The people nearby glanced in the direction of the outcry, then subtly went back to their own activities. But their ears were attuned to hear more even if their eyes were diverted. Here was a tidbit to add to the camp gossip mill.
Fionna got out of her chair and knelt down beside her daughter, knowing she had fallen in love. She put her arms around her, speaking softly. “Sweet girl. My poor sweet girl.”
“Do you…want…me to run…away too?” Rebecca asked between sobs.
“No, darling girl, I don’t. I lost four children to sickness and now one has left home. You’re all I got left.”
“I love you, Ma.”
“I love you too, Rebecca, “ Fionna replied. She was thoughtful for several moments. “Maybe it’s time for changes around here. It makes some sort of sense now that I think about it. We left our Missouri home and now Silsby has gone off. They ain’t no reason to go on in the same old way.”
~*~
Luther returned to the campsite after an unprecedented early afternoon meeting. He found Fionna and Rebecca quiet and subdued. They barely acknowledged his presence, and he felt a peculiar uneasiness by their attitude. “A bunch of us is going onto the Grasslands,” he said.
“I thought you wasn’t gonna look for Silsby,” Fionna said.
“We ain’t,” Luther said. “We’re going down there to set up another camp. It’ll just be some men on account of there might be trouble with Harknell or the soljers. So the women and children is staying behind.” He waited for a reply. When none came, he went on, growing more puzzled by their chilly demeanors. “I expect to be gone no more’n a week at the most. So you can pack me up enough to last that long.”
“Pack it yourself,” Fionna said.
“Beg pardon?”
“I said pack whatever you want to take by yourself.”
Luther felt a flash of temper, but it quickly subsided. The expression on his wife’s face made him realize that a most unusual situation had arisen. Her eyes flashed with defiance, and her mouth was set hard and turned down. For one scary moment he thought she might have gone crazy. At any rate, something was obviously out of kilter and it made him nervous and unsure of himself. “I…uh…I reckon you’re upset about Silsby,” Luther said, feeling he was giving his wife a good excuse for her insubordination. “I’ll just take care of things myself.”
He went into the tent and got the small trunk. After putting in some clothing, he carried it out and set it down beside the wagon. Fionna and Rebecca watched as he packed some cooking and eating utensils along with a small amount of canned goods and dried meat. He pulled his Winchester rifle and some boxes of ammunition from the vehicle and looked at his wife and daughter. “I’ll be back in a week or less.”
They made no reply.
“They won’t be many of us out there,” he said, hoping he could evoke some conversation with them.
The two McCracken women remained silent.
“Ed Benson and Harvey Matthews and me are going with Tom Ralston in his wagon.”
Fionna and Rebecca still had no comments.
“He’s a bachelor so he don’t have to leave nothing behind and they’s room for us,” Luther added, the feeling of awkwardness and uncertainty growing as the two females continued their sullen silence. “W.R. Dunbar and Steve Packett is taking their wagons too.” He waited for a reaction or remarks, getting none. “Well…I’ll see you later.”
He hefted the trunk up on his shoulder, carrying his weapon in his left hand. He walked down the line of campsites to the three wagons that had been formed into a small convoy. He tossed his belongings into the back of Tom Ralston’s vehicle.
“Is your boy back yet?” Tom asked.
“Nope.”
Luther climbed over the tailgate to join Harvey Matthews and Ed Benson.
“Is Silsby to home yet?” Harvey inquired.
Luther, irritated about being asked again, shook his head. “I expect to see him by the time we get back.” He turned and watched the other men in the party prepare themselves on the wagons directly to the rear. “Is ever’body ready?”
“Let’s go!” Steve Packett on the second wagon yelled out. W.R. Dunbar on the third waved. The drivers flipped their reins and the caravan lurched and rolled.
“Lorenzo Markham is gonna meet us on the southeast side of Clarkville,” Luther said. “Him and Densberg can get in the other two wagons.”
