by Tammy Barley
Jake looked up and saw her walking over. With slow movements, he reached his arm over the side of the wagon, grabbed an oddly shaped bundle, and eased it out again just as carefully.
Jess was unable to get a word in before Jake surprised her by unrolling a thick, woolen overcoat like those the ranch hands wore.
“No point in coming down ill, Jess,” he said. “It may not look like much, but it’s new and it’s warm. There’re also mittens.” He held out a pair to her.
She didn’t take them. They were undoubtedly part of the goods he’d purchased in Carson City. “Keep your woolens, Bennett. I’ll freeze before I’ll accept so much as a thread from you.”
“There’s another month or two of winter left,” Jake said, undaunted. “This was made to fit a man, so it’s certain to keep you warm as a spud in an oven, clear to your knees. The men swear by them.”
“Not all my possessions were lost in the fire, Bennett. I have my cloak to wear, should I choose to fetch it. Save your charity for somebody else.”
“Charity?” He gazed at her as if trying to solve a puzzle. “We’re out in the wild here, Jess. There are no towns nearby, no stores around the corner. Out here, folks help one another. I don’t refuse a passing man a meal or a bed if he has a need, and neither does anyone else. Ranch folks figure they may be traveling themselves someday, and they appreciate a sack of biscuits or a pair of mittens if someone has them to spare. This is a way of living that you might not be used to, but in these parts, it’s how things are.”
Since her most urgent need was to be away from him, Jess grabbed the coat and stuffed her arms into it, then snatched the mittens and pulled them on. “Why do you want to keep me here?”
“The ranch is remote, so you won’t be discovered, and from what Isaac said, you don’t have any other relatives you can stay with,” he said. “Or do you?”
“I don’t, but that’s not what I meant. I meant, why you? Why are you keeping me here? Because it’s honorable?” She scoffed at the word.
“Should there be a better reason?”
Certain that challenging the point would be akin to running in circles, Jess tilted her head toward the ranch. “Where can I lend a hand?”
“Red Deer’s in the cookhouse. I’m sure she’d be glad for your help.”
With that, he turned and started across the yard. His pace was slower than usual, almost lumbering. Jess briefly recalled the way he’d reached into the wagon, how he’d avoided stretching his shoulder and back. Reluctantly, her gaze followed his progress until he disappeared into the stable. She wondered how he’d injured himself, frustrated by the fact that she
even cared.
Jess closed the door of the cookhouse behind her, the tension draining from her as her icy limbs tingled and thawed in the room’s steamy heat.
“Jessica!” Red Deer greeted from somewhere in the kitchen. “Come! There is hot tea.”
Jess glanced around the simple, welcoming room. Six rough-hewn tables with benches were arranged in two long rows, with plenty of space in between them to accommodate the ranchmen. The walls were plastered white, the one nearest the door studded with coat pegs. The hearty warmth of the room, combined with her willingness to forget about Jake for a time, lightened her mood. “I’ll be along in a moment,” she called, breathing deep. Meaty, spicy aromas permeated the place.
She hung the coat and mittens on pegs, then made her way to the kitchen. The plank floor bore hundreds of dents and scratches from the ranchmen’s boot heels and spurs. A man’s domain it was.
An enormous, custom-made sideboard separated the kitchen from the mess hall. Jess rounded it wonderingly. Beneath it, open-fronted shelves were divided into cubbyholes that stored a wide assortment of goods: boxes of teas, jars of spices, iron trivets—fashioned by Doyle, perhaps?—old ammunition boxes heaped with forks and spoons, a medical kit, and an oft-used coffee mill, judging by the thick coating of dark powder that covered it.
Huge barrels flanked the sideboard. Jess lifted their lids to discover stores of flour, salt pork, beans, salt, oats, coffee, and sugar. Large, cloth-covered baskets on a long table held dried fruits, jerky, pale nutmeats she didn’t recognize, and an assortment of drying herbs she suspected had been cultivated by the Indians. Ubiquitous braids of onions, garlic, and chili peppers dangled from the low ceiling beams, and shelves were stacked with clean pans, iron kettles, and enough tin plates to feed an army of cattlemen. Beside a massive stone fireplace, a low bunk hugged the wall.
Red Deer turned from the fireplace, grinning at Jess’s evident amazement. “There is truly much food here,” she said. She pointed to a second door, partially hidden behind a water barrel in the corner. “Outside is a small corral the men have built for the pigs, and a fence of wires for the chickens. Nowhere else have I seen such a thing—a fence made of wires! Here the ranchmen and my people have plenty. We all work hard, and there is enough for all.”
She smiled and returned to stirring a huge pot suspended over the fire. In it, Jess glimpsed a steaming broth brimming with cubes of meat.
