Chapter 4

RICHARD SLID THE .30-30 Winchester into the saddle scabbard.

“You’re bound to take that .30-30 with you?” Seth said.

“Yup. Like you never needing it on the ranch, I may not need it on the river. But in case I do—it’ll be there. Rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.”

“Oh, that’s clever. That’s from “Lonesome Dove,” isn’t it?”

Richard nodded. “You got the water purifier?”

“Left side of the pack horse. I arranged the packsaddle so that stuff we need often is on the left side. Stuff we need less than once a day on the right. Got a pretty good balance too, if I do say so myself.”

“OK. Where we headed?”

Seth unfolded the map. “We’ll take the side of the road out to Bay Hills Golf Course and hang around the river bank up toward Cedar Island.”

Ginny stood beside the corral fence, arms crossed over her chest, her forehead wrinkled, eyebrows arched. Her feet made little short steps going nowhere, circling but staying in motion. “Stay in touch, you guys. Don’t burn your battery up but call us.”

Seth smiled. “It’s gonna be fun, Ginny.”

They said their goodbyes, waved to everyone and turned the horses west toward Fourmile Creek.

SETH TURNED IN THE saddle. “Did you bring their ashes?”

Richard patted his saddlebag. “Right here.”

“Both of ‘em?”

Richard nodded.

“Where do you think would be a good place to leave them?”

“We’ll find a place that seems good to us.”

“Yeah—reckon we will.” Seth straightened in the saddle, pulled the pack horse even with his palomino, and gazed over the flat country where the rising sun, unimpeded by mountains or trees, beamed light that flashed green hints of new growth on all sides. He breathed in the wet earth scent of irrigated fields, the drying manure, the dusty hide smell slipping off the small bunches of cattle they passed, their eyes wide, new calves leaping and dancing on the edges.

He looked back at Richard, who, unused to riding, was adjusting stuff attached to his saddle bags, pulling his pants leg down so the wrinkles wouldn’t bite into him, changing his seat on the saddle. Richard probably hadn’t ridden a horse since they were kids. He was on a tractor, a combine, or a pickup seat half his life. They were soft, mounted on springs, and the cabs were air conditioned and had radios and computers.

“Hey—I’m hungry already,” Seth said.

“You’ll make it till noon.”

“I don’t know. I’m powerful hungry.” Seth patted his stomach and as an after thought asked, “Did you bring toilet paper?”

Richard nodded. “Do you think Adolph Melzer had toilet paper?”

“I doubt he even knew what it was. Don’t think it showed up before the Civil War. Came over from China about that time.”

“Where’d you learn all this fascinating history of toilet paper?”

“Poker games mostly. There’s a world of knowledge there if you tap into it. The thing is—you need to keep your mind open to grasp onto some of these intellectual straws that are floatin’ in the breeze.”

Richard smiled. Seth had a habit of talking continuously to cattle. He hoped he wasn’t going to talk all the way to Ogallala and back.

The horses knew the field they were traveling over and headed for the gate that would let them cross into the Fourmile area.

“Dang horses know where we’re goin’,” Seth said.

“Appears that way. Don’t want to run into Filoh anywhere.”

Seth stood up in the stirrups. “No.”

“BRADY IS APPROXIMATELY WHERE Grandpa Melzer turned around,” Seth said. Shouldn’t take us long.”

“Seems long already.” Richard held the saddle horn with both hands, tilted his head. He looked around and smiled. The lake and houses straight and even like soldiers on parade caught his eye at Bay Hills Golf Club. The sun behind them shadowed everything above the surface giving a sifted grey background to the spring growth. “Pretty up here, isn’t it?”

“Come on. We want to make it to Cedar Creek before we camp,” Seth said.

“How far is that?”

“Give or take—some eight miles.”

THE SADDLE FELT GOOD to Seth. He had felt a burning in his chest to do something unique after Mae died, but when the will was read and he stared the trip in the face it gave him quivers. He hadn’t felt quivers since grade school. Now that he was sitting a horse and starting out, it gave him comfort. Something about the certainty of moving step-by-step up the Platte River soothed any anxious feelings he had buried within him about inheriting the Barrett Ranch. He was direct kin, he and Richard. He loved Ginny and it was okay to give her a piece, but he wanted control. Not that he had anybody to leave it to. He just hadn’t planned anything else for his life except getting up every morning knowing what he was going to do and enjoy doing it. A cup of coffee in the morning and a drink at night—well, the drink part was out now. As a recovering alcoholic, he couldn’t start running any whiskey across his tongue. Too tempting.

