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I opened the NewsMobile’s door slowly, watching the animal’s reaction. It didn’t move. It didn’t look toward us. Its gaze remained focused toward the direction we’d come from.
Also slowly because I was not in any hurry to leave even the NewsMobile’s dubious protection from the wind that gave blustery a bad name. The day’s bright blue skies were false advertising.
I grew up in Northern Illinois. I know wind. You’ve heard about Chicago being the Windy City, right? Well, the wind doesn’t stop at the city limits. It gets an unencumbered sweep off Lake Michigan, true. But I’ve come to believe that farther out, it can get up an even better head of steam without all those pesky buildings in its way, especially across the flats of winter-shorn corn fields.
In Cottonwood County, the wind feels like an out-of-control skier, coming down the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, picking up speed all the way and bringing along with it the snow-fueled bite of the peaks.
The door of the cabin on the right opened.
That stopped me from wrapping the scarf around my neck and protecting my lower face. Oddly, many people resist being interviewed by a mummy.
A woman came out, settling a cowboy hat into place as she came, shading her face, especially with the sun behind her. She carried extra weight under a pair of overalls that covered a jeans jacket and she moved like she might have arthritis, but wasn’t letting it stop her.
“You with the deputies? They didn’t say anybody was coming back today.” She had a low, rather rusty voice.
Granted, the NewsMobile is not a slick, modern TV news mobile unit, but it does have KWMT-TV News, Sherman, Wyoming in bright red and blue letters.
Asking a potential interview subject if they can’t read is not the way to win them over. That left stating the obvious as my best option. “We’re with KWMT from Sherman, Ms....?”
She picked up the dangling invitation as she walked toward us, calling out, “Brenda Mankin. Needham Bender’s already been here.”
“Yes. That’s for the newspaper, the Sherman Independence. We’re from the TV. The news. We heard about the death of Keefer Dobey—” I was careful to pronounce it the way Mike had. “And we wanted to talk to people who knew him.”
She looked toward the dog, as if it held the answer.
The dog didn’t move, didn’t change focus.
“I don’t know... The deputies...”
I didn’t want her to finish that thought, making it more real, adding an official seal.
“Mike Paycik sent us up to get the story because he thought so highly of Keefe and — Do you know him? Michael Paycik? He played football here, then at UW—” I deliberately used the local shorthand for the University of Wyoming. “—and pro ball with—”
“Of course I know him. Know all his stats from high school, college, and the pros, too. Though the Bears never made full use of his talents the way they should have, always having him blocking for some other gaudy player, when Mike should’ve been carrying the ball himself.”
Not having an immediate opinion on that topic — though I’d bet my dad did — I steered around it. “Yes, well, as I said, he thought highly of Keefe and wants to be sure our viewers know what a fine man he was — you know Mike bought the TV station?” An enthusiastic nodding of the cowboy hat rewarded my decision to skip details of minority ownership by employees and members of the community. “So when he tells us to get a story, we get the story.”
Diana made a sound from the other side of the NewsMobile.
Mike would hear all about this. And I’d take ribbing about it.
I could live with that.
Because Diana was getting her equipment out, which meant she thought my approach was working, making it well worth the cost of ribbing.
“We’d like to get closer and film, if that’s all right — That’s his cabin?”
It’s a little sneaky, but effective, asking for the permission, then tagging on the second question, so an answer to one became an answer to both.
The cowboy hat bobbed in a nod. Better yet, she adjusted her trajectory to meet us in front of the crime-scene-taped cabin.
“But the dog...?”
“Oh, Suzie Q’s as friendly as can be. Couldn’t have a dog on the place that’s not, not during the season with all the people coming and going and kids and some adults not thinking or asking before they reach out. She was raised to it from a pup. She’ll let anybody come up to her, pet her, take her food away, any ol’ thing, but she’s Keefe’s dog, through and through.”
The dog’s ears flickered at hearing her owner’s name, but wasn’t fooled into lifting her head.
“She’s—” Brenda cleared her throat and started again. “She’s waiting for Keefe to come back. That’s what she’d do if he ever left without her, which he didn’t do often. Almost never if he were doing anything here on the place, but now and then if he went into town, somewhere she couldn’t be. And now... That’s the direction they took him out and she’ll set here watching and watching for him to return.”
