Billy’s cowboy hat appeared over the edge of the hill first. Then came his head, his shoulders. He was astride Storm. Even in the dark, you couldn’t miss Storm—there wasn’t another horse that set a hoof down with Storm’s flair.
But where was my horse? My heart took a dip. I heard another horse, but I couldn’t see it, and no one could hide a horse as large as that butter-colored palomino.
I leaned this way and that to see. When I couldn’t, I ran around Billy’s horse to get a decent look and saw … long ears. Extremely lengthy, awkward, and shaggy ears.
I watched the animal rest its blunt head on Storm’s behind. Storm nipped at it, and in return, this animal brayed. “Bray” is much too short a word for the twelve-octave sound expelled from the creature’s maw. It was part snort and part sneeze, all working up to a finale that can only be described as virtuoso-quality cow flatulence. I’d never heard such an utterance in all my life.
“What is that?” Those were the first words I said to Billy that night.
“A five-dollar horse,” he said, smiling like he’d been looking forward to this moment for an eternity. “But I can’t sell him to you. He’s too valuable. So I’m loaning him. Isn’t that what you wanted—the loan of a horse?”
“That,” I said, pointing, “is not a horse.”
“Why, yes, he is. Frederick here is half horse.”
“And half donkey! I know what a mule is. A mule isn’t what I purchased,” I said. The darkness masked a lot of its mulish traits, but there is no getting around ample ears and the sturdiness of a mule’s frame.
I eyed Billy atop Storm. In daylight, Storm looked fresh and crisp, as if she had stepped out of a mist that had left gray water marks on her white hide. I imagined riding this here beast of burden. My heart dove for my shoes.
Let me be clear: I do not like tricks or the people that play them. Ordinarily, I do not put up with it. But I knew Billy had me over a barrel. I needed to leave. And this mule—though with ears big as angel wings—came with tack, saddlebags, and even a holster for my rifle. It was transportation of a humble variety. If I could stomach the “humble,” I’d be all set.
“You can go. You’ve done your bit,” I said. I jerked my head in the direction of town.
“Don’t you want your five dollars? I’m loaning Frederick,” Billy said. That twinkle! Rude behavior through and through.
I put my hand out. “Better be my gold Bechtlers,” I said.
Billy got down off Storm and rummaged in a saddlebag until he found my cinch sack.
He held it over my hand and gave me a meaningful look. “You put this in a safe place,” he said.
I snapped my fingers and again opened my palm. Billy dropped the sack into my hand.
Yes, I made certain every one of those five Bechtlers lay snug inside.
“You sure are testy. I got you a ride and tack and you’re not paying a cent. I’d say a ‘Thank you, Billy’ is called for.”
I did feel a sting of contrition—infinitesimally small, but it existed. I could not deny that I now traveled with more money and on free transportation. My circumstances were improved. So I said it: “You did me a good turn. I appreciate it.”
Billy nodded and we got to work.
Yes, we. Billy didn’t leave right away. He seemed determined to help me load my supplies onto that mule, and I let him. I stuffed the knapsack into the bottom of a saddlebag, and slipped the Springfield into the holster. The holster was a perfect fit, which amazed me, given the length of the rifle. I knotted the sack holding my gold coins to a belt loop and tucked it inside my split skirt. And then we were done.
Billy walked over to Storm and mounted her. From the corner of my eye, I observed him, taking in all the details: reins in the hand that grabbed the saddle horn, one foot in the stirrup, and then hoist.
Doesn’t that sound easy? It looked easy too. Except for the fact that I could not hold the saddle horn and skewer the stirrup with a foot at the same time. First, the foot. I swung my left leg at the stirrup—repeatedly. But the mule kept stepping, skipping, and, once, jumping as my foot neared its target. Finally, by holding the reins, I managed to keep that animal still enough to bull’s-eye the stirrup.
Next? To get atop. Since a mile’s distance lay between my hand and the saddle horn, I scaled that mule like he was the tree outside my bedroom window, handhold to handhold. I put one hand on a leather strap and grabbed a brass ring with the other. I heaved myself forward, aiming for the middle but ending with the saddle’s stiff, upturned edge lodged in my gut. That brought water to my eyes, but I was on top. After some wiggling—and a few well-aimed kicks at stirrup holes—I found myself properly situated.
