River Song

by Sharon Ihle

  Cole gestured for them to follow as he made his way down the wooden planks toward the box cars. "I'm going to start raising ostriches," he shouted over a whoosh of steam.

  "Ostriches, lad? Glory be."

  They walked past several passenger and livestock cars before Cole finally spotted his unusual cargo. "There they are."

  The trio rushed up alongside the wooden car and peered through the slats. The enormous birds were a sight none were prepared for.

  Sunny's mouth dropped open, but no sound issued forth.

  Patrick squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them, but when he lifted his lids, the scene was unchanged. "Faith and begorra."

  Stunned, Cole took a backward step. "They must be seven feet tall."

  "Eight, mister," a voice from above supplied.

  Stunned, Cole looked toward the back of the car and observed a man sliding down off the ladder. His right leg was bracketed between two slats of wood bound together with strips of cloth.

  Leaning heavily on a cane fashioned from a mesquite branch, the man limped to the front of the boxcar and inquired, "You Fremont?"

  "Yes." Cole reached out to greet him, but the man merely nodded and wiped the back of his free hand under his nose.

  "Brought you twenty-nine of the thirty-two birds you ordered. Lost three once we hit the Californey desert. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta go find out if this town has a sawbones."

  "Wait." Cole stepped in front of the man, apologizing. "I see you've got some trouble there with your leg, but couldn't you give me just a little advice on what to do with these birds before you go?"

  "Yeah." The man turned his head to the side and spit a thick stream of tobacco juice onto the railroad tie. "Stay the hell away from 'em. I didn't get this busted leg playing poker in the caboose."

  "An ostrich did that?"

  "Oh, yes, and that's an almighty fact. You have bought yourself twenty-nine of the dumbest critters ever dropped on God's green earth. And if dumb ain't enough, they kick like a cow and got three times the strength. Good luck, mister—you're going to need it."

  Frantic for more information, Cole glanced at the birds and noticed their odd headgear. "Those hoods—what are they for?"

  The man laughed and spit another stream of tobacco. "Cute ain't they? But I strongly suggest you keep your new little friends wearing their bonnets. If you don't, and they get a look around and see they ain't at home, well, they're just likely to take off on you. Believe me, stopping a runaway ostrich isn't no easy trick. 'Sides," he laughed, "even if they stick around, without them bonnets, their little heads will get sunburned and they'll keel over, deader than a rock but still twice as dumb." He pushed off with his cane and began to hobble away. "Good luck, and make sure you hire a doc for your ranch. I got a feeling he's going to be a hell of a lot more important than a cook."

  Knowing the man wouldn't be delayed any further, Cole waved and called, "Thanks. Sorry for your trouble."

  Sunny moved up along side him, her eyes filled with wonder. "I cannot believe this. These birds are so big. I thought they would be much smaller." She bent over and gestured a few feet off the ground.

  Behind her, Patrick muttered, "Faith and begorra."

  Then a stranger approached. "Excuse me, these your birds?"

  Cole tore his gaze from his new enterprise and said, "Ah, yes, they are."

  "We'll be pulling out of Yuma in about two hours. Don't you want to feed and water these critters before we head out to Maricopa?"

  "Oh, of course."

  The official from the railroad craned his neck and shook his head as he studied the bonneted birds. "I'll send some men over to give you a hand."

  When the official had left, Cole turned to his wife. "Sunny, I'm not sure what the hell I've gotten us into."

  After a long moment and another glance at the herd, Sunny said, "I am not sure either, my husband."

  Stunned, the trio stood in front of the boxcar, peering inside, until a railroad worker stepped up to them. "You want to unload these birds in a stockyard, mister?" The kid's mouth dropped open as he followed their gaze. "Jumping Jehoshaphat." He wheeled around calling, "Hey, Jimmy, get on over here and lookie at this, would you?"

  Soon after, Cole had more help than he could have used herding a hundred head of cattle the length of Arizona. By the time the last ostrich lurched down the gangplank and padded into the fenced stockyard, a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered.

  "Please stay back," Cole beseeched the excited crowd as they crushed against the railing. "You're making them nervous."

  But no one budged, and their delighted voices grew louder.

  Nearby, pens of cattle bawled their terror, strained against their confines as the scent of something new and frightening reached their nostrils.

  Sheep bleated and converged in the center of their corral.

  Pigs squealed and frantically dug at the soft earth as they sought escape from the unknown.

  Things were getting out of control. Thinking if he could just manage to get the crowd to disperse, all the livestock would relax, Cole climbed to the top rail of the fence to make an announcement.

  But it was too late.

  An eager bystander reached across the barrier and removed the bonnet from one of the birds.

  An enormous pair of dark eyes darted around. The tiny bald head jerked a couple of times. And then, as if it faced nothing more than a small puddle, the ostrich leaped over the six-foot fence.

  Great puffs of sand followed the creature as it loped past the boxcars and down the streets of Yuma, scattering women, children, and livestock in all directions. It lurched like a drunk on payday as it lumbered onto Main Street, then stumbled around the corner and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  "What the hell?" Cole moaned, watching part of his sixteen-thousand-dollar investment gain its freedom.

  "Mother of God," Sunny breathed as the ostrich reappeared, only to crash through the swinging doors of The Bucket.

  Patrick jerked a silver whiskey flask from his back pocket and raised it on high.

  "Let the party begin."

  *

  Dear Reader;

  As a lifelong San Diegan, I’ve explored the west coast from one end to the other, spent many great camping trips with my family in the mountains of eastern San Diego, and enjoyed almost yearly trips to the Borrego Desert just beyond those mountains. During those trips we would venture into Yuma. At first I was mostly interested in the Yuma Territorial Prison, a nightmare of a place to be incarcerated that gave me goosebumps all over. Then I became interested in the number of Indian tribes that had, and still do, inhabited the area. There were many tribal names that I’d never heard of, but the Quechan Indians captured my interest the most. They are known for their beauty, height, and most of all, gentle natures. Unless crossed, that is. I thoroughly enjoyed creating my very own Quechan heroine and her family, along with a cowboy hero who comes to understand that prejudice has no place in an honorable society. I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed the journey of putting it together.

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