by Lauran Paine
“It smells so good in here, Shan.”
“Yeah.” Somewhere north of the barn a cow bawled and another one answered her. He poked his head out the doorway and listened. Sarahlee came up behind him, brushed against him.
“Could it be another calf, Shan?”
He gripped the door post with one hand when he answered. “It might be. I expect I ought to go look.”
She reached up and pushed that hanging lock of hair away from his forehead. “If you must,” she said. “I’ll give you another haircut tonight.” Her voice was deep and tender. “You’re as shaggy as a bear.”
He watched her walk through the mud toward the cabin, holding up her skirt, then he resaddled and rode out into the rain, went north toward the slope. He found no calf nor even a calfy heifer, and now the water was cold, chilling, so he turned and went back, put up the horse, and stood in the barn entrance smoking his pipe and listening soberly to the gush of water for a long time before squashing through the mud to the cabin.
He put on more dry clothes behind the blanket partition and sat on a chair, looking outside, while Sarahlee and Mary made supper. The rain never slackened. It beat on the roof all night long and drowned out everything else.
When they retired, he left the partition to Sarahlee first. When she called, low, he got up and undressed behind it. Mary was on the other side on her pallet. Sarahlee had blown the lamp out, and when he got in next to her in the Stygian darkness, he was trembling. When she lay as still as he did, he was thankful. Just before he fell asleep she reached over, pulled him close to her, and stroked his face, patted his hair back, and rocked him in her arms in the gentlest way, making everything seem right, all the shame and guilt flowing out of him. He fell asleep.
Just as Otto had wished, the rain kept up for two days. Shan rode out in it on the second day, but he wore a gum coat, so that when he got back to the barn he was dry. Sarahlee made him leave his boots just inside the doorway and walk around in his stocking feet. After the boots got warm, they smelled like the corral, so she had Mary put rags over them.
That second night was better. When Sarahlee went behind the curtain, he was left by the table with his coffee. He heard Mary behind him, busy by the stove. Her normally quiet movements were loud to him. Passing, she touched the back of his head. When he looked up, she smiled at him. Later, when he retired, Sarahlee cradled his head again as though he were a little boy. The coyotes came back and started their sounding at the dying moon.
When he went outside to feed the following morning, the sun was up with a vengeance. Earth steamed, the air was so clear he could see details along the north ridge. Later, when he rode out, sunlight flooded everything, relaxed him with its warmth, made him all loose inside.
The heifers were separating into little cliques. Some had found Blessing cows to herd with, and these he looked at closely. Some were bumping big calves, waddled when they walked.
He rode farther out than he’d ever ridden before. Out where there were gullies deep enough to lose a horse in, and more rolling country with greater clumps of trees northeast. He saw tiers of forest like stair steps, marching one after another up the sides of fat, round mountains. He dismounted by a brawling little creek, let the horse drag his reins, and graze. He made a cigarette and lit it. He sat there, near some ancient tepee rings, feeling warm. When it got hotter, steamingly humid and energy-draining, he lay on his side, smoking, looking west. The sun kept getting hotter, the air heavier and harder to breathe like it was soupy and leaden, and when he got too drowsy to resist it, he stumped out the cigarette, lay back full length, and slept.
He dreamed of the old woman first. She was stroking his forehead like she had done, then she took her hand away, drew up very straight, and shook her head at him. The sense of guilt swept over him, stronger than ever, and he rolled over in his sleep. The grass tickled his cheek, made him dream of Sarahlee stroking his face. Sarahlee raised up slowly and stopped stroking, and leaned over looking down at him, but she didn’t shake her head, she looked sad for him. Not angry or outraged or disapproving, just sad for him like a mother would be.
