by Janet Dailey
“You should get married, Ruth,” he said abruptly. “You should be teaching your own children instead of someone else’s.”
“You sound just like your mother,” she replied. “Except she said I should be teaching her grandchildren.”
“That’s not likely.” The answer came out before Webb had considered it, but it was a true feeling. He realized it said something about his intentions toward Ruth—or the lack of them. “Have you ever been to Texas?” He changed the subject, aware that she was directing her attention elsewhere to avoid looking at him.
“No, I haven’t,” Her voice sounded small. She had been waiting for Webb to notice her for so long. It seemed he had. He’d come to see her once in a while, have dinner at her house, and he had kissed her at least a dozen times. Each year, she thought it would be the one when he’d ask her to marry him. He wasn’t seeing anyone else. Lorna Calder had assured her of that.
“I’ve only been there a couple of times myself. My grandparents are still living in Fort Worth, Mother keeps talking about visiting them, but . . .” He frowned and didn’t complete the sentence.
The lonely wall of a train whistle sounded in the distance. Those waiting on the platform stirred and began drifting to the trackside. It was the same in the street. The arrival of the train was an event that drew onlookers to the station. It was a link with civilization for the residents of this isolated community in the middle of nowhere.
When the train whistle blasted its approach signal again, three wagons came rattling down the street. The white-suited figure in the first wagon Webb recognized as that land promoter Wessel, but his eyes narrowed at the sight of the second man sitting on the wagon seat with him. It was Doyle Pettit from the TeePee Ranch. That day in the saloon, Doyle had talked about throwing in with the land promoter. As Webb had suspected, it hadn’t been just talk; but seeing the two of them together was another thing. When he glimpsed the drivers of the other two wagons, it was even more difficult to accept. They were longtime hands with the TeePee outfit, nearly as much parts of the ranch as Barnie Moore and Shorty Niles were at the Triple C. It didn’t set well when Webb considered these men—these cattlemen—would be driving wagonloads of nesters out to help them find land to homestead.
“Isn’t that Doyle Pettit?” His father spoke from Webb’s right as the train chugged and hissed to a stop at the station. “And Charlie—and Jingles?”
“Yeah.” Webb faced the train rather than watch the defection of his contemporary to the other side.
The first two passenger cars behind the freight cars were painted with signs proclaiming them to be the Northern Pacific Special. It didn’t matter where a person looked anymore. There was always a visible reminder of the drylanders. Families of them filled the special cars. Webb silently watched them pouring out to be greeted by Wessel striding into view in his eye-catching white suit. His father wore a tight-lipped expression and there was a hard gleam in his eyes.
“Look at that bunch of bohunks.” The muttered words of contempt came from one of the Triple C riders. It didn’t matter which one, since he voiced the sentiment of all.
“There’s Bull.” Lorna Calder was the first to spot the broad hulk of the man as he swung down from the train steps, relying heavily on his cane for support. A black porter followed with his satchel.
They lost sight of him behind the swelling tide of emigrants clustering around the land locater. Wessel hopped onto a wooden crate so all could see him.
“Welcome to the future wheat capital of Montana!” His voice carried like a preacher’s. “I hope you didn’t come here looking for dryland. All we’ve got is mud!”
Subdued laughter and wide smiles spread through the large group of new settlers. The only ones shaking their heads grimly were the members of the Triple C outfit. As Bull Giles limped into view, Webb pushed the voice of the locater extolling the virtues of this region into the background of his hearing.
Built like a circus strong man and just about as ugly, Bull Giles wore a tailor-made black suit. The jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a silver brocade vest and a diamond stickpin. Despite his hulking physique, he appeared every inch the gentleman. The impression was stronger as Bull Giles singled out Lorna Calder for his initial greeting. There was a softness in his features that belied his powerfully built body and craggy face.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Lorna. If anything, you are more beautiful.” He took her hand and bowed gallantly over it, kissing the top of her white glove.
“And you haven’t changed a bit, either, Bull,” she declared. “You are still the flatterer.”
