This Calder Range

by Janet Dailey

  “Yes, we will,” she insisted with a determined tilt of her chin. “And we’ll write each other—regularly.”

  “If I were you, I’d be scared of living way up there in that Indian country.” Sue Ellen shook her head, silently marveling at Lorna’s courage.

  “Benteen will be with me,” Lorna asserted.

  “But he’ll be away sometimes, looking after the cattle. What if the Indians come while you’re alone? They might capture you and take you prisoner.” Her alarm grew in proportion to her expanding imagination. “I’ve heard stories about what those savages do to white women. They take turns with her, making her commit all sorts of vile, unspeakable acts.”

  “Sue Ellen, stop it,” Lorna demanded, struggling with her own growing fears.

  “I’m sorry.” Her friend was immediately contrite. “It’s just that I get so worried when I think about you all alone—with no doctors for hundreds of miles probably.” She realized that she was doing it again. “I won’t say anything more. I promise.”

  Lorna hoped she meant it. She already had enough misgivings about leaving her home, her parents, her friends, and the only kind of life she’d ever known.

  The shop bell above the door signaled the entrance of three customers. Lorna’s glance was absently drawn to the sound, and immediately she recognized the heavily rouged women with their bright-colored gowns. Her reaction was an instant withdrawal of obvious interest. A respectable female didn’t acknowledge the presence of “scarlet ladies of the night.” They dressed to draw attention to themselves—“attract business” was the way they put it. Lorna was aware they frequented the millinery store for the latest creations in outrageous hats and bonnets. In the past, Sue Ellen had whispered many of the conversations she’d overheard, censoring the foul language and guessing at the definition of terms neither she nor Lorna had ever heard before.

  “I’d better go get Mother,” Sue Ellen whispered, too reticent to wait on them herself. “You can come in the back room, if you want, and wait until they’re gone.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” Lorna turned back to the mirror and lifted touching fingers on the lace veil.

  She was slightly amused by her friend. Sue Ellen acted as if she would be contaminated by the presence of the three sporting ladies in the same room with her. Although Lorna didn’t admit it, she was a tiny bit curious about these women who were shunned by respectable members of the community. As long as she ignored them, she saw nothing wrong with remaining where she was.

  Reflected in the mirror, she saw a henna-haired woman waylay Sue Ellen before she could escape into the back room. “Excuse me, miss. I’ve stopped to see if the hat I ordered has arrived yet.” Her voice had a cultured sound to it.

  Sue Ellen turned red all the way to the roots of her hair. “I’ll get my mother.” She backed hurriedly away from the woman.

  Lorna heard the titter of laughter from the other two when Sue Ellen disappeared in a red-faced panic. “Lordie, Pearl,” one declared. “You embarrassed the lady. I’ll bet her knockers turned red.”

  “She was embarrassed by her own imagination,” retorted the henna-haired woman named Pearl.

  Just for a second Lorna wondered if that was true. Sometimes Sue Ellen seemed very preoccupied with the intimacies between a man and a woman. She didn’t have to dwell on the thought, distracted by a glimpse of a black-haired prostitute who had wandered over to look at some hats displayed near Lorna.

  “Pearl. Jenny. Come look at this,” she called to the other two.

  With all three gathering near her, Lorna concentrated on her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t want to appear to be taking any notice of them.

  But the red-haired Pearl didn’t find it necessary to ignore Lorna. “That is a beautiful veil,” she declared, and came over for a closer look.

  “Thank you.” Lorna’s response was coolly polite and nothing more.

  “You must be getting married,” Pearl guessed as she was joined by her two compatriots.

  “Yes, I am,” Lorna admitted, and caught a hint of envy in the woman’s look. She experienced a small twinge of compassion because no decent man would ever marry women of their profession.

  “You’ll make a lovely bride,” she declared, and turned to her friends. “Won’t she, girls?”

  “Indeed,” agreed the black-haired girl.

  The third, named Jenny, didn’t look any older than Lorna, even with the rouge and painted mouth. “Who’s the lucky man? Maybe we know him,” she suggested with an arching smile.

