The Rocking R Ranch

by Tim Washburn

  Within minutes the team was hitched, and the wagon was ready to roll. Arturo and Luis clambered up on the wagon seat and Win mounted up and grabbed the lead ropes of the other three saddle horses. “Roll out,” Percy said. He leaned against the seat and swiveled the gun around to keep it lined up on the retreating Indians. For that reason, it had been decided that Win would lead the other horses rather than tying them to the back of the wagon.

  An hour later there were no more Indian sightings, but Percy remained in position just in case. He knew the Indians weren’t done. Not by a long shot. They were excellent at guerrilla warfare and Percy knew they’d pester them all day, probing for any weaknesses.

  He was just hoping they didn’t find one.

  CHAPTER 35

  Rachel jolted awake at the sound of gunfire. She lay still a moment trying to pinpoint the direction the shots were coming from and it sounded like it was coming from somewhere down by the river. She pushed the covers off, stood, and slipped on her robe. Hurrying to the front door, she eased it open and stepped out onto the porch.

  Bam, Bam, Bam. The shots were occurring in rhythm, which suggested it wasn’t a gun battle or an attack on the ranch. It sounded more like target practice. But who gets up at the crack of dawn for target practice? Rachel wondered. She slipped back in the house, changed into a simple dress, and pulled on a pair of boots. She debated grabbing the rifle and decided against it. Whoever it was, they were going to get a barrage of angry words, not rifle bullets. Rachel exited the house again and stepped down off the porch.

  Working her way around the house, Rachel took off toward the river as the shooting continued—bam, bam, bam—as quick as someone could cock the hammer and pull the trigger. It didn’t sound like rifle fire, so she assumed it was a pistol. A horse nickered at her from the expansive pole corral that had been added onto more times than she could count over the years. Chickens bobbed and weaved around and through her legs, pecking at the hardscrabble earth in search of grubs as the shooting continued.

  She wondered if Eli was practicing after she’d recently pointed out his shooting deficiencies, but that didn’t sound like her brother, who wore a pistol only to shoot snakes on those rare occasions he ventured very far afoot. She supposed it could be one of the hands who was killing time before breakfast, and that angered her because there was so much to do with half the men on the ranch off looking for Emma. Whoever it was she was determined to put a stop to it—immediately.

  Picking her way through a thick stand of scraggly trees, Rachel climbed up over a sandy berm that had formed from millions of years of flooding and put a hand up to shade her eyes as she scanned the shallow river. The gun was now silent, and she didn’t know if the shooter had paused to reload or had decided that the fun was over. But as quickly as that thought entered her head, the shooting started again. Listening for a moment, Rachel pinpointed the location to a spot farther down the river and veered that way. Her vision blocked by an outcropping of brush, she could see the gun smoke drifting upward on the light morning breeze as she picked her way carefully across a sandbar, one of thousands that lined the riverbed, and increased her pace.

  As she approached the outcropping of brush, she slowed, deciding it wouldn’t be wise to sneak up on someone who was probably lost in thought as he or she banged away with a pistol. Rachel leaned forward and took a peek. And what she saw broke her heart. Seth, with one of Amos’s old pistols and wearing one of his father’s old gun belts, was repeatedly drawing his gun out of the holster and blasting away at a cottonwood tree on the far bank. Rachel leaned back out of sight as her brain clicked through options as the pistol continued to bark. Do I want to confront him about it? Or should I ignore it and hope it’s a phase he’s going through? They were difficult questions and, at twelve, he was at a stage of life where what happens could have lingering effects that could fester for years.

  Her first instinct was to a put a stop to it right now—take the pistol and holster away from him and put them somewhere he could never find them. But guns where as ubiquitous as cattle on the ranch and if Seth wanted a gun, he’d find one. That forced her to realize this situation couldn’t be about taking something away—he’d already had his dignity and innocence taken away. And whatever she did, it needed to be handled delicately or she risked pushing him farther away. After debating the issue for a few moments, she thought a conversation with her mother would be the best first step. Rachel turned and retraced her steps, climbing back over the berm and picking her way back through the trees. She saw Julia and Jacob, her two youngest, on the front porch, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, and adjusted her course, walking over.

