by Mari Collier
Toni looked at the chamber pot and knew it would hold her urine, but that was all. She set her lips and went looking for her husband.
“Lorenz, the chamber pots must be emptied. They are filled and I will not have people using our floors.”
“Honey, how do y'all propose we do that?” Lorenz tried to keep his voice low. “Snow is blocking every window and several of us already tried the front and back doors. They won't open.”
“You all can go through the French doors to the back veranda. I moved the blanket from over the doors to look out and the snow is not as deep there.”
Lorenz realized that as usual, Antoinette was right for the wrong reason. Unlike most Texans, she had not objected when he had their Lutheran trained teacher include the ranch hands' children. He had to abide by the custom of sitting the Mexican and black children in the back, but Toni did not want her servants to be ignorant. If they were to be “more genteel,” they needed a certain amount of education. The studies that his father and grandmother plied him with over the years stressed that sanitation was paramount. The livestock in the barn would be getting desperate and he needed to check on the men caught in the bunkhouse.
“I might have to break one of the doors if they are frozen tight.”
“We can put another blanket or feather tick over it until the cold goes away and we replace it.” She was standing tall and her eyes had a glint in them that Lorenz rarely saw.
“All right, I'll get my coat and take one of the men.”
“And make sure you all carry them far enough away from the house.” She gave the last order to his retreating back.
A grinning Kendall ran upstairs for his own gear while his father went into the bedroom to retrieve muffler, hat, and a warmer coat. He was going out. No way was he staying inside.
Chapter 16: A Frozen World
Lorenz, Kendall, and the hands caught in the main house used gloved hands and cooking utensils to hack their way up and through the drift to stand on the top. The Rearing Bear Ranch buildings were almost buried on the northern and western sides. Gone from sight were the fences, the trunks of trees, and the extra horses where before one saw fenced pasture. No matter the direction they turned, it was a land of white: pure, glistening and blinding. Smoke ascending from the heaped over, now melting domed white roofs showed there were still people alive, fighting off the cold until the snow went down.
“Start taking the pots out behind the washhouse, and I'll check on those in the bunkhouse and quarters. Kendall, y'all give them a hand.”
“Y'all will need help digging them out.”
“I didn't say I was going to dig them out. Pray God it warms up enough to melt this stuff.” He did not want to look at his land. He knew what lie underneath and there was no one to blame, no one upon whom he could seek vengeance. Right now he wanted his son inside and safe. He turned and started to direct Kendall to return to the house when he saw the puzzlement build in the boy's blue eyes looking directly into his.
At sixteen, Kendall was as tall as his father, and had begged off going back to the Veterinarian School in San Antonio. “I've learned enough. I can go back in another year. I'd rather work the ranch with y'all, Pawpaw.”
Lorenz sensed that Kendall, unlike Randall, was desperate for his approval; but damn it, Kendall's cells wouldn't regenerate like his. He drew his breath inward, the cold cutting at his lungs.
“All right. Let's go check on the hands.”
They worked their way over the drifts and to the northwest, striking mostly westward to miss the barn and the water tank. Lorenz could see the roof of the washhouse, but the outhouse lie buried below the snow. During the slow struggle to reach the roof of the bunkhouse, they saw a land of white waves punctured by tree tops cloaked in whiteness. The back of the barn, like the house, had less snow and offered an entrance. Once he looked at the bunkhouse, he realized the barn was first; the men could wait, the remaining livestock, if any, could not. Smoke drifting up from the bunkhouse chimney proclaimed that the hands were alive. The desperately needed shovel was inside the barn.
The cattle inside the barn were bawling in hunger, but the north entrance was blocked by a drift as high as the roof. They made their way to the east side where the drifts were smaller. The door to the horses' stalls was a Dutch door. The bottom could remain fastened while the upper opened for air. It took a couple of blows to push the bar upward. The noise alerted the animals within. The horses began whinnying and pawing against the stalls. He and Kendall used their knives to pry the partially frozen door open to be able to climb through the upper half.
The horse closest to the door aimed a backward hoof at them, and Lorenz was thankful they'd tied them in. They skirted the horses and walked into the front portion where the cows greeted them with renewed bawling.
“Grab a pitchfork, son. It's their turn to eat. We'll figure out water somehow. Then we'll take the shovel and see about the men. We need to milk them as soon as possible or they'll be ruined. I don't want another dead cow.”
Everything else that day was in slow motion; carefully wading through and across the drifts, praying they wouldn't collapse; digging the men out, and sending them over to the family area to check if those people were all right. Once done they retreated to the house for Kendall's face was becoming white from the cold.
“Fool kid,” Lorenz muttered to Toni that night. “He wouldn't keep his face covered.”
“Don't fret, darling, we wrapped his face in cool, then warm towels. He's young. He'll be fine. I'm so glad y'all got the bunkhouse open. Do y'all think the rest can go back to their places tomorrow?”
“It depends on the temperature, honey. If the snow drops enough I'd like to get our godsons back to Martin before Brigetta comes tromping through the snow after them.”
“The same goes for Artie. Gerald and Emily must be absolutely sick with worry.”
