High Country : A Novel (3 page)

“That won’t work,” Ty said.
“Not too graceful. But we gotta tack the damn shoes on.” “Good shoes on a bad mule’s worse than none.”
“Hell, that rope ain’t hurtin’ him.” Fenton was a little startled to hear

the boy talking at all, much less being contrary.
“His body’s not the problem.”
Again Fenton was taken aback. The boy had hardly said a word when

Fenton tipped him over with the bales. And here he was objecting because they’d had to throw a mule. He grunted and dropped into the corral. “Buck may be gettin’ downright inadequate,” he said, surprised to see the boy move past him.

Ty bypassed the downed mule and went to the other, whose eyes rolled as she pulled back furiously. He eased himself along the fence, talking quietly, careful not to get trapped against the fence as she swung about. He got his hand on the tie rope, felt her weight hard against it as her rump dropped, almost touching the ground.Ty kept talking, moving along the rope until at last he could touch her, move his hand to brush at her neck, brushing and calming her until she came forward enough for him to loose the rope. He kept the dally as he let the rope out, gave her room as he kept touching her. He stepped away to shuck his Levi jacket, moved back to touch her with it, rub it along her neck and shoulders, waiting for the wild look to leave her eyes.

Finally she calmed, tolerating that steady voice, the hands that kept moving and moving across her neck, her shoulders. Fenton opened the gate, easing it wide and stepping away.Ty loosed the lead and walked the mule in tight circles before taking her through, ready for her when she tried to bolt, holding the rope short and bringing her head around until she was facing where she didn’t want to be—the sweat and noise and the downed mule. He turned her again, led her around the corner of the barn and tied her to a bendy limb, rubbed her, talked to her, touched her with his jacket, let her get the smell of him.

“Stick that hand in a badger hole, Buck?” Fenton asked the flatnosed man. “You was in trouble even if you could convince that mule to hold his feet up. Who was gonna shoe? You couldn’t. Not with that hand. And nobody but Cody Jo to set on the mule’s head if you was whole.” He shook his head. “Cody Jo’s never been too keen about sittin’ on a mule’s head.”

“Got skinned some, ropin’ that mule.” Buck studied his hand. “Got down to me or the damn mule. Looks like that mule’s gettin’ ahead too. Sure ain’t gonna be much help with this fuckin’ hand.”

“Comes from using that rawhide rope. My people can handle them. Yours can’t.”The dark-haired man had dropped his pole and was examining Buck’s hand. “Didn’t lose no fingers. For a minute I thought you might of.”

“I was so goddamned mad at him I throwed the rope out there. It was more a warning. If I thought I’d of caught him I would of got myself ready.”
“I’m sure Spec was cheerin’ you on.” Fenton looked at the mule, who seemed to be saving his strength for his next protest.
“I’m a hunter, not a damn blacksmith.” Spec looked at Buck. “That mule did hit that rope! Dragged you some too.”
“It come as a surprise.” Buck slapped some dust out of his pants with his good hand. “But I stopped the mule.”
“Not till you took the dally on the post, you didn’t. Near lost your fingers doin’ that.” Spec turned to Fenton. “Mule hit that rope so hard old Buck’s lucky he’s still intact. Got his shirt. Pinched some skin off him too. You and that boy hadn’t arrived, that mule might of skinned Buck’s upper half.”
“Good you picked a seat where you wouldn’t miss no details.” Fenton handed the long fence pole to Spec. “Let’s tack these shoes on while Buck’s still alive. Then maybe we can doctor him.”
Before they could get started, Ty came back into the corral with his Levi jacket. He hunched over the hog-tied mule, wiped at the dust streaks on his neck, rubbed him with the jacket, working it up toward the mule’s head.
“Stretchin’ those legs out might help,” he said.
Fenton got a lash rope, looped it around the mule’s legs, pulling them straight before tying it off to a fence post. The mule struggled, but with nowhere to go he quieted.
Ty kept rubbing the jacket along the mule’s neck, across his face. He pulled the sleeves of his jacket through the halter and knotted them, fashioning a blindfold. He rubbed at the mule’s ears a little, then lowered himself into the dirt, folding one of the mule’s ears over and biting down on it, a good half of the ear in his mouth.
Fenton turned to Spec. “Stick the goddamned pole under them feet and get ’em up. Buck, get me that shoein’ kit. Let’s get it done.”
“Ty,” he said, after Buck came back with the shoeing box. “These here are Buck and Spec.You’ll be workin’ with them.”
Ty looked up and nodded a hello, the mule’s ear still between his teeth. Fenton began rasping a hoof, fitting a shoe. He looked at the boy from time to time, shaking his head, taking advantage of the quiet.

