Esther

by Jim Cox

  “You’ll most likely be heading out before Mrs. Steinbeck has her six-thirty breakfast ready, but don’t worry, I’ll have your breakfast prepared before you leave.” Esther paused briefly and asked, “Doyle, do you suppose you might have time to check on Mark when you get back to New Orleans? I’m worried about him, not knowing if he’s back to the New Orleans port or traveling to some foreign country.”

  “I’ll check on him, Esther, and let you know by letter.” She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder. It wasn’t long until she raised her head back up with her eyes fixed on him.

  “I’ve been keeping something from you, Doyle…both you and Joan.”

  “What is it, Esther? I hope it’s not your involvement with another man,” he said with a wide grin.

  “Nothing like that,” she said smiling, giving him a light punch on his shoulder. “I’ve been asked by Mrs. Winslow, a rancher’s wife, if Joan and I would move to their ranch and become their cooks. We’d be cooking for twelve full-time workers plus twenty part-time workers during roundups. The pay’s not much, but it’ll keep us busy and provide enough money to get by on.”

  “Have you accepted the offer, yet?”

  “I’m to let her know this Saturday, but first I’ll have to discuss the matter with Joan and see if she’s okay with it.”

  Doyle reached for Esther’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. “There’s something I’ve been keeping from you, too.” Esther’s eyes brightened. “Do you remember me telling you I traded my labor for stock in the Natchez Company when I was young, and the company was starting?” Esther nodded. “It has made me very rich, Esther. I couldn’t spend…I mean we couldn’t spend what I have saved if I didn’t work another day of my life. We can travel the world over, Esther, and never have a financial concern.”

  “Why are you telling me about your money, Doyle? I love you for what you are and want to be with you for the rest of my life. It makes no difference to me if you’re rich or if you’re poor.”

  “That’s what I love about you, Esther. Life’s luxuries are meaningless to you; it’s relationships that matter. I only brought up the money issue to let you know you don’t have to work for the ranch if you don’t want to; I’ll furnish you with all the money you need.”

  “That’s nice of you, Doyle, and I thank you for the offer, but I’m not entitled to any of your money until we’re married.” Esther smiled and with dancing eyes said, “After we’re married, it’ll be a different matter.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Two days after she saw Mrs. Winslow in town and accepted the cooking job, Esther and Joan drove to the Crooked Rail homestead. They arrived in the late afternoon and were formally introduced. “This is my husband, Joseph Winslow, or Joe as most folks call him,” said his wife, Shelba, “and the other gentlemen is our ranch foreman and goes by the name of Red.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Esther said with a smile. “I’m Esther Taylor…please call me Esther, and this is my daughter Joan.”

  Mrs. Winslow turned to the foreman and said, “Shining Star will have supper ready within the hour, Red. Would you take care of Esther’s horse and buggy while I show them to their rooms? They’ll want to freshen up before we eat.” Then she turned back to her guest, “Shining Star is the Indian kitchen helper I told you about, Esther.

  Both upstairs bedrooms had firm straw mattresses and were well furnished—a large clothes cabinet and sideboard with a pitcher of water lined the walls in both rooms. As Esther unpacked her clothing, she thought of how she’d described the ranch folks she and Joan had just met in her letter to Doyle. Mrs. Winslow is an attractive woman in her late forties, Esther thought. She’s a tall, thin woman with a few strands of gray in her dark brown hair rolled into a bun on the back of her head. The light green western style dress she was wearing fit perfectly. Esther’s mind turned to Mr. Winslow. Mr. Winslow is a tall, rather good-looking man and dresses like a typical cowboy. A wool shirt covered with a black vest and a wide tooled belt with a large silver buckle. Of course, he had on high heeled, pointed toe boots. Esther grinned when she thought of Red. His name undoubtedly came from his reddish skin and dark red hair.

  Mrs. Winslow was correct. The cooking job at the Crooked Rail Ranch was hard work, but it was also enjoyable. Shining Star was pleasant and did more than her share of the work without complaining. The wranglers, a name given to ranch hands working with cattle, were polite and offered their help when they were around.

