Child of the River

by Wanda T. Snodgrass

  Ace Hopkins dusted his leather chaps and climbed upon the plank fence to watch. He lifted his Stetson with the rolled brim and ran his fingers through thick, wavy, graying hair. “You’re on!” he hollered, his voice lost in the wind. Dayme missed the action there, too.

  It seemed Morgan had been gone an eternity. Dayme missed her husband terribly. Immediately after the soldier from Fort McKavett delivered the telegram that Morgan’s father was gravely ill, he hastily packed a valise and left for Mississippi. The one letter Dayme received from him had been hurriedly written, only one page. He wrote about the funeral and said there were details that needed his attention. He said nothing about coming home. That was weeks ago.

  Why must I always make the first move? The Lord knows that man knows how to keep a bargain, she reflected with regret. Morgan is always eager. He’s loving and gentle, so glad I came to him. I don’t suppose he knows it makes me feel like…like a prostitute. Yes, like one of his mares in season.

  A horrible thought traversed her mind. Maybe Morgan doesn’t need me all that much. He has other women. I know he does. He never mentions them, but I know. Those nights he stays at the cabin next to the mountain…. Suddenly she realized that Morgan’s overnight stays frequently coincided with her moody spells.

  If he’d give some indication, Dayme instinctively defended herself. If he’d let me know how much he needs me when he wants me, this could be a real marriage. Maybe then I could forget all about Benjamin and be happy with Morgan. Benjamin…ah, yes, Benjamin…the invisible barrier standing between us. She glanced in Daniel Lee’s direction and wondered if Morgan suspected. To this day, he’d never asked.

  “Heavens!” she exclaimed softly in a whisper as guilt consumed her. “Morgan would have to love me to put up with my moods. I don’t share his bed. I’m not a real wife to him. But I don’t know how to go about it. Oh, how I wish that Morgan would slip under my covers some night and wake me with a kiss. But, no…he waits for me.” She decided the incredible ache in her heart was her own fault, that Morgan was too patient with her. She felt even worse.

  Benjamin is the cause of all this heartache, she lamented, as bitter tears welled in her eyes. Underneath all that innocent ladylike sham, Molly Allison is a little bitch! She’ll deal you misery every day of your life, Benjamin, and I hope to hell she does. I hope Molly makes you as damn miserable as I am!

  Drifting back in memory to the barn dance at the livery stable in town a couple of weeks before Morgan left, Dayme sighed deeply. “Oh, my husband,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to go about changing this impossible situation. I wish you’d come home. I need you to hold me, like that night. I need you so very much.”

  It was one of those rare occasions when lovemaking was spontaneous between two lovers with no doors between them to open. As a general rule, Morgan played guitar with the band most of the evening but not that particular night. That wonderful moonlight night Morgan un-strapped the guitar early and put it away in its case. He gently tapped Dayme on the shoulder. She stood in her usual place, near the punch bowl, visiting with friends and dancing occasionally.

  He bowed with courtly manners and kissed her hand. “May I have this dance, kitten?” His velvet brown eyes crinkled. “May I have all the rest of your dances?”

  I felt like a schoolgirl that night, Dayme remembered wistfully. Like before the Civil War when the world seemed right.

  “Did I tell you…?” Morgan whirled her around the dance floor. “Did I tell you that you’re the prettiest girl in this place?” The dimples in his bronzed cheeks sunk deep when he smiled. His muscled arm snuggled her closer. “The prettiest girl anyplace in the world.”

  “Why, Morgan!” she exclaimed demurely. “You’re courting me.”

  “Damn right, I am,” he quickly agreed.

  Morgan didn’t return to the bandstand at all that night. They waltzed, they two-stepped, they danced the Virginia reel and put-your-little-foot until the band played “Home, Sweet Home.” It was wonderful.

  Morgan didn’t take the ranch road, nor did he head for the cabin. Instead, he turned the team toward the south mountain. “We can go home in the morning. This night was made for lovers.”

  “The Milky Way looks close enough to touch,” Dayme said dreamily. “And the stars are kissing the mountain.”

  Halfway up the mountain, Dayme snuggled closer to Morgan. The early morning air was chilly, though windless. He placed an arm around her and guided the team with the other.

