Short Stories & Tall Tales
Clayton and the Coyote
Kerry Taylor
Clayton Montgomery and his friend Joe Tallman were some very tired hunters as they rode down the rough dusty road toward the Montgomery ranch. “Clay’s Angus Ranch”, as most called it was west of Saddle String, Wyoming, at the foot of the Big Horn Mountains. The sun was low and golden, and not as blinding as usual as Clay drove directly into it, toward home. Late in the fall of the year, the air is filled with Aspen leaves and dust, turning the evening aglow in shades of yellow.
Clay’s stock trailer was chocked full with pack mules and saddle horses. They too were worn out from a two week hunting trip up in the Crow reservation country. Joe was near full blood Crow and his relatives owned prime elk hunting land where they both had killed very respectable bulls.
As they drove into the large gravel covered clearing in front of the old log house, Jesse, Clay’s wife and Carrie, his 4 year old daughter ran out of the house onto the big raised porch. Clay’s smile was so wide his chapped lips cracked with pain. He was happier then, returning to his beautiful home and family than he had ever been. A good part of his life had been a world away from the love and contentment he was now becoming accustom to. He thought briefly of the days when he was sure such blessings would always evade him.
He had grown up in California, near San Francisco, though he would now be mistaken as a native Wyoming cowboy, with no trace of the left coast in him. His mother was born and raised not far from Clay’s ranch at his grandfather’s home. A scholarship to Stanford University brought her to California where she met Clay’s father. Clayton was born a few years later and made several vacation trips with his parents back to Wyoming where he developed a strong bond with his grandfather. Clay’s grandfather was Chet Chesterman, a taxidermist, outfitter, and genuine buckaroo. He’d rodeoed in the early days with Slim Pickens and Ben Johnson. The tales of rounders and rodeos stuck in Clay’s mind as did the wildness and character of Wyoming.
When Clay was just a young boy he began to realize that his mother was strange at times. She was very loving most of the time, almost excessively so. Then she would withdraw and become unpredictable. Uncontrolled fits of rage would develop out of a simple disagreement with his father or a friend. At nine, his father confided in him that his mother was suffering from mental illness.
Summer became the redemption for the difficulties the year had brought. Clay’s parents started sending him to stay with his grandfather in Wyoming; it was fantastic. Grandpa Chet was attentive and took Clay everywhere with him, and where Chet went was always interesting. Clay learned to ride, shoot and hunt and much about taxidermy. Clay was twelve when he and his grandfather were driving down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere taking a newly mounted mountain lion to a client, when Chet pulled to the side of the road.
Clay looked at him and asked, “What are we stopping for?”
Grandpa Chet spit tobacco juice over his left shoulder and replied, “I figure it’s time you drove this old pickup. How’s about you come around here in jump into the driver’s seat”?
From then on, Clay drove everywhere they went. Addie, Clay’s step-grandmother was a little nervous at first, but later told Clay he was the best darn pickup driver there ever was. Addie was as dear as a grandma could be, and would cook up whatever Clay thought might be to his liking.
The end of summer would come all too soon and Clay would have to get on that bus headed west. Back home and back to school. He wished he could stay in Wyoming. That summer stayed in Clay’s mind and he would remember it as the best of his childhood. He wouldn’t go back to grandpa’s place and enjoy the Chet’s stories and his affection anymore.
The next years would be a long season of discontent. His mother withdrew completely from reality and was eventually confined to a mental institution. She never spoke again and was unresponsive. Grandpa Chet became ill and slowly deteriorated. He didn’t want anyone to visit him in the care facility where he eventually passed on. Then, just after Clay’s thirteenth birthday, his father was severely injured in a fire at the refinery where he worked and died three days later.
Clayton was alone and devastated. The world had tilted over and dumped him in the ditch. Confused and angry he was overwhelmed. He pleaded with God to restore his family and his life; to no avail. The State put him in Foster care. Quickly he was becoming bitter and withdrawn. He couldn’t understand why his life would suddenly become so dreadful. He’d always been well behaved and kind. He was a loving and caring person, outgoing and good-natured. Now he was alone and confined to a room with two teenagers who were recently released from the California Youth Authority.
In school he sat quietly in his own little world, he lost any interest in learning or involvement in class. Soon his only association was with the “problem students.”
Within months he too was reprimanded to the Youth Authority for joy riding. Released on probation, he was soon back in confinement for fighting and not cooperating with the police. The cycle went on for three years, until he appeared in front of a Judge who had seen enough out of this delinquent. After a ten minute hearing, He asked Clay “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t sentence you to two years internment.”
