Hewey Calloway had not been to town in more than eight weeks. Now he had two months’ cowboy wages in his pocket and was riding in for a well-earned celebration. Upton City might never be the same again.
Knowing how hung over he would feel by the time he emptied his pockets, he almost dreaded it.
Sister-in-law Eve would have a lot to say afterward, but she had a lot to say about almost everything. He respected her strong opinions about responsibility, sobriety, and thrift, but he did not share them. Now past thirty and proud of maintaining his bachelorhood against contrary advice from almost everybody around him, he felt it was his right to spend his money and his off time in any way he saw fit. Even tight-fisted old rancher C. C. Tarpley understood that his employees had to vent steam occasionally. Otherwise, their work suffered, and C. C. could not stand for that.
Hewey hoped he might be lucky enough to run into old drinking compadres such as Snort Yarnell or Grady Welch. But if they weren’t there, he could holler loudly enough by himself.
He reached deep into memory, reliving rowdy adventures he had enjoyed in times past, recalling the many pleasures and glossing over the pain that inevitably followed. People like Eve kept telling him that at his age he ought to slow down and find a place to settle. But he felt not one bit older than when he had been twenty. He was going to have a good time whether anybody else liked it or not.
He was humming a shady little dancehall ditty when a distant sound first reached him. He listened intently but for a moment or two could not make out what it was. Then it came clearer. He recognized the bleating of sheep.
“Sheep!” he exclaimed, though no one could hear him except his horse. “Biscuit, old C. C.’ll bust a blood vessel.”
This was Tarpley land, and C. C. hated sheep like the devil hates holy water. Hewey did not exactly hate them; he just refused to acknowledge their existence.
He rode in the direction of the sound. Soon he saw a flock moving slowly westward, each sheep pausing to graze, then trotting to catch up. A black and white dog kept pace, its tongue lolling. When an animal paused too long, the dog ran up and nipped at it. The nearby sheep tumbled over each other in their haste to give the dog room.
A tarp-covered wagon, drawn by two mules, rolled along slowly on the upwind side, out of the dust stirred by the flock’s tiny hooves. A horseman followed the sheep, not allowing the drags to linger long in one place. The man was hunched over as if half asleep.
I’m fixing to wake him up good, Hewey thought. As a Two Cs hand, it was his job to see after C. C. Tarpley’s interests. C. C. was definitely not interested in having sheep cross his cattle range.
Hewey knew this was a tramp sheepman with no land of his own, moving across country and fattening his animals on other men’s forage. It was a common enough practice, though it was increasingly frowned upon as more and more Texas state land fell into private ownership.
Hewey had a cowboy way of assessing a man’s horse before he made any judgment about the rider. This horse was old, in bad need of being turned out to pasture. The saddle appeared to be just as old, somebody’s castoff. The bridle was patched, the reins of cotton rope instead of leather. The only thing not old was the rider. Hewey guessed him to be in his mid to late twenties.
“Hey, you,” Hewey said, “don’t you know this is private land?”
The man raised his head. Hewey knew at first glance that he was sick. His face had a gray look. The eyes were dull. In a weak voice the man said, “Thank God you’ve come along. We need help.”
“You’ll sure need help if C. C. Tarpley finds you here.”
The young sheepman pointed toward the wagon. “My little boy, he’s awful sick. I’m afraid we’ll lose him. My wife’s not much better.”
“What’s the matter with them?”
“I think we got ahold of some bad water.”
Hewey said, “I don’t know as I can be any help. I ain’t no doctor. You need to get your family to town.”
“But I can’t leave the sheep. They’re all we’ve got. They’d scatter, and the coyotes would get a lot of them.”
Hewey did some mental calculation. At the rate the sheep were traveling, it would probably take three, perhaps four days to reach Upton City. He wondered if these people had that much time.
He said, “I’ll go take a look at your wife and boy. But like I said, I ain’t no doctor.” He pushed Biscuit into a lope and overtook the wagon. A young woman held the leather reins. Like her husband, she appeared to be asleep. When she turned her gaze to Hewey, her eyes were dull, her skin sallow.
Hewey said, “He tells me you got a sick boy in that wagon.”
“Terrible sick,” she said, her voice so quiet that Hewey barely heard it.
Riding alongside, he lifted a loose corner of the tarp. Inside, on blankets, lay a boy with eyes closed. He could have been asleep, or even unconscious.
