by Janet Dailey
When his father stepped down, Webb was running an inspecting hand down the bay’s right foreleg. “How is it?” the senior Calder asked.
“Looks like a strained tendon.” Webb straightened to pat the horse’s neck, already covered in a shaggy winter coat. His father didn’t attempt to verify the diagnosis with his own examination. A rider didn’t question another man’s judgment about his horse. Webb glanced toward the herd and the two riders that had come out to haze his bunch in with the others. “I don’t remember when I saw the cattle in better shape.”
“And they wouldn’t bring half of what they’re worth at market,” his father replied grimly. “I told Barnie to keep back all but the culls and the old stock. We’ve got more hay this year for winter feed, so we should be able to carry them through till spring. Maybe the prices will be up by then.”
“Sooner or later, the market’s bound to turn.” Webb understood the gamble his father was taking, holding that many cattle through the winter.
“Don’t count on it coming soon,” his father warned on a heavy note. “Bull Giles wrote that next year doesn’t look any better than this one. He said there’d probably be a short rise in cattle prices next spring, but not to expect it to hold.”
There was something else troubling his father. Webb sensed there was a reason behind this information. It was leading to something, but he couldn’t put his finger on just what.
“What do you figure—about another week before the roundup’s finished?” his father asked with a sideways look.
“Give or take a day.” Webb nodded his agreement with that timetable. They’d been more than five weeks out now, and the long hours were beginning to show on the men and horses.
“There’s a bunch of the hands I’m going to have to let go—just through the winter, I hope,” his father stated. “I can keep the married ones with families on the payroll, but the others—” He shook his head.
Webb frowned. He’d known the situation wasn’t good, but he hadn’t realized the ranch was in such severe straits that they’d be letting go some of their permanent hands. “Nate? Abe?”
“All of them are welcome to stay on the ranch, sleep in the bunkhouse, and eat in the cookshack, but I can’t pay them wages.” Benteen Calder didn’t single Webb’s two bunkmates out, but he included them by implication.
“We’re going to be carrying all these extra steers through the winter—with fewer men?” Webb couldn’t believe his father intended to take that gamble.
“I don’t have a choice” was the short reply.
There was a moment when Webb couldn’t respond. He looked across this land that stretched a man’s eyes with its limitless reaches. It was raw and wild, a witness to many changes. Webb saw more on the horizon.
“Maybe it’s time to take another look at operations of the ranch,” Webb suggested with a certain grim reluctance.
“What do you mean?” Benteen eyed him with narrowed interest.
“I mean the ranch is solely dependent on cattle. Maybe it’s time to diversify into other things.” He moved to the near side of the bay horse and flipped the stirrup over the saddle seat to loosen the cinch.
“Into what? Sheep? The wool market is as depressed as the cattle market is,” his father pronounced. “Between Australia and Europe, they’ve glutted the market.”
“I wasn’t thinking about sheep,” Webb replied, knowing his suggestion would be regarded as akin to blasphemy by his father. “The big money is in grain.”
“Wheat?” The word came out in a low shock of anger.
“They’re growing wheat all around us,” Webb reasoned firmly. “We’re already part granger now with all the hay we cut and stack. There’s no reason we can’t expand the farming side into wheat. It isn’t the lack of land that would prevent it.”
The angry pain of disillusionment was in his father’s eyes when Webb finally looked at him. “I thought you had some intelligence, but you are as stupid as those drylanders.”
“You mean the ones that are harvesting wheat?” Webb bristled.
“You think I’m gambling because I’m holding over so many cattle. But those drylanders are gambling with land. What happens when they lose?”
“Maybe they won’t lose.” Webb had seen some of the great shocks of wheat standing in the fields adjoining Triple C range while making the roundup.
“They’ll lose, all right,” his father stated in a voice that held no doubt. “This plains country has alternating cycles of wet and dry. Lately we’ve been enjoying the wet years when there’s been adequate rain. But the dry ones will come. They always have and they always will.”
