Medicine Bundle

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Sure! It’ll be a lot of fun.”

  “And I can buy them things for me?”

  “Well, not for me,” Grant said, laughing again. “The army pretty much decides what I’m supposed to wear, and it’s not lace and petticoats.”

  ~*~

  Evenings in the Hollis quarters fell into a structured routine. After supper, Grant and Rebecca began daily readings and practice to familiarize her with proper social etiquette. Grant was surprised at how interested his wife was in the protocols. He thought she might be resentful, but she enjoyed studying the procedures. The rituals of the teas and dinners especially fascinated her. Rebecca took quick note of the types of dishes and silverware required. These were quickly added to the things to be ordered through the catalogs.

  As they got into the lessons, Grant realized that not only was Rebecca’s background different from the other ladies, so were his own origins from those of their husbands. Nothing could be done about that, and he had already found that in many instances he was more intelligent and perceptive than some of the other officers despite their superior educations. Rebecca was a bright young lady and, with some effort on both their parts, there was no doubt she would eventually be able to fit into social situations within the garrison.

  Grant was a gentle teacher, and Rebecca looked forward to the pretend sessions of dinners and tea parties that included made-up conversations that could become great fun when they were in the mood for joking. On one occasion, Grant remarked, “I heard you had the Czarina of Russia to tea the other day.”

  “I had that pleasure, yes,” Rebecca responded. “But I learned she wishes to follow army custom and be addressed as Mrs. Czar.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Indeed!”

  At other times they made up outrageous social events with unlikely people to discuss: a picnic with the president of the United States; carriage rides with the famous and wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt of New York City; lawn tennis with the British prime minister; and other made-up situations that were fun yet gave Rebecca plenty of practice in the art of charming prattle.

  Grant also integrated grammar lessons into the proceedings. At first he feared Rebecca would become irritated at the constant interruptions in her conversations. But she was an eager and apt student, and didn’t mind the intrusion. Instead, she cheerfully noted the corrections as she picked up the nuances of correct speech and put them into practice. She did this through listening carefully rather than understanding syntax of the English language.

  Meanwhile, Rebecca thrilled to the arrival of parcels of clothing and dinnerware. When she turned her attention to furnishings, Grant’s savings from his bachelor days were almost depleted by the purchase of a parlor stand with brass feet, a hall tree, a French plate mirror, and a Turkish three-piece parlor suite made up of a sofa, armchair and reception chair. The young husband was relieved the young wife was at least content with the quartermaster-issued furniture and implements in the kitchen.

  ~*~

  Three months after beginning their self-imposed course on social behavior, Rebecca held a troop tea in which the Mrs. Captain and two Mrs. Lieutenants were invited. It was a success, but Rebecca considered the compliments the ladies paid her as insincere and resentful.

  Her self-confidence had grown to the point she really didn’t care much one way or the other what the other ladies thought of her. But she had her husband to consider and concentrated on being prepared to move into the higher echelons of the regimental social scene.

  Grant’s own career, unfortunately, suddenly lost all its potential. Three captains transferred into the regiment from staff positions in the east. One took a retiring squadron commander’s posting and the other two took over troops in which a couple of the senior lieutenants had been scheduled to command. All this pushed Grant three rungs lower on the officer cadre roster, and made it painfully clear that the highest rank he could hope to attain before retirement was that of captain. And he would receive that promotion at a very advanced age.

  ~*~

  The post hall was well prepared for the first officers’ ball of the summer of 1889. The floor had been waxed shiny and bright, and shimmered with the light of dozens of lamps fixed with reflectors. The regimental colors were mounted on the wall to the front, flanked by the twelve guidons representing the troops. Patriotic bunting was draped over the rafters and a heavily laden refreshment table held sandwiches, pastries, and the elaborate punch bowl and cups purchased by a subscription from the regiment’s officers.