Lorenz was sure that Gerald wasn't sick, but the man had to be worried. To the relief of everyone the rising temperature the next morning was settling the snow downward. They bundled the two younger boys up as well as they could and once again Kendall accompanied Lorenz. Ernest, Fritz, and Kasper were on their own horses. Teddy rode behind Kendall and Lorenz had five-year-old Artie on his horse in front of him. Normally the ride to Rolfe's took less than an hour. Today it took over two. Martin and August, clad in coats and mufflers, met them halfway.
“By God, glad to see you all are still alive.” He smiled broadly and took Teddy on his horse, settling the boy in front of him.
“Same here, Martin. How's Brigetta and the rest? Did everyone make it back to the ranch?”
Martin grimaced. “A couple of the hands didn't. Marty and two others are out looking. They found the one just a few feet from the bunkhouse. We don't know what happened to the other one.” He glanced around the white landscape. The high hills to the East were covered with snow, some of the trees just barely showing trunks to create an alien world. “What about the cattle, Lorenz?”
Lorenz looked at him blankly. “They're dead, Martin.”
Martin turned his face away. “We're busted,” he muttered.
“We're alive, Martin. Y'all haven't spent nearly the money on house and furniture that we did, and we have enough to replenish our stock. Sure, it'll be a smaller herd. We'll have to upgrade the beef and build fences, but by God we're not busted and I don't think y'all are either.”
Martin stared at him and he had no words. Lorenz realized that Martin's eyes were as cold blue as Uncle Herman's when Martin's father faced a dangerous situation. No wonder Martin refused to invest his money when Lorenz, MacDonald, Grandmère, Margareatha, and Red formed the MacDonald Corporation complete with a bank in Schmidt's Corner. Martin was a hoarder of money. They turned their mounts towards the Rolfe ranch.
No words passed between them until the Rolfe's turned into the lane leading up to the main house. “No need for y'all to come in. It's still a long, cold ride into Schmidt's Corner. Any word for Brigetta fr
om Antoinette?”
“Yes, Toni says she will pay a visit as soon as the snow melts enough unless Brigetta drives over first.” They smiled at each other at the thought of Brigetta driving a team. It wasn't likely. She hated horses, and Lorenz assumed she hated the cows too.
He and Kendall nodded their farewells and turned their horses towards Schmidt's Corner. They topped the second rise when they saw a man riding towards them. “Want to bet it's your Papa, Artie?”
Arthur straightened and waved. The approaching rider returned the wave. They kept riding towards each other, and as they met, Gerald gratefully reached for his son.
“I told Emily that you all would keep him safe and sound.” He hugged the boy and set him in front. “It seems I owe y'all twice over for my life.”
Lorenz shook his head. “The first time around was Chalky's doing. If he hadn't been so persistent, y'all would have still been in Arles.”
Gerald gave a half-smile as he thought of his straw-haired, scrawny, and incapable of learning, cow trail dead brother. Chalky had died doing the one thing he could do. He was working the remuda when a stampede caught him. Gerald hugged his son again. If he worked hard enough, his son would never face those hardships.
“Emily gives her thanks also.”
Chapter 17: Der Pastor Becomes The Shepherd
Pastor James Rolfe was returning to St. Louis, Missouri by train and his thoughts were on composing a sermon and controlling the jolting paper and pencil. He was in the last passenger car, the caboose swaying behind them. This car was reserved for the less affluent traveler and comforts were slim. The seats were hard and stiff, and filled with farmers, immigrant families, vagabonds who went from job to job, the less prosperous drummers, and clerks returning from family visits. There was a small, round, potbelly stove with a day's supply of wood at each end and a lavatory next to each stove. Since they were less than two hours out of St. Louis, the lavatories were in deplorable condition and most tried to avoid them. As usual, there were a few men less than sober, but they were gathered around the stove near the door leading to the rest of the train.
Most had shed their overcoats and were in their suit coats as the day was pleasant for January. The cold starting to seep through the windows shook many of them out of their apathy; all except Pastor Rolfe. He didn't hear the murmuring or see the mothers pointing at the sky. Men looked worriedly at their pocket watches—if they had one. The conductor entered from the caboose behind their car and the opened door spewed cold throughout the compartment.
“Sorry, folks, but I need to go forward and check on weather conditions. I should be back within fifteen minutes.” He hurried through, blasted everyone again with the opening of the second door and vanished.
James looked up, frowning slightly. He did not like being interrupted while composing. Before he looked down again he saw the black sky closing around them and started to stand when another blast of air from the opening door and two of the drunks around the stove rushed out.
“Rats deserting the ship.” One man with a bulbous nose announced.
And the snow began to fall. Fascinated, the people watched and then grew worried, excited murmurs grew in volume as the landscape disappeared and the drifts piled higher and higher. The train slowed and ground to a halt. Women began to whisper to their husbands to go find out what was going on or how long would they be here. Men were milling in the aisle, putting on their heavier coats, starting for the door, and then returning when the other door to the rest of the train was locked.
“We ain't wanted.”
“Let's organize and ram the door down.”
“With what?”
“We can beat the windows open.”