  Morgan pulled up on the reins at the top of the hill, turned the wagon around and parked. He embraced his wife and her eager lips met his. It was not planned, lovemaking on the top of the mountain. It just happened. The couple lay nestled in each other’s arms as though they belonged on the patchwork quilt in the hard wagon bed. Neither waited for the other to initiate, nor waited for a knock on a door. They just enjoyed the thrill of being young and making love. They stayed locked in each other’s arms until dawn crept in on a silver cloud. Hazily at first, morning unrolled softly, like a pink and golden hearthrug, covering them with a warm blanket of sunshine.

  That was the last time we made spontaneous love, she thought. I kept waiting for it to happen again. It never did. I suppose Morgan did, too. What’s wrong with us? We’re married, and yet we’re not.

  “Dayme,” Erika called from the back step. “Are you about through with your chores?”

  “I haven’t watered the flowers,” Dayme replied.

  “Mr. Hopkin’s barbecue is almost done and my bread is ready for the oven.”

  “What are we having for dessert?”

  “Vinegar pie.”

  Dayme grinned. It was Ace Hopkin’s favorite. “Yeah,” she teased. “I figured it would be.”

  Six black and white half-grown yard kittens slept in the cool shade of the cistern. They scattered when Dayme approached to pump water. Only the white mother cat remained. She rubbed against Dayme’s leg. Dayme ceased to pump and gathered the pet in her arms, stroking its soft shining fur. She nuzzled it with her chin and spoke nonsense to it before resuming her work.

  The scent of sizzling smoked beef on the open pit was tantalizing. She hadn’t realized before that she was hungry. She called to the youngsters climbing on the arena fence. “Get washed up. It’s suppertime. Tell the wranglers.”

  Erika was already carrying bowls of food from the kitchen. She placed them on the wagon wheel table Morgan made. The picnic area was a shady clearing in the nearest oak thicket. Nearby, Morgan had tied a rope swing on a limb for the children. There was an open-air playhouse close by, also. It had lard bucket chairs, an apple box table, some rusty bedsprings and a handmade sweep made of broom weeds. The boys kept the ground swept clean down to hard earth.

  Dayme stumbled beneath the weight of the heavy bucket of water she carried over the lumpy front lawn. Some of the water spilled. Remembering the freshly mowed grass, the sculptured hedges and shrubs, the manicured rose garden and the maze of flowers in Larkspur’s garden, for a moment, only for a moment, she longed to be back in Mississippi. She envied Morgan being there and wished it had been possible for her to go back with him.

  Mrs. Edwards had never forgiven Dayme for working in Macy’s Tavern. Not once had her letters to Morgan even acknowledged that Dayme existed or that he had married her. Part of me will always love Mississippi, but I love this country, too. This is my home, however humble, she thought. I will, God help me, I will make a success of this ranch. This is my land, miles and miles of my land. No, it’s not my land. It’s our’ land. Morgan’s and mine. Our roots are planted here.

  She daydreamed of the fine home they’d have here someday. We will have a rose-covered gazebo, a lavish ballroom, complete with a staff of servants. Important people will gather here. We’ll have lots of parties and laughter. Morgan will find his treasure, and we’ll never want for anything as long as we live. The ranch will prosper, and we’ll build the biggest cattle herd in Texas. Then, reality retur
ned. “Heck, no,” she said to herself aloud. “It’s impossible for a long time to come. There’s more outgo on this ranch than income. It will continue unless cattle prices improve. Summer is coming on. We’ll fight screwworms, coyotes, cattle rustlers, wild Indians and lose some of the steers along the cattle trail to market. Then, we’ll pray for rain so there’ll be enough grass to carry the herd through the winter so the men won’t have to bum the stickers off prickly pear. It’s the same old vicious circle. We’ll be lucky to be able to pay the ranch hands, settle the debt at the store and start another year.

  She poured water on the huge cabbage rosebush beside the picket fence gate. The bush was taller than Dayme and splattered with round, cupped, pale pink, sweet smelling roses. She watered the Morning Glory and Madeira vines that shaded the porch. There was no water left for the multi-colored Zinnias lining the rock walk, for she always saved just a tad for Morgan’s dogs. The two dogs were spoiled to the ritual, for there was plenty of water for them to drink in the cattle troughs.

