porcupine,skunks, quail, a couple of coyotes, and a mule deer. Dread hits me. I look west, and for the first time I can see the red-orange line of flames. Donner circles the sheep, totally focused on keeping them together, and Ernesto's voice is still calling,
“No temas, tranquilo,”
just as solid and confident as a spring morning at home.
I start turning over dirt. The bitter taste of smoke is in my mouth, and I don't have enough spit to get it out. I can see Grandpa swinging the Pulaski. A wide sweat mark sticks his faded work shirt to his back. The knee-high flames pick up speed going up the little rise that's a hundred yards away. I can feel the heat on my arms and face. Bits of dead grass and tufts of wool start blowing toward the flames as they suck in air to fuel the fire.
We'll never finish the line. The fire is licking up the parched brown grass faster than sheep can run. Grandpa is kneeling on the ground, and I run to him to keep him up out of the flames. I am about to tug him by the arm when I see he's holding a match to a clump of weeds. It goes up like it's been drenched in gasoline.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
Grandpa ignores me. Ernesto takes one look at him, pulls out a lighter, and starts to do the same.
“Are you crazy?”
I run to the horses and lead them away shooing the sheep back from the new fires that are only a stone's throw away. Grandpa and Ernesto stand up as the fires take hold. Grandpa leans a hand on Ernesto's shoulder. There is nothing but smoke and two lines of flame in front of us. There's no room to run. Fatigue washes over me, and every molecule in my body is screaming for water. Even Ike stands with his head down, like there's nothing to do but accept fate. I uncap the canteen and take slow swallows of warm water. I lift up Ike's chin and give him enough water to at least wet his mouth. He rubs my shoulder with his nose for thanks. I unpack Grandpa's canteen and a spare for Ernesto. The flames are just a few feet apart now. Grandpa takes the canteen and stares hard at the two lines of fire.
They meet up, and where they touch, the flames snuff out like a candle. Boom! and it's over—not even smoke, just a heat shimmer rising up from the black earth.
“Aha!” Ernesto dances in a circle, his palms up to the sky. He takes Grandpa by the shoulders and kisses each cheek. He spins me in a circle, laughing, but a tear slides down each side of his dusty face. He throwsan arm over my shoulder like we are brothers, points to Grandpa, and says, “Wise old man.
Gracias. jM.il gracias!”
I just shake my head. The fire sweeps on, a hundred yards away on either side, but we are standing in a golden patch of untouched prairie. The sheep are amazed to complete silence, and even Donner can see that none of them are going to wander off. He works his way to the middle of the flock, lies down, and falls asleep instantly
I make a count of the sheep, keeping track on one hand of the ones that have my tag. Grandpa and Ernesto are deep in conference about where to take them. Water is only a few miles away, but they'll have to walk through the night to find grass that's not burned. Grandpa is massaging his left shoulder as he talks, like he's pulled a muscle. I gather up the tools, oven-hot from the ground, and look at the sky. It's hard to tell the storm clouds from the smoke, but the growl of thunder has moved up into the Strawberries, and the smoke has more of a brown-orange cast in the direction I'm guessing is west. I picture the BLM map Grandpa keeps on the wall in the hallway. Eighteen miles to Burns, maybe twenty, and I bet it's after three o'clock. It'll be dark before we get there.
Poor Grandpa; he looks dog-tired. Soot sticks in all the wrinkles that fan out from his eyes, making him look at least ninety. He lifts up the horses’ hooves to check for splits and stones. Ernesto squats next to Donner, checking his feet for burns. I kneel and stroke the ashes out of his
“No temas, tranquilo,”
just as solid and confident as a spring morning at home.
I start turning over dirt. The bitter taste of smoke is in my mouth, and I don't have enough spit to get it out. I can see Grandpa swinging the Pulaski. A wide sweat mark sticks his faded work shirt to his back. The knee-high flames pick up speed going up the little rise that's a hundred yards away. I can feel the heat on my arms and face. Bits of dead grass and tufts of wool start blowing toward the flames as they suck in air to fuel the fire.
We'll never finish the line. The fire is licking up the parched brown grass faster than sheep can run. Grandpa is kneeling on the ground, and I run to him to keep him up out of the flames. I am about to tug him by the arm when I see he's holding a match to a clump of weeds. It goes up like it's been drenched in gasoline.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
Grandpa ignores me. Ernesto takes one look at him, pulls out a lighter, and starts to do the same.
“Are you crazy?”
I run to the horses and lead them away shooing the sheep back from the new fires that are only a stone's throw away. Grandpa and Ernesto stand up as the fires take hold. Grandpa leans a hand on Ernesto's shoulder. There is nothing but smoke and two lines of flame in front of us. There's no room to run. Fatigue washes over me, and every molecule in my body is screaming for water. Even Ike stands with his head down, like there's nothing to do but accept fate. I uncap the canteen and take slow swallows of warm water. I lift up Ike's chin and give him enough water to at least wet his mouth. He rubs my shoulder with his nose for thanks. I unpack Grandpa's canteen and a spare for Ernesto. The flames are just a few feet apart now. Grandpa takes the canteen and stares hard at the two lines of fire.
They meet up, and where they touch, the flames snuff out like a candle. Boom! and it's over—not even smoke, just a heat shimmer rising up from the black earth.
“Aha!” Ernesto dances in a circle, his palms up to the sky. He takes Grandpa by the shoulders and kisses each cheek. He spins me in a circle, laughing, but a tear slides down each side of his dusty face. He throwsan arm over my shoulder like we are brothers, points to Grandpa, and says, “Wise old man.
Gracias. jM.il gracias!”
I just shake my head. The fire sweeps on, a hundred yards away on either side, but we are standing in a golden patch of untouched prairie. The sheep are amazed to complete silence, and even Donner can see that none of them are going to wander off. He works his way to the middle of the flock, lies down, and falls asleep instantly
I make a count of the sheep, keeping track on one hand of the ones that have my tag. Grandpa and Ernesto are deep in conference about where to take them. Water is only a few miles away, but they'll have to walk through the night to find grass that's not burned. Grandpa is massaging his left shoulder as he talks, like he's pulled a muscle. I gather up the tools, oven-hot from the ground, and look at the sky. It's hard to tell the storm clouds from the smoke, but the growl of thunder has moved up into the Strawberries, and the smoke has more of a brown-orange cast in the direction I'm guessing is west. I picture the BLM map Grandpa keeps on the wall in the hallway. Eighteen miles to Burns, maybe twenty, and I bet it's after three o'clock. It'll be dark before we get there.
Poor Grandpa; he looks dog-tired. Soot sticks in all the wrinkles that fan out from his eyes, making him look at least ninety. He lifts up the horses’ hooves to check for splits and stones. Ernesto squats next to Donner, checking his feet for burns. I kneel and stroke the ashes out of his
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