Waltzing With Tumbleweeds

by Dusty Richards

  He spoke sharply to them. When they lowered themselves and their powerful ham muscles strained, the runners began to ease forward. Though Thurman knew they could do it, he still took pride at their effort. He walked beside the load and drove them south to where his herd sought shelter in the small hills.

  At the gate, he let the horses blow. They were still two miles from the pole feeders that he knew would have been eaten down, but never empty. A storm might cause him not to be able to feed for several days, so he left more fodder than his hundred head could consume in three short winter days.

  Past noon, the hayracks were over flowing; the she stock crowded the fresh hay as if it was sweeter than ordinary. His bulls stood back as if they considered themselves snobs and better than the foolish females. Observing their roan coats as thick as their Scottish Shorthorn ancestors, Thurman knew his sires were still well conditioned, despite the winter’s onslaught.

  One male arched his full neck to show his muscles as if the others or anyone cared. Then he bawled in a deep husky voice to challenge the icy hills around them. Thurman clucked to the Percherons and they swept the empty sled north and homeward. Their hard work done, anxious for the waiting meal of corn, the team churned up the white powder.

  The temperature had climbed by his estimate to a little above zero. Even the wind lost its edge as he closed the last gate and clucked to the horses to go home. So far this winter, the wolves had not pulled down a single cow. He had reason to celebrate. The afternoon’s low sun felt warm on the right side of his face. Maybe he’d have a glass or two of rye when he was through for the day.

  At the barn, he unhitched and removed the harness. Then he picked a half bushel of corn in the shuck from the bin. He tossed a few ears out in the alleyway for the mustang to eat before he took the big horses outside the corral.

  Beyond the gate he poured the corn on the ground for them, took off their work bridles and went back to put them in the tack room. The mustang was already eating his share, his molars noisily crushing the flinty kernels as Thurman went around him. His day’s work complete, he dropped the tack room latch in place and headed for his house.

  There was still an hour’s light left. Thurman considered what he would cook for supper. In the morning he planned to ride north and hunt for a mule deer. A month’s supply of venison would make the trip worthwhile.

  Thurman stomped his boots as he opened the door. In dismay, he blinked his glare burned eyes. Seated at the table in the cold room was Dunkia. She did not raise her scarf bound head at his entry.

  “Why didn’t you put coal in the stove?” he asked, angry at her backwardness. Thurman opened the cast iron door and shoveled in the dark chunks with a ferocity to match his mood. Anyone should know they were welcome to fuel his stove. To just sit there and be cold—what was the matter with her?

  “It wasn’t my coal,” she quietly mumbled.

  “Next time,” he said sharply. “Use some of mine”. Free of his mittens and cap, he undid the buttons on his coat. She must be simple, he decided. Thurman dared not look at her. He wondered how she had found his place: she’d never been there before.

  “I had no place to go,” she said.

  He studied her. With the wool scarf wrapped around her bowed head, she huddled in the old blue army coat. To him, she looked small and defenseless.

  “Don’t you have your farm?” he asked, shrugging off his coat.

  “No. The bank has taken it.”

  Thurman frowned and shook his head. “Bastards!” he swore under his breath. What sort of low life turned a girl out in the cold?

  “I owed them more money than I could ever pay. They let me stay until papa died. It was an understanding.”

  Her explanation hardly settled the issue for him. She must have known for a long while that after the old man’s death they would evict her.

  “You can stay here,” he said, even before he thought. What had he offered? One room, one bed, one chamber pot, one everything—this was no place for two.

  “I could go to work in town,” she said. Her voice sounded full of dread.

  Thurman looked at her. Dunkia clearly meant Sophie’s place. He could not imagine her in a filmy gown seated in the parlor, coaxing men to hardness and leading them back to a cubicle. No, he did not think she could do that.

  “You can stay here,” he said. He would not have her loss of respectability on his conscience. Dunkia might be backward, but she didn’t fit his image of a soiled dove.

