20

On the Trail

The sun peeped over the horizon.

Cassie and her mismatched group creaked out on the road, setting the pattern for the coming days. After long days on the trail, they set up camp before dusk and ate the leftovers from Mrs. Hornsmith and whatever meat they’d shot or snared. In the mornings they ate a cold meal and drove as far as they could, following the instructions the pastor had given them. They bypassed the towns when they could, stopping only once to refill their water barrel at a local pump.

Runs Like a Deer became stronger and started riding up on the seat beside the wagon driver, bracing her splinted leg on the footboard.

Cassie watched her talking with Micah and realized that the Indian woman saved special tidbits especially for him. One day Cassie caught a knowing look from Chief that made her smile. Might a budding romance be happening right before their eyes?

When she mentioned something about Runs Like a Deer to Micah, he looked at her in confusion.

“She’s getting stronger,” was all he said.

Driving through rain on the second day, Cassie wished she had stayed in the wagon. Water was dripping off her hat and down her neck, in spite of her wool coat. They all needed raincoats, but not only was there no money, there was no town nearby where they could find a store.

When they stopped, Chief and Micah rigged up a tarp attached to the wagon and built the fire at the edge of it, using wood they’d brought along that was dry. Hot coffee tasted mighty good, and being the last they had, even better. Cassie heated the beans on the stove in the wagon, and they all ate under the cover of the tarp.

“At least it isn’t snowing,” she said to Chief.

“Not yet.”

“You think it will?”

He shrugged. “Possible. You like a cat.”

“A cat? How’s that?” She shivered at a gust of wind.

“Hate being wet.”

Micah and Runs Like a Deer joined in with Chief’s laugh.

Cassie tried to laugh with them, but laughing was difficult through clenched teeth. She shivered again. “Sorry. I’m going inside.”

“You want me to bring you more wood?” Micah asked.

“Thank you, no. I can manage that myself.” But he beat her to the door and, after opening it for her, followed her inside, carrying an armload, some needing drying. He added wood to the stove, put the lids back in place, smiled at her, and left.

“Thank you,” she said as he stepped out the door.

His nod said he’d heard her.

Cassie rubbed her hands together over the stove, and then rubbed her upper arms to get the circulation going. Hanging up her coat and scarf, she hooked her hat on the peg by the door. She pulled a sweater she’d found in a cupboard over her head and then removed her damp shirt from underneath it. The wool, although a bit moth-eaten, warmed her within seconds. She pulled her quilt out of the cupboard, wrapped it around herself, and then sat down at the table, where the lamp spread a pool of light as soon as the match touched the wick. Within minutes she’d stopped shivering and could feel the warmth from the stove on her face. It was too early to go to bed, and while she could hear her companions talking outside, she had no desire to join them.

Instead, she drew out the drawer that was stuffed with the papers she’d found in various hidey-holes and removed a stack to look through. Bills, some marked Paid and others said Due Now in large letters. Please Pay and Overdue marked others. All of those she stacked in one pile. They would make good fire starter. She paused. If she was half owner of the show, like Jason had said, was it her responsibility to pay these bills? Would creditors come after her? What would her father have done?

Her father wouldn’t have let the show get into trouble like it did, that was for sure. She thought of all the tents and wagons and animals and all the supplies left behind. Who had all that now? Did some other show come in and buy it up? Wouldn’t that money go to pay the bills? But how could it, if she had the papers with her? She rubbed her forehead. There was no one she could ask. But there might be someday. The stack of bills didn’t take up a lot of room, so they would stay.

She returned to her sorting, draping the quilt over the back of the chair now that she was warmed up. Letters discussing travel plans and locations where the show would be performed went in another pile. For some reason she decided to keep those. On her third stack, she opened an old envelope and found the bill of sale for the wagon. Her father’s signature sealed the transaction. That she put in the separate to-be-kept-for-sure pile.

Leaving the piles on the table, she climbed up on the open end of the bunk bed, ignoring all the things they had stored on the top bunk and reaching for the three drawers that butted up against the ceiling. Pulling them all out, she had to give a hard jerk on one that was stuck, but it gave up, screaming as it broke free. She climbed back down and moved the drawers to rest on the woodbox. Which reminded her she should add some wood to the fire. She dug two pieces out from the now covered box and stuffed them into the stove, impatient to get to the drawers. They looked like they’d not been opened for many years. Probably too difficult for Jason to climb up there.

