“But what about the railroad? I thought ...”
“Oh, the railroad,” Bo said. “That’s died. Saving steel for war factories. The steel came into Whitemud and stopped. But it’s all right. We’ve got a start, and a house and lot, and a farm. Wait till wheat gets to be three bucks a bushel and we have two hundred acres in and get sixty bushel to the acre.”
In early June, 1914, Elsa loaded the children into the train under the brown eaves of the station, said goodbye to Sarah and George and Kristin and Erling and her father, all attending her dutifully as they would have attended her funeral, shook hands with Henry Mossman, holding his fingers in one last relinquishment of what he stood for and had offered her, and set her feet on the iron steps. The boys were already climbing on the seat inside and sticking their tongues out against the glass. For the third time (and each time forever, each time certain she would never return) she left home to hazard herself and her hopes in a new and unknown country.
And oh God, she said, looking through the windows at her family, Kristin with her handkerchief out, her father straight and grim with his hat formally off, Sarah placid with pursed mouth and hands folded across her stomach—oh God, let it be final this time! Let the house Bo is building be the place we’ll stay in the rest of our lives, let it be the real home that the boys can look back to without a single regret.
Because she knew she was surrendering completely this time. She knew that she would stick to Bo now no matter what came. She had made her bed, and this time she would lie in it.
The train jerked. She waved, and as they moved up the platform she seized the window catches and shoved up the glass, and with her arm outside the window waved once more, the last time, at the place that had been home.
IV
In the summer it was the homestead, the little round-roofed shack that looked like a broad freight car with one side extended into a sleeping porch where the two beds were, the single room with the kerosene stove against one wall and the cupboards built up beside it, the table and the benches and the couch where the cat slept all day long, curled up dozing, but sleeping so lightly that a finger placed on one hair of him, anywhere, would bring him instantly awake with a pr-r-r-rt!
The homestead was the open, flat plain, unbroken clear to the horizon on every side except the south, where the Bearpaw Mountains, way down across the line in Montana, showed in a thin white line that later in summer turned to brown. In August, when the heat was intense, the mountains faded out of sight in the haze and heat waves, but almost any day in June and early July they could be seen, and they were an important part of the farm.
There were other important things about the farm, the intimate parts like the pasture, a half mile long and two hundred yards wide, fenced with three tight strands of barbed wire on peeled cedar posts, the whole thing a pride to Bruce because there was no fence anywhere near as tight and neat on the other farms nearby. His father was a thorough man on a job; when he put in a fence he put in a fence that he need not be ashamed of, he set the posts deep in the ground and tamped them in tight, he bought a wire-stretcher and strung the strands like guitar strings.
The pasture was cut diagonally by the coulee, and just below the house was the reservoir, and across the reservoir and through the fence was the long sixty-acre wheat field and the smaller field of flax, and the end of those fields was both the south line of their property and the international boundary. The farm was that feeling, too, the sense of straddling two nations, so that even though you were American, living in Canada, you lost nothing by it, but really gained, because the Fourth of July was celebrated in Canada and Canadian holidays like Victoria Day and the King’s birthday were celebrated in Montana, and you got in on both. And you lived in Saskatchewan, in one nation, but got your mail in Montana, in another.
The farm was every summer between June and September. It was the long trip, in the first year by wagon but later by car, from Whitemud out; it was the landmarks on that trail, the Frenchman’s house with a dozen barefooted children streaking for the barn, the gates that had to be opened, the great horse ranch where they travelled hours without seeing a living thing except herds of horses as wild as coyotes. It was Robsart, a little clot of dwellings with a boarding house that they generally tried to make for the noon meal, and then scattered farms again along‘the grass-grown wagon-track, and a couple of little streams to ford, and Gadke’s where they always stopped while Pa talked things over with Mr. Gadke because Mr. Gadke was a smart dry-farmer, until finally the last gate and the last ford just past the twin tarpapered shacks that all the homesteaders called Pete and Emil, and then their own house, and the familiar-unfamiliar look of the fence and fireguard and pasture the first time in the spring.
