Montana Sky_Baling Wire Promises

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  A high-pitched scream split the calm.

  Body tensing, Fantine gasped and looked over her shoulder.

  Kittie sat with her arms outstretched, eyes scrunched shut but crying.

  The other children sat up, rubbing fists into their eyes.

  Mister Andrews stood near the fire, his coffee cup suspended in front of his face. Eyes wide, he glanced between her and the wagon.

  “Erin, dear.” Fantine increased the pace of her milking strokes, ignoring the strain in her fingers. “Pat her on the back and tell her I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Footsteps approached, and Mister Andrews crouched near Charmant’s head. “Maybe I can finish this.”

  Not missing a stroke, she glanced to the side. “Have you dealt with goats before?”

  “No, but I milked my grandfather’s cow when I was a boy.”

  Good enough. “Watch how I close my thumb and first finger here. That grip traps the milk, followed by me squeezing with the other three fingers to expel it.” For now, Kittie’s cries had quieted to sobs, so Fantine could watch his first attempt. “Whatever you do, don’t step behind them. They kick.”

  Satisfied he had the knack, she turned and hurried across to the wagon, making sure to smile as she drew close. “Morning, my sweeties. Who’s ready for a new day?” From the side of the wagon, she reached to smooth Kittie’s hair over her ear with one hand while she patted Nara’s back with the other. Keeping her tone light, she encouraged everyone off the mattress, down to the creek to splash water on their faces, and directed the boys in one direction and the girls in another to tend to toilet matters. Ander was a good sport and carried Julian piggyback style. The burns on the young boy’s feet hadn’t healed enough for him to wear his shoes.

  Thankfully, this being the fourth day of their journey, the children knew the morning routine and took care of dressing themselves. Afterward, they split off to their chores—Ander walked the animals to the creek for water, Julian poured a scoop of oats into two shallow pans, and Erin filled the water bucket. Kittie and Nara did their best to fold everyone’s nightclothes and fit them into a gunny sack.

  Worry settled over Fantine’s thoughts as she watched the slow way the children moved. As if the long night’s sleep hadn’t restored their energy. She lifted a bowl from the crate of dishes and grabbed a wooden spoon. “Who wants flapjacks for breakfast?”

  Her question brought a happy response—from the four who answered. She glanced around and spotted Mister Andrews approaching with the metal bucket. In his other hand was a cup with steaming liquid. Her coffee—she’d forgotten about it.

  “Not sure I got all the milk, but the goat started dancing and scooting away.”

  She took a sip of the strong brew and wished for just a bit of sugar. No matter, she was grateful for what she had. “I didn’t have time to show you the trick for making sure all the milk has let down. But I do appreciate your help.” As she talked, she scooped flour into a bowl, made a well then filled it with fresh milk before stirring. Without eggs, the batter needed to be thick. The last of the Saskatoon syrup she’d made the first day on the trail would complement the flapjacks.

  “Listen, everyone. I have a wonderful idea.” Fantine looked around the group to see if she had the children’s attention. “Let’s stay here and go on a treasure hunt for food.” She noticed Mister Andrews sat with his back against a tree. Maybe his ribs hurt again.

  “No wagon ride today?” Nara tilted her head and clasped her hands under her chin.

  “Nope, this will be our camp for another night.” She poured a few drops of oil into the skillet and then dropped in spoonfuls of batter. The liquid sizzled in the grease, releasing a wonderful aroma, and air bubbles surfaced. “I’ll bet we find a couple types of berries and some wild greens. Maybe even some biscuitroot or salsify.”

  “But how will we find them?” Erin stood close and watched Fantine’s movements.

  As she bustled around, filling cups with milk and setting flapjacks onto plates, she described the plants they’d search for. No one had a question, but that was all right. She was sure they would when they walked through the fields. When the final batter had been poured into the pan, she went to the tailgate where the children stood.

  “All right, time for everyone to drink.” She picked up the cup she’d poured for herself. Knowing the milk would taste strong because the nannies weren’t getting much grain, she’d devised a game. They all pinched their noses and raced to see who could finish first. All she really hoped for was that they’d swallow a half cup or so to help fill their bellies.

