Wyoming Trails

by Lauran Paine

  “All right.”

  Shan felt better as soon as he said it. They rode until the shadows caught them, then turned back for Shan’s place. They had six prairie chickens. Otto had gotten four, Shan two.

  They parted at the road, and Shan crossed the yard in a stiff trot, put up the horse, fed, milked the little brindle cow, and went to the cabin. It was cheerful with orange lamplight. He gave the feathery trophies to Mary and sat down at the table and sighed.

  “Is it cold out?” Sarahlee asked.

  “It’s getting cold,” he replied. “I sort of hate to see fall come. It’s like something is going away that will never come back again.”

  Later he went to bed and Sarahlee cradled his head on her arm. They didn’t speak to one another, and he eventually fell asleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  During those autumnal days Shan noticed how quickly the shadows fell, how much earlier day ended. Then there were the brittle fleckings of frost, at first only in the morning, but later in the evenings, too. Mary would put some stove-length wood into the firebox just before they all retired to keep the cold away an hour or so longer.

  Sarahlee had sent for some books and Shan read them. One was the Bible. It was difficult for him to comprehend, but he enjoyed Pilgrim’s Progress. Her family sent copies of old newspapers that he studied with interest. Then one bright, cold day with the sun high and but without warmth Otto rode up and said he had quite a few late calves down at his place that the O’Briens had found and driven over, and they needed to be cut before it got too cold. Shan welcomed the diversion for he had been becoming restless. Sarahlee and Mary were getting on his nerves. The everlasting stillness, the sameness of existence without work, were beginning to pall on him.

  They rode down to Otto’s, worked the cattle, ate heaps of hot food, and drank a little whiskey, then Otto brought out a leather ledger book and began squaring his account of the cattle with Shan. Later, when everything else had been taken care of, he told Shan he intended to drive a herd of two-year-old steers and cull cows to Tico.

  “How come to Tico? I thought you said you had to drive to the railhead to sell.”

  “You usually do, but I happened onto a buyer at Tico a few days back and he said he’d take delivery there because he’s trying to make up a trail herd for Kansas from this district.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ve seen the corrals south of town. Maybe next year I’ll help you fill them.”

  Otto closed the ledger and smiled. “You ought to be able to,” he said. “You’ve got a big start in the cattle business this year.”

  They corral-cut the cattle and drove the animals to be sold five miles down the road in order to get a head start the following dawn. They couldn’t make any time at all without having the cattle take a weight loss and yet Otto wanted to make Tico before nightfall.

  The next dawn they were on horseback with their breaths showing white and filmy in the crackling cold, picked up the cattle, and began the drive southward. They were dressed warmly and Otto had a flask with him. The cattle followed the road docilely and after several hours the drive became monotonous. They made good time but did not corral the animals until the sun was down. While they were putting up their horses, Shan eyed the lighted saloons with interest. They went across the road to a small café and filled up on hot food. The place was unclean, had steamed windows and greasy air, but the cold drive had given them both prodigious appetites. To top off the meal Shan offered to buy Otto a drink, and they went down the plank walk to the closest saloon, which did not have many people in it. Otto had a jolt of Green River. They stood around for a while, then Otto said he was tired. They went to the hotel, got a room, and bedded down.

  At dawn they were astir. Otto crossed to the livery barn and bought a wagonload of hay that he and Shan pitched to the corraled cattle, then they went back to the same café and had breakfast. Time hung heavily after that. Otto left word at the hotel for the cattle buyer, then he and Shan went down by the corrals and sat in the sunlight, whittling and talking.

  About noon another drive came in. Shan knew none of the men but Otto did. The owner and trail boss was James Monroe, who studied Shan’s face and size when Otto introduced them but said very little. When his animals were cared for, Monroe took his three riders uptown for a drink.