A chorus of assents went up and men began to look for the heaviest pieces of wood.
James felt his stomach tightened. They were fools. If they went out there, they would freeze or get lost. Where was the strong man to stop this foolishness? He searched the faces of each one, looking for a man like his father or Uncle Mac; and there was no one.
One man grabbed at another's food basket. The other objected. Fists began flying and then the two men were rolling on the floor while women screamed and children yelled. Men gathered around to cheer them on and they jostled and shoved to get closer. Others began yelling and threatening the others with their fists.
James sat white faced and realized he was the pastor; the man who was suppose to guide them. Dear Father in heaven I am inadequate, help me. These people do not know me. What if they don't listen? Fear knotted his stomach. His place was the pulpit where respect for his position was automatic. He took a deep breath and wanted to hold his hands over his ears when a man began screaming curses.
Instead, James boosted himself up on the seat and stood, proclaiming in his authoritative pastor's voice, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, amen.”
His strong preaching voice overrode the hubbub around him. “Let us first ask our Father in heaven for his blessing before we decide what is best for our survival.”
Men hooted at the white faced man with the clerical collar.
“How would a pastor know?”
“First we turn to God in prayer.” James's voice was firm, far firmer than his knees.
“Be you a Methodist? We don't pray without a Methodist leading us.”
James ignored him and clasped his hands. He almost started in German and realized that these people might not understand. He began in English.
“Our Father which art in heaven…”
By the end of the prayer all had joined in, even the toughs by the door. The Catholics in the car hadn't intoned the conclusion, but James had chosen wisely. Everyone knew that prayer.
He looked at his impromptu congregation and began.
“My father was a fur trapper in the old days. When he became a rancher, he showed us how to survive when a blue northern blizzard suddenly hit when out on the prairie branding cattle.” That James hadn't been present that day didn't matter. He'd heard the tale over and over again.
“We have wood and we are only a couple hours out of St. Louis. We'll be one of the first trains they hunt for, but we still need to make the wood last as long as possible. We can only put one log in at a time. If it gets colder, you'll have to put on every piece of clothing you have with you.
“There will be wood in the caboose. Before the doors freeze shut, we can make a human chain and bring that wood in here. We'll also need to see if the conductor left any food. If there is a pail or a pot in there, we'll need it too. People can survive without food, but we will need water.” He pointed at the snow half-way up the windows and still rising.
“There's plenty of water out there. It's just in the solid form. If we fill up any pot that might be around, we can melt the snow by placing the pot beside the stove. The heat from the stoves should keep the doors from freezing. We'll take turns sipping the water.”
“Yeah, and who's going to be in charge of the water?” One beefy man was still trying to understand why this slender, scholarly man was up there telling people what to do. “What if we are here for days?”
“As I said, we aren't that far from St. Louis. They'll have to come this way once things start to clear. This track will need to be cleared for the other trains coming to or out of St. Louis.” Pastor Rolfe pulled in his breath and continued.
“Before we go to the caboose, I suggest we sing a song in praise of God who will take care of us. Does anyone have a favorite?” He couldn't believe he was asking, but it was doubtful if these people knew his hymns.
“Rock of Ages,” someone called out.
Inwardly, James heaved a sigh of relief. It was one of the few songs in English he had memorized. He gave a “hmm” for the correct note and began singing, the people again joining in.
Once the song was over, James put on his coat and gloves. Somehow he knew he could not sit there and let the other men do the work. They joined hands to keep from slipping and went into the caboose, quickly pa
ssing the firewood forward. Like the wood in their compartment, it was enough for one day. The day had been warm and no one had kept the fire going. There was a large, blue enameled coffee pot, a smaller, dirtied pot with the remnants of the man's stew, and a half-eaten loaf of bread.
One man grabbed the spoon and started to eat the stew.
“No,” James stepped in front of the man. “There may be someone who needs it more. There are women and children in there. Divide that between the children or the expectant mother. We are the ones responsible for them.”
The man looked around and saw the others nodding in agreement and a sheepish look came over his face.
“I was jest cleaning it out sos we could melt snow.”
“We can put snow in it once the children are fed.” The image of his nearly one-year-old twins rose in his mind and he prayed they were all safely at home. He could not think about them now. His work was here.
A quick check of the caboose produced two blankets, another lard bucket used as a lunch pail, a thin pillow, and a mattress and blanket from the daybed. All were transferred into their passenger car. The blowing snow was filling the space between the caboose and their car. It was a relief to be back in the semi-warm compartment and close the door.
The meager remains of the stew were given to the two skinniest children and the too-thin expectant mother. Her eyes were fearful and her skin an unhealthy pallor.
There was no way to clean the pot out, but the door was opened one more time to fill it with snow and then slammed shut. Pastor Rolfe saw two more lard buckets (probably used for someone's lunch) filled with snow set by each stove.
Good, thought James, someone had the sense to fill them. Snowdrifts were blocking the windows and the light became dim and dimmer, making it difficult to see inside or out. James wet his lips before making his suggestion.
“We can pass the time by singing hymns.”
Once again the impromptu congregation sang. Finally, someone suggested Oh, Suzanna and a round of popular songs followed.
