This Calder Range (22 page)

Riding ahead, Benteen spotted a young buck antelope. He was far enough away from the herd that a shot wouldn't spook the cattle. After a steady diet of “Pecos strawberries” and “overland trout”—the cowboy slang for bacon—fresh meat would be welcomed in camp. He dropped the antelope with one shot and gutted it on the spot, cutting off a hindquarter and leaving the rest.

Although they were surrounded by tons of beef on the hoof, cattle weren't killed for meat. Too much of the carcass spoiled before it could be eaten, and the animal was too valuable at the marketplace and as
breeding stock on the ranges. No cow or steer was butchered unless it was injured and unable to keep up with the herd.

With the antelope's hindquarter tied behind the saddle, Benteen rode a little farther, until he reached the Cimarron River. The other side was the sovereign state of Kansas. His gaze picked out a buffalo skull on the opposite side of the river. It marked the cutoff trail leading to Dodge City. Every half-mile, there would be another skull, he knew from past experience. There weren't any farms on the cutoff, no damages to pay for crops destroyed or fences downed, no fines for trespassing.

But the cutoff meant a dry drive, a murderous hundred miles over virtually waterless country. At their normal pace it would take roughly eight days to cover it. But in eight days, parched cattle could be dead or dying. That meant the pace would have to be doubled. They'd stop here, at the Cimarron, and rest for a couple days, then start the cattle out fresh.

Those two days seemed like heaven to Lorna. There was finally time and an abundance of water to wash clothes and lay them out in the prairie sun to dry, weighted down with rocks. She and Mary were even able to bathe in the river, one of them keeping watch for any errant cowboys while the other washed. The cowboys made use of the water facilities, too, and Benteen teased her for not skinny-dipping like he did, but she had been too modest to remove her chemise, even if Mary was the only one to see her.

Before they started out, everything that could hold water was filled. But there was only a remote possibility enough would be carried to make the hundred miles. It would have to be rationed. Benteen gave orders that no one but Rusty touch the water barrel strapped to the side of the chuck wagon.

Lorna thought her previous experiences on the trail had prepared her for anything, but she'd never gone thirsty before. The grueling pace that had to be set
sapped her strength. By the second day, she'd been shown the trick of carrying pebbles in her mouth to stimulate the flow of saliva. The sun broiled down, bleaching the white skulls that marked the dry trail even whiter, until they seemed to glisten with ominous portent. There was no relief from the heat. Choking dust covered everything and sweat turned it to mud on Lorna's skin and in her hair. That night the thirsty cattle started bawling, and she couldn't sleep.

The heat on the third day was oppressive. Some of the cattle were going blind from the lack of water. Rebellion was growing in the ranks of the Longhorns, well broken now to the trail routine. The animals knew there was water in the Cimarron behind them and kept wanting to turn back, not trusting the riders herding them to take them to water up ahead. The drovers had their hands full, literally driving the cattle, beating at them with coiled ropes or buckskin poppers tied to rope ends.

When they stopped at noon on the fourth day, Lorna felt too weak to climb down from the wagon seat. The Arkansas River was still somewhere ahead of them. Her nerves couldn't take much more of that piteous lowing from the parched herd. She half-fell to the ground and staggered, grabbing a wheel rim for support. Perspiration drenched her clothes, making the material stick to her body and turning the dust into rivulets of mud.

Rusty brought her a cupful of water, and she smiled a weak thank-you. Greedily she drank a mouthful and stopped, wanting to make it last. He eyed her closely.

“You're lookin' peaked. Better get some more salt.” His beard had grown into a full set of long white whiskers, grimy now with trail dust.

“I will.” Her dry throat rasped her voice.

It was surprising the difference one drink of water could make. Her legs were steadier as she crossed the cracked brown grass to the chuck wagon. The men would be breaking in shifts, two or three coming in at a
time to eat while the rest stayed with the recalcitrant herd. The point men, Spanish and Jessie, were the first to come in. Neither waited for the coffee to boil, holding out a tin cup for Rusty to fill with the vile black liquid. Both were too tired to eat, waving aside Rusty's offer of cold beans, to chew listlessly on some jerky.

