Chapter 14
“HARD TO TELL WHICH channel to follow,” Richard said.
“The map…” Seth started.
“…We know how accurate the map is.”
“Follow the middle branch.” He looked around. “I can see why that guy hunted ducks here. Plenty of little ponds. Good flush and shoot chances.”
Channels merged and some died out. They could see the airport and the east end of the town of North Platte and the map showed an intersection called Newberry Access Road and usually at an overpass there was a restaurant or motel. They would wait there.
The kid picking up wind-blown trash off the parking lot saw them first. He stood straight, broom and pan in hand, mouth agape as two horsemen leading a horse and a mule walked onto the hotel parking lot like they owned it.
“Afternoon,” Richard said. “The manager in?”
The youth nodded. “In the office.”
Richard dismounted, did a few partial squats to loosen his legs, set his hat and walked in a purposeful manner toward the entry.
The youth looked up at Seth who had cranked one leg around the saddle horn and looked like he was stitched to the saddle. “You come far?”
“Plattsmouth.”
“Where’s that?”
Seth looked him over. “You been to school?”
“Tenth grade. I’ll be a junior next year.”
“Don’t they teach geography in there somewhere?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Plattsmouth—spell it out—Plattes mouth—that’s the mouth of the Platte River.”
“Oh.”
“Where it runs into the Missouri. You’ve heard of the Missouri River, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good. I don’t have to start back there.”
“You rode horses clear from there.”
“We did.”
The youth looked at the horses standing still as bronze on the heated asphalt parking lot as evening customers began to arrive, park, and unload luggage. “Why would you do a fool thing like that?”
“It isn’t a fool thing. It was required by an estate order—a legal document—that consigned me and my brother to ride up here to meet an ignoramus like you standing in a parking lot as the sun goes down.”
“What’s an ignoramus?”
Seth shook his head. “I was afraid of that.”
Richard approached putting his hat back on his head. “We can stake the horses out back. I got us a room for the night.”
THE BROTHERS WERE SAVORING coffee and cinnamon rolls when Jack walked through the lobby into the breakfast area. “What’s for breakfast, boys?”
Richard looked at his watch. “What time did you leave, Jack?”
“Traffic’s lighter in the morning,” Jack Brown said. “I figured you’d be lounging around over a cup of coffee and sitting on an upholstered chair after a month in the saddle.” He stared at Richard. “My gawd, Richard—you look like you were embalmed and it didn’t take.”
A smile creased Richard’s face. Elbows on the table, holding his mug in both hands, he took a swig of coffee. “What kind of seats does the canoe have?”
“Soft as a cloud. You won’t even notice, ‘cause you’ll be wading most of the time.”
“You brought the waders?”
“Oh yes. I brought several pairs. Walking three hundred miles through the river will take the shine off them.” Jack picked out a breakfast roll. “Pass the butter there, Seth.”
Richard watched him dunk the roll in the coffee, lean forward and take the soaked bread into his mouth dripping all the way without getting any on his shirt. “We have not been in the saddle for a month. We received some legal hospitality along the way and other diversions that extended our journey.”
“That’s what we hear.” Jack took a napkin to his chin. “A lot of buzz around town about Pinsky getting arrested.”
“Man—I hate to be reminded of that,” Seth said.
“Craig is taking care of that isn’t he?” Richard said.
Jack straightened in the chair. “I suppose. But Bud’s rope is snubbed close to Dixon’s post, you know?”
Seth set his cup down. “How close is close?”
Jack swallowed his bite. “Dixon put up his bail.”
The brothers looked at each other. “I wonder if Ginny is telling us the whole story?” Seth said.
Richard shook his head. “Look—we have a job to finish here. The ranch and politics cannot be a distraction. Ginny and Donavon will need to solve it.”
“They’re no match for Dixon and Pinsky,” Jack said.
Seth leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Do you see this getting out of hand before we get back?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “Things have a way of happening that you can’t predict. I’d say get in your boat and paddle like hell. The quicker you get back the better.”
