be. I feel that look all the way down to my toes. What if we never see it again?
Gritty black smoke swirls between me and the house, and I run for the horses.
Grandpa ties on the bundles. I stand on the barrel to climb up on Ike. Grandma has already pulled the horse trailer onto the road, a stack of heirloom quilts beside her and the cashbox on the floor.
“Meet you at the fairgrounds,” Grandpa calls to her.
He turns Ginger, rides her across the pasture, and heads for the draw up Starvation Creek. Ike dancesaround like he's looking for Dad's weight, or maybe the sound of his voice.
I lean forward in the saddle and try to make my voice deep. “Aw, come on, Ike. Haven't I been taking good care of you? Get up now.”
He turns his head around and gives me a one-eyeball stare.
“You aren't going to let Ginger get there first, are you? Look, she's getting away!”
That does the trick. He breaks into a canter and catches up to Ginger and Grandpa. We pick our way up the dry bed of Starvation Creek.
“Grandpa, what's Ernesto going to do? Does he know what to do in a fire? It doesn't exactly burn like this in Ecuador.”
“He's as smart and careful a shepherd as I've seen, but if he's got the sheep up in the trees, we'll lose them for sure. On open ground, they have a chance.”
We come out of the draw and onto the high table of land that sits between our ranch and the Strawberry Mountains. That hot wind pulls at my hat. Ike turns to protect his eyes. Smoke and dust sting my face. I can hear a sound to the east like a jet engine warming up. Grandpa sizes up our situation.
“When he checked in yesterday, Ernesto was ten miles northwest of here, headed toward Lookout Mountain.” He turns to me. “Now remember, Brother, if the fire catches us, turn around and go back to the black. It won't burn twice.”
I nod, cram my hat down tighter, and go. Ginger leads at a steady canter. Between the smoke and the thunderheads, it's like twilight an hour after noon, and the freight-train roar of flames gets steadily louder. I feel sweat rolling down my body and pooling at my belt and in my boots. Ike breathes hard. I squint against the smoke, sweeping the horizon for some sign of the sheep.
A dozen miles on, I see an ATV. I shout and wave Grandpa over. The ATV is parked on a granite outcropping, with a yard of bare rock all around it. It's ours. I recognize the gray-corded rosary Ernesto keeps wrapped around the gas cap. His supply roll is still strapped on the back. I knock on the water can and hear a high note.
“A couple of gallons left,” I call to Grandpa.
“He wouldn't go far from his water,” Grandpa calls back.
“Ernesto!” I holler. Coughing cuts off my yell, and I spit black snot. Grandpa takes a whistle from hispocket and blows, then stops to listen. A minute later, I hear Donner bark. He bounds out of the smoke from the northwest. His white coat is coal-miner black, but I'd know old Donner anywhere. He circles us once and takes off.
“We're coming, Donner!” I yell, and kick Ike to a full gallop. In a minute, I can hear the sheep.
A hundred yards further and I can hear Ernesto's deep, steady voice:
“Tranquilo, no temas.”
He has the sheep in a tight bunch, and he's trying to dig a fire line around them. For a second, I can only sit and stare. It's the most heroic thing I've ever seen. He could have left the sheep hours ago and been safe in Burns by now. But here he is, alone in the wilderness, fighting this war, just Donner and him, for sheep he doesn't even own.
“jHola!”
Grandpa calls. He swings down from his horse with one smooth motion, unpacks the Pulaski, and tosses the army shovel to me. With a sweep of his arm, he shows that he gets Ernesto's plan and he's on board with it. He turns the Pulaski so the pick end faces down and the ax end faces up and begins to dig at the edge of Ernesto's line.
I run to the other side. Just as I'm about to dig, a wave of animals runs by: rabbits, mice, a
Gritty black smoke swirls between me and the house, and I run for the horses.
Grandpa ties on the bundles. I stand on the barrel to climb up on Ike. Grandma has already pulled the horse trailer onto the road, a stack of heirloom quilts beside her and the cashbox on the floor.
“Meet you at the fairgrounds,” Grandpa calls to her.
He turns Ginger, rides her across the pasture, and heads for the draw up Starvation Creek. Ike dancesaround like he's looking for Dad's weight, or maybe the sound of his voice.
I lean forward in the saddle and try to make my voice deep. “Aw, come on, Ike. Haven't I been taking good care of you? Get up now.”
He turns his head around and gives me a one-eyeball stare.
“You aren't going to let Ginger get there first, are you? Look, she's getting away!”
That does the trick. He breaks into a canter and catches up to Ginger and Grandpa. We pick our way up the dry bed of Starvation Creek.
“Grandpa, what's Ernesto going to do? Does he know what to do in a fire? It doesn't exactly burn like this in Ecuador.”
“He's as smart and careful a shepherd as I've seen, but if he's got the sheep up in the trees, we'll lose them for sure. On open ground, they have a chance.”
We come out of the draw and onto the high table of land that sits between our ranch and the Strawberry Mountains. That hot wind pulls at my hat. Ike turns to protect his eyes. Smoke and dust sting my face. I can hear a sound to the east like a jet engine warming up. Grandpa sizes up our situation.
“When he checked in yesterday, Ernesto was ten miles northwest of here, headed toward Lookout Mountain.” He turns to me. “Now remember, Brother, if the fire catches us, turn around and go back to the black. It won't burn twice.”
I nod, cram my hat down tighter, and go. Ginger leads at a steady canter. Between the smoke and the thunderheads, it's like twilight an hour after noon, and the freight-train roar of flames gets steadily louder. I feel sweat rolling down my body and pooling at my belt and in my boots. Ike breathes hard. I squint against the smoke, sweeping the horizon for some sign of the sheep.
A dozen miles on, I see an ATV. I shout and wave Grandpa over. The ATV is parked on a granite outcropping, with a yard of bare rock all around it. It's ours. I recognize the gray-corded rosary Ernesto keeps wrapped around the gas cap. His supply roll is still strapped on the back. I knock on the water can and hear a high note.
“A couple of gallons left,” I call to Grandpa.
“He wouldn't go far from his water,” Grandpa calls back.
“Ernesto!” I holler. Coughing cuts off my yell, and I spit black snot. Grandpa takes a whistle from hispocket and blows, then stops to listen. A minute later, I hear Donner bark. He bounds out of the smoke from the northwest. His white coat is coal-miner black, but I'd know old Donner anywhere. He circles us once and takes off.
“We're coming, Donner!” I yell, and kick Ike to a full gallop. In a minute, I can hear the sheep.
A hundred yards further and I can hear Ernesto's deep, steady voice:
“Tranquilo, no temas.”
He has the sheep in a tight bunch, and he's trying to dig a fire line around them. For a second, I can only sit and stare. It's the most heroic thing I've ever seen. He could have left the sheep hours ago and been safe in Burns by now. But here he is, alone in the wilderness, fighting this war, just Donner and him, for sheep he doesn't even own.
“jHola!”
Grandpa calls. He swings down from his horse with one smooth motion, unpacks the Pulaski, and tosses the army shovel to me. With a sweep of his arm, he shows that he gets Ernesto's plan and he's on board with it. He turns the Pulaski so the pick end faces down and the ax end faces up and begins to dig at the edge of Ernesto's line.
I run to the other side. Just as I'm about to dig, a wave of animals runs by: rabbits, mice, a
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