This Calder Range (28 page)

“We'd be proud to come,” Lorna assured her. It nearly made her cry to see how hungry Emma Jenkins was for company.

Mary was more aware of the strain feeding four extra mouths could put on the food supplies of a frontier family. “We wouldn't want you to go to extra work for us,” she said in mild protest. “Maybe it would be better if we came to visit after the evening meal.”

“Please, I want you to come,” Emma Jenkins insisted. “We have a nasty old rooster who pecks my little girl every time she goes outside. It's been begging to have its neck wrung for a long time.”

“As long as you're sure …” Mary accepted with reluctance.

“I am.” The woman became happy again.

The thick earthen walls of the sod house kept the interior cool even on the hottest day, yet the air inside was dank and musty, like a cave. There were old newspapers on the walls to add some lightness to the rooms. A thread-worn carpet covered the dirt floor, and a brightly colored patchwork quilt lay atop the straw-filled mattress on the wooden bed frame in the corner. Muslin was tacked to the windows for curtains, and a large traveling trunk had been converted into an infant's bed. A second trunk was pulled up to a crude table with two chairs. Additional seats were provided by two boxes.

Despite the little touches that tried to turn it into a home, it seemed a cheerless place to Lorna. There were water stains on the carpet that indicated the roof leaked. And the pieced-together strip of bright gingham on the table looked very much like a skirt from an old dress. But the table was set with beautiful flo-blue china, an odd symbol of luxury amid such rude surroundings.

Emma Jenkins was wearing her best dress, a rather plain dark blue dress made for serviceability rather than looks, and her light brown hair was slicked back in
a neat bun. Her towheaded daughter kept hiding behind her, sucking earnestly on her thumb and peering apprehensively at the four strangers in the house.

“Can't you say hello to our company, Elizabeth?” Emma tried to coax her two-year-old daughter to stop clinging to her legs, but little Elizabeth hid her face. “I'm sorry,” Emma apologized to them. “I'm afraid she's shy. She's never seen anybody that she can remember except Alfred and me.”

“Children that age are naturally shy around strangers,” Mary assured her.

“Your china is beautiful,” Lorna complimented.

“Thank you.” Emma beamed. “We brought it all the way from Ohio. And only one plate got broken on the trip.”

“Missus cried for a week, too,” Alfred Jenkins added; even he showed signs of being perked up by the company.

“Please, won't you all sit down,” Emma invited.

Alfred insisted that Mary and Lorna sit in the two chairs while Ely and Benteen sat on the boxes. Alfred and Emma Jenkins scooched together on the traveling trunk with little Elizabeth on Emma's lap. In addition to the chicken, there were potatoes, cornbread, and hominy. Before they dished their plates, Alfred bowed his head and said grace.

“Dear Lord, You took our crop, but You gave us fuel for the winter and brought nice folks to our table. We thank You for that. Amen.”

The simple words made Lorna feel very humble. Their eagerness to share what little they had caused her to look twice at herself. She noticed the small helpings of food they took so there would be plenty for everyone else.

Of course, Emma Jenkins was too excited and too busy asking questions to eat. Alfred seemed just as interested to find out what was going on in the world. There was so much crosstalk going on—man to man
and woman to woman—that it was surprising any of it made sense.

After the meal, the men went outside to smoke. Emma was appalled when Lorna and Mary offered to help with the dishes. They were company; she couldn't let them help. She very carefully stacked the china in a pan and insisted she would do them later.

It was dusk when Benteen stepped into the sod house to state it was time they were returning to camp. An emotional Emma hugged them and thanked them for coming. As Lorna walked away with Benteen, she glanced over her shoulder. The woman was standing in the doorway, just as she had seen her the first time. Lorna waved, as she had done before.

This time it was Alfred Jenkins who came hurrying after them. They waited for him to catch up with them. When he did, he spoke low so his voice wouldn't carry as it so easily did on the flat terrain. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did for my missus by comin' here tonight.” He spoke in complete sentences, which seemed to show how sincerely moved he was. “She hasn't smiled in a long time. You helped her. Thank you. That's all I had to say.” He seemed embarrassed by how much he had said, and turned quickly to retrace his steps to the woman in the doorway.

