The River Girl's Song: Texas Women of Spirit, Book 1

by Angela Castillo

  “I’ll be going to work with Wylder next month,” Soonie said suddenly.

  “They allow women to chop the lumber?” Zillia had never heard of such a thing.

  “No. Even though I could do just as well,” Soonie scowled. “I’m going to join a few other women who will be cooking for them. It’s a big project and should last at least a month. I’ll be taking the train a week after Wylder leaves. It’s good money.”

  “Don’t those camps usually have men cooks?” asked Zillia.

  Soonie nodded. “But this camp threw out three already. The crew threatened to leave if they didn’t find someone who could make better food. So I suppose they decided to try something new.”

  Zillia stroked the sleeping Orrie’s cheek. “I wish I could go, but what would I do with him?”

  “Didn’t Mrs. Fowler offer to care for him any time? You could come back on the weekends. The train will be hauling loads of lumber every Monday and Friday.”

  “It would be hard to leave him, but I’d make more money than the corn would bring in. Maybe I could find someone to live out on the farm for awhile in exchange for vegetables, eggs and such. I’ll consider the idea,” Zillia promised.

  The rest of the trip was made in silence, with the boy sleeping between them all the way back to the ferry and home.

  June 1889

  13 The Lumber Camp

  “We don’t normally take passengers, especially womenfolk.” The conductor removed his cap and mopped his shiny, bald head with a handkerchief. “But no other train is going towards the camp for two more weeks, and the foreman’s in bad need of camp cooks.” He helped Zillia into the dark boxcar and handed up her small bag. She and Soonie found places to settle among the piles of boxes and barrels.

  The conductor leaned inside and peered at them in the half-light. “You all settled?”

  “Yes, sir,” Soonie said.

  The wide panel closed, and they were left in darkness.

  Zillia’s eyes gradually picked out the small creases of light from cracks in the board.

  A whistle pierced the boxcar. Smoke drifted into the enclosure, the soot cutting through the musty car and burning her nose. It made her head ache. The train lurched beneath them.

  This was the first time Zillia had ridden a train since she and her parents had come from Virginia, so long ago. A familiar wave of nausea hit her. She had spent most of the trip, which had lasted for several days, with her head resting in Mama’s lap. Mama had stroked her hair and whispered, “You’ll be all right, Zilly, girl.”

  “I wish we had windows, at least,” Soonie murmured in the darkness beside her.

  Zillia closed her eyes and leaned against a burlap bag. She wouldn’t have dared to watch the blur of trees and houses, even if she could have seen them. Just the thought made her stomach lurch.

  Soonie pinched her hand. “You missing Orrie?”

  “Not yet. Right now the only thing I can think to miss is solid ground beneath my feet.”

  “We’re going to take this journey every Friday afternoon and Monday morning,” Soonie reminded her. “I hope you get used to it. It would take much longer by wagon.”

  “I know.” Zillia wiped her sweat-drenched face with her apron. “But I don’t get sick riding in a wagon.”

  “True.”

  The other two women, Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Dawson, had been allowed to ride with the train operators in a front car. Zillia would have liked the opportunity to chat with them along the way, but at the same time, she didn’t know how much conversation she could have managed.

  “The men have been out there for a month with dismal cooks. How have they survived this long?” She untied her sunbonnet, pulled it off, and began to fan her face.

  “Goodness knows.” Soonie wriggled around beside her, pushing crates and barrels to the side. “Probably just ate salt pork straight from a barrel. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see us.”

  “I overheard Pastor. Fowler and Grandpa Walt talking to the other women. They told them to watch us with ‘gimlet eyes.’ Like we can’t take care of ourselves.”

  “We’ve been the talk of the town since we decided to come. Everyone was scandalized,” replied Soonie.

  Mrs. Purpose had whispered to Zillia after church. “Wild men work at those lumber camps. It’s not a proper place for a young lady, not proper at all.”

  What would Mrs. Purpose have thought if she’d seen her watching for varmints at the farm in Papa’s coat and hat, baby strapped to her back, riding a mule with a hundred year old shotgun across her lap? Her record was three coyotes in one night. Mrs. Purpose probably never saw even one wild pig.

