The Hostage - by Phyllis

HOSTAGE

By Phyllis Ogden

“What the hell are you doing? Acting like a coyote and roughing up the sheep like that!”

This was the sheep man’s shouting to the Mexican herder who had been with the sheep for some weeks now. Joe, the Mexican, was a cousin to Dan, who had been with Walt Ogden’s sheep for years. He was a reliable and stable herder, but had taken time off to be with his sick wife, and had sent his cousin, Joe, out to herd the sheep. Walt liked Joe as he did everyone. Walt was a generous man who helped his herders and their families whenever the need arose, but he also expected his men to “use their heads” as he put it.

Walt had watched Joe from the camp wagon as he rode around the sheep. It had been a cold winter and the sheep were most secure against the cold when they were held together instead of being allowed to roam in the desert. As Walt watched Joe, he noticed the sheep were frightened, so he rode his horse down the slope to assist Joe in his task and heard Joe yelling at the sheep. As soon as Walt reached Joe and shouted to him he noticed that Joe turned white when he mentioned the word “coyote.” Did Joe think he had called him a “coyote?” Did Joe misunderstand him? Walt didn’t have time to think of it because the sheep were running and scattering so fast that there was much work to be done before dark to gather them. He rode, gently pushing the sheep into a group and drove them to a small valley which would protect them somewhat from the driving snow and wind for the night.

As he worked he noticed Joe was riding toward the camp wagon. Walt finished his task and dug his spurs into the horse to hurry him on to the camp wagon to get to the bottom of the trouble with Joe. Joe had to be told how to handle the sheep, and also told to finish his task before going to the wagon.

Walt lived in a small town about 75 miles away from the sheep camp, and came out to the sheep camps once a week to bring supplies and check on the sheep. It was a three day trip for him, usually, as it took one day to reach the first camp and another day to visit the other two camps which were farther out on the Utah-Nevada desert. The return trip took the third day. This week he had to remain at the first camp for several days until a camp tender came out as the last one had taken ill and had gone to town with Dan when Joe came out to relieve him. Walt had intended to stay here with Joe and let Dan and the sick camp tender take his car to drive back to town, so he was left with just horses. Travel was difficult in 1920 with cars being what they were and roads being just sheep and cattle trails. It was a difficult ordeal to plough through snow and mud to the sheep camps and back so often part of the trip was by horseback.

As Walt reached the door of the sheep wagon he saw Joe standing beside the door with the gun in his hands. His eyes were dark and glazed and he looked like a crazy man. Joe didn’t move but never took his eyes off Walt.

Walt said, “Look, Joe, those sheep can’t be run around like horses!” Joe just stared at Walt, but slowly raised the gun and pointed it at Walt. Walt said, “Now Joe, what is eating you?”

He moved into the camp wagon and took off his coat and slammed the lower half of the door, and reached for the upper half of the camp door to close it when Joe stuck the gun in his ribs. Walt whirled around and faced Joe, and could see by the cold stare on Joe’s face that Joe was about to kill him. Panic hit Walt. He felt the fear race up his spine and into his arms and brain. He tried to think but the panic made it almost impossible to control himself. He braced himself against the door and heard himself saying, “Joe, don’t shoot.”

He watched the muscles in Joe’s face and the hand that covered the trigger on the gun. He could see the blood vessels throb in Joe’s throat and hand. He seemed to remember vaguely the terrible fear he had when the mountain lion had jumped at him a few short years before, but his mind was saying to him, “this is a man, not an animal. There is some way.”

With that Walt moved in front of Joe and grabbed a frying pan and put it on the camp stove. He heard himself say, “Joe, it is time to throw some lamb chops on the fire. I I’m starved, aren’t you?” Somehow he started cooking a meal for them. Joe just stood motionless with the gun on Walt. Walt knew there was no use running for help. There weren’t any men within miles of them and in this blizzard he could never reach their camps in the dark. Walt finished the meal and set two plates on the table that pulled out from under the bed in the end of the wagon. “Come and eat, Joe.”

Walt sat down and tried to eat something but his shaking hand would hardly reach his mouth and his stomach felt like expelling every mouthful he swallowed. Joe lowered the gun and moved the two steps to the bench and sat down at the small table between them. As he did this he put the gun at his side on the bench. He grabbed his meat from his tin plate and savagely tore at it with his teeth. The food disappeared from his plate as though an animal had devoured it in one motion. Then Joe again had the gun in his hands but this time across his lap as he sat staring at Walt from across the table.