“Isn't there something we can do for them, Benteen?” Lorna murmured. “Something more than leaving behind a bunch of cow chips?”

Benteen was a long time replying. “We'll see what we can do, come morning.”

When they reached camp, Lorna retired directly to her wagon. Besides being all talked out, there were too many things on her mind, mainly a determination that this land wasn't going to do to her what it had done to that woman, mentally or physically.

She slept alone in the wagon. Since leaving Dodge City, Benteen had spread out a bedroll on the ground with the other drovers. The change in the sleeping
arrangements hadn't gone unnoticed, but no one speculated aloud about the possible reasons.

When Lorna climbed out of the wagon the next morning, her glance went first to the sod house. The scarlet-orange hue of breaking dawn shaded the roof thatched with dirt and willow. She turned her gaze on the lonely grandeur of the plains with a kind of defiance then walked with a free-swinging stride to the chuck wagon for the morning meal.

“What's with the kid?” Shorty Niles was asking Rusty as she walked up.

Both men slid short glances at Joe Dollarhide, sitting off by himself in a moody silence. Usually he came back for seconds, but the food on the plate balanced on his knee didn't appear to have been touched.

“Beats me.” Rusty shrugged, but the grimness of his mouth showed concern. “Last night I offered to let him grind the coffee, but he didn't want to.”

There was never a shortage of volunteers to grind coffee, since the Arbuckle Coffee Company put a peppermint stick in its one-pound bags. All the cowboys had a sweet tooth, and whoever ground the coffee got the candy. There was obviously something wrong if Joe Dollarhide had turned down his chance.

“Good morning.”

Lorna turned to find Benteen standing behind her, a cup of coffee in his hand. There was an awkward moment when she couldn't quite meet the dark study of his eyes. He lowered his gaze to take a swallow of coffee, and it was gone.

“How are you this morning?” she asked.

“As well as can be expected, under the circumstances.” His voice was dry, neither condemning nor complaining. She felt the flash of sexual tension and knew exactly what he meant. But he didn't expect a reply, because he spoke again, this time addressing Shorty. “When you're through eating, I want you to ride out to
the herd. Spanish tells me two cows dropped calves in the night. Give the calves to the Jenkins family.”

“Right.” Shorty nodded and took his plate, moving away to sit on the ground.

“His milk cow should have enough to keep two calves alive,” Benteen said to Lorna. “The Jenkins family will have a beef to butcher this winter.”

“Food as well as fuel,” she said, and smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me. Thank the cows.” A sunburst of lines radiated briefly from the corners of his eyes.

“Mr. Calder, sir?” Joe Dollarhide set his plate on the ground when he spied Benteen at the chuck wagon. He rose and rubbed his hands down his thighs in a nervous gesture now that he had Benteen's attention. He approached with a degree of uncertainty.

“What is it, Dollarhide?” Benteen thought he knew. Last night he'd seen the boy gazing at the lighted windows of the sod house with a kind of homesick longing.

“I was just thinking … since that farmer let us graze the herd on his land, maybe we should do something in return. A favor for a favor,” he suggested lamely.

“What do you have in mind?” Benteen prompted, without telling the kid what he'd already done.

“I … thought … I could do his morning chores for him—milk the cow and slop the hogs.” There was an earnest look in his expression.

“You did, huh?” Benteen took a drink of his coffee, studying the lanky kid over the tin rim. “Maybe you'd better decide whether you want to be a cowboy or a farmer. I never met a cowboy yet who volunteered to slop hogs or milk cows.”

“I want to be a cowboy.” Joe Dollarhide stiffened, uneasy that Benteen might have guessed being so close to a farm had made him a little homesick for his pa's farm.

“How come you aren't practicing with your rope?” Benteen challenged quietly, because Joe usually practiced off and on all day long, trying to become proficient with that essential tool of the cowboy.

“I been catchin' just about everything I swing my rope at—head or heel,” Joe declared. “Ask Yates. I been doin' it regularly.”