  Murdock, the big puppy, tugged at Dayme’s shoe, growling and wanting to play. She shook the puppy loose, not being in a playful humor. So engrossed she was in her own sentiment, that she went about the daily chore like a sleepwalker, completely absorbed and saturated in melancholia.

  The picnic would have been fun had Morgan been there. After the dishes were done, the two women joined the chatter, listened to the wrangler tales and songs while the youngsters romped. For a time, Dayme’s mind was diverted from her own problems. She laughed at their stories and told a few of her own. The wranglers took turns singing songs… “Little Joe The Wrangler,” “Golden Slippers,” “Old Black Joe,” “Dixie”, “The Old Spinning Wheel” and others.

  “Chake,” Erika urged in her Alsatian brogue, “Sing the ballad you sang last Sunday, about the Indian maiden. Fhat vas the name of it?”

  “Who Spit in the Skillet?” Jake replied.

  “I don’t know!” Erika blurted. “It sure vasn’t me!” The cattlemen roared in laughter.

  “That’s the name of Jake’s song,” Ten Penny volunteered with a wide grin on his face.

  “Oh.”

  Jake Kuhl tuned his guitar to a tom-tom beat, spit out the plug of tobacco in his jaw and began the ballad:

  “Way out west in an Indian nation

  Far away from civilization

  Where the foot of white man seldom trod.

  White man went in an Indian summer,

  Met this Indian maid, a hummer

  And said these sweet words to her:

  Won’t you be my pretty little Indian nappanee?

  Won’t you take a chance and marry me?

  Your father’s a chief and to my belief,

  A very merry wedding it would be.

  It’s true you’re a dark little Indian maid

  But I’ll suntan to a darker shade.

  I’ll wear feathers on my head,

  I’ll paint my cheeks with Indian red…

  If you’ll only be my nappanee.

  He took her ridin’ on an Indian pony,

  Gave her a diamond ring, a phony…

  Cutest couple that you’ll ever view.

  Soon papooses came in numbers,

  Redskin yells aroused his slumbers…

  Squaw got fat as some old squaws will do.

  Soon, he began to wishin’

  That he’d never gone a-fishin’

  Met this Indian maid and said to her:

  Won’t you be….”

  “Did you write the song, Chake?” Erika asked.

  “Naw. Learned it from a fellar by the name of Haught. Don’t know if he wrote it or not. Always figured he did. Ain’t got no idea who wrote it, unless he did. He was all the time makin’ up songs. But I really don’t know who wrote it.”

  “Haught? That sounds Alsatian,” Erika exclaimed. “Was he from Alsace?”

  “No’m…Santa Fe.”

  “I knew darn well that old Jake didn’t write it,” Ten Penny Nail remarked, chuckling. “He can’t even write his name.”

  “I can, too!” Kuhl bantered back.

  A blanket of darkness settled over the countryside. There was no moon that night, only light from the campfire. Coyotes on a distant hill howled accompaniment to the singing. So did Morgan’s dogs. Daniel Lee was so tuckered out that he fell asleep in Erika’s arms. Alexander cuddled sleepily in Dayme’s lap, and all went well until Ace Hopkins began strumming “Green Sleeves”. It was Morgan’s favorite.

  The lonesome melody caused Dayme to excuse herself with the excuse of putting Alexander to bed. The Rhode Island Red rooster crowed the next morning before her eyelids closed in sleep.

  Chapter 30

  There was no time the following week for Dayme to worry or fret or pine about the men in her life. It was roundup time, time to castrate, brand calves and separate the steers so they could be driven to market. The wranglers worked one man short because of Morgan’s absence. As usual, Dayme’s job was to keep the fire hot for the branding iron. Her blue bonnet flapping in the wind couldn’t always protect her face from the blistering heat of the flames. Her face was sweat-streaked and dirty.

  “How many mavericks did you find in the roundup?” Dayme asked eagerly as she piled more wood on the fire.

  “Eight,” Pete Miller replied. “Five grown steers, a short horn cow and two little dogie calves, heifers. Probably out of that last Kerr County drive.”

  Dayme laughed. “Cattle paths across my land are always welcome. They lose ’em and we brand ‘em. The more strays, the faster my herd grows.”

  Dayme had never become hardened to the method of branding. The scent of burned hair and flesh, however, had ceased to make her sick to her stomach. She surprised the men by offering to take a turn with the branding iron. After all, Morgan wasn’t there to help.

