Stands a Calder Man (10 page)

“How do you know them, Kreuger?” another homesteader questioned the Russian.

“My place touches his land. One of his men comes by when I was plowing my field and warns that harm might
come to my family.” He paused to inspect the hushed reaction around him and stood a little straighter, adopting a swaggering pose. “I told him I have rifle and I would shoot it.”

A voice rose above the hum of whispers that followed. “What happened then?”

“He made more threats, then rode off.” He addressed his words to the men. “We must stick together, all of us. These ranchers think because they were here first that they own everything. We must show them we can't be frightened.”

The phrases seemed echoes from the past. Lillian's gaze drifted downward to the blue gumbo of wet earth around the well. It was caked on Stefan's high-topped shoes. In the New York tenement where they had lived, she'd heard that kind of men-talk before—the angry grumblings to organize so they could stand united against the robber barons. Despair always seemed to give birth to violence.

This was a new land. It should be the place for a new beginning, where a person could build something with the pure sweat of labor—without hostility or fear. But this empty-looking land wasn't as serene as it appeared.

At the train depot, Webb dismounted with the other riders and tied the horse's reins to an upright post. Stepping up to the wooden floor of the roofed platform, he stamped the sticky mud off his boots. Restless surgings were creating a tension inside him, putting him on edge. The other riders shifted around him, making way for Benteen Calder as he joined them.

“Curley, check with the agent and find out when the train's due,” Benteen ordered.

“Right, boss.” The rider angled toward the depot office with the typical rolling gait of a cowboy.

Then Benteen's cool glance fell on Webb. “Give your mother and Ruth a hand over that mud.”

With a nod, Webb turned to the horse and buggy parked within a couple feet of the platform. There was a split-second hesitation when he caught the warmth of
Ruth's gaze directed at him. A ripple of unease flowed through his muscles as he approached the buggy, but it didn't show in his face.

“Need some help to keep your skirts out of the mud?” He smiled at the quiet, blond-haired woman standing in the buggy with one foot resting on the outside step.

“Please.” Ruth returned his smile, but in her own reserved way.

His gloved hands gripped her slim waist and lifted her in a gentle, swinging motion that spanned the two feet of muddy ground and deposited her on the wooden floor of the platform. He felt the lightness of her hands on his shoulders for balance and the slow way they were withdrawn. Then he was turning away to help his mother out of the buggy.

“I can't recall when I've seen so many people in town,” his mother declared as she straightened the fall of her caramel skirt.

“They're mostly drylanders,” Webb stated. “The rain's driven them out of the fields into town, I imagine.”

“This sun is going to dry the ground in a hurry,” she said with a frown. “They'll need a chisel instead of a plow to get back into their fields tomorrow.”

Webb smiled in response to her observation. Montana mud did become rock-solid when it dried. The rains came so seldom that he tended to forget that.

“I pity those poor people,” Ruth murmured, drawing Webb's eyes to her with the comment.

“They seem determined to make it,” he said.

But he was noticing the rose-colored dress Ruth was wearing and the smoothness of her skin, like a white pearl. A picture flashed in his mind of the homesteader girl, Lillian, in her cheap gingham dress and skin that was already browning from the sun. He'd passed right over her when he'd first seen the group of wagons around the well. This raw land was already having its effect on her.

It was strange how he hadn't recognized her. He
hadn't caught the flash of red in her hair until the second time he looked. Something else had triggered his recognition. Maybe it had been the coiled eagerness of her—that vitality of body and spirit.

“It will take more than determination, I'm afraid,” his mother said. Her lips widened into a smile. “But I like seeing all these people in town, even if a certain Mr. Calder thinks that is a traitorous remark.” She boldly lifted her gaze to the man just joining them, teasing him in a loving fashion.

If anyone else had said that, they would have received a steely glare, but Benteen merely gave his wife an indulgent smile. “The train's a half-hour late,” he advised them. “The agent told Curly there's two cars full of drylanders on it. I hope that makes you happy, Lorna.”