  Lorna almost didn’t tell them, but she changed her mind. “Benteen Calder.” Part of her said she shouldn’t be talking to these women at all.

  “Benteen Calder,” the black-haired girl repeated with a quick glance at Pearl. “I think I have seen him around.”

  Lorna stiffened, but the red-haired Pearl quickly explained the blurted comment. “Don’t worry about it, honey. Dixie just means that she’s seen him in one of the saloons, having a beer. Girls like us don’t forget when we meet a man like Benteen Calder.”

  It sounded like a compliment. Despite Pearl’s assurance that she had no cause for concern, Lorna couldn’t help wondering if they didn’t know Benteen better than she did.

  “Let me give you some advice, honey,” Pearl said with a melancholy smile. “If you don’t want your man slippin’ away to see our kind on the sly, you’d better be wilder in bed than he is.”

  Such talk first drained the color from her face, then sent it flooding back. Lorna wanted to shut her ears, but she couldn’t. Somewhere she lost her voice, too.

  “I’ve learned a lot about men over the years.” The woman made it sound like a long time, yet she didn’t look any older than her mid-twenties. “They may want a lady on their arm, but they want a whore in bed. I know that shocks you, but, honey, there’s a helluva lot of truth in what I’m sayin’. If wives took that advice, we wouldn’t have so many married men for customers.”

  “Miss Rogers!” The shocked voice of Liza Mae Brown, Sue Ellen’s mother, brought a quick end to the conversation. What was worse, Lorna realized the shopkeeper as well as her mother had overheard the last bit of Pearl Rogers’ advice.

  But the bold woman wasn’t intimidated by the outraged look. “Don’t waste your breath lecturing to me, Mrs. Brown.” She turned away from Lorna, completely unabashed. “I wasn’t corrupting the child. In fact, I might have saved her a lot of heartache in the future.” Her attitude became strictly business. “What about the hat I ordered?”

  “It hasn’t arrived as yet,” Mrs. Brown began.

  “Then we’ll come back in a few days,” Pearl replied, and with her two companions, made a dignified exit from the shop.

  “Sue Ellen, why did you leave Lorna here by herself?” Mrs. Brown rebuked her daughter, and quickly apologized to Mrs. Pearce. “I am sorry this happened, Clara. I feel dreadful that Lorna was exposed to such indecent talk. I probably shouldn’t even allow those women in my shop, but unfortunately I can’t afford to refuse their business.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Liza.” Her mother magnanimously removed all blame from the woman. “I know my daughter well enough to be reassured that she wouldn’t pay any attention to what was said. They were only trying to justify their loose morals by putting the blame on respectable women.”

  “How true,” Mrs. Brown agreed fully.

  “Let’s put the veil away, Lorna.” Her mother came over to help her remove it. “We still have to go by the church.”

  The conversation was skillfully turned to other subjects. Lorna thought the matter was going to be dropped, but her mother brought it up again after they had left the shop.

  “I know you have never had any contact before with that element of our society,” she began. “Perhaps it’s just as well that this happened. Instead of always turning a blind eye, we should take a stand against that element and convince the town fathers they must be abolished. It will be a problem wherever you may live, so it’s best that you
see it now.”

  “Yes, Mother.” But Lorna’s mind was still lingering on that shocking advice she’d been given. “What kind of … men seek their company? It wouldn’t be someone like … Daddy or Benteen?”

  “Of course not.” The answer was quick, followed by an attempted qualification. “That isn’t to say that men don’t sometimes sow wild oats before they settle down with a wife and a family. And there could be circumstances that would prompt a man to seek out that kind of woman to supply his needs.”

  “What kind of circumstances?” Lorna asked.

  “If a wife isn’t capable of occupying the marriage bed, because of illness or”—her mother hesitated—“when it wouldn’t be wise for her to become in the family way. A man has to understand that there comes a time when a woman might not want any more children.”

  “Then you and Daddy …” Lorna didn’t finish the thought. It seemed too much an invasion into her parents’ private relationship.

