Stands a Calder Man

by Janet Dailey

  The needlework lay idly in her lap as Lorna Calder studied her mother dozing in the rocking chair with her mouth open. The withered skin and the shriveled body went with the thinning white hair, but they didn’t match the image that had been locked in her mind for so many years. She had known her parents had grown older, yet she hadn’t allowed her picture of them to age. She remembered them so differently.

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Who could ever have imagined her mother snoring? But she was the source of the sound that rose and fell with her breathing. Lorna picked up the needlework to resume the tiny stitches where she had left off.

  The afternoon quiet was disturbed by the rattle and chug of an automobile coming down the street outside, its noisy din growing louder as it approached. The stillness was shattered by a sudden, explosive backfire that startled her mother out of a sound sleep. She flung up her hands, the rocker taking off on a noisy creak.

  “It’s all right, Mother.” Lorna spoke up quickly. “It’s just an automobile.”

  “Those noisy contraptions.” She settled back in her chair and impatiently tugged the shawl around her shoulders. “The streets aren’t safe anymore.” She sniffed her disapproval. “They’re all over the place.”

  “They certainly are becoming popular,” Lorna conceded.

  Her mother sat up straighter, her wrinkled lips pinching together. “It sounds like that thing stopped in front of the house. Probably broke down. Go take a look, Lorna.” She waved a bony finger to hurry her along.

  Lorna set her needlework aside and walked to the window. Her eyes widened in disbelief when she recognized Benteen climbing out of the car. “Good heavens, it’s Benteen.” She didn’t bother to elaborate as she hurried out the door into the Texas-mild February afternoon. “What are you doing in that thing?”

  “How do you like it?” A smile split his sun-leathered face.

  “Like it? What do you mean?” She took another look at the black vehicle. “Don’t tell me you bought this?”

  “I did. I’ve arranged to have it shipped north with that new bull I bought.” He brushed at the dust that had collected on the shiny black fender. “It’s one of Ford’s Model Ts. That’s genuine leather on the seat. Climb in and I’ll take you for a ‘spin’—which is the salesman’s vernacular for a ride,” he explained with a wink.

  “Are you sure you know how to operate this thing?” Lorna eyed the machine with a degree of skepticism.

  “One of the first things I learned was “giddyup’ and ‘whoa’ don’t work,” Benteen teased. “Get in and I’ll start it up.” He helped her into the passenger seat, then walked around to the front. “To start the motor, you have to crank it. It’s like priming a pump.” He began turning the crank handle, which produced a grinding noise and a weak sputter.

  “Are you sure you know how to start it?” Lorna chided playfully when he stopped to catch his breath.

  “It takes some cranking,” he assured her and vigorously turned the crank again.

  Suddenly, he stopped, bending over to clutch the front edge of the hood. There was a fleeting moment when Lorna thought he was teasing her. Then he sank to his knees and she saw the hand clutched at his chest.

  “Benteen, what is it?” She clambered out of the car to rush to his side. He was laboring for breath, his face pale and contorted with pain. “What’s wrong?” She tried to get a shoulder under him and help him to his feet.

  “My chest . . . the pressure . . .” His rasping voice explained no more than that as more and more of his weight sagged on her.

  “Benteen. Oh, my God,” Lorna sobbed, unable to support him. She looked to the house. “Momma!”

  Both hands were clamped tightly around Benteen’s, so Lorna could feel the reassuring beat of his pulse, no matter how weak and faint. The black-coated doctor folded his stethoscope and returned it to his bag. His silent and serious look requested to speak to her privately. Reluctantly, she let go of Benteen’s hand and moved to the foot of the bed.

  “How is he? Will he be all right?” she asked in a thready whisper so Benteen wouldn’t hear. He’d been in and out of consciousness since the attack.

  “I will not pretend with you, Mrs. Calder. His condition is extremely serious,” the doctor replied soberly, “I consider it a miracle that he is still alive at all.”