The man had followed Hewey, but the old horse was slow in catching up. He asked, “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve got some mighty sick people. You need to leave the sheep and get these folks to Doc Hankins as quick as you can.”
“I told you, the sheep are all we’ve got.”
There was a saying in cow country that the only thing dumber than a sheep was the man who owned them. This man was proving the point, Hewey thought.
He said, “Well, then, you’d better speed them up.”
“You can’t hurry sheep.”
Hewey shrugged, fresh out of arguments. “Well, when I get to town I’ll tell Doc Hankins. Maybe he can ride out in his buggy and meet you.”
He moved ahead, coughing from the dust raised by the sheep. It would take at least the first two drinks just to wash his throat clean.
Even after he had traveled half a mile, he could still hear the bleating. He could not understand the thinking of a man willing to gamble three lives on a flock of sheep. If they were his, he could easily ride off and leave them to take their chances with the coyotes. Cattle did not have to be pampered and protected like that. Too bad the family did not have a herd of cows instead of a flock of helpless sheep.
He tried to think ahead to the good time he would have in town, but his mind kept drifting back to the woman and to the boy lying in the bed of the wagon. Dammit, Hewey Calloway, he thought, they’re not your responsibility. What if you’d taken a different trail to town? You never would have seen them.
But he had seen them. Now he could not shake free from the images. Cursing his luck, he turned Biscuit around and put him into a trot, back toward the sheep. The woman hardly looked up as Hewey passed the wagon. The man on horseback had dropped behind the flock again. Hewey rode up to him. “Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, hurry yourself up to that wagon. You’re goin’ to town.”
“But the sheep…”
“I’ll see after the damned sheep. Just leave me that horse and a little grub to pack on him. And see that you make them mules trot.”
“Do you know anything about handling sheep?”
“No, but I learn fast. Get goin’ before I change my mind. It’s half changed already.”
In a short time the wagon was rumbling along the trail toward town, the mules stepping high. Confused, the dog followed it a little way, then turned back toward the flock. It looked at Hewey with evident mistrust.
Hewey said, “Dog, I hope you know what you’re doin’, because I sure don’t.” He watched the wagon a minute, then turned to stare at the slowly moving flock. He thought about Upton City waiting in vain to welcome him and his wages. But here he was, stuck with a bunch of snot-nosed woollies.
Some days, he thought, I’ve got no more sense than a one-eyed jackrabbit. He reserved some of his frustration for the sheepman, who ought not to be dragging a family across this dry desert in the first place.
Biscuit had been trained to be a cow horse. He seemed bewildered by the sheep, but no more so than his owner. Watching, Hewey gradually came to see that he did not need to do much except follow, and occasionally to help the dog push stragglers along. The sheep moved westward at their own pace, like molasses in January.
From the corner of his eye he caught a furtive movement off to the left of the flock. The dog suddenly snapped to attention, then barreled off in pursuit of a coyote. It came back after a time, panting heavily. Blood was drying around its mouth. Coyote blood, Hewey surmised.
In admiration he said, “I wonder what they’re feedin’ you. I’d like some of it myself.”
Late in the afternoon the dog chased down a jackrabbit and ate it. Hewey realized the animal was not being fed at all. It was making its own living. He told the dog, “You ought to be workin’ for C. C. Tarpley. At least he feeds good.”
He worried about how he would get the sheep to bed down. To his surprise, they did it on their own at dusk, instinctively pulling into a fairly compact band. The dog circled them a couple of times, chastising a few independent-minded ewes that tried to find a sleeping place a little away from the others.
A while after dark Hewey was reminded why sheep tend to bunch up at night. He heard a coyote howl, answered shortly by another. He had always enjoyed listening to coyotes. He regarded them as a natural element in the landscape, helping give this part of the country its unique character. They had never represented any kind of threat to him before. But tonight was different. These sheep were vulnerable, and like it or not, he was responsible for them. He saw the dog listen intently, then trot off to circle the flock. He had staked Biscuit on a long rope to graze. He saddled the horse and moved off after the dog.
He had no gun. If a coyote showed itself, he could do little except run at it with his rope and chase it away. The dog was a weapon in itself. Somewhere ahead, in the darkness, Hewey heard the yipping and snarling that indicated a fight. In a while the dog appeared, acting proud of itself.
Hewey grinned. “Dog, if I ever get in a fight, I want you on my side.”
