This Calder Range (11 page)

“And he doesn't mind?” She wondered about that in the light of what the prostitute had told her.

“No.”

“Does it bother you that you don't have the closeness anymore?” Lorna chose her words carefully, not wanting to be offensive.

“Naturally not,” her mother replied with a quick smile of assurance. “After all, its purpose is the conception of children, not for the sake of itself.”

“Yes, I know,” she murmured.

“Don't let it be a source of concern,” her mother advised. “You'll come to know all this yourself. One day, you'll be telling your daughter the same things.”

“Yes, one day,” Lorna agreed with a faint smile, but she was still troubled by some of the sensations she felt in Benteen's arms. It was becoming apparent that wasn't normal, especially when the only one who indicated it was, was herself a fallen woman.

The wagon turned out to be in better condition than Benteen had hoped to find it. He struck a deal with the farmer named Davies and hitched a team of horses to it. Late that afternoon, he drove it to the Pearce home so Lorna could load her possessions in it. She knew nothing about packing it to evenly distribute the weight through the box, so he stayed to help.

There were so many nonessential things she wanted to take. Benteen disliked the role of forcing her to choose, but it had to be done.

“What's this?” He frowned when he picked up two thorny twigs partially wrapped in damp cloths.

“I'm not going to believe you if you claim those are too heavy and bulky to take,” she retorted, placing her hands on her hips to silently dare him.

“But what are they?” Benteen asked.

“They're cuttings from my mother's rosebush,” Lorna explained. “I want to plant them beside our new home.”

“Lorna, they'll die.” He tried to be patient. “You're just wasting your time to take them.”

“You wouldn't let me bring my grandmother's chiffonier or the oak table my uncle made for us,” she reminded him. “I'm going to have something to remind me of home. Those rose cuttings are going with us. I don't care what you say, they will live.”

Benteen sighed heavily. “Take them if you're so determined.”

“I am.”

“Where shall I put them?” he asked. “Under the seat?”

“Yes, I can get to them easily there,” Lorna agreed.

He slipped them under the wagon's seat, where they would be in the shade and less likely to be crushed by shifting baggage in the canvas-covered wagon box.

“I hope that's all,” Benteen said.

“All except a few things I'll have with me,” she replied. “My wedding dress and such. And don't tell me I can't take that with me.”

“I'm sorry. I know it seems that you're leaving a lot behind.” Benteen smiled grimly. “But there's only so much the horses can pull.”

“I know.” She lowered her chin and turned away.

Benteen saw the shimmer of a tear in her eye and caught her chin in his hand. “What's the tears for?”

“It's so easy for you to pack up and go,” she murmured. “You're not leaving anyone behind.”

“You can't be getting homesick,” Benteen chided. “We haven't even left yet.”

“Don't make a joke of it,” Lorna protested.

Exercising control, he put an arm around her and brushed his mouth against her forehead. “I promise that you'll grow to love our new home in Montana as much as you do here.”

“I know.” She sniffed back the tears and moved out of his arms, because she didn't want Benteen to think she was being childish. She should be looking forward to their new life together, not crying about leaving home, but it wasn't easy. Partially turning so he couldn't see, Lorna furtively wiped away the dampness of her cheeks. “You won't forget to be at the church tomorrow morning at ten to talk to the reverend, will you?”

“I'll be there,” Benteen stated. “I'm not going to let anyone throw a last-minute hitch in our wedding plans.”

Just for a little second, Lorna wished it could be
postponed for a short while—until she could get over these jitters. But she didn't mention it to Benteen. Several times she had sensed his impatience that the wedding wasn't going to take place sooner.

It was dark when Benteen reached the camp, located near where the herd was being held. The two night riders on the first watch were circling the herd, riding slowly in opposite directions. The cattle were lying down, chewing their cuds. Benteen could see the moonlight shining on their horns. Somewhere off in the prairie, a coyote howled its wailing cry. A steer blew out a soft snort, but it was a sound of contentment rather than alarm.

