The Weaver's Tale: A Story of the Malheur River Country

By Carol Crandell

Life changes when Dakota Jackson meets, head-on, an eighteen-wheeler on a sharp curve. When the load of lumber shifts, it takes Dakota’s pickup and trailer into the Malheur River with it, killing both Dakota and the trucker behind the wheel. Alone, his wife Summer, a trained trauma nurse, tries to manage their cattle ranch and raise their

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Jun 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781643670041

Carol Crandell

Carol Crandell, a retired English teacher who taught Oregon children how to write, learned to write with her students. She holds a master's degree in English from Portland State University and is the author of Merry-Go-Round, a memoir in prose and poetry. It does not matter that she now lives in a green valley with lots of rain, the basalt rims, desert sand, and sage are in her blood. Her earlier life east of the Cascade Mountains left indelible memories, smells, and sounds that find their way into her writing. For now, her companion in life is Twiggy, a fifteen-pound tabby cat.

Book preview

Crandell_Carol_8016-cvr.jpg7763.jpg7764.jpg7767.jpg7769.jpg

Copyright © 2018

All rights reserved

First Edition

URLink Print and Media

Cheyenne, Wyoming

First originally published by URLink Publishing. 2018

1. Western-fiction. 2. Romance-fiction. 3. Oregon-fiction.

4. Desert-fiction. 5. Horses-fiction. 6. Cowboys-fiction.

7. Parenting-fiction. 8. Relationships-fiction.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

ISBN 978-1-64367-004-1 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

For Pete, who knows why

7772.jpg

Acknowledgments

My heartfelt thanks…

…to the early readers of this effort for their kind feedback: Pat Briley, Paul Oman, Roger Corrigall, Brian Coleman, Melanie Marlow, and Mary Rosenblum, who shepherded the story from concept to ending.

…to the veterinarians of Vale Veterinary Clinic for answering my questions about illness, injuries, and treatment.

…to Jane Dennell-Close for her expertise about trauma nursing and the use of reiki.

…to Devlin Holloway for allowing the use of one of his photographs for the cover.

…to Peter Serini for his careful proofreading, critiquing, and especially for his masculine point of view.

…to all the friends and neighbors in the Malheur River area who shared incidents, events, or characteristics that helped me to create the characters and places in this work of fiction. If you find yourself in my book, it tells me that I wrote well, capturing the essences that make for reality.

Prologue

My name is Weaver. What? No, just Weaver. You may not know me by that name; most likely you would recognize me as Fate or Destiny. Why Weaver? Because I take all those threads spun by Arachne and weave them into the tapestry of Life. You humans are so short-lived that I must remake the pattern over and over again. You don’t seem to realize that each time you change your mind or make a choice, you send me back to the loom to plot a new design.

Besides that, I hear that Death told his story of Europe in World War II. Sure, he spared a few, who became heroes, but he left that part of the world torn, bloodied, and in chaos. You say it didn’t stop there? I know. He still hovers over the Middle East. He’s really not a nice guy, and I get tired of seeing all my designs bordered or surrounded by the red of spilled blood. So, I decided to tell a different sort of tale.

It began about a year ago when I noticed the abrupt end of a black wool thread that had held strong and steady for forty-five years. Beside it, lay a sage-green thread, which continued, with a bobble here and there. Not quite three-quarters along the length of the green, we see three finer strands intertwining with the green and black. These continue. First, comes a dark green that twines over the black and sage. This strand holds steady. A bit further along, a clear blue thread joins the others. It is a happy thread and creates an erratic pattern of whorls and loops. The last, of fine gold, slips into the weave. It highlights the others, waltzes across and around like fine embroidery.

