“It’s kind of ugly,” Rosemary said. “And the woman’s a little scary.”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “That’s art.”
When I returned to the ranch, Jim and I sat down to figure out what we should do about the west Texas land. Jim was of two minds, but for some reason, seeing that statue had made me hell-bent on holding on to the land Dad had homesteaded.
For one thing, land was the best investment. Over the long haul, and provided you treated it with respect, land pretty much always rose in value. And while that west Texas land was definitely parched, they were drilling for oil all over the state-Dad’s papers contained some correspondence with Standard Oil-and it might well be sitting on a big field of black gold.
But Dad’s west Texas land called to me for a deeper reason. Maybe it was the Irish in me, but everyone in my family, going back to my grandfather-he’d come over from County Cork, where all the land was owned by absentee Poms who took most of what you grew-had always been obsessed with land. Now, for the first time in my life, I had the opportunity to own some outright. There was nothing to compare with standing on a piece of land you owned free and clear. No one could push you off it, no one could take it from you, no one could tell you what to do with it. The soil belonged to you, and so did every rock, every blade of grass, every tree, and all the water and minerals under the land all the way to the center of the earth. And if the world went to hell in a hand-basket-as it seemed to be doing-you could say good-bye to everyone and retreat to your land, hunkering down and living off it. Land belonged to you and yours forever.
“That’s one unyielding patch of earth,” Jim said. He argued that we couldn’t raise much of a herd on 160 acres, and paying off those taxes would make a big dent in the fund to buy Hackberry.
“We might not ever be able to buy Hackberry,” I said. “This is a sure thing. I’m a gambler, but I’m a smart one, and the smart gambler always goes for the sure thing.”
We paid off the taxes and became bona fide Texas land barons. I felt that the Madonna of the Trail would have approved.
WE USUALLY TOOK CATTLE to market in the spring and the fall, but that year the fall roundup was delayed until Christmas because, with the war going on, the military was using the railroad to ship troops and equipment all over the place, and that was the only time the train was available. But that also meant Rosemary, Little Jim, and I could pitch in, which worked out well, because the war had created a shortage of cowboys. We usually had upward of thirty cowboys on a roundup, but that year we had half that many.
Rosemary and Little Jim had both been going on roundups ever since they were old enough to walk, first riding behind me and Jim, then on their own ponies. Even so, Big Jim didn’t want them in the thick of the drive, where even the best cowboys could get thrown off their horses and trampled by nervous cattle. So he had Rosemary and Little Jim work as outriders, chasing down strays and stragglers hiding in the draws. I followed the herd in the pickup, carrying the bedrolls and the grub.
It was cold that December, and you could see steam rising off the horses as they cut back and forth, keeping the herd together while it moved across the range. Rosemary was riding old Buck, the buckskin-colored Percheron who was so smart that Rosemary could drop the reins and he’d corner strays on his own, biting them on the butt to drive them back to the herd.
Rosemary loved the roundups except for one thing-she secretly rooted for the cattle. She thought they were kind, wise animals who, in their hearts, knew that you were leading them to their death, which was why their lowing had such a piteous tone. I suspected that from time to time, she’d helped the odd steer escape. One day, well into the drive, Jim noticed a stray sidling up a draw and sent Rosemary after it. We heard old Buck whinnying, but a little later, Rosemary rode back out all innocent-eyed, declaring that she couldn’t find the steer.
“Just plain disappeared,” she said, and held up her hands with a shrug. “It’s a mystery.”
Jim shook his head and sent Fidel Hanna, a young Havasupai, into the draw. Soon enough he came trotting out, driving the steer in front of him.
Jim gave Rosemary a hard look. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Not her fault, boss,” Fidel Hanna said. “That steer, he was hiding way up a gulch.”
Jim looked like he didn’t completely buy the story, but it got Rosemary off the hook. Fidel glanced at Rosemary, and I saw him give her a sly little wink.