An ease went through Benteen as he listened to one of the night riders crooning “The Texas Lullaby” to the cattle. Its quavering melody drifted over both ends of the scale, keeping to the slow, steady rhythm set by the walking horse. Dismounting, Benteen unsaddled his horse and tied it to the picket line where the night horses for the next three watches were staked. Carrying the saddle on his hip, he walked to the flickering campfire.

The chuck wagon was set up for business, the rear board lowered and supported by a pole propped in the ground. It exposed the partitioned cupboard with shelves and drawers for food and utensils and provided a worktable for the cook. Benteen noticed the tongue of the wagon was pointed at the Big Dipper, as it always would be for the rest of the drive. Just one of the many duties that went with the cook's job. At every night camp, the tongue of the chuck wagon would point to the north, so no matter the weather the next day, the trail boss knew the direction to take.

The Big Dipper was the cowboy's compass and his clock. As it revolved, its positions told the cowboy what time it was and marked off his two-hour watches on night herd. On cloudy nights, he had to guess at the
time unless he was riding a night horse that had its own clock in its head and would head for camp when its tour of duty was up.

Leaving his saddle in the shadows just beyond the firelight where he would bed down for the night, Benteen crossed to the chuck wagon for a tin cup to fill with coffee. His seemingly idle glance took note of which riders were present and which were not.

“Shorty's got first watch, does he?” he remarked to Rusty, and blew on the coffee he'd poured before he took a big sip. “I thought I recognized him singing to the cattle.”

“Shorty and Hank,” Rusty confirmed, and named the second rider on night herd.

“That Shorty sure as hell can sing,” a drover named Jonesy declared, and paused in his whittling of a stick to listen.

“What would a sonuvabitch like you know about it?” challenged a mocking voice from the shadows. “I'll be goddamned if you could carry a tune in a crooked damned jug.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jonesy bristled at the criticism of his singing voice or lack of one. “I sure as hell hope someone's taught you another damned verse of ‘Sweet Betsy.' If you sing that same sonuvabitchin' one all this drive like ya did the last time, I'll fix it so you don't sing no more.”

“I didn't get no damned complaint from any sonuvabitchin' cow,” Zeke Taylor shot back.

A heat was building, and Benteen stepped in before tempers could flare. “Instead of arguing about your singing, both of you better start watchin' your language.” He paused to let his hard glance make a sweep of the other riders at the camp circle. “That goes for all of you. When this drive gets under way, you're going to have ladies in the camp. There's some of you that can't say a single sentence if it doesn't have a ‘hell,' a ‘damn,' or a ‘sonofabitch' included somewhere—and sometimes
all three and one or two more. Save your cursing for the cattle. If you can't do that, maybe you'd better keep your mouths shut around the womenfolk.”

“Hey, flapjaw, do you think you can manage that?” Jonesy taunted the talkative drover, Zeke Taylor.

“I know a helluva lot more about how to talk to a lady than you do,” he retorted.

“Pass the word to the others,” Benteen ordered. Besides the riders on night herd, four of the drovers had been given permission to spend the night in Fort Worth, with the understanding they'd be back at first light in condition for work if it meant being tied in the saddle. “No cursing around the women unless you want to ride drag for a month.”

The threatened punishment drew a grumble from the ranks, which Benteen ignored. On a cattle drive, three riders were usually assigned positions at the rear of the herd to prod the laggards and weaker steers into keeping up with the rest of the cattle. It was hot, dusty work, the least-wanted duty. In most cases, the drovers rotated the positions of drag, flank, and point so that each man fared equally.

Jessie Trumbo was leaning his slight frame against a rear wagon wheel by the chuck box. Benteen wandered over to a stand beside him and drank the strong coffee.

“Everything been quiet?” Benteen asked.

“Quiet as you can ask,” Jessie replied. There was a lengthy pause as he straightened to bite off a chaw of a plug and fit the wad into the inside pocket of his cheek. “The Ten Bar's got a big herd together to drive north. They got 'em bedded down ‘bout five miles from us. Bull Giles is bossin' it.”