Clay looked up at him, his eyes opened wide as a tear ran down his cheek when he began to speak.
“There is no one on this earth that could give a dam if you did Judge.”
The judge looked at him. Clay saw the compassion that he remembered in his grandfather’s eyes.
Then he replied, “I would care Clay, would you.”
“I’m not sure I know sir,” responded Clay.
“I tell you what Mr. Montgomery; I’m going to send you to a counselor for a year. If I see you back here again, you’re going to be behind bars until you are eighteen,” with that the gavel sounded.
That began a turn in direction for Clay. A good physiologist worked with him that year and helped him deal with the tragedies that had devastated his life. He began to respond and take interest in school again. If he tried he couldn’t get a failing grade, it just came too easy for him. He understood anything an instructor said right away and his memory was photographic. His outlook was brighter and a smile appeared occasionally.
Grandpa Chet had left some inheritance and there was also insurance and settlement money from his father’s death that would be his when he turned eighteen. So soon after graduating from high school Clay had the means to go in any direction he wished. He considered college, but where he wanted to be was Wyoming.
Clay understood that the money would go quickly if he were to buy everything that he took a fancy to. He figured to invest it in bonds and only allow himself enough money to get by until he could find a job. He bought a used pickup and a stock trailer with a camper in it and hoped to find work on a ranch where he could keep a horse for himself.
That summer he was packed and ready to head for Wyoming. A few friends said goodbye and he donned his new straw cowboy hat; then was off to see if he could regain the happiness that Wyoming had brought him years ago.
It was tough at first; he had found a place to park his trailer out west of Buffalo and started asking for work anyplace that might be in need a strong young man. Ranches, stock yards, outfitters, loggers and anywhere that looked as though the work would be outdoors. Several weeks went by and the polite rebuffs were piling up like cordwood. People were nice, but most said the same thing, “What kind of work have you done in the past, boy?”
He was getting discouraged a bit, but he figured that eventually something would work out, and it finally did, after a month of steady searching. He happened onto a ranch west of Saddle String owned by Lyle Flood. He’d asked Lyle if he could use a hand on the place. He could see that it covered thousands of acres and they ran hundreds of cattle. Lyle asked the same question.
This time Clay answered, “To be honest Mr. Flood, I haven’t ever had a real job workin’ cattle, but my grandpa taught me some about ridin’ and handling cattle.
“Who was your grandpa son?” asked Lyle.
“He was Chet Chesterman sir,” answered Clay. “He had a place south of here where he had a taxidermy shop.”
“Chet Chesterman?” replied Lyle, “Chet was a good friend of mine boy. If you got some a Chet’s blood, you might make a decent hand.”
“I’d work hard for you sir. I can learn quick and I won’t cause you any problems,” said Clay.
“Have you got any idea of how tough bein’ a buckaroo is boy? You have-’ta work sunup to sundown without fussin’ ‘bout nothin’,” said Lyle.
The deal was done and Clay pulled his trailer out to Lyle’s place. It was a beautiful place and it covered nearly 3,500 acres. Lyle was right though, the work never stopped. Sunday was an off day, but that usually didn’t work out either.
Lyle and Clay got on pretty well. Clay told him all about California and his tribulations. Lyle admired the boy for his honesty and tried to help him overcome the loss of his family by including him in family occasions once in a while.
Clay worked his tail off around the ranch.
In what spare time he had he took up repairing tack and saddles. Over the years he became proficient in tooling and found that he was somewhat of an artist when it came to such things. He didn’t leave the place much. Didn’t go out partying like the other young bucks and spent the evenings doing something productive, like his saddle work.
The years went on pretty quickly. Clay had become a cowman and learned about most everything concerning raising the critters. He enjoyed the cowboy life and the people he associated with. They were honest and ethical folks for the most part and he realized why he had yearned to return to the place and the way of life.
He’d been there for six years when Lyle approached him one day.
“Hey Clay, come ‘ere. I got somethin’ to tell you. I wanted to let you know right away that I’ve decided to retire and move somewhere warm. I’m gonna sell the place, but I’ll do my best to see you can stay on here and work for the new owner.”
Clay was taken aback a bit. He sat down on a rail and looked a bit bewildered.
“I know,” said Lyle, “Things change though, and sometimes it’s for the better. Maybe this is one of those times.”