  It was roundup time and the days started early. The wranglers rose a couple hours before sunrise and after dressing went to the kitchen for their breakfast before saddling their horses and heading out with the dawn. After the cooks had washed and put away the breakfast dishes, their day slowed considerably since the wranglers wouldn’t be back for supper until dark. Esther and Shining Star usually prepared a light noon meal for the homebodies and then, after gathering vegetables from the garden and meat from the smokehouse, they would start preparing supper.

  In addition to kitchen work, Joan helped a retired wrangler named Bill who had worked for the Crooked Rail for twenty-nine years, a feat he was proud of. His job was to tend the garden and bring back to health the colts and calves that were not able to remain in the herd for a sundry of reasons. Joan was not fond of the garden work but loved to be around the baby animals, spending as much time with them as possible.

  Esther and Joan had settled in nicely since coming to the Crooked Rail. Strong relationships were being built and work routines established—everything seemed to be going good. However, their lives changed one evening during supper a few weeks after they arrived. The meal was not like most—it seemed strained. Not a word was uttered, which was not uncommon for cowmen who ate in a matter of minutes, but their body language was strange, and their smiles were replaced with long faces. Many skipped their second cup of coffee and headed for the bunkhouse as soon as their plates were pushed back.

  When the last man left, and Esther was alone with Joan and Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, she asked, “Something’s wrong, Mr. Winslow. The men were acting odd like they had something on their minds but were ashamed to talk about it. What is it, Mr. Winslow…what’s wrong?”

  He turned toward the window behind him, looking at the reflection of the oil lamp sitting on the table. No one spoke. Once a coyote howled. Finally, he turned back. “The war started four days ago, Esther; the Confederate Army fired on the Union at Fort Sumter. My men found out today from a stagecoach that was passing through.”

  Esther couldn’t believe what she was being told. War possibilities had been talked about for some time, but she never thought it would occur. After recovering from the shock, she said, “Maybe it’s already stopped or at least won’t continue long.”

  “It’s spreading, Esther. I’m afraid both sides have dug in their heels, and there’s no turning back.” He paused and then said while shaking his head, “The war’s gonna be brutal—a lot of men will be killed.” Esther flinched at his comment, thinking of Mark and Doyle.

  “Will the fighting reach us, Mr. Winslow? Will it have any effect on the Crooked Rail?” Joan asked.

  “I doubt if the fighting reaches the sparsely populated areas like we’re in; especially since we’re close to the Mason/Dixon line. Kansas is not far off, and it’s a Union State. But the war will have an effect on our ranch, Joan. Red has told me over half of the men have already given their notice and will be leaving for the war within a few days. He expects most of the rest will be joining them.”

  “How much longer ʼtil the roundup is completed, Mr. Winslow? Won’t the men stay until it’s over?” Esther asked.

  Mr. Winslow shook his head, “It’s taken over a month to brand and castrate half of the calves, and that’s with a full staff of wranglers; the men won’t wait another month before leaving. If most of them head out, and I’m pretty sure they will, we’ll not have the hands to keep our cattle corralled—they’ll be scattered for miles, and our unbranded calves will be up for gra
bs by the surrounding ranchers.”

  “Won’t the other ranchers be in the same position as us? Won’t their wranglers be heading off to war like ours?” Esther asked.

  His eyes brightened a bit. “I never thought of that,” he said, “but it doesn’t change matters—we’ll all be losers.”

  After a long pause, Esther went for coffee. When she returned, she remained standing and said in a firm tone, "Mr. Winslow, it might take longer, but I think we can finish the roundup if we put our minds to it. We won’t have as many men to help, but there may be a few staying, especially the older men. I don’t think Bill’s cow savvy, but I’m sure he’ll do whatever he can, and Joan and me can pitch in; we can become true wranglers in no time. I believe Shining Star will even help out. That’ll give us close to a dozen hands.”

  “Esther,” Joe said with a serious expression, “let me straighten you out concerning Bill. Even though he’s getting a few years on him, he’s still the most capable wrangler on the Crooked Rail. He was our ranch foreman for twenty-five years, and a better foreman never hit this part of the country. I was disappointed when he retired himself five years ago, but he had earned it.”

