Showdown at Buffalo Jump (23 page)

“Before he left, the banker got into his cups at Millard's and made a speech. Said he was the victim of the monied interests. Said that he was too anxious to help the little man to suit the other owners of the bank. Said that he intended to do something about the travesty of justice perpetrated by those out-of-state money men who aim to suck dry the blood of Montanans.”

“Right there, the banker pledged that he would run for high office in this state to uphold the interests of the little man as has always been his intent.”

“That man can talk. I heard that the men in the bar were cheering by the time he hightailed it out of Prairie Rose.”

“Cheers,” Catherine said, lifting her cup, and the four burst into nervous laughter.

“And I've saved the best for last,” Edna said, reaching into a porcelain cookie jar behind her. “The Halls stopped by yesterday, or was it the day before?” she asked, looking at Zeb.

“Well, doesn't make any difference. They had stopped in at the Coles, and this letter was waiting for you,” she said, handing it to Catherine.

Catherine took the letter as though she were receiving the sacrament. She pressed it to her face, believing it emitted the faint scent of heather.

“It's from my mother,” she said.

“Well, open it, child. It's not often that anyone around here gets a letter from Ireland.”

Catherine smiled at Edna. “Later, maybe. I don't get many letters. My mother doesn't have much time to write.” She hesitated, then, her eyes on her coffee cup. “That's not true. My mother can't write. Father O'Malley writes them for her.”

“It's nice he's there to do that,” Edna said, taking Catherine's hand. “Not nearly enough priests in this country yet for all the good works that need doing.” Then, she grinned around the table. “I swear. This sure turned out to be a somber bunch. Must be the fall wind.”

They all agreed: It was the fall wind.

Wagon loaded, ham and bacon wrapped in an old sheet, Max and Catherine headed home. They rode in silence, Catherine fingering the letter. Max handed her his pocketknife, and she cut it open.

The letter was bad news.

Catherine's older sister, Mary, and her husband had been evicted from the little farm where his family had lived “since the blood of St. Ruth dyed the shamrocks of Aughrim.”

Her eyes blurred with tears, and her mind carried her back to another black day when she was still a child.

Catherine had awakened that morning to her mother's sobbing at the window. “No, no, no.… No, no, no.…” The denials paced with her breathing. Her father was standing there too, silent but solemn as a man about to be hanged.

Catherine ran to the door and opened it. The sheriff's posse and emergency men were standing in the half light before the McBridges' home, the sheriff reading something from a document.

For two centuries, the McBridge family had lived on that land, trading their labor for food and space to live and die in. And now the sheriff was telling them that they could live there no longer, that Mr. Sullivan wanted the land for cattle and not for people.

The McBridges stood outside the home, the wife hiding beneath a shawl, hand held across her mouth; the husband sagging against the side of the whitewashed stone hut.

In a pitifully short time the family possessions, rough furniture and unmatched china, were stacked outside the hut. One emergency man carried a child, still sleeping, and laid her gently on the ground. The other children stood in a half circle around their sleeping sister, the boys' pants rolled up to their knees, the girls' dresses drab as raw dirt.

And then the lawmen began tearing down the hut, stone by stone. Mrs. McBridges wailed, the keening in her voice cutting Catherine to the soul. Keening still, she pushed her way through the law men and grabbed a stone. Then her husband stepped forward and grabbed one, and so did the children. They tore at the hut as though it were a living thing that needed to be put out of its misery.

Catherine slipped the letter back into the envelope and held it in her lap. Words from a Charles Kickham song she had learned as a girl came softly, painfully from her lips:

My father died
—
we closed his eyes

Outside our cabin door
—

The landlord and the sheriff, too
,

Were there the day before!

And then my loving mother
,

And sisters three also
,

Were forced to go, with breaking hearts
,

From the glen of Aherlow!

And when she spoke, her voice was flat as North Dakota.

“I would like to have the cradle.”

“Fine. I've got no use for it,” Max whispered.

Catherine cried, “Oh, Max” and wrapped her arms around him. He pulled the mare to a stop and took her into his arms.

“Catherine,” he said softly, “are you saying you
want
to stay?”

“Let's go home, Max.” Catherine smiled. “Tell me about the house again, the one we're going to build.”

And Max did. They bumped across the prairie, Catherine's head on Max's shoulder; Max telling her where the house would go. Might be, he said, that he'd put in a pond below the spring for ducks and geese and plant some cottonwoods around it.

About the Author

Gary D. Svee grew up along the banks of the Yellowstone, Stillwater, and Rosebud Rivers in Montana. His novels include
Spirit Wolf
,
Showdown at Buffalo Jump
,
The Peacemaker's Vengeance
, and the Spur Award winner
Sanctuary
. Svee lives in Billings, Montana.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1989 by Gary D. Svee

Cover design by Connie Gabbert

ISBN: 978-1-4804-8708-6

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA

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