  On the selected evening, all attendees strolled from their quarters to the post hall for the event. Rebecca wore a ball toilette purchased in a catalog issued by Farquhar Ladies’ Clothiers of Chicago. It consisted of a top dominated by a gauze corsage with a fichu neckline. The skirt was of pleated white gauze with embroidered ruffles. She looked stunning, and Grant hadn’t been so proud since the day he received his commission as second lieutenant. Other officers, particularly older ones, cast furtive, admiring glances at the Mrs. Lieutenant; but not surreptitious enough that their wives didn’t notice.

  Inside the hall, the bandstand was placed in the far corner on which picked musicians from the regimental band were seated. At the start of the evening’s activities, the bandsmen held their instruments expectantly, all eyes on the chief musician. That august gentleman raised his baton and swept it down to launch the orchestra into the first dance of the evening: The Bird of Paradise Waltz.

  It was at this gala that Mrs. Lieutenant Rebecca Hollings discovered that even if she wasn’t fully accepted by the regimental ladies, their husbands regarded her with wholehearted approval. As a most attractive young lady, she was very popular as a dance partner with the other officers, particularly those older ones who hadn’t found the other subalterns’ wives so charming. Rebecca’s youthful prettiness and ready smile were gentle reminders of their own younger days when they courted and flirted with comely girls.

  Grant didn’t mind when other officers danced with Rebecca. He was not much of a dancer himself, and she enjoyed the activity. But toward the end of the evening, Rebecca had danced so much that she had grown excessively fatigued.

  Colonel Byrd the regimental commander enjoyed himself immensely throughout the evening. It was toward midnight when he’d met all his social obligations by dancing with his own wife, those of the three squadron commanders, and the twelve ladies wed to the troop commanders. He’d had his eye on Rebecca throughout the dance program, and now marched over to where she was seated with some of the other ladies. “Mrs. Lieutenant Hollings,” Colonel Byrd said. “May I have the honor of this next dance?”

  “Well, thank you kindly,” Rebecca said. “But I’m afraid I’m a little tired right now. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Eyebrows raised and gasps were heard that were completely lost on her. She had violated the one rule that Grant did not think to teach her. A lieutenant’s wife never, never turns down an invitation to dance with her husband’s colonel.

  Now Grant’s military career had slipped another notch.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Certain similarities existed between all working cowboys whether they punched cattle on the southern plains or in the high country of Montana. The preponderance of these parallelisms was moral, based on bunkhouse philosophy and doctrine.

  The basic premise was simple and direct: a good man was true and square with his pards. He didn’t lie to them, he didn’t cheat them at cards, and he didn’t steal from them. These traits, while being followed by the majority of ranch hands, were ignored by a few malfeasants as are found in all segments of human society. Those in violation of the code of conduct generally received immediate punishment from the ones they offended. If the offense affected the entire crew, the culprit would be roughed up by an ad hoc committee of riled cowpokes. Cases of recidivism were extremely rare.

  However, there was one rule no cowboy ever broke purposely: never pry too far into somebody’s past life if that fellow doesn�
�t show much inclination to discuss it. This particular edict was followed more out of courtesy than a fear of violent reactions from sensitive individuals with pasts to hide. Most men fell into silence as a sign that the subject of conversation was not appreciated.

  The big differences in cowboying were the physical aspects of where the trade was practiced. This mainly concerned weather and terrain. Those two physical attributes made hard, immediate impressions on Silsby McCracken and Charlie Ainsley when they signed on with the Circle Bar outfit located near the town of Little Boite, Montana Territory.

  Silsby and Charlie learned that their fellow cowboys mostly hailed from Montana and Wyoming, and proudly referred to their part of the world as Big Sky Country. But to a couple of fellows whose former range was rolling prairie that seemed to stretch into infinity in all directions, the mountains to the west of the Montana ranges severely cut the local vista down to what seemed a couple of miles. To them it was Little Bit of Sky Country.