Nose to tail, the three horses moved up the unfamiliar riverbank, cutting clean hoof prints in the wet sand. Richard’s gray, a settled horse under most circumstances, had his head up, ears forward and nostrils flared. He snorted several times causing horses in the pasture across the river to whinny and run, tails up, heads high, to the fence line and walk parallel with the travelers. Richard smiled. Animals greeting each other had always held a fascination for him and the farm provided lots of that. Sitting on a tractor seat plowing one field all day long, he pondered how much information they could pass to one another and if they retained it. How far away from human were they? They sure showed signs of old age just like he and Seth were doing.

They were moving along the south bank of the river near Treasure Island Road when Seth half turned in his saddle and motioned to Richard to come along side. They reined in their horses and Seth pointed to the far bank.

“I’ll bet that’s what Filoh is talkin’ about. See that discoloration in the water over there? That runoff?”

Richard nodded. “But the river will swallow that up and spit it out. There are millions of gallons of water running down this river. A little discoloration won’t last long. I remember Granddad Melzer used to throw the offal from butchering into the river. Said the catfish grew enormous on it.”

A photo stream played in his head. Pictures of Granddad Melzer on his first tractor, close-ups of corn leaves shredded by hail or grasshoppers, corn higher than his head when he and Seth went barefoot all summer dressed in nothing but bib-overalls. Half the farm under river water; dead cattle lying in trampled pockets of deep snow in the winter of ’48-‘49. And Seth and I are killing this land? We are the land and the land is us. How can we be killing ourselves?

SETH FORDED THE RIVER at the east end of Cedar Island, barely getting his horse’s belly wet. His horse, Pistol, not used to crossing rivers, moved across it without hesitation. It gave Seth a warm feeling, pushed him into a smile. He patted the horse’s neck, “Atta boy, Pistol.”

He had the packhorse unsaddled, halter on, and roped to a tree by the time Richard crossed.

Richard rode along side. “Help me off this thing.”

Seth offered his arm and helped him slide off the saddle. Richard gimped around in a circle, straightening and stretching his arms to the sky. “Sure glad we went to tractors with soft seats. A man would be dead at one end if he had to do this all the time.” He leaned over and looked down at his legs. “I hope they don’t stay bowed like this all night.”

“You get used to it,” Seth said. “A saddle and a bicycle seat are about the same. The first few days you’re dying and then something called a transformation occurs and it doesn’t bother you again. Until next season.”

“There isn’t going to be a next season. Did you see that airboat? That’s the way to see this river. We should have asked for a variance from the will. We could have seen all we needed to see from a soft seat in that boat.”

“Mom had her reasons for us doing it this way. I’m not sure what, but I’m thinking it was to take us back to our roots. Seeing the land along the river at the same pace as Grandpa Melzer did. Scott could have flown us over it in half a day. This is the way to get intimate with the country.” He nodded twice. “I’m sure of it.”

RICHARD THREW A CUP of white gasoline on some sticks and tossed a lighted match at it. There was a whoosh of air and an explosion. Seth ducked.

“Tea?” Richard said.

Seth shook his head. “And I thought we were roughing it. You were goin’ to break up little sticks, whittle fire catchers in ‘em and build a little flame.” He lowered his chin and squeezed his thighs with his calloused hands. “Then add larger sticks and suspend the tea pot over the fire while we set back and watched it. No.” Seth shook his head and threw his arms in the air. “Boom! A gas starter and the tea pot boiling in a humongous fire.”

“There were no conditions about how to start a fire in the will.”

“I’ll get the freeze-dried food,” Seth said.

“Get the Scotch, too, will you?” Richard threw another stick on the fire. “I would like to imbibe in that great end of the day celebration which calls for whisky. Sorry you can’t join me.”

Filoh’s intrusion

THE POPPING AND SIZZLE awakened him. Not only the sizzle but smoke too.

Seth peeked out the tent flap. “What in the hell are you doin’ here?”

Filoh stood with his back to a small fire rubbing his butt with both hands as the morning light crept above the horizon.

“Thought you might need a chief cook and bottle washer.”

“Judas H. Priest!” Seth ducked back into the tent. He emerged in a minute tucking the shirt into his jeans. “Now dammit, I said—we agreed—you weren’t going along.”

“I know. But sometimes a man just has to make up his mind and do it. And that’s what I’m doin’. This is still a free country and a man can go where he wants.”

“Yeah—but not into another man’s camp.”

“Didn’t see no signs.”

“Didn’t put any out.”