  Eyeing each other, the boys gulped and then slammed down their cups. “Done,” they proclaimed together.

  The girls were finished only a few moments later. Fantine waited until she saw Kittie ease the cup from her mouth before she took her last swallow. The aftertaste was stronger than she preferred but she welcomed the nourishment. “Well done. Now, eat your flapjacks.” Fantine tucked two forks into her skirt pocket, grabbed the last two plates, and stepped to the skillet to flip the last five.

  After setting the pan away from the flames, she walked over to where Mister Andrews rested. “Here.” She handed him the plate with three cakes and then leaned a shoulder against the tree while she ate.

  “Obliged. They smell good.”

  Companionable moments passed while they finished the meager portions. She scraped the last bite through a small speck of syrup and popped it in her mouth. “Finished?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And thanks.” He extended his empty plate upward.

  She stacked her own on top of his and settled the forks under her thumb. “I noticed you’re resting. How are the ribs feeling?”

  “Still sore, but better. Spending a day out of the saddle will help them heal.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Although I wasn’t consulted, I agree a day of rest is a good idea.”

  “Not consulted?” Fantine couldn’t stop her stare from popping wide.

  He thumbed up the front brim of his hat then pointed to his chest. “Wasn’t I asked to be the guide?”

  Right. That’s exactly what she’d done. She nodded. “I apologize, Mister Andrews. I only knew our food supply was dwindling. And what better way to fill it than by taking the children on a hike and teaching them something about nature?” At the word ‘hike’, she stopped. “Oh, would you mind if Julian stays in camp with you? The soles of his feet have blisters and aren’t yet healed. But he shouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “Could I ask a question?” His head tilted, and he narrowed his gaze. “Are you always this chipper in the morning?”

  Tensing, she glanced at the children. “Being chipper is my crutch.” She squatted and braced her free hand on the ground. The man deserved an answer, but she didn’t want the children to overhear. She gazed into his dark blue eyes and was stunned by the concern she spotted. Don’t relent to his compassion. “If I don’t pretend to be perky and optimistic, then what chance do I have of changing the images in those kids’ minds? Or the ones that haunt my own?”

  Hot tears burned her eyes, and she swallowed hard against a dry throat. “I have to do something to erase the cries and the screams and soften our memories of the fear and the stench.” Her grip tightened, and her fingers dug into the dirt. “Looking for good and bright things is the only remedy I know, and I’m not giving it up.” Before she became a blubbering mess, she shoved to a stand and jammed her hands on her hips. “Besides, being happy doesn’t cost a blasted cent.”

  ****

  The others were barely out of hearing range, and already Pete regretted agreeing to keeping an eye on the kid. No trouble, Miss Pomeroy promised. Ha. The boy had voiced one question after the other. Did the cuts on his face hurt? Where he’d get such a swell hat? How many bullets did the revolver hold? How heavy was it? Could he hold the gun? From where Pete stood nursing another cup of coffee, he angled his body toward the wagon bed and gave the boy a dark look. “Now listen, kid, I’m not letting you anywhe
re near my weapon. So quit asking.”

  Thin shoulders slumped, and the boy ducked his head. “Ah, golly-gee. I never have any fun.”

  The plaintive note in the boy’s voice tugged a memory from Pete’s own childhood. Of wanting to do everything his older brother, Valerik, did and at the same time. No matter that Pete, or Petya as he was called then, was two years younger, inches smaller, pounds lighter, and less coordinated. Pete had so looked up to his big brother that he was willing to try any task, and he’d suffered plenty of bumps and bruises in the attempts.

  Well, he and the boy had to do something to pass the time. He tossed back the last swig of coffee and leaned over to set the mug on a rock. Then he walked to the wagon bed and rested his forearms on the wooden side. “Miss Pomeroy said your feet are blistered. What happened?” He glanced at the cloth booties tied over what must have been bandages on the boy’s small feet. Stick-like legs disappeared into the ragged hems of a pair of denim overalls. Geez, this kid has no meat on his bones.

  “I ran into the orphanage.”