She took a breath and said nothing in reply. “Since we have to wait for the train, we might as well find a comfortable place to sit.” She looked to Ruth. “Would you like to come inside the depot with me, or stay out here on the platform with Webb?”

“I think—” Ruth paused and looked at Webb, reluctant to voice her approval of Lorna Calder's maneuvering to put the two of them together.

This nonassertiveness was nothing new to Webb. She never presumed anything in their relationship, always letting it be his initiative and never showing dissatisfaction over his snail's pace. Webb himself wasn't sure why he held back and avoided courting her outright.

“Ruth needs some fresh air after being shut up in the schoolhouse so much.” He made the decision for her and noticed the pleased look in his mother's eye.

“Are you coming with me, Benteen?” She tucked her hand under the inside curve of his arm, not waiting for his answer.

Webb reached into his shirt pocket for a tailor-made cigarette and watched his parents walk arm in arm to the depot office. Since Ruth had never objected to his smoking, he didn't bother to ask her permission before lighting up. An Indian woman had her wares on display
and approached Webb, offering a pair of moccasins for his inspection. He shook his head and she moved back to her blanket to wait for the train.

“I hope those primers I ordered for the children have arrived,” Ruth said, uncomfortable with the silence.

He squinted his eyes against the curling smoke. Maybe he was like Nate claimed to be, not the marrying kind. There were others on the ranch, his age or younger, with children in Ruth's school. His life was too aimless. A wife and family meant settling down and becoming his father's man, which Webb flatly rejected. Instead of just drifting along, it was time to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Triple C or strike out on his own.

“You should get married, Ruth,” he said abruptly. “You should be teaching your own children instead of someone else's.”

“You sound just like your mother,” she replied. “Except she said I should be teaching her grandchildren.”

“That's not likely.” The answer came out before Webb had considered it, but it was a true feeling. He realized it said something about his intentions toward Ruth—or the lack of them. “Have you ever been to Texas?” He changed the subject, aware that she was directing her attention elsewhere to avoid looking at him.

“No, I haven't,” Her voice sounded small. She had been waiting for Webb to notice her for so long. It seemed he had. He'd come to see her once in a while, have dinner at her house, and he had kissed her at least a dozen times. Each year, she thought it would be the one when he'd ask her to marry him. He wasn't seeing anyone else. Lorna Calder had assured her of that.

“I've only been there a couple of times myself. My grandparents are still living in Fort Worth, Mother keeps talking about visiting them, but . . .” He frowned and didn't complete the sentence.

The lonely wall of a train whistle sounded in the distance. Those waiting on the platform stirred and
began drifting to the trackside. It was the same in the street. The arrival of the train was an event that drew onlookers to the station. It was a link with civilization for the residents of this isolated community in the middle of nowhere.

When the train whistle blasted its approach signal again, three wagons came rattling down the street. The white-suited figure in the first wagon Webb recognized as that land promoter Wessel, but his eyes narrowed at the sight of the second man sitting on the wagon seat with him. It was Doyle Pettit from the TeePee Ranch. That day in the saloon, Doyle had talked about throwing in with the land promoter. As Webb had suspected, it hadn't been just talk; but seeing the two of them together was another thing. When he glimpsed the drivers of the other two wagons, it was even more difficult to accept. They were longtime hands with the TeePee outfit, nearly as much parts of the ranch as Barnie Moore and Shorty Niles were at the Triple C. It didn't set well when Webb considered these men—these cattlemen—would be driving wagonloads of nesters out to help them find land to homestead.

“Isn't that Doyle Pettit?” His father spoke from Webb's right as the train chugged and hissed to a stop at the station. “And Charlie—and Jingles?”

“Yeah.” Webb faced the train rather than watch the defection of his contemporary to the other side.

The first two passenger cars behind the freight cars were painted with signs proclaiming them to be the Northern Pacific Special. It didn't matter where a person looked anymore. There was always a visible reminder of the drylanders. Families of them filled the special cars. Webb silently watched them pouring out to be greeted by Wessel striding into view in his eye-catching white suit. His father wore a tight-lipped expression and there was a hard gleam in his eyes.

