A Time to Heal, A Time to Die

I struggled to become coherent. Although clearly still morning, the air was warm and heavy. Rising dust made it difficult to see or breath. How did I get in the middle of a cattle drive? Mouth closed, I covered my nose with one hand as though it would serve as an adequate filter and shook my head, begging it to clear. There had been a cow before. A black cow—on the road. Will was driving. The truck rolled. We flew. These cows were different—white, brown, red. Many had massive horns that stretch forward and out on either side, demanding that others not get too close. The headgear looked lethal. “Texas longhorns in southern Utah? That would be the day.” I muttered to myself. I couldn’t remember, did the cow on the road even had horns. If Angus, then no. Looking closer, I could see that these were not just cows, but bulls also, and calves too. Definitely not, just steers headed to market, but not your typical cow-calf operation either. I gasped, still struggling for oxygen, where was Will? We had been flying close together, spinning, out of reach, but not out of sight. And what about the woman, and the baby? Just before blacking out, our eyes locked. What did Will call her? Then they were gone, Will was gone. Now I’m alone, alone here, with red and white cows; and sagebrush. Not quite. Through the haze, I spotted a horse and rider. Instinctively, I yelled, hoping my voice would carry beyond the heavy haze. After several tries, the horse paused, then turned towards me just as the passing cattle thinned to a trickle of stragglers. “Ma’am, who are you and what is you doing here?” The rider’s words agreed with the confusion etched in his face. My confusion matched his. “Uh, where am I?” “Don’t you know? And like I was saying, who are you?” The accent was southern. I guessed that made some sense, given the longhorns. “Abigail, Abigail Bennett. And you?” “Well Abigail, you obviously ain’t with the Fancher Company is you?” Looking closely at my jeans and T-shirt. “You a Mormonite?” It was my turn to ignore the question. “What is the Fancher Company? Are these yours?” Glancing at the last of the passing bovines and making no effort to imitate his drawl. He stared, as if considering whether to answer or not, then proceeded. “Nope, you ain’t one of us, that’s for sure. Alexander Fancher’s the cap’n; him and my Pa, Jack Baker. Name’s Abel. We, and a bunch of other good folks are headed to Cali. The wagons are over yonder.” He pointed east without bothering to look. Unprompted, he continued, “We left camp early this morning. No point sticking around seeing how no Mormonite’s willing to sell us supplies. Same story for weeks. Stupid if you ask me. We’re willing and able to pay a fair price, and can do it in coin or goods; nice household stuff too, the kind that must be in short supply this far from the states. Don’t seem to matter. Ole Brigham told them to not sell and they are obliged to obey him blindly. Stupidity at its best, if you ask me. “The wagons should get over the pass bout midday and then on to the next gathering of poor farmers. We’ll see if any there might be more willing to break with their prophet and make a good trade on the side.” I could tell he liked the authoritative sound of his own voice. “Me, John Prewit and his brother Billy, Shorty—that’s Johnny Beach, goes by Shorty—and a few other boys; our job is to keep these Texas-born varmits in good feed.” Abel glanced towards where the cattle were moving. Then turning back to me, he continued, “They be our down payment on a new life, so best to keep them well fed. Your turn. What you doing out here all alone, and why’re you all dressed up in man’s clothes?” “I told you my name already. I’m from Fillmore, a town north of here …” I stopped. Did he say wagons? “It seems that I am a little lost. Can you tell me where we are now?” I stopped again realizing that it was probably not a good idea to reveal too much vulnerability to this stranger. I added, “I was traveling with my brother and an older woman and a baby. Have you seen them?” Shaking his head, Abel offered. “Shorty picked up a crazy lady with a baby about an hour ago. Totally daft, she is. Wouldn’t shut up about some snow storm, wild beasts, and a magic black rock. None of it made any sense. The crying baby didn’t help none neither.” Shorty’s taking them to the wagons now. Should be at least one or two of our women that can spare the kid a meal. Can you ride?” The change of topic almost caught me by surprise. “Uh, yes.” I managed. “Got an extra horse?” “Not at the moment. I was thinking you could take the back seat on this one.” Glancing behind. “Unless you’d rather stay and look for your … did you say, cousin?” “My brother.” I corrected. “He can take care of himself. Probably ahead looking for me now. On the other hand, the woman might need my help.” I knew that I was taking a chance but hoped finding her would start to answer my growing list of questions. Then, with a knot in my throat I offered, “And sure, I accept your offer. Your hand, please?” I slid my tennis shoe in the stirrup as Abel pulled his boot out, grabbed the hand he extended for leverage, and swung myself up behind him in one well-practiced motion. With a chuckle under his breath, Abel nudged the mare forward. “And the clothes?” “Happy to trade them for a proper dress first chance I get.”