  “Thank you,” she had said to the old woman, whose skin wrinkled with worry under her ostrich-plumed straw wonder. “Soonie and I will be all right. Mr. Eckhart will be there, along with several men from town. They’ll take care of us.”

  Mrs. Purpose hadn’t replied, just pursed her lips like she’d bitten into something sour. She’d bustled off muttering about ‘girls without mothers.’

  The train shuddered to a halt. Zillia didn’t realize she had dozed off until she touched her face and felt impressions the boards had left on her skin.

  Soonie nudged her. “Feeling better?”

  “I suppose.” Zillia rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Are we there?”

  “I think so. No way to tell until they open the door.”

  The door slid open in response. Mr. Calbott, the conductor, peered in at them. “You ladies handle the trip all right?”

  “We’re fine.” Soonie stood and held out her hand to Zillia.

  Zillia pulled herself up and swayed a little as she picked her way to the door. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her new traveling suit which had been a Christmas present from Mrs. Fowler.

  Now she missed Orrie. Doubts began to creep into her mind. She had never spent more than one night away from her brother. The Fowlers were delighted to have him back and he was in good hands. Would he cry in the night because she wasn’t there? No one could reach her if something happened; the train only went through twice a week. Her thoughts raced as she stood at the boxcar door. What can I do?

  “Miss Bright?” Wylder stood outside of the train car. His eyes glittered in a look normally reserved for strangers.

  Soonie must not have told him I was coming. His hair had grown out since she had seen him at church six weeks ago. Dark curls fell to his collar. His beard was thick and dark, not the trim goatee he usually sported.

  Soonie hugged him. “I’m so happy! I wasn’t expecting you here.”

  Wylder returned the hug. “They sent me with the wagon to fetch you ladies, and the supplies.”

  He held out a stiff hand to Zillia. “Allow me to help you down, Miss Bright.” his voice was frosty as January.

  “You certainly may.” Zilla replied in a voice just as cold. She took his hand and stepped to the train platform, which had been fashioned from wooden boxes.

  “If you will excuse me, I’m off to tend to the supplies.” He nodded toward the men unloading.

  “Of course. Thank you Wyld...” She caught herself. “Mr. Eckhart.”

  She picked up her carpet bag and went to join the two older women, who stood by the wagon.

  Soonie talked with Wylder while he helped unload. They were smiling and laughing. I would be over there with them, if we hadn’t quarreled. “Oh, I hate this,” she muttered.

  “Dearie, it’s not so bad.” Plump fingers patted her hand. Mrs. Dawson’s moon-shaped face, made rounder by her smiles, peered under her bonnet. “We were promised our own quarters and a kitchen, and May has been rather nice this year.”

  Mrs. Williams, a tall, thin woman with a beak of a nose, didn’t say anything. She looked as gloomy as Zillia felt.

  Nothing would have persuaded Zillia to share the truth behind her mood, so she shrugged her shoulders and climbed into the back of the large, covered wagon.

  The trip to camp was mercifully short, though the wagon bumped a
nd banged over the half-finished road. Magnificent loblolly pines stretched up into the sky on all sides of them, like a mythical forest. In the distance, shouts and crashes could be heard from the crew as they harvested the silent giants.

  When they reached the camp, all was deserted. Canvas tents clustered together on one side of the clearing, and fire pits ringed a larger cooking pot suspended from a metal hook. A small tent sagged by itself in it’s own area.

  The women climbed down from the wagon and went to inspect the tent.

  “It’s hardly big enough for sardines!” wailed Mrs. Williams, the first words Zillia had heard her speak all day.

  “We’ll make it do.” Mrs. Dawson smoothed out the canvas sides. “Perhaps we can expand the walls, somehow.”

  “Make it do?” Mrs. Williams snapped. Scarlet spotted each thin cheek and bright tears appeared in her eyes. “We can’t stay in this place. And where are we supposed to cook?” She pointed to the fire pit. “Do they expect us to live like savages?” She stepped outside the tent. “Young man!” she screeched. “Young man, come here this instant!”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Wylder came over and folded his arms.

