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Updated: June 12, 2025
But I'm runnin' things for the boys. I told Rogers to drive the cattle to Willow's Wells an' to sell them. I've promised the boys a bigger divvy. They get it. I've told them to take a day off, in town, after they turn the cattle over. "There's got to be a new deal. The boys are fussed up claimin' they ain't gettin' their share. I'm seein' that they do.
After the pain and hunger and treachery of his adventure, it was a wonderful homecoming for Baree. He slept that night at the foot of the Willow's bed. The next morning it was the cool caress of his tongue on her hand that awakened her. With this day they resumed the comradeship interrupted by Baree's temporary desertion. The attachment was greater than ever on Baree's part.
Still, a certain furtive quickness of movement had always characterized the operations of the outlaws the instinct to move secretly, if possible, and to strike swiftly when they struck was always strong in them. Besides, the drive to Willow's Wells was not a long one, and the cattle could stand a fast pace.
It was the Willow's voice which Baree had learned to understand, and the movement of her lips, her gestures, the poise of her body, the changing moods which brought shadow or sunlight into her face. He knew what it meant when she smiled. He would shake himself, and often jump about her in sympathetic rejoicing, when she laughed.
For hours at a time Baree would now lie at the Willow's feet, watching her slender fingers as they weaved swiftly in and out with her snowshoe babiche. And now and then Nepeese would pause to lean over and put her hand on his head, and talk to him for a moment sometimes in her soft Cree, sometimes in English or her father's French.
Then she said, almost in a whisper: "Baree! Baree! Upi Baree!" It was the first time Baree had heard his name, and there was something so soft and assuring in the sound of it that in spite of himself the dog in him responded to it in a whimper that just reached the Willow's ears. Slowly she stretched in an arm. It was bare and round and soft.
All the leaves of the forest were there: small, light yellow birch leaves, red speckled mountain ash, the elm's dry, dark-brown leaves, the aspen's tough light red, and the willow's yellow green. Transformed and withered, scarred and torn were they, and much unlike the downy, light green, delicately shaped leaves, which a few months ago had rolled out of their buds.
She was a little wild, maybe, but she was on the pill and she didn't get attached for long; she kept her options open. Her grades were surprisingly good. Willow's own record at Stanford was ordinary. The courses were all so canned, pre-digested, just right for her perfect brother who was a year behind her and practically in law school already. Willow did the minimum, but she wasn't into it.
The negro at the corner of the old warehouse, half covered by the willow's shade, peered up with blood-shotten eyes to distinguish the covering on the bird-tamer's head. He saw Jack Wonnell sitting backward on the window-frame, swaying in and out, as he lazily tempted the mocking-bird to sing, and once the bell-crown hat, so singular to view, came in full relief against the gray sky.
There was nothing to do but go home and call her niece. Climbing the hill to the village green, Patrick had an urge to drive to Willow's, but he decided against it. He had to call Gert's niece, and it wasn't his truck. He parked behind Mower's Market and walked directly home. He found the number in a small book that Gert kept by the phone. "Ginger?" "Yes."
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