  Joe let a long minute of silence go by before he said, “I can’t believe you’d be willing to wrangle cows, Esther. You don’t realize what you’d be getting into. It’s hard, back-breaking work from first light ʼtil dark, and besides, it’s dangerous. You never know when one of those long horns might be rammed through your leg or side, or the likelihood of your horse falling, only to have the cattle stomp you to death.” He stopped for a few seconds, “Wrangling’s not for women, Esther, but I appreciate your offer.”

  “Don’t underestimate the power of a woman, Mr. Winslow. We may have delicate features and look soft, but underneath we’re as tough as nails.”

  His wife cut in, “That’s right, Joe. A good woman can do anything a man can do and probably do it a lot better. Count me in, Esther. I might be a bit rusty, but Joe and I use to work side-by-side when we were young and bought our first spread, doing roundup work or any other work needed doing.” She turned toward her husband with a suppressed smile and bright eyes. Joe was grinning from ear-to-ear as he responded with a nod.

  “Ma and Mrs. Winslow are right, sir. Teach us to be wranglers, and we’ll do as much as any man you have,” Joan said with sparkling eyes.

  “You women seem awfully determined to follow through on the roundup. Maybe I can find a few men in Fort Gibson to help us. They may be past their wrangling days, but I imagine they’d like to become useful again. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

  Mr. Winslow was starting to leave when Esther spoke up, “Mr. Winslow, would you check on the mail when you’re in town? I’m expecting a letter.” He nodded.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The following morning, before daylight, Joe Winslow left the ranch for Fort Gibson. After a long day of recruiting men, he returned home, in time for supper. As the food was being passed, Mr. Winslow said, “I had a successful day in town.” Heads turned his way. “I hired nine men who’ll be here at noon to eat with us day after tomorrow—the men were all wranglers back in their time. They’ve been sidelined because of their age ʼtil now—one of the men was a trail cook.”

  The last dish was circling the table when Mr. Winslow grinned and said, “I’ve never seen a group of men more excited; they were like youngsters in a candy shop. They all talked at the same time about the good-old-days when they were in the saddle from first light ʼtil dark. They told yarns about the ranches they’d worked at and several described injuries from the horns of an old, mossy-horn cow.” He paused for a few seconds and then started shaking his head with a grin. “When I left, they had a mindset they could accomplish as much today as in their youthful years.” Faces brightened, and smiles surfaced at his comments.

  When they had finished eating, and the dirty dishes were being gathered, Mr. Winslow call Esther aside and handed her a letter. Later, alone in her room, she opened it.

  My Dearest Esther,

  I write this letter the twenty-third day of March 1861 and feel almost certain by the time it reaches you our country will be at war. It’s a terrible prospect. I am beginning to believe the fighting will last longer and cover more land area than I originally thought. Even northeast Oklahoma, where I advised you to go, may not be safe. I pray many times every day for God to keep you safe and out of harm’s way. Please be careful and stay away from the fighting if at all possible. I can’t stand the thought of losing you.

  As you asked, I checked on Mark at the docks where he worked. I learned he has returned from his trip but has already resigned and gone to enlist in the Confederate army. Hopefully, he will write to you when he gets assigned to a unit.

  I love you, Esther, and think of you constantly. After I return to you from the war and we’re married, I have so many things planned for us to do. How does a long leisurely trip to San Francisco or New York sound—perhaps an extended trip to Paris? I can’t wait.

  I’m leaving from New Orleans this afternoon on a steamer to St. Louis. I’ll find out what my immediate future holds in a strategic meeting to be held next week. I’ll write whenever mail service is available.

  Until then, I’ll end by saying, I love you, sweetheart, with all of my heart.