Webb had a cold sensation that wasn’t caused by the nipping breeze. He studied his father with narrowed concentration, listening to the words that came from experience.
“You’re probably too young to remember what it was like in the early days.” Benteen gave him that much. “Do you see this grass?” He indicated the thick tangle growing tall at their feet. “I’ve seen it burned brown in the spring of the year, parched roots setting in ground that was dry and hard as a rock. Without the grass for covering to hold the soil, it would have blown away. That’s why it’s so important not to overgraze it. And those drylanders are plowing up this grass. We’ll have a drought again, and when we do, those homesteads of the drylanders will be a desert.” He gave Webb a long, hard look. “Every time you try to make the land be what it isn’t, it will turn on you and destroy you. If you don’t remember that, this land won’t be here for your son—if you ever have one.”
The grim words seemed to echo in the air as his father turned and swung his lofty frame onto the big gray horse. He reined it away from Webb and pushed it into a canter back to the herd.
After more than a month and a half out on the range rounding up cattle, the band of Triple C riders heading for town were flush with two months’ pay and ready to kick up their heels. They’d washed off the grime and sweat, shaved off the scraggly whiskers, and put on their best clothes. All but Webb and one or two others had drawn their last wages, but none of them intended to keep a tight fist on the money. The winter might be lean, but they were going to have one last fling to trade tales about while they were huddled around a heating stove on a cold Montana night.
They were riding along the dirt track that passed for the main road leading into Blue Moon. There were parallel ruts from the wheels of wagons and buggies, while hoofprints pockmarked the ground in between. A dark object was blocking the trail ahead of them.
“What’s that?” Nate eyed the black-colored obstacle in their way.
“It looks like Doyle Pettit’s automobile,” one of the other riders guessed. “I guess he broke down.”
The possibility presented an opportunity to rag the ex-rancher turned entrepreneur that these mischief-loving cowboys just couldn’t pass up. With a whoop and a shout, they spurred their horses into a gallop and descended upon the immobile automobile.
“Hey, boys!” Shorty Niles pointed to the rear tire that had been pried from the wheel with a sprung leaf and was propped against the back fender. “It looks like it threw a shoe.”
Their laughter didn’t faze Doyle Pettit as he examined the tube he’d extracted from the tire, trying to find the puncture. The large tool box on the running board sat open, displaying a wide array of tools.
“Go ahead and laugh, boys.” Doyle grinned. “I’ll have this tire patched and get to town before you will,” He located the hole. “Ah, here it is.” He picked up a piece of sandpaper and began rubbing it across the area.
“What are you doing way out here in that thing?” Webb leaned over his saddlehorn to watch the curious procedure.
“I went out to Big Jim Tandy’s place. He’s thinking about selling off some of his land, and I had a proposition to give him that will make both of us a lot of money. You won’t believe the prices of land, Webb.” He shook his bead in bright-eyed amazement and reached for a bottle sitting in the tool box. “It’s tripled since
spring, I swear. Harve Wessel got itchy feet. I bought out his share of our partnership. He thinks he’s moved on to greener pastures, but nothing can be greener than right here.”
“What’s that?” Webb nodded at the bottle.
“Benzine.” Doyle identified the product. “You wash it over the area around the puncture, then coat the spot with rubber cement and apply the patch.” He glanced at Webb and laughed. “I can do this in my sleep. I figure I average three flat tires on a trip between my ranch and town, so I got a lot of practice.”
“I thought you had to burn gunpowder to patch one of those things,” Webb said.
“That’s a hot patch, and it’s more complex. Takes more time than a cold patch like this.” Doyle explained in terms that showed off his knowledge. “I oughta stop out and see your pa sometime. There’s a fortune to be made in land right now.”
“You can talk to him.” Webb straightened in the saddle and gathered up the reins to leave. “But I don’t think he’ll listen.” He backed his horse away from the dusty black automobile. “See ya in town, Doyle, and take care or that horseless carriage of yours might buck you off.”
