by Gary D. Svee
“Phillips, ma’am. My name is Phillips.”
“No matter. I want to see you in your office.”
They marched lockstep into the banker’s inner sanctum, and Catherine quietly shut the door behind her. The office was plain and small: one wall mostly taken up by a rolltop desk that didn’t have a scrap of paper on it. Phillips motioned Catherine to one of the straight-backed wooden chairs flanking the door and settled his bulk into a padded chair by the desk.
“I would like to withdraw two hundred dollars from Mr. Bass’s account.”
The banker looked at her speculatively and said, “I’m sure you would. But the fact is, ma’am, that your husband does not have an account in this bank. You might say he is ‘no account.’”
The banker erupted into wheezing chuckles that concluded in a fit of coughing.
“You might say that, Mr. Phelps, but I am not that lacking in intellect.”
Phillips choked off his laughter. “You’re pretty high and mighty for a woman who lives in a hole.”
“Compared to you, Mr. Phelps, nearly everyone must seem high and mighty.”
Phillips’s right eyelid began to twitch, and his pasty face took on a pinkish hue.
“Madam, I am president of the Prairie Rose Bank. I am responsible for thousands of dollars deposited here. You will treat me with the respect I deserve.”
“If I gave you the respect you deserve, I would likely be arrested for assault and battery. You wear this office like a cardboard crown, but like you, it has no substance. It would take an act of God, sir, to make a man of you.”
“Madam,” Phillips said, wringing sarcasm from the word as one might wring dishwater from a rag. “I was not the one so desperate for a husband that I ran all the way from the East Coast to marry a penniless man who lives in a cave.”
That blow struck home, and Catherine flinched. When she spoke, she was quiet, subdued.
“Perhaps I have no more substance than you, Mr. Phelps, but whatever else Maxwell Bass is, he is a self-made man, not a chameleon like you who takes on the color of his surroundings. And he is hardly penniless. I would guess that the five thousand dollars he has hidden on his ranch is far more than you have hidden in this bank.”
“So that’s what you’re after,” the banker said, reflection replacing the heat of a moment ago. “Max has managed to put away some money, and you’re after it. I wondered what led a pretty woman like you to marry a man like Bass. So … you’re a whore, after all, aren’t you Catherine Bass?”
Catherine’s face bleached white, and then turned a dull heated red. The banker could feel that heat, and his eyes widened as she reached to her new green hat and pulled the pin from it.
The banker Phillips sat alone, immersed in pain. That bitch had poked him again. He would take great pleasure in wreaking revenge on Bass and his crazy wife. And now he had the key.
Bass had five thousand dollars stashed on the ranch, and he had as much as stolen that much and more from the banker. If Bass hadn’t ruined the banker’s oil swindle, Phillips would be lying on the beaches of Southern France by now, a lady on each arm. All the banker intended was to collect what Bass owed him.
It wasn’t like stealing the money. Not really. Bass probably stole it from someone else, anyway. No way a cowpoke like him could put together that much money honestly. And so Bass wouldn’t be able to report the theft—appropriation—when he realized his money was gone.
It wouldn’t be hard to find, either. Man like Bass would pick an obvious place to hide it and would probably check on it now and again just to be sure. Watch him for a few days, and he’d point the way.
A grin began to widen the corners of the banker’s mouth. It was time to write cousin Milburn, but first he’d take a run out to Max’s himself. Maybe he wouldn’t need any help. No sense splitting a pot when you could have it all for yourself.
The ride back to the dugout for Max and Catherine was as silent as the trip to Prairie Rose. This time they were thinking about the banker Phillips, but for completely different reasons.
7
The double tub was perched on four piles of flat rock beside the creek: beneath a fire raged, sparks riding smoke into the morning air. Max watched the flames, and occasionally pitched another log on the fire.
He looked up as Catherine stepped from the dugout, trying to read her mood from the way she walked, but it was probably best that he couldn’t.
