A Man Called Scar

by Jim Cox

  It took him a few days to learn the techniques, but he soon caught on and pulled his weight. He now rode the Henry James horses, which allowed Maude time to fully recuperate. She moseyed along behind the chuck wagon, carrying a few things for Rowdy.

  Day after day, the herd plodded on. The days were long and the work was hard, but the riders were dedicated to their work, so the drive continued as planned. There were problems, though. When cows got stuck in bogs or quicksand, for example, men would have to dig down in the mud and put ropes around the animal’s hind legs to pull them out, leaving the men covered in grime from head to toe.

  It was late afternoon when the wagon topped a small hill, and the Mississippi River came into sight. Rowdy called the team to a stop and climbed down in wonderment.

  Scar was riding in the lead edge of the herd when he saw the wagon stop nearly a half mile ahead. The cows were walking in a calm, steady pace, so he headed for the wagon in a trot. He climbed down and stood by Rowdy. Both men were eyeing the river. It was the second time Scar had seen the Mississippi. The first time was when he traveled up the river to St. Louis with his father. He had felt safe on the large riverboat, but crossing the river by hanging onto a horse’s saddle was almost unthinkable.

  “How are we going to get the herd across, Rowdy?” Scar asked in a subdued tone.

  “That’s for Boss to figure out, but while we’re waiting, we might as well get a fire going and have coffee ready for the men. You get the wood, and I’ll get the pot ready.”

  When the cows caught up, they bypassed the wagon and continued to the river for water. The men had gathered at the wagon with looks of disbelief at the magnitude of the river. Cups had been filled a couple times when Boss stepped to the center.

  “Men, I know the crossing looks impossible, but it’s been done before, and we’ll do it again. I won’t soft-peddle the danger. We’ll lose several head of cows in the crossing process, and perhaps a drowning might occur. We must be extremely careful. The good news is the river’s water level is very low with practically no current. I’ll ride up and down the river to find the best place to cross. Maybe we can find a sandbar to rest on and won’t have to cross the entire river at one time.”

  “How will we get the chuck wagon across, Boss?”

  “We’ll build a raft.” Heads turned in response to Boss’ comment.

  Three days later, the herd was moved upstream to a perfect location for crossing. The river made a turn that caused a deep but narrow channel on its west side. On the east side of the channel was a wide sandbar that extended over halfway across the river. And the water depth on the east side of the sandbar was shallow enough for the cows to walk.

  In spite of the location and the low water level, over thirty cows drowned in the crossing and some cows floated down river, never to be found.

  The days following the crossing were long. They started before sunrise and didn’t stop until twilight. Every man knew they were in a race to beat the trains. If they lost, the Chicago cattle pens would be full, and prices would be low. If they arrived ahead of the trains, the slaughter plants would bid against one another, resulting in high prices. No man on the drive wanted to get to Chicago and find the pens filled.

  It was mid-October when the Henry James’ herd of trail-weary cattle entered Chicago and headed for the pens. The wranglers who drove them were tired, dirty, and ready for a change. Though the drive ended with the loss of two men and at least a hundred and fifty cows, the men were jubilant when they found the pens empty. As hoped, several buyers were eager to place their bids. Boss haggled all afternoon and finally settled on an offer of twenty-six dollars a head from the Swift and Company, one of the most respected slaughter plants in the Midwest.

  After going to the Cattlemen’s Bank, Boss paid the men their agreed upon wage of twenty-five dollars a month, plus a five-dollar bonus for their extra effort. Each man got one hundred thirty-five dollars in total. Scar waited for the others to leave before approaching Boss. “You paid me too much,” he said. “Our agreement was fifteen a month.”

  “We pay what a man earns,” Boss said firmly. “You’ve earned every penny. You started the drive as a young man with unknown qualities, but quickly were doing your share of the work. You’ve earned the respect of everyone on the drive. You’ll do to ride the river with, Scar. You’ve become a man and should receive a man’s wage.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Scar waited until Boss had stored the sale papers before asking, “What’ll you do now?”