  “I demand to speak to your foreman. We have been pressed, dare I say, begged, to come to this...” the woman looked around, “Bohemian forest, and we expect to be treated with respect. We are, after all, ladies.”

  “Of course.” Wylder’s lips twitched while he nodded. “I’ll see if Mr. Humphreys can be spared.”

  “Make it quick, young man.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” When Wylder turned to go, Zillia caught him exchanging an amused look with Soonie. Her heart jolted with an unexpected pang of sorrow. Glances of that nature would normally be shared with both of them.

  She and Soonie pulled boxes and bags out of the wagon, stacking them with a few other boxes of supplies already there.

  “Don’t most lumber camps have bunkhouses?” Soonie asked Wylder when he returned. “We were told things would be more civilized.”

  “The foreman must’ve stretched the truth a little.” Wylder stared down at the crate he’d just unpacked. “The company only wants us in this area for six more weeks. They didn’t think it’d be worth the effort to build cabins. I kind of wondered why you wanted to come out here, Soonie.”

  Soonie’s jaw set in that determined look Zillia knew so well. “I’m sure we can figure this out.”

  “Let’s see what we have to work with.” Zillia spread a piece of burlap on the ground to keep out the worst of the sand, then shoved two wooden boxes together. “We can use this for a table, for now anyway.”

  Mrs. Dawson came over and began unpacking containers, examining labels as she went. “Beans, salt pork, and corn meal. I suggest we plan the menu for next week, perhaps, ladies?”

  Mrs. Williams frowned over her shoulder. “Next week? I won’t be returning next week and if you had any sense, neither would you!”

  “Ladies, welcome to our camp,” a deep voice with an East Texas accent spoke behind them.

  Mr. Humphries was just the sort of man Zilla had been expecting. He was short, with arms like thick oak logs, wild hair that stood on end with bits of wood chips and leaves stuck in the curls, and wrinkled clothes stained with mud. He smelled like earth and logs and sweat.

  How does Wylder always smell good? Even after he’s been slopping hogs.

  Mrs. Williams pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief out of her valise, held it over her nose, and glared at the foreman from behind the cloth. “This camp might be fine for a gang of hooligans, but it is no place for ladies of good breeding! We were promised comfortable and discreet quarters, and a full, functional kitchen. Not a fire-pit.”

  Mr. Humphries’s mouth drooped under his thick walrus moustache.

  “Yes... er...Mrs.”

  “Mrs. Williams.”

  “Yes. Well, we were gonna have a kitchen all set to rights by now, and a lean-to for you ladies. But the crews ain’t been gettin’ here fast enough, and trees don’t cut themselves. We’ve a sight to catch up on ma’am, and my boss don’t like excuses.”

  When Mrs. Williams drew herself to her full height, she was over a head taller than the stocky foreman. “Neither do I. Young man,” she turned to Wylder. “We expect to be taken back to the train station this instant.”

  “That’s purty near impossible,” said Mr. Humphries. “That train’s headed on to Houston, and won’t be back until Friday.”

  The bristle went out of Ms. William’s shoulders and she sank down onto a crate.

  “We’re stuck here.” She put her face in her hands. “For five entire days!”

  “There, there.” Mrs. Dawson patted her shoulder. “We’ll figure something out.”

  While the two older women consoled each other, Zillia helped Soonie take inventory and sort out the few dishes they had been given.

  “What supplies have you been using?” Zillia asked Mr. Humphries.

  “Those, yonder.” He pointed to a pile of tin containers, covered in food and buzzing with flies.

  “Lovely.” Soonie grabbed a bucket. “I guess I’ll be taking these down to the stream, Zillia. We don’t have time to boil water to wash them, so I’ll use sand.”

  “Right. I’ll get the fire stirred up.”

  Mr. Humphries clapped a dirty hand to Wylder’s shoulder. “Time we got back to work.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Wylder tipped his hat. “See you at lunch, ladies.” The men disappeared into the trees.

