Hattie Big Sky

by Kirby Larson

  “Like the one you started at Karl’s?” No matter how my voice trembled, I would finish this.

  He held up his hand to stop me. His eyes looked sad. Genuinely sad. “That fire was none of my doing. It—” He stopped. “No sense in my explaining. I can tell by your face you wouldn’t believe me.”

  The sorrow in his tone softened my anger. “No. Please. Explain. I have judged you guilty without—” My words were drowned out by a terrified male voice.

  “Whoa! Whoa there!”

  We turned to see what was happening. There, smack dab down the center of the street, wobbled Rooster Jim on a brand-new bicycle.

  “Watch out!” I warned. He appeared to be headed straight for the front of the café.

  “Put on the brake!” Traft trotted after him. “Brake!” Other folks ran down the street, too, calling out one suggestion after another.

  Rooster Jim didn’t heed a thing anybody said. Bellowing louder than Violet that day with the wolf, he swerved this way and that. He narrowly missed a collision with Leafie, stepping out of Dye’s store. “Jim, you fool, what are you doing?” she hollered.

  “Trying to stop this darned thing.” The street took a dip downward, and Jim began to pick up speed. Mrs. Schillinger jumped out of the way in the nick of time, pulling little Edward to safety.

  “Yee-haw!” Rooster Jim crowed. His feet flew off the pedals as he barreled straight for Gust Trishalt’s blacksmith shop. Traft ran all the faster to try to bring Rooster to a halt.

  Gust stepped out of his door and quickly assessed the situation. “Head for the hay,” he hollered, flapping his arms as if he could propel Rooster Jim toward the bundles at the back of the smithy.

  Traft had given up the chase. He panted hard, leaning against a post in front of Gust. “He’s going to roll clear to Circle,” he said.

  In one magnificent motion, Rooster Jim jerked the bicycle off course and careened—thunk—into the stacked bundles. He flew one way, the bicycle another.

  Leafie and I grabbed our skirts and ran to his side. Straw stuck every which way out of his shaggy hair. There was even a stalk in his beard.

  “Jim!” I reached him first. “Are you okay?”

  Leafie cradled Jim’s head. “Jim?” She patted his face. Finally he gave himself a shake.

  “Last time I trade a pig for a bicycle,” he mumbled. He pushed himself upright and picked up the wheeled terror. “Only thing this is good for is…is…” He spat straw and dirt out of his mouth. “Absolutely nothing.” Despite the wild ride, he managed to leave town with a great degree of dignity, holding his head high and his back stiff as he pushed the bike along the path.

  Gust picked up Rooster’s forgotten hat. “I’ll take it,” I said. “We’re due for a chess game soon.” I took the hat gingerly between my thumb and forefinger. Good thing I’d bought kerosene; I could soak Jim’s hat in it and evict all the bedbug roomers.

  “Now, that was better than any movie show,” said Leafie. She slipped her arm through mine. “Come on, girl. Let’s walk on these slow but sure feet and git ourselves to home.”

  We were a ways down the road when I realized I’d never finished my conversation with Traft. Could it be that he’d really not been involved in the fire at Karl’s? He’d seemed so sincere. I didn’t know what to think.

  Leafie chatted away the miles, so there wasn’t much need for me to talk. My mind was a-whirl with what I’d learned in town. Here I’d been so thankful that Uncle Chester had laid in the fencing supplies. Only he’d forgotten one little detail—paying for them. It seemed small of me to be so unhappy when he’d done so much for me, but the IOU had been a bitter surprise. Would I ever stop fretting about money?

  I don’t even remember bidding Leafie good-bye. After we parted company, I walked on lost in thought. I was surprised when I found myself in my own yard, with Mr. Whiskers there on the steps, curled up next to the sunflower I’d planted in a coffee can. I couldn’t stop thinking about Traft. Was he to be believed? Or had this war brewed up a sourness deep inside him, causing him to twist and turn like that sunflower as it tried to reach some sun? I reached down to scratch Mr. Whiskers behind the ears. “Cats are sure less complicated than people,” I said. Mr. Whiskers purred in agreement.