“What do you think’s goin’ on?” Seth said.
“Plain as the nose on your face. Your Mom’s will is all over town. Dixon wants the Barrett Ranch and there isn’t anybody who can stand in his way. He’ll pay Boys Town what they ask and bingo—he’s the largest land owner in the area.” He lifted his head. “Besides, he’s got Pinsky and Jamison in his pocket.”
“Jamison?” Richard said.
“Hell yes. He doesn’t make many moves without clearing it with Dixon first.”
“How come you haven’t told us this before?” Seth said.
“You guys live out there in the country. It’s the town people that see the shenanigans.”
“Like what?”
“Like when Jamison leaves his office out the back door and hops in a little tan PT Cruiser that always comes back dusty.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Nope. You’re right. Pass the coffee there, Richard, will you?” Jack filled his cup, stirred in cream and sugar and leaned back in the chair. “My delivery man saw the car going up Dixon’s driveway and saw it being washed behind the dealership a couple of hours later. Delivery guys see a lot of stuff we don’t see.”
“So it would appear,” Richard said. “What do you think, Seth?”
“Think, hell—there’s no thinkin’ to do. We count on Ginny and Donavon to hold down the fort and we scoot back down the river like our lives and fortunes depended on it.”
“And they do,” Jack said.
Richard looked at him. “You mean that, don’t you?”
Jack nodded. “I do.”
“IT’S BRIGHT RED,” Seth said, looking at the canoe.
“I didn’t want you to lose it,” Jack said. “Here are the paddles, life jackets that you might need in the two feet of water, and the cooler.”
“And the waders…” Richard said.
“Right here.” Jack set the waders in the canoe. “What’cha gonna do with the nags?”
“There’s a guy meeting us here who wants to buy them. Met him down the line.”
“And the gear? I could take some back with me.”
“Good,” Seth said. “I’d like you to take my stuff back. Richard doesn’t care to see his again—ever.”
At that moment a pickup rolled in pulling a four-horse trailer. The big man waved from the window. “Let’er buck.” He hollered.
Introductions were made, money changed hands, animals loaded, the big man drove off toward Highway 30 while Jack Brown, along with the Barrett brothers, canoe, paddles, waders, and cooler drove a couple of blocks to the river. Jack drew the launch duties. He pushed hard, the small keel carving a line in the sand. With Richard in the stern and Seth in the bow, the canoe settled on the Platte River. It bobbed for a moment before settling in, the displaced water moving aside as the river adjusted to the new thing it had to carry on its back. “Why do you get to steer?” Seth said.
“Lightest person is always in the bow. Your job is to keep us from grounding or hitting a rock or a tree. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“Steer for that little channel right there,” Seth said pointing his paddle.
In three seconds the bow grounded on a sand bar. Seth jammed his paddle in the sand and pushed backwards. The canoe stayed stuck as the stern started to swing around, the current pushing it sideways with the bow holding the point.
“Get us off there, Seth,” Richard said.
Seth drove the paddle into the sand, put the handle in his armpit and shoved, pushing his body hard on the handle. With a grinding sound the canoe slid backwards off the sand bar, Richard straightened the stern, and they glided through a narrow channel a foot deep, the bottom visible through the green tinted water.
“It’s going to be a long journey,” Richard said.
“Stay left of that sandbar just ahead.”
The morning cool had given way to mid-morning warmth as the sun shot across the water into their eyes. Seth put the paddle across the gunnels, removed his vest, unbuttoned his shirt and put on sunglasses. He flexed his shoulders, grabbed the paddle and dug in. The paddle struck the bottom. Half of the blade did not grab water.
“It will get deeper as we get close to the dam,” Richard said.
“Hope so,” Seth replied.
“Quiet, isn’t it?”
“Yup. And no feedin,’ waterin’, or saddling to mess with.” He looked around. “Nice view from here too.”
“What is the longest you have ever canoed?”
“Paul and I went down Fourmile couple of times.”
Richard moved around on the seat. “Feels better than the saddle.”