  “Who’s shootin’?” Jacob asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rachel lied. “Sounds like someone’s practicin’.”

  Jacob looked up at his mother and said, “Sounds like it’s comin’ from the river. Didn’t you just come from there, Ma?”

  Rachel quickly changed the subject. “Did you eat breakfast yet?”

  “Miss Connie’s making it now,” Julia said. All the kids called Consuelo Miss Connie because they were unable to pronounce her full name until they were three or four years old and they had to call her something. Miss Connie was what Seth called her and it stuck.

  “Where’s Seth?” Jacob asked.

  Mr. Inquisitive, Rachel thought. But Jacob had been that way since he began talking. “I don’t know,” Rachel said. “He’ll be along any minute, I bet. Why don’t you two get washed up for breakfast and I’ll be back in a bit?”

  “Where are you goin’?” Jacob asked.

  Rachel pointed at the main house. “I’m goin’ right there for just a teeny tiny minute.”

  “Why?” Jacob asked. “Aren’t you gonna eat breakfast?”

  “I need to talk to my mother, kinda like you and I are talking now,” Rachel said. “If you’ll save me some, I’ll eat when I get back.” Rachel turned around and started walking before Jacob could ask any more questions. She loved him to death, but he could wear a person down. With sweat already flowing freely, she pulled a strip of ribbon from her pocket and tied her hair up to get it off her neck. The remaining ranch hands were filing out of the bunkhouse, ready to start their workday. Most had lit cigarettes dangling from the corners of their mouths and all carried a mug of steaming coffee. Rachel greeted them and each either nodded or put a finger to their hat to return the greeting. She didn’t know the exact number of men her pa hired, but the number always grew this time of the year as the ranch geared up for fall roundup, where they began the process of weaning the spring calves from their mothers. It was also the time of year when other ranches sent representatives to insure the correct brands were being applied to the calves. If the mama cow had a Rocking R brand, then that was the brand placed on the calf and vice versa for the other area ranches whose cattle all intermingled on the open range.

  Clearing the bunkhouse, Rachel turned her thoughts from cattle to kids—specifically Seth.

  Entering her parents’ house through the back door, Rachel made her way to the kitchen, said “Morning” to her mother, who was cooking bacon, and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “Who’s out shooting at the crack of dawn?” Frances asked.

  Rachel took a sip from her cup, swallowed, and said, “That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yes, oh dear. Percy’s kids stay here last night?”

  “Chauncey and Franklin did. Amanda wanted to stay at home.” Frances stirred the bacon around in the pan then looked up at her daughter. “Be better if we have that talk before they get up. Seth doin’ the shootin’?”

  Rachel nodded. “Yep. Down at the river with one of Amos’s old pistols and an old holster that’s about four sizes too big for him.”

  “That pistol’s empowerment, or so he thinks.”

  “What do I do, Ma? Take the gun away from him?”

  “Don’t you dare. If he wants to go out there and shoot every mo
rnin’ you let him. It’s a way for him to work through things in his own mind.”

  “And if he starts shootin’ something other than trees?” Rachel asked.

  “Then we’ll have a problem. But I don’t think that’ll happen. He’s got too good a head on his shoulders.”

  “Should I talk to him more? Try to find out what’s really botherin’ him?”

  “We know what’s bothering him, Rachel. He feels humiliated and ashamed. And talking more about it is not goin’ to help matters any. Just let him be for a bit and I’ll try to spend more time with him.”

  Rachel took another sip from her mug, while she spent a moment thinking about what her mother said. “Okay, we’ll try it your way for a bit.”

  “Good,” Frances said. “Maybe when Amos gets back, he can take the boy under his wing a little more.”

  “Yeah, like that’s goin’ to happen,” Rachel muttered. “He’s got about as much empathy as a tree stump.”