Next morning, while he fixed a meager breakfast of coffee, bacon, and baking powder biscuits, he wondered how he would go about getting the sheep up and off the bed ground. They took care of the problem themselves, rising to their feet and grazing in the dawn’s warm light. They began to drift. The dog moved tirelessly, starting them in the right direction. Hewey had little to do but move a few of the lame and lazy, then follow.
Herding sheep ain’t as tough as I thought, he told himself. The dog does most of the work.
The flock moved no faster than yesterday. At this rate he figured they might reach town by tomorrow evening, or more likely the day after. A cow herd would have made the distance in half the time, a steer herd even less. A determined turtle could leave these sheep behind.
Toward noon, he saw what he had feared most, three cowboys riding toward him from the east. He had not wanted anyone to see him here. He had swamped out a saloon a few times, but never had he sunk so low as to herd sheep. He could only hope these men were all strangers.
He was not that lucky. A tall, lanky rider grinned, a gold tooth shining as he approached. He exclaimed, “Hewey Calloway! When did old C. C. start runnin’ sheep? And why ain’t you already quit?”
Reluctantly Hewey reached out his hand and shook with Snort Yarnell. With Snort spreading the word, it would not take two days for everyone within seventy-five miles to know about Hewey’s disgrace.
One of the cowboys guffawed. “This can’t be the Hewey Calloway you’ve told us about, Snort. He was supposed to be eight feet tall and a ring-tailed tooter. My, how the mighty have fallen.”
Resentfully Hewey said, “I’m tryin’ to get these sheep off of C. C.’s range as quick as I can. I don’t suppose you fellers would like to help me?”
Snort still grinned. “I don’t suppose we would. We got our reputations to think of.”
Snort had a reputation as a top hand when he was sober but a hell-for-leather carouser when he wasn’t. He asked, “Where’s the owner at? Did you shoot him?”
“I don’t have a gun with me. Besides, you know I can’t hit a barn from the inside. I got these sheep on my hands by tryin’ to do some sick folks a favor.”
He realized they did not believe him. They probably thought C. C. had fired him and he had to accept whatever job came along. It had happened before, but things never became so serious that he was forced to herd sheep.
The laughing cowboy looked to be about twenty, just old enough to think he knew it all and had nothing more to learn. If he didn’t stop laughing, Hewey was of a mind to teach him something new.
Stiffly Hewey said, “I’ve told you how it is. If that’s not good enough, you can go soak your head in a water bucket.”
Snort shrugged. “No use gettin’ on your high horse, Hewey. If that’s the best story you’ve got, stick with it. Me and the boys are headed for town to do somethin’ we’ll worry about for a month.”
Hewey had never seen Snort worry about much of anything. He said, a little enviously, “You-all have a good time.”
Snort said, “We’ll drink a toast to you, and to your woolly friends.”
They rode away, leaving Hewey thinking about going to Canada or someplace where nobody knew him.
He had hoped no word of this would get back to C. C. That hope was dashed now, for Snort had never kept a secret in his life.
The dog seemed finally to accept Hewey. It trotted along at his side when it was not busy bringing errant sheep back into the flock. At least not everybody will be lookin’ down on me, Hewey thought.
The dog chased after a coyote late in the day and came back exhausted. It laid down in the scant shade of a greasewood bush and panted while the flock moved on. But its sense of duty soon brought it back to Hewey’s side.
Hewey said, “If I could ever find a woman as dependable as you, I might get married.”
Eve was dependable, but brother Walter was welcome to her. Along with her many good traits, including being a world-beating cook, she carried a few liabilities such as a tendency to burden him with criticism and unsolicited advice.
Hewey did not sleep much that night. He kept hearing coyotes. He imagined them skulking into camp and dragging off helpless lambs. He had heard that coyotes sometimes ate them alive. He kept Biscuit saddled and made several circles around the bedded flock. That seemed to please the dog.
If I ever get this bunch to town, he thought, I’ll never wear wool underwear again.
He watered the sheep at a dirt tank which belonged to C. C. He knew the old man would consider the water hopelessly contaminated and unfit for cattle, but even sheep had to drink. The dog plunged in and swam across the tank. On the opposite bank it shook itself, then jumped back in. Hewey considered doing the same, but the sheep had muddied the water too much.
The sun was almost down on the third day when he caught first sight of the stone courthouse and the tallest windmill in Upton City. He realized he would not be able to get the sheep all the way to town before night. He would have to camp one more time. The realization of being so near, yet so far, chapped him like a wet saddle.
