Hattie Big Sky

by Kirby Larson

  “She’s dead, sir.” I touched Mother’s watch, still pinned to my bodice. “My father, too.”

  “All right, then.” Mr. Ebgard seemed strangely approving of these revelations. “Heir. And head of household.” He swiveled around in his chair and began to rummage through a wooden file cabinet. “Watson, Williams, Wyatt—too far. Here it is. Wright, Chester Hubert.” He held the paper closer. “This claim’s about thirty miles from here, about three from the nearest town, which is Vida.” He smiled. “Town is a pretty big word for Vida. You have a way to get out there?”

  I nodded. “Karl and Perilee Mueller.”

  “Good folks. They’ll watch over you.” He swiveled back to his desk. “Your uncle tell you that you need to cultivate one-eighth of this claim? That’s forty acres.” He squinted over his glasses at me. “And set four hundred eighty rods of fence?”

  My stomach flip-flopped and my mouth went dry as flannel. Forty acres! Uncle Holt’s garden was a postage stamp in comparison. And 480 rods of fence? I couldn’t even fathom how much that would be. Sounded like enough to build a fence from here back to Arlington. “He did mention the need to fulfill requirements….”

  “Not many but vital.” He ticked off his points. “One, you must build and fence. Chester’s done the building, I hear. Don’t know about the fencing.” He put up his forefinger. “Two, you got to cultivate. Most folks go for flax at first; easier to plant. As I said, one-eighth of the claim.” His middle finger stood at attention next to the first. “And three”—his ring finger joined the others—“it’s all gotta happen in three years. Chester staked his claim in November 1915, so that gives you—” He glanced at the Citizens National Bank of Wolf Point calendar behind his desk. “Ten months to finish proving up. And don’t forget the final fees.”

  I managed a wobbly smile. “I know. Thirty-seven seventy-five. For free land.”

  Mr. Ebgard stopped shuffling papers and looked up at me. He laughed. “Quick learner.” He scribbled something in his ledger book. “Miss Hattie Inez Brooks, I sure hope to see you here in this office in November.”

  “Me too, sir.” I stood up.

  He stood too and offered his hand. “Take good care of yourself, young lady. You need to lay in some supplies?”

  “That was my next task,” I said.

  “Head over to Hanson’s Cash Grocery. Mr. Hanson will give you a fair deal.” Mr. Ebgard’s door opened again, and he turned his attention to the man coming in. I tried not to stare, but the newcomer was most eccentric. A thick, shoe-polish-black beard hung to his waist. Wire-brush eyebrows, dusted with snow, rested atop a pair of eyes that looked thirty years younger than the face in which they were set. An improbably long patchwork scarf was wrapped around his neck, and a fur hat perched askew on his large head.

  He wore no fewer than three coats, all of them of fabrics and colors I’d certainly never seen in Arlington.

  “Miss Hattie Inez Brooks, allow me to introduce another of your neighbors. This here’s Mr. Jim Fowler.”

  “Ebgard, don’t you go confusing the girl.” Mr. Fowler peeled off a glove and stuck out a paw. “Ever’body calls me Rooster Jim. Shouldn’t be no different for you.”

  “How do you do?” I took Mr. Fowler’s—Rooster Jim’s—hand and shook. Mr. Ebgard’s office was suddenly quite potent. It seemed Rooster Jim may have come by his nickname for his barnyard aroma.

  “I hope you play chess.” Rooster Jim let my hand drop. “I got mighty accustomed to whuppin’ Chester at the game.”

  “I’m sorry.” I fished a handkerchief from my pocketbook and held it to my nose. “I don’t play.”

  “It won’t be no trouble to teach ya.” Rooster Jim chuckled. “Won’t mind a bit.”

  “Th-thank you. But I think I’ll be awfully busy.” I edged toward the door.

  “Busy trying to stay warm!” Rooster Jim crowed at his own joke. “That’s the prime entertainment in these parts. That and staying cool come summer.”

  “Now, Jim, don’t scare the poor girl away.” Mr. Ebgard smiled at me. “She’s only been here a few hours.”

  “Well, neighbor, I’ll let you be about your business. See you over to the homestead!” Rooster Jim removed two of his overcoats, and another odiferous wave crashed over the room.