Farm was the shut-up, mousy smell of the house, the musty smell of packed quilts, the mattresses out in the sun on the first morning. It was the oil that had to be wiped off his gopher traps, and the first walk out along the pasture fence to the edge of the field with the traps over his shoulder. It was trouble with water, sometimes, when the well-hole beside the reservoir had caved in and they had to haul drinking water in barrels for two miles, and stories like the one his father told about the Picketts, down in Montana. The Picketts had no well, only a little creekbed that often dried up on them, and then they hoarded water, according to Pa, like nothing you ever saw. A pan of water would be used to boil eggs in the morning. Then the dishes would be washed in it. Then all the family would wash, one after the other. Then the water would be strained to get the grease and dirt out, and saved to put in the radiator of the Picketts’ old car. Pa swore you could tell whether the Picketts had had cabbage or beans or sweetcorn for dinner just by smelling the boiling radiator of that old McLaughlin.
Farm ordinarily was the things he and Chet did together, the guns they whittled out of sticks, the long campaigns in the coulee and the patch of sweetcorn when it got high enough to make good cover. It was the Russian thistle they hoed out, of garden and fire- . guard, and the swearing his father did when the thistle got a good start in the wheat field. It was long days of blazing sun, and violent rains, and once it was a cyclone that passed a mile south of them. That was when they were still living in the tent, before Pa got the house built, and Pa roped them all down in the section hole until he was sure the twister wasn’t going to hit them.
In this summer of 1918, because Chet was staying in town to be delivery boy for Mr. Babcock in the confectionery store, the homestead was isolation and loneliness, though he never felt it or knew it for what it was. Only when his mother looked at his father and said they should never have let Chet take that job, it left Brucie too much alone. Then he felt vaguely disturbed and faintly abused, but he never did really believe he was lonely, because he loved the homestead, and the Sunday school hymns he sang to himself down in the flowered coulee meant to him very definite and secret and precious things, meant primroses and space and the wet slap of a rare east wind, and those tunes would mean those things to him all his life.
Still he was almost always alone, and that summer he somehow lost his identity as a name. There was no other boy to confuse him with; he wasn’t Bruce, but “the boy,” and because he was the only thing of his kind in all that summer world he needed no name, but only his own sense of triumphant identity. He knew the homestead in intimate and secret detail because there was so little variety in it that the small things took the senses. He knew the way the grass grew curling over the lip of a burnout, and how the prairie owls nested under those grassy lips. He knew how the robins tucked their nests back under the fringes of the prairie wool, and their skyblue eggs were always a wonder. He could tell, by the way the horses clustered in a corner of the pasture, when something was wrong, as when Dick got wound up in the lower strand of the fence and almost cut his leg off trying to break loose. He could tell instantly when a weasel was after the hens by the kind of clamor they made. Nothing else, for some reason, ever caused that fighting squawk from the mother hens. He could tell a bad
ger’s permanent burrow from the one he made in digging out a gopher. The yapping of coyotes on a moonlit night was lonely and beautiful to him, and the yard and chicken house and fireguard and coulee were as much a part of him as his own skin.
He lived in his own world in summer, and only when hail or wind or gophers or Russian thistle threatened the wheat on which he knew his father yearly gambled everything, was there much communication with the adult world whose interests were tied down to the bonanza farming and the crop. Wheat, he knew, was very high. The war did that. And he knew too that they were not well off, that every spring his father scraped together everything he had for seed and supplies and hoped for a good year so that he could clean up. He knew that they had less than most of the homesteaders around: they didn’t have a barn, a cow (they had two in town, but it was a hard trip to bring them out), a seeder, a binder, a disc, a harrow. They didn’t have much of anything, actually, except a team, a plow, and a stoneboat. Anything he didn’t have tools for his father either borrowed tools to do, or hired done. But that frantic period of plowing and seeding came early, before his senses had adjusted themselves completely to the homestead, and later, in the period when they did practically nothing but sit and. wait and hope that the weather would give them a crop, he moved in a tranced air of summer and loneliness and delight.
