Little Britches

by Ralph Moody

  11

  Haying

  I LIKED working for Fred Aultland. Haying and threshing were big times at his place, and he always had a dozen or so men to help him. Some of them were neighbors who didn’t have so much hay of their own, and some were hired hands Fred brought out from Denver. Father and I didn’t work for him until the hay was all cut and raked into windrows. I had never seen a hay stacker before, and Father had to snap his fingers at me twice during the morning, because I got so interested in what was going on that I forgot about my own job. Fred’s was what they called a bull-stacker and the hay was brought in from the fields with bull-rakes.

  They were sort of three-wheeled carts, and always looked as though they were going backwards, because they scooped up the hay and carried it to the stacker in front of the horses, instead of behind them. Each load weighed nearly half a ton.

  The stacker looked like the mast of a ship mounted on a big turntable, with a long boom fastened near the bottom of it. The cradle was hinged to the end of the boom, and pulley ropes ran between it and the top of the mast. Jeff was the engine that furnished the lifting power, and I was the engineer. Jeff was a big, lazy old horse—strong as a pair of oxen—and had been pulling the hoist rope for the past five years. As Jeff pulled on the rope, the hay was raised from the bull-rakes and lifted nearly to the top of the mast. Then, while we held it there, Father and another man heaved the turntable around with a long gee-pole, till the cradle was over the stack. When I backed Jeff to slacken the hoist rope, the cradle tilted forward and the load fell with a thump. It took Fred and two other men to get it untangled and built into the stack before another load was brought in. The only hard part of Father’s job was heaving the turntable around, but that made him cough a good deal.

  After the first couple of loads, he talked to Fred about the stacker, and they sent a man to the barn for tools and other things Father needed. He worked, between loads, all morning; changing pulleys, rigging a heavy cable from the turntable to the hoist rope, and putting trip-catches on the cradle. When he was finished, they didn’t need to heave the turntable around any more, nor lift the hay any higher than the top of the stack, and Father could drop the hay wherever Fred wanted it, by just jerking a trip-cord. In that way Fred only needed one man to help him on the stack, and Father could do all the work on the ground alone.

  I liked noontimes best of any part of the haying. When it came twelve o’clock, Bessie would hammer on an old wagon tire hung near the kitchen door. The sound would roll out across the hayfields like the ringing of a big bell, and after it had stopped, the echo would come back from the hills as though they were full of far-off churches.

  The minute the bell rang the drivers would stop their teams wherever they happened to be and unhook the horses. It was always a race to see who could get his team to the barn quickest, so as to get them unbridled and fed, and be first at the wash-stand. It was out by the windmill, and Bessie always had three blue enamel basins, half a dozen flour-sack towels, and a bar of homemade yellow soap waiting for us.

  Aultlands had a big porch on the east side of their house, with a row of apple trees that shaded it. In haying and threshing time, Bessie set a long table out there, and that’s where we ate our dinners. At home, Father always served everyone and said grace before we started to eat, but that wasn’t the way they did it at Aultland’s.

  As soon as we were down at the table, Bessie would start bringing out big platters of meat and fried chicken, and potatoes and vegetables, and bowls of gravy, and plates of hot biscuits and corn muffins. As quick as she’d set a platter down, somebody would pick it up, help himself, and pass it on to the next man. They came so fast that I could hardly help myself from one before another one caught up to me. Some of the platters were still pretty heavy when they got to me, and I could just barely hold them with one hand while I forked some off with the other. At first the men wanted to hold them for me, but they saw I didn’t like them to, and let me handle my own platters. Mrs. Aultland was a real good cook, and I used to eat until I couldn’t hold another mouthful.

  The most fun came after we were done eating. We had to take an hour for dinner because the horses needed that much time to eat and rest. So, as soon as the last piece of pie was eaten, the men would lie down on the grass under the apple trees. Father didn’t smoke, but all the other men would get out their pipes or Bull Durham, and talk or tell stories while they were smoking. Jerry Alder was the best storyteller. Sometimes he told stories so quiet I could hardly hear them, and they didn’t sound funny at all, but all the men would laugh till the fat ones had to hold on to their stomachs. Even Father laughed sometimes when I couldn’t see anything funny.