After the shoeing Ty went back to the cottontail, working with her until supper time, rubbing her with his jacket until he found a brush, then brushing until she began to like it. She got edgy when he brushed down her legs, but he kept going back to them, getting closer and closer to a hoof before she would fidget, stutter-step away.

They would let Ty try to shoe her his way. They liked the solemn way he talked, laughing at him, asking about his mule magic. But they didn’t laugh too hard. There was the practical side. The shoeing had to be done; if his way didn’t work, they could still use theirs. And if his way did, they were ahead. Packing these mules would be problem enough.

“Them mules is green broke and then some,” the man had told Fenton at Hungry Horse, carving a chew from Buck’s plug and counting the money. “Not likely to jump through no hoops. But they could walk through.You show the way.” Not owning a saddle horse, he had walked the mules in, leaving the fields he had no reason to plant, the house he had patched into a home, covering the thirteen miles in five hours. Fenton was impressed. The mules’ coats were shiny, their bellies full. But there was something driven about the man. Fenton didn’t think he’d stopped once on that long, hot walk.

He’d looked at the man’s family, waiting in a battered truck loaded with mattresses and buckets and bedsprings. The children, pinched and flat eyed, watched him. Fenton suspected they hadn’t eaten as well as the mules, but he knew that wasn’t unusual for these country people drifting through, searching for a place they could take hold.

“Not tryin’ to make money.” The man folded the bills, tucked them in his shirt pocket. “Just get back some of what they took.” Fenton’s ease seemed to anger him. “The bank’s what beat me. Not your damn country.”

“New start ain’t always a bad thing.” As shrewd a trader as Fenton was, he began to wonder if he shouldn’t pay the man a little more. “What now? Where you headed?”

“Them mines in Anaconda. They pay a salary. With a paycheck a man might make it.” He climbed into the truck, the woman and children looking at Fenton with eyes empty, beyond curious. “I’ll try that,” he fired the engine, “or some other damn thing.”

Fenton watched them leave through the gray-black exhaust. He shook his head and turned to the mules, thinking the Anaconda mines might not be the best place to recover from a hurt.

What was green broke to the man didn’t seem like green broke to Buck and Spec. It had taken an hour to load them in the trailer, and though Fenton claimed they’d come right along once he got them on the trail, Buck and Spec weren’t convinced. It seemed the longer you fought these mules on one thing the longer you had to fight them on the next, which is why they were happy Ty wanted to shoe the cottontail. They just doubted he could.

Ty worked with her until he heard the bell, only then realizing how hungry he was. He left her tied between two posts in the barn and went to wash up at the sink behind the house. Buck was there, looking blue, his right hand bandaged so it hardly had any definition.

“Wish Angie was here. Cody Jo’s got me so wrapped I’d need a third arm to pack.” He looked darkly at the bandages. “Spec had to load them bales himself. I could scarcely drive the truck.” He threw Ty a towel and they went in through the kitchen door. “Doubt I can handle a dern spoon.”

The kitchen was a wide alcove opening onto the biggest room Ty had ever seen in a house. But it seemed only half finished. There were log beams with Indian blankets thrown across them and a stone fireplace with braces, but no mantel. Beyond the fireplace makeshift stairs went up from the unfinished floor. There were no cupboards in the kitchen, just shelves nailed up. Log planks on sawhorses fashioned a long table, benches along either side. At one end was a chair. Five places were set there, with glasses and a big pitcher of something cold. At the far end of the table was a wind-up phonograph, a stack of records next to it. There was a walk-in pantry next to the kitchen. They heard dishes being moved.