At the end of the first week in this summer he caught a weasel in one of his gopher traps, and brought it, still twisting and fighting in the trap, to the house. His father and mother came to the door; his mother made a face and shivered.
“Ugh!” she said. “Ugly, snaky thing!”
But his father showed more interest. “Got something special, uh?” he said. He came down and took the ringed chain from the boy’s hand, held the weasel up. The weasel hissed in his face, trying to jump at him, and he straightened his arm to hold the swinging trap away.
“You’ve got to hand it to them,” he said. “There isn’t anything alive with more fight in it.”
“Take it and kill it,” Elsa said. “Don’t just keep it in the trap torturing it.”
Bruce was looking at his father. He ignored his mother’s words because this was men’s business. She didn’t understand about weasels. “Maybe I could keep him till he turns into an ermine,” he said.
“Why not?” his father said. “You could get three bucks for his pelt, these days. We ought to be able to make a cage that’d hold him.”
“Oh, Bo,” Elsa said. “Keep a weasel?”
“Give Boopus here something to do,” Bo said. “You’ve been telling me we ought to get him a pet.”
Bruce looked from one to the other, wondering when they had talked over getting him a pet. “We’ve got old Tom now,” he said.
“Old Tom,” his father said, “is so full of mice his mind is all furry.”
“We ought to get a dog,” Elsa said. “Not a vicious thing like a weasel.”
“Well, we’ve got the weasel, and we don’t know any place to get a dog.” Bo looked down at the boy and grinned. He swung the weasel gently back and forth, and it arched its long yellow body against the trap and lunged. “Let’s go make a cage for this tough guy,” Bo said.
“Can I have a dog too?”
“Maybe. If I can find one.”
“Holy catartin,” Bruce said. “A cat, a dog, and a weasel. Maybe I can catch some more and start a weasel farm.”
“I’d move out,” his mother said. She waved them away. “Hurry up, if you’re going to keep that bloodthirsty thing. Don’t leave it in the trap with its broken leg.”
They made a cage out of a beer-case, screened under the hinged top and with a board removed at the bottom, leaving an opening over which they tacked a strip of screen. They had trouble getting the weasel out of the trap, and finally Bo had to smother him in a piece of horse blanket and spring the jaws loose and throw blanket and all in the cage. For three days the weasel sulked in the corner and would eat nothing, but when the boy said he didn’t think it was going to live his father laughed at him. “You can’t kill a weasel just by breaking his leg. Put a mouse in there and see what happens.”
Next day the boy rescued a half-dead mouse that Tom was satedly toying with under the bed, and dropped it in the cage. Nothing happened, but when he came back later the mouse was dead, with a hole back of his ear and his body limp and apparently boneless. The boy fished the carcass out with a bent wire, and from then on there was no question of the weasel’s dying. The problem was to find enough mice, but after a few days he tried a gopher, and then it was all right.
There had been a wind during the night, and all the loneliness of the world had swept up out of the southwest. The boy had heard it wailing through the screens of the sleeping porch where he lay, and he had heard the wash tub bang loose from the outside wall and roll on down the coulee, and the slam of the screen door, and his mother’s padding feet as she rose to fasten things down. Through one half-open eye he had peered up from his pillow to see the moon skimming windily in a luminous sky. In his mind’s eye he had seen the prairie outside with its woolly grass and cactus white under the moon, and the wind, whining across that endless oceanic land, sang in the screens, and sang him back to sleep.
