4 - Durant
I'd been in the area for a few days. The tribal police officer had been right. Most campgrounds were still closed, but I did find a small, state run facility between Durant and Hyattville who let me park the camper. It was pretty cool, an archeological and historical site. Petroglyphs and pictographs, ancient native drawings and dig site. It was on the south edge of the Big Horn National Forest but was a cross between savannah and mountains, flat desert-like land with some amazing rock cliffs. A lot like home. I was content there and had begun to develop a friendly relationship with the rangers and historians who worked the site.
After setting up camp and a few days of familiarizing myself with the area, I drove the half hour into Durant to finally replace my tire.
It was a quaint town, a mix of old, original buildings and newer, more modern establishments; country wood and brick verses flashing, neon We're Open signs.
Sugar and I wandered down Main Street looking in shop windows, killing time. Although the sun was high, it was still cool, and I wore a dark green hoodie over a pink t-shirt and black jeans. Stopping at my reflection in a fitness club window, I studied it carefully. Nothing to write home about. Nothing special. My sandy brown hair was cut short and tucked behind my ears. The usual. Easy to manage. But, it was beginning to grow out. I hadn't had it cut since leaving New York. My skin was pale. Years of being out in the sun had faded with months in a hospital. And, those months of immobility saw me pack on nearly thirty pounds. I cringed at the reflection wanting to look away. I had been fit, strong and muscular. I was used to being active, used to hard work. I missed it. The doctors had said that my physical conditioning was the reason I was healing so quickly. Bonus, I guess. That, and the fact that I refused to let my injuries get the better of me. I refused to stay in the wheelchair for long. Physio was a bitch but worth it. I was walking again, faster than they had anticipated.
As for the rest of it, I was used to having a pretty restricted diet, too. Two meals a day at best, at least when we were working which was most of the time. For the most part, we ate what the locals ate: lots of eggs, some chicken or goat, ugali or maize, hummus, a few root vegetables, some fruits, mandazi or some other sort of bread. Rice and stews were pretty common as they tended to fill you up easily. Sometimes, we got care packages from the Organization. Those were "treat" days, and we tended to shared them with others in the village. The staff at the hospital thought I was too thin and insisted on an IV and feeding me the worst food I'd ever eaten…and that says something as I'd eaten some pretty strange stuff. A colleague from The Secretariat proudly snuck in a fast food hamburger which I politely tried and which promptly made an unpleasant return visit. My stomach simply couldn't tolerate such a drastic change – high fat, processed food, but the hospital pushed food on me anyway sometimes having a nurse stand guard to make sure I finished it all. Now that I was on my own, I was able to modify and adjust my choices, to eat what I wanted, when I wanted, and I was starting to shed the pounds. Still, I hated how I looked. Time, they kept saying. Give it time. At least, none of the scars showed. They were all under the clothes. Thank heaven for small blessings.
Moving on, I circled around the town square. People milled about, stopping to chat, going on with their business, passing through on one of the several concrete paths, or resting on one of the many wooden benches. I chose a bench near the center of the square and tied Sugar to the arm rest. It was a good place to people watch while I waited for my car to be fixed.
A young mother, her long, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, pushing a white and navy stroller wandered by, chatting animatedly into her Bluetooth. I chuckled as it looked like she was having quite the conversation with herself.
Two old men in heavy cardigans and worn trousers played a quiet game of checkers on another bench.
A frazzled looking mother and young teenage boy emerged from an almost hidden entrance between a clothing store and a fabric shop on Main Street. She didn't look very happy, and as I squinted, I noticed they'd exited the police station. I found a bit of humor where I shouldn't have and wondered what the boy could have done.
Further to my right and down a path, an older, native woman in well-worn clothes dug through a garbage can, a straggly dog looking hopefully up at her. She unearthed a take-out box and pulled out the remnants, feeding the hungry pup. My heart rose in my throat, and my humor instantly vanished. Even here there was poverty, often ignored. I reached down to stroke Sugar's head. I'd seen poverty at its extreme. I knew it existed everywhere. But, it shouldn't have to. Not here anyway.
I checked my watch. The garage had said the car would be ready within the hour. It was almost time.
A rumbling caught my attention as I prepared to stand. A light grey pickup pulled into a parking spot on the other side of the square and a young man got out. The head of a Golden Lab pup poked up from the flatbed and watched as the man walked away. It jumped up placing its front paws on the side of the gate and began to whine then barked, but the man ignored it. As I started to untied Sugar from the bench, one eye kept a concerned watch on the pup. Then, as quick as a flash, the pup jumped from the back of the truck. Scrambling feet, panicked yelp, it hung by its neck, the rope tied firmly to the crossbar.