  He hung his coat and cap on a peg by the door. Maybe she thought he wanted her for that reason.

  “I can cook.” He heard her say before he turned around.

  “Good,” he said, feeling grateful that she had broken the silence.

  The room was warming, but she did not offer to remove her scarf or coat. He scowled at her.

  “Take off your coat,” he said, sharper than he intended.

  The chair legs scrapped the floor as she rose unsteady to obey him. Her frost burned red fingers fumbled with the odd buttons. She slipped out of the coat, and he took it, waiting for her to undo the scarf.

  He remembered the wash worn dress from the day he spoke to her in the oat field. She looked thinner; her bones seemed to hold up the wash worn material. He turned and went to put her outer clothes on the peg beside his own.

  “What should I cook?” she asked.

  “There are potatoes in the cellar.” He pointed to the trap door in the floor. “I’ll cut some bacon.”

  “How many?” she asked.

  “Four or five,” he finally said. “There are plenty. And get a jar of plums.”

  “Yes.”

  He sliced the white fat in layers off the brown slab and into the skillet on the stove. She came up from below with her hand full of the red spuds.

  “You have so much food,” she said.

  “Plenty,” he said. In truth, though Thurman never thought about his store beneath the house, there was easily enough for two. Obviously, Dunkia was impressed.

  “Do you like bread?” she asked. “Tomorrow, I can bake some for you.”

  “Sure,” he said. He watched her wash each individual potato with her thumb erasing the last trace of dirt. Her hands were so raw and cracked that he hurt for her. He stepped back when she indicated for him to move aside so she could slice the potatoes over the hot grease.

  She was deft with his sharp knife, the white slices swiftly dropping into the sizzling skillet. When she finished, she said, “I’ll go get the plums.”

  “Yeh.” Thurman wished the house were larger so they could keep a distance. Perhaps with more space she would be more at ease.

  Thurman noticed the sun was about to set. Red rays danced on the frost patterns etched on the front window. He lighted the lamp. As he replaced the glass chimney, the strong coal oil smell filled his nose. A bit of smoke blackened the narrow throat, so he adjusted the flat wick until he was satisfied. He mused how different it would be with her in his house.

  He took a dog eared journal from the stack and sat at the table, pretending to read it. He knew every page by heart but he pretended to concentrate so she would not feel so self-conscious.

  “Do you want coffee?’ she asked.

  “Sure.” He wondered why he had not thought of it. If he had been alone, he would already be drinking some. His molars floated at the notion of hot coffee in his dry mouth. He closed the journal and returned it to the pile. With his hands shoved flat in his front pants pockets, he teetered on his boot heels at a loss for how he should act towards her.

  She set the table, but never looked up at him as if she were too busy. But he, in turn, felt all the more obvious about standing idly by.

  “It is done,” she announced. She placed the skillet on the table, using a rag to protect her hand.

  He sat down and dug in; fishing out some bacon and spearing a few brown potatoes. Thurman stopped when he realized that she was still standing.

  “Sit down and eat,” he said.
<
br />   The chair bumped as she took her place opposite him. After she sat, he finished filling his plate.

  “I can go to town,” she said.

  “We settled that. You are staying here.” He did not look at her as he began to eat.

  When he heard her sniff, he glanced up. Her lashes were wet.

  “Eat,” he said pointing at her plate with his fork.

  “If I can,” she mumbled.

  Thurman frowned at her words. He leaned back and considered her.

  “Were you starving?” he asked.

  Her nod was enough to sicken him. She was not only homeless, but hungry. He was shocked by the truth of her situation. They’d had no food. The picture dulled his appetite. If she hadn’t come, she might have died and he would never have known of her plight. This new knowledge depressed him.

  “Coffee?” she asked with the graniteware poised over his mug.

  Thurman nodded. He watched the brown liquid splash in the cup. Even the rich tasting coffee did not seem much of a treat for him at the moment.