To locate these threads, you must follow me to the far west of the United States, beyond the Rocky Mountains where we find the high desert country of Eastern Oregon. Here, in the southeastern-most county of Malheur, there are both mountains and desert. The National Forests are of pine, fir, and tamarack, but that is only in the far north of the county. South, you will see the occasional juniper, but mostly sagebrush and bunch grass. Less than one hundred years ago, hardy people trekked into this land to make their homes. One such man created a homestead in the northwest corner of the county, overlooked on the west by Castle Rock, whose basalt cap rises to 6,845 feet. Here, he settled in one of the small valleys containing a nameless creek. Eventually, a stage road was built connecting him to the northern town of Prairie City and Burns to the southwest. He chose well. The valley had two springs of sweet water and natural meadows that provided hay. He built his small home on the west side of the creek where he could see the meadows to the east and watch the sun rise.

Over the years, he added a barn and corrals. The barn is long gone, but the corrals remain. He fell sturdy juniper trees that grew on the nearby hills to make his posts, and ventured to the north into the pine forest for poles. After him, came others who replaced the small cabin with a bigger house, but it, too, began to fade. Finally, in 1996, a young man, our black thread, chose to quit the rodeo circuit and create his dream. He had ridden broncs through college and ten years after, saving all of his winnings. With him, came a young woman, the sage-green thread. She had barrel raced while in college and continued while working as a nurse. These threads came together at various rodeos, and soon, they made their way side by side.

When these two married, they pooled their resources and bought the old homestead. Over the seventeen years of their joint efforts, they built a home of their own design, replaced the old barn with a pole-built, metal-sided horse barn, and just recently added a small bungalow as a bunkhouse.

You’re bored? Hang on! You gotta have the background to make sense of my story. You have to realize that this little ranch lies in the desert, experiences lots of dry, hot weather, I mean really hot. How about 110 degrees in the summer? But that it also has cold and snowy winters, sometimes down to 15 below. The life lived here is not one of ease with paved roads and sidewalks. You live on a gravel road; you are sixty-five miles from a veterinary; and you are ninety miles from the nearest major town for shopping. You wouldn’t like that? Some folks don’t, but then you have others who find beauty, peace and satisfaction here.

These adventurers are not wealthy. They began with the stake earned in rodeos, and about ten years ago inherited a little from an uncle. They have enough to build solidly and buy quality, but it takes a team to make it work. When the black thread ended, I chose to take a look-see. I found that the man had died, tragically and unnecessarily in a two-vehicle accident, leaving a wife and three young children. He had had the foresight to buy a hefty life insurance policy, which would give a cushion for the next year or so, and the vehicle insurance replaced both the lost pickup and the trailer.

A strange dark brown cord, frayed in spots but still strong, just cut into the weave on a collision course with the one’s I’ve been telling you about. I need to watch what happens.

We will follow only the five threads mentioned, although every living thing makes a colorful thread. If I include mention of every thread, you will get confused. Now, settle back and I’ll tell my tale.

Fate is fate—a living constantly changing destiny.

We don’t see it until we walk into it. Or until it walks into us—

this precise unfolding of life depends on what we do.

Chapter One

W hoa thar! Boots jigged sideways, tossing his head as Tanner threw saddlebags onto his back. Tanner gentled the horse and tied the bags securely while the wind tugged at his old black felt hat, trying to lift it from his head. Knock it off, you knothead! He grabbed his hat, thinking Boots had caught it with his teeth. Jamming it back into place, he tugged at his coat. Gotta lose some weight. He felt like a stuffed sausage skin, with all the layers of clothing he had put on. Squinting into the morning sun, he shifted his chew from one side of his lip to the other, and aimed a stream of tobacco juice toward a clump of dry grass.

New snow dusted the high peaks of Oregon’s Strawberry Mountains, and pale October sun sparked rainbows in the frost crystals etching each blade of dry grass around the corral, reminding Tanner of the flashing lights in the arenas on the pro-rodeo circuit. Those were the good days. He had the world by the tail then—a wife, a kid, his own place. Hell, he used to wear a new pair of boots every week. His lips twisted. Now he could hardly put together enough to replace the ones he had on. Where did it all go?