Rosemary had turned thirteen that year, which put her right on the brink of womanhood-girls of my generation sometimes got married at that age-and from that moment on, she was smitten with Fidel Hanna. He was only sixteen or seventeen himself, a tall, good-looking boy with an angular face who was moody and aloof but also sweet. He had a languid way of moving, wore a black hat with a shiny silver concha, and rode like he was part of his horse.
Rosemary by then was quite a looker, with her dark blond hair, wide mouth, and saucy green eyes, but she seemed unaware of it, carrying on instead like a complete tomboy. Her crush on Fidel Hanna left her confused and acting silly. During the day, he’d catch her gazing at him. She’d do things like challenge him to Indian wrestling matches, but she also made drawings of him on his horse and left them under his saddle at night.
The other cowboys noticed and started ribbing Fidel Hanna. I figured I’d have to keep an eye on the situation.
“Watch yourself around these cowboys,” I told Rosemary.
“What do you mean?” Rosemary asked, giving me that same innocenteyed expression she’d given Jim when she couldn’t find the stray.
“You know what I mean.”
With demand for beef down because of the war, we rounded up only two thousand head of cattle, not the usual five thousand, and when we put the herd together, we drove it east across the plateau to the loading pens in Williams. Once we got there, I saddled up Diamond, one of our quarter horses, to help with the corralling and the loading. Near the end, two steers ducked out of the chute and headed through an open gate toward the range.
“Go, babies, go!” Rosemary shouted.
I looked sharply at her, and she covered her mouth with her hand, which made me realize she hadn’t even known what she was saying. She’d just blurted it out.
Fidel Hanna and I chased down the two runaways and drove them back to the chute, where they were loaded onto the cattle cars with the rest of the herd. I trotted over to where Rosemary was sitting on Buck.
“Didn’t you tell me you wanted to live on the ranch when you grew up?” I asked.
Rosemary nodded.
“What in the Sam Hill do you think we do on ranches?”
“Raise cattle.”
“Raise cattle for market, which means sending them off to be slaughtered. If that upsets you-if you’re rooting for the cattle to break free- you’re not cut out for ranch life.”
We got back to the ranch and were in the barn unsaddling the horses and cleaning the tack when Rosemary walked up to Jim and me. “I want to learn to skin a steer,” she said.
“What on earth for?” I asked.
“That’s the nastiest job on the ranch,” Jim said. “Even worse than gelding.”
“Since I’m going to be a rancher, it’s something I need to learn,” Rosemary said.
“Suppose you’re right about that,” Jim said.
At roundup time, when we had a lot of cowboys on hand, we slaughtered a steer at least once a week. A few days later, Jim picked out a healthy-looking three-year-old Hereford. He led it into the meat house, quickly slit its throat, gutted it, sawed the head off, and hooked it, then a couple of the cowboys used the pulley to hoist it up to the cross-pole.
We let the carcass hang for a day, and the following morning we all went back to the meat house for the butchering. Jim used the pedal-driven grinding stone to give the knife a razor-sharp edge, holding it with both hands and moving it back and forth along the spinning stone as sparks shot out.
Rosemary, who was watching sil
ently, looked pale. I knew she thought of cattle as sweet creatures who never harmed anyone, and now she was standing in front of a dead steer her father had killed, steeling herself to cut it apart. When I was growing up, gelding and slaughtering had been part of my life, but since moving to the ranch, we’d had cowboys do the bloody work, and Rosemary had been shielded from it.
But the kid was trying to be brave, and as Jim tied the leather butcher’s apron around her waist, she started humming. Jim passed her the knife and guided her hand to the spot on the steer’s lower leg where she needed to make the first cut. As she drew the knife down, she started crying silently, but she kept at it, Jim directing her movements, keeping his voice low and steady, cautioning her not to nick the flesh.
Rosemary’s hands were soon covered with blood, and she smeared it on her face, trying to wipe away the tears, but she never gave up, and while it took most of the day, they eventually got the hide off and sectioned the meat.