  A week passed after the bicycle mishap, but Rooster Jim didn’t come by. In the meantime, I’d finished my fence. It was hard to even take that in. Finished! One of the major parts of proving up on the claim and I had done it. I can’t imagine how big one of those airfields of yours is, I’d write Charlie, but I suspect I’ve set enough fence to wrap around one many times over. I shielded my eyes from the sun and admired my completed work of art. Four hundred and eighty rods of mighty fine fence, if I did say so myself. Four hundred and eighty rods of maybe the finest fence in Montana! All right then, perhaps not. But to my mind it was, since every inch of it—aside from a patch put up by my fairy godfather—had been set with my own two hands.

  I needed to celebrate. I decided to do so by returning Jim’s hat. After freshening up a bit, I was soon on my way.

  His was a hard place to miss. For one thing, as you approached, you’d find his prize pigs hobbled out on the prairie like most folks do horses or cows. It was a source of constant conversation for the cowboys I’d met, why old Jim would treat his pigs so. Past the pigs, you’d come upon the ghost tree, bleached white with wind and age. The poor thing served its purpose now as a landmark and a place for lovers to carve initials. From this spot, you could spy Jim’s soddy—at least the roof, from which grew a cherry tree that Jim swore bore the best pie cherries in all of Montana. It would be hard to prove him wrong, as I didn’t know of too many other pie cherry trees in these parts, least of all any that grew from anybody’s roof. Maybe there’d be a cherry pie for the Fourth of July picnic on Wolf Creek.

  As I drew near to the house, I had to laugh right out loud. There, planted in his garden, was that bicycle. Jim had found a use for it: as a trellis for his string beans.

  “Hey there, neighbor!” Rooster Jim waved and, with a groan, straightened himself to a stand from the patch of garden he was weeding. “Out for a Sunday stroll?” He chuckled at this, seeing as it was Wednesday.

  “I finished my fence,” I said. There should be trumpets to herald the news. “Thought I’d celebrate with a walk. Being as it’s getting so warm, I thought you’d be missing your hat.” I handed it to him.

  He took it from me and settled it just so on his head. “I wondered what happened to it after my run-in with that monster machine.” He chuckled, then sniffed the air. “My, my. This spring breeze is so rich it smells like fresh-baked bread.”

  I held out the package I’d been carrying. “I think I’m getting the hang of this,” I said. “You can actually eat this loaf without soaking it in water first.”

  Rooster laughed. “Bread that delicious deserves a trade,” he said.

  “Oh, no need,” I assured him.

  “Seems to me I’ve been by the Hattie Brooks place a time or two and heard a most peculiar sound,” he said.

  “You have? What?”

  “Most fearful sound.” He shook his head. “The sound of a farm without any hens.”

  “Well, I plan on getting some after harvest.”

  “That’s a long summer without fresh eggs.” He motioned me to follow him. Over in his hen yard, he pointed out three scraggly hens. “Them’s Martha, Rose, and June. They’ve got some setting left in them, and I need to thin out the flock. You interested in giving them a new home? Course, Albert”—here he pointed to a handsome white leghorn rooster—“is part of the package, too.”

  No more doling out eggs as if they were pearls! I could taste fried eggs for breakfast. Fried chicken for supper. Spice cake with an egg for richness. “Oh, yes.”

  Rooster Jim expertly rounded up the three ladies and their escort. He slipped all four of them, squawking and screeching, into a burlap sack. “Can you manage this?” he asked.

  “I sure hope so.” The
bag twisted and jerked as if it was full of snakes.

  “Them’s good girls. They’ll settle soon.” He picked up his hat from where it had fallen during the chicken roundup.

  I wobbled home with my prize. Mr. Whiskers meowed his approval when I set down the bag. “Don’t you even think about it,” I warned. He would be the least of my troubles. I needed to save my cluckers from coyotes and chicken hawks. Uncle Chester’s efforts had included a chicken coop, but it wasn’t fenced. I had to laugh. So much for thinking I was done fencing!

  I turned my new family loose in the house and shut the door quick. I’d have to deal with their mess later. For now, I needed to keep them safe while I secured the chicken yard. A roll of chicken wire was the last item in Uncle Chester’s stock of supplies stored in the barn. I said a prayer that it was paid for. My budget couldn’t afford any more surprises.