  Lorna breathed in, and it caught in her throat. She was shaking all over and she tried to hold herself rigid. A response was impossible at the moment. Benteen stirred, drawing her teary gaze. She saw the feeble groping of his fingers for her and moved quickly to his side, taking his hand and pressing it to her lips.

  “I’m here, darling,” she managed shakily.

  His eyelids lifted, showing her the weak but determined light burning in his eyes. “Take me home, Lorma.” His voice was thin, without strength. “For God’s sake, don’t let me die in Texas.”

  “Sssh, darling.” The tears rolled down her cheeks at his plea, and her chin quivered. “You aren’t going to die.” His eyes closed and she knew he had drifted again into unconsciousness. “Doctor”—she lifted her face to him—“could he survive the train ride to Montana?”

  “In his condition, it’s unlikely, Mrs. Calder,” he replied.

  “Will he live if he stays here?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head sadly. “As I said, I don’t know how he has managed to survive at all.”

  Lowering her head, she pressed a hand to the middle of her forehead. She could have explained to the doctor that it was really quite simple. Benteen had provided the answer when he asked her not to let him die in Texas, but she didn’t think the doctor would understand. When they had crossed the Red River those many years ago, the Texas dirt had been washed from his boots. It was that Montana land he had craved then, and it was what he craved now. She had gone with him then, not knowing what was at the end; she would go with him now, still not knowing what was at the end.

  She ran her hand down her face, wiping away the tears. A calmness steadied her. “I should like to hire a nurse to make the journey with us. Would you recommend one, Doctor?” It was an order rather than a request.

  “Are you fully aware of what you are doing?” he asked.

  “Yes, Doctor.” She nodded. “I’m taking my husband home.”

  Through her husband’s connections, Lorna obtained the use of a private railroad car for the journey north. She hired an experienced nurse to travel with them and sent a wire to Webb. Over her parents’ protest and the doctor’s, she left Texas with Benteen a second time.

  The jolting rock of the private car as it followed the sharp bend in the tracks snapped Lorna awake. Guiltily, she realized she had dozed off, and glanced quickly at Benteen, but he appeared to be sleeping. Her tired muscles relaxed a little in the chair, the effects of the endless journey and the sleepless hours telling on her. They must be very near their destination now. She looked out the window, but the view was obscured by the crystal patterns of frost.

  “Are we home, Lorna?” His voice sounded remarkably clear.

  “We’re very close, darling.”

  The nurse had been resting in the sitting room of the private car. At the sound of voices, she came to the door and looked in. “Mrs. Calder, the porter came with a message a moment ago. He said to tell you that we had crossed the Yellowstone.”

  “Did you hear that, Benteen?” Lorna turned eagerly to him. The tightness of pain that had been about his face was smoothed away by contentment. A shaft of cold fear plunged into her heart. “Benteen?” She reached for him with both hands as the nurse came hurrying toward the bed, “No!” It was a cry of rage that ended in a wall of raw grief.

  The frigid wind blew the light covering of snow into dancing white spirals around the train depot. It was a solemn and silent cluster of cowboys who waited on the platform to meet the train puffing into the station. The shivering doctor was standing amidst the men huddling in their coats against the cold.

  The private
car was easily distinguishable from the others. Webb started for it the instant the locomotive reversed to a skidding stop on the ice-slick rails. He swung onto the car and pushed open the door, not bothering to knock. A woman in white turned with a start, in the midst of tying on a long wool cape. After a glance at Webb, she looked toward the opened door to the car’s second room. Webb went striding to it.

  After barely a step inside, he halted. His mother was sitting primly in a chair, her hands folded on her lap. She lifted a stark, tearless face to him. Then his gaze shifted to the bed and the sheet-draped form. He half-turned, his head lowering as he reeled from the blow.

  A black wreath hung on the front door of The Homestead, Webb climbed the steps and stopped to stare at it, the disbelief still numbing him. He turned and looked out over the ranch buildings and the jagged horizon, then lifted his gaze to the high blue sky. The cold froze the tears from his eyes.