  “Rowdy and I will head back to the ranch in a couple of days. I imagine most of the men will hang around town having a good time until their money runs out. Then they’ll ride the grub line back to the James spread in time for the spring roundup.”

  “Why do the men keep coming back, Boss? The job is hard and dangerous, and the pay;s not great for the time they put in.”

  “They hate the trail,” he said with a smile. “But they love riding for the brand. It gets in their blood. What about you, Scar? What are your plans?”

  “I saw a HELP WANTED sign on one of the slaughter plants. Thought I might apply and work a few months before returning.”

  Boss countered, “It’s a hard, nasty job, but the pay’s pretty good, as I understand.”

  Two days after the herd was sold, Boss and Rowdy checked out of their Chicago hotel and started home. Scar was sad to see them leave and reluctant to stay behind. But his plans were firm. He was going to apply for a job at one of the slaughter plants.

  He was anxious to start looking for a job, so he ate a hearty noon meal at the hotel and headed south for the plants, riding Maude. His first stop was the Swift and Company plant, six blocks south of his hotel. After a short interview with the plant manager, Scar was hired. He would start work the next morning at six o’clock. He was told the daily work hours would be from ten to twelve hours, and the pay was one dollar for a full day’s work. When Scar asked about living quarters, the manager said, “There’s a place called Millie’s Boarding House one block west of here. It’s not the nicest in town, but I understand the rates are low and the meals are good. They also have a barn for your horse.” Scar noticed the manager glancing at his scar several times during the interview, but the man didn’t ask about it.

  Scar tied Maude to the hitching rail in front of Millie’s Boarding House, climbed five steps to the front door, and knocked. An elderly woman came to the door and invited him in. “I’m Millie,” she said, but she didn’t offer a last name. “I’m the owner of this place. I’m also the cook.” After a few minutes of getting acquainted, Scar was told there was a room available on the second floor, and the weekly rent fee of two dollars and fifty cents included breakfast and supper. It also included a stall in the barn for his mule; the hay would be extra. The rent was to be paid in advance.

  Scar paid Millie the two dollars and fifty cents and made arrangements to move his belongings in later that evening. He looked at his room and then went to the barn. The plant manager at Swift was right—the facilities weren’t the nicest. The outside needed some repairs and painting, but they were adequate for a trail hand such as him.

  Going to the hotel to check out and get his belongings, he passed a café called The Dew Drop Inn three doors down from Millie’s Boarding House. The café’s hours were from five a.m. to seven p.m. “That’ll be a convenient place to lounge and have coffee,” he thought.

  Both of Boss’ predictions came true. The Henry James ranch hands left Chicago two weeks later with empty pockets. And the slaughter plant work was nasty with long, hard hours. Scar worked in the gut room, cleaning up the slaughter remains and washing the floor. He had very little leisure time except for Sundays. He spent a few afternoons at the Dew Drop Inn, drinking coffee and reading the Chicago newspaper. Occasionally, he would attend something special, like a play at the theater, and during the Christmas season he rode Maude to the downtown area a couple of times, looking at displays and watching people scurrying about.

 
; The Chicago winter was depressing to Scar. The days were short and always gloomy; it seemed the sun never shined. It was during one of these depressed times in February that Scar wrote a letter to Liz and one to the Double D folks. He wrote about his boarding house room and described his work the best he could and wrote about the theater and other events he had attended. He ended by saying how much he missed them and his life at the ranch.

  Spring finally came with sunny days. Heavy coats could be shed, flowers were starting to come up, and streets were becoming busier with people scurrying about. People were friendlier, including Scar.

  His plan was to hold his job until late May and then leave for Colorado. However, one week before he planned to leave, he was offered a supervisory position, managing the carcass aging room with a salary of forty dollars a month. He accepted.