Back at the table she quickly realized these were from the days when her mother was alive. She found letters from Norway, programs from the early shows, a daguerreotype of a young girl and her horse. Another of a very sober-looking couple, her mother and father on what must have been their wedding day. Mother was wearing a traveling suit of a light color, and Father was dressed in a dark cutaway coat with vest and cravat, both of them high fashion for the day. Had she possibly seen this picture as a little girl when her mother was telling her of her life in Norway? She didn’t remember it. She sank down on the lone chair and leaned closer to the lamp to study their dear faces. What a dashing couple they were.

She put the picture down and went back to sorting. A small velvet box in the bottom in a corner caught her attention. She opened it carefully to find a ring in the slot. Holding it to the light, the stone seemed alive in the glow. An opal ring. Her mother’s opal ring. She slipped it from the nest and onto her third finger on her right hand. She now had something precious of her mother’s, something she’d dreamed of all these years. Not that she needed a memento to remember her by, but a treasure. Not for the value of it, if there was any, but something her mother wore and loved.

Putting it back in its nest, she closed the box and resolved that when she finished sorting, she’d pull her trunk from under the table and secret this down in a corner where it would be safe. Or should she put it back in the same drawer? Obviously no one ever went up there.

She found camisoles, shirtwaists, and various belts, gloves, and even a fan. She shook them all out, wiped the drawer, and packed them back where she’d found them. A packet of fancy hatpins reminded her how much her mother had loved hats. Although she’d never worn a western hat in the show, she had in the parade, but her real joy was fancy hats with feathers and silk flowers and ribbons and all manner of vibrant decorations. Cassie left the ring box on the table and climbed back up to put the drawers in their slots.

When the wagon chilled off, she got up and put more wood in the stove, opening the vents to help it catch more quickly. A knock at the door and Chief asked if Runs Like a Deer could come in to bed.

“Of course. It’s not locked.” She knew she sounded cranky, but instead of apologizing, she fetched another pack of papers from one of the lower drawers and started sorting it. She said good-night to Runs Like a Deer and kept on sorting. Some for the fire starter, some, like the bill of purchase for a black-and-white pinto gelding, also bearing her father’s signature, went in the to-keep pile.

A five-dollar bill fell out of a folded paper. She read the paper and added it to the burn pile. When the room cooled again, she put the to-be-kept pile in one drawer and put the to-burn papers in the woodbox by the stove. Stretching, she caught back a yawn. Morning would be there before she was ready. Wrapped in her quilt and swinging into her hammock, she thought of the papers her father had signed. At least they were with her and not at the mercy of some unknown person.

“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered, “for the man who was my father, for these papers to help me remember what a fine man he was. I’m not sure how he could be friends with Jason Talbot, but maybe when my father was alive, Jason was a better man.”

Bar E Ranch

I am not getting angry with Lucas today.

Ransom stared at the ceiling. He could hear his mother in the kitchen already and Gretchen slamming the door on her way to the barn. By the time he was dressed and pulling his boots on, his mind had gone up in the woods to cut trees. One person could not use the crosscut saw alone. Had Lucas set the elk shoulders in the brine? He banged on his brother’s bedroom door as he went by.

“He’s out cutting up that apple tree to fit in the smokehouse. He’s already started the fire in there,” Mavis said, answering his question.

Great, so now I owe him an apology for thinking him a lie-abed? Ransom shrugged into his coat.

“Breakfast is nearly ready.”

“Call us.” His breath clouded white when he stepped out the door onto the back porch, which stretched half the length of the log house. Pulling his leather gloves on, he strode across the frost-crisped grass to the woodpile.

“You’re just in time.” Lucas settled the now limbless apple log into the log holder and grabbed the short crosscut saw off the woodshed wall. They took the opposite sides and fell into the pulling rhythm. He remembered his father yelling, “Just pull. You push and you’ll bind the saw up.” So people often called it the pull-pull saw. As they ripped the log into foot-and-a-half lengths, he watched his brother.

“You going to help me cut pine trees after breakfast?”

“I will, and then we have two places where the fences need repair.” Fixing fence, like so many other ranch chores, was always easier done by two pairs of hands than one.