“Look at that bunch of bohunks.” The muttered words of contempt came from one of the Triple C riders. It didn't matter which one, since he voiced the sentiment of all.

“There's Bull.” Lorna Calder was the first to spot the broad hulk of the man as he swung down from the train steps, relying heavily on his cane for support. A black porter followed with his satchel.

They lost sight of him behind the swelling tide of emigrants clustering around the land locater. Wessel hopped onto a wooden crate so all could see him.

“Welcome to the future wheat capital of Montana!” His voice carried like a preacher's. “I hope you didn't come here looking for dryland. All we've got is mud!”

Subdued laughter and wide smiles spread through the large group of new settlers. The only ones shaking their heads grimly were the members of the Triple C outfit. As Bull Giles limped into view, Webb pushed the voice of the locater extolling the virtues of this region into the background of his hearing.

Built like a circus strong man and just about as ugly, Bull Giles wore a tailor-made black suit. The jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a silver brocade vest and a diamond stickpin. Despite his hulking physique, he appeared every inch the gentleman. The impression was stronger as Bull Giles singled out Lorna Calder for his initial greeting. There was a softness in his features that belied his powerfully built body and craggy face.

“You haven't changed a bit, Lorna. If anything, you are more beautiful.” He took her hand and bowed gallantly over it, kissing the top of her white glove.

“And you haven't changed a bit, either, Bull,” she declared. “You are still the flatterer.”

“If your husband wasn't standing here, giving me the baleful eye, I would attempt to convince you that my admiration isn't insincere.” There was a lightness in his reply that didn't match the intensity of his gaze. Then he was turning to Benteen before anything more could be read into his manner toward Lorma. “I guess I don't need to ask how things are,” Bull said as he shook Benteen's hand. His glance swerved to the emigrants flocked around the promoter.

“They're blacking this land like a plague of grasshoppers.” Benteen put them in the same category of
disaster, which seemed an unwarranted exaggeration to Webb. “I hope you've come up with something.”

“The dam broke, Benteen,” Bull stated. “It would take an act of God to stop this flood of people now.”

The pronouncement was no different than Benteen had expected, yet it didn't lessen his displeasure at actually hearing it voiced. There was a brief lull in the conversation as Bull paid the porter for carrying his satchel. Benteen motioned to one of the men to stow the satchel in the buggy.

“The town has really grown.” Bull looked up the street, noting the many new buildings that flanked the muddy thoroughfare. “Is that a lumberyard?” He nodded toward the stacks of green wood piled against an unfinished building.

“The lumberyard's the most recent,” Benteen admitted. “Blue Moon even has a bank. And there's optimistic talk going around about building a granary.”

“Nothing stays the same, I guess.” Bull thoughtfully studied the wide spot in the road that had grown into a full-fledged boom town in less than a few months. “Things change.”

“The changes aren't always good.”

Bull's mouth twitched in a dry smile. “You'll have a hard time convincing the merchants of that.”

“The problem with greed is that it feeds on itself.” Benteen seemed to shake off his dark mood with an effort and made the opening gambit to depart from the station. “Let's go have a drink while Lorna does her shopping.”

“Good idea,” Bull agreed. “It's a long, dry ride to the ranch, as I remember.”

For the short ride up the street, Benteen climbed in the buggy with his wife, Ruth, and Bull Giles. The muddy ground was getting thicker as it slowly dried in the hot sun. It was like walking in glue as Webb untied his horse's reins and moved to the near side to mount.

As he stepped into the stirrup, Nate backed his horse away from the post to give Webb room. The driver of the bench-seated wagon closest to them was a black
cowboy dubbed Jingles because of the belled spurs he wore. He pretended not to see the Triple C riders filing past to accompany the buggy.

But Nate forced an acknowledgment, stopping his horse beside the wagon seat. “Jingles, what are you doing in that box?” He frowned. “A top hand like you oughta be in the saddle.”