by J. R. Biery
The old cowhand nodded to her. “Morning, Miss Stoddard.”
“Morning, Mr. Boyd. “Do you know where the cold milk is?”
He grinned at her. “I’ll get it Miss, but if you need milk or butter next time,” he lifted the trap door and pointed.
Hattie smiled as she watched his graying head disappear down the stairs to the cellar. While he was gone, she walked over to watch Rubye stirring up a slurry of flour and cold water for the gravy.
The older woman glanced up at her from the corner of her eye.
“They brought our plow and my mother’s seeds. I wondered if there might be room for them in your garden.”
Rubye snorted. ”If the boss said you could, it’s not my place to say yea or nay.”
“It’s your garden. I want it to be all right with you.”
“You’re a funny girl. Nothing here is mine. I work for Mr. Harper, same as you. The garden was Mrs. Harper’s, but I guess it would be hard to ask her.”
Hattie looked chastised, then a voice said, “Here Miss.”
Hattie jumped at the head appearing through the floor and accepted the heavy pitcher of milk and cold crock full of butter. He was looking past her to Rubye, “You need me to fetch up grub for supper?”
“Yeah, a sack of red beans and a slab of ribs, cut one, no cut three more onions from that braid.”
“You any good at making bread?” Rubye asked.
Hattie smiled, “Biscuits or corn bread?”
Rubye snorted. “No sense spoiling ’em. Just stir up some meal for corn cakes. Skillet will be ready again, time you’re through.”
Hattie whirled across the kitchen, heading for the side cupboard in the pantry where she had seen tins of meal and flour. It was the second door she opened before she found a bowl, but she quickly added three big handfuls of meal, then added two small handfuls of flour before using a spoon to add baking powder. She used the pitcher of milk and some water and stirred them even as she walked across the floor.
She heard boots and voices in the other room, but over it all, the thin sweet warble of the baby’s waking cry.
She handed Rubye the batter, then turned back to the bedroom. As the one or two voices said good morning, she nodded, the whole time looking toward the floor. As she hurried past them to the baby, she was aware of the tall man emerging from his room, scowling at her.
When she had bathed, changed, and redressed the baby, she settled on top of the bed to feed him again. She listened to the quiet conversation of Jackson and Rubye.
“I told her you wouldn’t mind if she added a few rows to the garden. James, I’d like you to stay close to hand, once she’s laid out the plot, move the end fence and add a length of posts to it.”
“Rubye, I also told her she can wash clothes outside, as long as she keeps to the back of the house near the well and clothesline. I’ll expect you to keep an eye on her and the baby anytime she’s outside.”
Hattie knew if she had been in the other room, she would have seen resentment in the other woman’s eyes. She was requiring extra work for everyone, of course they would get angry and argue.
She strained to listen but heard only a grunt of agreement from Rubye. She realized James must have nodded. Bundling J.D. to her shoulder, she decided to face the music.
All three sets of eyes followed her to the table. Before sitting down, she walked to the kitchen and returned with her warm plate of food. Then she poured a glass of milk and sat down.
She was surprised when the old cowhand asked, “Can I hold the little fellow.”
She looked up to Jackson but it was Rubye who clucked. “Nonsense, what do you know about babies?”
He made a face at her like soured milk. “Reckon I’ve held every kind of baby critter without hurting nary one, even the human kind.”
Jackson nodded and smiled and Hattie rose and very carefully placed the baby in his arms. He cooed and made faces at the baby, waggling his mustache as he smiled.
J.D. yawned, turning his head in a long stretch, and then made a small fussing sound.
Rubye scolded, “See there, that ugly face of yours has made him cry.” Gingerly the old cowhand let her take the baby from his arms to pat against her shoulder. J.D. made a few more fussing sounds, burped, then curved into her shoulder. When Jackson rose to look over her shoulder, she leaned the baby back, rocking and crooning while both men stared down at him.