  Hours of practice had turned me into a proficient but slow fence builder. This was a little more challenging because I had to dig down to bury the bottom of the chicken wire to keep out hungry diggers like skunks and such. By working straight through supper and then by lamplight, I was able to enclose the whole yard. My fingers were raw and blistered, but I couldn’t stop yet to tend them. I tidied up the chicken coop and got it ready for its new residents.

  My stomach complained for its supper and my back cried out for its bed, but I finally had a suitable castle for my winged herd. With an indignant squawk, Rose led the way into their new domicile, tempted by a trail of grain. Martha, June, and Albert followed suit. I slipped in an old pan for their water trough and fastened the chicken coop door closed.

  Too tired to fuss with supper, I ate a bowl of graveyard stew, breaking up chunks of bread and covering them with warm milk and molasses.

  My first night as a chicken farmer passed far too quickly. Albert was persistent about announcing dawn’s first—and very early—light. I rolled out of bed and began my daily round of chores even earlier than customary. A new chore included letting the chickens out into their yard. A run-in with Albert convinced Mr. Whiskers that he’d best forget about any chicken dinners.

  Over the course of the next few days, I headed out to the chicken house full of anticipation. But every morning, I would find Martha, Rose, and June scratching in a pile of broken shells. These ladies seemed most disinterested in setting on their eggs. At this rate, I’d never be able to add to my flock.

  As luck would have it, Rooster Jim passed by a few days later.

  “Came to see how you and the girls were getting along,” he said. “I could tell Albert took to you right off.”

  I couldn’t say I had taken to Albert. The dark circles under my eyes spoke to the rooster’s propensity for early morning announcements. Unfortunately, he was essential if I was going to increase my chicken family from four to many.

  Rooster Jim inspected my fencing job. “Why, it’s better than Andrew Carnegie could build with all his money!” He slapped me heartily on the back. “But, from the evidence, it seems the ladies aren’t cooperating for you.”

  At least there were eggs this morning, and none broken. “I can’t get them to set,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Rooster Jim nodded. “It takes a firm hand with chickens,” he said. “Let me show you.” Soon he had the hens hobbled inside their coop. A little string went from one chicken leg to a nail in the wall. The string was long enough to allow each member of the feathery trio to step off the nest and get a bite to eat and a drink of water.

  “Now, tonight you set a bucket over each of them. That’ll teach them to stay put.” Rooster Jim finished his instructions as he stepped back to admire the chicken coop improvements.

  “Won’t that frighten them?” I asked.

  “Naw.” He smoothed his beard down over his broad chest. “And if that don’t work, there’s always the rain barrel.”

  “For the eggs?”

  “No, for the ladies. If the bucket don’t convince them to set, you dunk them in the rain barrel a time or two and turn ’em loose. Settles them right down.”

  I invited Rooster Jim in for dinner, and we ate in companionable silence. I didn’t know if he’d been pulling my leg with his instructions. I would try the bucket trick tonight. But if that didn’t work, I didn’t know what I’d do. I couldn’t see myself dunking any chickens.

  By the next day, Martha and June were content on their nests. They bought right into the notion that they had a job to do. Rose was cut from the same animal cloth as Violet. She would not set. Another week passed.

  I’d had a short night and was in a mood when Albert announced “rise-and-shine.” When I saw the broken shells under Rose’s nest, something snapped. Coyote quick, I snatched her by the feet and ran over to the rain barrel. I tipped her upside down and—splash, splash, splash—I baptized that bird but good.

  She didn’t move much when I pulled her up the third time. I set her down. She toppled right over.

  “Oh, Lordy, I’ve killed her!” In my distress, I barely took note of Mr. Whiskers slinking along the ground. Perhaps he thought that a drowned chicken was fair game. I wiped my hands on my apron and cursed my stupidity. I shouldn’t have listened to Rooster Jim. No doubt his surefire setting cure was a practical joke. Only now it had cost me one third of my flock. I leaned against the rain barrel and mourned my loss.