  Back at the largest fire pit, Zillia found a long stick and raked the coals. The large cast-iron pot hanging from the hook looked clean enough, at least, and so did the three dutch ovens of varying sizes.

  “I’ve made do with less,” said Mrs. Dawson, while she knelt beside her.

  “Me too.” Zillia hauled a bucket of water from the large barrel and poured it in. “But never to cook a meal for thirty hungry men. Harvest crews on our farm never had more than ten.”

  “How much different can it be? Throw in a few extra handfuls of this and that.” Mrs. Dawson smiled.

  The woman’s positive attitude was contagious, and soon she and Zillia were talking and laughing like old friends. By the time Soonie returned with a basket filled with clean stacks of cups and plates, a pot of beans soaked by the fire and corn bread was baking in a Dutch oven, buried beneath the coals.

  “We don’t have time for the beans to soak and cook before lunch.” Zillia pointed at the sun. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

  “Biscuits and gravy? Do you think that will suit them?” Mrs. Dawson held up a bag of flour.

  “Serves them right if it doesn’t,” Mrs. Williams sniffed. “No one has given us instruction about anything, except to “come and cook.”

  A vat of gravy was prepared and dozens of biscuits baked and cooled by the time crashes in the brush announced the men’s arrival.

  “They sound like a herd of buffalo,” Mrs. Williams whispered to Zillia.

  Zillia sincerely doubted Mrs. Williams had ever been near a gathering of such beasts, but she said nothing.

  The men came and sat on whatever stumps and rocks they could find. All wore thick, brightly colored jackets. At first they joked and guffawed, but sobered when they saw the women. Many of them removed their hats and dipped their heads. Zillia recognized several men from town, including Abel Trent and his brother, Harold.

  The men cheered while the women passed out plates of biscuits and ladled out gravy.

  “So nice to have a hot, cooked meal,” said a thin man with a gray moustache. “Thank you, pretty lady.” He winked at Zillia.

  Wylder, who sat only a few rocks down from the man, saw the wink and glared.

  Please don’t say anything. Zillia begged silently.

  Wylder started on a biscuit, scowling between bites.

  Zillia moved on to serve the others.

  After every man had eaten his fill, Mr. Humphries came to speak to the ladies. “I know our set-up ain’t much right now. We
already got a clearing ready and logs set aside. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  Mrs. Williams shook leaves and twigs from her apron. “If it’s almost ready, Mr. Humphries, then why isn’t it complete?”

  Mr. Humphries mumbled something Zillia couldn’t understand and walked away.

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Williams gathered dirty dishes.

  While men stood to return to work, Wylder came over to Soonie. “Be careful. We’ve found many snakes where we’ve been working.”

  Zillia’s shoulders sank. Wylder cared for her safety too, she knew that, but she missed their easy friendship, more than she could express even to herself. With all her heart she wished she could take back angry words spoken in haste. I have to apologize, but how? He still seems so angry.

  As if to support this notion, he caught her eye, frowned and looked away.

  She scurried over to Mrs. Dawson and picked up the basket of dirty dishes. “I’ll wash these in the water we boiled.”

  In a moment, Soonie joined her with the larger cooking pots, and they washed in companionable silence, the way they had worked together through hundreds of chores and farm tasks over the years. Zillia appreciated that about Soonie. She enjoyed conversation, but they also allowed each other time for their own thoughts.

  This was not the case with Mrs. Dawson. She prattled on all day, speculating about the weather, repeating town gossip, wondering what funerals and weddings they might miss. Hours and hours of words tripped over themselves to find homes in the ears of her captive audience.

  “She probably spends a lot of time by herself,” Soonie whispered during a rare quiet moment. “Maybe the talking will work itself out after a few days.”

  Despite Mrs. William’s dire predictions that they would all ‘catch the monia’ from sleeping in the small tent, the four women were so tired by the time they went to bed that no chill could have kept them awake. Not even the loud snores from the men outside disturbed their slumber.

  True to his word, Mr. Humphries assigned two men to work on the shelter. Under the watchful eye of Mrs. Dawson, they completed a decent lean-to and a separate kitchen in two days.