ELEVEN
Mike bunked Brad in a small pitched-roof log dwelling. Brad laid his bedroll out on the dirt floor against the back wall. Joe Arramospe set his blankets at a right angle, with small spruce boughs between him and the floor.
Sitting outside, the two men watched the sky change colors at sunset. They sat on a pair of pine logs sawed in half. Joe smoked a clay pipe with a long stem while the cook prepared stew for supper. The cook, Renata Tiribio, was a sturdy woman married to one of the sheepmen, Nestor, who was driving the flock down from Cheyenne the next morning. Two women brought bowls of the stew over to Joe and Brad, their faces partially hidden by their ample shawls that they wore like cowls. Brad knew they were not young, and their brown faces were lined with the evidence of past sorrows. He and Joe ate from the steaming bowls and washed down the food from canteens filled with cold creek water. The western sky became a bright smear of red streamers tinged with gold and the ashes of clouds floating in a netherworld of pale blue sky and encroaching dusk.
Mike walked over after supper and squatted in front of the two men, a pipe clenched in his teeth.
“There will be coffee,” he said. “Weak coffee so that we will all be able to sleep. Vivelda will bring us our cups.”
“I will patrol the pasture,” Joe said, “until midnight, when Fidelio will relieve me.”
Mike turned to look at Brad.
“Fidelio Yorick is Joe’s cousin,” he said to Brad. “He is also the brother-in-law of the man who was killed and beheaded. His sister was married to the murdered man.”
Brad was beginning to think that all of the sheepmen and their women were related. He did not know the name of the man who had been beheaded, nor the name of his wife, and he didn’t know if he wanted to know. He missed Felicity, and he was becoming a part of this Basque community despite his instinct to be detached from their troubles and strife. He had a job to do and the sooner it was over, the better, as far as he was concerned.
“We Basques have no nationality of our own, but we are one big family,” Joe said, as if perusing Brad’s thoughts.
“I’m beginning to see that,” Brad said.
“Will you come to the small funeral in the morning, Brad?” Mike asked. He shifted his feet but remained squatted, like a bulky grasshopper.
“I’m not much on funerals,” Brad said.
“Why not?” Mike asked.
“Grief is hard to take. Funerals have a way of wringing a man dry. And I don’t like to see a woman cry.”
“But a funeral is a way to show respect, add some dignity to death,” Mike said.
“Funerals may be a comfort to widows and widowers of the deceased,” Brad said, “but the dead need no such demonstrations. The dead are gone and will never return in this life. I say my farewells in private and do not need to hear words spoken over someone who has died and is about to be buried six feet in the ground.”
“Ah, then, I must respect your feelings, for you have spoken them like a man who knows his own heart.”
“I am sorry for those who have died, especially those who died needlessly and senselessly,” Brad said. “But I do not need a funeral to grieve for them.”
“I understand,” Mike said.
“I, too,” said Joe. “I think the church wraps the pagan practice of funerals in religious trappings, as if the priest’s words can open the gates of heaven for those who have departed this life.”
Mike cocked his head and looked at Joe with an odd expression on his face.
“I think we must leave this subject alone,” Mike said. “Or else it will become too complicated for this old mind of mine.”
“So be it,” Joe said, and the night came on with a solemn whisper as if a curtain had descended over the earth. The cook fire blazed and shot sparks up into the darkness where they danced like fireflies until they disappeared like tiny lives snuffed out by time and its endless cycles of births and deaths.
When Brad turned in and pulled his blanket over him, he thought of the day ahead and wondered if there was any meaning to life beyond any single moment of existence. He remembered his parents and how he had grieved for them. It seemed they had left empty holes in his life, places of vacancy where once they had been and to which they would never return. Death was the big mystery, and when he thought of it, life was an even greater one.
There was only one moment and, if that one passed, there might not be another. Beyond that, there was no guarantee that another moment would come. Perhaps life was a matter of luck. Lucky that it happened and unlucky that it would always end.
That night, Brad dreamed of being chased by wolves through a maze of tall pines while he kept reloading a rifle that would not work and only spit blood from its muzzle. He ran up to a man with a sheep’s head who taunted him with a large rope that turned into a snake. He came to a cemetery where there were several faceless men hanging from tree limbs, writhing and cracking like giant whips. He stumbled into an open grave that was filled with green water and bubbled up with red smoke that danced with lightning flashes. His pistols fell apart and his rifles had bent barrels and fell away from him, then wriggled off like tiny rattlesnakes.
He fell from a high cliff where cattle and sheep swarmed around a mound of dirt that resembled a fresh grave. He wandered through surreal nightscapes and blazing pastures of rabid flames, pursued by a shadowy man carrying an ax that dripped blood.
When he awoke just before dawn, Brad was exhausted and Joe snored like some wild beast in the dark of the cabin.
He walked outside and stared up at the stars. He saw the white wool of sheep off in the distance and heard the distant howl of a timber wolf. He wondered if the real world was any less dangerous than the dream world, or any less peculiar.
Women’s voices floated to him as the sky began to slowly pale in the east. A horse snorted. Smoke streamed through the valley like ghostly wisps, and he smelled the burning pine from the cabin where the hanged man lay, awaiting burial.
There was an eerie calm, and Brad felt a pang of loneliness as he thought about Felicity rising from sleep in their mountain ranch house. Instead of his own cattle, he heard the bleating of sheep and wondered why he was where he was. He felt like an alien being in an alien world.
He felt as if he were still in a strange dream where some part of the night was eternal and the sun might never rise again.