Lucas grabbed the other log and set it across the two Xs of the stand built especially for this job. They were chopping up the bigger branches by the time Mavis called them to eat.

Gretchen came flying down the hall and slid into her chair, finishing her second braid as she sat. Ransom said grace, and she dug into her bowl of oatmeal. “I might be late again today.”

“Why?”

“I can’t remember if Mrs. Micklewhite said one or two days.” She made a face at her eldest brother. “And yes, I learned my lesson. I will not pass notes in class again.”

“You knew better.” Ransom hid a grin behind a spoonful of oatmeal. He lifted the bowl off the plate for his mother to slide two fried eggs and two slices of fried cornmeal mush onto it.

“That enough?”

“For now.” He finished his oatmeal and reached for the warmed syrup pitcher. “We’re cutting pine trees first and then fixing fence after dinner.”

“So will you watch the smoker and make sure there’s enough wood in it?”

“I will. You already have the meat hanging in there?”

Lucas nodded.

He must have been up mighty early, Ransom thought, taking a drink of coffee. Amazing that he didn’t bang on my door. Lucas had spent his early years trying to keep up with his big brother. The day he won a footrace he’d shouted his glee to the heavens. Ransom may have pulled up a little to let his little brother win, but pride should have kept him from doing so. And yet he’d often taken the discipline of his father because he was the older and should have known better. Both boys well knew where the razor strop hung and what it felt like wielded across their rears when Pa got angry.

Gretchen drank her mug of half coffee, half milk and grabbed her plate and silverware to dump in the dishpan on the stove. Then shoving her arms into her coat, she kissed her mother’s cheek and flew out the door to where her saddled horse was waiting.

Mavis smiled. “It was all I could do yesterday not to burst out laughing when Gretchen said she told Jenna that she wouldn’t be her friend if Jenna passed a note again.” She snort-chuckled. “When that girl gets something on her mind, it takes an act of God to change it. A lot like her pa that way.”

“A lot like Pa for sure,” Ransom agreed.

“Need a refill?” Mavis asked, coffeepot in hand.

“And some more of the fried mush,” Lucas said as he held his cup up.

When his mother held up the pancake turner, Ransom nodded. “If there’s enough.”

“I made extra.” Mavis served some to herself and sat back down. “Were there any more apples up on the trees?”

“Some at the top. The deer got all the ones on the ground.”

“I thought a few more would be good. I’ve not made apple butter yet, and I hate to use the ones down in the cellar.”

Lucas looked to Ransom, who nodded. “We’ll bring them down at dinner.”

“I could maybe make an apple pie if you do.”

Apple pie was Lucas’s favorite dessert.

“Do you think there are enough up there to have a cider party?” Both Mavis and Ransom looked to Lucas. He was the last one to have been up there.

He thought a moment. “Not sure. But if we announced the party, we could ask others to bring their leftover apples to press too.”

Mavis nodded. “I’ve been thinking I’d like to have a party of some kind here. This would be ideal. There’s nothing like fresh-pressed apple cider.”

“Ma, it’s not cider until it sits a few days and the bubbles start to rise.” Lucas grinned at his mother. She always canned the first of the presses so it would keep. Apple juice left alone began to ferment. Hard cider was really fermented apple juice, the sugar all turned to alcohol.

“If you want, you could press some a couple of days early. Let me get a calendar. I’m thinking this Saturday might be good a time as any.”

“That’s not far away. No time for an announcement at church.” Ransom didn’t have a lot to say on this. They knew his feelings on parties and such. He’d run the apple press. That way he wouldn’t have to carry on conversations with those of the feminine gender.

“Shame we don’t have room for dancing.”

“No, we are not moving the hay in the middle of the barn.” Lucas grinned at his mother. “But if the weather holds, we could dance in front of the barn, like we have in the past. Dance enough and you’ll keep warm.”

“We could have a bonfire.”

Ransom gave up. He could see that between the two this was indeed a done deal, and while his mother would say there wasn’t a lot to do, he knew differently. He’d learned from experience. He got up to get the coffeepot and refilled all their cups. This could take awhile.

Later than Ransom had planned, the two brothers pushed back their chairs and shrugged into their jackets. A few minutes later, mounted with saws, an ax, and gunnysacks for the apples, they headed across the pasture.