She raised up straighter. He was looking up at her. Where her bosom jutted so big, he couldn’t see her mouth or nose, but her eyes were clear to him and they were soft, darkly pitying. She was something … something … strength. Sarahlee was strength …
The horse nickering awakened him. He got up swiftly and felt instinctively for the butt of his pistol. The fogginess of confused dreaming clutched his mind; it required a real struggle to clear it. There was nothing to see, although he swung his head, heard the dull roll of his beating heart. The horse was eating again. He lay back down on his stomach, propped his chin on one palm, and studied the countryside minutely. It wasn’t likely there was trouble around, but he knew better than to ignore any warning, no matter how unseemly. Later, satisfied he was alone and unobserved, he lay back and closed his eyes again. After a while his back began to ache and he awakened again, got up and stretched, flicked sweat off his face, went to the creek to wash the sour taste from his mouth, then made another cigarette, and just stood there, wide-legged, big, and ramrod-straight, smoking.
Clouds, horizontal strings of bulky yarn, fuzzy and purest white, were strung across the sky. The sun shimmered; it was hot. At his feet, pressed-down grass whispered and rustled. He could almost see it growing. That had been a godsend, that rain.
He mounted and started back. Once in a while he’d run across little bunches of cattle. Twice he found new calves, and both times they were with Blessing cows. He was tempted but didn’t catch and mark them. There was plenty of time yet. If someone rode along and found calves with his brand sucking Blessing cows, they’d know what he had done. Later, when they were four or five months old, it would be better; they’d be about weaned by then.
He thought of that while the horse picked its languid way down to familiar country. When it was safe, he’d brand some of those calves, take payment for the burned barn like Otto had said. A couple dozen calves maybe, fifty or sixty, he’d see when the time came. The important thing was to be first. Otto wouldn’t bother, he knew, but those O’Briens might, or their riders. Cowboys with a yen to start out were notoriously handy with lariats. He smashed out a cigarette on the saddle horn and tossed it away. Far out, glimmering in the sparkling light, was his barn. It jutted, big and square. He was filled with pride. Beyond it was the cabin, not so handsome but drawing him.
When he got to the barn, the daylight was softening, the sun sinking in the west. He went in and ate. There were crickets singing in the dusty yard beyond, a strong scent from some acid weed in the heavy night air. He thought of what Otto had said about the evenings being like this for the rest of his life. An uneasiness stirred in him.
* * * * *
For the next three days he was busy with the cattle, and meanwhile Sarahlee and Mary worked at making a home, at provisioning it with glassed goods on shelves. Mary could carry on a running conversation and she would laugh with Sarahlee and even tease Shan a little, now and then, like Sarahlee did. Then Sarahlee decided she would drive her yellow-wheeled buggy down to the Mullers. While she was telling Shan, he could see Mary’s face over her shoulder, the black eyes full on him.
“Will you hitch up for me, Shan?”
“Sure.”
He went to the barn, harnessed the mare, and put her between the shafts. His heart was beating strongly, the sense of guilt coming and going like fever. When Sarahlee came out, he was busy picking chaff out of the mare’s mane.
“Can you come along, Shan? Otto’s always so glad to see you.”
He shook his head, bent low while he adjusted a buckle. “Next time maybe. Tell Otto the heifers are calving out good but he was right about them keeping a man busy.” He stepped back and smiled at her. “If Otto’s got an extra jug, ask him if he’ll sell it to you.”
She said yes, she would, threw him a smile, and d
rove across the yard. He stood just inside the barn with the coolness on him and his heart beating like a trip hammer until the buggy was a speck southward, then he went as far as the bench he’d built beside the cabin door and sank down.
“Shan?”
He made no answer and sweat dappled his face. The land was shimmering more than usual. The yarn clouds had broken up, become feathery-looking and graceful. They scarcely moved at all. Mare’s-tails folks called clouds like that …
“Shan?”