“If your husband wasn’t standing here, giving me the baleful eye, I would attempt to convince you that my admiration isn’t insincere.” There was a lightness in his reply that didn’t match the intensity of his gaze. Then he was turning to Benteen before anything more could be read into his manner toward Lorma. “I guess I don’t need to ask how things are,” Bull said as he shook Benteen’s hand. His glance swerved to the emigrants flocked around the promoter.
“They’re blacking this land like a plague of grasshoppers.” Benteen put them in the same category of disaster, which seemed an unwarranted exaggeration to Webb. “I hope you’ve come up with something.”
“The dam broke, Benteen,” Bull stated. “It would take an act of God to stop this flood of people now.”
The pronouncement was no different than Benteen had expected, yet it didn’t lessen his displeasure at actually hearing it voiced. There was a brief lull in the conversation as Bull paid the porter for carrying his satchel. Benteen motioned to one of the men to stow the satchel in the buggy.
“The town has really grown.” Bull looked up the street, noting the many new buildings that flanked the muddy thoroughfare. “Is that a lumberyard?” He nodded toward the stacks of green wood piled against an unfinished building.
“The lumberyard’s the most recent,” Benteen admitted. “Blue Moon even has a bank. And there’s optimistic talk going around about building a granary.”
“Nothing stays the same, I guess.” Bull thoughtfully studied the wide spot in the road that had grown into a full-fledged boom town in less than a few months. “Things change.”
“The changes aren’t always good.”
Bull’s mouth twitched in a dry smile. “You’ll have a hard time convincing the merchants of that.”
“The problem with greed is that it feeds on itself.” Benteen seemed to shake off his dark mood with an effort and made the opening gambit to depart from the station. “Let’s go have a drink while Lorna does her shopping.”
“Good idea,” Bull agreed. “It’s a long, dry ride to the ranch, as I remember.”
For the short ride up the street, Benteen climbed in the buggy with his wife, Ruth, and Bull Giles. The muddy ground was getting thicker as it slowly dried in the hot sun. It was like walking in glue as Webb untied his horse’s reins and moved to the near side to mount.
As he stepped into the stirrup, Nate backed his horse away from the post to give Webb room. The driver of the bench-seated wagon closest to them was a black cowboy dubbed Jingles because of the belled spurs he wore. He pretended not to see the Triple C riders filing past to accompany the buggy.
But Nate forced an acknowledgment, stopping his horse beside the wagon seat. “Jingles, what are you doing in that box?” He frowned. “A top hand like you oughta be in the saddle.”
“The ranches around here are layin’ off top hands. They ain’t hirin’ ’em.” His voice was hollow with resentment for the menial job he was doing, but he had a wife and family to support. “At least I’m gettin’ paid to ferry these pilgrims across this ocean of grass.”
“You keep ferryin’ em,” Nate replied, “and it won’t be grass no more. Without grass, there won’t be cattle. You’re gonna wind up puttin’ us all on the grubline.”
Jingles pushed his hat lower on his forehead to cover the guilt in his eyes as his chin came down. Nate urged his horse after the ro
lling buggy. Webb said nothing to add to the black cowboy’s miseries as he rode by. The plummeting cattle market had made hard times for all ranchers. To cut expenses, most of them were operating with skeleton crews. The Triple C hadn’t hired its usual contingent of seasonal riders, running strictly with its corps of permanent hands.
His father had said change wasn’t always good. Jingles would agree with him. As Webb scanned the homesteaders’ wagons scattered up and down the street of Blue Moon, he recognized they welcomed the change, and so did the merchants. Whether change was good or bad seemed to depend on a person’s perspective.
A team of pale sorrels stood placidly in the trace chains of the wagon parked in front of the new bank. Their feathered fetlocks were encased in mud, disguising their white-socked legs. But the Belgian bloodlines of the two draft mares were unmistakable. For a cowboy, it was second nature to study animals and note their owners; almost as automatic as breathing.
