“How come you never got a man?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It just never happened.”
Rena fell silent, for which Temperance was thankful, and as the wagon lumbered on, Temperance began to scan the horizon. Brennan had told them there was no problem with Indians in this stage in their journey, but she could not believe it. She felt unsafe, uncertain somehow, when he got out of sight and felt that this was a weakness she could not acknowledge.
“That was really something how Brennan knocked that feller down just with one lick, wasn’t it?”
“He’s a violent man.”
“Reckon he is,” Rena shrugged. “But I’m glad he’s with us. He sure took care of that feller, though, and them other two that was with him, they was scared green.”
“He’s not a good man, Rena, but he’s all I could get.”
Rena pondered Temperance’s reply and then said flatly, “He’s good enough to get us over this desert. That’s all I know.”
* * *
BRENNAN FOUND A SMALL spring late in the afternoon, and they made camp for the night. Their day had been longer than usual, and by the time Temperance washed the diapers and made a meal of sorts, the darkness seemed to be complete. The children were all asleep now, and Brennan disappeared without a word. He had that way about him, of simply walking off without a word of good-bye, exactly as he would return without a word of greeting. His manners were terrible—almost as bad as his appearance, in Temperance’s judgment, and as she sat on an upturned box beside the fire, she felt a loneliness of the land. They had passed two wagon trains headed westward, but Brennan had steered clear of them.
Looking up at the black canopy of the sky, she was momentarily pleased by the stars that seemed to flash like diamonds. She wished she knew the names of them, but one of only the few she knew was Venus. She remembered once when she was very young, her mother had pointed that one out to her, saying, “That’s the morning star.” She also knew Polaris, the North Star, and the Big Dipper. As she sat there she thought about sailors to whom the skies were a map they could follow across the trackless waste of the ocean.
From far off came the sound of a wolf’s plaintive cry, a mournful incantation that seemed to increase the loneliness. Brennan had told her that wolves were usually as shy as coyotes and would never attack them, but she wasn’t sure.
The days had exhausted her, and she reached down and rubbed Gus’s head. “It’s been a hard day, hasn’t it, Gus? I bet you’ll be glad to get to the other end of the trip. I know I will be.” She heard nothing but suddenly a shadow separated itself from the darkness of the night, and Brennan came in carrying his rifle loosely in the crook of his arm. He had not shaved in several days and made a rough figure as he leaned the rifle against the wagon, then moved to the fire. “Anything left to eat?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ll get it for you.” Temperance pulled a meal together—antelope steak again and two baked potatoes with three biscuits grown hard. “I’ll make biscuits tomorrow or the next time we stop early,” she said.
He took the plate, sat down, and ate hungrily. As he washed the meal down with swallows of black coffee, Temperance studied him. He was a man roughly put together, like a machine made to perform hard labor. The flickering firelight cast shadows on his face, and she noted that his heavy nose swelled somewhat at the base to accommodate wide nostrils. His hair was black and coarse, almost like an Indian’s, and his eyes were deep-set, a smoky gray with just the faintest suggestion of blue, a color she had never seen before in a man or woman. He was, she knew, a trifle over six feet tall, long of arms. She noted, not for the first time, a scar shaped like a fish hook at the left corner of his mouth and she wondered what sort of violence had put it there. The edge of his jaw was sharp against the heavily tanned skin, and he sat there apparently unconscious of her presence. “We ought to be in Fort Hall tomorrow, maybe the day after.”
The words broke the silence of the night, punctuated only by the cracking and popping of the fire, and a log shifted, sending a swarm of red and orange sparks swirling upward. Leaning over, Temperance put a large chunk of green wood on the fire, then asked, “What’s it like?”
“Fort Hall? A little bit better than Fort Boise. We need to get a few more supplies. Some more trading goods for the Indians.”
Curiosity about the man’s background came to Temperance then. She had put her life in this man’s hands, yet she knew nothing about his past. It was almost as if he had been created the day she met him, and it struck her afresh how she was willing to put her life and the lives of the children in the hands of a man about whom she knew nothing.
“Where did you grow up, Thaddeus?”
Her question caught the tall man by surprise. He sipped the coffee and shrugged his shoulders. “Tennessee.”
The answer told her nothing except that he was a Southerner, which she already knew from the cadences of his speech. “What about your family?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Women usually are.” He, for a moment, appeared to ignore her question and was silent. “My pa died when I was two. There was five of us kids. All I can remember is working on that rocky, mountain farm. Get up before daylight, work until dark, go home, eat a piece of cold cornbread, and go to sleep. Get up and do it the next day all over again.”
“It sounds like a hard life.”
“I don’t like to think about it much. My ma had a hard time.” He let the silence run on and finally picked up a stick and stuck it into the tiny, orange flame. He waited until it caught and then lifted it out and stared at it as if there were some sort of wisdom in the tiny tear-shaped flame that consumed the stick. “We were always hungry. Never had any clothes except what Ma could make or someone gave us. I had two brothers. I was the youngest of the three boys. My oldest brother was Mack. Next in line was Sims.”
“What were they like?”