Sorry boy. He patted the horse’s neck. Guess it’s time to get them cows. With one foot in the stirrup, he hesitated, a chill of premonition running like a shiver down his spine. Little Crane, the old longhorn’s hiding place, was a ten-mile ride, and with cows to trail it would be dark before he got back. He tasted the breeze and looked at the sky. Nope. Even though the wind felt like snow, no clouds were moving in. With one practiced step he was astride and moving.

Yah gotta remember that in this back-of-beyond country your iPhones won’t work and television is unavailable unless you have the right location on which to erect a satellite receiver. So, you ain’t got the weather report.

Where had the years gone? Tanner wondered. Once, he’d been the life of the all-night parties, pretty girls hung on his arm, and the booze never ran out. Now, he was a worn down cowhand working for Tom Wilder, and he spent his Saturday nights drinking beer and telling tall tales in the local bar. Yup! That’s how come he was out here looking for strays while Tom drove around making deals.

They’d gathered the herd in late September and trucked the cows out of the mountains, but the count was twenty head short. If he didn’t find them, these cows would die without feed or water once the creeks froze and drifts buried the remaining grass. Boots, a buckskin named for his black legs, stretched into a run across the wild hay meadow before settling into his mile-eating walk through a forest of mixed pine, tamarack and fir. Amber needles cloaked the tamaracks, glowing against the dark evergreens, and near the springs, alders clung to the last golden coin-like leaves that shivered in the early morning breeze.

Several hours later, as Tanner and Boots dropped into Crane Canyon, one of the many deep declivities with occasional animal trails leading upwards, clouds like dirty fleece loomed over the surrounding rims. The wind built, whistling through the pines and throwing dead limbs to crash onto the trail ahead. Boots laid back his ears but held steady as Tanner leaned forward to stroke his neck. Easy does it, boy.

As he had expected, the cows, all twenty of them, were crowded into a sheltering thicket near the head of the creek. Sure enough, the longhorn, an old troublemaker, was there, standing guard.

Y-a-a-a-a-h! Tanner shouted, popping his rope behind them. Bawling, the cows lumbered to their feet and tried to lose him among the brush and boulders obstructing the narrow ravine. A mile downstream, he headed them up the trail without incident, but just before breaking over the last ridge, the old longhorn that Tom had insisted on keeping, made her break back to low ground.

She bolted, ripping Boots’ shoulder with one horn, knocking him off his feet just as he stepped onto a patch of loose shale. Squealing with pain, he fell, crushing Tanner’s left leg against the one large rock sticking through the shale. Rocks slid under his hooves as he scrambled to his feet and stood with his head down leaving Tanner prone on the sloping ground. Damn! Tanner looked up from where he lay and saw blood running down the gelding’s left front leg.

He tried to stand, but his left leg refused to hold him. Sitting up, he felt along his leg and found swelling about mid-calf, and with the slightest movement, he felt bones grate. It was the same leg broken when the black bull had slammed him into the arena wall on his last ride in the finals. If he pulled the boot off, his foot would freeze; if he left it on, some doctor would cut it off. He shook his head. No way a guy could win.

Leaving the boot on, he pulled off his wool neck scarf and wrapped it snugly around the break. Then, reaching for the stirrup, he blacked out. A moment later he roused as Boots shoved a nose into his face. His head pounded. Raising a hand, he felt a goose egg.

Shit! That’s all he needed, a damn concussion. Should have shot that gol’darn heifer the last time she pulled this stunt. Grabbing Boots’ mane, he pulled himself up, and then dragging the injured leg, he sidled uphill to the horse’s off side. He braced himself against the horse, placed his right foot in the stirrup, and awkwardly swung into the saddle. Leaning down, he eased his left toe into the stirrup. Strange lights flickered behind his eyelids and the world spun around him. We gotta get outta here, Boots, and it’s all up to you.

The cows had continued onto the ridge. The sun was gone, obscured by trees and dark clouds, and the first flakes of wind-driven snow pelted him in the face. Each step Boots took felt like a hot poker up his leg and a sharp knife behind his left eye. Through thickening snow, he saw the cattle moving ahead on the trail. How far? He wasn’t gonna make it back to camp.