Hattie smiled. The boy was a wonder and worth all the fuss, but he was sure to be spoiled rotten. While they focused on him, she ate greedily of the slab bacon and crispy potatoes smothered in gravy, using the corn cake to mop up the thick white gravy, washing it all down with milk.
It was Jackson who poured coffee for her and passed the plate with the last hoecake. She made a puddle of sorghum and mashed butter in it, then slathered it on the cake. No matter how well she ate, she was always ravenous. Sipping the warm coffee, she tried to eat the bread slowly. They all probably thought she was a pig, the way she bolted her food.
“When you finish, I’d like you to look over the herd from your ranch.”
Hattie stuffed the last half of the bread in her mouth, nodded, and rose immediately. She downed the coffee as she walked, pausing at the door to set down the empty cup.
“Ready,” she opened the door and sailed off the porch and across the yard toward the corral, satisfied when he took long strides to catch up.
“I worried all night about which animals were missing. The herd often split up for grazing, the young cows with the bull, the yearlings and older cows with Birdie. She’s a brindle coated cow, with a black circle around one eye and very long straight horns. She climbed onto the bottom rail, leaning forward to study the milling animals.
“See, that’s Birdie,” she pointed toward the reddish cow. “That’s Suke and Blaze, Beverly, and Sunday.”
“You name all your cows?”
“Dad didn’t like me naming them, because it’s a beef herd, but I always named a few of the calves. Especially, if we had to keep them up and feed them.” One of the cows moved toward the girl perched on the fence and Jackson made an involuntary move to pull her back but she reached down toward the animal. He watched as the girl pulled an ear on the cow she’d called Sunday.
He remembered the battle it had taken him and three hands to catch, tie, and finally milk a beef cow the first night when J.D. kept bawling. He bet she could have cornered anyone of these and sweet talked her into being milked, beef cow or not.
If his father-in-law hadn’t bought a milk cow and sent it out from town he’d decided to feed the baby on canned milk rather than have someone stomped to death or gored by the wild animal.
“This is Birdie’s herd, right, 33 counting new calves. Oh, there he is, I thought you said 32 last night, but that little ghost makes 33.” He followed her pointing finger and saw the still damp white and dusty calf.
“At least they all seem healthy. Do you have any idea where the bull and the other eighteen or so might be?”
“Blackie is a bull you can’t miss, black of course with horns like Birdie, but one tips up and the other down, like he has it put on backward. Dad got him for a great price, because the owner figured he might throw some three headed calves or mistakes. He never did.” She looked at him for confirmation of her Dad’s wisdom.
“No, they’re good looking animals.”
“Three cows that should be with him are Frenchie, Birdie’s calf with a coat just like hers from two years back; Blondie, colored like little Ghost, white and tan; and Pinto, a black and white spotted cow with a coat like an Indian pony. They could be down where the spring burbles up and the ground stays wet. That old bull loves the mud and the fresh water cress that grows in the seep.”
“They looked there, but I’ll have them go back in a couple of days, when they finish branding and get the bull calves cut, we’ll need to move these animals into the herd and watch to make sure they work out together“
“We treated for worms and
threw out two salt and mineral blocks after the last snow. I reckon Blackie‘s calves are as good as any bull throws.”
He heard the defensive pride in her voice. “I‘m sure they are, Miss Stoddard.”
She acknowledged his apology with a nod. “Hattie. I wanted to see the chickens too; apparently five of them are missing.”
James Boyd had come out to the fence leaving Rubye standing on the porch, rocking the baby.
“They’re in the barn, the mules and that old gelding are in the back paddock.”
But Hattie was already gone, opening the barn door to disappear inside. By the time the men caught up, she was outside the door with a pan of grain. As she walked outside she clucked softly, shaking the grain in the pan, “Here chick, chick, here chick,” she sang as she scattered grain. In minutes eight red hens boiled around her feet, pecking at the grain as she scattered it. One of the hounds stood on its haunches and barked, but Jackson called him back down.