Catherine was hoping Max would have at least a crick in his back or red eyes from another night spent on the ground beside the wagon, but he didn’t seem any the worse for it. That was mildly exasperating, like swinging a newspaper at a fly—and missing.
As Catherine neared, Max spoke. “Won’t be long,” he said, nodding toward the tub.
“Mr. Bass, if you think I’m going to take a bath out here, you are sadly mistaken.”
Max looked at Catherine as though she were an insect he had not seen before, interesting, but not something he would like to know on a personal level.
“It’s for the chickens,” he said.
“You’re going to give the chickens a bath?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“How to butcher chickens.”
“It is not high on my list of priorities.”
“It is about to be, as soon as this water starts boiling.”
“Well, you watch your pot, Mr. Bass, until it boils, and I will be back in a few moments. I wouldn’t miss this for the world, entertainment being so scarce out here.”
“You’ll see it all right,” Max muttered as Catherine walked down the path to the privy. “You’re going to play a starring role in it.”
The morning was glorious, blue sky stretching from horizon to horizon without blemish, and just a hint of chill in the air, an omen of coming fall.
Max greeted the changing of the seasons with great expectation. The heat of the summer was welcome until he wilted under it. Fall was magic—cool, bright days, and nights so clear he could almost read by starlight—but given time, fall turned from reds and golds and blues to browns and grays. He gloried in the first snowfall, as nature wiped her canvas clean, scrubbing off faded colors of earlier seasons. But when the cold, that long unforgiving, unrelenting cold, held all creatures in thrall, Max would long for the pale greens and bright flowers of spring. He awaited each change, tired of what had been, eager for what would be.
When Catherine returned, Max had a fire blazing in the stove and a healthy portion of sidepork sizzling in a pan. He speared the finished slices with a fork, stacking them on a waiting plate. Then he dropped little slabs of bread dough he had made the night before into the hot grease.
The grease sputtered, crackled, and boiled, and it was only a few moments before the bread was golden brown. Max shoveled the finished product on a plate and dropped more dough into the frying pan. He motioned for Catherine to sit and brought the sidepork and fried bread over to the table.
“What is that?” Catherine asked, pointing at the plate of bread.
“Not proper to point,” Max said, immediately wishing he hadn’t. He didn’t want to fight anymore. He was tired of the anger and sharp words. He desperately wanted this day to be better than the last. When Catherine didn’t retaliate, Max breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Catherine watched Max cut a slab of butter and smear it over the top of the hot bread. Then he sprinkled sugar on it and ate. Catherine followed his lead. It was good, very good.
“What is this?”
“Indians call it fry bread. Scandihoovians call it dough-de-dads.”
“What do you call it?”
“Well, if I’m with Indians, I call it fry bread, and if I’m with the Scandihoovians, I call it dough-de-dads.”
“How original,” Catherine said lightly. The insult was simply habit. She didn’t want to fight any more than Max did. “It’s good.”
“Thank you.”
That civil exchange surprise
d them both. They raised their eyes for a moment, each to look at the other, and quickly returned their attention to their plates, shy without the anger that had defined their relationship over the past few days.
“I would appreciate a little help with the chickens this morning,” he said.
“I’ll check my social calendar, but if I’m free, I would be happy to lend a hand.”
It was Catherine’s first attempt at humor with Max, and he approached it warily, as a coyote approaches the bait in a trap.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Catherine rose and began gathering the dishes, but Max interrupted her.
“I’ll do that. Nothing to it, just a few dishes. You go outside. It’s a pretty morning.”
Catherine nodded, walking toward the door. Each spent the next ten minutes wondering what the other was up to.
When Catherine returned from her brief walk up the creek, Max was carrying a log and a double-bitted axe. He stood the knee-high section of log on one end and laid the axe beside it. He was stirring the fire as Catherine approached.
“Be a great help if you would catch some chickens for me,” Max said.