  “It’s all yours, son. Take care of it.”

  That had been one of the last things his father had said to him.

  It had taken ice picks, not shovels, but they had buried Chase Benteen Calder this morning. And they had buried him under Calder land.

  IV

  Stands a Calder man,

  All alone is he,

  Passing to his son

  The Calder legacy.

  20

  At the head of the table, Webb sat easily in the chair with an arm hooked over the back of it. Initially he had been reluctant to occupy the place that had always been his father’s, but his mother had quietly assured him that she preferred to see him sitting at the head of the table rather than look at an empty chair.

  The china cup had long been empty of coffee, but he stayed, listening to the animated flow of conversation between his mother and Bull Giles, Bull had arrived at the ranch shortly after he had received notification of Benteen Calder’s death, and he stayed on, becoming almost a permanent guest. Webb was glad to have him. So much of his time was spent away from The Homestead and his mother was left alone for long periods. It eased his mind to know Bull Giles was on hand to keep her company.

  “Webb, this Sunday you must have Bull teach you how to drive the Model T,” his mother declared with a glitter of excitment in her eyes. “He took me for a ‘spin’ today. We went so fast that it just took my breath away.”

  When the automobile had arrived, Webb had thought his mother would want him to get rid of it, since it had caused his father’s attack. But she didn’t attach any blame to the vehicle. The Model T had been his father’s last purchase, and she placed more importance on that.

  “Did you drive it?” he asked.

  “I tried.” She laughed. “It bucked worse than a wild horse. I couldn’t get those pedals on the floor to work right. ‘Clutching,’ is that what you call it?” She asked Bull to verify the term, and he nodded. “And you have to grip the wheel with both hands. It jerks your arms so on rough ground trying to hold on to it that I’ll probably be sore for a week. But it was so much fun.”

  “I can tell.” Webb smiled at her. “It’s so good to hear you laugh.”

  Her expression became quietly thoughtful as she smoothed a hand over the waistline of her black dress and glanced at her old friend and companion. “I guess Bull has always known how to make a girl feel good, if only for a little while.”

  “I try, Lorna. I try.” Bull Giles was smiling widely, but a kind of hurt flickered in his eyes. “Is there any coffee left? I believe I’d like one more cup.”

  “There is.” His mother reached for the service to fill his cup. “Webb, how about you?”

  “No—” His refusal was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Webb lifted his head as the scuffle of boots and clanking spurs approached the dining room.

  Ike Willis and Nate Moore walked in, and removed their hats the minute they noticed a woman was present. Ike’s face was streaked with the same dust that powdered his clothes. Both men had serious looks etched in their faces.

  “What’s up?” Webb glanced from one to the other, his eyes narrowing slightly as he waited for one of them to speak.

  “We’ve got a family of squatters over on the east rim,” Ike said.

  “The east rim?” A frown was forming. “On our land?”

  “Yup. They cut the fence and drove their wagon right through,” Ike reported, turning his hat in his hand. “There’s six of ’em, a man and his wife, two older boys, and a couple of young’uns. I found ’em camped about a mile in where that big hollow is.

  They’d chopped down a couple of young cottonwoods growing along that dry wash and were riggin’ up a tent. I rode in and told them they were on private property and to git, but the man said you had no claim to the land. And his boys had a pair of rifles to back it up. So I hightailed it back here.”

  “Get four of the boys and have the horses saddled and ready to ride at first light,” Webb ordered.

  “What are you aimin’ to do?” Nate inquired with watching interest.

  “I’m going to have a talk with this family, explain a few facts; then we’ll escort them back through that break in the fence,” he replied. “The man’s got his family with him, so he isn’t likely to make trouble.”

  “I reckon not.” Nate nodded in agreement. “Guess we’ll see you in the morning. Good night, Mrs. Calder, Bull.”