  As he lifted his mug to blow the steam away, he studied her bobbed straw colored hair. She must have brushed it a hundred times for it shown in the lamplight. He realized how she must have feared he would reject her while she had waited all day for him to return.

  When their meal was finished, she busied herself gathering the dishes. Deliberate, Dunkia paused when she reached for his plate.

  “I forgot the plums,” she said.

  “They’ll be good for breakfast,” he said.

  “You do not have to be kind to me,” she said.

  Thurman blinked at her. “Huh?”

  “I will do your bidding under your roof. If I do things wrong or forget, I expect you to punish me.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. Feeling his face heat up, he was relieved that she had taken his plate and turned her back. He noticed she was washing the dishes in steaming water from the stove. Then he remembered the can of petroleum jelly that might soothe her raw hands.

  On his knees, Thurman dug through the chest. Finally he found the small tin, with its label nearly worn off down to the metal. He pushed himself up to his feet

  “Here...” he said, realizing she was pouring more water in the dishpan atop the dry sink.

  “The dishes are done,” she said softly. “If you will turn your head, I’ll clean up.”

  “Sure,” he said as he turned. Her words made him feel as if he had violated her privacy.

  “I won’t be long,” she assured him.

  Take all the time you want, he mused to himself. His attention centered on the frost patterns that etched the window glass. After a few minutes, he heard her say that she was finished and Thurman remembered the greasy can in his hand.

  “This may help your hands,” he said and crossed the room to hand it to her.

  “Mister Lake?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “You are being very kind to me.”

  He shrugged her gratitude away. She snapped off the lid and took a small dab on the end of her fingertip. Impatient with her timidness, Thurman stepped closer, took the can and dipped three of his fingers in the ointment. Then he took her hand and rubbed the grease in the back of it. Lord, he shuddered, she’d be all day doing any good.

  “As dry as your hands are,” he said. “A little isn’t going to do it.”

  Busy working it in, he barely heard her soft, “Yes.”

  Then realizing he was touching her for the first time, he became self-conscious. But determined to ease her condition, he kept massaging the jell in.

  When he finished, they were standing very close. Her slick hands were still in his light grasp as he looked into her sky blue eyes. He leaned closer to her face, expecting her to twist her head. But to his surprise, Dunkia held her place for him to kiss her on the lips. The moment was brief and when he opened his eyes, he felt shaken by his own forwardness.

  If he ever wanted to make a sincere sounding statement, the time seemed at hand. The moment passed and he stepped back instead, releasing her hands. Words never came. Instead he blew out the lamp and plunged the room into darkness.

  “You take this side of the bed,” he announced. “I’ll take the other side.”

  As he sat down in the chair to take off his boots, she moved past him. In the silver starlight, he could barely see Dunkia unbuttoning her dress.

  What in hell’s name would she sleep in? It just wasn’t any worry of his. He strained to pull off his left boot. When he looked up again, her silhouette was gone, but the protest of the bed told him enough. His second one came off even harder. Maybe this sleeping in the same bed wasn’t such a good idea?

  He’d expected her to sleep fully dressed. Surely, he told himself, she has under clothes on. When he stood up, he considered shedding his britches, but decided against it and went around to his side.

  Thurman drew a deep breath, then raised the quilts and edged in. When his hip touched hers, he moved an inch away, pulled up the covers, and settled on his left side. Good enough, he decided.

  “Mister Lake?” she asked softly.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you always sleep in your clothes?”

  Thurman sat straight up and slapped the covers with his palms. “Quit calling me mister! My name’s Thurman and I usually sleep in my long johns.”

  “Yes, Thurman.”

  “And quit...” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to tell her next. In disgust, he rose and took off his shirt and pants in haste.

  “Now I’m like I usually sleep,” he announced and climbed back in the bed with his back to her. When he was close to falling asleep, his hand dropped off his side and brushed her silky bare skin. He drew it back as if he had burned himself.