“You talk to him?” Benteen swirled the swallow of coffee in the tin cup to mix in the dregs.

Jessie gave a slow nod. “Bull just happened to ride over this way. Claimed we'd be eatin' his dust all the way to Kansas.”

“S'pose it would upset him if it was the other way around,” Benteen mused with a dry smile.

“Might.” There was a gleam in Jessie's eyes.

Lorna's mother accompanied them to the church the next morning. While the wedding couple met with the reverend, she saw to some last-minute details regarding the decorations. Nothing was being spared to make her daughter's wedding, their only child, a special event. Clara Pearce filled all her time with preparations for the wedding so she wouldn't have time to think about the empty days that would follow when her daughter was far, far away.

It was successfully blocked from her mind when Lorna and Benteen had been instructed to the minister's satisfaction as to their respective roles in a Christian marriage. She walked to the rear of the church to rejoin them.

“Are you ready to leave, Mother?” Lorna asked. “Benteen has some errands he needs to do, but he wants to see us home first.”

“I'm ready,” she agreed, “but I need to stop at the store just for a moment and speak to your father.” During trail time, Clara Pearce didn't like being on Fort Worth streets without a male escort, especially around the business section, where so many of the cowboys gathered. “It won't take long,” she told Benteen.

“I can spare the time.” Politeness and a sense of duty dictated that he take the time whether he could spare it or not. Women needed the protection of a man. That was an accepted fact.

Outside the church, Benteen assisted Lorna's mother into the rear seat of the buggy and helped Lorna into the front seat. Walking to the back, he stopped to tie his horse on behind, then climbed onto the seat with Lorna, taking up the gelding's reins.

The streets were crowded with cowboys and drovers, as they always were at trail time. Few of them failed to notice the young, attractive female in the seat next to
Benteen. He was aware of the kind of comments that were made, but he didn't feel the need to defend her honor. No harm was intended, and most remarks were made out of Lorna's hearing.

In front of Pearce's Emporium, he stopped the buggy and handed the reins to Lorna while he assisted her mother. “We'll wait here for you,” he said.

“I won't be long,” she promised again.

Benteen moved back to stand next to the buggy seat on the side where Lorna sat. “Tomorrow is the big day. Do you think your mother will be ready?”

“I hope so.” Lorna permitted a small smile to show. “She's been running around like this for days. You'd think she was the one getting married, instead of me.”

There was too much activity going on around him for Benteen to ignore it. Vigilance was an instinct born of experience. A man never completely relaxed his guard, so his eyes were always taking note of the faces and movements of those around him. He saw Judd Boston walking briskly down the sidewalk toward his bank before Boston saw him.

Despite his personal dislike of the man, Benteen admired Boston's iron nerve. There wasn't the slightest change in Boston's expression when he spied Benteen standing beside the buggy. A lesser man would have ignored him or gone out of his way to pretend not to have seen him, but not Judd Boston. He brazenly altered his course to come over to speak to him.

“Good morning, Benteen. Miss Pearce.” He politely tipped his bowler hat to Lorna.

“Boston.” Benteen inclined his head briefly in the banker's direction in silent acknowledgment of the greeting, a coolness in his eyes.

“I haven't had an opportunity to offer you my sympathies for your father's death, although I'm sure you'll doubt my sincerity.” Boston immediately confronted Benteen with his own thoughts.

“Since you already know that, I don't have to say anything.” Benteen didn't pretend otherwise.

“I'm not surprised you feel that way,” Boston said. “After you returned, I did expect you to come by the bank for an explanation of the circumstances leading up to your father's death.”

“Why? It was obvious. You foreclosed, my father died, and you confiscated all his property and cattle.”

“Perhaps I thought you would be more upset over that than you are,” Boston suggested.

“It was inevitable. I saw that even if my father didn't,” he replied. “The deck was stacked against him, but he refused to see it.”

“I'm glad you are being sensible about this, Benteen.” He smiled, but it was the smug smile of a man who believed he was facing an inferior.