Robin Delmore had spent all of her sixteen years on her father’s sheep ranch in New Mexico. Until today there had been no real questions. But then she found this grave.
“Dad; who was Bill?” Robin asked as she stepped down from her horse.
“I know a few Bills. Which one are we talking about?” Sam asked his daughter as he threw a posthole digger into the back of his buckboard.
“The Bill that's buried up on the western rim?” she replied.
“I thought I told you girls to stay off the west rim. That trail is not safe.” Sam reminded her.
“Well no one told the sheep. I must have run about two hundred of them off of the rim this morning.” Robin said, as she began to remove the saddle from her horse. “That's how I found the grave.”
“Grave what grave?” Shannon asked, as she came from the barn, only hearing the end of the conversation. She wore a white tee shirt and farmers bib overalls; tucked into cowboy boots. Her red hair had not been brushed today.
“The one up on the west rim marker says; Bill a faithful Pal. Carved on a wood plank.” Robin explained.
“Who's Bill? I never heard of any Bill working here.” Shannon said thoughtfully. At twelve years old she could tell you the history of this ranch as if she has lived it. She learned everything she could about the people who had lived and worked here.
Robert (Bob) Delmore had inherited the ranch from his father. His great grandfather had started the ranch in 1870 with six cows, a bull and a Mexican partner that had four hundred sheep and three dogs.
“OK! So after dinner are you going to tell us all about Bill?” Robin asked, pulling her saddle from the horse and placing it on the fence in front of her.
“Right; you fix dinner and I'll tell a story later.” He smiled as he turned and started for the house: leaving the girls to care for the horses.
As she has been doing since her mother died when she was just seven Robin had prepared the evening meal. She had also baked fresh bread that morning.
Shannon is more like their dad. She will gladly help raise the food. Getting dirty or working long hours in the harvest; but she hates to cook or clean.
“How was dinner Dad?” Robin asked, as she picked up his plate.
“It was just this side of excellent; as always.” He smiled up at her.
“So dad; Tell us about this guy Bill?” Shannon asked.
“Bill was a dog. Not a guy.” He laughed.
“Wait, you're telling me that grave is for a dog?” Robin asked.
“Yup!”
“There are two rustlers buried in this place in unmarked graves. And god only knows how many animals. Are you telling us that granddad marked the grave of a dog?” Robin looked confused.
“This has got to be some special dog!” Shannon said.
“Remember hearing about; Ga’ Diva, or Glada?” Bob asked, looking at Shannon.
“That was Grandma's sheep dog.” Shannon said.
“Wait! Why would Grandma need a sheep dog? She hated working with the sheep. She was a cow person.”
“Great story there too. We'll get back to it later.” Bob continued. “Well Grandma called her Ga’ Diva; because every time she came in heat every mutt for ten miles around would come hang out at our place. Glada gave birth to some of the best; and some of the ugliest, pups of any dog I've ever seen. The last time she gave birth was to one single, ugly, stupid, ornery mutt, Dad named Bill. He was no sheep dog but he was a faithful pal.
Bill died protecting dad and the flock from a pack of wolves that were killing sheep. Dad said they came into camp before dawn; six or seven of them. They were upon him before he knew what was happening. Dad shot four of them but by the time he got the others off of Bill it was too late. Bill was torn up too bad; so Dad said goodbye and shot his friend. That ladies, is why Bill's grave has a marker.”