  “Yes, fine. Thank you.” I nodded good-byes to both men and hurried outside. Now the cold air felt heavenly—exactly what I needed to clear my thoughts. A chess-playing, pungent neighbor was the least of my worries. What had Mr. Ebgard said? Forty acres of crops. Four hundred eighty rods of fence. I took a deep breath of the wintry air and pulled my shawl closer around me. No sense borrowing trouble; that’s what Uncle Holt always said. Besides, in her first letter, Perilee said she and Karl would help me. I’d talk to them tonight. Surely they’d be able to answer many of my questions. I would take it one step at a time. If others could prove up on their homestead claims, there was no reason why I couldn’t as well.

  Hanson’s Cash Grocery and Bakery was directly across the street—no doubt a short trip on a balmy spring day. Now, however, the snowdrifts tugged at my wool skirt as I wobbled my way along a packed and icy trail. I felt like a tightrope walker, balancing the urge to hurry out of the cutting wind and the need to step carefully so as not to fall on my hind regions. I slipped and slid, teeth chattering all the while, until I found sure footing on the swept wooden steps. Warmed by the effort of this short walk, I pulled open the door and stepped inside. The smell—dill pickles mixed with tobacco and peppermint—took me right back to Uncle Holt’s store.

  The clerk was helping another customer when I entered. He nodded to me but kept his attention on the plump woman at the counter.

  “I’m not certain, Mr. Hanson, whether this yellow silk flatters my features,” she fussed. “Perhaps the dove gray is better.”

  “You’ll be a ray of sunshine in the yellow,” he assured her.

  I fought back a smile. Ray of sunshine! More like a lightning bolt.

  I browsed the shelves while Mr. Hanson worked with the older woman. When she finished, she and her length of yellow silk swept out of the store without so much as a how-do-you-do to me.

  “Good afternoon.” I stood up taller. “Mr. Ebgard said you could help me put together some supplies.”

  “Let me see—you wouldn’t be Chester’s niece, would you?”

  “Why, y-yes, I am.”

  “Welcome, neighbor.” Mr. Hanson shook my hand. “Perilee sent word to tell me to take good care of you.” He smiled. “She’d mother-hen the whole country if she could.” He stepped out from behind the glass counter. “My stocks are low right now and we’ve got those darn flour and sugar limits, but I believe we can put you together a kit.”

  He began to assemble items at an alarming rate. He must have caught my panicked expression. “Young lady, when it’s sixty-five below and your front door’s froze shut, you’ll be glad for this twenty pounds of beans.”

  Soon I had my stores: a quarter barrel of wheat flour, fifteen pounds of cornmeal, twenty pounds of coffee, kerosene, raisins and other dried fruits, a tin of loose tea, some tinned meats, canned goods, and an assortment of spices.

  “Most I can sell you is twenty-five pounds of sugar,” apologized Mr. Hanson. “The war.”

  “That should be fine,” I said. I couldn’t imagine using that much sugar.

  Mr. Hanson added the sugar sack to the pile on the counter, then clicked his tongue in satisfaction. “This should hold you.”

  “Me and fifty others!” I laughed. If only Charlie could see me now—one medium-sized girl with enough supplies for his whole regiment.

  The door swung open and Perilee bustled inside, bringing a blast of cold air with her. “Thought I’d find you here.” She inspected my stores and gave approval. “That Silver Leaf Lard’s the best for baking,” she said, patting the number-five tin. “You’ll also need some feed for Violet and Plug, though.” Mr. Hanson tallied another set of figures. I counted out fourteen of my precious fi
ve-dollar bills. Perilee turned to Mr. Hanson, tugging the lid off the covered basket she’d been carrying. A heavenly fragrance filled the room. “I’m running low on coffee.” She reached into her basket. “Can I trade you for two strudels?”

  Mr. Hanson began to rub at an invisible spot on the glass counter. “I don’t know, Perilee. Folks don’t want much to do with anything German. The war…” Mr. Hanson shook his head. “I have to call my sauerkraut ‘liberty cabbage’ in order to sell it.”

  “But I won a blue ribbon at the county fair for this strudel!”

  The shopkeeper lowered his voice. “Maybe you’d better stop making it for a while,” he said. “And tell Karl to—”

  The shop door creaked open. An icy gust announced another customer. Mr. Hanson didn’t finish his sentence. “I can let you have some coffee,” he said quietly to Perilee. “On credit.”

