Paul, he tended to avoid, but was invariably polite to. Nick was the only one he really ignored and generally avoided. Merry, to Jeebee’s surprise, he greeted, if only occasionally. Clearly, he regarded Jeebee and himself as social outsiders.
However, at his first close meeting with Merry, Wolf was almost effusive toward her.
It was the last sort of behavior Jeebee had expected. Merry happened to be off her horse at the time, and the other dogs were within view, but not close to her, when Wolf first approached her. He went directly to her, with ears back, head low, tail wagging, and she squatted to meet him, talking to him as if he was one of the dogs. He licked at her face, squatted, and urinated a few drops, then fell on his side and rolled over on his back, as though inviting a belly scratch.
Jeebee could not repress a small feeling of jealousy. He had been with Wolf for weeks before Wolf had invited him to as much familiarity. But here he seemed ready to make friends with Merry with no further courtesies or introductions needed.
Feeling unwanted, Jeebee left them both to each other and went up front to join Paul on the wagon seat.
“Good you came up,” said Paul. “It’s about time we had a bit of a talk anyway.”
“Oh,” Jeebee replied. He was instantly alert.
“Yes,” said Paul. “Do you know where we are now?”
Jeebee shook his head.
“We’re a little beyond Weston,” said Paul. “In Wyoming.”
“Wyoming?” Jeebee stared at Paul. “You knew I was headed north towald Montana.”
“I know. I knew,” said Paul. “You’re still determined to go find your brother’s place?”
“I have to,” said Jeebee. “I’ve got to find a safe place for what I have in my head about the work I used to do. Someplace to keep it alive against the time civilization can use it again.”
“Right. I thought you still felt that way,” said Paul. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you, now. A little beyond here—about thirty miles or so—before we get to what used to be Buffalo, and before we get into the Bighorns, I’ll be turning south to start the long swing down and back east again. So we’re just about at the point where we’re going one way and you’re going to be going another.”
Jeebee realized with a sudden shock that he had not expected their parting to come so soon. It had been well over a month since he had joined them. He had fallen into the way of life of the wagon, got used to it; and he was now almost more at home here with Paul, Merry, and Nick, than he had been at any place else in his life, except when he had been very young. He suddenly realized that, unconsciously, he had been looking forward to this state of affairs going on almost indefinitely.
Even Wolf had fallen into the pattern. He now announced his arrival at the wagon at dawn or twilight with a howl, and the dogs had come to respond by howling back.
Also he had preempted the box-sided back steps of the wagon as his own place when traveling with them. He was enclosed and secure—and above any of the dogs who might approach him.
But now, all at once, Jeebee found himself face-to-face again with the prospect of pushing on alone. Particularly alone, that would be, if Wolf would not come with him after setting up his relationships with Merry, Greta, and the other wagon dogs. The thought of being alone once more was like having cold water dumped over him, just when he had grown accustomed to a warm and gentle shower, to waken his sleep-chilled body in the morning.
“Where did you say we were?”
“Just short of the Bighorns,” said Paul. “Day after tomorrow, I turn south. I thought you’d want to make plans.”
“Yes, I’ll have to,” said Jeebee, his mind lost in a welter of questions. He was trying to summon up a picture of the Wyoming-Montana border and how the geography of Montana was, farther north. It had been nearly fifteen years since he had visited his brother’s ranch; and he had been only twelve years old. He had flown into Billings, his brother had met him at the airport, and driven for about an hour and a half to get to the ranch. They had driven north to Musselshell, which they had passed through just before they reached the edges of his brother’s ranch.
“I wish I had a better idea of how the land lies around here,” he said almost to himself.
Without a word, Paul reached behind the wagon seat and came up with a folded paper that he passed to Jeebee.
Jeebee took it and unfolded it. It was an AAA auto map showing Montana and sections of the bordering states of Wyoming, South and North Dakota. He spread it on his knees, studying it.
“Do you want some advice?” Paul asked.
“Yes.” Jeebee looked up at the other man with the blue eyes and the gray beard. “I need all the help I can get. All the advice I can get.”
“Well… ” Paul passed the reins to Jeebee. “Here, you take the team.”
He took the map off Jeebee’s knees and, laying it on his own knees, began with one finger to trace a route.
“Here you are, approaching what’s left of Buffalo from the east, on 1-90. Now, you don’t want to get into the mountains, particularly not the Bighorns. I’d suggest you start off straight north, going around Buffalo and Sheridan, and swing east when you get into Montana, to avoid the reservation, here. You might not get into any trouble trying to go straight through it, and it certainly takes you out of your way not to, but things are a little different in reservation territory—and who can blame them? No, I’d suggest you go around it, then hit back northwest—from what you’ve told me your brother’s ranch is about midway up the state, pretty much in the middle?”
“The last town I can remember him taking me through on the way there, years ago when I was small, was Musselshell,” Jeebee answered. He no longer felt any need to conceal his general destination from any of these people.
“All right, then,” said Paul, his finger pushing up the paper. “You head roughly northwest after you swing around the eastern edge of the reservation; in fact after you’ve gone between it and the Custer National Forest, go straight north across old highway 94 and right on to here. Here’s Musselshell, on highway 12. I mean the town of Musselshell.”
Jeebee nodded.
“I’d give you this map to take with you,” said Paul, “only it’s one of those things that aren’t easy to find nowadays—”
“It’s all right,” Jeebee interrupted, “one of the things I managed to hold on to in my backpack was my road maps for that part of the route—like this one.”
“Then you’re taken care of,” said Paul. “Hand me back the reins.”
CHAPTER 12
“Now,” said Paul, “with the map business settled, we’ve got something else to talk about. Remember, we never settled on exactly what you’d get by way of pay?”
Jeebee, who had begun to leave the wagon seat, sat back down again.
“I forgot all about it,” he said.
“You’d make a fine peddler,” Paul said dryly. “Well, let’s talk about it now. You put in well over a month with us—call it two months—so that’d be two months wages plus how many gold pieces did you say you had in that belt of yours?”
“Twenty-three,” Jeebee answered unthinkingly.
“All right,” said Paul. “What I can give you for that is essentially one riding horse, ammunition for those two rifles of yours, and some basic food supplies, flour, bacon, and maybe some other things like baking soda and salt and sugar. I can’t give you winter clothes, but I’ve got blankets and three plastic tarpaulins that’ll match well enough with the one you’ve got to let you set up something more than a pup tent; plus a saddle, rope, and packing gear. But that’s about it.”