“How much you gonna ask for the place Lyle?” asked Clay.
“Well son, a lot more than you will ever earn in your lifetime cowboyin’,” answered Lyle.
“Yea that could be Lyle, but I ain’t as poor as you might think,” replied Clay, “How much?”
Lyle told him and Clay’s response was, “That’s too much.” Lyle told him that he knew that, but he had to put out a high price and hope to settle on something close to the fair market value. Clay made him an offer.
“What are you a talkin’ ‘bout boy?” You can’t raise that kind-a money, now forgit it,” said Lyle.
“Hold on now Lyle,” said Clay, “I’ll give it to you tomorrow in cash money. I’ve got it the bank!”
“Are you serious,” asked Lyle, “you’ve really got that kind of money and you been workin’ here all these years?”
The deal was done and the ranch was Clay’s in a month’s time. He moved into the big log house after Lyle and his family moved away. He bought the furniture and everything in it except their personal items. He went in for the first time late one afternoon and sat down in a big leather chair that was well worn, but had a lot of character. He was happy with himself. He was 26 years old and was the owner of a large productive cattle ranch. He felt like Grandpa Chet reached down and patted him on the back. He teared up for a few minutes, then got up and went back to work.
Clay needed more help now working the cattle. That’s when he hired Joe Tallman. He had known Joe for awhile now, and figured he was a good hand and an honest guy. He kept another full time hand on, and hired some seasonal help as well. The work load was never ending though, and it was getting harder to keep up on his saddle making. His reputation as an excellent custom saddle maker was growing and several organizations were starting to contract with him to make prize saddles. Soon Clay hired another full time ranch hand and turned a good deal of the day to day responsibility over to Joe, which allowed him to spend more time in the saddle shop.
Prosperity has a way of multiplying it’s self, just the same as poverty does. Fortunately, Clay was experiencing success, both in his saddle business and cattle business. Joe did a great job handling the cattle and maintenance on the place, and he and Clay became close friends. They spent a little time away from the place hunting. It became a welcome break from the constant and consistent demands of ranch business. They would plan two or three short trips a year to hunt elk and deer, or bear. Planning those hunting trips were often the topic of conversation. Other friends would join them on pack trips into the back country. Their expeditions were exhilarating vacations.
On the last day of one of those elk hunting forays they returned to camp as the sun was going down. They planned to head home the next morning with the big bull that Joe had taken. It hung in quarters, high in a tree 50 yards from camp. The temperature had hardly gotten above 40 degrees for the entire week they had been there and it was thoroughly frozen. As Clay started to push back the flap on the sheep herder’s tent he heard a noise from inside. He stepped back a bit and drew the 22 magnum revolver from the holster on his hip. He grabbed a stick from the nearby firewood pile and slowly pushed back the flap of the tent. All hell broke loose inside the tent, and it sounded like a bear was remodeling the interior. Clay stepped back again.
Joe said, “What the heck is going on in there?”
Clay answered, “There’s some kind a critter in there, get over here and help me.”
They both stood there nervously like a couple of frighten school boys.
Clay said, “Go on in there and see what it is.”
Joe looked at him with both eyebrows raised and said, “Like hell, you go in there.”
Clay stepped forward and raised the stick again toward the tent. Slowly he pulled back the flap again. Gun in hand he maneuvered around to see what was in there. He didn’t see anything move, so he stepped forward again. Nothing…but pots and pans, and cots and gear, all of it upside down. Then, a snarl sound like a rabid dog. He moved back, still not seeing anything move in the dark tent. He asked Joe to go around to the side and lift the window flaps up to let in some light. The light shined in to reveal what looked to be a long snout and little pointed ears behind a mess of sleeping bag and netting that were the pocket organizers that hung from the cots for small gear.
He called to Joe, “It looks like a fox or a coyote all tangled up in our gear.”
Joe said, “Are you going to shoot it?”
“No”, answered Clay, “I don’t want blood all over my bag and gear. Let’s see if we can get it loose and out of here.”
As he moved forward the little coyote growled and snapped as it struggled to move. Clay could see that he was pinned down good. It didn’t look as though the critter was going anywhere. He looked carefully trying to figure how to untangle the squealing coyote. Finally he took out his skinning knife and started cutting the netting. He slowly cut the material trying not to scare the coyote. He was hoping that it would run out the tent door like a mouse when he had it loose. When the last bit of netting fell away the coyote tried to jump and run. It fell flat on his belly on the ground a foot from where it started. It just lay there not moving.