“Well, then—what says it’s yours?”

Seth pointed his finger at the ground. “We’re here.”

“So am I.”

Seth shook his head. “Richard. Come out here and back me up on this.”

Richard, his voice muffled by the tent, muttered. “My gawd—I didn’t think the ground could be this hard.”

“You didn’t blow up your mattress, Richard. No wonder,” Seth said.

“Show me how to do that tonight before I become a permanent cripple.”

Filoh handed Seth a cup of coffee. “Drink that and let’s get goin’.”

“Whoa,” Seth held up his hand. “Just a minute. We’re not goin’ anywhere together. Especially with that mule you’re riding.”

“And we’re not leaving with you, and we’re not leaving without breakfast,” Richard said.

“You got the rest of your life to eat breakfast,” Filoh said.

“Oh no,” Richard said. “I’m having bacon, eggs, and biscuits before I get back on that four legged grass processor.”

“And you’re heading back,” Seth jammed a finger into Filoh’s chest.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

Seth shook his head.

No help from Richard. This gooney guy is stuck to us like a beggarweed. I’m damned if I send him back and damned if I let him come with us. The pace will wear him out in a day or so. He took a deep breath. Well—make the best of it.

“Pretty small fire to warm ya,” Seth said.

“Don’t need warming,” Filoh said. “Need a butt massage. The heat feels good on it.” He poured coffee into his cup and blew on it. “Been some deer through here in the night.”

Filoh moved through the area putting pots and pans on the sand near the fire. Seth, bent backwards to stretch, yawned, and put his hand to his head shielding his eyes. “Don’t see much daylight.”

Filoh stirred the fire with a stick. “Where’s the flour?”

Seth set the box beside him. “Don’t get sand in everything.”

“Do you want to eat or bitch?”

Richard came out of the tent rubbing his eyes. “I’ll make the bis cuits. It’s an old family recipe. Bisquick and water.”

Filoh stirred up a half dozen eggs and dropped some bacon in the frying pan. “You guys bring butter and honey?”

Seth nodded.

Richard stirred the Bisquick, his eyes blinking from the fire’s heat. “Reminds me of the Boy Scouts. I never much cared for those outings.”

Seth looked at him and smiled. “No—you didn’t. And you never passed Morse Code either. You weren’t much of a scout.”

Richard dropped dough in a pan, covered it, and shoved it into the side of the fire.

The three of them sat cross-legged, staring into the fire. Filoh, balancing the frying pan over the flame, scorched the bacon and eggs. He ladled some into each tin plate. A flame erupted when he poured the grease on the fire.

“Judas Priest, Filoh—don’t kill us the second day out,” Seth said.

“Won’t kill ya and it makes the biscuits brown. Hand me the salt.”

IT TOOK SETH LONGER to balance the packs on the horses in the half-light. A smile started on his lips. We are like Daniel Boone. Traveling up a river by horseback, cooking over an open fire; different river but same problems.

The River

For thousands of years from its base east of the Rocky Mountains the Platte has drained the flat country of the Central Great Plains. White settlers eventually named the areas Colorado, Wyoming, and Nebraska. The Oto and Pawnee came here many seasons past and the Sioux rode the land by its waters. Canoes laden with beaver, otter, mink, coyote and buffalo furs floated by and people found places to live beside the river and other people came and traded with them. The river rose in fall and spring when the rains came and often flooded the flat land through which it flowed. Like a giant licking his lips, the waters swept up everything it touched and carried it in its bosom to the Missouri. There were white men then and now. They moved on the river’s currents and what little they put into it then was as nothing.

THE TRIO WAS ABLE to hug the bank on the right side after leaving Cedar Island. Neither Richard nor Filoh was talkative as they started out. Seth, ahead of them and leading the packhorse, turned in the saddle.

“We should be camping near the bridge on Highway 50 tonight. Think your butts can make it?”

Filoh rose up in the saddle and rubbed his buttocks. “When does the numbness start?”

The horses stepped up from the coyote willow and dogwood, up from the hard mud onto the grass. They snorted and shook, making early morning adjustments to the loads. Their equipment rattled, echoing through the cottonwoods. The sound of a truck working through the gears north of the river put a smile on Richard’s face.

“Some other idiot up this early,” he said.

He looked ahead at Seth who looked like a mountain man, reins in his left hand, his right settled on his thigh. Since pre-school days, Richard had known his younger brother longed to be a reincarnation of earlier kin. He had been on the edge for most of his life, not into this life but not out of it either. Richard had spent a lot of hours exploring the actions of his brother but had come to the conclusion that he could spend his life thinking about what drove Seth and it wouldn’t change him one whit.