  All the while, Mr. Whiskers slunk along. Since I wasn’t screeching at him to get away, he must’ve thought he was free and clear to a fine, feathered dinner. At the sound of his deep-throated hunter’s growl, however, I regained my senses and shrieked, “Mr. Whiskers! No!”

  Too late. He pounced.

  Unfortunately for Mr. Whiskers, he landed the moment Rose rejoined the living. She lashed out with her sharp little beak, right at the cat’s soft underbelly.

  “Yowl!” Mr. Whiskers launched himself straight up and ran off under the shack to lick his wounds.

  Rose fluttered to a stand, twirled drunkenly around, and staggered to the chicken coop doorway. With Albert trumpeting her resurrection, she hopped inside the coop and settled herself down. She proved to be a good layer and an even better setter. But that was the last time I ever dunked a chicken.

  Dear Hattie,

  I have finally received another letter from you. I can’t imagine what fills your days so that you don’t have time to write to an old friend.

  You, with your quiet farming ways, would be quite agog over all the activity here. We are tramping from hither to yon. My new purpose in life is to keep my boots, and thus my feet, dry. I must say I am losing some of my admiration for France. I did not intend to be her guest for so long! I miss my books and my folks and my friends. Let me tell you, soldiering is a lot more glamorous from the other side of the uniform! There are rumors of hot food and showers tonight.

  I do not have it as hard as some. Do you remember Harvey Bloch? I have learned that he has been killed. That makes twelve gold stars hanging in Arlington’s windows. I hope we get the job done here, and soon, without too many more.

  Your muddy and tired chum,

  Charlie

  I took my pen in hand to write a reply.

  Dear Charlie,

  I am so sorry to hear about Harvey.

  I set the pen down. Harvey. I thought back to how Miss Simpson had taken such pride in the wooden apple he had carved for her desk. How he had never hurried about anything. How he’d been so patient with his younger brother, who wasn’t quite right. I remembered seeing his mother hang the service flag in their front window the very day Harvey left for camp. I could see it now—a blue star centered on a white field, surrounded by a red border. Now the blue star would be covered by a gold one. I ached for the Blochs. And for myself. I continued the letter to Charlie, writing about everything other than the war. Then I finished it with:

  See that you keep those boots dry. And the boy who wears them safe.

  As ever,

  Hattie

  CHAPTER 15

  May 15, 1918<
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  Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

  Dear Uncle Holt,

  I wish you could see my fields. I never knew green could be so beautiful—but then I’ve never had a farm of my own before. Rooster Jim says all portents point to a good harvest. I certainly hope so; my meager budget can’t stand much more of a diet.

  You asked me about my far neighbor, Leafie Purvis. She is rough-and-tumble but doesn’t think twice about lending anyone a hand. She came from Chicago but has lived in Vida as long as Perilee can remember. She runs some cows and trains horses. Rooster Jim says Leafie’s the best around. Some fellow came clear from Havre one time to have her train his horse. She’s good with doctoring, too, which is handy since the nearest doctor is thirty miles away in Wolf Point. I had a spring cold and she made me some tea that had me on my feet quick as a wink. I was her assistant a few days back when a young neighbor boy fell and broke his arm.

  “I sure do appreciate the company.” Leafie shifted the basket she carried from her left arm to her right.

  “Let me take a turn carrying that,” I said. She handed over the basket and rubbed her left shoulder.

  “Weather’s going to change. I can feel it in my bones.” She turned her face up to the blue sky and studied it. “I expect rain anytime.”

  “The crops sure need it.” I scanned the sky, too, but unclear about what signs I should be seeking.

  Leafie reached in her shirt pocket for cigarette materials. I was used to her smoking now. The warm tobacco reminded me of Uncle Holt.

  “You mind a little detour?” We were on our way to visit Perilee, who was recovering from a bad cough.

  “Where to?”

  She pointed to a small knoll about a mile away. “I’d like to stop in and see how Mabel Ren’s getting along.” Leafie shook her head. “She’s got six little ones, four of them under six. And their oldest, Elmer junior, is a real pistol. Not afraid of anything, and one sandwich short of a picnic basket when it comes to common sense.” She laughed. “Nearly broke his neck last summer when he decided to see if pigs might be able to fly. He and one of Elmer’s weaner pigs took a nosedive off the barn.”