  Frances’s anger flared and she pushed the pan of bacon off the burner and turned to face her daughter. “Rachel, life ain’t always sunshine and daisies. We make do with what we have.”

  Rachel set her coffee cup on the table and looked up at her mother defiantly. “I’m about tired of making do.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Abigail threw back the covers, climbed out of bed, pulled on a robe, and trudged into the kitchen aiming to put a pot of coffee on. But she soon discovered that she had neglected to add any wood to the stove last night and it was now as cold as Christmas morning. Sleep-deprived and exhausted, she stepped out the back door and looked at the stack of wood for a moment before deciding she didn’t have the energy to start a fire. Instead, she shuffled around the exterior of the house and dropped wearily into one of the chairs on the front porch. Feeling helpless while Emma endured who knew what at the hands of those vile savages made her nauseous.

  The front door swung open and ten-year-old Wesley wandered out, his hair tousled from sleep. Abby turned, offered him a faint smile, then turned back, staring at nothing as Wesley took a seat next to her.

  “Ma,” he said softly. When his mother didn’t respond he said, “Ma” a little louder.

  Abby turned slowly, looked at her son, and snapped, “What, Wesley?”

  “Never mind,” Wesley said, ducking his head as if she was going to hit him.

  It took Abby a moment to realize her response was all wrong, and she draped an arm over his narrow shoulders and pulled him close. “I’m sorry, son. Just got a lot of things on my mind.”

  “I know, Ma. Me, too.”

  That statement shattered what was left of Abby’s heart. Of course Emma’s brother and sister would be worried sick about her, but Abby had been so busy wallowing in self-pity, she’d failed to see it. She pulled Wesley closer and said, “I’m sorry for snapping at you. And I know you’re hurtin’, too.”

  Wesley looked up at her and she thought he looked more and more like her brother Percy every day. If he had any of Isaac in him it wasn’t much. His eyes shimmered and she could tell he was trying his best not to cry. She lifted her hand and gently pulled his head to her chest and he burst into tears. Abby held him, angry at herself for neglecting the needs of her two other children and vowed to do better. After a few moments, the tears tapered off and Wesley wrestled out of her grasp and wiped his eyes.

  “When do you think . . . Pa and Emma will be back?” he asked between sniffles.

  “Soon, I hope.” She knew it could be a long time before they returned, but that was not something she wanted to burden her son with.

  Abby and Wesley rocked for a while in silence, each consumed with their own thoughts. A dust cloud hung over the large corral where Eli and the ranch hands were separating the calves from their mothers—the mama cows bawling for their babies and the calves crying out their replies. And for the first time in her life, Abby felt some sympathy for the mama cows and better understood their pain.

  After a few moments of listening to the cattle and contemplating the difficulty of the fact that life had to continue on, Abby said, “Are you hungry?”

  “Yeah,” Wesley said.

  “If you’ll wake your sister and get the fire going in the stove, I’ll go gather us up some eggs.”

  “Okay,” Wesley said as he pushed to his feet and disappeared back inside.

  Abby stood and shuffled off to the chicken coop. Looking up when she heard a door slam, she spotted Rachel exiting their parents’ house and she gave a halfhearted wave and continued on, knowing her sister would walk over to offer up more consolation. But Abby was tired of being comforted and she wasn’t much in the mood for conversation, either. Opening the door to the coop, Abby picked her way around the chicken scat to the roosting box and began gathering eggs. The ranch had one large chicken coop that was available for family use and it operated on a first come, first served basis and Abby was surprised to find a good number of eggs still there. The chickens roamed free most of the day and the coop had a small door where they could come and go that was closed and locked at night to keep predators out.

  “How are you holding up?” she heard her sister say.

  Abby didn’t answer as she carefully placed the eggs into the pocket of her robe. Once she had a dozen, she decided that was enough and stepped back outside. “Who was doin’ the shootin’ this mornin’?” Abby asked as she pushed open the door and stepped out, closing the door behind her.

  Rachel sighed and said, “Seth. Ma thinks I should just let him be. What do you think?”