“Reckon you’ll need to put up a coop for these, if they’re to last more than a day or two,” Boyd said.
“Probably easier if we just add some wire to the garden fence. The chickens can work it and keep the bugs down. They’re used to roosting in our barn, so that shouldn’t be a problem.” Hattie patted the flat pan against her hip and added. “Dottie and her sisters are gone, along with Gaylord, the rooster. The hens were setting so they may have stayed with their nests. Gaylord should have been out cutting up to protect the hens.”
“No way could we miss a flogging rooster. Looked through that barn pretty close too,” Boyd protested.
“Dad had a board just under the eaves where they roosted. We used to have a yellow cat, Purdy, who liked to move through them at night teasing them awake. So there are poles outside the barn where they can swoop up in stages then fly into their nests. There are probably one or two eggs in the nests of those that are not brooding.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to go back and wrangle chickens, because that was the meanest job you ever gave me boss.”
“If they’re nesting, we’ll move nest and all for those four. I’ll bet the roosters gone. Didn’t you leave any dog or cat behind?” Jackson barked.
“Purdy died last year. Bert, our cow dog, was shot when the yahoos rode in.”
Jackson shook his head. Had he really thought she was timid and quiet?
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“I’ll ride out after we finish here and take Cliff. We need to chase down that black bull and any heifers he’s guarding. James, you stick close. See if you can help get the garden in.”
He turned back toward the corral as Hattie moved back to the house when she heard her name called. She stepped up onto the porch to take J.D., not surprised to feel a damp bottom.
James was walking toward the house, and Hattie waited until he was in easy hearing. “Can you tell the boss I need to talk to him before they leave?”
He tipped his hat in acknowledgement and Hattie took the crying infant inside. It was an hour later when she carried the padded cradle and sleeping boy to rock gently in the warm shaded breeze of the back porch. Hattie smiled, happy for the first time in weeks. She heard the hens clucking and scratching through the garden. She had lined up the seeds, each labeled and saved in its packet made from old catalog pages.
In the distance she could hear the men working in the far corral, smell the scent of singed hair and hear the painful bawls from the calves. Even the yearlings needed branding and snipped, being changed to steers before the men finished.
Ignoring the sounds, she went to the paddock for Henry. Although Pepper could outlast the younger mule, Henry was quicker to obey her commands and responded well to her lighter hand.
Harnessed to the plow, she entered through the gap in the fence that James had made earlier. She backed the mule to the edge of the current garden, set the plow blade then snapped the reins and yelled, “Giddy-up”
Exuberantly the mule leaned his head forward, putting his chest muscles into the task, ripping down the yard and opening out a shallow furrow. At the end of the thirty foot row, she yelled “whoa” and pulled on the reins. Henry stopped like a dream.
She lifted the plow blade, turned Henry and plowed up to the edge of the garden again. Quickly, she and Henry set a pattern.
Boyd came around the house to watch, marveling at the ease with which the duo worked. “Setting you’re rows too close, ain’t you Miss?”
She finished the fifth sequence, then turned Henry again, carefully setting the plow within six inches of the last furrow. ”We’re not plowing yet, just breaking ground. When I finish this, we’ll need to cover the ground with some of that aged manure, spread it out, maybe wait a day or two, then run the plow through it deeper and set actual rows. But I‘ll harness Pepper to a dray to haul it over here. Both these long-eared guys love to work.”
“I can get to loading that, have it ready to spread when you finish. I didn’t figure a little girl like you would know anything about this work.”
“My mother was German. She loved to garden and to work. She insisted Dad change the garden plot every two years. One year he didn’t get to it in time, and I watched her dig one just like this. I’ve always wanted to try it myself.”
He laughed and she laughed too, pushing herself and Henry, trying to finish before J.D. grew fussy. She was on the last furrow when he started crying.