The mule did not appreciate my methodology. He skittered sideways, twisted his body around to see me, and finally brayed again.
That sound! A glance at Billy’s back confirmed he had heard it. His shoulders pumped up and down in silent mirth. He turned Storm around to face me, but when he tried to speak, all he could do was thump his chest and laugh until tears rolled down his face. After a minute, he managed: “What are you doing to my mule?”
I would not grace that question with a reply. I kept up a solemn dignity, pretending there was no commotion beneath me. “You’ve done your bit. Thank you. Now go,” I said.
Billy swallowed his amusement (which looked about the size of an orange). “You don’t have to do this, Fry. You can sleep in a bed tonight,” he said.
“Don’t you worry about me. Good-bye. Off you go,” I said.
The right side of Billy’s mouth lifted slightly. “Alrighty,” he said. He clicked his tongue, nudged Storm’s sides with his heels, and started off. “Take care of yourself,” he called over his shoulder.
I watched him go, giving a dry chuckle seeing his Spencer repeating rifle hanging in his holster. That kind of gun fit Billy to a T. Repeaters are the guns of amateurs—those who want the appearance of skill. A single-shot, like my Springfield, could be loaded quickly enough if a person practiced, but Billy McCabe couldn’t be bothered with practicing. He had to have everything mechanized, and the Spencer held seven bullets in its buttstock, ready to fire. Of course, I’d shot a few repeaters now and again, but I preferred my single-shot.
Wait, I thought. Why did Billy bring a rifle? Does he usually bring his rifle when he makes deliveries?
I squinted and noticed a blanket rolled up behind Billy’s saddle. And: Are those saddlebags?
Then Billy made a telling turn. He was not riding toward town, but heading to Miller Road.
Billy McCabe! I thought.
I prodded the mule’s sides with my heels. Nothing happened. I pushed my heels into the mule’s gut. Nothing.
“Come on, mule!” I said.
I nudged three times, hard. The mule tripped forward, snort-sneezed, and stopped.
“What is it? You’re all conspiring against me? Move. Mosey. Get along.” I leaned over and whispered into one of its ample, three-foot-long ears: “If you don’t start walking, I swear I’ll cut you into steaks and serve you for supper.”
The ear pivoted and hit me in the nose. It felt like velvet—finest quality velvet. Astonished, I touched it. The ear twitched away.
“What if I cook you with onions? Does that make a difference?” I said.
It did not. The mule refused to budge.
I exhaled, slumped in the saddle, and watched Billy, Storm, and that bedroll disappear from sight.
Then, without warning, the mule took off at a brisk trot.
I held on to the saddle horn for dear life. My knees bounced off the mule’s hide like a wooden Dancin’ Dan doll. That mule didn’t slow until we were directly behind Billy and Storm.
I took advantage of the proximity to yell: “You’re not invited.”
“Oh, I’m going,” he yelled back. I heard the little smile playing on his lips.
“Let me be clear: I am not the least bit fond of you. You do not want me as a companion.”
“You want
to walk?”
“That’s immoral! We had an agreement,” I said.
“That’s right. And I did you one better—I loaned you that mule. If you take my mule, you get my company. Go right ahead and complain.” Billy gestured at an upcoming field.
I gasped for retorts that would send Billy flying back home. I hate to report that not one came to mind. Instead, the mule slowed and I found myself wordless and gazing at a horizon filled with Billy’s broad back.
This was a back arranged for veneration. Billy’s shoulder blades jostled under a cotton shirt at least one size too small, highlighting his muscles. Furthermore, the hair on his head curled in a way that can only be described as in need of a trim and prideful. And the hat? That hat was called the Texas Cowboy High Crown and was made of nutria-belly fur, which was cheap, cheap, cheap. I knew because we sold that hat at the store. And Billy was no cowboy—the McCabes only owned one cow.
Evidently, this impostor thought he was coming along with me.
