Never Trust A Cowboy. Kathleen Eagle
“That’s a lot of studying.”
“I didn’t quite finish,” she said quietly.
A meadowlark answered Del’s whistle.
“I’m listening,” he prompted after a moment had passed.
“I had a bad car accident.”
He let the words have their due. The grass swished, crickets buzzed, the sun settled on the sharp point of a hill.
“Hurt bad?”
“I wasn’t. The person I hit... She was.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t drive anymore.”
“Not at all?”
“Not at all.”
More grass sound filled in.
“She okay now?”
“Were you ever a reporter?” she retorted stiffly.
He said nothing. He’d gone one step too far. Game over.
“Put it this way,” she amended. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who usually asks a lot of questions.”
“I’m not the kind who’d strike you at all. I’m the kind who’d do his job, tip his hat when you walk past him and keep his thoughts to himself.”
“Sounds like we’re two of a kind. Or were, until you took an interest in helping me find my dog.”
“You’d do the same, right? It’s all about the dog.”
“We were talking about ancient history before,” she reminded him. “Mummies and all like that. Been a while, you said. For me, too. And the passage of time helps. I know it does. It takes the edge off regrets, shuts down the what-ifs.” They were riding slowly now, the search all but set aside. “She recovered, but it took a long time, and it changed her life. Don’t ask me how it happened. It doesn’t matter.”
He nodded.
She knew she didn’t have to tell him not to discuss it with anyone. It wouldn’t kill her if he did, but somehow she knew he wouldn’t. They had things in common, spoken and unspoken things. What things they were didn’t matter as much as how they felt about them. They could move on without exchanging details.
“I have to find Bingo, no matter what. I have to bring him home.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
“You’ll know him when you see him. He’s the only little black terrier around. This isn’t exactly terrier country.”
“What’s the cell phone reception like around here?”
“Terrible. You have to go up on a hill, and even then it’s hit or miss. You’re welcome to use my old reliable landline anytime.”
“I was thinking if I find the dog and he won’t come to me...”
“He loves cheese.” She tucked her hand in her back pocket, pulled out a chunk of it wrapped in brown paper and reached between horses to hand it to him. “He won’t care if it’s a little squashed.”
“Funny dog.”
She smiled. “You two will hit it off just fine.”
* * *
At breakfast the next morning Del was assigned his first official chore. No surprise, he was to ride the fence and check for breaks.
“Neighbor called and told Dad there’s been cattle disappearing again. I’m gonna head down to the south pasture and start counting.”
“If I find anything, you want me to fix it right away?” Since he knew where to look, he was going to help himself to a second cup of coffee. He gestured with the pot, and Frank offered up his cup for a refill.
“Well, yeah,” Brad said. “That’s one job you can be sure gets delegated.”
“Just wanted to make sure.”
“If we’re missing cows and we don’t find them, we’ll let the sheriff in on all the details.”
Frank took no notice. Either he didn’t hear, didn’t want to hear or his agreement went without saying. In any case, nobody was too concerned about preserving a possible crime scene.
Del took his time riding the fence along the dirt road that separated two Flynn Ranch pastures. He knew he would find the wire down less than a mile off the blacktop, but along the way there was a chance he might run across Lila’s dog. He found himself hoping otherwise. This far from the house, it was bound to be a sad discovery.
A faint set of tire tracks in the dry ground led to the hole in the fence. Three loose strands of barbed wire curled away from the steel post in three different directions. A qualified lawman would be able to get a clue or two, and fixing the fence wouldn’t make too much difference. But it would make some. Not to Del, of course. He’d been a witness. Now he had to figure out where Frank fit in, and he knew better than to ask questions he didn’t know the answers to.
He fixed the wire, and then he followed the fence line until it took a right turn at the highway. There he saw the grass stir. It could’ve been a snake or a grouse, but it wasn’t. He knew before he reached the spot that he’d found the little black dog.
Not quite what he’d expected, but it was small and male and black. Who else could it be? And he was alive, which was a whole lot better news than he’d expected. Del whistled. The paper crinkled as he unveiled the chunk of cheddar.
“Got some cheese for you, Bingo. Come and get it, boy.” He sank to his knees, and the pup bounded through the grass and pounced on the cheese. Del’s left knee cracked in protest as he stood with his arms full of wiggly, scrawny, finger-licking dog. “I thought you’d be fuzzier. How’d you get this far from home on such short legs, huh?” The dog seemed a little young, but maybe that was because he was scared and hungry. He rooted around Del’s shirt, struggled to get his nose in Del’s scratching hand. “That’s all I’ve got, boy, sorry. We’ll go get you some more. Lila sure is gonna be happy to see you.”
But she wasn’t.
She petted the pup’s head, but she wouldn’t take him in her arms. “He’s cute enough, but he’s not my dog.”
“What do you mean, he’s not your dog?” Del put the dog on the ground, let him check out the furniture legs on Lila’s front porch. “I found him not three miles from here, nobody else around. He fits your description. He’s— You’re pullin’ my leg, right?” The dog sniffed Lila’s bare toes. “He likes you.”
Then he abandoned bare toes for black boot.
“Hee-yah!” Del ordered, and the dog looked up and cocked his head as though he needed a translation. And, of course, he did. Forgetting himself—more like forgetting his cover—Del had spoken in Lakota, his father’s first language. “No. Don’t you dare.”
The dog wagged and whined.
Lila laughed. “He likes you even more.”
“Only because I fed him. Hell, he loves cheese, just like you said.” He jerked his thumb toward the porch steps and told the dog, “Show her you know where to pee.”
Lila folded her arms imperiously. “He’s not Bingo. He’s too young, and he’s not even a terrier.”
“He’s a little black dog. Bingo?” The wagging speed doubled. Del had to reward such obvious name recognition by picking him up again. “Yeah, Bingo. She’s messin’ with me, ain’t she?”
“He’d wag his tail for you if you called him Stupid. He’s not my dog.”
“Damn.” Del lifted the dog’s muzzle and looked him in the eye. “You sure?”
“I’ve never