Before the will was read, Seth had wanted to charge up the Missouri like Daniel Boone just to be doing something to honor their mother. He had spent a good many years dishonoring the family, but since he got back he had turned his energies to the ranch and a life that had possibilities.

A doe and this year’s fawn jumped up and bounded down the flat ground, jigged right, dug their hooves in and cleared a fence in one hop. Seth turned in the saddle and smiled.

“Coulda had the deer if we’d been hunting.”

“You couldn’t even have cleared leather,” Richard said.

“She looked ok, didn’t she, Filoh? No lesions on her hide. And the fawn was spry too.”

Filoh stood in the stirrups. “Couldn’t tell from here. We’ll probably find a dead one sooner or later. Then we’ll have something to talk about.”

Richard shook his head. “Where we headed today?”

Seth turned. “I told you. The north bank near the bridge where Highway 50 crosses the river.”

Filoh perked up. “Good. ‘Cause I want to show you a little creek that comes by Diesel Lake and drains the fields to the south there. It’ll curl your toes.”

Seth tried to imagine his toes curling in the Tony Lama boots he had shoved into the stirrups. Not likely.

The horses, not being asked to exert themselves, walked their own pace, dodging the cottonwoods, and brushing sedge, bulrushes, and cattail. Opportunists always, they stretched out their necks to lengthen the reins and grabbed a bit of canary grass as they walked past.

The River

The land is watered where the river flows through, as long as it is healthy. When the glaciers receded they left the land mainly flat with little pitch, which made it hard for the river to find its course, but the river worked through the sand and mud and rocks the glacier left behind. From its start east of the Rocky Mountains, it flows across the even barren land into the big river men have called the Missouri, seldom changing course over a man’s lifetime.

ON TOWARDS FOUR O’CLOCK, Filoh pointed across the river. “There it is, the little creek I mentioned. Locals call it Cedar creek. I call it Dead Man’s Creek.” He reined his mule toward the river and urged him into the water. The mule extended his neck pulling the reins through Filoh’s fingers and drank. “Come on, mule.” Filoh jabbed his heels into the soft flanks and they crossed through a narrow channel onto sandbars that stretched like a necklace of diamonds across the middle of the riverbed.

“Filoh,” Seth hollered. “We want to camp on this side.”

“Come on. This ain’t gonna take long. We’ve got time to get to your precious campground. I want you to see what you’re doing to this water.

The River

Where the water tumbled and ran over a chiseled sandbar a hollow burble rose from its bowels. It was late afternoon and the air had begun to cool in the lengthening shadows. Birds dove on the near backwater close to the bank where a small eddy twirled, a foam head dancing and circling. The river reached out and lapped over the stirrups to touch the heels of the man known as Filoh Smith, as if to say, “show them—show them—show them”.

WATER FLOWED OVER THE mule’s feet, pale green and sick over a muddy bottom. Filoh pointed at it. “Would you want to drink that?”

“Of course not,” Richard said. “But…”

“…Neither does the river.”

Seth shook his head. “We’ve been turning stuff loose in the river for hundreds of years and look at it.” He waved his hand over the river. “It’s still doin’ its job.”

“It ain’t,” Filoh said. “It’s dying and you guys are helping kill it.”

“Come on, Filoh,” Richard said. “We’re one of hundreds of ranches on the river.”

“Yes—and you’re each driving a stake in its heart.”

“By gawd, Filoh, that’s not fair. We’ve…”

“What the hell does fair have to do with it? You can see that dead catfish, can’t ya? And the…”

Richard was shaking his head. “Don’t put the hard sell on me for…”

“You’re one of ‘em. I could…”

“I’ll take some responsibility for Fourmile Creek if that’s what you want, but…”

“No sir,” Filoh said. “I mean all up and down this river. There’s only two or three that are practicing sustainable agriculture while the…”

“There are so many definitions of sustainable agri…”

“Yeah—but only one that counts for a damn.”

Richard held up his hand. “Filoh—would you let me finish one sentence? Please?”

Seth sat easy in his saddle with a smile as wide as the river. “Boys, boys,” he said. “This isn’t a school board meeting. Take a deep breath and let’s get ’er said and headed up to the camp site.”