  Doyle

  »»•««

  By the time the townsmen got to the ranch two days later, only Red and three of the other original ranch wranglers remained to greet the newcomers; the others had left for the war. As the old-timers climbed down from their horses, they looked like true wranglers in spite of their age; like they’d just come in from a hard day’s work with the cows. Perhaps they were a little stiff, and a mite stooped, but their gear was the same as when they’d hung it up years past. Most of them wore a vest over their shirts with wide leather belts. Their pant legs were stuffed inside pointed toe, high-heeled boots. They wore their spurs and chaps like they were ready to work again. Their hats were of all styles and colors, but were all sweat-stained and out of shape. Red bandannas circled their necks and handguns hung at their waists.

  “Gather around, men,” Red called out after the horses had been tied, “and let me outline a few things. Everyone here already knows one another except for the women standing among us. Here in the bluebonnet is Miss Esther Taylor. Beside her is Joan, her daughter, and Shining Star.”

  Esther quickly spoke up with a smile, “There’s no need to be formal, men, please call me Esther. We, three women, have been the cooks for the Crooked Rail, and we welcome any suggestions you might have. Our goal is to provide wholesome meals that stick to your ribs. Bear Paws and coffee will be ready in the kitchen most days into the evening. Since the ranch is shorthanded, we women will be helping you men on the range this season, doing whatever you do, and we’d be grateful for any help you might offer, teaching us your trade.” The idea of women helping on the range got the men’s attention and caused them to look at one another and back at Red with questioning eyes.

  “That’s right,” Red said forcefully, “the women will be helping this year. We need all the hands we can get. Our normal staff during roundup is thirty-three, counting me, and what we were staffed with during the first month of the roundup, but in the last few days, twenty-nine men have quit to enlist in the war. Counting the four regulars still here, the three women, and you newcomers; plus Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, we’re only nineteen. It’ll take us a lot longer to finish the roundup than normal because we’re not fully staffed, but the job will have to get done. We’re older, and with the women, we may not have the stamina to work long days. Some of us most likely will get sick or even injured, and a man or two among us might even quit, but we’ll persist—make no doubts about it.” Red paused looking at each man and woman with determination, then said, “Let’s go in and have a bite to eat, then I’ll give you full details of what’s to come. But first I’d like for Mr. Winslow to bless our food.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Mrs. Winslow
informed the other women what they should wear the night before the roundup started. She recalled very clearly what the range conditions were like from her by-gone working days on the range and knew what clothing was needed. However, the women didn’t heed her advice and started out initially wearing lightweight dresses, regular shoes, and bonnets; and by day’s end when they gathered around the chuck wagon for supper, they were miserable. Their necks were sunburned, their dresses torn, and blood oozed from a multitude of deep thorn scratches on their legs and arms; the palms of their hands were covered with bleeding blisters and dirt clung to their sweat covered bodies.

  Nothing was mentioned of their condition, and unbeknown to anyone, Bill went to Fort Gibson the following morning and bought two outfits for each of the women. They now worked in western hats, bandannas, and heavy wool shirts tucked into the new style Levi Jeans. Their pant legs were stuffed into pointed toe, high heel riding boats with jingling spurs. Chaps covered their jeans, and they wore leather gloves. Bill had bought a handgun and holster for each woman and explained it was not for gunfighting but for protection or signaling if help was needed. The three women were hesitant at first, but after some persuasion from Bill, they strapped the guns on.

  The first few days were the toughest. The townsmen were getting the kinks out of their systems and learning the lay of the land. The women were learning the basics of being a wrangler. Bill, the previous ranch foreman, assumed the job of teaching the women the tricks of the trade. He showed them how to stay in the saddle of a cutting horse that makes quick turns and sudden stops. He demonstrated the technique of throwing a rope around the hind legs of a calf. He taught them how to tell when a branding iron was hot enough to leave a well-defined brand, and the proper location on the calf’s rump to place it. The practice of castration was a bit gruesome for the women, especially for Joan, but the women soon became accustomed to the procedure, and after a few days with the knives became the crew’s primary technicians. One of the hardest things for the women to accept was spending their entire days and nights on the range around the men with little privacy for personal matters such as bathing or toilet functions. The situation soon eased itself and became as natural as drinking coffee as the men ignored them and the women grew more comfortable.