They ground-tied their horses far enough away to be safe from falling trees and carried one of the saws to the first notched tree. Setting the saw teeth with a couple of short, quick cuts, they settled in to pull the four-foot saw back and forth. Within a couple of minutes, the tree let out a groan and started to tip in the direction of the notch. They gave it two more licks and stepped back to watch the tall pine come crashing down, taking branches from the other nearby trees with it. Branches and pinecones flew up as the tree hit the earth with a mighty roar. All Ransom could see was what a good stack of beams to repair the mine shaft the tree would become.

“I hate to see that.” Lucas tipped his hat back and wiped his forehead. “Guess the jacket needs to go.” They hung their jackets on a perpendicular branch of the fallen tree and moved on to the next one. By the time they had downed ten trees, Lucas pulled out his pocket watch. “We better get to the apples.”

“I was hoping to get some of the branches cut off, but this has been a good morning’s work. We could skip the apples.” Ransom knew the answer he’d get on that. He clapped his brother on the shoulder as they lugged axes and saws back to pick up their jackets. “Thought I’d bring the branches in and let them dry for firewood.”

“You don’t think we have enough cut already?”

“Depends on how cold the winter is.” They flipped the reins up from the horses and mounted. “An apple sounds mighty good about now.”

“Think I’ll set a snare line for rabbits. Their fur should be real dense by now.”

“Fried rabbit sounds good too.”

When they got to the apple trees, Lucas climbed up in the trees while Ransom picked from horseback. It wasn’t long before they had two sacks, one tied to each saddle horn. “Ma would have enjoyed this.”

“That she would have, and you know, if we hadn’t agreed to do this, she would have been up in the tree.” They both turned to study the three remaining trees. “Enough for a cider party?”

Ransom nodded. “We’ll get the rest tomorrow morning—bring a wagon up.”

After dinner the two of them loaded a roll of barbed wire, a posthole digger, some cedar posts, and the rest of their equipment in a wagon and drove out to the places Lucas had found that needed repair.

“Surely that fence wasn’t cut.” Ransom stared at his brother. “Who would cut our fence?”

“I wondered the same thing.” Lucas climbed down from the wagon and reached for the wire and wire clippers. “I haven’t counted to see if we’re missing any cattle.”

“We’ll do that before evening. Can you tell if anything has come through here into our fields?” While he was asking, Ransom was studying the area around the cut. No wagon wheel tracks. Only horse and cattle prints, but had some been driven out through this cut?

“I don’t think so. I rode around the cattle looking for any different brands. Didn’t find anything. The last time someone cut our wire, it was to let his cows in with our bull.”

Ransom looped the reins around the whipstock and climbed down. He pulled his leather gloves out of his rear pocket, all the while looking up and down the fence line. Who would cut the wire? Working together, he and Lucas cut three pieces of wire to loop at both ends and put loops on the cut piece. At the post, they used the wire stretcher to tighten the strands and stapled the excess into the post so the wires were taut again. With all their tools and spare wire back in the wagon, Ransom squatted down to study the tracks. He ranged farther from the cut and knelt down again.

“Come here.”

Lucas joined him and examined the print Ransom was pointing to. “A shod horse. How’d I miss that?”

“Who around here shoes their horses at this time of year?” Since few of the horses were ridden off the ranch, the only ones they ever shod were the team that pulled the wagon to town or on errands.

“I don’t know. It’s not something you go around asking.” Ransom walked a bit farther. “Here again.”

“See anything unusual in it?”

“No, worse luck.” Convictions had been made on an anomaly of hoofprints.

They walked back to the wagon, both of them studying the ground as they walked.

Once loaded, they headed across the field to another fence break.

“You going to see Sheriff McDougal, or do you want me to do it?” Lucas asked.

“I’ll go talk with him while you go check with the ranches right around here. Ask if anyone else has had fences cut. We can count cattle as soon as we get done here.”

“This one has a post rotted out. Maybe the bull pushed against it or something.” They’d not gone far before Lucas said, “You thought any more about selling this place?”

“No, and I have no intention of thinking on it.”

“So what do you think? Let the bank take it over? That doesn’t seem too smart to me.”

“You know, Lucas, have you ever discussed this with Ma?”

“She wants to keep it for sentimental reasons.”

“How do you know that?”

“That’s just the way she is.”