Half-lost in a haze of pain, Tanner nodded with the rhythm of Boots’ steps. His head bobbed and the reins, held by slack fingers, lay loose along the horse’s neck. His mind skittered among his memories: his son, Tommy, struggling to stand on wobbly legs; his wife, Sharon, laughing at something he’d said; Julie, his last girlfriend, yelling as she threw her clothes into her car…all gone. His shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow from behind. Not much of a life. Nothing to leave behind. No one to care if he didn’t make it back.

Boots plodded head down into the driving snow. As daylight dimmed, Tanner roused, spotting the old lightning struck snag marking an old track down into the canyon. It met the creek not far from a campground where he might find an elk camp and help. Could he do it? He reined Boots off the trail and moved above and around the cows to turn them down the slope.

Sullenly, the cows plodded forward, but as Boots shouldered the lead cow, she sidestepped onto the downward trail. Like mice following the Pied Piper, the others followed, with Tanner and Boots trailing behind.

Below the ridge, trees broke the force of the storm. Tanner opened the top buttons on his coat and breathed easier. Though numbed by the cold, his leg still throbbed with each step Boots took, and when he glanced at the horse’s torn shoulder, he saw a trickle of red snake its way slowly down the leg. Just a bit farther, he thought. Then we can rest.

Halfway down the trail, Boots’ head came up and he nickered softly, waking Tanner from a near doze. He caught a telltale whiff of wood smoke, which could only come from a campfire. We’ll make it, he told the horse and again slumped forward. Take ‘em down, Boots.

Time slowed. Tanner noticed each snowflake’s crystalline shape as it landed on his gloved hands and heard the plop, plop of Boots’ hooves as they sank in half-melted snow. Lifting his head, he breathed deeply of the moisture-laden air, sharp scented with the tang of pine and smoke.

Rounding the last bend in the trail, he pushed the cows towards the grass still visible along the creek. Halloo the camp, he called, riding forward. Anybody here?

Just me, Jake, came from a canvas tent. Everyone else’s out there someplace. A whiskered scarecrow of a man ducked through the open tent flap. What ya need, young feller?

Broke my damn leg when my horse fell. Tanner leaned forward resting against the saddle horn. Tanner Greywolf. I work for Tom Wilder. He shifted in the saddle and grimaced. I could sure use some help. Sucking in his breath with the pain of sudden movement, he eased his left foot from the stirrup and tried to swing his leg over the saddle but clipped his knee on the cantle. With all of his weight on one stirrup, he clung tight to the saddle as his stomach heaved.

Here, now. Just let me help yuh a mite. Strong hands gripped him under the arms. Let’s get yuh off that horse. The old man eased Tanner to the ground and with a shoulder under Tanner’s left arm guided him toward the fire.

Tanner slumped against a large log. Take care of Boots. He’s hurt. He stared up at the skinny old man, who looked from man to horse, muttered to himself, and shuffled across the clearing to a battered pickup. Opening the door, he grabbed the mike on the CB radio and began calling for help. Then he returned to Boots and removed the saddle and bridle. Steady now. We got help coming. He tied the lead rope to a sturdy pole and ran a hand along the horse’s neck. Let’s jest have a look at you.

7331.jpg

About the time Tanner found the cows, Summer Jackson drew a brush down Stormy’s silken shoulder and under her belly where she felt the swell of the unborn foal. Lulled by the rhythm of the brush strokes, she startled, dropping the brush as a shadow darkened the doorway.

Buck phoned. We got cows out. Twelve-year-old Jason stepped into the barn. They’re on the hill beyond Mr. Pyle’s corrals. I found a break in the fence on that side of the south pasture. He stopped to catch his breath. I got the fencing stuff on the four-wheeler, but you gotta come help me with the cows.