“If you don’t show up by noon, we’ll send somebody back with a horse to get you,” Shorty taunted as they pointed their mounts down the road.
Two miles from town, the band of riders heard the belching horn of the automobile behind them. They split into two groups, riding off the road to make way for the faster conveyance. The noisy vehicle rattled and chugged past them. Doyle risked taking one hand off the wheel, usually gripped with both at all times, and gave them a mocking wave. With his passing, the riders were engulfed in a cloud of choking dust and exhaust fumes.
When they rode into Blue Moon, the street was bulging with carriages and buckboards and the high-boxed, heavy-wheeled grain wagons. The granary had ceased to be an item of talk and was now standing at the end of the street near the railroad tracks. Just about everywhere a man looked, there were farmers and their families. The congestion forced the cowboys to hold their horses in a walk. They were strangely silent, feeling out of place in this scene, with few realizing they were an anachronism in this changed society.
From her seat on the wagon so recently converted with the installation of higher sides to haul their grain, Lilli saw Stefan come out of the granary office. There was an exuberance in his stride as he approached the wagon.
“Fifty bushels an acre,” he proclaimed the success of their harvest. She summoned a smile to show her pleasure in the news, and wondered why she wasn’t as excited as she should have been. It was the culmination of their dream; yet she felt curiously flat as Stefan climbed onto the wagon to sit beside her. “There is talk that Europe might go to var, and they think the price of vheat vill go even higher next year.”
“That’s good news.” Although it didn’t seem right to Lilli that they would profit from someone else’s adversity.
“Now ve go to the bank.” Stefan took the reins and released the wheel brake.
“Are we going to pay off the loan?” She knew Stefan had not liked being in debt.
“No, ve are going to borrow more money and buy more land vhile it is still cheap,” he declared. “And ve vill need money for more seed. Maybe even ve buy a tractor. Franz says a tractor can plow in one day vhat it vould take a team of horses to plow in two veeks. Ve could plant a lot of vheat.”
Stefan had not discussed any of this with her, but it was obvious that he had talked to Franz Kreuger about it at considerable length. It was just another example of the subtle way she and Stefan had drifted apart. They weren’t nearly as close as they once had been.
“I thought we were going to take the money we made on this harvest and build a real house.” Lilli made a tentative attempt to remind him of their initial plans. “Will there be enough to do that, too?”
“The house can vait,” he stated. “Next year, ve vill have much more money and ve can build a big house.”
But there were a lot of things in between that he left unsaid. Instead of paying off their loan, they were borrowing more money, which meant that would have to be closely budgeted. There would be nothing to spare for luxuries this winter—or even some of the minor necessities.
“Vhen ve go to the store, ve must get plenty of supplies,” Stefan advised. “Vinter vill come soon and it may be a long time before ve come to town again.”
“Yes.” But Lilli was noticing the horses wearing heavy stock saddles tied in front of the saloon. She wondered if Webb were inside. Almost guiltily, her glance darted to Stefan, and the silence between them grew longer. She couldn’t decide whether she was changing or if it was Stefan, but things weren’t the same between them anymore.
Shorty Niles stared incredulously at the aproned man behind the bar. “What do you mean we can’t get anything to drink?” he demanded.
“We don’t serve any liquor here until after three in the afternoon,” the man repeated. “Now, if you want somethin’ to eat, just park yourselves at one of those tables.”
“I don’t want anything to eat. I want a beer, Where’s Sonny?” Shorty looked around for the owner.
“He’s back in the kitchen cooking.” The man jerked a hand over his shoulder.
“Since when did this become a restaurant?” Another Triple C hand pushed his way to the bar to add his demand for an explanation to Shorty’s.
“Since the town passed an ordinance that outlaws liquor being served until after three in the afternoon,” the man explained none too patiently. “Sonny didn’t see any reason for the place to stand empty all day, so he started servin’ food since the town don’t have a restaurant.”
