Eleven

I keep my distance behind Don Whales as he follows Beverly Johns. Lucky for me—unlucky for Don —I overheard him volunteer to fix Beverly’s old Farmall H. Why these ranchers continue making due on a shoestring and patching equipment up when it should have been trashed decades ago is beyond me. But then I’ve never been a cheapskate.

They turn off Highway 85 onto the county road, and the dust kicked up masks my presence. By the time they finally turn into Beverly’s ranch drive, my truck is coated with fine Wyoming dust. But that’s okay. I’ll buy another one soon.

I back under the trees of a shelter belt across the road a quarter mile away and grab my spotting scope. I clamp it to my side glass, positioning the truck so I can watch the house. Don stops in front of the barn and climbs out, his dog bounding beside him. He grabs a large red toolbox from the back of his truck and waddles toward the barn. Even in dirty work clothes, he still wears the “Army” pin on the strap of his overalls.

I uncork my Thermos bottle and pour myself a cup before settling back. I don’t know if Don is the Midnight Sheepherder, but I’ve survived this long by trusting nothing to chance. After all, he knows just enough about dog handling to be a threat to me. In class, he gave a demonstration with his dog. It proved it possessed enough herding skills that Don could be the witness. But if he is, why hasn’t he come forward by now? Either he’s scared of me—which I doubt, if the man survived two tours in the Army motor pool in Iraq—or he didn’t recognize me. Perhaps he can identify me from the brief time I passed across my headlights.

I begin to question whether this plodding man about to work on Beverly’s tractor is the witness. I conclude that yes, I believe he is. He is single and can come and go whenever he wants. How convenient for someone who goes out nights stealing sheep: no woman to come home to and explain where the hell he’s been.

Then there’s Don’s money. When I asked if he ever went to the Veteran’s Affairs Medical Center here in town, he said he was ineligible. Said he wasn’t disabled. That means he’s living on a meager pension from the Army and what he makes turning a wrench on the side, and, as crappy as their music is, I’m sure he makes little from his bar gigs. But—I am certain—he makes enough money from the sale of stolen sheep to afford that new truck of his. During the past year, Don must have saved most of the money he got from his Midnight Sheepherder activities to buy that Dodge one-ton. They don’t come cheap.

I start up my truck. I’ve decided to take a chance that Don will not go to the law by tomorrow. According to the website for Don Whales and the Dolphins, they’re playing a wedding reception Saturday night at the state park. I’ll show up there. Maybe I’ll dance once or twice. For certain, I will save the last dance for Don.