“Worked to death like me.” He tossed the twig back into the flame and watched the fire turn it into a burning ember, then his voice took on a strange timbre. “When Mack was sixteen and we got back from plowing, Ma had Mack’s things ready in a bundle. She gave them to him, and he stood there looking at them. She gave him a dollar then and said, ‘I can’t afford to keep you no more, Son. You have to make your own way.’”
Temperance could not understand such things. “And what happened to him?”
“He left and we never saw him again. The thing I remember is he started to go, and Ma ran to him and hugged him and kissed him, then he left.”
“What a terrible thing!”
“Terrible times. Same thing happened to Sims a year later. Ma had his things wrapped up in a bundle. She gave him a dollar and kissed him and told him she couldn’t afford to keep him.”
“Did you ever see him again?”
“No. We heard he got killed in a sawmill accident in Louisiana. Of course, we never knew for sure.”
Temperance said, “I feel sorry for your mother. That was just you who helped with the two girls?”
“Not for long. It wasn’t but a few months after Sims left that I came in from plowing and Ma had my things together. I knew what she was going to say.” He looked up at the stars, and then his gaze came to her. There was a harshness about him, and he said, “She just gave me the bundle and didn’t say a word, but I knew what it meant. I waited for her to give me a dollar and to kiss me, but she never did. I said good-bye to the girls and I left.” He fell silent then, and finally in a voice so soft she barely heard it he said, “I could understand why she couldn’t keep me, and I know she didn’t have a dollar. But I never could figure out why she never kissed me like she did Mack and Sims.” He suddenly turned and looked at Temperance and saw tears standing in her eyes. Gruffly he said, “Nothing to cry about. They were tough times.”
Temperance dashed the tears from her eyes. Suddenly she felt that she knew the strange man in a way she hadn’t before. She wanted to reach out
somehow to him and let him know how his story had affected her, but there was no chance. Without another word he got up, walked over to the blankets he kept beyond the edge of the fire, rolled up, and was still.
Temperance knew there was a hurt in this big, rough man that no one knew about. She strongly suspected he had never mentioned his early life to anyone, and she knew that she could not feel the same toward him ever again. He was more than just a rough, untutored hooligan, and she knew she would never forget the story of how his mother had sent him away without even a kiss. She also knew why the mother could not kiss him; it was just too much for a woman to bear.
* * *
FORT HALL WAS BETTER than Fort Boise, though not much. There were drunken Indians outside the fort and drunken soldiers inside. They pulled up outside the walls, and Temperance said, “I’m going to buy a few things.”
“All right,” Brennan said. “I’ve got to find a gunsmith to repair the rifle.”
Temperance worked to get the kids clean. Rena, Rose, and Bent were all excited at what was happening. She had told them she would buy them a treat at the store.
The store wasn’t much, but at least it had hard candy, and Temperance bought the children some, telling them they shouldn’t eat it all at once but to keep it for the trail. She had purchased a few items and was enjoying simply looking around when suddenly Brennan came in. “Let’s go,” he said gruffly.
“But I’m not—”
“I said let’s go.”
Rena stared at Brennan. “What’s the hurry?”
Brennan ignored her and herded them out. They went to the wagon, and he seemed nearly frenzied to get away. Quickly they pulled away from the fort.
Brennan walked beside the oxen, urging them on, but he made camp earlier than usual for the day. He was nervous about something, Temperance saw, and finally after supper, he went out to stand with his rifle, looking often back toward the fort.
Rena walked over and stood beside him. “Why’d you have to hurry us away from the store? We was having fun.”
“You can go to the store at the next settlement.”
Rena glared at him. “You and me are a lot alike.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I heard you talking to Temperance about how your ma sent you away. I think that’s why you act mean sometimes.”
“Don’t be makin’ up stories. It ain’t right to listen to other people’s conversations.”
Rena shook her head. “My ma and pa were mean to me. That’s why I’m mean, I guess.”
Brennan studied the girl. She was staring at him with a challenge in her eyes. He tried to think what kind of a woman she would be when she grew up. At twelve, she was already hardened in many ways, having grown up in saloons, with a criminal for a father and a prostitute for a mother. She could be little else, or so she thought. “You don’t have to be mean. You can forget how they treated you.”
Rena stared at him. “You ain’t forgot how your ma treated you.”
“That was different,” Brennan said stiffly. “She didn’t have a choice.”
“Sure she did. She could have kept you. Better she had kept you and you all starved together than sending you off.”
Brennan shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I know one thing. I’m going to be no good just like they were.”
“That’s crazy talk,” Brennan muttered. “What about Bent and Bess?”
Rena suddenly bit on her lower lip. “I guess they got no chance either.” She looked up at Brennan, and he saw the pain in her eyes. “I always watch other kids who had a ma and pa that took care of them. They got everything, Brennan.”
“Maybe your uncle and aunt will be good to you.”
“No, they won’t,” Rena said flatly. Without another word Rena turned and walked off, her back as straight as a ramrod. Brennan watched her, and in a few moments Temperance joined him. She said nothing, but he commented, “That girl’s had a rough row to hoe, Peabody.”
“I know she has. It may be worse. We don’t know what kind of people her relatives are.”