  “When the building was already burning?” Pete couldn’t keep the surprise from his tone. Where had the adults been? Was that why Miss Pomeroy had been so defensive?

  “My wooden ships were in the classroom. I had to get them. But the fire was too hot.” Julian sniffled and rubbed the back of his hand under his nose. “I stepped on bits of fire falling from the ceiling.”

  Unable to hold back a wince, Pete nodded. “That must have hurt.”

  “Miss Fantine told me to stay back, but I had to try. The big one was the only toy that was just mine.” He heaved out a sigh and slumped.

  Why had he agreed to this? He was in over his head. He hadn’t been around kids since he was a kid himself. “I’m sure she told you afterward that a toy wasn’t as important as staying safe.” When the boy didn’t answer, Pete searched for another topic. “Bet you were brave and got yourself away from the fire, right?”

  He ducked his chin and shook his head of curly brown hair. “Nope. Miss Fantine carried me out on her back.”

  “She did?” Pete studied the boy’s profile and saw his lower lip trembling. Come on, kid, hold it together.

  “Yep, and the smoke made us cough real bad. At the end, she had to crawl.”

  His estimation of the feisty woman increased. Maybe she’d done the best she could in a tough situation—and by herself.

  “But how’s my pa gonna f-find me now?” Tears streamed down Julian’s cheeks.

  “What do you mean?” How could a kid in an orphanage have a father?

  “The building where he left me is gone, and the ship he’d know me by is ashes.” He swiped at his cheeks and pulled up onto his knees, staring upward. “Sister Catherine said I was carrying the ship when my pa left me at the orphanage. Even though I was little like three years old, I never let anyone touch my ship. And I barely played with it so it would look the same when he came back for me.”

  Nothing in his upbringing had prepared Pete for dealing with this type of situation. He’d had a happy childhood with loving parents, four siblings, books and toys and games, a decent house, and plenty of food on the table. He cleared his throat.

  “And Miss Fantine is taking us f-far a-away.” The boy’s shoulders shuddered as he burst into sobs.

  Geez. Pete reached out a hand and awkwardly patted the boy’s shoulder. He scoured his memories for what games he liked playing when he was this young. What was a special activity they could do here? “Hey, kid, do you know how to whittle?”

  “Huh?” Julian straightened and wiped a forearm under his nose.

  Biting back a grimace, Pete dug his handkerchief from his back pocket and held it out. “Whittling. You know, shaving off pieces of wood with a knife.”

  “Yeah, Miss Fantine taught me a little bit.” Julian rubbed the cloth over his cheeks and under his nose.

  “Is that right?” This kid was a font of information, and Miss Pomeroy was full of surprises. “Well, seeing as we both need to keep somewhat still, let’s do some whittling.”

  “Don’t got a knife.”

  “I have knives. What kind of wood do you want?” Pete glanced around the campsite. “Black cottonwoods, alders, and water birches grow along the creek, around here are aspen and mountain ash, and up the slope a bit are ponderosa pine and Douglas fir. But those probably have too much resin.”

  “Dunno.” He shrugged. “What kind of wood are you getting?”

  Should’ve seen that question coming. “I like aspen. The wood’s soft, and the bark’s thin.”

  “Yeah, I like aspen, too.” Julian nodded.

  Pete moved around the site, kicking at the leaves and sticks on the ground without finding much. Probably any free-fall wood had been collected for last night’s fire. He stepped to the edge of the bare dirt. Lying atop and within the spikes of a nearby juniper bush were several small aspen branches. He gathered a few then dug through his pack for his pouch with jackknives and a whetstone. Because he hadn’t used them in a long while, the weathered pouch was at the bottom.

  He carried the supplies back to the wagon and set them on the downed tailgate. “I’ll give you first choice of whichever piece of wood you want.” As he watched the kid pick up each one, he unwound the rawhide thong from the two-inch carved oak clasp and unrolled his tools. Woodworking had been a way to pass the long winter nights when he worked as a fur trapper to supply the family’s leather craft business. He’d produced plenty of buckles for belts and straps, buttons of all sizes, bowls, goblets, and a musical flute or two. Some turned out better than others, but all were serviceable and valuable as trade items.

