IT RAINED most of the next couple of weeks. One of Fred’s hired men had found our horses and what was left of the wagon and buckboard. Nig was all right, but Bill stood with his back humped up most of the time, and all the starch seemed to have drained out of Nancy’s legs. We kept them in the end of the bunkhouse Father had cut off to use for a kitchen, while he and I worked in the other end. There was no school when it rained, so I could stay home and help him a lot. We built a new wagon body and put new spokes in the wheels of the buckboard, right there in the bunkhouse. Between showers we built a new privy—we were never able to find even one board of our old one.
I had to bring two pails of milk from Aultland’s every night. When I had eggs to bring, too, Grace went with me to lug the basket. Mother was making Father drink all of one bucket of milk every day, and giving him raw eggs with a spoonful of brandy in the glass. I still liked the smell of that brandy, but the weather was getting warm enough so that I couldn’t get blue any more. Father’s cough got better day by day, but as he grew stronger, Nancy grew weaker. One morning near the end of the second week, Father went out to the bunkhouse and found her dead. Grace and I had to go to school that day, so we missed the funeral.
Our big wind must have been an ill one, because I never heard of anyone it did any good—except maybe it did help us a little in one way. The Saturday after Nancy died, Father and I were putting the buckboard back together when a man with a big load of new boards stopped out in front of our house. He came in and said his name was Wright, and that he lived a couple of miles up the creek. He said the wind had raised the dickens with his buildings and he’d noticed how nicely we were getting fixed up again.
After he’d watched Father work for a little while, he said, “You seem to be a pretty handy sort of fellow with a hammer and saw. I wish I could get you to come and help me get fixed up. I’d give you three dollars a day for your time, or trade work with you, or trade something I might have that you wanted.”
Father told Mr. Wright he ought to be getting started with his own plowing now that the rains had come, but he would talk it over with Mother and let him know the next day. Mother must have said it was all right, because Father helped Mr. Wright for a couple of weeks.
Father drove Bill and Nig up to Mr. Wright’s the first morning. When he came home he had a saddled bay mare tied to the tail gate of the wagon, and a little black and white collie puppy in the pocket of his reefer coat. He said Mr. Wright had insisted on lending him the mare to ride back and forth, but the puppy was ours to keep. It was still so young it was wobbly on its legs and cute as could be. We all wanted to claim it, but Father wouldn’t let us. He said Muriel could name it, but it would belong to all of us. She named it King.
I liked King a lot, but it was the saddle horse that really took my eye. She was a crabby Morgan mare and laid her ears back every time anyone went near her. In the mornings when Father put the saddle on, she would fling her head around and snap at him with her teeth, but she always missed him by an inch or two. She could run like a greyhound, and I wanted to ride on her so much I couldn’t think about anything else, but neither Father nor Mother would let me go within a rod of her. I had got so I could ride Willie Aldivote’s donkey without my feet being tied together—and only holding on to the belly strap with one hand. Willie had taught me how to squeeze my knees tight behind the withers, and ride on them instead of the seat of my pants. I had spent hours practicing and knew that, especially with a saddle, I could ride the mare as easy as pie.
It was about the middle of April when Father finished helping Mr. Wright repair his buildings. He took Bill and Nig with him that last Friday. I remember so well because that was the day we changed from being immigrants to being ranchers. When he came home that night the bay mare was tied to the tail gate. She didn’t have the saddle on, but there was a driving harness in the wagon, along with four little Berkshire pigs and two gunny sacks with the heads of half a dozen hens sticking out of holes in each of them.
I wanted to claim and name the new mare, but Father wouldn’t let me. He said we had all, except Philip, named something, so he must have his choice; he chose Fanny.
Mother didn’t want the end of the bunkhouse as a kitchen, after the horses had been living in it, so Saturday morning we hooked Bill and Nig to it and hauled it out where the first barn had stood. It had been built with board walls inside and out, and the space between them stuffed with straw. We worked to beat the band all day. After we got it moved Father ripped up the floor and pulled off all the inside boards. He let Grace and me pull the old nails and pound them out straight, while Muriel and Philip were lugging the straw to the hen coop and pig pen he built with the floor boards.
When Father hauled the piece for the barn away, it left the bunkhouse with one end open. That Sunday he built a new end into it with boards he had pulled off the inside of the barn, and made a partition in the middle, so there was a room for Philip and me, and one for Grace and Muriel. While he was doing it, Grace and I helped Mother move the beds and make us bureaus out of boxes the groceries had come in. She put cloth around them—with ruffles—and we made scalloped paper covers for them, and cut doilies from pieces of old wallpaper. By supper time everything was done, and Grace and I were so excited about sleeping in a real bunkhouse that we could hardly get away from the table quickly enough.
Father had promised Mother that he would plow her a garden out behind the barn before he did anything else. He started it early Monday morning, but he hadn’t got around the plot once before we had to go to school. He had made a tripletree for the plow, and balanced it carefully so to adjust the amount of pull to the strength of each horse. Nig was to walk in the furrow and pull the biggest share, Bill in the middle with the next biggest, and Fanny on the outside with only a little more than half as much load as Nig.