When Webb spied the Belgian draft mares, he knew without taking a second look this was the team hitched to the wagon the girl Lillian had been sitting in earlier. But the wagon seat was empty now. And he didn’t see her among the pedestrians walking on the boards laid across the mud.
A long breath sighed from him as he looked around. A rawness worked on his nerves and coiled his muscles. That edgy feeling was back, a sense of dissatisfaction without knowing for what. Webb wasn’t sure if it had ever left him. He didn’t understand this restlessness, or its source. Was it the drylanders and the change they were bringing that was working on him? Or was it something inside himself?
His horse broke into a trot, reacting to the restlessness of its rider. Webb checked its pace with an irritable tug on the bit and clamped his jaw down on the urge to sink his spurs into the horse and ride away while he could.
6
The mug of beer in front of Webb was warm and flat. He had taken only one swallow from it. His father and Bull Giles were discussing politics, but he wasn’t listening.
The other Triple C riders had gathered along the bar, supervising a billiard competition in progress. Their loud, rowdy voices and guffawing laughter emphasized the distinction between themselves and Webb’s brooding silence. He felt tied and bound by the Calder name, not one of them. He reached for the beer mug, then pushed it away and stood up. He turned to avoid the sharply questioning look his father sent him. “Where are you going, Webb?”
“My mother and Ruth will probably be needing a hand with their packages.” It was merely an excuse to leave the table and the saloon in obedience to the agitation that charged him with a raw energy.
Bull eyed the younger Calder as he crossed to the door. “What’s eating at Webb? He’s like a range bull on the prod.”
Benteen glanced after his son and lifted a shoulder in a vague shrug. “Maybe he and Ruth had a falling out.” But he didn’t believe that for a minute.
“Ruth certainly doesn’t take after her mother.” As if sensing Benteen’s reluctance to discuss his son’s behavior, Bull turned the conversation down a different path.
“That’s true,” Benteen admitted. “She’s definitely her father’s daughter, quiet and gentle just like Ely.”
“Is Webb engaged to her?”
“Half the time, I’m not even sure he’s courting her. If he’s got marriage on his mind, he’s taking his own sweet time about showing it,” Benteen concluded with a disgruntled sigh, irritated by his son’s avoidance of all responsibility even in the shape of an amenable wife.
Outside the roadhouse-saloon, Webb paused to survey the street. The buggy was parked in front of the general store next door. Beyond it was a wagon and the team of Belgian mares. Wide planks covered with muddy footprints were lying on the bare ground, providing solid footing to connect the board sidewalks of the two establishments. Webb waited on the saloon side while a family of drylanders with four children crossed on the planks. The youngest, a boy of four, tipped his head way back to stare wide-eyed at Webb.
“Where’s the Indians, Mommy?” he questioned as he was forcibly urged past his first close-up look at a real cowboy.
A wry curve made a fleeting play across his mouth as Webb stepped onto the mud-slick boards and started across. The street seemed more crowded than ever, with more wagons arriving than leaving. It wasn’t often that a family in this raw and lonely country—farmer or rancher—made a trip to town. When they did, it usually turned into an all-day affair.
The general store had been expanded to accommodate more business, but it had more than it could hold. There was an overflow onto the board sidewalk outside. Webb didn’t see one pair of heeled boots or a Stetson hat among the trousered and bib-overalled men in front of the store. Once this town had known only cowboys—just a few short months ago. This had been his town. It was strange to feel out of place.
As he made his way to the door, the farmers moved aside to give him a clear path. Webb was conscious of their measuring stares. He nodded to one of them, but the man was slow to nod back.
The door was blocked open. Webb entered and stepped to one side, the hum of voices sounding louder in the confined space. He searched the crowd of customers and spotted the man named Franz Kreuger who was homesteading the section of land adjoining part of the Triple C’s eastern boundary.
During his second scan of the enlarged store, he caught a glimpse of blond hair in the dry-goods side. Webb shouldered his way to that department, where his mother and Ruth were busy fingering bolts of material. He glanced at the gingham-gowned women also gathered there, but didn’t see any with dark copper hair.