  It was one of those noons that I found out about pheasants. There were lots of them, and they were so tame they’d come almost up to the haystack. I wanted to do some of the talking after dinner as the men did. So one noon I told Fred that if I had a gun I could shoot some of those pheasants for us to eat, and then his mother wouldn’t have to kill so many chickens. Everybody laughed at me, and Fred said, “If you’re going to do any shooting in Colorado, shoot a man. You can always call it self-defense, but if you kill a pheasant you’ll spend the rest of your life in the hoosegow.”

  Fred Aultland’s haying lasted two weeks—Sundays and all. I remember the last day of that haying better than any of the others, because so many things happened. The last day of haying or harvest or threshing is always the day when the most things happen. Maybe it’s because everybody is happy if you had good luck, and if you didn’t everybody’s glad it’s over with.

  There was a fight after dinner that noon. One of the young fellows Fred brought out from Denver said something about Bessie that Jerry Alder didn’t like. She had her back to us and was picking up the dishes, and she was leaning over so far that her dress was real tight across her bottom. The Denver fellow was looking right at it, then he winked at Jerry before he said whatever it was. Anyway, it was an awful hard fight. The Denver fellow was the biggest man on the job, and Jerry was next biggest. The first sock Jerry hit him, Bessie ran into the house and all the men got up on their feet, but nobody tried to stop them.

  The other two Denver fellows were nearest to where they were fighting. Fred and Carl Henry went over and stood by them, but they didn’t say anything. The big Denver man didn’t hit so often as Jerry did, but he hit a lot harder. He took a longer swing and once he hit Jerry under the ear and knocked him down. I thought he was going to kick him while he was down, but Fred stepped in quick, and he didn’t. Jerry rolled over and got right up again, and from there on he fought just like a collie dog.

  He used his feet just about as much as he did his fists, but he didn’t do any kicking like the other fellow. He’d go in quick and hit, and be out again before the bigger fellow could hit back. And he went around that Denver man like a fly going around a lamp chimney. I guess the big fellow got kind of dizzy turning around and around, trying to catch up with Jerry, because he started looking pretty groggy. Then, all at once, Jerry flew in with both arms working like the Pitman rod on a mowing machine. He got his head right against the other fellow’s wishbone, and hammered him in the stomach till he went down yawping for air like a mud cat when you toss him up on the creek bank.

  After the fight, Fred took the three Denver fellows over to the bunkhouse and paid them off, but I don’t think he ever said anything at all to Jerry for fighting. And as soon as he had washed the blood off his face and got his breath, you wouldn’t have known Jerry had been in a fight—except that his lips were kind of swelled up. He came back from the washstand and started to tell stories almost before he had found a place to lie down under the apple tree.

  With three hands short, it was late before we had the last load of hay on the stack, so Father and I stayed at Aultland’s for supper. When we were through eating, Fred told us to come into the house with him. We sat down by the table in the dining room, and Fred got out his checkbook. I knew Father didn’t know how much he w
as going to get, because I heard Mother ask him, and he just said, “I don’t know. I think he’s paying the men he got from Denver a dollar and a half a day, but they’re quite a bit stouter than I am right now.” I hadn’t wanted to ask Father what Fred meant when he told me he’d double the ante, so I didn’t know how much I was going to get either, but I hoped he meant he was going to give me fifty cents a day.

  After Fred got the ink bottle and a pen, he sat down at the table with us and asked me if I wanted to have a separate check, of if he should make one check for Father and me together. I wanted it to be a big enough check that we could buy a cow, and I was proud to have my pay go in with Father’s, so I said for him to just make one check. He looked up at Father, and said, “All right then, Charlie, that’ll make it a round sum. I figure Spikes is worth twice what Liz Corcoran was giving him, and you’ve saved me the wages of two men. Will fifty dollars square the books?” I was so excited I didn’t even hear what Father said, and he had to tap me on the arm before I remembered to say thank you.