  “I choose this one. What’s next?” Julian reached out a small hand toward the pouch.

  “Don’t touch.” Seeing the kid jerk back made Pete realize he’d need to adopt a softer tone. “If you want to work with tools, first you need to learn what they do and how to treat them. Got it?”

  Julian looked up and blinked big brown eyes as he nodded.

  Tapping each as he said the name, Pete went down the line of tools tucked into leather pockets. “Flat files, rasps, round file, small knife, big knife, auger bits, handle for bits, small poker.” Then he touched the block next to the pouch. “Whetstone. Do you know what that’s for?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sharpening blades or cutting edges.” Hmm, maybe teaching him about that wasn’t such a good idea. “But those are only for adults to use.” He pulled the two jackknives from their pockets and handled the smaller one to the kid. Then he grabbed the straightest branch for himself. “Don’t open it yet. Go ahead and sit at the edge of the tailgate, and show me what you know so far.”

  “What do you mean?” Julian tilted his head.

  “Pretend to whittle with the blade closed.” He watched as the kid made five or six swipes, with the knife moving away from his hand. “Good. Go ahead and unfold the blade.”

  The boy pinched his fingertips and pulled at the top edge but the spring was too strong. He scrunched up his face and grunted.

  Pete opened the knife, reversed it, and extended it handle out. He flipped open his own as he watched the boy hack with jabbing motions on the end of the branch. After sliding the tool pouch onto the wagon bed, he sat on the tailgate and stripped the bark with a couple dozen slices.

  “Golly, how’d you do that?”

  “Practice. Lots of practice. And see how the blade is always flat when I touch it to the wood?”

  Julian scooted close and leaned his head against Pete’s arm that held the branch steady. “Yeah, I see.” He turned his branch around and started slicing movements on the other end. As he worked, he wrinkled his nose and the tip of his tongue stuck from the side of his mouth.

  A few birds tweeted and chirped in the trees above, and insects buzzed. Pete whittled in silence, grateful Julian had stopped his questions. Even better, his thoughts were occupied by something that didn’t make him cry. The wood beneath Pete’s fingers became smoother with each
stroke. Rather than idle carving to pass the time, he felt another flute taking shape. Tension inched off Pete’s shoulders like the thin, curly shavings from the aspen branch.

  Two hours later, a light wood cylinder with one tapered end lay across his thighs. The kid had even helped do some of the augering to hollow out the center. Pete would have finished it in half the time without interruptions to carry the kid into the bushes to relieve himself and heat a couple of cans of beans when hunger struck. A tapered poker heated in the embers of the fire so he could burn the holes.

  After eating, Julian grew bored with whittling. Now he pitched pebbles into four concentric circles Pete had drawn like a target in the dirt. “Let’s have a contest. Come play with me.”

  “Can’t, buddy. I need to finish this flute.” He pulled a leather glove onto his right hand and lifted the red-tipped poker from the fire.

  “Oh boy, what you gonna do with that?”

  Pete glanced at the boy’s eager expression and foresaw trouble. “I’m climbing into the driver’s seat so I can set the flute flat. Then I’m burning the finger holes. You stay where you are.” He strode to the wagon seat and rested the cylinder between the two slats of the bench seat. Perfect. Applying the tip to the aspen with only a bit of pressure, he made three holes before the metal cooled.

  “Can I see?”

  “Sure.” Pete tucked the poker into the embers to reheat then walked to the end of the wagon. “Remember when I said aspen was soft? These holes were easy to burn.”

  The kid ran his finger around each hole. “Can I—”

  “No. Another tool only for adults.” Pete was glad the kid wasn’t scared off by fire or burning things. He held up the flute and scrutinized the burnt edges of the holes, checking for equal sizes.

  “When are the others coming back? Haven’t they been gone for a really long time?” Julian pitched a rock toward the circle with a half-hearted throw.

  Exactly what Pete’d been thinking for the past thirty minutes or so. The skin on the back of his neck itched—like when trouble brewed. Pete stepped back to the fire, intent on finishing the flute. He took another look toward the spot along the creek the group where had disappeared before bending to his task. What if they’d become lost?