“Don’t turn us over.”
“You won’t get more than your shoes wet if we do.”
“Yeah. Take a left at the Y up ahead. That’s deeper water to the dam.”
“Aye, Aye, Sir.”
“Now you’re talkin’. Keep givin’ me full power from the engine room.”
Someone watching from the bank would have seen two muscular men with sleeves rolled above the elbows, shirts open, cowboy hats down low in front shading their eyes, engaged in an uncoordinated paddling effort. The canoe moved a bit faster than the current into water backed up by an irrigation dam.
“You know,” Richard said. “We haven’t put much effort into thinking about why Grandpa Melzer chose our ranch site. That was one of Mom’s requirements.”
“I know the answer to that.”
“Such as?”
“It was there for the taking.”
“So was the rest of this country.”
“It was close to the Missouri?”
“Probably part of it.”
Seth stretched the paddle out and shoved the bow away from a half-buried chunk of cottonwood. “It was close to a tavern?”
Richard chuckled. “Could be.”
“How particular and precise do you think we have to be on that point?”
“I don’t know how it would be challenged but it behooves us to have a good list of points leading to a conclusion of why he chose it.”
“You got anything to write on?”
“We can remember it.”
“Ok. Here’s one. It had two sources of water—the Platte and Fourmile Creek.”
“That’s good.”
“It was close to a tavern.”
“I don’t think that is going to fly, Seth.”
“That would have been important for me.” The slightest sound of the paddles stroking the water bounced back at them from the trees on the bank; otherwise it was like they were floating in a cloud. “How far do you figure we’ll make a day?”
“I would think thirty to thirty-five miles.”
“So—we could be home in ten days?”
“Might be.”
“I recall we were to look at soils and crops and animals, too,” Seth said. “Yes. And with Filoh badgering us we didn’t do any of that coming up river.” He paused for two strokes. “I miss the old guy.”
“I do too. But I don’t miss that there’s only two of us in this canoe.”
“We could have sent him back on a bus.”
“Bus driver would have killed him before they got home.”
“Back to the point. I don’t recall seeing anything other than corn and soy beans, do you?”
Seth was silent a minute. “Ya know, I just didn’t pay enough attention to register that in my mind.”
“How about soils and animals?”
“Same with those. I think Filoh had us lookin’ at every damn creek that dumped into the Platte and we forgot the other stuff.”
“Well then—that is our assignment as we ply these waters with the flotsam and jetsam.”
The sounds of water going over the dam a half-mile away drifted up the river. Richard could see a thin veil of mist distorted by sunlight dancing in the air. “We want to hold left through the bend as we approach the dam. There is a road on the left side where we can get out and across.”
“I thought we’d just drive over the dam, kinda like shootin’ a rapids.”
Richard let the remark pass and steered the canoe to the left bank at a small take-out beach 100 feet from the dam. Here the water noise was constant, burbling and pounding in a green wake over the concrete dam, splitting into an irrigation ditch going south with what was left of the Platte River, going east. The canoe slid into the backwater and Seth jumped out, bow rope in hand. The current began to swing the stern downstream but Seth held the bow against the bank.
They unloaded the canoe and carried the packs around the dam 500 feet to a low bank area, then both returned for the canoe. Packing it on their shoulders provided them shade from the noontime sun. “I kinda like it under here,” Seth said. “We could carry this thing half way.”
“My vote is no. Set it down here.”
“You ready for some lunch?” Seth asked.
“I could eat something—yes.”
“Just a moment while I find where I put the good stuff.”
“Do we need a fire?”
“Not unless you want coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
They sat on the bank, shoes off, dangling their feet in the water, chewing on beef jerky.
Richard cocked his head. “I would suppose that our requirement to delve into the soil and animals and crops would have to do with what was possible at the time and using only river front ranches for comparables.”
“I agree. I don’t think we’re to go traipsing off away from the river collecting soil samples and weighing sheep and cattle.”
