancakes to satisfy their appetites.

Marie was aware of the high cholesterol but the men insisted on the traditional breakfast. When she first came to the ranch, she was worried about gaining weight. But she had kept so busy with the house cleaning, cooking the two or three meals a day and running errands, that she easily burned off the extra calories.

After placing the food within everyone’s reach, Marie sat at the table with the men. Greg picked at his food, in light of last night’s shindig at Tom’s Bar. He was more subdued than usual and excused himself early, before he’d eaten half of what he’d put on his plate. He’d begged off to his room, supposedly to do a little paperwork at his roll-top desk.

But once inside the comfort of his room, he sat on his bed and realized he’d better lay down for a while. He’d left everyone in the kitchen wondering whether or not they would be bringing the herd up to the pasture today.

The hired hands left the kitchen after eating breakfast and Marie started on the dishes. She was in the middle of sweeping the floor, when the phone rang. She waited for Greg to pick it up; letting it ring three times, before she answered it.

The woman on the other end of the line identified herself as Lynn and seemed very anxious to speak with Greg. After explaining to her that he was simply unavailable, Marie had to promise the woman several times, that she would leave a message for Greg. She wrote the number on the wall pad next to the phone and went on about the business of putting her kitchen in order.

The household chores were soon finished; except for the bathroom, which she left for Greg. She would clean it if he asked her to, but she would rather he do it himself. She had peeked in at Greg, only to find him snoring away, sound asleep.

It was still early and with Greg down, there wasn’t much for anyone to do. Marie decided to make the trip into town. She could use the time to find a new metal serving tray; to replace the one she used for carrying sandwiches out to the post box that Jeb had made for her.

The wooden box hung on a post, next to the corral. It had a hinged door that swung open from the front. It was a convenience for the hired hands. That way if they were working near the house, they didn’t have to break