When it was all done, I threw sawdust on the floor while Jim cleaned the tools. Rosemary hung up the leather apron, washed her hands in a bucket, and walked out of the meat house without saying a word. Jim and I looked at each other, but we didn’t say anything, either. We both knew that she’d proved she could do it, but she’d also proved that she didn’t truly have the heart for it, and none of us ever mentioned it again.
I thought Rosemary might have even lost her appetite for meat, but the girl had a real gift for pushing unpleasantness out of her mind, and that night she tucked into her steak with gusto.
THE FOLLOWING SUMMER I received a letter from Clarice Pearl, a senior muckety-muck with the Arizona Department of Education. She wanted to investigate the living conditions of the children of the Havasupai, who lived in a remote stretch of the Grand Canyon. She was bringing a nurse from Indian Affairs to determine if the children met hygiene standards. She asked me to drive the two of them to the canyon and arrange horses and a guide to get us down the long trail to the Havasupai village.
Fidel Hanna, the young Havasupai ranch hand whom Rosemary had a crush on, lived on the reservation when he wasn’t staying at the bunkhouse, and I asked him to set things up. He laughed and shook his head when I told him why the superintendent and nurse were making the trip.
“Coming to inspect the savages,” he said. “My father used to tell the story about how, for centuries, the Havasu men got up in the morning, spent the day hunting and fishing, came home, played with their children, and lay down with their woman at night. They thought life was pretty good, but then the white man came along and said, ’I have a better idea.’”
“I get his point,” I said. “But my father used to sit around pining for the past, too, and I’ve seen how that kind of thinking just eats away at you.”
I drove the hearse into Williams, bringing Rosemary with me, to pick up Miss Pearl and the nurse, Marion Finch, at the depot. Both of them were stout and pucker-mouthed, with short bobby-pinned hair. I recognized the type-disapproving do-gooders. They always had very high standards, and they always let you know that you didn’t quite measure up to them.
As we headed north, I tried to entertain my customers with a little Indian lore. “Pai” meant “people,” I explained. “Havasupai” meant “people of the blue-green water.” There were also the Yavapai, the Sun People, and the Walapai, the Tall Pine People. The Havasupai, who lived in a narrow valley on the banks of the Colorado River, regarded the water as sacred and threw their babies into it when they were a year and a half old.
“Before they’ve learned fear,” I said.
“That’s just the kind of practice we’re concerned about,” Miss Finch said.
I glanced over at Rosemary and rolled my eyes. She stifled a smile.
After about two hours, we reached Hilltop, a desolate spot out in the sagebrush at the canyon’s rim, where the horse trail led down to the village. There was no sign of Fidel Hanna. We all got out of the hearse and stood there listening to the wind, my two customers clearly disgusted with the unreliability of the heathens they’d come to help. All of a sudden a band of young Indians on horseback, half naked and with painted faces, galloped up the trail and circled us, whooping and brandishing spears. Miss Pearl turned white, and Miss Finch gave a shriek and covered her head with her arms.
But by then I’d recognized that the ringleader, under his war paint, was Fidel Hanna.
“Fidel Hanna, what the blazes do you think you’re doing?” I hollered.
Fidel pulled up in front of us. “Don’t worry.” He grinned. “We no scalp’em white ladies. Hair too short!”
He and the other Havasu boys all started laughing, so beside themselves with glee at their success in terrorizing the do-gooders that they almost fell off their horses. Rosemary and I couldn’t help chuckling, too, but my customers were outraged.
“You all belong in the reformatory,” Miss Pearl declared.
“No harm done,” I said. “They’re just kids playing cowboys and Indians.”
Fidel pointed at three of his friends, who jumped off their horses and doubled up with others. “Those are your mounts,” he said to us. Then he held out his hand to Rosemary. “You can ride with me,” he said. He pulled her up behind him, and before I could say anything, they were galloping down the trail.