“Well sir,” Filoh erupted. He pounded the saddle horn with his leather-gloved hand. “I don’t intend that this will take long to educate you two dunces. Cedar Creek drains fields to the south of here and every blessed one of ’em has all kinds of chemicals on it. It don’t take a genius to see that those chemicals mix with the irrigation water,” he stirred the air with his hand. “And taking the course of least resistance, they pour into the creek and into the river. Let’s say this creek is one of a hundred. And all the creeks bring along the pollutants and they all add together. Then what?”

Seth raised his eyebrows. “Then it’s a hundred times more polluted.”

“Now you’re gettin’ the picture.”

“Ok,” Richard said. “But the main purpose of us riding up the river is to earn the right to own the ranch. We must keep that foremost in our minds and not spend time and energy we don’t have on your project. The river will be there whether we make it up and back or not.”

The River

The river lives day to day on what is given to it. It was born with springs and creeks pouring bits of plants, bugs, and dung into it. Bearing them downstream or depositing them on the sandy bottom, it cleanses itself from moment to moment. Dead animals, fish, birds, and insects sail on the current as the river draws millions of gallons of water from mountains and prairies as it has since the beginning of time. It bends south into the Missouri, hell bent to join the Mississippi. That river is engorged and flows to the ocean, its destiny, day and night.

Education Begins

THEY CAMPED ON THE high ground east of the highway 50 bridge. Richard, saddle sore and irritated, stepped down off his horse, stabbed his finger at the ground and declared this camping site was good enough for him.

“Suits me,” Seth said.

Filoh looked over the side of the horse. “Somebody help me down. I can’t even see the ground from here.”

Seth reached up, grasped the dry bony claw and tightened his gut as he took some of the weight while Filoh slipped off the saddle. He unsaddled Filoh’s mule and placed the gear on a slight rise out of the traffic pattern. “Sit here for a spell,” he said. “Watch how a mountain man sets up his night camp.”

Seth untied the packs, staked out the horses, got the tent erected and the cooking gear spread out while Richard scrounged up firewood. The sun vanished from the prairie, and the coolness that set in always urged him to gather more wood than was needed. During his adult life Richard ate before he was hungry, rested before he was tired, and drank before he was thirsty. He applied that to every aspect of his life. He liked to have more laid aside than required and be ready to use it if necessary.

Filoh sat on the sand, his arms stretched over his pointed knees. “What’s for supper?”

Richard pulled the .30-30 from the scabbard, pushed the lever half open and checked the cartridge in the chamber.

Seth snorted. “Daniel Boone here is gonna shoot you some supper. Do you have a taste for raccoon or possum?” He turned around to stare at Richard. “Did you have that gun loaded all day?” Seth said.

Richard nodded. “If I need it, I want it to be a gun not a club.”

Seth shook his head as he stuck his hand into the food pack. “We have for your dining pleasure tonight, turkey tetrazzini, chili, or macaroni and cheese. Filoh, will you please pour the wine before the first course.”

“Wine?” Filoh said. “Hell’s bells—I thought we wuz campin’.”

“Richard—napkins, please.”

“Cut it out, Seth. I vote for chili. Good and hot chili. And you’re not to be drinking anyway.”

“I didn’t say I was going to drink any. I know what I’m supposed to do and not do. Do you think I just got off a load of pumpkins?”

Richard turned his back. He hated an argument before eating anything. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. Alcohol is a poison, absolute and irrevocable, and Seth had gained the strength to erase it from his diet. Could they erase the chemicals from the soil they farmed? Would it be as beneficial? He sat and looked at the river. The surface rippled, then smoothed. He thought it had said something. He was sure of it. His lip curled into a smile. It was going to be a long trip.

“Chili it is then since the great white hunter didn’t bag any edibles.” Seth poured boiling water into the tinfoil container, stirred it with the long handled plastic spoon, rolled the top down to hold the heat in and set it beside a rock.

“Filoh—how’d you stay strong this late in life?” Seth said.

“Hell—I ain’t strong. But I do have a secret if you promise not to tell anyone.”

Richard smiled. “Ok. What?”

Filoh leaned back on his saddle. “Testosterone. I rub it on my chest every couple of days.”

“What are you doing—trolling for the ladies?” Richard said.

“No. I could be a sugar daddy if I wanted to, but that’s behind me. Testosterone gives a man some muscle definition and pep in his old age. I know a guy only sixty-three takes it once a week. Gives him the stamina to stay up with a twenty-two year old gal he fancies.”

“You ever heard of HGH—human growth hormone?” Seth asked.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. My doc says that’s for kids that are stunted. Says I should benefit plenty from the salve.” He kicked a stick into the fire. “And I do.”