They went the short but bumpy distance across the open countryside until reaching the town. The going was easy down Main Street, and when they crossed the city limits on the far side, they turned southeast, going but a mile before finding Lorenzo Markham and Lionel Densberg waiting for them. The men were on horseback, using animals rented from the local livery barn. Markham waved as he and his clerk rode up to the wagons. “It looks like you’re all ready and raring to go.”
“That we are,” Luther said. He noticed that the two men had no gear with them. “Ain’t y’all going with us?”
“Something rather important has come up,” Markham said. “I have some things to attend to.”
Densberg interjected, “We received a telegram from Caldwell first thing this morning. The Boomers over there have gotten a group together. They’re going to be setting up a camp by noon on the Salt Fork River in the Cherokee Outlet.”
“That should catch everyone by surprise,” Markham said. “Then when your group arrives on the Grasslands, the authorities will have a little extra to worry about. I fully expect the troops around here will be sent east. That gives you more time to establish yourselves before they get back.”
Densberg nodded. “Yes. When the news of the two incursions reach Washington, our cause will be well-served. If nothing else, those politicians will eventually throw up their hands and bow to the pressure to open the land for settlement.”
“We’re hoping that will happen sooner than later,” Markham said. “I will wait an hour then send a telegram to Caldwell to let the people there know that we’re also quite active right now. Naturally, there’ll be some coordination and planning to do. At any rate, your job will be a lot easier.”
“Then we’ll get on down there,” Luther said. “We shouldn’t waste no time.”
“Go with God’s blessing, gentlemen,” Markham said. “Remember that our cause is noble and ordained.”
“Amen,” Luther said, signaling the convoy to resume its journey. They turned directly south, heading straight for the Grasslands. Within an hour and a half they were back on the prairie, rolling into Dewey Harknell’s domain.
Luther McCracken sat in the back of the wagon, and his thoughts turned to Silsby. He had felt a painful sense of surprise when Rebecca had said that Silsby ran away and did not plan to return. Fionna’s unexpected defiance had sharpened his shock. She had never in all their years together ever displayed disobedience or displeasure toward him. Even on the rare occasions when she complained about the way he hit Silsby, she had quickly backed down when he rebuked her for her disapproval. Luther knew he had been strict with the boy, but he felt it necessary. Life was tough enough and there were plenty of disappointments and sufferings without having to endure them unnecessarily through careless conduct.
“It’ll be pheasant hunting time soon,” Harvey said.
“What?” Luther asked.
“I said it’ll be pheasant hunting time soon,” Harvey repeated. “Quail too.”
“I reckon.”
Luther’s own father had given him and his brothers many a whipping. It had hurt like hell, but the lessons were never lost. He considered himself a better man for that stern corporal punishment. He was very fond of Silsby, and the way the boy carried on gave every indication that he could well become one of those unsuccessful farmers through careless work habits. Silsby simply showed no concentration on the tasks at hand.
“You got a shotgun, Luther?” Ed Benson asked.
“Yeah,” Luther said. “An old Purdy.”
“Them’s good’uns,” Ed remarked. “
At least my grandpa always said so.”
Luther didn’t enjoy hitting the boy. Sometimes, when his temper snapped and he slapped him harder than he meant to, it made him feel terrible. Many instances he’d wanted to tell Silsby that he was sorry, that he hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Luther even felt like hugging the boy at those times. But it would have served no purpose other than make the father seem less sincere to the son.
“I think the three of us should go hunting together, Luther,” Harvey said.
“What?”
“Your mind is really wandering, ain’t it?” Ed remarked with a chuckle.
“Let’s you and me and Ed go hunting together,” Harvey suggested.
“Sure,” Luther said. “That’d be fine.”
“What about me?” Tom Ralston asked, handling the reins
“I didn’t know you was much on bird hunting,” Harvey replied.
“I prefer antelope or elk, but I’ll cut loose on a brace of birds now and again.”
“Then come along,” Ed invited.