  The new job was in a clean environment but involved backbreaking work. Carcass halves, weighing over two hundred pounds, were carted into the huge room where men would lift and hang them from a suspended ceiling rod. After sixty days of aging, the carcasses were lowered for shipment. Large ice blocks cut from local lakes during the winter were stacked in one corner of the room, keeping the temperature at fifty degrees. Scar supervised eighteen men. A lot of time passed.

  Scar spent most of his spare time at the Dew Drop Inn, drinking coffee with new friends. Their conversations covered most everything, from weather to politics and everything in between. On one occasion, they had a cake sitting on a table when he came in. It was his nineteenth birthday.

  One summer day, Scar poured himself a cup of coffee at the Dew Drop and sat down to read the newspaper. He was floored at the headlines. MASSACRE AT LITTLE BIGHORN. It went on to say that on June 26, 1876, Lt. Col. George A. Custer and two hundred and sixty-three of his battalion were killed by an Indian uprising.

  A week later Scar quit his job. He had acquired a good reputation as a supervisor and was offered another promotion with excellent pay, but he wanted to go home. He wanted to see his family. He wanted to see Liz.

  Hardly a day had passed during the previous two years that Liz had not been in his thoughts. Now, Scar found himself sitting in his room, becoming anxious, even excited about seeing her. “Has she changed much?” he wondered. “Has she grown taller? Does she still have freckles? Was she still perky and kind of bossy?” He tried to imagine what Liz was doing right then—halfway hoping she was thinking of him.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Liz was in her room packing her belongings for the long trip home. She was in a gala mood, humming and whistling tunes as she packed her traveling chest, eager to catch the morning train. It had been two years since she left home and she could hardly wait to return. She was eager to see her mother and father and the other Double D men she considered family. Especially Bart, she was anxious to see him.

  She set a box of personal papers on the bed and sorted through them, placing the items she wanted to keep in her traveling chest. There were letters from her teachers, written essays she had completed for class, books she could use when she took up teaching, and many other similar items. She placed the leather bag containing Bart’s Bible into the chest and was about to pack the letters she’d received from her mother, but they brought back memories. Liz untied the string holding the letters and pulled out the first one she’d received, back in her first year at school. She remembered how sad and lonely she had been.

  When Liz arrived in Philadelphia, she was assigned an upstairs room in a large converted house with three other girls. The house was a few yards away from their classroom building. Her bed was narrow but comfortable. She was allotted three drawers in a tall chest sitting in a corner and several pegs along the wall for hanging clothes. It was obvious her three roommates had become the best of friends, and Liz hoped she would soon be included in their tight-knit group.

  She had looked forward to making friends and enjoying the school’s activities, but the connections did not come easily. She met a few girls close to her age, but most of the girls were a couple of years older and had already been in school for a year or two. Nearly all of them wore fancy, store-bought dresses and fashioned their hair in the latest styles. Liz noticed most were well along in their womanly development, with curves in all the right places. Liz was rather plain compared to the other girls. She was very thin and gangly but had good posture. Dark freckles covered her entire face, and her red hair was always braided into two pigtails, giving her a childlike appearance. Her homemade dresses were very plain.

  In the beginning, a few classmates asked Liz to join them in studies or other activities, but their hospitality soon ran its course. Liz began to feel she was being shunned. Her roommates walked to class without her, and she often sat by herself at noon meals. When she was in a group setting, no one spoke to her. During the breaks between classes, the girls were all giggly and jolly until she approached, but then heads turned away with low whispers. She attempted several times to become involved and make friends but eventually resigned herself to isolation and dedicated herself to schoolwork, reasoning that schooling was why she’d come. Consequently, away from the classroom, Liz buried herself in studies. She spent most of her time completing the curriculum, staying well ahead of her classroom assignments. When her homework was completed, Liz read books that advanced her educational knowledge, which she hoped would be useful in the coming years. On occasion, teachers would ask Liz to join them on trips to places of interest in the city. Sometimes, they went to a play at one of the theaters.