When Catherine nodded, he handed her a single strand of heavy fencing wire bent at one end into a narrow V.
Catherine took the wire, trying not to appear as confused as she felt. She turned to walk to the chicken pen and then stopped.
“Mr. Bass, I must admit that I don’t know what to do with this wire.”
Max took the wire from her and walked to a small stand of willows by the creek. “It’s to catch the chickens. Just slip the wire past a chicken’s leg and pull back, like this,” he said, catching a willow in the V.
“Of course,” Catherine said, her confidence returning. She walked to the pen where the chickens were contentedly scratching in patches of dust for the grain Max had thrown that morning. As she neared the gate, the chickens flocked to her, expecting more grain. Catherine tried to shoo them away, but the birds held fast, conditioned to believe that man—or woman—held more promise than threat.
Catherine unlatched the gate, forcing her leg into the opening to block the chickens from escaping while she entered the pen. But one hen, spying a loose thread on her cuff, reached out and pecked it. Catherine squealed and withdrew her leg, and the other birds took that as an invitation and began crowding through the gate. Before Catherine regained control, there were ten to fifteen hens around the creek bottom, hell bent for elsewhere.
Catherine shrieked and charged into the nearest knot of birds, waving the wire Max had given her like a foil. The chickens squawked and ran from the strange creature.
Catherine screeched and followed.
Max leaned back as one hen sped past, desperately trying to fly, Catherine in hot pursuit. The bird was touching ground only every third or fourth step and might have eventually become airborne, had the creek not interrupted its takeoff. Splash! The bird fluttered about halfway across before plunging into the water. Catherine tried to stop short on the bank, but her feet slipped on the mud, and her legs shot straight out in front of her. Splash!
“Thought you weren’t going to take a bath,” Max said, immediately wishing he hadn’t.
“What,” Catherine sputtered, “did you say?”
“Said your chicken is drowning.”
The chicken, indeed, appeared to be in trouble. It was being swept along in the creek swimming first one way and then the other.
Catherine leaped into pursuit, chasing the bird down the creek, silver splashes marking each step. She fell again, this time head first and full length. When she came up she was shaking her head, spray flying from her hair. Clutched to her breast was the chicken.
“Got her,” she said triumphantly.
Catherine struggled back to Max, holding the chicken to her and petting its head.
“Easier to catch the chickens inside the pen,” Max said. Catherine’s eyes flashed cold and hot at the same time.
“Easy to sit here and make smart remarks while I do all the work.”
“I’ll trade jobs if you want.”
“And just what are you doing, Mr. Bass?”
“Here, I’ll show you.”
Max took the chicken from Catherine’s arms, holding both the bird’s legs in his left hand. Upside down, the bird quieted and Max laid its head and neck on the log.
Thunk! The double-bitted axe passed through the neck of the chicken and stuck in the log. The chicken tried one last time to fly, wings beating wildly as Max threw the carcass on the ground. Catherine watched in horrified fascination as the head, still lying on top of the log, continued to move as though the hen were trying to squawk its indignation.
It was then that Max noticed that Catherine’s plunge in the creek had left her clothes wet and clinging, and when she felt Max’s eyes on her body, the gold flecks in her eyes flashed again.
“Mr. Bass, it is best that you keep your mind on your chickens. You have, at least, some hope of catching them.”
Max’s face was burning again. Three times he had blushed since meeting Catherine, the only times in his life. This woman had an uncanny ability to put him on the defensive, to make him feel small.
“I’ll be back after I change. I believe I have the knack of it.”
Catherine marched toward the dugout as though she were leading a parade, leaving Max to his contemplations. What magic did that woman have? In the blink of an eye, or rather an ill-placed stare, Catherine had transformed herself from an inept chicken catcher to Max’s moral superior. How did she do that to him?
