Sowing on the Mountain

≈ 10 ≈

The next day they all took the Step Test, which was a physical fitness exam for firefighting. You stepped on and off this red wooden box and then they measured your heart rate (fast), waited a minute or two, and measured it again. The more it decreased, the better shape you were in. Mary passed.

Jet copied a sheaf of maps and info on grazing, and they sat down at lunch to go over it. Harv sat down but couldn't keep quiet, so Jet told him to take a hike. He got up and stomped off in a dudgeon. "He can be touchy," Jet said.

After looking over the stuff, Mary understood what had been happening with the sheep and why Jet had been angry. There were supposed to be two herders, pushing them up the Opening and into the woods. Instead, the herd spent most of the day in the meadow, gnawing and crapping. Several turistas had complained about the mess.

The rancher, Echeverry, was a Basque from Rock Springs. She'd gone to school with his son, Ray— not a bad kid, but sort of moody. Jet said that he did a lot of riding to supply the camps. They had a base camp at the tail of the Opening, tucked into the woods, big wall tents where they stacked bags of salt and cartons of food. Echeverry had seven bands of sheep coming up, more tham a single ranch was allowed, but he'd split the ownership so some were under his wife's name and some under his son's— just one of his many dodges. The other big sheep ranch was owned by a cousin, Gaston Carricaburra, who had three bands and was easier to get along with. Jimmy Bertolli, a lawyer with ranching interests, sent up one band. He was a nice guy, Jet said, and hired Basques from Spain as herders and gave then good horses, new tents, good food, and red wine. Echeverry got the cheapest help he could muster— mostly Peruvian indios— and treated them like crap. He had Mexican cowboys to run his cattle herd and ramrod the sheep operation, three brothers. Amazing stockhands, Jet said, Pablo and Tranquilo: good guys. The youngest brother, Leandro, was a snake. There'd been trouble last year, threats over trespass. No shots fired, though.

"Sounds like the Wild West," Mary said.

"It can get sort of rough. Echeverry orders his guys to steal feed, then lies about it: damn coyotes scattered the herd, damn lightning, damn this, damn that. That corner belonged to my granddad– the damn Floresta drew the boundary wrong. It's never his fault."

"I've known people like that. Too many."

"You play in a band?" He was interested.

"Yeah. Feral Sluts— riot grrl stuff. Feminist punk."

"Did you play in Salt Lake?"

"Temple Square Tavern, five or six weekends this spring."

"Cool. I saw the posters."

"You should check us out. We have a couple gigs in Jackson. Bring Harv— but he'd probably have a heart attack."

"He'd probably be packing a gun. He's weird about that. When he rides out on patrol, he wears a revolver and cartridge belt, like Clint Eastwood. Don't ever ask him about his guns. You won't be able to shut him up."

"Do you like music?"

"Yeah. I've got a mandolin. We play old timey stuff and Irish fiddle tunes. That's big in Salt Lake, with the skiers and climbers."

She was surprised by a gust of attraction to him. He had the same complexion and hair as she did: Black Irish, no doubt. He wasn't handsome in an obvious way, but his facial expressions fascinated her. When she was talking, he had a slant-squinty way of looking at her, as if she was too bright to face straight-on.

Then it was time to get back to the training, which was more on the Code of Federal Regulations: the rulebook by which they enforced the law and wrote up violations. The photocopy they gave her was bulky. She'd have to see if there was a compact edition, to fit in her backpack. No way would she lug this wad around all summer.

She managed to get through the entire session without the subject of living quarters arising. On her job description her official station was Pinedale. She asked the other wilderness rangers and theirs was the same. The idea seemed to be that they were either camped out or on days off, so they didn't need actual government housing, which was bullcrap.

Behind the warehouse she saw a bunch of propane tanks on a pallet, so she snagged one, looking over her shoulder, and loaded it in the trunk of the Saab. She was loading a couple mattresses on the roof rack when Eugene pulled up and stomped over to ask what she thought she was doing.

"The mattress down there smells like mice— I think I might be allergic."

He mulled that over. "I guess it's okay," he said, "But next time check in with me. And bring the old one back so we can take it off the inventory. Got it?"

She nodded, hopped into the Saab, and roared off before he could catch sight of Gris, hunkered down on the floor. Narrow escape.