“What if the seed manufacturers worked that into the corn and soy beans?” Richard said.

“I don’t know,” Filoh said. “That’s way beyond me. I don’t know how they do what they’re doing now. They’ve got it so crazy you can’t even save your own seed corn to grow. You plant it and it won’t grow. You have to go begging to the seed companies every year for new seed corn that’ll germinate. They’ve got you by the short hairs.”

“Damn right they do,” Seth said. “Get your bowls—the chili’s ready.”

They were seated on stumps around the fire, dodging and ducking as the air off the river danced along the shore pushing curls of acrid cottonwood smoke toward one then the other. A large cottonwood limb lay across the fire, crackling and popping. When it burned in half, Richard kicked each piece onto the flames.

Seth swallowed and looked across the fire at Filoh. “Maybe Richard could benefit from some of that salve. He’s courting that young schoolteacher. Wouldn’t hurt him any to be stronger. Wouldn’t hurt at school board meetings, either.”

Richard snorted. “I’m not needing any salve.”

“Maybe you should though, Richard. Perk you up a mite.”

“My gawd…I don’t need perking up.”

Seth maneuvered the chili around with his tongue. “Just a little?”

“What would you know about it.”

“Boys,” Filoh butted in. “I’ve been thinking of where we need to go next.”

“We’re going up river,” Seth said. “That’s our mission. We go up and back and it’s done.”

“Yeah, but up around Fremont—“

“We’ll get to Fremont, but we’re not going there for your reason. We’re going there for our reason.”

Filoh set his metal bowl down and crossed his legs. “We’ve got a real problem at Fremont.”

“Don’t need to hear about Fremont right now,” Richard said. Finished eating, he poured water into his bowl and added a squirt of liquid soap. “Pass me your dishes.”

“Suppose I have to dry,” Seth said.

“Unless you can talk Filoh into doing something.”

“I’m along as an advisor. I don’t do dishes. I need my time for thinking.” He tossed a stick on the fire. “Thinking how I’m gonna convince you lunk heads to get back to sustainable agriculture.”

“We don’t want to go backwards. We want to go forward,” Seth said.

“Dang it. That’s what sustainable agriculture is all about. Going forward so you can preserve the environment for the future and not kill everything before the next generation can get a hold of it.”

“We’re not killing anything,” Richard said. “If what you say is true, we should be seeing it all up and down the river, not just in certain spots.”

“You’re a stubborn man, Richard Barrett.” Filoh leveraged on his arm, managed to get a leg under him and stood up. “Tell me two things. What has your crop and livestock yield done over the last three years? And—wait a minute”—Filoh held up his hand—“Don’t interrupt me. And how much has your chemical bill gone up for the poisons you’re putting on the land?”

Richard shook his head. “The chemicals that kill the miserable creatures that eat our crops are cheap compared to the losses.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Filoh said. “I asked how much.”

“I know what you asked.”

“Then why don’t you answer it?”

“Boys, boys,” Seth put in. “Shall we have pistols from thirty paces at dawn?”

Richard took a deep breath then released it. “I suppose the yield has stayed the same or gone down. The chemical bill has increased.”

“Now you’re talking facts.” Filoh stirred the fire with a green stick. “And what do you suppose is gonna happen as the yield continues down and the chemicals bill continues up?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Richard said. He stepped back from the fire.

“You sure as hell do,” Filoh said drawing an X in the sand. “The two lines cross somewhere’s out there in a few years where you’re paying more and more for chemicals and gettin’ less and less crops. And the chemicals go up in price. The land is producing less. And the land and water and air are ruined in the bargain. Now isn’t that a fine kettle of fish?”

The three men sat silent. Like a friendly dog, the fire licked flames toward each of them before the top log collapsed on the bed of coals, exploding sparks into the night sky.

At last Richard lifted his head. He faced Filoh and with a faint smile on his face said his piece. “Filoh—I appreciate what you’re saying and I understand it, I think. But I need you to remember Seth and I have a job to do. We need to get up the river and back before the end of July. Ginny is going to have her hands full while we’re gone. We need to think about that right now—not about the ecology and the last fifty years of farming.”

Filoh nodded his head. “I understand, but dammit you need to have your eyes open while we’re traveling. Maybe when we get back, you will have picked up a thing or two.”

“We’re doing fine right now, Filoh. Let’s leave it be at that.”

“You can leave it be forever and you’ll bequeath barren ground, dead water, and stinking air to the next owners who could just be Ginny.”

“Or Klete Dixon,” Seth threw in.