  “Are you sure, Missy?” Jake Kuhl was doubtful. “We kin do it, hon.”

  “I have to learn sometime.”

  The bawling, kicking calf was heeled by Ace Hopkins and stretched by the other rider, Charlie Nail. Dayme’s hands trembled as she pulled the red-hot branding iron out of the fire and stuck it to the animal’s hide. When the iron sizzled into the flesh, she shut her eyes tightly and quickly pulled the iron away. “Oh mercy,” she wailed. “I hurt it.” For a moment, she felt faint. A tear rolled down her face.

  “He ain’t hurt,” Ace replied quietly with respect in his eyes. “You did just fine. Next time, we’ll let you brand two or three.”

  “By cracky,” Jake Kuhl drawled jovially. “You gonna make a ranch hand yet.”

  It was a sobering experience each time Dayme witnessed castration. At least, she’d quit weeping audibly, but tears still oozed down her cheeks as she turned her face away. Morgan once told her that he wouldn’t want her to be any other way than tender hearted. That her squeamishness was an alluring point in her favor, enhancing her femininity.

  “I’ve been hungry for some good old mountain oysters,” Kuhl drawled as he tossed the fries into a tin bucket. “Man, do I love ’em.”

  Dayme was puzzled. “I never heard of mountain oysters. Are you talking about mussels? Morgan pearls but we don’t eat the mussels. Some people do.”

  Hopkins looked embarrassed. So did the rest of the crew. He raised his hat and ran fingers through his thick hair. “Nothing, Dayme. Pay no attention to Jake. He’s a little tetched. What few brains he’s got are on the end of his tongue. They say a lightenin’ bug once tried to take a swim in Jake’s puddle of enlightenment. That pore bug dived off his pate into that shallow pond of a brain and busted his lamp, puttin’ his light out for good.” He shook his head with facetious sadness. “He was mashed flattern’n a campfire flap jack. Pore little feller died of multiple fractures.”

  Ten Penny loaded the two baby calves into a wagon. “We can finish up, Dayme.,” he told her. “You better take these hungry critters in and feed ’em. Neither one belongs to that cow.”

  Two more weeks passed, still no wo
rd from Morgan. The weather was unseasonably warm for early April and Dayme thought fishing might help her overcome the doldrums. True, Morgan had warned her never to go to the San Saba alone. “It’s too far from the ranch,” he told her. “Renegades still roam the country. I’ll take you when you want to go.”

  When Erika reminded Dayme what Morgan had said, she replied, “Morgan is gone. I don’t even know if he’s coming back, it has been so long since I heard from him. I’m tired of beef, pork and venison. Some fish would be a welcome change.”

  “Then, I’ll chust go with you.”

  “No. I need to be alone. To think.”

  Erika still didn’t think it was a good idea and told her so, but Dayme went anyway. She took a fishing pole, a basket lunch and a can of earthworms that she dug where the kitchen sink drained. She saddled her favorite horse, a gelding named Cavalier. Murdock whined and yapped, begging to go along but Dayme ordered the shepherd to stay. The big pup obeyed the command and lay down with his head between his two front feet, watching her with pleading eyes as she rode away.

  During the long ride through oak thickets and meadows of bluebonnets, Dayme longed for Morgan to come home. “He’s left me. I know he has. Morgan isn’t coming home,” she lamented. Then her mind switched to Benjamin and the child they made together. He is probably married to Molly by now. Neither man wants me, she thought. It seemed the conflict in her heart would surely drive her mad.

  Upon reaching the river, Dayme’s heart became lighter. There was something restful about the San Saba River that gave her a peaceful feeling. She searched for a likely place to throw the line, finally wading across to a shady spot where water lilies grew. Nearby, a pecan tree had fallen into the river during a flood. A good place, she figured for fish to feed. The bank was neither low nor high but somewhere in between. The fresh smell of moist earth from a recent shower, rotting leaves that fell last winter making way for new growth and sweet smelling orange colored blossoms on a nearby bush filled her nostrils. A dragonfly landed on the end of her fishing pole, a sure sign of good luck. It was a good day to fish. The moon was right, and the joy of watching a bobbing cork erased troubling thoughts.