“In that case, we'll be needin' an extra rider on drag this morning. There's a couple of cows that aren't going to like the idea of us leavin' their calves with a farmer. Do you think you could handle the job?”

“You just give me the job, an' I'll show you.” His homesickness was fading now that he was finally getting a chance to be more than just a wrangler's helper.

“Then you'd better be thinkin' about gettin' your breakfast ate and a horse saddled,” Benteen pointed out. “Everyone else around here is just about ready to fork leather.”

“Yes, sir.” Joe Dollarhide was grinning as he went back to pick up his plate and wolf down the cold breakfast.

Benteen shook the dregs out of his empty coffeecup and handed it to Rusty. His glance went briefly to Lorna. “I'm gonna ride out and look over the herd. See you at noon.”

As he walked toward the saddled horses on the picket line, Lorna studied him with puzzled interest. “Rusty, how did he know that Joe was homesick?”

“Instinct, I s'pect.” The cook, too, turned a thoughtful look on Benteen. “Some men know cattle, but not a darn thing about workin' the men lookin' after the cattle. Handlin' men is something Benteen just knows.” He sent a sidelong glance at Lorna. “Now, women's another thing. Your kind is a different breed altogether. Ya ain't so easily ‘managed.'”

“Maybe it's because we don't want to be ‘managed,'” Lorna suggested.

“Maybe,” he conceded with an indifferent nod. “By
the by, there's a nice patch of wildflowers in a little ravine that runs behind the chuck wagon here.”

A smile trembled on her lips, in spite of the modesty she should have felt. “Why, thank you, Mr. Rusty.” Ever since that first occasion, he had always referred to her strolls to answer nature's call with an inquiry about the wildflowers she'd seen along the way. It had become a private joke between the two of them. Who would ever have thought that she'd be able to laugh about bodily functions with a man?

When Shorty Niles and Joe Dollarhide had ridden up to the farmhouse with the two newborn calves across their saddles, Lorna had watched from the camp. She smiled when she heard Alfred Jenkins turn and call to his wife. His voice carried all the way to camp.

“Emma! Emma! Come quick!”

Lorna knew their blessing that night would include a mention of the windfall. It made her feel good.

The sweltering temperatures of early July showed no sign of letting up after three days of driving the herd over more treeless prairie. Spanish was the only one who didn't seem to mind the hot, sweating ride, joking with the other cowhands and insisting his blood was just getting warm. Heat lightning flashed through the heavens three nights running. It made for uneasy times on night herd.

Benteen slept lightly, bedded on the ground near the wagon. A low voice called him to wake for his turn to watch. It was an unwritten rule that you didn't wake a sleeping man by touching him or shaking him. You were just as likely to find a gun pointed at you.

Pushing back the hat shielding his face, he saw Shorty's outline standing at the foot of his bedroll. The campfire was out, but an overcast sky lit the world of shadows with flashes of sheet lightning. Benteen rolled to his feet.

“It's not good out there,” Shorty murmured. “You'd better shuck your metal.”

Night guards had a greater fear of lightning in a storm than stampeding cattle. They were sitting targets in flat country for the jagged bolts that rained fire out of the sky. The superstition prevailed that it was metal that attracted the lightning to riders, so on stormy nights a cowboy divested himself of his knife and spurs, and some even hid their guns.

“Wake up Spanish. Tell him he's drawin' an extra watch,” Benteen ordered. “Dollarhide's too green if there's a storm brewin'.”

Shorty nodded as Benteen moved to his night horse, a grulla he called Mouse, tied to the wagon tongue, saddled and ready. “Hope you know some church songs.”

When the three riders rode out to the herd and split up to start their circling route, some of the cattle stood up in a silent acknowledgment of the changing of the guard. A few minutes later, they were lying back down.

It was quiet, too quiet. Benteen stopped the blue- gray buckskin a couple times just to listen. The warm air was stifling, licked with tension. Flashes of lightning skylighted the cattle, confirming they were all lying down, but he could hear the rumble of distant thunder. And it was coming closer.

When he passed the kid riding counterclockwise around the herd, Dollarhide was softly crooning an old love song. A little farther on, he met up with Spanish. The Mexican reined in, so Benteen paused, too.