  Right after the Monroe riders left, a short, bull-like man in a plug hat drove up in mud-splattered cut-under runabout with a beautiful black gelding between the shafts. He nodded briskly to Shan and began joking with Otto. He was the cattle buyer and Shan noticed that he chewed tobacco constantly and had sharp, very light-colored gray eyes. While the buyer and Otto crawled over the corral and walked among the cattle, talking, Shan lounged in the sun, watching traffic ebb and flow. It seemed that Tico had more people stirring than usual. He thought little of that until the buyer and Otto returned and were leaning on the corral while the buyer wrote out the Kansas City bank draft for the cattle. When the buyer said the date, Shan understood it was Saturday. Ranch people holidayed in town on Saturday.

  The cattle were bawling, stirring up dust. Shan bent, picked up a pebble, and tossed it up and down on his palm. James Monroe and his riders walked past, trading silent nods with him and heading for the buyer. Shan thought the glance of Monroe was too appraising, the looks of his riders too lingering. He threw the stone away.

  Otto came over folding the draft carefully. He wore a satisfied look. “Well,” he said, “that makes the seventh drive I’ve made and the second I’ve sold in Tico. Let’s go pay off what I owe at the Mercantile. I’ll leave the draft there. They’ll get it cashed for me and keep the balance in their safe until I’m down here again.”

  Shan could look head and shoulders over most of the people they passed en route. At the store the low hum of voices droned ceaselessly. Otto left the draft, signed a slip authorizing the merchant to withhold from his funds what he owed, got a receipt, and lead Shan across the road to a saloon. There they had two drinks and Otto bought a jug, then they went to the livery barn and got their horses. The liveryman gave Shan a broad, raffish smile when he handed him the reins. Shan thought it was an unnecessarily familiar smile.

  They rode through the pleasant afternoon, sucking on Otto’s jug and talking of different things. Otto grew mellow and talkative.

  “This winter Georgia’ll be driving up whenever the snow’s not too deep. She’s an awful good hand at most things. We never had any kids but she’ll know exactly what to do. And you could maybe build onto the cabin, make a porch all around to give plenty of summer shade and a dry place to pile winter wood.”

  “I figure to do those things,” Shan said, “and chop a lot more wood.”

  “Yes, after a while you’ll get so’s you’ll know just which way a tree’s going to fall and just how to bust a chunk of stove-length wood so’s it’ll break into four pieces.” Otto grinned. “By summertime I usually get to looking at that damned woodbox like it was a personal enemy. I can fill it three times a day, but every time I pass it there’s always room for another armload.” He held out the jug. “You’ll see what I mean before spring. It makes a feller understand how those men living by themselves in the high country get crazy after a while.”

  Shan watched the deepening color sweep in low and silky. He drank and returned the jug to Otto who looped a saddle thong through the handle and let the jug sway gently against his leg. Up ahead a cow bawled faintly; it was a lonely sound. Then other critters took it up and Otto stiffened in his saddle, straining to see.

  “There’s a drive coming,” he said.

  Shan squinted at the far distance where shadows were closing in. “They won’t get near Tico tonight,” he said.

  “They’re probably already bedded down. You can’t drive after sunset or you lose half your herd.”

  By the time they were close enough to smell the supper fire, there were dark, moving objects around them, the punge
nt scent of cattle, and sounds of their clicking horns. A bright fire burned east of the road a ways and Shan followed Otto toward it. He recognized the riders as they unwound off the ground and stood in silence, peering up at them—the O’Briens.

  Otto got down, went up to the fire, and beat his cold hands together. He greeted each O’Brien and their riders by first names, and back where Shan stood, holding their horses, the answers sounded thinly courteous and reserved. He dropped the reins and walked in closer. Ash O’Brien turned and saw him.

  “Good evening,” Shan said.

  Ash nodded without smiling and looked away. Tim O’Brien was standing across the fire from him. Old Will was to one side of his older son, staring at Shan with a stony expression.

  Otto bent over the fire. “Why didn’t you corral at my place?” he said genially. “No sense in staying out here in the cold.”

  “No need to,” Will O’Brien said shortly.