As she licked at some salt, that bath at the Cimarron seemed a long-ago dream. Lorna wondered how any of them were finding the energy to take another step or go another mile. A bone-weary Jessie Trumbo was rubbing tobacco juice in his eyes, making them burn to stay awake. Why were they going through this hell? The answer was Benteen—and his determination to get the cattle through regardless of the cost.

Suddenly Lorna realized Mary hadn't joined her. She glanced toward the Stanton wagon and saw the woman crouched in the scant shade provided by the rolled canvas roof. Something seemed to be wrong. Lorna forced her hot, tired body across the space to the Stanton wagon. It wasn't until she was standing beside Mary that she discovered Mary was crying, dry racking sobs shaking her shoulders.

It seemed impossible. Mary was the strong one. She knew about hardship, deprivation, and the lack of creature comforts. Lorna hadn't believed anything could reduce her friend to tears. She sank to her knees beside Mary, hesitantly touching her shoulder in concern.

“What is it, Mary?” she asked, but Mary only shook her head, unable to talk. Lorna was at a loss. She glanced at the cup of water she still carried. “Have a drink of water,” she urged. “You'll feel better.”

She remembered how it had revived her. When Mary shook her head to refuse, Lorna forced the issue by pressing the cup to her lips. She tipped it, a few drops spilling onto Mary's dress. Her heart twisted at the loss of even those precious drops.

“Drink,” Lorna insisted, not wanting any more wasted.

Mary managed a couple of sips, then turned her head away. The sobs had stopped, but she continued to draw in deep, shuddering breaths. Her lips were chapped and cracked from the lack of moisture, as were Lorna's.

“Why are you crying, Mary?” She tried to coax the woman into talking. “Did you and Ely have an argument?”

“No.” Mary sniffed. “I … was just thinking.”

When no further word was forthcoming, Lorna prompted, “What were you thinking about?”

Her chin was quivering when Mary finally lifted her head to look at her. “Oh, Lorna …” her voice wavered. “My pa's chickens back home have a better life than I do.”

It was a combination of heat, thirst, frayed nerves, and exhaustion that worked on Lorna. Mary's remark first made her smile, then chuckle; then she started laughing and couldn't stop. It was so true. Any farm animal had it better than they did. Soon Mary was laughing with her, until both of them were laughing and crying at the same time in mutual misery, collapsing against the wagon wheel's spokes when they could no longer support themselves.

Rusty eyed them anxiously, certain they had gone mad from thirst and not knowing what to do. But it was an emotional release that gradually ended. Lorna rested against the spokes and stared at her friend.

“Mary, I wish you weren't leaving us when we reach Dodge City,” she murmured soberly. “I would never have made it this far without you. When I think how far we have to travel yet to get to Montana, I don't know if I can make it without you along to make everything bearable.”

“You can,” Mary insisted, but there was a longing in her eyes, too.

“Why don't you and Ely come with us to Montana?” Lorna suggested eagerly. “It's new country. You and Ely could homestead some land near Benteen and me. Then we could see each other once in a while.”

“We planned to go to Ioway.” But Lorna could see Mary was wavering.

“Would you think about it?” Lorna urged.

“I'll think about it.” But Mary added a warning to her agreement. “But I'm not promising anything.”

“Let's drink to that.” Lorna lifted the cup in a toast, took a sip of the water, and offered it to Mary.

Mary's sip turned into a swallow. Remorse twisted through her face. “I've drank nearly all of your water. I'll give you some of mine.”

“No.” Lorna refused with a small shake of her head. “I've had enough anyway.” She glanced at the amount of water remaining in the cup Mary returned to her. “There's enough here for my rose cuttings. I can't let them die now.”

She used the wagon wheel to help pull herself upright. Even though she was still hot, tired, thirsty, and a little weak, she felt a little better inside. It was a constant surprise to discover how much strength she possessed—the strength to endure, the strength to go on when she thought she couldn't, the will to survive and still be able to find something to laugh about. Lorna walked to the far side of the wagon, where she'd tucked the cuttings under the seat.