  “That’s right,” her mother admitted. “And your father understands it’s the only way a woman can prevent such things.”

  “And he doesn’t mind?” She wondered about that in the light of what the prostitute had told her.

  “No.”

  “Does it bother you that you don’t have the closeness anymore?” Lorna chose her words carefully, not wanting to be offensive.

  “Naturally not,” her mother replied with a quick smile of assurance. “After all, its purpose is the conception of children, not for the sake of itself.”

  “Yes, I know,” she murmured.

  “Don’t let it be a source of concern,” her mother advised. “You’ll come to know all this yourself. One day, you’ll be telling your daughter the same things.”

  “Yes, one day,” Lorna agreed with a faint smile, but she was still troubled by some of the sensations she felt in Benteen’s arms. It was becoming apparent that wasn’t normal, especially when the only one who indicated it was, was herself a fallen woman.

  7

  The wagon turned out to be in better condition than Benteen had hoped to find it. He struck a deal with the farmer named Davies and hitched a team of horses to it. Late that afternoon, he drove it to the Pearce home so Lorna could load her possessions in it. She knew nothing about packing it to evenly distribute the weight through the box, so he stayed to help.

  There were so many nonessential things she wanted to take. Benteen disliked the role of forcing her to choose, but it had to be done.

  “What’s this?” He frowned when he picked up two thorny twigs partially wrapped in damp cloths.

  “I’m not going to believe you if you claim those are too heavy and bulky to take,” she retorted, placing her hands on her hips to silently dare him.

  “But what are they?” Benteen asked.

  “They’re cuttings from my mother’s rosebush,” Lorna explained. “I want to plant them beside our new home.”

  “Lorna, they’ll die.” He tried to be patient. “You’re just wasting your time to take them.”

  “You wouldn’t let me bring my grandmother’s chiffonier or the oak table my uncle made for us,” she reminded him. “I’m going to have something to remind me of home. Those rose cuttings are going with us. I don’t care what you say, they will live.”

  Benteen sighed heavily. “Take them if you’re so determined.”

  “I am.”

  “Where shall I put them?” he asked. “Under the seat?”

  “Yes, I can get to them easily there,” Lorna agreed.

  He slipped them under the wagon’s seat, where they would be in the shade and less likely to be crushed by shifting baggage in the canvas-covered wagon box.

  “I hope that’s all,” Benteen said.

  “All except a few things I’ll have with me,” she replied. “My wedding dress and such. And don’t tell me I can’t take that with me.”

  “I’m sorry. I know it seems that you’re leaving a lot behind.” Benteen smiled grimly. “But there’s only so much the horses can pull.”

  “I know.” She lowered her chin and turned away.

  Benteen saw the shimmer of a tear in her eye and caught her chin in his hand. “What’s the tears for?”

  “It’s so easy for you to pack up and go,” she murmured. “You’re not leaving anyone behind.”

  “You can’t be getting homesick,” Benteen chided. “We haven’t even left yet.”

  “Don’t make a joke of it,” Lorna protested.

  Exercising control, he put an arm around her and brushed his mouth against her forehead. “I promise that you’ll grow to love our new home in Montana as much as you do here.”

  “I know.” She sniffed back the tears and moved out of his arms, because she didn’t want Benteen to think she was being childish. She should be looking forward to their new life together, not crying about leaving home, but it wasn’t easy. Partially turning so he couldn’t see, Lorna furtively wiped away the dampness of her cheeks. “You won’t forget to be at the church tomorrow morning at ten to talk to the reverend, will you?”

  “I’ll be there,” Benteen stated. “I’m not going to let anyone throw a last-minute hitch in our wedding plans.”

  Just for a little second, Lorna wished it could be postponed for a short while—until she could get over these jitters. But she didn’t mention it to Benteen. Several times she had sensed his impatience that the wedding wasn’t going to take place sooner.