  “No,” Otto agreed, “No need, but you usually do, Will. Shan and I’re just getting back. I sold down in Tico this morning. That slaughterhouse buyer out of Kansas is down there, making up a trail herd. Jim Monroe got in about noon or a little before.” He was looking at the steaming coffee pot as he spoke.

  Will O’Brien took his antagonistic glance off Shan and made a gesture to Otto. “Help yourself,” he said.

  While Otto poured coffee, Shan knew he was waiting for him to say what must be said. He took in a big breath of cold night air. “Tim?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had no call to do what I did in Tico. I wish you’d accept my apology.” It cost something to say it and Shan was grateful for the darkness because the three O’Briens, their three riders, and Otto were all standing perfectly still, looking at him. “I had no right to start that fight … I want to apologize for doing it.”

  Tim stood across the fire, peering at Shan from beneath the sweep of his hat brim, face mottled by flickering firelight. At first he said nothing.

  Ash squatted down and poked at the fire, threw on some twigs from a little pile beside him. Will O’Brien accepted the cup of hot coffee Otto held out toward him without taking his eyes off Shan. “You got a lot to learn,” he said. “The first thing is that picking fights is apt to leave your wife a widow. The second thing is that no matter how big you are … out here that don’t count for much unless you’re powerful good with a gun, too.” The old man was silent a moment, then he shrugged and looked down at the fire. “It’s up to Tim,” he said, “but I’m going to tell you one more thing, Shanley. The next time you start a fight, you’re going to get killed.”

  Shan swallowed, found his throat burning-dry. Anger was building up in him. He took the tongue-lashing because he knew what Otto was thinking, standing there, holding his cup and watching him. Then Tim O’Brien spoke.

  “I reckon it wasn’t all your fault, Shanley. We just didn’t hit it off that night.” He moved closer to the little fire and held his hand out. Shan gripped it, pumped it once, and drew his hand back. From off to one side and below them young Ash held something up toward Shan.

  “Cup of coffee?”

  The old man and Otto walked down by the saddled horses, talking. When they came into the wavering firelight, Otto had the jug. The old man would listen when Shan spoke but did not look at him. Of the O’Brien crew he alone remained reserved right up to the time Shan and Otto left the camp. Ash was the friendliest, the riders seemed willing to forget, and even Tim O’Brien smiled when Shan and Otto wheeled and rode out into the night.

  When they were riding up the road again, Shan said: “That stiff-necked old devil.”

  Otto was frowningly searching for the turn-off into his place from the road when he replied. “He’s had a hard pull out here, Shan. He’s been here longer’n any of us, and when he started out, you had to fight Indians every morning before you rode out to hunt cattle. But I’ll tell you this. Will O’Brien’s one of the best neighbors you’ll ever have … don’t you forget it.”

  “I apologized.”

  “I know, but if he could make you feel lower’n a snake’s belly … rub salt in you so’s you’d really feel ashamed … he’d do it. If you didn’t get mad … and you didn’t … why old Will would accept the apology and call it a closed affair so far as he’s concerned. That’s his nature. But there’s one thing he said you don’t ever want to forget … that part about getting killed for starting fights. He meant it. That’s the way folks live out here.” Otto reined into the cutoff and let his horse pick his own way toward the dark barn beyond. “You ought to know that after what happened with the Blessings.”

  Shan left Otto and rode on home. It was after midnight when he put up his horse and crossed the frozen yard to the cabin. Just before he reached the door, a shadow detached itself from the corner of the house. He saw it from the corner of his eye and spun, the pistol leaping into his cold fingers, swinging to aim.

  “Shan?”

  “Mary!” He straightened up and quick anger seized him. He lowered the pistol. “What do you mean slipping up on me like that? Are you crazy? I might have shot you.”

  She moved up close, groped for his free hand, and tugged at him. He resisted. “Please, Shan …” He let her lead him back across the yard to the barn. When they were in the pale glow of a frozen moon, she swung to face him, dropped his hand.