  Perilee closed up her basket. “No, thank you. Karl—” Her voice grew louder with this word and nearly cracked. “My husband is a good provider. We don’t need credit.”

  “Perilee—” Mr. Hanson reached out a hand to her.

  “He will be in soon to load Hattie’s supplies in the wagon.” She turned and left the store.

  I followed her but hesitated outside the door. She was down the street before I could think of anything to do or say. I recalled the one letter I’d gotten from Charlie so far, written before he went overseas. He’d been full of spit and vinegar about the bayonet the army had given him. I’m ready to take on the Kaiser himself, he’d written. The war—and our enemies—were far away, like Charlie now in France. Surely Mr. Hanson understood that. Besides, couldn’t he smell the cinnamon and apple perfume wafting out from Perilee’s basket? I think even President Wilson would’ve been tempted.

  Since it was noon, I stopped for dinner at the O.K. Café. After my ham sandwich, pie, and coffee, I put fifty-five cents on the table and stepped back outside. Despite the cold, I was determined to spend a bit of the afternoon exploring Wolf Point. At thirty miles from my claim, it wasn’t likely I’d be back often. The imposing brick Sherman Hotel reigned from the far end of town. It fronted a town park, complete with bandstand. Where the walks were swept clean of snow and ice, I could see they were concrete, not wooden. Modern life had come to Wolf Point in other ways, too. The Wolf Point Motor Company advertised Buick, Chevrolet, and Dodge motor cars. I scurried past the Farmers Telephone Company to pop into the Citizens National Bank to open an account. Next door was Huxsol Drugs, where I bought a jar of Pond’s Cold Cream. These few errands left me chilled to the bone, so cold that not even the window displays at the clothing store called The Fad could draw me in. Though I hadn’t seen the entire town, my numb feet announced that my tour was completed. I hurried back to Erickson’s Hotel, asked for a cup of tea to take to my room, and wrote letters until supper at six.

  I treated everyone to a roast beef supper at the hotel. It didn’t help my finances any, but it seemed only right. “The least I can do for all you’ve done for me,” I said when Perilee protested. I wanted to start fresh in Montana, not owe anyone anything. That way, they couldn’t remind me of it, like Aunt Ivy and all the other relatives that I’d lived with.

  Supper proved to be the best part of the long day. The children were good as gold, and Perilee talked up such a storm that all Karl and I had to do was sit back and get warmed by the breeze. She didn’t say a word to Karl about what had happened in the store. Leastwise, not that I heard.

  After supper, we said our good-nights as they headed to their room and me to mine. Mr. Whiskers snored softly at the foot of the bed, and I wore my old flannel gown and said my prayers, just like always. But as I lay my head down to sleep, I knew that nothing would be “just like always” again. I’d boarded that train Hattie Here-and-There, but stepped off in Wolf Point Hattie Homesteader. Someone with a place to belong. Someone whose wish might come true.

  With that sweet thought curling around my head like Uncle Holt’s pipe smoke, I fell right to sleep.

  CHAPTER 4

  January 4, 1918

  My New Home

  Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

  Dear Charlie,

  I’m not officially at my home yet. In fact, we haven’t even left Wolf Point. There’s much to be done to get three children ready for a wagon ride. I am lingering over a second cup of coffee while Perilee and Karl shepherd their flock. If my penmanship doesn’t meet Miss Simpson’s standards, it’s because my hands are shaking with excitement.

  Soon they will be shaking with cold. Even packed together in the wagon, with woolen blankets to our noses, we are certain to be icier than the inside of Logan’s icehouse!

  Oh, I’m being summoned. This will be finished later…from my new home! I hope you don’t get tired of reading those words, for I feel I shall never tire of writing them.

  It was hustle and bustle getting everyone washed and dressed and breakfasted. Finally, gear, children, and cat were loaded into the wagon. With a small thrill in my stomach, I crunched through the snow and swung myself up next to Perilee. I was on my way to my new home.

  Karl clucked at the horses, and they started off. I was grateful for the ride out to Uncle Chester’s homestead. But what with Mr. Whiskers, Perilee, the three little ones, Karl, me, and my kit, there was hardly room to breathe in that wagon. Not that you could do much breathing in the stinging January air. Perilee, the children, and I snuggled deep under blankets. Karl’s face was a chapped red mask as he drove, steady on, through the flat, treeless country.