Now, after breakfast, when he set out through the pasture on the round of his traps, there was no more wind, but the air smelled somehow recently swept and dusted, as the house in town smelled after his mother’s cleaning. The sun was gently warm on the bony shoulder blades of the boy, and he whistled, and whistling turned to see if the Bearpaws were in sight to the south. There they were, a tenuous outline of white just breaking over the bulge of the world; the Mountains of the Moon, the place of running streams and timber and cool heights that he had never seen—only dreamed of on days when the baked gumbo of the yard cracked in the heat and the sun brought cedar smells from fenceposts long since split and dry and odorless, when he lay dreaming on the bed with a Sears Roebuck or a T. Eaton catalogue before him, picking out the presents he would buy for his mother and his father and Chet and his friends next Christmas, or the Christmas after that. On those days he looked often and long at the snowy mountains to the south, while dreams rose in him like heat waves, blurring the reality of the unfinished shack and the bald prairie of his home.
The Bearpaws were there now, and he watched them a moment, walking, his feet automatically dodging cactus clumps, before he turned his attention to the scattered stakes that marked his traps. He ran the line at a half-trot, whistling.
At the first stake the chain was stretched tightly down the hole. The pull on its lower end had dug a little channel in the soft earth of the mound. Gently, so as not to break the gopher’s leg off, the boy eased the trap out of the burrow, held the chain in his left hand, and loosened the stake with his right. The gopher tugged against the trap, but it made no noise. There were only two places where they made a noise: at a distance, when they whistled a warning, and in the weasel’s cage. Otherwise they kept still.
For a moment he debated whether to keep this one alive for the weasel or to wait so he wouldn’t have to carry a live one all the way around. Deciding to wait, he held the chain out, measured the rodent, and swung. The knobbed end of the stake crushed the skull, and the eyes popped out of the head, round and blue. A trickle of blood started from nose and ears. The feet kicked.
Releasing the gopher, the boy lifted it by the tail and snapped its tail fur off with a smart flip. Then he stowed the trophy carefully in the breast pocket of his overalls. For the last two years he had won the grand prize offered by the province to the school child who destroyed the most gophers. On the mantel in town were two silver loving cups, and in the cigar box under his bed in the farm-house were already seven hundred forty tails, the catch of three weeks. In one way, he resented his father’s distributing poison along the wheat field, because poisoned gophers generally got down their holes to die, and he didn’t get the tails. So he spent most of his time trapping and snaring in the pasture, where poison could not be spread becau
se of the horses.
Picking up trap and stake, Bruce kicked the dead gopher down its burrow and scooped dirt over it with his toe. They stunk up the pasture if they weren’t buried, and the bugs got into them. Frequently he had stood to windward of a dead and swollen gopher, watching the body shift and move with the movements of the beetles and crawling things in it. If such an infested corpse were turned over, the carrion beetles would roar out, great, hard-shelled, orange-colored, scavenging things that made his blood curdle at the thought of their touching him, and after they were gone and he looked again he would see the little black ones, undisturbed, seething through the rotten flesh. So he always buried his dead, now.
Through the gardens of red and yellow cactus blooms he went whistling, half-trotting, setting his traps afresh whenever a gopher shot upright, whistled, and ducked down its hole. All but two of the first seventeen traps held gophers, and he came to the eighteenth confidently, expecting to take this one alive. But this gopher had gone in head first, and the boy put back in his pocket the salt sack he had brought along for a game bag. He would have to trap or snare one down by the dam.
On the way back he stopped with bent head while he counted the morning’s catch of tails, mentally adding this lot to the seven hundred forty he already had, trying to remember how many he and Chet had had this time last year. As he finished his mathematics his whistle broke out again, and he galloped down through the pasture, running for very abundance of life, until he came to the chicken house just within the fireguard.
Under the eaves of the chicken house, so close that the hens were constantly pecking up to its door and then almost losing their wits with fright, was the weasel’s cage. The boy lifted the hinged top and looked down through the screen.
The Big Rock Candy Mountain Page 25