What hurt Luther the most was the knowledge that Silsby running away meant the boy didn’t care much for his home. He decided that when Silsby returned, he would sit down and have a long talk with him. Luther would tell Silsby that he was now a man and would be treated as one. No more whippings or slaps when mistakes were made. Any errors would be sternly pointed out, of course, and that was only right.
Rebecca was another consideration. He knew she was sweet on that army lieutenant. And the sentiments seemed mutual. No doubt she was angry with him about that. Damn! Both the women in his life were riled at him at the same time.
“What are you thinking on?” Harvey asked.
“Things.”
The three wagons continued their slow, deliberate journey across the Medicine Bundle Grasslands. Someone on the second vehicle began playing his harmonica.
Chapter Ten
Silsby McCracken’s apprenticeship as a wrangler began on his first morning at the Rocking H Ranch. Luckily for the neophyte, he had hired on during a slack time when the cattle were being fattened up for market. This meant he had ample opportunity to learn his new job from the foreman Charlie Ainsley who had a bit of extra time on his hands.
Silsby met Charlie out in the ranch yard right after breakfast, and the first thing the foreman did was see that the rookie was properly equipped for his new profession. The only thing Silsby had brought with him was an old buckhorn hunting knife with a six-inch heavy blade that he wore in a scabbard hooked to his belt.
Charlie took Silsby to the storehouse where a battered old trunk contained items left behind by departed or dead cowboys. Most of the stuff was faded and weather-beaten, but still had some use left in it. Charlie searched through the trunk, finding a pair of high-heel boots. “Try these on.”
Silsby doffed his own clumsy clodhoppers and slipped into the footgear. After a couple of tentative steps, he strode up to the front of the building and back. “These is perty good,” he reported. “A little tight on the sides is all.”
“They’ll stretch out soon enough,” Charlie said. He pulled out a worn, but serviceable Montana peak hat that had been left behind by a fellow who came out second-best in a knife fight one drunken Saturday in the town of Kensaw. Silsby put it on and found it fit better than his own that had been handed down to him by his father.
The outfitting was completed with a pair of worn, mended chaps that had frayed fringes along the sides. Silsby had already acquired a well-used pair of leather work gloves from Dennis Nettles for a dime. Anything else he needed, such as a pistol, holster, spurs, or miscellaneous accouterments would have to be purchased out of his twenty-dollar a month salary.
After a trip to the bunkhouse to drop off the chaps and Silsby’s old hat and boots, Charlie took him back outside to begin instructing him in the wrangler trade. “What you do as a wrangler, Silsby, is be in charge of the remuda.”
“In charge, huh?” Silsby remarked with a grin. He liked that aspect of the job already. Then he asked, “What’s a remuda?”
“That’s the ranch’s horses,” Charlie said. “You ain’t an expert rider by any means, but you can ride good enough to be a wrangler. The first thing you got to learn is the kinds of horses we got and what we use ’em for. While we’re out working the range, you’re gonna have to make three round-ups a day of them animals and have ’em ready and waiting for the boys. There cain’t be no delays, understand?”
“I sure do,” Silsby responded. “And I’m ready to do it.”
“That’s good,” Charlie said. “Now the first thing in the morning you’ll have them horses in your corral so’s the cowboys can get the ones they need.”
“I thought most of the fellers had their own horses.”
“Naw,” Charlie said. “A couple do, but most use the ranch’s. Just about ever’body owns his own saddle though.”
“It looks like I’m showing up with nothing a’tall,” Silsby stated, “’cept for my knife.”
“That don’t matter a bit,” Charlie said. “Now! The first horses the boys need in the morning is the cutting horses and round-up horses.”
“How do I know which is which?”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Charlie said. “The fellers will have their favorites and they’ll search ’em out and throw saddles over ’em. All you got to do is have ’em ready and early for the day’s work.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You better do that,” Charlie said seriously. “Now the job has got to be did again at noon so’s they can change horses if’n they want to.”