A half-dozen tables were occupied by diners taking advantage of the roadhouse’s additional service. The cowboys had been the center of their attention since they had charged into the establishment. Webb could tell they weren’t exactly welcome.
“I don’t care what any town ordinance says,” another disgruntled cowboy declared. “Let them eat, and give me a drink.”
“We got a sheriff that does care about that ordinance,” the man retorted. “Now, I told you we aren’t servin’ drinks until after three. And if you don’t like it, I just call the sheriff and let him settle this.”
“Why’d they pass a damn-fool law like that?” Nate frowned.
“I guess they didn’t want a bunch of likkered-up cowboys on the street molestin’ decent women anymore,” the man suggested in challenge.
“Tell you what,” Webb inserted. “Why don’t you sell us a bottle and we’ll go somewhere else.”
“Yeah.” There was quick agreement within the group. “We’ll go see Fannie.”
“Fannie ain’t here no more. The doc’s got his office back there now,” the man informed them.
“The doc? This town got a doctor?”
“A certified belly and bones doctor, name of Bardolph.”
“What happened to Fannie?” That seemed the greater concern among the men, since they preferred her cure for their ailments to any doctor’s remedy.
“The sheriff presented her with a train ticket out of town,” the man replied.
“I’m not findin’ much to like about this sheriff,” Shorty declared.
“What about the bottle?” Abe Garvey raised Webb’s question again. “Is it against the law to sell that to us, too?”
“Don’t remember there was any mention of that,” the man acknowledged. “So I reckon I can. But you don’t drink it in here,” he reminded them. There was a mocking display of raised hands and solemn oaths being taken.
“Better make that two bottles,” someone suggested when the man reached under the bar. “It’s a long, thirsty time till three o’clock.”
“Where are we gonna go?”
They all looked around at one another, trying to think of a good place to do a little serious drinking, until someone finally suggested, “Let’s go down to the train station.”
Two of the cowboys took a bottle apiece and tucked them inside th
eir jackets. All together, they trooped out of the roadhouse turned daytime restaurant and sauntered down the sidewalk toward the depot. They tipped their hats to all the ladies they passed and paid lavish compliments to the pretty, eligible ones. The responses were always the same. The quiet ones blushed and the others giggled. And the mothers always gave the cowboys stern, disapproving looks and hurried their virginal daughters along.
At the train station, they lounged around on the platform, making use of the benches and freight crates. After lonely months of having no one to talk to but horses and cows, they made up for the silence and lack of companionship with a lot of noise and laughter.
They’d barely got a good start on the second bottle when the sheriff strolled into their midst.
“Sorry, boys, but we don’t allow any loitering in public places, and this is a public place. You’ll have to move on,” he stated.
There was a lot of grumbling and a few choice words muttered underbreath, but they didn’t argue. “Hell, I was outa tobacco anyways,” Nate mumbled.
“Yeah, let’s go to the store.” Shorty picked up on the thought. “I been meanin’ to buy me a new jacket for winter.”
They set out en masse, retracing their steps and passing the saloon to go to the general store. An intrepid motorist came chugging into town in another one of those horseless carriages. A homesteader fought to hold his rearing team of horses and keep them from bolting. Distracted by the commotion in the street, Webb walked right into the woman coming out of the store, jostling the packages out of her arms and scattering them on the board sidewalk. He grabbed her to keep from knocking her down as well.
“Sorry, miss, I—” He stopped abruptly as he stared into a familiar pair of blue eyes. “Lilli.” Her name came out with the soft breath he released. His hands immediately became gentle on her, the pressure changing to an involuntary caress.
For a fleeting second, he saw a leaping warmth in her eyes; then her lashes came down, concealing it. “It was my fault, Mr. Calder,” she murmured, and her shoulders moved slightly in silent request that his hands be removed from them. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