“Come in here Joe,” hollered Clay.
Joe stepped inside. He looked and said, “What’s wrong with it?”
Clay answered, “I don’t know, but it looks like it broke its front leg, or maybe both front legs.”
Joe said, “I reckon we better take it out and put it down.”
Clay looked at the little young coyote laying there not moving. He touched it on the side. It didn’t move. Then he touched its leg, it still didn’t move. He picked up his leg and felt of it, then the other front leg.
He said, “they’re both broke. I guess I scared it when I started in and it got tangled up in that netting. Must’ve struggled so hard that it broke both legs. Poor little guy, that’s too bad.”
He carried it out of the tent wrapped in the cut up netting so it couldn’t bite him. He put it down by a big tree and stepped back a bit. Then he took his pistol out of the holster again and pointed it at the little coyote’s head. He just stood there like that for 30 seconds.
Joe finally said, “What, are you waiting for it to confess, or what?”
Clay answered, “I don’t think I can shoot the darn little critter.”
“What,” said Joe, “I’ve seen you shoot a hundred coyotes.”
“Yea,” said Clay, “but I can’t bring myself to shoot this one, I don’t know why.”
Clay found some stiff poly tubing that they used to pipe water from the creek to the camp. Cut in half it was about the right size for leg splits. He wrapped cloth around the legs of the coyote, and then taped the splints around his legs. It just lay there all that time. The coyote didn’t even look at Clay. It was as though he had given up and just quit resisting. Clay covered him with a saddle blanket and put him over near the fire.
They cooked dinner and the two other hunters who were with them rode into camp. There was a lot of talk about Clay doctoring up the coyote around the camp fire. Clay said he was going to take it home and try to nurse it back to health. He took a bit of meat over and put it near the little coyote. It instinctively grabbed it and swallowed it quickly.
Joe said, “You might as well give it a name, if you’re going to make a pet out of it.”
“What is coyote in the Crow language,” asked Clay.
“Coyote,” said Joe.
“No, I mean in your ancestral language Joe, what’s the word for coyote,” replied Clay.
“Coyote is the Crow word for coyote. Where do you think you honkies got the word?” said Joe.
“Really,” replied Clay? “I guess I’ll have to call him Two Broken Legs or somethin’ like that.”
“How about Bish-ka,” said Joe, “that means Little Dog.”
“That’ll work,” said Clay.
Joe said, “You know that Old Man Coyote was the creator of all according to Crow legend, don’t you?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” answered Clay.
“Yea, it’s like Genesis, but the creator was a coyote. Maybe God is trying to tell you something, hu Clay?” said Joe.
“You’re not going to start in again about religion again are you? I’ve told you that I don’t want to hear about it, said Clay.”
“Okay,” said Joe, “just reminding you that, Old Man Coyote or God…there still is a creator out there waiting for you to acknowledge Him.”
“Sure Joe, the little coyote has come to save me… okay,” said Clay.
The coyote rode in a pack saddle back to the trailhead and in the back of the truck all the way back to the ranch. The next day Clay loaded Bish-ka into the back of the truck and headed into town to the local veterinaries office. The receptionist looked at them when Clay carried him in and said,
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone bring a coyote into the vet’s office before. “ Doctor Jessica will see you soon.” And she did. Clay had never seen this vet before, she was new to the office, and she was somethin’. She looked over the coyote and x-rayed him. Then she said, “You’ve done a pretty good job of splinting his legs, but I’ll fit him with some proper supports. I think he will mend okay. May I ask why you would want a coyote for a pet”?
Clay answered, “I don’t really want him for a pet. After he mends I’ll take him back up the mountain and release him.” Dr. Jessica smiled a bit and Clay thought maybe she was looking him over and sizing him up.
She was the prettiest veterinary he’d ever seen. She was the prettiest anything he’d ever seen. He asked if he should bring Bish-ka back for a follow-up. She said that it wouldn’t be necessary. But Clay responded that he would feel much better if she would look at the little coyote again in a couple of weeks. So he made another appointment.
Clay had to just about force feed the little fellow for awhile, but after a week, Bish-ka would eat and drink from a bowl placed in front of him. He was confined to the tack room in the barn, so if he did manage to get to his feet he couldn’t go far.