Walt had felt more in control of himself for a few moments, but the fear again took over this whole being. He thought of running away from the camp wagon and for a moment escape seemed to be possible, but he wiped his hand over his face as if to remove a cob web and his mind began to work again and Walt started cleaning up the dishes. He felt more in control as he moved within the limited space of the camp wagon. As long as his body could somehow move he was able to control his mind and fear. As Walt moved about cleaning up the dishes and washing himself, he never turned his back on Joe, nor were his eyes off the gun for a second. When his tasks were finished, Walt again decided he had to talk Joe out of this crazy thing he was about to do.

“Joe, tell me what is wrong. Joe, you know Dan wouldn’t act like this to me. Joe, you know how I have taken care of Dan and his wife, Lupe, and their children all these years. Joe, I am your friend. Joe, don’t you believe I am your friend? I would never harm you, Joe.”

But his pleadings brought forth no words from Joe; only the cold, crazy stare. Walt searched his mind for a way to shake Joe out of his insane thoughts. “Joe, did you fill the barrels and cans with snow to melt, tomorrow? The horses need water and we need water too.”

Joe looked as if he never heard him. It was as though Walt was talking to a man who was deaf. “Joe, I am your friend. The Priests have told you your friends will not hurt you.” The pleadings fell on deaf ears and a mind that was frozen with hate to the point nothing would penetrate it.

The small alarm clock seemed to rattle instead of tick that night and with each sound it made Walt’s nerves jumped and the fear ran through his body and mind. He would fight off the panic now and then and give his mind a chance to work, but again the crippling fear would burst loose and seize him. Walt steeled himself against this fear almost as if he knew his fear was his greatest enemy; even greater than Joe. If he could only control his mind he could eventually control Joe. Walt picked up a book that lay on the seat of the camp wagon, and pretended to read. Walt’s hands shook so he could hardly turn the page, and he had to brace the book on his lap to keep it from falling out of his hands. Walt sat with the book in his hands as if it were the armor that would protect him from the bullet that was in Joe’s gun. The wind jarred the camp wagon with a gust that almost shook them both loose from their seats and Joe held the gun close against himself to keep it from slipping out of his grasp.

As the night wore on Joe finally got himself up off the bench and unbuckled the holster and put it on the bench behind him. Walt found new hope in Joe’s movements as he knew Joe was readying himself for bed. His mind wildly raced along and he could see himself grabbing the gun as Joe laid it down in his undressing, but Joe never undressed nor did he ever lay the gun down; instead, he moved himself up onto the bed in the end of the camp wagon and laid down with the gun in his hand, but he didn’t close his eyes. Walt moved about the camp wagon, first readying himself for bed, then dressing again for fear to remove his clothing would leave him without armor. Walt sat down again and pretended to read the book, all the time with one eye on Joe, waiting for him to sleep, but Joe never slept that night and neither did Walt.

Toward morning, Walt laid himself on the bed beside Joe. His body was then aching with the tension he had for so many hours, and even the fear of being close to Joe could not equal the fatigue and motionlessness of a marked man waiting for the shot which Walt had begun to think was inevitable. He even thought at times that he would welcome it and have this horrible nightmare over.

As he slid his body into the bed, Joe raised himself to his knees and pointed the gun at his face. “Now, Joe, I need rest and I won’t bother you. Let’s sleep. It is almost morning and sheep have to be cared for before long.”

As Walt lay there looking at Joe, he thought perhaps Lupe had another gun in the wagon; or if not, maybe he could catch Joe with his back to him and use his pocket knife. When it started to get light, Walt moved from the bed and began to search the storage bins under the benches for what he hoped would be another gun even though he never remembered having more than one gun at each sheep camp. As he searched, his fingers and hands moved the food articles and the necessary equipment for the sheep camp around as if he were searching for gold. When he had found the bins didn’t produce a weapon he wildly searched the drawers in the lower part of the bed rack for one. After he finished his search, he couldn’t believe there was not another gun, and he must have missed it in his haste. He went over each bin and drawer again and again with Joe’s cold stare on him.

As Walt gave up the search his eyes filled with tears for he remembered his lovely wife and children at home. Perhaps, he would never see them again. He even wondered what Joe would do with him once he had shot him. Would he throw him out in the snow and leave the sheep camp or would he bury him and tell the world that Walt had left the camp and never returned? The panic struck again and Walt felt like he could not go on.

“Joe, why won’t you talk to me? What have I done, Joe? I have a wife and children at home and they need me, Joe, like Dan’s wife and kids need him.”

But, Joe only looked with the glazed, crazy stare in his eyes and felt his gun.

As the sky lightened, Walt seemed to regain his courage and he wanted only to be out in the open. He put on his coat and fur lined cap and opened the door to the wagon.