“So—let’s make it a priority to stop once a day at some convenient stopping place and check soils, crops, and animals.”
“If we can do so without getting shot at.”
Richard frowned. “I think that is unlikely”
“What would you do if some stranger dug a hole in your ground, walked around in your crop, and patted your animals?”
“Well—I sure would not shoot him.”
“That’s good. What we need to do is be careful and polite.” Seth took a piece of jerky out of his mouth and threw it in the river. “You know we’re supposed to ask permission from the landowner just to camp on the bank. Apparently everyone owns to the middle of the river.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“Goodie. I’m happy to be with you. How do we divide these duties?”
“You take animals and I will take soil and crops. That is what we do, our specialties, and we should be able to make short work of it.”
“Sounds good to me,” Seth said. “When ya wanta start, now?”
“No. Our afternoon stop before dinner. Let’s shove off.”
Then the wind came. The water gathered near the bank, the white caps bursting up in the bushes. The air along the river filled with the sweet smell of cottonwood and willow buds and the smell of mud, soaked and dried a thousand times.
“Keep it straight, Richard,” Seth said. “Keep the bow into the wind.”
“That is your job.”
“I can’t do it all. You need to steer the damn thing.”
“Keep the bow sharp into the wind.”
Seth pulled on the paddle. “That’s easier said than done. Push it—push it!”
The canoe bounced against the bank, sliding up on exposed roots, the right gunnel inches above the water. Richard drove his paddle into the bank and shoved them into the stream. Almost immediately the wind pushed them back.
“We’re not making any progress on this. Let’s hang it up for today,” Seth said.
“Find a spot. If you can’t keep it in line there is no use of fighting it all day.
“Well, it’s not just me. There’s two of us in this boat.”
“But only one doing it the right way.”
“When did you get to be a canoe expert?”
It was silent for a moment. “I’m heading for that break in the bank to our left. Get ready to hold us off. And don’t tip the thing over.”
Seth switched his paddle from one side to the other, paddling where the water was deep enough and shoving it into the sand and pushing where it was shallow. When the bow ground into the bank, Seth leaped out and pulled with the rope. The wind caught the canoe, lighter now in the front end, and as Richard stood to get out it turned and his left leg stepped into water up to his knee. He would have fallen but he jammed the paddle in the sand and got the other foot out—into the water. He stood there looking at Seth on the bank, dry and with the rope in his hands.
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” Seth said.
“Oh, shut up and pull the canoe up.”
AFTER SUPPER, THEY sat by the riverbank watching swallows filling the air, out and around in a circular pattern that seemed more exercise than feeding. Hundreds of the small black birds flew out from under the bridge, chirping and flying in an established pattern.
“What kinda birds are those?” Seth said.
“I think they are swallows.” Richard said.
“Barn swallows?”
“Bridge swallows.”
“Oh sure. Like that makes sense.”
“No. They are cliff swallows. Notice the orange rump and white forehead patch?”
“Where did you learn stuff like that?”
“I took some ornithology in college. Something you avoided.” Richard stretched out his legs, crossed them and leaned on one elbow. “They’ve been around for over 150 years building those clay nests under bridges.”
“Where’d they build before we built bridges?”
“Cliffs. Hard for predators to get at them under a bridge. They keep the mosquito population down.”
“Good for them.” Seth turned his gaze to the river. “Did you ever think we’d be on the river this far away from home?”
Richard shook his head.
“This is something. Mom forces us to ride along side and then canoe down the river that makes our place what it is. We’ve been on it for what—sixty years—and we never looked at it like this. Never even gave it a thought except when it flooded and ran over the west quarter section.”
“We used to swim it. Never thought about the junk that came along with it from Fremont.”
“You remember those times one of us had to go upstream and pick off any guts from the slaughter house hung up on sweepers or sandbars?”
Seth grinned. “That was sure the time of out of sight, out of mind. I remember unhookin’ a set of guts and sendin’ em down the river thinkin’ now the river’s fit to swim in.”
“And the water being so warm on those real long hot spells?”