Summer sighed and set aside the brush she had been using on the grey mare. Why couldn’t she have just one weekend without problems? She missed Dakota. Without him, she felt as if every day was a race from daylight to dark, and she never caught up. Trying to hide her fatigue, she smiled at her son and reached for her saddle and blanket. The dark lock of hair drooping across Jason’s forehead reminded her of Dakota. He fidgeted, too, rocking from one foot to the other, just as his father had done. Seeking calm, she breathed deeply; then she saddled Stormy and led her out of the barn.

Thick clouds built behind the hills to the southwest, erasing all trace of morning’s blue sky and sunshine, throwing Castle Rock into dark shadows, and shifting the day from Indian summer to oncoming winter. Summer shivered as a cold October breeze ran icy fingers under her collar and down her back. Felt like snow. Holding Stormy’s reins in one hand, she used the other to turn up the collar of her worn denim jacket. Ducking her chin against the cold, she mounted. You go ahead, Jason. I’ll follow.

Watching as her son zipped down the lane towards the south pasture with Shep, the Border collie, seated behind him on the four-wheeler, she kicked Stormy into a trot. Tears filled her eyes, making her blink. Jason tried so hard to take up the slack created by Dakota’s death. Why had God taken him from them? Lord only knew her kids needed their dad. She sniffed, swiping at her nose with one gloved hand. Damn it! She needed him, too. She needed him beside her for chores like this. She needed to hear his voice telling her that all was okay. She needed to feel his arms cradling her in the dark of the night when her fears for the kids and of losing the ranch made her bury her head beneath the covers. Feeling hollow inside and wondering how she’d manage everything for another winter, she rounded the knoll that hid the far side of the pasture and saw the cows browsing the sage covered slope overlooking the reservoir. Catching up to Jason who waited beside the hole in the fence, she dismounted and began to pull the wires loose from the brush and grass. I thought we checked this fence before we turned cows in here, she muttered.

We did, Mom. Jason frowned, helping her tug the wires away from the break. I know it was tight because I rode this pasture. Maybe, we had elk run through here, but… Shaking his head, he climbed back on the four-wheeler. Hard to figure, though. Why would they come through here this early?

Don’t know, Jason, but something went through here. All five strands are broken. Usually, deer jump the fence, and elk normally break only the top strands. Besides, did you see the ends of the wire? Looked to me as if they’d been cut.

You think this was deliberate? Jason’s chin dropped. Who’d do that?

Summer shook her head. Hard to tell, but it is hunting season. Could be someone took a shortcut back to the road instead of coming out by the barn. She met his gaze. It isn’t impossible, Jason. Locals know where gates are located, but some of the outsiders, especially those from the big cities, think nothing of going through a fence.

You’re kiddin’, right? He looked shocked.

Back in the saddle, she smiled down at him. Nope! Some folks show little respect for the land or the people who make a living off it. I remember when I was just a kid; Dad told us the story about one hunter who came out of the rims with his mule deer. Even had it tagged. But you know what? Dad said the tag was wrapped around a mule’s ear, and the mule even wore shoes! She heeled Stormy and moved toward the cows. Come on! Talking won’t get those girls back in the pasture. I’ll circle around and turn them back towards home. You and Shep keep them from going up the valley."

Trotting in the direction the cows were headed, Summer moved beyond them and then turned Stormy back to face the leader, who tossed her head and stared at horse and rider. Okay, Storm, let’s turn them around. Using the horse, she crowded the leader into reversing direction. Slowly, the other cows fell into line and trudged back toward the broken fence with Shep moving along side to intercept any who tried to turn back up the hill. At the fence, though, the old leader, with one broken stub of a horn balked and turned to face horse and rider.

Move! Summer yelled hoarsely, slapping a gloved hand against her denim-clad leg to reinforce her voice. The stubborn cow ignored the sound and with lowered head stood her ground refusing to lead the others through the gaping fence. Instead, as Shep darted at her, she began to paw the ground. Jason! Summer yelled, Move farther out. Don’t crowd her! She gestured to one side of the huge gap that loomed in the wire fence. Turning Stormy with her heel, she spun away from the cow and darted behind the other wild-eyed laggards who now milled between her and the lead cow.