  Silsby and Charlie were used to being able to turn in any direction and see a horizon that shimmered and danced in what seemed an immeasurable distance away. During a clear day on the southern plains, a wide, high stretch of blue spanned between those limits. At night the great expanse over the prairie was black as pitch, looking like the stars had been haphazardly flung upward to twinkle down on the earth’s misery.

  Additionally, the clouds in Montana were much lower than on the plains. They seemed to hem in the two cowboys off the Medicine Bundle Grasslands, pressing down on them with an inert weight. In the Indian Territory, the high-flying blossoms of aerial vapor were beyond an eagle’s ability to reach, while in mountainous country, the mist sometimes floated around a man’s hat.

  Other cowboys who had wandered up from the south had some good advice for Silsby and Charlie where clothing was concerned. The weather was a hell of a lot cooler, and even in the summer thick wool vests were useful to hold a man’s natural body heat in around his innards where it did the most good. Heavier coats, gloves, scarves, and slickers were also necessary if a working cowpuncher wanted to survive the winter.

  Silsby and Charlie arrived in time to work the spring round-up. Their first job was to perform what the locals called riding bog. That meant they sought out mud holes that cattle might wander into. A healthy, strong bovine could pull itself free from the clinging, sucking mass of wet earth, but a calf or an animal weakened by hunger might get stuck. If not rescued, it would slowly starve to death.

  On their first day of riding bog, Silsby and Charlie pulled no less than a half-dozen struggling head free from such natural traps, while damning the animals’ collective stupidity. This was especially true when the cowboys had to wade in and help the dim-witted critter work itself free. That meant the other partner in the task had to stand by in case the fellow in the mud got himself mired down with the struggling beast.

  “Don’t get yourself stuck in there,” Charlie cautioned Silsby the first time the young man charged in to aid a frantic calf.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Silsby replied as he tugged and pulled at the animal. “If I get to a point I can’t get out of this shit, I’ll eat this son of a bitch raw before I starve.”

  “No need to worry, pard,” Charlie said. “As long as I got a rope handy, you’ll get out.”

  Silsby, muddy from the hips down, pushed the animal to firm ground and stepped out, stomping his feet. “It’s your turn next,” he grumbled. “I dang near lost my boots.”

  “Maybe we should take ’em off before we go into that muck.”

  “Good idee,” Silsby agreed. “Socks too.”

  When the spring round-up came to an end, so did the work on the ranch. Most of the hands, with money earned during the previous winter burning holes in their pockets, took a break from work. The time between the spring and fall round-ups was no more than six to eight weeks because of the short Montana summer. But Silsby and Charlie had only recently arrived after a long, costly trip. Their expenses — which included mostly liquor and whores — had completely exhausted the hundred dollars each received from Dewey Harknell. The two cowboys didn’t have enough funds between them to get by comfortably. Setting up a camp somewhere in the high country and trying to live off the unfamiliar land was more than they wanted to take on. They called on their boss to see what could be done about the situation.

  The owner of the Circle Bar was an ex-Texan by the name of Leroy O’Neil. He had been impressed with the hard work of the pair of new men, and hoped to have them around to work for him on the fall round-up. “I’ll tell you what, boys,” he said. “Jessie Nolan over on the other side of Little Boite has got some work that’ll keep you going ‘til we need you back here this fall.”

  “Fine,” Charlie said. “I reckon we can ride and rope for him as good as anybody.”

  “It ain’t a cowboy job,” O’Neil said. “He needs hay slayers.”

  Silsby asked, “What’s hay slayers, Mr. O’Neil?”

  “Cutting hay,” O’Neil explained. “Folks has been growing it around these parts for about twenty years. The stuff comes in mighty handy when the snow’s too deep for the cattle to graze. It’s the differ’nce between them critters starving and living.”

  Silsby frowned. “That’s farm work.”

  “It sure is,” O’Neil said. “Hard farm work.”

  Charlie laughed. “Damn, Silsby! You ran away from home to get out of that kind of clod-hopping.”

  O’Neil shrugged. “It’s that or nothing, boys.”