“Hell yes. I remember one time we were hotter when we got out then we were when we got in.”
“And Mom would have lemonade ready for us when we got home.”
Seth turned toward Richard shaking his head. “That was good, wasn’t it?”
Richard nodded.
“Let’s take a swim,” Seth said.
“Now?”
“Hell yes, now. I’m hot and sweaty—aren’t you?”
“Yes—guess I am. I’m just used to being hot and sweaty and smelling like a horse.”
“Last one in is a mule.” Seth pulled off his shoes—he wasn’t wearing any socks—and in six seconds flat had shed his Levis and shirt. Naked, he took three steps to the water and jumped in landing in knee-deep water. “ It’s gonna be hard to get all wet.” He looked up at Richard, just now shedding his pants. “You’re the mule.”
Richard stepped in and sat down on the river bottom, the water coming to his waist. In a clear baritone voice in synch with each swipe of the soap across his arm he sang: “There is no place like Nebraska, good old Nebraska U. Where the girls are the fairest…”
Learning time
“BOY, THAT WAS NOISY,” Seth said as the canoe slid out under the bridge.
“We should wait until those trucks get over it next time.”
“That and the damn birds showering us with poop. Did you get hit?”
“My hat got a couple of shots.”
“You better clean it off or it’ll eat holes right through.”
“Seriously?”
Seth nodded. “Damn right. Had it happen to me.”
Richard studied Seth’s paddle action, took a deep breath and synchronized his stroke: lean forward, dip the paddle, pull back. At the end of Richard’s stroke he added a modified “J” to keep the canoe in line. At summer camp as youngsters, Seth was always the first to get his canoe across the finish line. When they entered the race as a pair they won. But in this braided river, where the water traveled the course of least resistance, it was necessary to correct the direction all the time. High water had cut the bank at a bend in the river and a cottonwood tree, stubborn to the end, clung to the caved off soil like a clock’s big hand stuck at two. A Piping Plover standing atop the exposed roots turned his head toward them, and screamed out, “peep-lo, peep-lo,” before escaping downstream.
Ahead, the channel split, directed left and right by a large sand bar rivaling the river bank in height and armored with polished root systems and logs devoid of bark sitting half in and half out of the sand.
“Left,” Seth yelled.
“Left it is,” Richard replied and pressed his paddle like a rudder to turn the canoe into the current. As they rolled by the accumulated wood, Richard stared at the natural fortification that had been formed by water, sand, mud and wind. He poked his paddle at it. It felt like a concrete wall, as staunch as an iron peg in frozen soil.
The main channel split in two dividing the small flow, which put an end to regular dipping and paddling the canoe. Seth was mostly using his paddle as a pole to push the bow where he wanted it to go. They could hear the canoe bottom scraping the sand. Richard commented, “We are losing paint every time we do that.”
“Can’t help it. The water’s thin here,” Seth said.
They made about three hundred feet before Richard said: “This isn’t good.”
“No,” Seth said. “Let’s wade it.”
They pulled over to a dry sandbar and swapped their tennis shoes for hip waders.
“I’m glad Jack threw these in,” Richard said.
Seth hooked the waders to his belt, “He guessed it right.”
Each man took a rope into his hand and they waded in ankle deep water that barely floated the canoe. Seth led the way the first hundred yards. The second hundred yards they could see the pace they were traveling was not going to get them thirty miles a day. If they got ten miles, with stops for meals, minor accidents, and portages around logjams, it would be a good day.
The sun struck the water and bounced up under their hat brims burning their faces and necks. Eyes watered. Twice they stopped for short meals. Neither was hungry but both were weakened by the method of travel and discouraged by the slowness.
“Different bein’ on the river rather than ridin’ alongside it,” Seth said.
Richard nodded. “Can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“More peaceful seems like.”
“Maybe.” Richard threw a piece of jerky back in the plastic bag. “Different sound than the horses. And we are lower down—that makes a difference.”
“Yeah. Could be.”