Hattie wiped her face with her long sleeve, sure she was a sight, sweaty and red faced, with the fine dust sticking to her skin with each step she made over the roughly tilled ground.
She unhitched Henry and led him to the trough in front of the paddock rail, loosely hitching him and patting the dark, dusty neck. James was already driving the other mule and the load of manure toward the garden.
By the time Hattie reached the porch, Rubye had arrived with a pail of fresh water and a towel. Hattie gratefully accepted both, stepping on to the porch where she could reassure J.D. that she would pick him up in a minute.
Rubye stepped between her and the baby. “Well, I never.”
Hattie looked down at her dusty skirt and red hands, her pride of minutes ago vanishing. She reached for the fussing baby, but Rubye picked him up. “I’ll change him, you get some of that dust and sweat off you so you’re fit to feed him. The men will be in to eat soon, let’s not waste time.”
Hattie tapped her feet, knocking the dust off her boots, then hurried after them to the bedroom.
It was later, the men fed and gone, before Hattie rose from her nap. She pulled on her old skirt and the flannel shirt of her father’s over her old chemise and petticoat, realizing that this was the outfit she should have worn this morning. Once again she laid the sleeping baby in the cradle on the back porch, taking time to make sure he was shaded with a protective cloth spread over the top of the cradle, she hurried to drag washtubs, washboard and soap into the side yard, drawing water to fill both. Then she brought out the pan of dirty clothes and the basket and clothespins.
Satisfied, she made short work of washing out baby things, hung them, then washed the soiled dress and under things, plus the baby’s crib bedding to hang. Finally, she washed out towels and washcloths. With three lines full, she took her time in carrying the dirty water to water Rubye’s rows. When she had the tubs emptied and rinsed, she stacked them on the end of the porch and stood to admire the darkened end of the new garden, already covered with the manure spread by James and Pepper.
Rubye came out, then took the washtubs and proceeded to fill them. She had two hampers of clothes, hers and Jackson’s, as well as household linen.
“Do you need help?” Hattie asked.
“Nope, it’s Tuesday. I always do laundry on Tuesday. Besides, James plowed that garden. You probably want to get busy and get it planted.”
She heard a snuffling sound from the cradle and peeked in, patting the little raised bottom. “Such a mite for making work, little Jackie.”
He squirmed a little under the weight of her hand, rooting aro
und in his sleep until he found a fist and settled back down.
Quickly, she picked up the first bag of seeds and used the hoe that James had left beside the plowed garden. She was surprised at how deep the soil seemed. James must have plowed a lot deeper then she had, but she was pleased to note he had avoided damaging the original garden. By the time she was on the third type of seeds, Rubye was finished.
Hattie could hear the baby and dusted her hands, stopping to pull up a bucket of sweet water to drink her fill, then wash her hands and face. She walked up onto the porch and took the squalling baby that Rubye was trying to calm.
The housekeeper scowled at her muddy feet and wrinkled her nose. “Humph,” she said patting the wide awake and complaining J.D. “Might as well run you through the tub as well. Hurry, if you want a chance to eat before supper.”
“I didn’t finish all the plantings.”
“It’s called tomorrow,” the housekeeper said. “You can finish it in the morning while I iron, then you can iron.”
Hattie raised her brows. “Right, ironing.” She didn’t want to admit that she usually didn’t bother with her old clothes or her father’s, there had been no one to see how they looked unless they were going into town.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hattie relaxed in the tub, the baby naked and floating on top of her, his little unbound belly button and stub of cord exposed. Rubye had carried the cradle in to put him in, but Hattie had barely finished soaping and rinsing before he had begun to fuss. She had been unable to resist the opportunity to soap and rinse him, even the soft dark hair on top of his head. In the high setting tub, she had easily been able to keep his belly dry. At first he had been frightened, but like her, the warm lap of the water soon relaxed him. Now he lay, completely clean and relaxed, gazing at her cooing voice.