“You there, Cody Jo?” Buck’s voice seemed different, cautious. “Ty’s here. He’s been helpin’ us get shoes on that mule.”
“I bet he’s thirsty, poor thing.” The voice seemed filled with life. “All that mule hair! Drink some lemonade, Ty. We’re having my aunt’s recipe. And somewhere ...,” more dishes rattled, “is what I need to serve it.”
Buck poured some lemonade and Ty drank it—cold and tart. Buck poured him more.
“Ain’t she somethin’!” Buck said, his voice low. “Full of shit as a Christmas turkey. Watch her dance with Fenton....”
Ty drank the second glass, looking at Buck over the rim, noticing again the flatness of his nose, the bridge wide just where it should have shape.
“Well, Ty.” Cody Jo came from the pantry with a big serving dish. “I’m Cody Jo.”
She took in his long frame, his hair wet from the washing, the big hat set carefully on the counter. She put her hand out and he was surprised by her grip, long fingers wrapped around his. He was surprised by everything about her. “I didn’t think you’d be this tall,” she said. “Or such a handsome young man.”
She stepped back, pleased. Ty was afraid he might start sweating through his forehead the way he had when Etta Adams praised him about Smoky Girl. He was relieved when she turned away, still talking, as though telling people what they looked like was something she did every day.
She started dishing noodles into the serving dish, adding a cream sauce with lots of meat in it. “Elk Stroganoff,” she said. “Spec says it’ll win out over beef.” She handed Ty the platter. “We’ll see. You sit right down next to me and tell us how you knew to bite that mule’s ear. What a thing! You’ll be the thirstiest packer in these mountains.” Ty’s attention was on her so completely, he was surprised to see that Fenton and Spec had joined Buck at the table. They watched as Ty brought the platter over, Cody Jo coming behind him with noodles and vegetables in another dish.
Before he knew it he was sitting at the table eating the best food he’d ever tasted and talking much more than he meant to. He’d only taken a bite or two before he found himself saying that he’d actually never bitten a mule’s ear before, or any other ear for that matter. But he knew that if you got a mule’s attention in one place, the mule might overlook what was happening in another. It was something his grandfather had learned from a Nez Perce, who claimed when nothing else worked, biting an ear would. His grandfather said a strong buck with good teeth could practically hypnotize a mule—if he clamped down hard enough. That was why the Nez Perce could handle the stock they stole so much better than the tribes they stole from, even when they had to sneak in the night and take a horse staked right outside a lodge.
So, Ty explained, when he saw the mule lying there braying and sweating and getting edgier, he figured it was time to try ear biting. He knew the mule was going to fight them until he couldn’t fight any more anyway, and he didn’t think a mule ready to fight you until he was exhausted would be much good. The blindfold, he confessed, was mostly a diversion, a way to keep the mule from knowing what had him by the ear.
He heard his voice stop, felt sweat on his forehead, saw a faint smile on Cody Jo’s face. Suddenly he realized how quiet they all were, hardly eating, just looking at him—as though he might start in speaking again.
Finally Fenton spoke. “Well, I’m damned. If Eban Hardin believed that’s the way to get a mule’s attention, it likely is.” He looked at Spec and Buck. “I’ve told you boys Eban Hardin forgot more about mules than most get to know. Bitin’ that ear today sure as hell quieted things down.”
“That’s true.” The thought seemed to come to Buck suddenly. He changed his fork to his left hand the better to manage it. “That mule was pretty loco until Ty bit the ear. Sure stilled him.”
“Could of exhausted himself watchin’ you roll in the dirt,” Spec said. “Ain’t pleasant to see a grown man deposit blood all over a corral.”
“Loco wouldn’t be a bad name for that mule,” Fenton said. “He’s likely to earn it trying to recover. What would you name that one you’re workin’ on?” he asked Ty. “Those folks at Hungry Horse were so discouraged, they never got around to naming their mules.”
“Cottontail?” asked Ty, surprised. “Isn’t that her name?”“By God, it is now.” Fenton started in to eat again. “That concludes the naming. And this is a damn fine way to eat elk, Cody Jo. That Chicago aunt may be walleyed, but she knows food.”
“She isn’t walleyed. And I still can’t get those people out of my mind. Or people like them. No crops worth planting. Cattle prices down to nothing. The banks moving in. What are they going to do?”
“I’d mistrust those mines. If a cave-in or a union man don’t get you, a strike breaker will.”
“It isn’t right.” Cody Jo had stopped eating. “Men with good lives one month, homeless the next. Of course they do desperate things.” She spoke so intently Ty could feel the words run through him. “Who wouldn’t?”
They talked on and on, disagreeing and agreeing about things Ty’s parents had never mentioned. Even Buck and Spec chimed in. Ty was taken by it, his embarrassment fading as he watched, listened.
He’d always thought the problem was the cattle prices, which to him centered in the Bitterroot. Now it seemed Will and Mary’s problems were only shadows of troubles plaguing people all over. They talked about Roosevelt and the unions and government subsidies. They talked about the drought and the winds and the WPA. They talked about displaced farmers, ranchers, factory workers—arguing about whether the government was helping or ruining them.
“A man should grow what he wants, hunt when he needs to,” Buck was saying. “It ain’t American to tell a man what to do.”
“Farmers shouldn’t hunt and hunters shouldn’t farm,” Spec said. “Mixes things up. Thinkin’ you can own the land is where the trouble starts, tearin’ away grass that’s meant to be grazed.” He looked at Buck, getting angry. “Them government people don’t know their ass from a moose. If them know-nothings can tell my tribe what to do, why shouldn’t they tell you? We can fight the bastards together.”
“Each of us has a point if you look at it careful from a certain place.” Fenton took his plate into the kitchen. “Truth is it ain’t easy to stand up an empty sack.”
“You can’t,” Buck said. “But if you got a little grain left and tie off the neck down where the grain’s at, what’s left’ll stand up pretty good.”
“Oh, Buck,” Cody Jo said. “There’s no grain left for them. Nothing. Not a sack. No string to tie with.”
Ty was taking a last bite when Fenton leaned over him. “I believe Buck’s been slowin’ down ever since that mule flattened his nose down Lost Bird Canyon.”
Buck kept chewing, considering Cody Jo’s meaning. “Don’t you dwell on it, Buck.” Fenton took Ty’s plate. “There’s times Cody Jo leaves me behind too. What we got to do now is teach you to eat with that left hand so we can start with Cody Jo’s lesson. Gonna join in? Cody Jo says you and Angie could win a contest.”
“Ain’t my kind of dancing,” Spec said, carrying dishes into the kitchen. “And cleanin’ up ain’t my line of work. I’m doin’ this cause of Cody Jo’s elk.”
“Just the beginning.” Cody Jo was cranking the handle on the phonograph. “We’re a team. Keep the elk coming. I’ll go to Chicago for recipes. I like their music.”
She was humming with the record now, doing a little step as she came into the kitchen. Ty was holding a plate, watching her.
“Try rubbing.” She took the towel, dried the plate while he held it, gave him back the towel. “Things go faster.”
Ty felt the sweat break out again. He put the dish on the stack and stood with the dish towel, surprised to be working in a kitchen with these men. The Hardin men never did anything in Mary’s kitchen.
“You do shoot tasty ones, Spec. Could be you know something I don’t.” Fenton dried his hands on the towel Ty was holding. “Which I doubt. But if you get Buck to stop being so drear about that hand, I might reconsider.”
He looked at Buck’s bandaged hand. “Get Angie to perk you up. Yo u’ll be drivin’ all over hell and gone while we’re in the mountains. When Ty here comes to, I’ll tell him he has to fill in. Might not know hitches but he knows to tight a rope. And he ain’t encumbered by a pillow on his fist.”