Unfortunately, I was tired enough to find a bed of nails cozy. I needed sleep. I decided to let Billy fantasize for now. In the morning, I’d set him straight.
We went about a mile, and then Billy pulled Storm up short.
“We’ll stay here tonight. Start early,” Billy said, assuming all authority.
I squinted and saw the outlines of a half-dozen shelters, a makeshift table, and some sort of fire pit. I slid off the mule. I undid my bedroll, grabbed the Springfield, and headed for the largest lean-to. I fell asleep as soon as I stretched my legs between the blankets.
I did not expect Billy to edge in beside me that night. Don’t get the idea I offered an invitation. There were plenty of lean-tos to choose from, and Billy McCabe came into mine. In addition to his largish frame, he brought two saddles, two bits, two bridles, and the saddlebags with him.
He made no effort to maintain quiet and peace either. The saddles thumped to the ground, the bits and bridles hit the earth with a jingle, and to make sure I’d awoken, Billy nudged my shoulder with a mud-caked boot. “Move over.”
“Brute,” I mumbled.
“Whiner,” said Billy.
I kept my eyes shut, trying to make like I was half asleep, but I could tell he thought I was so, so amusing (once again). Made me want to lock my teeth on an ankle, but I have manners, so that sort of behavior would never do. I moaned appropriately, which caused Billy to let loose more chuckling, and then, yes, I scooted over.
I did peek. Consider it scientific (albeit anatomical) interest when I tell you that I watched as Billy stripped down to a worn union suit several sizes too small. I had seen boys’ bodies at swimming holes, but never this close and never a man-boy of nineteen years. (I would not call Billy McCabe a man.)
The one verifiable man I had seen in a union suit—Grandfather Bolte—had a body like steel on hinges: strong, functional, but rather mechanical. I don’t mean any disrespect, but my grandfather’s body was about as interesting as a printing press, a butter churn, or a clothes-washing wringer. And while machinery might incite curiosity, it rarely fascinates.
But Billy? Through the threadbare cloth of that union suit, I read Billy’s movements in a cursive of muscles and tendons that contracted and stretched across his back. You could not read my sister’s body like that, nor mine—our muscles weren’t so well elucidated. Moreover, Grandfather Bolte’s body steamed through the world, bending habitually on worn creases. But with Billy’s body I got the sense that anything could happen—he could twist, leap, spin every which way without thought. When Billy put his foot right near my face (of course) to shove a saddle into place, I watched the muscles above his ankle undulate like underwater plants. Billy’s body was all ease.
As much as the body before me was a revelation, I noticed something mundane too: the patch job on that union suit. The stitches were neat—many times tidier than mine. Who’d done that stitching?
It came to me: Billy had done it. Whereas my family overflowed with women, Billy’s family was devoid of them. As the oldest, Billy had taken on many tasks himself, including patching and sewing. I’d watched him mop a brother’s chin more than once.
I’d heard Billy tell the story of the birth of the youngest McCabe boy. Billy had been eight years old. He’d sat on the front porch waiting while his ma travailed. He heard every bit of his ma’s labor because it was a hot summer night and the windows of the house were thrown open to keep his parents’ bedroom as cool as possible.
Finally, his ma’s cries went quiet. He heard a whack. A tiny voice pierced the night. The sound brought Billy to his feet in pure wonder. He heard his pa’s quick footsteps coming down the stairs. The front door opened. Billy turned grinning.
But when his pa appeared on the porch, he was not smiling. In fact, his pa saw Billy only to hand him a tiny wrapped infant (his fourth brother). Then his pa ran back inside, taking the stairs two at a time. Twenty minutes later, the midwife came out. She gathered the boys together for what she called “sorrowful news.”
Billy said then that he did not need to listen to the midwife’s words. He’d heard his pa crying. When the infant in his arms joined in the crying, Billy went into the kitchen to warm some milk.
In the lean-to, Billy sprawled out with his head on a saddle and fell asleep. He took up most of the available shelter. He smelled of horse. I suppose I smelled of mule. But horse smells worse. After all, a mule is only half horse. Even so, when Billy shifted and his back touched mine, I let it rest there.