"No. No. No. No. No." I dropped Sugar's leash and ran faster than I thought I could the hundred or so feet down the path to the truck scooping the terrified dog into my arms trying to give the rope some slack. The pup's paws flailed, sharp claws scratching my arms and chin, its feet finding no purchase. I struggled to hold him in one arm while trying to untie the rope with the other when another set of hands grabbed the panicked creature from me.
"I have him," a strong voice said. "Untie!"
My fingers worked quickly on the tightened knot until it finally gave way, the whole time the strong voice spoke soothingly calming the frightened pup.
"Okay, I've got it," I said, letting the rope drop.
The tall man knelt to put the pup on the ground and examined it while the crowd that had gathered applauded the heroic rescue. I knelt to stroke the pup's head. It was still shaking, gratefully licking whoever its tongue could reach.
"You poor thing," I crooned. Then, I asked the man "Is it normal for people to tie their animals in the back of their trucks?"
"Unfortunately, yes," he replied simply, satisfied that no lasting damage had been done.
"Hey, Injun!" an angry shout came from the other side of the crowd. "Whatch'u doin' with my dog?" The young man had returned.
The Indian stood tall, at least six feet, and looked down at the younger man. "Duke Patterson," he began calmly, but I could see his jaw flex in restrained anger. "Your dog nearly hung himself. You should know better than to put a young pup like that in the back. He'll earn his place there eventually, but not yet."
"Hey, Henry." The man calmed. "Didn't know it was you. He really try to hang himself?" He finally looked concerned for the dog, bending to pat its head as it scrambled at his knee.
"I am sure he just wanted to follow you," Henry said, softening slightly. "Animals grow attachments to people. They can be good ones. Strong, if nurtured properly. You have a dog here that loves you, Duke. He'll be loyal if treated well. Remember that."
The young man nodded.
"Besides," Henry began, "it wasn't me who saved your dog. It was…" He turned, but I had already gone, backed out through the crowd, unseen, while the confrontation between the men was still heated. I didn't need or want acknowledgement. The pup was safe. That's all that mattered.
I limped back to the bench, my right leg and back feeling the strain that I had just put it through, and finished untying a patient Sugar.
"Sorry, sweetie," I apologized nuzzling into her neck. "Some people don't deserve to have animals."
"And some people should stick around to be thanked." That strong, calm voice was behind me.
Placing my hands on my knees, I stifled a groan trying to straighten up. Turning, I had to tip my head back a bit to see his face.
"I don't want thanks," I said taking Sugar's leash and starting to limp away.
"You're new around here," he said. "It's not tourist season. Are you just passing through?"
"Yes," I replied. "Blew a tire. Had to get it fixed."
"Did you take it to Nate's?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the garage.
I smiled politely wanting to move on. "Yes." It had been recommended by the park ranger out at Medicine Lodge, but I wasn't about to tell a stranger where I was staying.
"Nate does good work. I'm Henry." He held his hand out, a friendly gesture, a warm smile.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Henry." I cautiously shook his hand. "I have to get going. My car should be ready by now."
Henry's eyebrows rose at the lack of a return introduction, then he noticed the limp. "You're hurt." With two, long strides, he was beside me.
"Old injury," I replied casually. Ya, I thought sardonically, a whole ten months old.
We walked in silence until we reached the sidewalk.
"Why the harness?" He noticed that although Sugar wore a collar, her leash was strapped to a harness around her body.
I stopped, turning to him, quietly but firmly answering, "How would you like it if someone pulled you around by the neck? Animals should be treated with respect. Avoid harm or indignity where you can."
Henry looked at me with an expression I couldn't explain. He probably thought I was nuts, so I started to walk away again.
"Would you have coffee with me?" he suddenly asked.
Taken aback, I turned and replied, "I don't drink coffee."
"Tea, then? Hot chocolate? A soda? Ice water?" He smiled as the list grew, absently acknowledging a passer-by who greeted him.
"Thank you for the invitation." I noticed the wave. "But, I don't know you from the next guy. For all I know, you could be a serial killer looking for his next victim." But, in my gut, I knew that was wrong. I sensed a gentle soul.
He snorted a small laugh that reached his eyes and walked with me to the garage creating small talk along the way. He greeted Nate with a hearty handshake.
"Hey, Henry," Nate returned, clapping the Indian on the shoulder. "Long time, no see. That truck of yours has more lives than a cat."
Henry's smile grew. "Indeed. It has spirit. Is this lovely lady's car ready yet?" He gestured toward me.
"Yup. About ten minutes ago."
I paid the mechanic and as Nate went to fetch the keys, Henry held out his hand again. I took it more easily this time, and he held on for a moment giving it a slow shake.
"It was a pleasure meeting you," he quietly said. "I hope we run into each other again. If not, have a safe trip wherever the road may take you."
"Thank you," I replied as I took the keys from Nate and headed to my car.
"Quiet for a woman," Nate said as they watched me leave.
"Mmm," Henry replied taking note of the car as I drove off.