As Stormy danced back and forth, keeping the cows bunched, the old lead cow watched Jason move away, but Shep held his place in front of her. She shook her head again and lunged, catching Shep in the flank and rolling him to one side. With a defiant toss of her head, she turned and trotted through the gap.

Easy now, Summer murmured, waving Jason to move closer, blocking an escape along the fence. Stormy worried her bit and shuffled her feet as Summer held her in place behind the laggards. Jason moved in beside her but stopped beside the fallen dog, who whimpered softly as the boy knelt beside him. Before returning to Jason and the injured dog, Summer pushed the small herd through the gap and across the narrow creek that ran through the pasture.

Leaving Stormy to block the fence, she joined Jason. Poor ol’ Shep, she whispered softly as she ran her hands along his sides. No blood. That was good unless he was hurt inside. But he did not flinch or pull away from her touch until she felt his back legs; he yelped once when she found the broken bone. His leg is broken, Jason, but I can splint it when we get back to the house. He’ll have to make do with three legs for a while. Let’s get him onto the back of the four-wheeler and you move it into the pasture. They made him comfortable on the sheepskin pad behind the rider’s seat, and she patted the dog’s head. Now, you stay put while we mend fence.

Just as Summer twisted the last wire into place, the emergency radio on her belt beeped. As an experienced trauma nurse, she stayed in practice by helping the Emergency Medical Services. Removing one leather glove, she keyed the radio and listened. Where? Okay. You’re right. Little Crane is about forty minutes from here. Well, I’m out in the south pasture right now. Just finished mending fence. How soon? She frowned, looking at Jason and the wounded dog. I have to set a broken leg on the dog. What’s that? Oh. A cow tossed him. Let’s see. By the time I do that and hitch up the trailer, it will probably take a couple hours for me to get there. You’ll let them know? Fine, then. I’ll take care of it. She tucked the radio back into its sheath and mounted. I have to go to the campground near Little Crane Creek, she told Jason. Some cowboy has a broken leg and his horse is hurt. I’ll need your help.

7334.jpg

It was late afternoon when Summer drove into the campground and parked the white Chevy Tahoe and sixteen foot stock trailer beneath a spreading pine. From there, she saw the horse standing with drooping head not far from a campfire where she spotted the crown of a black hat poking above a downed log. Then, a scrawny old man popped out of the tent and teetered towards her.

I’m Jake, ma’am. I called yuh. That’s Tanner Greywolf over there. He pointed toward the campfire and stepped back as Summer shoved open the door. Kin I help yuh, ma’am?

Not yet. Summer shook her head before turning to Jason.

I’ll need both med cases, Jason, she said, stepping from the vehicle.

Sure, Mom. Walking to the rear of the Tahoe, Jason opened the back, and picked up the two large plastic cases, one red and one white, sitting behind the rear seat. Walking to the campfire, he placed the cases near his mother who knelt beside the injured man sprawled against a log.

Hi. I’m Summer Jackson and this is my son Jason. I’m a trauma nurse and sometimes work with the local rescue unit. She pushed aside the sleeping bag that the old man had wrapped around Tanner. Which leg? she asked tersely.

Left leg, about mid-calf. He growled and took a deep breath, before adding, See to the horse first, will ya?

No can do! Summer untied the protecting scarf and slid one hand beneath the booted leg. Boot’s tight due to swelling. It’ll have to come off.

Figgered that. S’pose you can cut the stitchin’ and save the boot? He winced. Only pair I’ve got. Reckon the boot shop can stitch it up again before I need to wear it.

Here, Mom. Use this. Jason handed her his opened pocketknife. I put a keen edge on it last night. Bet it’ll make short work of that job.

Hold his foot steady so it won’t twist, Summer said quietly and touched the knife to the inside seam of the boot. With little pressure from the knife, the stitching gave way and dropping the knife Summer placed both hands around the break. Now, Jason, while I hold the leg steady, I want you to ease the boot off. Can you do that?

The boy nodded, and she watched his hands, as large as her own, pull the