But Fanny had no intention of being a plow horse. She was all right while Father was putting Nancy’s collar and the hames with chain traces on her, but when he tried to rein her up beside the other horses, she squealed and tried to bite chunks out of Bill’s neck. Father fixed that quick enough by fastening a stick about three feet long between her bridle and Bill’s collar, but when he hooked her traces, she kicked and jumped around till she had both hind legs over them and was faced the wrong way. Father unhooked her and talked easy till he had her back where she belonged, but every time he got the traces hooked to the tripletree, she would do the same thing all over again.
If it had been Mother, I think she would have killed Fanny right then and there, but Father didn’t seem to get mad at all—only the muscles on his jaws went out and in. At last he made another jockey-stick and put her in the middle with one stick fastened to Bill’s collar and the other to Nig’s. That way she couldn’t swing out around, but she did kick like fury, and got both legs over the traces. Bill and Nig didn’t get any more excited than Father did while Fanny slatted and threw herself around. She acted just like a little kid in a tantrum.
When she had quieted down a little, Father put the reins over his shoulder, stuck the point of the plow in the ground, and clucked to the team. Bill and Nig started up when Father clucked, but Fanny stood stock still. The tripletree caught her on the heels, and then the real fun started. Fanny went away from there like a stone out of a slingshot. When she reached the end of the jockey-sticks, she went straight up, and came down bucking, with heels flying in all directions. Finally she got one foreleg inside Bill’s bridle rein and one hind leg inside Nig’s breeching, then she went down with Nig on top of her. When Father got them untangled, he made me go to school. I never heard Father swear, but I always wondered if he didn’t that time as soon as I was out of earshot.
I stopped by Aultland’s for the milk on my way home from school. Fred was out by the corral fixing a disk harrow, and I went over to tell him how Fanny had acted when Father hooked her up to the plow. He laughed as though it were a big joke. “It’s no wonder old man Wright traded her off cheap,” he said. “He’s spent ten years and a dozen sets of harness trying to break her to drive double. I’ll sure take my hat off to your old man if he can plow half an acre with her. Why the hell wouldn’t the stubborn down-east Yankee let me lend him a good horse to plow with? Say, how much land is he figuring to turn over this year, anyway?”
When I told him Father was going to plow the whole place if Bill held out, he squinted up one eye for a minute, and said, “Go on in and get your milk; I’ll give you a lift home.”
Father had most of the garden plowed when we got there. The big horses were walking slowly, just one step after another. Fanny was soaking wet and tossing her head up and down, but she was plowing, so I told Fred he’d have to take his hat off to Father.
Father put his foot up on the hub of Fred’s buckboard the way he always did. They talked about what would be best to plant on new sod ground. They talked and talked. Then Fred said, “Charlie, how much of this place do you figure on putting into crops?”
Father looked over toward the horses and said, “I’d like to put it all in, Fred, but with the late start I’ve got, and at the rate I’ve been going today, I guess I’ll be lucky if I get in eighty acres.”
Fred just sat chewing for a minute or two, then he squirted a line of tobacco juice between the nigh horse’s heels. “You know this prairie land won’t produce much in the way of grain crops the first year, and drinks up a hell of a lot of water. A fellow ought to put in crops like peas and beans and alfalfa the first year, so’s to get air back into the land. Why don’t you put in about ten acres of alfalfa? We’ve had quite a bit of rain this spring, and if you sow it with oats—and get it in before the first of May—it might get roots down to moisture before it burns out on you. Then you could put in another ten to peas and beans, and you’d have about all you wanted to take care of this first year.”
Father stood looking down at his foot on the hub of the buckboard for all of two minutes, then he looked up at Fred and his voice was real quiet when he said, “What are you telling me, Fred—haven’t I got any water?”
Fred didn’t answer till he’d spit between the off horse’s feet and cut another corner of his plug. “Yep, Charlie, you’ve got water—ten inches. This land will produce forty bushels of wheat to the acre if you’ve got an inch of water to the acre. Without an inch to the acre, you’re lucky if you get any.”
Father pushed his hat back and scratched his head a little. “Can I count on getting the full ten inches, Fred?” he asked.
“That’s the hell of it,” Fred said. “You’re tail-ender on the ditch. When the creek’s high and the ditch is running full at the dam you’ll get your share, but when it’s running low and the crops are burning up, you’ll be able to lug all you get in a bucket. I won’t steal water from you, Charlie, but when only half my own is coming through to me and my crop’s suffering, I won’t pass it on to you.”
Neither of them said anything for a long time, then Fred said, “Your cousin ought to have found out about it before he got you out here. Why, man, you couldn’t run ten inches of water to this garden from where the ditch comes onto your place; the ground would drink it all up on the way. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ve got two hundred inches with my place. I’ll use all the water that comes as far as me for twenty days, then give you the whole head for one. That’ll let you give about twenty acres a good soaking often enough to make a crop the first year. After that you might handle as much as twenty-five.”