  “Well, shit!” Silsby said to Charlie. “We need the money. Let’s do it.”

  “Let’s do it,” Charlie repeated in agreement.

  ~*~

  The summer dissolved into weeks of swinging scythes from dawn to dusk during long days laboring on various mountain meadows. Silsby and Charlie didn’t sit a horse once during the time they attacked the hay crop. They endured the sweaty, sticky work with resignation, consoling themselves it wouldn’t be necessary to demean themselves with such lowly labor the following year.

  Seven weeks went by before the final field was chopped, shocked, and ready to be tossed up on wagons for transportation to one of the farm’s three barns. It would be stored there until purchased by the various ranchers in the area. Silsby and Charlie took their final meal with the cutting crew, were paid off, and leaped back into saddles to ride over to the Circle Bar and get back to their regular line of work.

  The demanding activities of the fall round-up drew them in with the usual butt-pounding, exhausting tasks. Calves were branded, and those cattle destined for market were herded out for sale.

  A couple of weeks later when the marketing was finished, the crews returned to the ranch to begin the winter phase of work. The first order of business was to wean the calves to give their mothers a much improved opportunity to survive the blizzards and deprivations of the cold weather to come. Then these cattle were driven to areas picked out for their wintering months.

  At that time Silsby McCracken and Charlie Ainsley learned about the most contrasting feature between working on the southern and northern plains. The pair from the Medicine Bundle Grasslands was initiated into the world of the line shack. These were buildings with stables built into them that were located in the far reaches of the cruel high ranges. The well-built structures were meant to shelter the riders and their horses while working the long winter.

  If the cold seasons were savage at times on the plains, they were hell-on-earth in Montana. This meant a whole unique way of running a ranch. The cold weather jobs consisted of protecting the cattle and seeing to it that as many as possible would be alive for the spring round-up. When the weather permitted, the cowboys were charged with everything from keeping the herd’s watering holes cleared of ice, to going out on routine searches to rescue weak animals. They would also have to put out hay in areas where the snow was too deep for grazing. Only when those important chores were done, could the cowpunchers tend to their own needs by cutting firewood and maintain
ing the line shacks in as good a shape as possible.

  Silsby and Charlie were assigned to work under the supervision of Angelo Kennedy, one of the crew bosses for the Circle Bar. Angelo, originally from New Mexico Territory, had been working the Montana ranges for the past ten years. A weathered, taciturn, humorless individual, Angelo had the look of a man who lost both his temper and good sense on occasion. His battered nose attested to the fact he wasn’t afraid of physical confrontations.

  The big boss Leroy O’Neil took Silsby and Charlie aside before they left for the trek out to the line shack. “Boys, I need a word with you,” he said, looking around to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. “I want y’all to keep an eye on Angelo. He’s been acting kind of strange for the past couple of winters.”

  “What do you mean by strange?” Charlie asked.

  “Oh, nothing serious,” O’Neil said. “After a few months of wintering out there when the blizzards kept the boys inside for weeks at a time, he started doing little things like talking a lot to hisself or at folks that wasn’t there, and —”

  “Wait a minute,” Silsby interrupted. “Did you say he talked at folks that wasn’t there?”

  “Yeah,” O’Neil said. “He’d argue and jabber with somebody only he could see.”

  “Is they anything else he did?” Charlie asked.

  “Well, once he stripped down to his longjohns and run out into a snow storm,” O’Neil said. “The other fellers had to chase him down and drag him back to the shack or he’d’a froze.”

  “Something like that is kind of disturbing, Mr. O’Neil,” Silsby said.

  “Oh, hell!” O’Neil exclaimed with a laugh. “That only happened a couple of times. Maybe he won’t do nothing a’tall this year.”

  “We hope not,” Charlie said.

  “They ain’t a chance he might go completely loco, is they?” Silsby asked. “I mean like wanting to shoot somebody.”

  “I don’t think so,” O’Neil said. He snuffed and wiped his nose. “That’s happened before though. On other spreads, o’course.”