After a week Clay could hand feed the crippled coyote at arm’s length, but as his strength returned the coyote moved away from anyone trying to touch him. He took Bish-ka back to Dr. Jessica when the two weeks had passed. This time Clay cleaned up good and had on a clean white purl button shirt instead of his usual un-tucked tee shirt. He even combed his long blond hair and left his hat in the truck. Dr. Jessica came right out after his arrival and didn’t keep him waiting.
She looked over Bish-ka and told Clay, “I think he will be okay, but I’m not sure that he will regain normal use of his right front leg. The knee joint is damaged and it may not function correctly. He may not ever be fit enough to make it on his own. Time will tell.”
Clay said, “Would some kind of physical therapy help him?”
“It might Mr. Montgomery, but do you really want to go to that expense?” answered Dr. Jessica.
“Maybe if I brought him in once a week you could exercise that knee and he would be sound again. What do you think?” asked Clay.
“Well,” said Dr. Jessica, I don’t think that would be necessary, you could easily do that, but I could look at him from time to time to check him out. Or was it you who was hoping to be checked out?”
“I guess I’m not exactly suave, am I Dr. Jessica. How about if I buy you lunch tomorrow and we talk some more about Bish-ka’s therapy” said Clay.
“If you will call me Jessie, I’ll go to lunch with you,” she responded.
At lunch the next day they talked about Bish-ka some, but the conversation went mostly toward learning about one another. There was an immediate interest from both sides of the table. By the end of lunch they agreed to see each other again soon.
After a couple of months Clay and Jessie had dated four times and the phone line between them had seen a lot of traffic. Bish-ka could now walk without any support to his legs. He couldn’t move very quickly and limped badly. But he was improving. Clay wanted the coyote to be able to return to the wild. He was hoping it would soon be running and capable of hunting and taking care of its self. Eventually he opened the tack room door and to see if Bish-ka would run for the woods, or hopefully hang around, at least until he was strong enough to take care of himself. He had grown some too; a young pup still, but starting to mature.
Bish-ka moved slowly out of the barn, looking around for threats. He obviously didn’t like being out in the open around humans and their surroundings. Cautiously he made his way to the opening beneath the front porch of the house, where he crawled under and laid down. Clay could see that the little coyote might never run and hunt again.
Bish-ka got used to his surroundings over time, but he wouldn’t go far from the security of the front porch. Clay started trying to get him to come along with him when he worked around the place. After a time Bish-ka would follow him at a distance. Never coming close enough for Clay to touch him and he shied away from other people even more.
Over time Bish-ka grew into a full sized beautiful coyote. He stayed around the house and would follow Clay from a few steps behind everywhere he went. He’d even jump in the back of the truck when Clay would holler, “load up.” He would never let Clay or anyone else touch him without a struggle, but even then he wouldn’t bite anyone.
Clay and Jessie dated for a year or more and found that they were as matched as a pair of Roy Rogers purl handled pistols. They married and the Montgomery Ranch became a family business. Carrie came along a couple of years later and Clay was riding high. He couldn’t have imagined when he was a teenager that he would ever come so far above the depths from which he had fallen. He had a profound appreciation for his home and family because he knew how different life could be.
Clay didn’t go hunting as often as he did before he and Jessie were married, but he made sure that she understood that once or twice a year he needed to get into the wilderness and chase big elk. She understood, and he and Joe had their hunt well planned by the fall of the year Carrie turned four. They were bow hunting in the early season when it’s still warm in the Big Horn Mountains.
Bow hunting is more challenging than rifle hunting in some respects. Patience and stealth are the primary requirement. Bish-ka always went where Clay did, even hunting. Clay had taught him to lie quietly when they stalked the big antlered bulls. He was even an asset; he would tilt his head when he caught the scent or heard the sound of the big animals. That, would be long before Clay knew they were nearby.
With Bish-ka’s keen hearing, and a tilt of his head, Clay knew that elk were nearby. He and Joe stood in full camo behind aspen trees, bows drawn and ready. The crash of hooves sounded and Bish-ka crawled on his belly under a bush. Through the trees slightly down hill they saw legs moving through the heavy growth. They aimed toward a small clearing 45 yards away and waited for the elk to appear. At a leisurely walk a big bull stepped into view. They waited to see if more would appear. Another bull, this one a 7X8 stepped into view. With signals and a pre arranged agreement on who would get the best shot on that day, Clay released his arrow in the direction of the big guy, and a half second later, Joe let his fly toward the smaller bull.
