The Sheep Farm Heist

Far in the rolling hills of Montana sits a ranch.

The ranch belongs to the line of Alberson’s. Passed from Herold Alberson to his sons, and their sons for six generations since the mid-eighteen hundreds. The land reaches wide and still, dotted with sheep and wispy clouds, winds carrying the scents of dust, hay, and whatever Mrs. Alberson has baked in the kitchen.

Marley, a border collie retired from her years as a sheep herder, now spends her days supervising the newest batch of six-th generation sheep farmers: Johnny, Timmy, Willy, and Cody. She takes her job seriously, or as seriously as a dog can while sunbacking.

Laying contently at the foundation of the low treehouse, built squat to ease Mrs. Alberson’s fears of her boys falling and breaking something. The boys are young, yes, but carry themselves with the conviction of invincible heroes. Heroes who relish in coloring, reading, and discussing whether sheep like ice cream.

The air is peaceful. Quiet.

4:17

Sniff. Sniff.

Something smells sweet. Buttery. Ever so slightly tart.

Marley’s ear spike.

Above her Timmy, the cousin visiting the weekend from the sheep station over the hill, lifts his head like a prairie dog on guard.

“Guys, smell that?”

“Smell what?” Johnny asks, barely looking up from his book. Raising his petite nose to sniff the air.

“I don’t smell anything.” Willy whines, holding a crayon with the tight grip of a monkey on a branch.

“It’s okay, Willy,” Cody says, scooting closer to gently pat his back.

Timmy crawls to the square window. This patched jeans scraping the wood, his mother had patched his jeans the fifth time that month. “I think your mom made pie.”

“Pie!” Willy yells, tossing a crayon. “I want some!”

“You can’t have any,” Johnny scolds. “Mom said it’s for after dinner.”

“Acually…” Timmy says, a finger in the air to make a point.

The boys freeze. A breeze picks up. Warm crust, bubbling cinnamon. The kind of scent that erodes caution to rules.

Johnny puts a marker in his book trying to ignore the gleam in Timmy’s eyes.

He’s planning something.

4:18

Marley follows the boys dutifully as they descend the trail down the hill, each mounting her chosen vehicle like a mismatched box car race.

Cody on a scooter.

Johnny on his tricycle.

Willy on a smaller scooter with three wheels. One squeaks.

Timmy on his bike.

“Were are we going?” Willy asks, wobbling.

“You’ll see,” Timmy says, pedaling past the first barn. He brakes near the garden a few steps from the rustic porch.

Marley becomes distracted by ladybugs on cabbage leaves while Timmy rummages around the fence line. He finds the bungee cords he threw there earlier, cracked, sun-faded, but perfect.

He takes the wooden crate by the gate and straps it to his bike.

“I don’t like where this is going,” Johnny mutters, straightening the tassels on his tricycle handles.

“It’ll be fine, Johnny.” Cody assures.

Timmy finishes. “Cody, take my bike.” He walks to the wheelbarrow also by the gate. “Follow me,” with a grin that concerned his parents and Johnny.

4:19

Marley watches intently as Timmy unties the crate, dropping it under the window, testing for balance. He maneuvers the wheelbarrow handles to the upside down crate is between them.

“Okay this is the plan.”Satisfied he rubs his hands together.

He gestures to the brothers to come closer, like a pulsing huddle before a football match.

Timmy whispers quickly, pointing eleven faster. Drawing an invisible map.

Once he’s done explaining, Johnny steps away from the huddle. “This is a bad idea. What if mom comes back?”

“She’s not.” Timmy insists. “She went to town for feed. She won’t be back for at least…”

He checks the sky with his finger like his dad taught him. “...a while.”

“I want pie!” Willy yells.

Cody and Timmy shush him.

Timmy climbs into the wheelbarrow and presses his forehead to the glass. “Clear.” Sliding the window open and passing the screen to Cody.

“So long fellows.” He says, saluting before hopping from view.

Marley tilts her head. She’s seen sheep make better choices.

And they’re supposed to be done.

4:20

After Cody helps Willy through, Johnny grudgingly follows. Marley hops onto the crate and slips through the window after them, landing with a soft thud.

The boys gathered in the hallway bent down like fugitives on the run.

Cody holds a finger over his mouth. “Quiet.”

“I know,” Timmy hotly answered, peeking around the wall. Executing a tight front roll to the other side of the wall. “Come on.”

“I can do that too.” Willy says excitedly. His heels smacked the polished old wood floors with a thud that echos through the open space like a gunshot.

Johnny walk across normally, Marley at his heels. Stopping in the middle of the hall to address Timmy’s glare of indignalty. “What?”

“You're going to get us caught.” Timmy hisses.

“Nobody is home.”

“Really?” Willy yells.

“Shh.” Cody and Timmy order in unison.

Marley sighs. Humans and sheep are exhausting. At least she can chase the sheep.

4:21

Marley tip-toes as quietly as possible for a dog with claws.

The boys maneuver from the bedroom hallway through the dining room, ducking behind chairs and crawling under tables as if avoiding high-security cameras.

They now sit criss-cross behind the pale green kitchen island.

“The pie.” Willy begins reverently.

Cody clamps a hand over his mouth.

Willy pulls away. “No.”

“Now we get the pie and get out.” Timmy muses, the goal in sight.

An unblemished crust. Delicate blueberry filling…or was it apple? He had smelt cinnamon. The pie sits on a cooling rack in a pie dish given as a gift.

“What if the pan is hot?” Johnny asks.

Timmy blinks. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Let’s use the towel like mom does,” Cody suggests.

Timmy nods. Quickly snatching a towel handing off the counter. “Good thinking. You’re promoted.”

“Promoted how much?” Cody inquires.

“After me.”

Johnny frowns. “And what am I?”

“Book guy.”

Johnny looks at Marley as if consulting her if he should accept his position. She shakes her head. Johnny takes that as a yes.

4:22

The boys retrace their steps through the house. Moving confidently with the prize.

Cody links his hands and offers a boost to assist everyone up to the windowsill. .

Beginning to pull himself up, Marley growls, a low warning.

“You too Marley?” He asks, lifting her through.

Outside the sun was easing into the caress of two swollen green hills. The sheep graze with no cares in the world, except eating, unaware of the heist nearby. Poor witness they would be.

Timmy straps the crate back, gently easing the pie inside. He wanted blueberry, but was outvoted by choice of apple.

“Everybody ready?”

“Ready.” They cheer.

They return the wheelbarrow. And race to the treehouse, as fast as leg power can take them. Dust building like a bloom of smoke from getaway cars.

4:23

At the treehouse, the family truck roars up the dirt road.

Timmy clutches the crate. Cody helps Willy and Marley up the ladder. Johnny collects his book from the overgrown grass.

“We have pie!” Willy exclaimed.

“Now you can be loud.” Cody says.

“Yay.” Willy bounces in circles. “Can we eat?”

“Yes.” Timmy roots through the play kitchen and finds plastic chipped plates, least caked in mud. Four forks and a spoon along with a saw.

He cuts the pie on the table. “Johnny, my plan worked.”

But before Johnny could answer.

“Where’s my pie?” Mrs. Alderson shouted from below. “I know you hooligans took it.”

The boys freeze. Marley sighs.

Johnny drops his book. “Timmy…do you have a plan now?”

“Plan B!” Timmy whispers.

“You never said there was a Plan B.” Johnny says.

Marly lays down and closes her eyes. Time to count some sheep.