Richard had been casting his glances at the sky. “I believe there is some heavy weather coming our way. Should we get going and find a good place to stick it out?”
“Good idea.” Seth bundled the food, stuffed it in the pack and they waded back into the river. “Hard to call this a river right here.”
“When Grandpa Melzer traveled it, it was a full blown river.”
“Yeah,” Seth said as he pulled the bow away from a half-buried limb, “but it was shallow then too.”
Richard took a deep breath. His ankles were sore from the rasping of the waders and the uneven footing. He took his mind off it. Off every damn step in the river, the rope chaffing his hands and sun burning his neck. Where he went now was not his choice. It was the will of others that had pulled him from the comfortable tractor seat and the cool paneled den and the restorative whisky and set him on this river. Ok. He would learn the river and sharpen his mind as to the crops and animals. He had it in him to set other considerations aside and bring the main topic to the fore, hold it as a single entity and not be distracted. There hadn’t been anything yet in his life that he could not stand for a short period. He would simply change his attitude about it.
“Pretty setting with the dark clouds coming over those trees,” Richard said.
Seth, who was looking for turtles, turned his head in that direction. “Yup. Let’s find us a high and dry spot for camp.”
Richard nosed the canoe into a low bank. Seth lifted one foot to plant it on the shore, wavered, and fell, momentarily punching a hole in the water, which then rushed back in to cover him completely. Richard watched as Seth’s head disappeared below the surface, eyes clamped shut, a scowl etched on his face.
A hand and paddle lifted above the surface, then disappeared again. Seth drifted under the canoe and popped up on the other side, struggling against the limp current.
“Seth,” Richard yelled. “Stand up.”
Richard saw his hips rise, saw his belt and pants surface. Seth, being dragged along by the water-filled waders, fought to get his feet under him but his head stayed beneath the surface. Richard dropped his paddle, leaped toward Seth as he drifted on the current. He grabbed Seth and they sat up together, water parting around their chests. Seth shook his head and sputtered. He took a deep breath and vomited. Richard held him as he convulsed, remembering how as a sick child their mother had put her cool hand on his forehead while he emptied himself into the porcelain bowl.
Seth straightened up, looked at Richard holding him with both hands, and smiled. “Got kinda dizzy there. The shoreline moved and I tried to follow it with my foot. Bad choice.”
“You ok?”
“I’ll live.”
Richard nodded. “Grab that paddle drifting away.”
IT WAS NOT THE FASTEST, but probably the second fastest fire they had built while on this journey. Not that it was freezing cold, but the wet clothes and evening air along with the threat of injury had lowered each man’s tolerance for discomfort. Getting the ingredients for a good fire took thought and effort. There was a tendency to short cut something and force it to be done over, which always took more time than if it was done right in the first place.
Seth was shivering by the time the fire was putting out heat and he could peel off his clothes and hang them on the bar Richard had built. Richard had driven two forked branches into the sand some three feet apart and rested a straight stick across the forks. The clothes were hung over that to dry. It took hours to dry clothes that way, but there was no other way unless you felt like running ten miles to dry them out.
“Dizzy you say?” Richard said.
Seth nodded. “I think it was standing up all of a sudden after sitting most of the afternoon. Everything started dancing before my eyes.”
“And now?”
“Feel good. Cold, hungry, tired—but other than those minor items, I’m fine.”
Richard looked at his brother out of the corner of his eye and tightened his jaw muscles. He’d have to keep closer watch on Seth. It was easy enough to do from the back seat of the canoe. He picked an envelope of freeze-dried food from the pack, scanning the product by light of the fire. He squinted to read it.
“Turkey Tetrazzini?”
Seth nodded. “I’m good with that.” Then added, “Share your Scotch?”
Richard shook his head. “No way. Cuddle up to the fire.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“We are not going to plow the same ground again.”
The two men sat naked before the fire. Seth shook involuntarily, his arms wrapped around his shoulders. “Warm on one side, cold on the other. Ain’t you freezing?”
Richard shook his head. “I’m fine.”