He got up. When she came out, moving slowly, he looked down at her. The black eyes were shiny and she wore a yellow dress Sarahlee had made for her. It fit better than the gingham one, and when she moved, there wasn’t a ripple, just flowing movement. Watching her with his mind, feeling drunk without being drunk, a recollection came back. It had been after the fight at Sailor’s Creek and all the exhausted soldiers were sprawled and numb and silent. The chaplain had stopped to speak. He had said: “Men are part of the dust and the earth … they were created to struggle.” Created to struggle! Look at her! You couldn’t put your head in the soft place of her shoulder and feel the shame dissolve; there was no soft place. She was different, totally different, from Sarahlee. She made you feel so damned big and powerful, so—created to struggle, so willing …
“Do you want to go for a ride, Mary?”
“Yes.”
“Come on.”
They went down to the barn, got two horses, and rode. They covered aimless hot miles, seeking shade and coolness. It happened often after that. Whenever Sarahlee went down to the Mullers’, they rode the range with the hot summer, golden and dancing around them. She would laugh with him and hold his hand and ride close so that their legs bumped. Other times she’d bend over and break away on her horse, and when he’d come thundering up, she wouldn’t be sitting there waiting for him, she’d be under a tree or on a shady slope with a buck brush hedge all around, and he’d get down all prickly with heat.
Then the cows seemed to all start calving at the same time, and he had very few minutes with either Mary or Sarahlee for days at a time. He would come in late at night, wash off at the spring box, trudge to the cabin and eat, drop to sleep almost before he went to bed. It thinned him down to sinew and bone.
Then one time he was over east of the road, driving back seven head with calves by their sides, when he saw a rider coming. He thought it was Otto so he shooed the cows onto his own range, drew up, and waited. But it was a stranger with a slow smile, a big frame, and a sidearm held flat to his right leg by a thong. When they were close, the stranger asked Shan who he was. When Shan told him, he answered with that slow, disarming grin, and Shan’s stomach tightened. Among the seven cows were several Blessing animals with his iron on them.
“I seen Otto in town a week or so back,” the stranger said. “He told me about the fight at your place.”
“Oh. Well, let’s get out of the sun.”
They rode on over to Shan’s barn and dismounted. The lawman tied his horse and crossed the yard at Shan’s invitation. He introduced the deputy marshal to Sarahlee and Mary. His wife said they would eat soon and it would be a pleasure to have the deputy marshal stay. He thanked her with old-fashioned courtesy and went back outside with Shan.
The jug Sarahlee had brought back from Otto’s was under the bench, wrapped with sacking, the whiskey cool. Shan wiped off the mouthpiece and handed it to the deputy. He drank deeply.
“My wife knows nothing about that,” Shan said. “You see, she’s from the settlements and I figured it’d upset her.”
“Sure, I understand. Tell me your side of it.”
Shan told him. They went to the spring box, looked at the bullet gouge, the fading stain, then went around back where Amos Blessing had died. After a while they sat in the shade of the barn and the lawman smoked.
“That’s about like Otto told it,” he said. “It’s no loss. Art and Amos were always stirring up trouble.” He looked around. “You’ve sure done a lot of work out here, Mister Shanley.” His lean, bronzed face creased into a soft smile. “I reckon the Blessings bit the wrong wolf this time.”
“After we left them on the porch,” Shan said, “we got to worrying about the wounded one and rode back. There was a new grave north of the house but the other one … Art … was gone. All the horses and dogs were gone, too. I’ve always wondered about that.”
Sarahlee called from the cabin. The lawman unwound off the ground, dusted his britches off, and said: “Art died. His woman was taking him to the railhead in their wagon and he died. I don’t know what became of her. Went back East, I reckon.”
“Died?”
“He bled a barrel full, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he bled a lot before Otto got it tied off.”
“We better not keep your wife waiting.”
They ate and shortly afterward the lawman said good-bye and started back. It was a long ride, he said, and he didn’t want to get back to Tico after midnight.
Later, when Shan was watering the horses, Sarahlee came out and wanted to know why he had stopped at their place.
“Just out riding around,” Shan told her. “Getting acquainted. He’d heard we were up here and thought he ought to ride by.”
She watched the horse drink. “My father said he’d help us if things were bad, Shan.”
He looked at her. “Bad? What do you mean?”