  “Shan? I missed you.”

  “What’s the matter with you, Mary?” he said sullenly, scowling down into her face. “What if Sarahlee came awake while we were out here? You just aren’t using your head at all anymore, it seems like.”

  “I don’t want you to be mean to me, Shan.” There was a tremor in her voice he’d never heard there before.

  He continued to scowl at her. She loved him, loved him until it hurt. Well, he’d never intended for her to get it that bad. While he was standing there, watching her, an echo of a derisive cry came back to him. Squawman. His eyes kindled with cold fire. Like hell he was! Squawmen lived with them. Lived in a hide tent and wore Indian tanned-skin pants and shirts and had coffee-colored kids.

  “Shan … hold me?”

  He held her, felt the deep roll of her heart through his shirt, and smelled the scent in her hair and couldn’t raise any interest in her at all. After a moment he pushed her back and said: “We’d better get inside. I’ll go first, and I’ll leave the door open and you listen … when I’m making noise behind the curtain, you slip in and be damned quiet. Go to bed, understand?”

  “I understand. But, Shan, I want to see you. I want to talk with you. Please …?”

  He left her at the barn, crossed the hard ground, and opened the cabin door, removed his boots, and left them near the opening, tossed his hat on the table, and removed his heavy coat. He stalked toward the partition, listening for Sarahlee’s breathing. He could dimly make her out. Chestnut hair splayed out around her face, she was hard asleep. He undressed and climbed into the bed. When it made a protesting groan, he thought he also heard a swish of movement, the gentle whisper of a door closing. He gritted his teeth and worked his way under the pile of quilts.

  He slept until nearly 9:00 a.m. the following morning, and when he awakened, he was alone in the bed. Beyond the curtain he heard movement.

  “Sarahlee, is that you?”

  Instead of answering, she came around the partition and smiled down at him. “You must have gotten back pretty late. Go ahead and rest if you want to.”

  “No,” he said, and got up.

  “I’ve kept breakfast warm.”

  He went outside and washed. The sun was up, but there was a steely veil across it and the frost hadn’t left the ground. The tang of wood smoke hung in the motionless air, rose straight up like a thin, dirty rope from the stovepipe. He breathed in a lot of the wintery scent and dried himself on the bitterly cold towel that had his initials darned across it. The corraled horses nickered at him. Everywhe
re he looked, things stood out, sharp and crystal-clear. The fat old mountains seemed miles closer, their tiers of trees aged with hoarfrost high up. The big barn crackled where the sun struck it and the spring house glistened.

  He went inside, put on his shirt, and ate while Sarahlee asked about the drive. He drank a second cup of coffee while he told her, then he went back out and fed the livestock. When he was finishing up, he saw that one horse was missing. He went where the saddle usually hung and found it also gone. Mary!

  He went on doing chores like milking and dunging out, hanging around down at the barn, wondering what to do next until restlessness made him cross the yard, seeking tracks. When he found them, they pointed east. He took the milk to the cabin and hung around there for a while before he spoke.

  “Where did Mary go, Sarahlee?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t here when I got up. I thought she’d gone down to feed for you like she does sometimes.”

  “She’s gone riding,” he said.

  Sarahlee looked up from straining the milk. “Cold out for pleasure riding, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but the horse she took is that one I used for the drive. He needs a few days’ rest.”

  “Well, don’t say anything to her when she comes back, Shan. One of these days she’ll understand those things. Just be patient with her like I try to be.”

  Sarahlee began humming as she worked. It grated on his nerves, so he went back outside. For two hours he worked at marking off the porch he meant to build that winter and by the end of that time he knew Mary wasn’t going to return until late and his anger increased. When Sarahlee called him in to eat, he sat down heavily and said: “Damned squaw.”

  “Shan!”

  “Well, why didn’t she take one of the other horses?”

  “Don’t get upset over it, Shan. The horse will survive and you’ll feel ashamed later, if you say anything to her. You get upset too easily, dear.”