He thought about Snort and the fun he must be having. He wished he could run all these sheep over a cliff, but there was not a decent cliff anywhere this side of the Davis Mountains. Be damned if he would drive them that far.
Approaching town the next morning, Hewey loped ahead to the wagonyard to open the gate into a large corral. He saw the stableman walking toward him from the barn and shouted, “Sheep comin’ in.”
“Been expectin’ you,” the stableman answered back.
So much for secrecy. Damn Snort Yarnell, he thought.
He knew how to pen difficult cattle, but he had no idea how to go about penning sheep. They approached the open gate with suspicion, a few ewes almost starting in, then running back into the flock. The stableman grabbed a ewe and dragged her through the gate despite her stiff-legged resistance. Several ewes made a tentative move to follow, then the flock surged through like water from a broken dam. Some in their haste bumped heavily against the gate posts. The dog finished the job by pushing a last few reluctant sheep through the opening.
Hewey tied Biscuit to the fence while the stableman closed the gate. He said, “You were lookin’ for me?”
The stableman replied, “When those sick folks hit town, they said some cowboy was bringin’ in their sheep. They didn’t know your name. Then Snort came in, and we all knew Hewey Calloway had turned sheepherder.”
“I owe Snort a good cussin’ out.”
“You won’t have any trouble findin’ him. He’s over yonder under the shed with the two punchers he brought along.”
When cowboys came to town they usually slept on cots or on the ground at the wagonyard rather than pay for a room at the boarding house. No one as yet had built a hotel in Upton City.
Hewey asked, “What about the sick folks?”
“Doc Hankins fixed them up pretty good. Says they ought to be able to travel in three or four days.”
Hewey walked with the stableman to the open shed where the cots were. The smart-talking young cowboy was leaning against a post, bent over and holding his stomach. The other squatted on the ground, moaning, his eyes glazed. Snort Yarnell sat on the edge of a steel cot, holding his head in both hands. His face was pale as milk.
The stableman said, “They haven’t drawn a sober breath since they hit town. Now they’re payin’ the fiddler.”
Hewey found it in himself to feel sorry for Snort, a little.
The stableman said, “If you hadn’t got yourself saddled with those sheep, you’d be in the same shape now that Snort is. You’re lucky.”
“Awful lucky,” Hewey said sarcastically, thinking of the good time Snort must have had.
A wizened little man in slouchy clothes and a battered felt hat came walking down from the boarding house. Hewey groaned as he recognized C. C. Tarpley. He said, “I was hopin’ he wouldn’t hear about these sheep. I reckon I’m fixin’ to get fired.”
A scowl twisted C. C.’s wrinkled face. He declared, “I thought you were workin’ for me. What’s this I hear about you bringin’ those sheep to town?”
Hewey had been trying to decide how best to tell him. He said, “Wasn’t nothin’ else I could do, C. C. Sick as them folks was, and as slow as they were movin’, there’s no tellin’ how long they might’ve had their sheep on your land. I was tryin’ to get them off of it as fast as I could.”
This implied that Hewey was just trying to do the boss a favor.
C. C. would appreciate that more than the thought of doing a favor for a sick family. The old man was not often given to doing favors for anybody.
C. C.’s scowl slowly faded as he thought it over. “I never looked at it that way. You done right, Hewey.”
Relieved, Hewey said, “All in the line of duty, C. C.”
The old rancher started to turn away but paused. “By the way, how long have you been gone from the ranch?”
Hewey counted on his fingers. “This is the fourth day.”
“Looks to me like you’ve had enough holiday for now. You’d better be gettin’ back to work.”
Hewey’s disappointment went all the way down to his toes. “Yep, reckon I had.”
He stood with hands shoved deeply into his pockets as C. C. walked away. The stableman said sympathetically, “There’ll be a next time.”
Hewey felt the roll of bills he had intended to spend on celebration. He drew them from his pocket and extended them to the stableman, holding back one to buy his dinner. He said, “Those sheep are goin’ to need some hay, and that dog deserves a good chunk of beef to chew on. With what’s left of this, I wish you’d make sure those folks’ wagon has plenty of groceries in it when they leave.”
Smiling, the stableman placed a hand on Hewey’s shoulder. He said, “You’re a better man than you know, Hewey Calloway. Even for a sheepherder.”
Hewey grunted. “Don’t blab it around. I’ve got my reputation to think of.”
He untied Biscuit and swung into the saddle. “See you in a couple of months. I’ll throw a real party next time.”
He was already dreading it.