The 7X8 dropped in his tracks and the bull Joe shot made it about 40 yards before they saw the big antlers fall to earth. A big hoop and holler and hi five followed, then a Crow victory dance by Joe. Bish-ka wagged his tail as they walked toward the big one that Clay shot. At close inspection they were well pleased with the culmination of their planning.
Clay said, “Well so much for celebrating, the hard part starts now”.
Both elk had to be gutted, skinned and quartered, then packed in quarters into pack saddles for the long ride out. Three hours later Clay’s was done and they were down hill working on Joe’s.
Joe and Clay were busy trying to get the work done before sunset, when Bish-ka stood up with his back hair bristling. He started to growl and he looked frightened. Clay and Joe turned quickly to look in the direction Bish-ka was looking. There just coming over the knoll above them came a cub grizz, then not far behind, the biggest sow grizzly bear either had ever seen. The bear was headed straight toward them and the gut pile.
There are strict regulations about bow hunting elk. You cannot carry a gun while hunting elk in bow season. Their bows were 20 yards down hill where the horses were tied; their only weapon was the bear spray on their belts. They stood still, hoping that the big bear would go for the gut pile left uphill where Clay’s bull was dressed. Then with a little luck they could back away slowly from the animal they were working on. She came in a trot, she was hungry. She didn’t go to the left toward the other gut pile; she was coming straight at them. At 15 yards Clay put his hands in the air and started yelling like a war chief. She didn’t even slow down. He aimed the bear spray directly at her, at three yards he let it go. It spit a glob of gooey liquid out about three feet and that was it. No telling how long that spray had been in Clay’s day pack. Joe was 15 feet away, but he was spraying his as far as it would go; which wasn’t far enough to stop the bear from getting to Clay.
With a quick move, like swatting a fly, she batted Clay right in the ribs. He flew down hill a bit and landed in a heap. He was dazed and trying to get some air back in his lungs. The bear was moving toward him, but so was Bish-ka. Growling and snarling like a wolf he ran in. He jumped up on top of Clay’s chest and challenged the mighty beast. As she moved close enough, Bish-ka bit as hard as he could, right on the end of her nose. She shook her head and backed up. Bish-ka showed every tooth that he had and made as much noise as he could. Joe’s spray was spent; he and Clay figured they were dead men. The big bear threw her head in a circular motion while her eyes stayed fixed on Bish-ka. All of a sudden, she wheeled around and ran up the hill like a whipped dog with her tail between her legs, the cub in tow.
Joe dropped to his knees, shaking he said, “thank you God, thank you for old man coyote.”
Clay sat up, leaning against a tree. Bish-ka still stood in his lap, still watching for the bear. Clay reached out and touched Bish-ka, stroking him behind his head. Bish-ka dropped his ears in a submissive way and started licking Clay’s face. Over and over Bish-ka licked and then rubbed his face against Clay’s.
Clay said, “thank you Bish-ka, thank you!”
Joe remarked, “so much for Grizzly’s not ranging out of the Yellowstone.”
Clay wasn’t badly hurt, just bruised and very sore ribs. They loaded the elk quarters onto the pack mules and headed toward camp.
A day later they were headed home; Bish-ka rode in the cab of the truck with Clay and Joe. As they drove into the large gravel covered clearing in front of the old log house, Jesse, and Carrie, ran out of the house onto the big raised porch. Clay’s smile was so wide his chapped lips cracked with pain. He was happier then, returning to his beautiful home and family than he had ever been.
Jessie said, “Oh my goodness, Bish-ka is riding in front with you. What in the world has happened?”
“I have a lot to tell you,” said Clay, as Bish-ka followed him right into the house.
Jessie’s eyes opened wide and she said, “Well I guess you do, what on earth happened out there.”
Clay and Jessie sat by the warm fire burning in the big fireplace, as Clay told her the story of the rampaging grizzly bear and how Bish-ka saved his life. Tears ran down Jessie’s face as she reached out to touch Bish-ka. He moved toward her and let her pet him for the first time. He looked at her and it seemed to her, his eyes were more like a Golden Retriever’s than a coyote.
She smiled and said, “thank you Bish-ka, I will always be grateful to you.”
Clay held Jessie’s hand and said, “Joe’s been telling me that God sent Bish-ka to save me. He said that on the first day we came upon Bish-ka. You know that my faith disappeared when I lost my family. Do you think Old Man Coyote came down to save me?”
Jessie looked at Clay with joy in her eyes and said, “Yes Clay I expect that is exactly what happened.”
Clay smiled and said, “So do I.”
Copyright 2013
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