Richard smiled. “Look—this is only the second day. Let’s not end every day with a preaching session from you and an argument before we go to bed. I like to have a pleasant thought in my head before I turn in. I might have a nightmare if I shut my eyes with this on my mind.”

“We can leave it go until we get to Fremont,” Filoh said. “Then it’s starting again.”

Seth shook his head and took a deep breath. “I’m turning in. Don’t talk too loud and keep me awake.”

“Yeah—might ruin your beauty sleep,” Richard said. “Remember when Mom used to say that to us when we were kids?”

“Yes. She had a whole passel of things to say, didn’t she?”

Richard nodded. “You remember the one about your chickens coming home to roost?”

“Yup. If all my chickens come home to roost, I’ll have to build a new hen house.”

The River

The water color changed where the channel deepened. Turning gray-green it hushed. Then rivulets woke up noisy where they rattled over the shallows, bantering back and forth with the river swallows turning and diving for the bugs that burst out at twilight. And then, holding its breath, the river calmed as it inhaled the water to swell its depths.

Filoh sat cross-legged on the bank of the river, arms across his knees, face lifted to the full moon.

“Old River,” he shook his head. “I am old too, and yet I can hear you gurgle and sing. I see the tops of your waters as you roll toward the Missouri and I am with you. All day and all night you move, changing the sandbars, holding the fish, and watering this land. It could not live without you. You honor this land by flowing through it and it drinks from you. From the first springs in the mountains to the great Missouri River I love and revere you. Give us our needs as only you can. And help me get these people to understand your life and needs. From where we are today—let us get better.”

Filoh rolled to one side, got on his hands and knees. He stayed there for a moment, then arched and stood up. “This being old ain’t as good as it’s cracked up to be.”

He unzipped the tent and got into his sleeping bag.

“Kinda early to be takin’ a whiz, isn’t it?” Seth said.

“Wasn’t takin’ a whiz. Talkin’ to the river.”

“Talkin’ to the river?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Well—don’t that beat all.”

Meanwhile, back at the ranch

GINNY AND DAWSON STRUGGLED with the small cow as they tied the halter rope to the post. It was their second day of working on the Barrett ranch they knew so well and their morning was about spent.

“Come around the other side, Dawson,” Ginny said. “She might kick you from there.”

“Mom—I’m not into this. Not at all.” Dawson said.

“We’ve got to or she’ll die. She’s just a little girl heifer having her first calf and she’s having problems. Stay close to her leg and touch her so she knows you’re there.”

Dawson started around the cow. “Can’t we call the vet?”

“Too late. Put the glove on, Dawson.”

The fourteen-year-old boy tugged the long glove until his fingers filled the pockets and the gauntlet reached up to his shoulder. He had seen a calf pulled from the mother in his time on the ranch, but he had never done the pulling or the holding of the cow or been any part of the process. He had been an onlooker as new life filled up the hen house, the hog pen, and the barns.

Ginny lifted the cow’s tail. “Squirt the lubricant on and hurry. If she lays down on us it will be ten times harder.”

Dawson’s face tightened into a squeamish mask. He made his fist as small as he could and inserted it into the cow’s birth canal, pushing until his arm was buried up to his shoulder.

“Feel around. Can you grab a hoof?” Ginny said.

“Something here.”

“If you can grab a hoof see if you can get both together and pull them.”

Dawson’s face had not changed. He looked like he did when he was asked to clean the toilets at home.

“I’ve got ‘em,” he said.

“Good. Now pull them out together. Don’t rush it.”

Inch by inch, Dawson’s arm emerged. The cow’s head arched up and she bellowed. As his elbow then wrist reappeared, two small whitish hooves followed them. Ginny put a rope around the hooves and tightened the slipknot.

“Help me pull.”

Dawson grabbed the rope end. Bit by bit the motionless calf appeared from the birth canal, white and slick with birthing fluids, then the head popped out. Both Ginny and Dawson caught it to keep it from hitting the ground. Wide-eyed and bellowing, the cow fought the rope holding her head. Dawson started to remove the birth sheath.

“Let the momma do that, Dawson,” Ginny said.

She untied the heifer, which turned around and sniffed the new born calf struggling in its enclosure. The cow licked it, freeing the membrane. Her tonguing nudged the calf. Struggle after struggle, topple after topple, the young life at last stood on legs as unsteady as a child on stilts and wavered there, head turning, taking in the surroundings.

“Great job, Dawson,” Ginny said and raised her hand to high five him.