When Benteen rode into camp, he noticed Mary sitting in the shade of her wagon, but there wasn't any sign of Lorna. He dismounted, tying the reins of his sweating horse to the wheel of the chuck wagon. After he'd poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee he looked around camp again for her, then wandered over to Mary.

“How are you holding up?” he asked with a gentle look of concern.

“Much better, thanks to your wife.” Mary smiled wanly. “I was wrong about her.”

“What do you mean?” Benteen didn't recall the comment Mary had made on her first meeting with Lorna.

“I thought because she was used to soft things she
wouldn't be able to take it out here, but you said she was strong. And she is. Stronger than me.”

His brow lifted in skepticism as he studied the sturdy woman. “I don't know if I'd go that far.”

“She just gave me most of her water,” Mary said. “When I offered her my share in exchange, she refused it. Can you imagine?” Worry flickered through her eyes. “You'd better see that she drinks some. She's saving what's left for her mother's roses.”

“What!” It was a quick, low retort as his gaze swung sharply to the wagon. Benteen could just barely see the top of her head on the far side, the bulk of the wagon hiding her from his view. “Take this.” Benteen pushed the cup at Mary. It would have dropped if she hadn't caught it.

He crossed to the wagon and step-vaulted over the tongue and crosstree. When he rounded the high box seat, Lorna was carefully moistening the cuttings to use every precious drop of the water. A rage shook him when she looked up. The ordeal of the last ninety miles had sunken hollows under her eyes, parched and dried her lips raw, and put exhaustion in her face.

“You stupid little fool!” Benteen rumbled and grabbed the rose cuttings from her hand before she could react. His gloved hand tightened into a fist around them. “What do you think you're doing?” He silently cursed the bewilderment in her eyes.

“I was just giving my roses some water,” Lorna admitted. “It wasn't very much, Benteen.”

“All around you, there's thirsty men and animals—and you're watering plants! Have you lost your mind?” The forbidding set of his features was emphasized by the gritted teeth and the dirt and four-day-old beard darkening his jaw. His dark eyes were burning black. Lorna had seen him angry before, but never like this—never at the point of losing control.

“I couldn't let the roses die,” she argued lamely.

“And that little bit of water might be the difference between
you
living and dying. And you wasted it on
these!” His doubled fist had a stranglehold on the plants as it made an angry upraised gesture.

“I didn't think,” Lorna murmured.

“I swear you never think,” he growled, and turned, heaving the rose cuttings as far as he could throw them.

Lorna cried out and grabbed for his arm, but it was too late. “My roses! You had no right to do that!” Tears were welling in her eyes when she turned her accusing glance on him, but Benteen didn't show any remorse. His face was set in cold unyielding lines.

Gathering up her skirts, she turned away from him and hurried in the direction he'd thrown the cuttings. It was a stumbling run, hampered by tiredness and the thickly matted grass catching at her feet. She thought she'd seen where they'd fallen, but her tear-blurred vision made it hard to see anything.

When Lorna reached the area where she thought they were, she was breathing heavily from the exertion in her thirst-weakened condition. She had to keep wiping away the tears to see as she beat at the grass, sweeping it aside in a frantic search for the cuttings. Obsessed with finding them, she looked and looked, failure bringing a wildness to her actions.

She was making so much noise on her own that at first she didn't hear Benteen's approach until his rough voice called her name. When she glanced around, long strides were carrying him through the grass toward her.

“Forget those roses and get out of this hot sun before you collapse,” he ordered.

“No.” She fell to searching again.

“Dammit, they aren't worth it, Lorna!” Benteen snapped, and grabbed her wrist to force her to obey.

All her anger and resentment for his high-handed tactics boiled over. She yanked her wrist out of his grasp and confronted him with the full weight of her mutiny, trembling with the fury that consumed her.

“You did this on purpose!” Lorna accused. “You never wanted me to bring those cuttings! I don't think you wanted to bring anything from Texas! I'm surprised
you don't burn the wagon with all our things in it so there won't be anything to remind you of Texas! You've been wanting to get rid of those roses all along! You've been hoping they would die! And you finally had an excuse to throw them away!”