  Damn, he swore silently. She was naked as a baby. He squeezed his eyelids shut. Then he scolded himself for having acted like a foolish schoolboy and kissing her. He considered getting up.

  “Dunkia?” he asked softly, hoping that she was asleep and wouldn’t answer him.

  “Yes, Thurman.” She sounded wide-awake to him.

  He laid firmly on his left side without any intention of turning over until all this was settled.

  “There isn’t a preacher in town and I can’t leave this place for more than two days because of feeding my cows. So going to the county seat is out until spring. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  What did he have to do, draw her a picture?

  “What I’m getting at—well if you want, I’ll marry you then.”

  “You don’t have to do that mister... Thurman,” she corrected herself.

  He bolted to a sitting position again and stared across the dark room. “Well, I will if you’ll let me!”

  “Let you what?”

  “Marry you, silly. Hell, I ain’t even sure of what I mean.”

  “I will marry you,” she said and pulled on his arm for him to be with her.

  He half fell on top of her and braced himself so he did not crush her. A cold shiver ran up Thurman’s spine. When he lowered his face to find her lips, he couldn’t recall ever kissing anyone sweeter in all of his thirty-seven years.

  The Last Ride

  “One of old man Shurer’s horses foundered, so he can’t pull the hearse,” Ratch said and booted his cowpony up closer to the picket gate. “They’d sure appreciate it if you’d hitch up a team and haul old Shorty’s remains out to the cemetery this afternoon.”

  “Man, Ratch,” Jeff said, his mind full of doubts about the task. “All I’ve got around here is an unbroken team of gray broncs. Sold my good team last week.”

  Ratch was not to be deterred. “Why I’ll come by and we can snub them to old Brad. He’s powerful enough and they can’t run off with him and a wagon.”

  Shorty’s widow Cora had been through enough. Old Shorty went off to Crosses to trade some horses. Word came back Shorty had died in his sleep. Must have been a heart attack, Jeff decided. Anyway the family needed him planted and the
funeral was that afternoon. He better help them.

  He told Ratch he would harness the grays while he went after his big bay and be ready in thirty minutes. His friend agreed to go by and tell the undertaker they could handle it, then return to help him manage the. Unbroken pair. On his stiff right leg, Jeff hobbled around the house to the pens out back. The whole matter of using the untrained ponies niggled him, but he tried to shrug away his gut wrenching concerns.

  In the corral, he lassoed the one called Goose, and she flew backwards. Her butt crashed into the pole corral and set her down on her haunches. Then she put on a head slinging fit until he managed to fashion a halter over her ears and lead her out. With her tied at the rack, still eaten up with anxiety, he went back for the second one. Tyrone proved no easier and after another struggle, at last, the gelding stood snubbed to the hitching rack beside Goose. Jeff knew he’d used up the thirty minutes he’d promised and still did not have the broncs harnessed.

  Ratch soon returned and eared them down while he slung on the harness and strapped it on them. The two were finally hitched to the weather beaten farm wagon; both men paused to catch their breaths and to consider their effort. Sweat ran down Jeff’s face and he wiped it off on his sleeve. He wanted to ask Ratch to forget the whole thing, for the dancing gray ponies looked mighty like a hornet’s nest of trouble to him. Too late for that, He climbed on the seat while his partner snubbed them up to his big stout horse.

  “Ready?” Ratch asked, looking back over his shoulder.

  On the seat, the lines in his hand, Jeff nodded and clucked to the team. They sashayed a little left and then right, but Ratch had them snubbed to his big bay horse which confined them to minor tricks. Down Main Street they went, dancing on their toes and acting ready to do a jig and a reel the entire two blocks to the funeral home.

  When they arrived at the front door of Shurers, Jeff dared to breathe a little easier. The brake locked, lines tied off and the team snubbed close to the hitch rack, he jumped down. Still wary of them, he looked at the gray’s shoulders already wet with sweat. A good day’s work would kill them two. They needed several such days, he decided going inside after Ratch.