  Father was as anxious to get home and show Mother the check as I was. He walked so fast I had to trot part of the time to keep up with him. We hadn’t gone very far before he noticed I was having to trot, and scrooched down so I could get on and ride pickaback. I had always liked to have Father lug me pickaback before—and we were far enough from Aultland’s house so that I wasn’t afraid anyone would see us—but for some reason I didn’t want to be carried that night. It just didn’t seem right to be carried home when we were taking the check I had helped earn. Father understood how I felt, and he walked slow enough so I didn’t have to trot any more, and let me carry the check home to Mother in my overall pocket.

  There wasn’t nearly so much fun in giving it to her as I had thought, because when we got there our old white horse, Bill, was sick. He was breathing so hard you could hear him all over the yard, and was pounding his head on the barn floor. Father took one look at him and said, “Blackwater. I’m afraid he’s done for.” Then he sent me kiting back to Aultland’s for a bottle of spirits of niter.

  12

  I Go After Two Dog

  THEN next morning I was up as soon as the first light peeped over Loretta Heights. Mrs. Corcoran had told me to come back to herd her cows right after haying, but I had a different idea in my head. Bill was still just barely alive and I was going to get Two Dog to come and save him. Before anybody else was up, I went out and sat beside our barn where we had sat the night he and Mr. Thompson stayed at our place.

  From there I could get the best look at the mountains when the sun first struck them, and before it got high enough to light the land between them and me. Mother had a stereoscope that you could put pictures into and move them to make far-off places come right up close. The early sun did the same thing to the mountains. I could shut my eyes and see just how Two Dog’s fingers had shown me the way to his camp, then open them and trace the trail up through Turkey Creek Canyon so it seemed almost as though I had actually been over it. I got up and swiped a quart of oats for Fanny, so she could have them all cleaned up before Father came out to give the horses their regular breakfasts. By half-past six I started off up the road on Fanny as if I were going to the Corcorans’, but I had three cold biscuits hidden in the front of my blouse.

  All spring Father had talked about our driving up to the mountains some Sunday, but for one reason or another we never did it. They looked as though they started just a little way beyond the hill in Fred Aultland’s back pasture. Turkey Creek Canyon was quite a way south, and the most direct wagon road ran along the west end of our place, past the schoolhouse and Carl Henry’s. But I knew Father would never let me go alone, and I didn’t want anybody to see me, so I headed west past Aultland’s wheat field, then cut southwest across country, straight for the V that marked the mouth of the canyon. I knew better than to run Fanny up hills, but I was so anxious to get to Two Dog’s and the distance seemed so short, that I lay tight down against her neck and we went up over Fred’s big hill like a jack rabbit in front of a coyote.

  Looking from the top of that hill, I could see a series of others, rising one beyond the other toward the hogbacks that stood before the real mountains. Until then there hadn’t been any doubt in my mind that I could get to Two Dog’s camp without a mite of trouble. But, with all those hills between me and the mountains, I began to get a little bit afraid, and wondered if I shouldn’t go back and talk to Father about it first. As soon as we were out of sight over the top of the hill, I stopped Fanny and let her catch her wind. The more I thought about talking to Father, the more sure I was that he wouldn’t let me go. And I was just as sure that Two Dog was the only one in the world who could save Bill, so I kicked my heels against Fanny’s ribs.

  At first there were crops in the valleys between the hills, and a few ranch houses, so I had to ride miles out of my way to get around them. Every time we got to the top of one hill, there was another just beyond it, and the mountains didn’t seem any nearer than they had from home. I knew Fanny was beginning to get tired, because the hills were getting steeper and she was climbing slower. There were no more crop fields in the valleys, and I started riding around the hills instead of over them, so as to save Fanny the hard climbs. Two or three times we came to deep gulches that we couldn’t get across, and had to turn back and find another way. If it hadn’t been for the mountains I’m sure I would have been lost, but I knew their shapes well enough so that I could always tell where I was. It was getting close to noon and the sun was bearing down like a hot stove lid when we came into a green little valley with a spring of cool water in it. We both drank all we could hold, and while Fanny grazed I ate my biscuits. I must have squeezed them a bit, because they were pretty well crumbled up, and some of the pieces were soggy with sweat, but I was hungry and they tasted all right.