“If we owed money we couldn’t pay, things like that.”
His face cleared. “Oh. Well, we don’t owe anything, Sarahlee. I know we don’t have much, but we don’t owe anything on anything.”
She looked relieved and changed the subject. “How do the cattle look?”
“Fine. I had seven cows with me when I met the marshal. That’s where I’m going now. Want to get them back on our range before it gets too dark. I’ll be a little late for supper I expect.”
Chapter Fifteen
He rode steadily after that and almost every day he found new calves. Several times he had to use his rope and saddle horse to deliver a calf, and twice he found dead ones with frantic and bagged-up cows bawling over them. It made him resentful but he remembered what Otto had said—there would be some calves that would die or be born dead. So far, however, he had not lost a cow; he’d had to clean out a few, which was the job he cared least for, but he hadn’t lost one. Later on he built a narrow chute in one corral where he’d drive the cows requiring cleaning out. That way, by blocking their hind legs so they couldn’t kick, he was able to do a more thorough job. The cows were pretty wild and he learned how to avoid their heels and horns.
Three days after Sarahlee’s last trip to the Mullers place, he was riding a north ridge when he saw a rider approaching through the clumps of cattle southward. He drew up motionless, watching the horseman’s progress. It appeared to him that the stranger was looking at brands, studying the condition of the cattle, and fear closed his throat momentarily. He loosened the pistol at his hip and zigzagged down the slope. When he got close, he recognized the nearly square form on the big bay horse. It was Otto.
Shan made no pretense when they reined up, looking at one another. “You gave me a bad few seconds, Otto.”
Muller made a wry grin and looked at the nearest cattle. “I can see why,” he said. “How many have you got so far?”
“Twenty-eight.” The back of Shan’s neck got red. “If I didn’t, someone else would, wouldn’t they?”
“Sure,” Otto said easily. “You don’t have to tell me how it is. I understand. How’re the heifers coming?”
“Fine,” Shan said, and told Otto about the stillborns, the abandoned calves, and the number he’d cleaned up.
“I’ve been riding through them,” Otto said, “and they look better’n I expected. The last time Sarahlee was down she said you were riding from dawn till sundown. I thought I’d ride up and see if I could help you any.”<
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They rode slowly toward the cabin and Shan gave him the figures, showed him the oldest calves and the newest ones. Otto reiterated satisfaction. “They’re calved out enough so that you can take a day off now and then,” he said. “Come down and visit when Sarahlee drives down. Georgia’s been wondering why you haven’t been down.”
They dismounted at the barn. Shan looked across the saddle seat at Otto, but the older man was tying his horse, face averted.
“I’ll do that, Otto. Next time we’ll drive down together.”
Otto turned and watched Shan unsaddle, turn his horse into a pole corral. “The hay crop looks good up here,” he said, and turned to watch a ground-swelling breeze rustle through the tall grass running uphill. “We got to start cutting pretty quick now. You ever get that prairie meadow fenced?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“It don’t matter,” Otto said carelessly. “After that rain the cattle couldn’t trample enough to hurt anyway. We’ve got to get it in before the autumn rains, though.”
“I expect we can,” Shan said, walking back out into the sunlight and following Otto’s northward gaze. “Let’s go see what’s left in the jug.” While they crossed the yard, he told Otto about the deputy marshal’s visit and Otto nodded.
“He said he’d come up and talk to you, then, when he was riding back, he stopped for a minute at my place. He said he wasn’t sorry the Blessings got it, Shan.”
“That’s all there is to it?”
“That’s all. From now it’s history and let’s just forget it.”
Sarahlee and Mary surprised them. They had the table set for four, had seen Shan and Otto riding up together. The meal was a pleasant one, and afterward Shan drove Otto out across the range in Sarahlee’s top buggy, made a large curve east of the road into the regions Otto had not ridden. When they approached the tall, lonely tree under which Shan had cut the little Durham bull, they stopped to smoke and watch the long, lingering day come to a close.