* * *
Miss Pearl, Miss Finch, and I followed at a walk on our horses. The trail to the village was eight miles long, and it took most of the day to travel it. The path wound down the side of the canyon through a series of steep switchbacks, passing walls of limestone and sandstone layered like giant stacks of old papers. Several years earlier, some missionaries had tried to haul an upright piano down to the village so the Havasupai could sing hymns, but it had fallen off the cliff. We passed its smashed remains- black and white keys, twisted rusting wire, and splintered wood-lying among the rocks.
After a few hours, we came to a spot where clear, cold water gushed from an artesian spring, and that was where the stony landscape of the upper canyon gave way to lush greenery. Cottonwood, watercress, and willows lined the trail. The air was cool and moist and still.
Rosemary, Fidel, and his friends were waiting for us by the stream, letting their horses graze, and we all continued on together. The stream, fed by additional springs, gathered in strength and size the farther we went. Eventually, we reached a spot where the stream descended in a series of short falls, then we rode on for a ways before reaching the most breathtaking place I’d seen in my entire life. The creek poured through a gap in a cliff wall and cascaded a hundred feet down to a turquoise pool. The air was filled with mist from the thundering fall. The water’s vivid blue-green came from the lime that leached out of the underground springs. The mist in the air had the same lime in it and had covered everything near the fall-trees, bushes, rocks-with a white crystallized crust, creating one big natural sculpture garden.
It was midafternoon by the time we reached the Havasupai village, a collection of wattle huts where the stream flowed into the Colorado River. Around the huts, the stream fed into several pools of the same turquoise water. Naked Havasupai children were splashing in the water. We all dismounted, and Fidel and his friends dove into the biggest pond.
“Mom, can I go swimming, too?” Rosemary asked, so desperate to get in the water that she was hopping from foot to foot.
“You don’t have a swimsuit,” I said.
“I could swim in my underwear.”
“Certainly not,” Miss Pearl piped up. “It was improper enough for you to be riding behind that Indian boy.”
“And it would be unhygienic,” added Miss Finch. “There’s no telling what you’d find in that water.”
Fidel showed us to the guest hut. It was tight, but there was enough room for the four of us to stretch out on the mat on the dirt floor. Miss Pearl and Miss Finch were tired and wanted to rest, but Rosemary and I still had some gas left, and when Fidel offered to show us the valley, we took him up on it.
He found us all fresh horse
s, and we set out on a tour. Walls of red Coconino sandstone and pink Kaibab limestone rose steeply on both sides of the river. The narrow strip of bottomland was green and fertile, and we rode past rows of widely planted maize. Once upon a time, Fidel said, the Havasupai had spent the winter hunting game up on the plateau and come down to the valley to farm in the summer. But ever since they lost their traditional hunting grounds to the Anglo settlers, they’d remained holed up down here year-round, in the most remote spot in the entire west, a secret, hidden tribe living life the ancient way while most people on the outside world didn’t even know it existed. Fidel pointed out a pair of red rock pillars towering above the cliff wall. Those were the Wigleeva, he told us. They protected the tribe. It was said that any Havasupai who left for good would be turned to stone.
“This place is like heaven,” Rosemary said. “Even more than the ranch. I could live here forever.”
“Only Havasupai live here,” Fidel said.
“I’d become one,” she said.
“You can’t become a Havasupai,” I said. “You have to be born one.”
“Well,” Fidel said, “the elders do say Anglos can’t marry into the tribe, but as far as I know, none ever really tried to. So maybe you could be the first.”
As evening came on, the Havasupai offered us fried cornmeal cakes wrapped in leaves, but Miss Finch and Miss Pearl would have none of them, so we ate the biscuits and jerky I had packed.
The next day Miss Finch gave medical exams to the Havasupai children while Miss Pearl discussed their education with their parents, sometimes using Fidel as the interpreter. The village had a one-room school, but from time to time over the years, the state had decided that the Havasupai children weren’t getting a proper upbringing and had swooped in to round them up and send them to boarding school, whether their parents wanted it or not. There they learned English and were trained for jobs as porters, janitors, and telephone operators.
Half Broke Horses Page 18