He looked at Joe and said, “I must look after the sheep.”

If only Joe will stay here in the wagon and let me ride away, he thought. But as he moved to leave the wagon Joe moved off the bed and grabbed his coat, all the time keeping the gun on Walt and he followed Walt out of the wagon. Walt saddled his horse with Joe watching his every move. The weather had cleared and the wind had died down now. A new covering of snow was on the ground and they moved about untying and saddling the horses with difficulty.

Walt got on his horse and started to ride away, but Joe threw his saddle on his horse and was on Walt’s tail within seconds. Walt rounded up the sheep and started moving them gently about in search of sage brush that wasn’t covered with snow while Joe stayed just behind with his hand on the gun. All day, they moved together as a man and his shadow would move. Walt’s body felt like lead and the only time he felt life within himself was when the fear and panic would hit him as he looked at Joe’s gun.

When the sun was high in the sky, Walt turned his horse back to the camp wagon for he knew his horse needed food and water and he needed a drink of water badly himself. Even though he had time and again eaten the snow to wet his mouth, it was dry and parched as though he had a fever; the fever of fear.

Once back to the camp, Walt had no intention of going to the camp wagon for even with the frozen air, he felt safer outside than he did inside with this mad man. Walt filled the iron barrel with snow and started a fire under it with wood which had been stored under tarps for protection against the snow. He warmed himself beside the fire as he watched Joe doing the same, and he thought to himself that is was odd that he could not feel the cold that day - his only feeling was the fear that rose and fell within him. When the fire of fear would fall away, he felt nothing, but the fire of fear would course through him most of the time.

As he stood waiting for the snow to melt and the horses to feed from their feed bags, Joe moved into the camp wagon and vanished from Walt’s sight momentarily, then reappeared in the door of the camp wagon with a loaf of bread in his hand and was tearing at it with his teeth ravenously.

With the horses fed and watered, Walt spent the afternoon out caring for the sheep once more while the shadow of the gun hovered silently behind him.

When darkness came and the sheep were again bedded down for the night, Walt moved toward the camp wagon. His mind was tired with thinking and fearing and working all day, but he still had a hope that he could talk to Joe somehow, or if he watched closely, Joe, in his tiredness might make a slip and Walt could catch him off-guard.

Walt entered the camp wagon, after tying the horses up for the night, with fear and depression. How could he spend another night in this wagon with this crazy Mexican and gun in his face, but he knew to ride for help would only mean that Joe would shoot him in the back. Walt moved into the wagon and Joe moved in behind him. Walt removed his coat and as he was about to hang it up on the nail in the bow of the wagon, he saw Joe lay the gun on the seat beside him and reach to unbutton his coat. Walt threw himself on the gun and to his amazement, he found his hand tighten around it…

He crouched there with the gun in his hand and heard himself say, “Now it is my turn, Joe. I won’t go on living here in this sheep wagon with you any longer like this.” Joe’s hands went up as Walt stuck the gun in his ribs. “Get out the door, onto your horse and head for the train station 40 miles southwest.”

Joe moved rapidly outside. Walt pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. When Joe got on the horse, he’d just saddled, Walt handed Joe the money while he kept the gun pointed at him. “Here is your pay. I’m an honest man and you did your work, but get the hell out of here. I can’t put up with you.”

Joe grabbed the money and put his spurs to his horse’s flanks. Walt mounted the other horse bareback keeping the gun on Joe. He followed behind to make sure Joe left the area. He saw Joe drop something and back up and look; then spur his horse and gallop rapidly away from the barrel of the gun Walt held. Walt looked down in the snow for what Joe dropped expecting it to be gun shells. It was the roll of bills Walt had paid him for his work. Walt dismounted, picked up the roll of bills and galloped rapidly until he caught up with Joe. Joe was terrified as Walt approached and rode in front and cut him off to a stall holding the gun on him. Watching carefully and slowly Joe’s frightened face, Walt got off his horse and approached Joe handing him his money. “Joe, you earned this money, you need it for the train. I won’t shoot you but you must leave.”

Joe started to cry. Tears fell to the saddle and wet the snow. The man with the gun watched and wondered. “Joe, what did you think I would do? What did you think I said?” Joe replied, “I’m no coyote! “No, you are not a coyote. Let me stay, you are a good man. No, Joe, we had our misunderstanding. That’s over, but we can’t work together now. You are safe. Ride off toward Black Rock and take the train. Someday, I’ll see you again.”

Walt sat on his horse and watched as Joe disappeared over the desert horizon toward Black Rock and the train tracks. He lowered the gun to his side and peace filled his tired mind as he walked his horse toward the sheep camp wagon.