The next morning, Max rose well before dawn, stars still bright in the sky. He picked up his bedroll, policing the area around the wagon with his eyes. Wouldn’t do to leave anything lying about. Max didn’t want anyone to know about his sleeping arrangements with his bride.
He was greeted at the dugout by the smell of frying chicken. Catherine had already begun her day. Max paused at the door. He would have knocked had there been anything to knock on, but there wasn’t. Instead, he said, “Ma’am?”
“Come in, Mr. Bass. I am quite decent.”
Catherine had risen early. She couldn’t sleep. Each time she shut her eyes, she saw Max’s axe falling and another chicken beating out its protest with a flurry of dead wings.
Most of the chickens had drifted back to the pen after Catherine scattered feed on the ground, food more important than freedom. As they scratched about greedily racing to get more than their neighbors, Catherine had come up behind, snaring one after another and hauling them to Max’s axe.
All the chickens died hard. One ran after Max dropped her, faster than she probably had ever run in life. Headless, blind and half-dead she ran, blood spraying from her neck until her heart pumped dry, and death could be ignored no longer.
After the chickens were bled out, Max threw them into the boiling water, scalding them until they could be plucked clean of feathers. Then Max and Catherine dressed the chickens, reaching deep into the birds’ body cavities to pull their guts out on a twice-read copy of the Prairie Rose Printer. They sifted through the guts dividing hearts, livers, gizzards, and fully-developed eggs. Afterward, Max threw the guts on the fire like an offering to some pagan god, lover of chicken guts.
But the action was purely practical, not spiritual. It would make no sense to let wolves and coyotes and skunks come to associate the Bass Ranch with an easy meal.
Catherine had risen early, cut up the carcasses, shaken the pieces in a mixture of flour and pepper and salt, and tossed them into grease, already sizzling in Max’s three big frying pans.
Max stepped through the dugout door, leaving his hat on the pile of wood at the entry. Catherine motioned him to the table. She had fried sidepork for the grease and made dough-de-dads with the last remaining dough kept overnight in a pan covered with a damp towel. They were still warm when Max sat down.
“You’re early.”
“Didn’t want to do any cooking af
ter the other ladies arrive. Don’t want anyone to see me in this … this,” Catherine said, a sweep of her head taking in the dugout.
She had dismissed with that nod all the days Max had spent with a pick and shovel carving the dugout from the bank of clay. He had moved a houseful of dirt from the hillside, hauling it upstream to a narrow stretch of the creek, using earth and logs hauled down from the hill to build a low earthen dam there.
The work had not come easy for Max. The first tasks he had put himself to on the homestead—fencing, developing springs, and damming coulees—had all been respectable work for a cowhand, and bone deep that was what Max was.
But digging the dugout was another matter. Cowhands do not stoop to such labor, considering themselves a breed apart from those who build calluses to fit the handles of shovels and picks. Their souls are better fitted to horizons that stretch wide as the sea than to the confining gray walls of a dugout.
Max had done the work, understanding that it represented a major shift in the direction of his life, and when he was done, he was pleased that he had done it well. That was the credo upon which he had built his life.
And now Catherine sneered at the dugout as she had sneered at the privy, at his dream of building a ranch to fit the breadth of this land.
Catherine had measured Max and found him terribly wanting, and Max was forced for the first time in his life to look at himself by standards more stringent than how well he strung fence or branded calves or played poker. And he was beginning to doubt himself, to see the dirt beneath his fingernails rather than the strength of his hands.
He watched Catherine as he ate, taking care not to be caught with his eyes upon her. She had been beautiful two days ago in Prairie Rose. Standing over the stove, now, dressed in pants and a long-sleeved shirt, hair aflutter and face flushed with the heat, she was more beautiful still.
But to Max, she was like the delicate pink wild rose that traces the waterways of Montana: beautiful, sweet scented, but guarded by a jungle of needle-sharp thorns. And talking to her was like wading into that jungle, knowing there would be thorns to pick from his flesh before he found his way out of the tangle.