The day was long. There was still light enough for Ty to grain the mule, get her comfortable with the feed bag, call her Cottontail. He brushed her again, brushing lower and lower on her legs, humming bits of the song.

He kept at it until it was dark and he needed to go back for a lantern. He was surprised to hear the song still playing, Cody Jo and Fenton dancing to it, easy with each other and the music.

The dancing didn’t surprise him. Ranch people traveled long distances to go to dances. What surprised him was how much fun Fenton and Cody Jo were having all by themselves. He’d never seen anyone like Cody Jo—the beat of the music seemed to be inside her. He couldn’t take his eyes from her and was relieved to realize Fenton liked to watch her just as much as he did.

“More fun with a live partner,” Cody Jo told Fenton, letting her long body go out and away so Fenton could pull her back. They came together perfectly as the song ended. “Don’t be shy, Ty. Later we’ll teach you some steps.” She stood there, a little out of breath, looking at him. “But first the packing. With Fenton it’s always ‘first the packing.’”

“Dancing makes me want to change priorities.” Fenton tipped her against him. “You do teach an old dog new tricks.”
“You haven’t shown me all yours yet.” Cody Jo rested her head on his shoulder, looking at Ty. “I’m a little jealous. Leave me here while you go into the mountains and pass them along to Ty.”
“There’s a ways to go first. Shoes to get on that cottontail.”
“Oh yes! Then packs to get on her and on that crazy one.” Cody Jo smiled at Ty. “Rest up for tomorrow. Fenton keeps us all on the run.”
She hugged Fenton and handed Ty the lantern. “Here. And take my bedroll. It’s yours to use.”

Ty spread the bedroll on the cot, put barley in the nosebag, and went through the barn to Cottontail. He put the lantern to the side and held out the feed bag. This time she didn’t hesitate, nosing deep, wanting it all. She rubbed her head against his jacket as he untied her, led her out to the corral where Loco trotted up, nosed at her, relieved to have some company. Ty held a hand out and watched Loco move to the off side of Cottontail, not trusting him. Not yet.