“Our mother sentimental? Why, she’s the most practical person I know.” They stopped at a post that was kept upright by three strands of barbed wire. “Have you pushed on the others on either side?” He nodded toward the rough-sawn four-by-fours.

“No. But she’ll listen to you, Ransom. You know she will.”

“Just go lean your shoulder into those other posts.” Ransom sucked in a deep breath and, after letting it all out and hopefully the anger with it, pulled the replacement post out of the back of the wagon and leaned it against the wagon bed. He had the other supplies on the ground by the fence when Lucas strolled back.

“All the rest seem okay. Must have been a faulty post.”

“You pull out the staples and I’ll start digging a new hole.” Ransom slammed the posthole digger into the ground, spread the handles, and pulled out a chunk of grass and roots. After digging a couple more times, he raised his voice. “How about using that pry bar on this?”

Lucas hefted the heavy iron bar that had a point formed on the end. Using both hands he raised and jabbed the pry bar into the started hole, then moved it back and forth before repeating the process to loosen up the dirt in the hole.

Ransom brought all the loose dirt out with the digger, and Lucas repeated his actions until they had a hole deeper than a couple of feet. Then they slammed the post into the hole and tamped the dirt in around it with the pry bar so it was packed securely. Ransom started putting things back into the wagon while Lucas hammered the staples holding the wire in place.

“Sure wonder who cut that wire. It’s not like we have range wars like some other places.”

“We’ll know more after tomorrow.”

Lucas dropped his hammer and the remaining staples into the bucket where they kept them.

On the way back to the barn, Lucas asked, “How you going to saw those trees into beams?”

“Hope to borrow Arnett’s saw.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No. Thought you’d like to do that.”

“Ransom, why would I want to ask a favor when I think what you’re planning on doing is downright stupid? There’s not been any gold from that mine since 1876. And there wasn’t a lot before then. Besides, we don’t have the money to build a sluice or any other necessary equipment. Gold in the Black Hills is all played out. Everyone says so.”

“That nugget we found came from somewhere.”

“It was an accident, washed down by the creek or some such.”

“Look, you don’t know any more than what Pa said.” Ransom’s voice rose in spite of his good intentions.

“It’s foolhardy, taking chances like that in an old broken-down mine.” Lucas glared at his brother. “You’re so stubborn, don’t listen to reason.”

“What would you do if we sold the ranch?”

“Go homestead in Montana.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Ma already built one place. You think she wants to start over at another? Lucas!”

“I said you’d never listen to reason, and I’m right. Just listen to you.”

“What kind of reason have you been talking? Just sell the ranch. Give it up and walk away. And I’m not any more stubborn than you are. I’m just trying to do what’s best for us all.”

“Let me off here.”

“Good.” Ransom halted the team, and Lucas vaulted to the ground, taking off across the pasture to where the rest of the horses were grazing. He swung aboard his gelding and galloped toward the barn. “Great, go off to town and get drunk again. That’ll solve everything.” Though he yelled loudly, he was sure Lucas couldn’t hear him above the hoofbeats.

Steaming mad had a new meaning for him as he trotted the team up to the barn and backed the wagon under the shed roof. He unhitched the horses and walked them up to the big barn door to take off their harnesses. Hanging the harnesses on the wall pegs inside, he kicked at a bucket that was sitting by the door. The clang of that startled the horses, and he just barely managed to grab them before they took off.

“Easy, boys. Sorry to scare you. But if he was your brother, you’d be steaming mad too.” He led them to the pole gate, pulled back the poles, and let them loose in the field. They kicked up their heels then lay down and rolled, kicking their big feet in the air like young colts. After returning to standing and a good shaking, they put their heads down to graze.

Ransom closed the gate and pulled out his pocket watch. With the clouds covering the sun, he needed to know the time. Milking time, and he’d seen no sign of Gretchen yet. So guess who was supposed to milk? As usual his younger brother had disappeared, conveniently so. He slammed the heel of his fist against the gatepost. Good thing Lucas had left, or he might have gotten the full force of his brother’s fist. “I hate fighting! Going to Montana to homestead. What does he think he’d use for money?” Yelling at the heavens was not doing any good. He stomped off to the well house to get the milking pail. When were they going to count the cattle if tomorrow they needed to talk to the other ranchers and go to the sheriff? So he leaves me with all the work! When is he going to grow up and think on someone besides himself?