  The sun was hanging low above the mountains when we came over the last hill and I could see the break in the hogback where Turkey Creek had cut its gorge. As we came closer I could see there was a little-used wagon road along the north bank of the creek. I loped Fanny toward it and we followed it through the gorge and into the mouth of the canyon. The misgivings I had when we were on top of Fred Aultland’s hill were nothing to what I had when we came into the canyon. The creek ran through a narrow cut, and the walls seemed to rise straight up for a mile. From there, the sun had set and a cool breeze was drawing down between the cliffs. All I had on was my blue shirt and overalls, and after the heat among the hills, it made me shiver. I don’t know whether I shivered more because I was cold or because I was frightened. I had never seen mountains that were more than big rolling hills, and it seemed to me that those black rock walls might fall on me any minute.

  Then I really began to be afraid I could never find Two Dog’s camp. I stopped Fanny and shut my eyes tight, trying to bring back the way he had pointed out the trail with his fingers, but all I could see was a big green blotch with black rock walls running up around it. As I had sat beside the barn with Two Dog a couple of weeks ago, and again that same morning, I had been able to picture the trail just as I was sure it was going to look, but it was all different now. For a minute or two I was going to turn back, but I knew night would come long before I could make it, and I could never hope to find my way home in the dark. I kicked my heels into Fanny’s ribs and we went on. The harder I tried to think how Two Dog’s fingers had moved, the more confused I got.

  In half an hour it had become darker and colder in the canyon. I could remember that Two Dog’s fingers had shown the trail going in quite a way before it branched off, but he had made them go straight, while the trail wound in and out against the wall of the canyon. At last I thought that if I could just be sitting down behind our barn again for a few minutes I could remember it all right. But, of course, I couldn’t do that, so I slid off Fanny and sat down with my back against the canyon wall. I was so tired I almost went to sleep, and it must have been when I was just between being asleep and awake that it all came bac
k to me. I could remember that he had shown the trail going up, as though there was a steep hill, and then angling off to the right. I climbed back on Fanny and put her into a good stiff lope. It wasn’t more than ten minutes before we came around a shoulder of rock and the track climbed steeply up a shelf on the canyon wall.

  Just above the rise the trail forked. The main track followed the shelf above the creek, but a thin thread of it turned up the side of a jagged cleft through the rocks to the right. I had no question in mind, and turned Fanny up the steep side trail. The sun had sunk so low that it no longer shone on the top of the peaks above me, and I began to get panicky for fear black darkness would catch me and we would fall to the bottom of the gorge if Fanny made a misstep. I dug my knees into her withers and kept her climbing so hard that it made her breath whistle through her nose.

  We were nearly at the top of the climb when the whole air of the canyon was ripped to pieces by a sound that almost made my heart stop. It was a howl that seemed to come from nowhere in particular, but from everywhere at once, as it echoed back and forth between the canyon walls. Cold shivers raced up and down my back and it felt as though it were covered with stiff hair that was standing up as it does on a frightened dog. Fanny must have felt just the same way I did, because her ears pinned back tight against her head, and I could feel a tremble pass through her withers. She crowded close against the cliff and stood shaking.

  I started thinking about Father and Mother and the rest of the youngsters at home. I wanted to turn Fanny and race out of the canyon as fast as she could go, but when I looked down into the gorge it was as black as a well. Though I had never heard a wolf’s howl before, I had read about it and knew that was what I must have heard. I tried to remember the sound and see if I could figure out whether it came from above or below, but I was so scared I couldn’t think straight, and when I shut my eyes I could see gray shadows racing up the trail behind me. That settled it. I kicked my heels into Fanny’s ribs and tried to cluck to her, but my mouth was so dry that I only made a hissing sound.