  When the men had left, Bull Giles tapped his cigar in the glass tray and slid a sideways look at Webb. “I did tell you there would always be someone wanting to take it away from you, either in slices or the whole pie.” He reminded Webb of the conversation they’d had on the porch over two years ago.

  “You did,” he admitted with a recollection turned grim by the present situation. “Now we’ve got squatters.”

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Bull mused. “All the free land worth filing on has been claimed. The latecomers, the poor ones with no money, can’t afford to buy land. They probably don’t even have the money to go back to wherever they’re from, so they plop themselves down on a chunk of land and try to establish squatters’ rights. It’s worked in the past.”

  “It won’t work here,” Webb stated.

  “Don’t underestimate them,” Bull advised. “They are desperate people. All of these drylanders are, for the most part. I’m not talking about the farmers that came here from Iowa, Minnesota, or Kansas. It’s the others, the majority that are immigrants.”

  When Bull paused, Webb remained silent. He couldn’t help thinking of Lilli while Bull was speaking about the drylanders.

  “They are hungry for land, so hungry that they’ll take anything, good or bad, free land or someone else’s.” Bull released a short laugh of quiet incredulity. “Just the other day I heard they were filing on land in the Missouri Flats of the upper Madison. At that altitude, wheat can’t even mature.”

  “The others, the ones that were here first, they seem to be doing all right,” Webb commented, still thinking of Lilli and her husband, and the wheat harvests they had made.

  “They’ve been growing wheat, lots of it,” Bull conceded. “From what I’ve been able to learn, it’s only enough to get them from one year to the next. Every year, they have to borrow money to buy seed. When they sell their wheat, they pay off the bank and have enough left to squeak through the winter. Next year, they always hope it will be better.”

  “I’ve heard that some have bought additional land so they can plant more wheat and increase their profits.” It was what Lilli’s husband had done.

  “What some people fail to realize, and others who don’t care, is that three hundred and twenty acres in Montana is equal to about thirty acres in Illinois or Iowa. Doubt that and you’ve got sixty. You can’t make much of a living off sixty acres.”

  “Then you are saying they’ll never get ahead,” his mother said with a tiny frown.

  “A few might make it, but the majority won’t.” He shook his head. “Don’t forget, the price of wheat has never been this high. As long as there�
��s trouble in Europe and England and France are at war with Germany, it will probably hold. But you’ve watched the cattle market go up and down over the years. The grain market isn’t going to stay at its present level forever. No one seems to be looking that far ahead. Not even the banks. That new bank in Blue Moon, the one old Tom Pettit’s son Doyle has half-interest in, they have outstanding loans that are more than double what they have on deposit. The bottom’s going to drop out of everything one of these days.” He rolled the cigar between his lips, then took it away to study the building ashes. “I’d be careful where I kept my money.”

  During the months Bull had been staying with them, Webb had discovered he was a wise counsel. Practical experience had given Webb knowledge of cattle, men, and the market, but he was learning some of the finer points of politics and other economic influences from Bull Giles. The Triple C Ranch was nearly as big as some of the eastern states, but it was affected by what happened outside its boundaries.

  “By the way, it’s official that Bulfert is running for the Senate,” Bull informed Webb. “You might want to give some serious thought to supporting his campaign.”

  “Are you recommending it?” Webb smiled.

  There was a responding smile, tinged with wryness. “Just as long as you don’t trust him too far.”

  It was midmorning when the small band of riders approached the large depression in the rolling plains of the east rim section. They weren’t within sight of the squatters’ camp, but Webb noticed the puff of dust ahead of them.

  “Looks like they had someone watching for us.” Nate had observed it, too.

  Webb merely nodded. When they came onto the rounded lip of the hollow, he saw the squatters’ camp below. A dirty gray tent stood next to a wagon. Wisps of smoke were curling up from a dying campfire in front of the tent where a woman was hurrying two small children inside. A scrawny lad of about fourteen was trotting two horses toward the thin stand of cotton-woods behind the tent. A second boy, not much older, was standing next to the wagon with a man who was obviously his father.