  “He’s shy about speaking English in front of folks he doesn’t know well,” Perilee told me to explain his silence. “He hates making mistakes. I always tell him the only bad one he’s ever made was marrying me and taking on my kids.” She laughed, and Karl shook his head.

  Perilee patted her middle. “Come summer, he’ll have his own child.”

  “Mama, look there!” Chase pointed off to the left. The wagon road had twisted down into a shallow coulee. We were tucked between two banks of a long-ago river. On the near side of the left bank, a wolf posed against the bitter blue sky.

  “Are—” I cleared my throat. “Are wolves a problem here?”

  “I’m not afraid of wolves,” said Chase. “I’d shoot one if it came too close.”

  “Have you ever had to? Shoot one?” I asked. Nowhere in that vast array of purchases from Mr. Hanson was a gun. Maybe Uncle Chester had one lying around. Not that I’d know how to use it.

  “They won’t bother you,” Perilee said. “They get hungry, like that one there, and they go after calves or sheep. Not sweet young Iowa schoolgirls.” She poked me in the ribs and laughed heartily at her own joke.

  I wrapped my shawl more snugly around my face, as if that piece of wool could protect me from wolves and whatever other dangers lay ahead. All that peeked out were my eyes, watering from the cold. I’d figured out the trick of breathing in through the woolen scarf to warm the sharp air before it stabbed my lungs. My feet felt like clumps of ice at my ankles; two pairs of woolen socks provided a meager shield against this Montana cold. Shifting on the wooden seat sent a tiny surge of warmth through my veins and gave me a better angle to study the landscape through the narrow slit between scarf and hat.

  How would I describe this scene to Charlie? So far, there had not been one tree to enliven the view. To say the land was flat was not quite true, though that would be the quick and easy assessment. No, it more resembled a giant’s quilt—white, of course, because of the several feet of snow—spread out over an enormous bed. Here and there were the bumps made by the giant’s toes or knees. In the distance, his covered head raised up a larger bump in the bedding. As I studied longer, I could see the creases where the quilt fell away from between his arms and sides. No, not flat in the tabletop sense of the word. Remember that sheet cake I baked for your birthday last year? I would write Charlie. Montana is a bit smoother of surface, but not much. I turned to find Perilee studying me.

 
“Chester’s eyes were that same hazel color,” she said. “Course, he didn’t have no hair, but I suspect it was chestnut, like yours, when he was younger.” She seemed lost in herself for a moment.

  “What was he like?” I asked.

  Perilee pursed her lips. “Quiet. But if he ever said something, folks would listen. And Lord, did he read—that man was a regular library.” She smiled at some memory. “But there was a sadness in him. Never knew what the trouble was, but no matter how big his smile or loud his laugh, you could hear the hurt underneath.”

  “Was he alone?” I tried to envision this uncle I never knew, with my eyes and no hair. “When he died, I mean.”

  A tender smile flickered on Perilee’s face. “A man like Chester? No, he was not alone. Me and Karl were there. Leafie Purvis and Rooster Jim, too.” She patted my arm. “He talked about you, Lord almighty, right up till the very end. He’d be so pleased to know you had come.”

  We rode in snow-tipped silence for several minutes. “I wish I’d known him,” I said aloud.

  “You would’ve been fast friends,” Perilee pronounced. That thought comforted me. At least it comforted my soul.

  Comforting my body, however, was a completely different cup of tea. The glamour of my mode of transportation had dimmed considerably since leaving Wolf Point. This icy, jostling wagon ride had shaken the last bit of humor right out of my bones. The same bones through which, at least according to Uncle Chester, coursed some of my mother’s starch. But that starch was frozen solid by the time we reached my new home.

  “There it is!” Chase called, excitement and cold shrilling his voice. “Mr. Wright’s house.”

  I looked in disbelief. House was a Charlie term—kind and generous. Aunt Ivy’s chickens had better accommodations. The structure wasn’t much bigger than Uncle Holt’s tool shed and was put together with about as much care. Gaps in the siding revealed black tar paper, like decay between haphazard teeth. Two wood-block steps led up to a rough-hewn door. A small window—the only window, I was to find out—left of the door stared dully at me. My own gaze in return was no doubt equally as dull.