The two stood under the twinkling stars, and Brennan cast a half-embarrassed glance at her. “I know you wanted to stay longer at the store, but we had to leave.”
“What was the rush about? I saw you were troubled.”
“I heard a fellow say that a federal marshal was coming to pick up some prisoners. He probably knows Joe Meek. If he saw me”—he shrugged—“I’d be one of them.”
“Well, of course we had to leave then. There was no other way.”
Brennan seemed troubled, and finally he said, “What if the people we’re taking the Overmeyer kids to are no good?”
Temperance said instantly, “God will get Rena and the others a good place.”
The remark struck Thaddeus Brennan with a force that Temperance could see. She watched his face change and waited until finally he spoke.
“I wish I could believe like you do, Peabody, but I’ve been knocked down too many times.”
She did not answer, and the two of them stood in the silence of the night until finally Brennan said, “Better get some sleep, Peabody. Be another hard day tomorrow.”
Chapter Eleven
“WELL, WE MADE PRETTY good time,” Brennan remarked. He was sitting before the fire with Rena and Bent across from him. Rose was feeding Billy mush that Temperance had cooked.
“How far we got to go?” Rena asked.
“We may be a third of the way there, maybe a little less.” He glanced over at the wagon, and a puzzled look crossed his face. “It’s strange that Peabody ain’t up yet.”
“She’s sick,” Rena said at once. “She was sick all night.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Brennan demanded.
“Because I knew you wouldn’t care. You don’t care who gets sick around here,” Rena replied.
Casting a disgusted glance at Rena, Brennan shook his head. He walked to the wagon and looked inside. Temperance was lying under a blanket. He lifted it and saw that her face was flushed. “What’s the matter with you?”
Temperance did not even open her eyes. “Don’t know,” she whispered. “Sick all night.”
“Well, ain’t this a pretty come-off! What am I supposed to do with all these kids?” Brennan demanded. He waited for a reply and then shook his head. Stepping back from the wagon, he stood uncertainly for a moment, and Bent asked, “Are we going on?”
“Can’t go on until that woman gets better. We’ll stay here for a spell.”
“What if she dies?” Bent demanded.
“She ain’t gonna die.”
“How do you know?”
“I know everything, that’s what. You come over here.” Going back to the fire, he glanced at the two young girls, Rose and Rena. “We got to stay here for awhile, and you kids have got to help me.”
Rose said, “I’m afraid for her, Brennan.”
“She’ll be OK.”
“I wish there was a doctor here,” Rena said, “but there ain’t.”
“You girls take care of them babies. Bent, me and you will go hunting after awhile, but we’ve got to have some breakfast first.”
“I don’t know how to cook,” Rena said.
“Well, I do,” Brennan said. “I’m the best cook you ever saw.”
“Men can’t cook,” Bent replied stubbornly.
“You just watch my smoke.” Brennan rummaged through the groceries and found what he was looking for. He held up a glass jar and said, “Remember these quail eggs I brought in? We’re going to have them now for breakfast. After that I’m going to make some fresh bread.”
At that instant Timmy began crying.
“What’s the matter with him?” Brennan demanded.
“His diaper’s dirty,” Rose said. “We don’t have any clean ones.”
“Well, what are we going to do then?”
“We’re going to have to wash diapers, that’s what,” Ren
a said. “You hadn’t noticed that the diapers have to be washed every day?”
“Why, you kids start washing diapers. I’ll cook breakfast, and after that I’m going to make enough bread to do us for a spell.”
Rena sent Bent to milk the goat while she and Rose washed diapers at the small stream. By the time they had hung them to dry, Brennan said, “You got them kids all cleaned up; come and eat something.”
Rena went closer and looked into the big pan Brennan was holding out.
“What’s that?”
“That’s corn pone. I grew up on it, and it won’t hurt you. These quail eggs are just about right.”
He had also fixed a bowl of mush, and they all sat down and began to eat.
“Corn pone is good,” Bent said. “I never ate none before. What’s in it?”
“Cornmeal, salt, water, and some onions. You think that’s good, you wait until tonight. We’re going to have Cherokee bean bread.”
“What’s that?” Rena demanded.
“You ask too many questions. Just eat up.”
After breakfast, Brennan moved the oxen so they had plenty of fresh grass to graze on. Then he set up the Dutch oven, which they had not used since they started their trip. He had been against bringing it, but Temperance had insisted they had to have something to make biscuits in.
Finally Brennan heated some of the mush and walked over to the wagon. “Here,” he said, “you’ve got to eat something.”
“I don’t think I can keep it down.”
“Well, spit it up. We’ll keep pouring it down you. You’ve got to eat.”
Temperance said, “I want to get out.”
“Come on then.” He waited until she appeared, wearing a cotton nightgown. Ordinarily he knew she would not have worn such a thing before him, but now she was too sick to care. Coming out of the end of the wagon, she faltered. He quickly reached up and scooped her up as if she were a child. He carried her away from the wagon, set her beside it, and arranged a blanket. “Sit down there and eat.”
A Man for Temperance (Wagon Wheel) Page 13