  It was dark when Benteen reached the camp, located near where the herd was being held. The two night riders on the first watch were circling the herd, riding slowly in opposite directions. The cattle were lying down, chewing their cuds. Benteen could see the moonlight shining on their horns. Somewhere off in the prairie, a coyote howled its wailing cry. A steer blew out a soft snort, but it was a sound of contentment rather than alarm.

  An ease went through Benteen as he listened to one of the night riders crooning “The Texas Lullaby” to the cattle. Its quavering melody drifted over both ends of the scale, keeping to the slow, steady rhythm set by the walking horse. Dismounting, Benteen unsaddled his horse and tied it to the picket line where the night horses for the next three watches were staked. Carrying the saddle on his hip, he walked to the flickering campfire.

  The chuck wagon was set up for business, the rear board lowered and supported by a pole propped in the ground. It exposed the partitioned cupboard with shelves and drawers for food and utensils and provided a worktable for the cook. Benteen noticed the tongue of the wagon was pointed at the Big Dipper, as it always would be for the rest of the drive. Just one of the many duties that went with the cook’s job. At every night camp, the tongue of the chuck wagon would point to the north, so no matter the weather the next day, the trail boss knew the direction to take.

  The Big Dipper was the cowboy’s compass and his clock. As it revolved, its positions told the cowboy what time it was and marked off his two-hour watches on night herd. On cloudy nights, he had to guess at the time unless he was riding a night horse that had its own clock in its head and would head for camp when its tour of duty was up.

  Leaving his saddle in the shadows just beyond the firelight where he would bed down for the night, Benteen crossed to the chuck wagon for a tin cup to fill with coffee. His seemingly idle glance took note of which riders were present and which were not.

  “Shorty’s got first watch, does he?” he remarked to Rusty, and blew on the coffee he’d poured before he took a big sip. “I thought I recognized him singing to the cattle.”

  “Shorty and Hank,” Rusty confirmed, and named the second rider on night herd.

  “That Shorty sure as hell can sing,” a drover named Jonesy declared, and paused in his whittling of a stick to listen.

  “What would a sonuvabitch like you know about it?” challenged a mocking voice from the shadows. “I’ll be goddamned if you could carry a tune in a crooked damned jug.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jonesy bristled at the criticism of his singing voice or lack of
one. “I sure as hell hope someone’s taught you another damned verse of ‘Sweet Betsy.’ If you sing that same sonuvabitchin’ one all this drive like ya did the last time, I’ll fix it so you don’t sing no more.”

  “I didn’t get no damned complaint from any sonuvabitchin’ cow,” Zeke Taylor shot back.

  A heat was building, and Benteen stepped in before tempers could flare. “Instead of arguing about your singing, both of you better start watchin’ your language.” He paused to let his hard glance make a sweep of the other riders at the camp circle. “That goes for all of you. When this drive gets under way, you’re going to have ladies in the camp. There’s some of you that can’t say a single sentence if it doesn’t have a ‘hell,’ a ‘damn,’ or a ‘sonofabitch’ included somewhere—and sometimes all three and one or two more. Save your cursing for the cattle. If you can’t do that, maybe you’d better keep your mouths shut around the womenfolk.”

  “Hey, flapjaw, do you think you can manage that?” Jonesy taunted the talkative drover, Zeke Taylor.

  “I know a helluva lot more about how to talk to a lady than you do,” he retorted.

  “Pass the word to the others,” Benteen ordered. Besides the riders on night herd, four of the drovers had been given permission to spend the night in Fort Worth, with the understanding they’d be back at first light in condition for work if it meant being tied in the saddle. “No cursing around the women unless you want to ride drag for a month.”

  The threatened punishment drew a grumble from the ranks, which Benteen ignored. On a cattle drive, three riders were usually assigned positions at the rear of the herd to prod the laggards and weaker steers into keeping up with the rest of the cattle. It was hot, dusty work, the least-wanted duty. In most cases, the drovers rotated the positions of drag, flank, and point so that each man fared equally.

  Jessie Trumbo was leaning his slight frame against a rear wagon wheel by the chuck box. Benteen wandered over to a stand beside him and drank the strong coffee.

  “Everything been quiet?” Benteen asked.