Before you think anything, know that it was a cool night and Billy exuded heat. But it was a mistake to let his back touch mine, because without warning, I felt a howling ache. Agatha and I often slept back to back.
I could not sleep now. That’s when I noticed a strong smell of rotting pigeon in the air. I thought of what I knew of pigeons and remembered a particular day in February.
Trying to guess the plans of wild pigeons is folly. The direction they go is their own business. Likewise, it’s near impossible to know where they’ll roost for the night, let alone build a nesting. Their movements defy theorizing and deducing (though fools persist). Pigeons come and go as they please.
The way they’ll come upon you will catch you unawares too: Sometimes the pigeons are like a towering thunderhead in front of you in all boldness and in numbers too great to count. Sometimes they’re as inconsequential as a litter of leaves rolling in the distance, and they pass in and out of the periphery of your vision without notice.
But whatever the configuration of pigeons that confronts you, when they leave, they are gone. Those birds move together—as if they have one mind and one set of wings.
In 1871, I experienced wild pigeons on three distinct occasions. The first time was in February, when I saw a small, easily frightened group. I spotted them once. Then they were gone. In March, I saw pigeons a second time. This time they were the mighty cloud that Agatha spun underneath. These pigeons also left. And then there was the third time: in April, the pigeons returned and nested in our woods, not five miles west of Placid, Wisconsin.
The first time I saw the pigeons—the twenty-eighth of February—was a day coming after a long freeze and little sunlight. Day after day had glowed dimly, and night had slammed down at four o’clock in the afternoon. Because of the cold, my fingers refused to do small work and I marched around the store to get blood into my toes. I had thought I would like being free from school. (I’d finished my sixth year of winter school the year before.) But no schoolwork only made the dark hours endless.
That particular morning I awoke and saw the sky—a blue-sky day! By midmorning, everything outside glinted with running water. It ran along the edges of snowbanks and trickled down icicles. Drips hitting pans pinged in the store. By afternoon, patches of earth—red, brown, tan—appeared on the sides of hills. Everybody in the world came into town that day, with weeks of stored-up talk. They told jokes, described how they planned to lay out their crops, and whispered that they’d near gone mad during th
e long, dark days. Then they finally got to business and bought the supplies that had supposedly brought them into town.
Agatha and I were about as helpful as two squirrels. We skittered through the store, trying to stay near the plate glass window. We offered assistance carrying packages (I swear, some the size of postage) out to our neighbors’ wagons to feel the sun on our skin and smell the air. Finally, Ma had enough of us, and said we should go ahead and run it off. “Don’t make me track you down for dinner,” she said.
We didn’t wait to be told twice. We raced to get our coats. Agatha put her sketchbook and pencil in a satchel, and I went up the stairs to grab the Springfield from the gun rack in the hallway.
Of course, Agatha gave me that look when she saw the rifle.
I tried to change the topic by pointing at the sketchbook bulging in the satchel. “What are you going to sketch? It’s winter,” I said.
She touched the Springfield. “You always end up killing something. I don’t know how you can be so sure about putting creatures to death.”
Months later I would ruminate upon this remark: I don’t know how you can be so sure … But at the time, I lumped it together with her other overly sensitive statements. I’d seen Agatha kill spiders. She seemed sure enough then.
Agatha glanced around and said what we both knew to be true: “We need to leave before Ma changes her mind.”
We pushed out the door and ran down Main Street. It made an abrupt turn over the railroad tracks and went right by the train station before lining up with the Wisconsin River.
As usual, Agatha decided our direction, but I thought she went toward the river for me. She knew I liked looking at rivers anytime—winter, summer, spring, whenever. And that day, near the rapids, spray froze to tree limbs and hung sharp from ledges. I put the Springfield down, found some rocks sprouting five-foot icicles, and knocked the ice free. “On guard!” I yelled, holding an icicle like a sword. Agatha picked up another, and we fought, sword-fight-like, until there was nothing left but stubs. Somehow, we both ended up stuck in the same snowbank and cackling hard.
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