When he touched his mother’s shoulder, she turned with a slight start. Her expression cleared into a smile when she saw who it was. “I hope your father isn’t ready to leave,” she declared, guessing Webb might have come to hurry them along. “Ruth and I haven’t had a chance to do our shopping. We stopped by the church first before coming here. We only arrived a few minutes ago.”
“No, he didn’t send me. I thought you might need somebody to carry your packages,” Webb explained, glad they didn’t since the crowded store was giving him a bad case of cabin fever.
“Not yet, but don’t go too far,” his mother admonished. “A woman can always use a pair of strong arms, can’t she, Ruth?”
Ruth feigned an agreeing smile, but didn’t look at Webb. A harried-looking Ollie Ellis, the proprietor of the general store, came bustling forward.
“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting, Mrs. Calder,” he apologized for his lack of prompt attention. “What can I help you with today?”
“I was here first.” A bird-faced woman pushed Ruth aside to demand the owner’s attention. “They just came in.”
“Go ahead and help this lady, Mr. Ellis.” His mother showed cool indifference to the woman’s rudeness, courteously giving way to the woman’s obviously rightful claim. “Ruth and I haven’t decided which material we want.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Calder,” the merchant murmured, plainly relieved that she had acquiesced so graciously.
Someone accidentally jostled Webb from behind and offered a hasty apology. The air in the crowded store was stifling. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he told his mother.
Her nod acknowledged his decision before he moved away, taking the most direct route to the front door. Webb didn’t pause once he was outside the building. The sidewalk was too congested with gossiping farmers, so he recrossed the planked ground to the porch sidewalk of the saloon and roadhouse. Except for passersby, Webb had the porch all to himself. This lot of homesteaders were evidently a bunch of teetotalers, since none had been in the bar, either.
Leaning a shoulder against an upright post supporting the porch roof, Webb lit up a factory-made cigarette and let his gaze roam around the busy street. His eye caught a few details he’d missed earlier. At the new lumberyard where carpenters were hammering on siding for the unfinished building, a black-lettered sign was propped against the front wall. It read Pettit Lumber Company. The swinging shingle
above the land company’s office identified the business as the W P Land Locaters, confirming that Doyle Pettit had become Wessel’s partner. The former rancher’s name showed up again in small lettering under the sign for the Blue Moon Hardware & Supply store across the street.
It didn’t take much guesswork to suspect that Doyle was also the one behind the proposed granary. It was a clever circle the former rancher had drawn, helping the homesteader to find land, selling him the tools to work it, and the lumber for his house. In time, Doyle would probably buy the man’s crop. The farmer might never get rich, but Doyle sure as hell would. It was probably good business practice, but Webb didn’t like the smell of it.
A set of light footsteps mounted the saloon porch to his left. With a partial turn of his head, he recognized the slim girl in the wide straw hat. With a snap of his thumb and finger, he flipped the cigarette butt into the muddy street and straightened from the wooden post.
As he moved to intercept her, he saw the flash of recognition in the blue of her eyes. He felt a run of pleasure at the smile that came so naturally to her mouth. In her arms was a bulky woven basket, the kind the Indians on the reservation had been taught to make.
“Hello.” She greeted him first, her voice coming to him with the soothing freshness of a breeze on a hot day.
“Hello.” His fingers gripped the rolled point of his hat brim and were slow to let it go. Webb was fascinated by the frankness of her look. She seemed so at ease. Most of the young ladies he’d met, excluding saloon women, weren’t very sure of themselves when men were around. Realizing he was staring too rudely, he lowered his hand. “May I carry that for you?” He motioned to the basket.
“I can manage it.” Her hold on it tightened ever so slightly, almost in unconscious defense of her property. “It isn’t heavy.”
“I insist.” Webb reached for the woven basket, which she reluctantly surrendered into his care. “Did you buy this off the Crow squaw at the depot?”