  “Probably should. I can’t see that it’s hurtin’ anything,” Abby said as she started walking back to the house.

  Much to Abby’s consternation, Rachel fell in beside her. “You don’t think he’ll try to go do something foolish, do you?”

  “I don’t think so. Those men who roughed him up are already dead.”

  Rachel glanced up and saw Seth walking back from the river, the gun and holster nowhere in sight. “Here he comes,” Rachel said. “He must be hiding the gun somewhere down there. I don’t know what to say to him.”

  “Why do you have to say anything?” Abby asked. “If we’re lucky maybe he’ll kill a few Injuns.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Seth saw his mother and his aunt jawing as they walked through the yard and he hurried around the house to the back porch, where he waited to hear the front door closing before picking up the milk bucket and heading toward the barn. There was no doubt his mother had heard the shooting and he wasn’t up for answering any questions at the moment. In fact, he didn’t want to see or talk to anyone at all.

  When he reached the barn, he slid open the large rolling door and slipped inside. Every morning one of the ranch hands drove the milk cows into the barn for milking and Seth walked down the row of stalls and spotted one of his favorite cows, Molly, and stopped. Leaning down to see if she had already been milked, Seth was glad to see her swollen udder. He opened the gate and stepped inside. He liked Molly because, unlike some other ornery cows, she rarely kicked, and her milk flowed easily. And that was exactly what he was looking for this morning. His right arm felt like lead and his hand ached almost as bad as his blistered butt. To add to his misery, the repeated hammer cocking had ripped his thumb wide open.

  He talked softly to Molly, a red shorthorn with white spots, as he worked around the stall. Longhorn cows didn’t produce enough milk to fill the belly of a newborn kitten, so his grandpa had brought in twenty or thirty shorthorn cows years ago to fulfill the ranch’s milk needs. Seth knew there was a breeding method that led to continued milk production, but he hadn’t spent that much time studying it. And he wasn’t spending any time thinking on it today—he was more focused on his shooting mechanics and how to correct his mistakes. He was pretty quick at getting the gun out, but his aim was always off. And if he concentrated on aiming, then the gun was slow to come up. He needed to learn to shoot like Percy, who made drawing and shooting look effortless.

  Forgoing the stool
since he wouldn’t be able to sit on it, Seth nudged some cow dung out of the way with the toe of his boot and knelt down, placing the bucket under Molly’s udder. Working with only his left hand, he grabbed one of her teats up high and squeezed as he gently pulled his hand down, shooting a stream of milk into the bucket. Using both hands, Seth could have milked the cow in about five minutes but operating one-handed was another matter entirely. He couldn’t get into a rhythm and he didn’t have the strength in his left hand that he had in his right. After twenty minutes he had less than a half a bucket of milk and called it quits. His ma would be angry with him, but Seth decided if she wanted more milk, she could send Jacob, or she could do the milking herself.

  Seth grabbed the bucket’s handle, mumbled a kind word or two to Molly, and exited the barn. Spotting his uncle Eli leaning against the corral with a cup of coffee in his hand, he walked over and set the milk bucket down.

  “How are you feeling, Seth?” Eli asked.

  “Okay, I guess,” Seth said. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You may.”

  “Will you teach me how to shoot?”

  Eli smiled. “I don’t believe you want me for that job, Seth. If you don’t believe me, ask your mother. Your uncle Percy would be a much better instructor.”

  “But Uncle Percy ain’t here.”

  “No, he’s not. And ain’t isn’t a word, Seth. Is this a time-sensitive matter?”

  “No, not really.” Seth looked down and pushed some dirt around with the toe of his boot.

  “Is the recent incident the reason for your sudden interest in shooting?”

  Seth shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “A weapon in your hand does not make you a man, Seth. For some men, a weapon is a crutch they rely on when they don’t know how to resolve a problem with their mind.”

  Seth’s cheeks turned red with anger. “How was my brain going to help me the other day? Huh? You had a gun and used it, too.”