“Is that before or after they eat?”
“After,” Charlie answered. “This is for the afternoon’s work.”
“So the boys will get the ones they want again,” Silsby said. “All I got to do is have ‘em in the corral and ready and waiting, huh?”
“Right,” Charlie said. “Now the next thing you’ll have to worry about is having ’em ready again in the late afternoon or early evening so’s the boys can get the night mounts. Those are the horses that see the best in the dark or work the best at night. Even if they ain’t needed, they’ll be kept close to where we sleep in case there’s trouble.”
The potential for excitement stimulated the boy’s curiosity. “What kind of trouble?”
“Stampedes, rustlers, and things like ‘at,” Charlie said. “You got them gloves Dennis sold you?”
“Right here in my back pocket.”
“Good. You’re gonna need ’em. Come with me to the barn.” When they walked inside the large building, Charlie took him over to a corner where coiled ropes and several wrapped stacks of poles were kept. “This is what you’ll make your corrals out of when we’re working on the range. Ever’time you got the horses rounded up, they got to be kept inside of this. How are you at knot tying?”
“Perty good. My pa taught me plenty.”
“What about roping with a lariat?”
Silsby shook his head. “I never done nothing like that in my whole life.”
“That’s gonna be your first working lesson then,” Charlie said. “We’ll go to the remuda over at the big corral and I’ll show you some tosses. Then you can practice for a while.”
“When are we gonna have a round-up and a drive?”
“Not for a bit,” Charlie answered. “We’re just letting the herd graze and fatten up. And there’s some branding to do too. You came to the job at a good time. It’s perty tough on a wrangler when he’s got to move straight into a round-up.”
A voice at the front of the barn yelled, “Hey!” They turned and saw the outfit’s cook walking toward them. He was a grizzled oldster with a bad limp that resulted from being thrown and stomped by a recalcitrant mustang. His name was Ben Shaw, and he sported a gray beard streaked with tobacco juice.
“What do you need, Ben?” Charlie asked.
“I got some taters that want peeling and there’s some cleaning up chores,” Ben said. “I’d do it my
self, but the biscuits and gravy is gonna keep me busy.”
Silsby said, “I reckon that’s my job, huh?”
“Sure is,” Charlie said. “We’ll take up the roping when you’re finished.”
The old cook led the young wrangler-in-training out of the barn and across the ranch yard to the cookhouse. When they stepped inside, Silsby saw a pile of potatoes in the corner. A stool and a pot of water sat beside them. “The paring knife is over on the counter,” Ben said. He noticed Silsby’s blade. “You can use your own if you’ve a mind to.”
Silsby shook his head. “I’ll use the other’n.”
Silsby wasted no time in settling down to the task. The boy worked deftly and rapidly as he pared the skins from the potatoes. It came off in thin spirals as the blade bit no deeper than necessary into the spuds. As soon as one was finished, it was dropped into the water, and another grabbed up. Ben, kneading dough on a nearby table, kept a close eye on the youngster.
In twenty minutes the job was done. Silsby wiped the knife off on his shirt sleeve, and stood up. Now was the time for the telling off. He had already figured the old coot would cuss him out for doing such a rotten job. Silsby had made up his mind that if the cook hit him, he was going to give it back double even if it cost him his job.
“I’m done with the spuds,” Silsby warily reported.
“You’re fast, boy,” Ben said. He walked over and examined the potatoes. “Good! The peels is thin. We’ll get our money’s worth out of them taters.”
“I done it all right, huh?”
“Yeah. Most of them heavy-handed jaspers around here butcher ’em worser than a rustler does a stole cow. And it takes ’em a hour to do that.”
Silsby was both relieved and pleased. “Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Shaw?”
“Yeah.” He pointed to some soiled kettles and pans. “I got some pots that need scouring. You don’t have to use dirt. They’s store-bought soap powder in the pantry. The pump out back is where you’ll find the water.”
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