  Two months before the end of her first year, Mrs. Dycuss, the school’s headmistress, asked her to stay after class. She wanted to talk with Liz for a few minutes. “Liz, do you like school, do you like being here?” she asked.

  “Aren’t my grades good, Mrs. Dycuss? Am I lacking in my homework? I can study harder, and I can do better. I…I…I.”

  “Settle down, Liz. Your work is excellent. I have never had a better student than you in my teaching career, but you seem lonely and sad. What is it, Liz?”

  “I suppose I’m homesick,” Liz said as tears started to flow. “But mostly, it’s because I haven’t been able to make friends. Most girls around here do things together, but they won’t include me, and I don’t know why. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”

  Mrs. Dycuss looked at Liz’s tearstained face and said, “Young girls can be hateful and cruel toward their peers, especially if people don’t fit into their mold. I expect that’s your problem. You’re Irish, Liz, and some people look down on the Irish in this part of the country. Try not to let it bother you. You have a great personality and an excellent work ethic. Don’t ever change.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dycuss.” Liz was quiet for a moment before looking at the headmistress and saying, “I didn’t know people looked down on the Irish. My parents are wonderful people. I wish you could meet them.”

  “They’d have to be, to raise a daughter like you.”

  Time lingered for nearly a minute before Mrs. Dycuss proposed, “I have a problem and need your help, Liz. Would you be willing to do some extra work? Perhaps it will help with your social situation.”

  “What is it, Mrs. Dycuss? You know I’ll help if I can.”

  “I want you to tutor three girls for me, and one is your roommate, Mary. These three girls have been here for several months and in the beginning made fair grades, but for the last six weeks, their work has been substandard. They’re intelligent enough but won’t apply themselves. If they don’t improve soon, I’ll be forced to send them home.”

  Liz was dazed. She couldn’t believe what was being asked of her. After a minute of consideration, she responded. “There’s not a girl in this school who likes me, Mrs. Dycuss. Do you really think I’m capable of helping? Wouldn’t some other student be better?”

  “I wouldn’t consider anyone but you, Liz. And, yes, I believe you’re more than capable.”

  The tutoring was a little awkward at first, but Liz presented herself as providing assista
nce instead of flaunting her superior knowledge. Liz was proud to discover that after two weeks of her tutoring sessions, the students’ grades were improving. Word got around regarding Liz’s skills, and soon several classmates were asking for her counsel. The attention pleased Liz and gave her a feeling she was making headway socially, even though she had not yet been invited to join any of the groups.

  She was the last one left in the classroom one afternoon when Mrs. Dycuss approached her. “Your tutoring has done wonders for the girls, Liz, they won’t have to leave. You’ve done an outstanding job.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dycuss. I’ve enjoyed helping them. And you were right. I believe a few of the girls are becoming friendlier.”

  “Here, Liz, I want you to have this,” Mrs. Dycuss said as she handed Liz an envelope. “It’s a letter about your character and accomplishments. It gives a glowing recommendation for a teaching job, and should be useful when you’re applying for employment.”

  Liz had started for the door when Mrs. Dycuss called her back. “We’re having the annual dance in two weeks, Liz. We always have lots of fun. Are you coming?”

  Liz quickly recalled how she had enjoyed dancing with Bart during the party on their trip to Colorado, but she shook her memories off and answered the question before her. “I doubt it, Mrs. Dycuss. I don’t seem to attract boys.”

  The dance was an annual event held jointly with the boys’ school across town and took place at the end of each school year. Liz had been aware of the affair for a couple of weeks since the dance was the topic of nearly every conversation at the school. She had listened to girls discussing what they would wear and how their hair would be fixed.

  A week before the dance, Liz was climbing the stairs to her room when she saw her door open. She paused in the corridor and heard her roommate’s voices. “Wouldn’t it be terrible if she showed up at the dance? She’d spoil the whole affair. If I could, I’d put up a sign saying, NO IRISH ALLOWED.”