Dawson raised the gloved hand and for a moment both gave it a second thought, then their hands came together above their heads in a sloppy high five and they laughed.

“I’ll be damned,” Dawson said.

“Watch your language, Dawson Barrett Houston, or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

“I’m sorry Mom. Just slipped out.”

“That’s the difference between gentlemen and bums. A gentle man knows when to hold his tongue.”

She picked up some loose hay from the ground and scrubbed her hand with it. “Whew—what a mess. Let’s go get cleaned up. I believe this young lady has her priorities straight. Look at that baby nurse— like it hadn’t had a thing to eat for hours.”

Bucky and Valerie walked out to meet them.

Valerie had the hint of a frown on her face. “Did it go ok, Mom?”

“Yup. Dawson will make a good veterinarian someday.”

“He wants to be an astronaut,” Bucky said.

“Once he’s pulled a calf, he can do anything he wants in life.”

Valerie winced. “That’s so yucky.”

Ginny smiled and moved toward the half bath. “You know what? It washes off.”

Bucky watched Dawson remove the long glove, throw it in the trash barrel at the end of the barn and walk toward the water trough. “You’re not gonna wash off in that are you?”

Dawson looked at his younger brother and walked toward the trough. When he was alongside, he jumped into the air and splashed full length into the wide trough.

“Holy cow, Mom, Dawson jumped in the trough,” Bucky yelled.

Valerie stood behind Bucky looking over his shoulder. “Euuu, I wouldn’t want to drink that water.”

“Animals drink it, not humans,” Bucky said.

“Just the same, it’s yucky,” she pouted and turned for the kitchen.

AFTER THE LUNCH DISHES were done, the four of them sat around the kitchen table dividing up tasks that remained to be done.

“Bucky, do you think you can fix the fence down by the road?” Ginny said.

Bucky nodded.

“And, Valerie—a couple of the hens have made their nest in the hay mow. Will you get their eggs and the nests and get them set up in the hen house where they belong?”

“They peck at me,” she said.

“Well—take a broom with you and make sure they behave. Call me if you need any help. And Dawson—“

“Aw Mom. I’ve done enough for today,” Dawson said.

“Not by a long shot young man. I want you to open the number five irrigation gate on ditch two. Think you can remember that or do you want me to write it down?”

“I’ve got it. Number five on ditch two.”

“And stay there until you’re satisfied the flow is constant and nothing’s hung up in the ditch or gate. Get back here around 4:00 o’clock so we can do some shopping and get home.” Ginny looked around at her workers dressed in their farm clothes. They reminded her of when she and Richard and Seth had come to the dinner table so many years ago. Shoot. Where does time go?

“Ok. Off you go. I’ll be paying bills in the den if you really need me. Try and do your work all by yourself. Someday I won’t be around for advice, so get used to doing it now on your own.”

“Mom—you’re preaching again,” Bucky said.

Ginny clenched her lips together. “Sorry.”

After the kids had spread out to do their chores, Ginny sat at the old cedar desk that had been a fixture in that room since she could remember. The silence in the room was enveloping and she closed her eyes to absorb the ambiance. As her breathing slowed, the ticking of the clock eased into her consciousness and mental pictures of her childhood, stored in memory, played against the back of her eye lids. The smell of tobacco, always present from the meerschaum pipe that sat in a stand on the left hand corner, reminded her of Andrew Duncan Barrett. How he loved that pipe.

The phone rang. She opened her eyes, scattering the pleasant thoughts, and picked up the phone. “Hello. Barrett ranch.”

A strong male voice on the other end replied. “Good afternoon. This is Klete Dixon, a neighbor. I’m looking for Richard, is he around?”

“Hello, Mr. Dixon, this is Ginny Houston.”

“Hello, Ginny?”

“Richard’s not around right now but I expect to talk to him soon.”

There was a hesitation. “So you are the new owner of the ranch?”

Ginny searched her memory for what had been said. “I am not. Do you want me to have Richard call you?”

“That would be good. I’d appreciate that. An elderly gentleman has attempted to damage some of my equipment and I would like to ask him if he and Seth know anything current about Filoh Smith. Please tell him I called and he can call back at his convenience.”

“He has your number?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good day, Mr. Dixon.”

Ginny swallowed. She pondered whether to call Richard on his cell phone or wait until they called in. She picked up a pencil and added it to her list to talk to them about. They must be almost to Fremont by now. She opened the drawer and pulled out the map of Nebraska on which she had marked in yellow ink the path the North Platte River took from Ogallala to Plattsmouth. Fremont wasn’t very far along.