Jess retrieved a clean mug from a shelf, then filled it from the kettle on the hearth. “May I help?”
“Help?” Red Deer looked at her curiously. “You wish to work beside me, an Indian woman?”
“Does that trouble you?”
“It is not common for whites to treat Indians as equals.”
“I’m not someone who puts myself above others because of the color of their skin. Or the sound of their voice,” she added. “My grandfather came to America from Ireland. As a girl, my mother was treated cruelly by other children because of her Irish blood. When she had children, she taught us that every person matters, that everyone has a special purpose, no matter who he is.”
“The stew will need onions, if you would like to cut them,” Red Deer said.
Jess spied a thick braid of the bulbous onions overhead. Locating a stool, she reached up and took them down from their nail. She began to separate the bulbs on a cutting board. “Do you always cook for the men, Red Deer?” she asked.
“Not always. We had a cook, but he left before winter. The men say Mr. Bennett hired a new man. He sent him to get supplies from Sacramento City.” Red Deer pointed to the onions. “You can put the skins into the fire. The ends we will put into that pail with other trimmings to feed the pigs.”
Jess chopped the onions neatly, gratified that she had begged her mother’s cooks to teach her the basics of their art. “Jake thought I could help with the cookhouse chores during my time here.”
“I am glad for the help, Jessica. I often work here alone.” Jess thought she would say nothing more, but then she continued. “The women of my village do not like to be near white men, though they know the white men of this ranch are good. The work they do near their homes is still helpful to the ranchmen.” She scooped up the diced onions and added them to the pot.
“Helpful in what way?”
“The women prepare fresh cowhides for the ranchmen. Then they cut the hides into strips for the men to braid into lassos, or they sew them into chaps to go over the men’s pants. The men pay them fairly.”
Jess took a sip of warm tea, which was flavored with bits of dried apple. She found it delightful. “What kind of nuts are these in the basket, Red Deer?”
Red Deer borrowed the stool and broke three red chilies from their stalks. She followed Jess’s gaze. “They are the nuts we pick from the pinyon pine.”
“How do you pick so many nuts this small?” Jess asked, stirring them with a finger. She was curious to know, but she was also glad to have someone to talk to, someone to distract her thoughts.
“My people traveled in these mountains gathering pine nuts for food long before the white men came. Sometimes, we still do, but there are not as many now. I once hated the white men who cut down the pinyon pines to build their houses,” she admitted. “They could have cut down other trees. They could have lived elsewhere.” Red Deer paused reflectively, then w
orked to regain her cheerfulness. “We use forked sticks when we pick them from the trees.” She laid the peppers on the cutting board for Jess and began filling a large bowl with handfuls of beans from a barrel.
Forked sticks? That was it? Jess doubted that even Miriam Van Dorn could make this woman keep talking. She recalled seeing brown-skinned children in the distance, and gave the conversation another try. “How do the children help?”
Red Deer laughed at the question, surprising Jess. “The boys like to climb the trees to pick them, and their bodies turn black with sap. Then they roll in pine needles until many stick to them, and they chase one another, laughing and growling as if they were bears.”
Jess smiled at the thought. She took another sip of tea. “What are the gatherings like?”
“We pick the cones before they open, in the cool of the fall. We fill all the largest baskets with them.”
“With the pinecones?”
“At first; then, with the nuts. We break out the nuts in the mountains, for there are too many cones for the people to carry away.” Red Deer’s slender shoulders relaxed a little, and she finally seemed more comfortable sharing the experience with Jess. “All the people who come are family and dear friends. Some stay near camp to dig out a large pit and to build a fire. All people—men and women, young and old—work together, and the gathering is very happy, for months have passed since we have seen one another.”
“It sounds like hard work.”
“It is hard work, but it is also good.” With her free hand, she tucked her short hair behind her ears. “Some people pick, and others carry baskets of cones to the fire. There the green cones are roasted to dry them and to open them.”
“The heat makes them open?”
“Yes, and they sound like many eggs frying in a skillet. When they are cool enough to touch, we lay the cones on large, flat rocks, and then we strike them with smaller stones to break out the seeds. The children like to do this because they sneak bites when they think nobody sees them, but they do not know that we also did this when we were children.”
Jess shared a laugh with Red Deer and began to slice the chilies.
Red Deer poured the dried beans into the cooking pot. Briefly, she considered the broth, then used tongs to lift a large rock out of the fire. With great care, she lowered the rock into the stew, the liquid around it sizzling as bubbles burst on the surface. When she had released it, she withdrew the tongs and added more logs to the fire.
At Jess’s look of wonder, Red Deer explained, “It is stone boiling. In this way my people often cook food, by heating the stew from the inside. We often cook in vessels made only of animal skins, and those we cannot cook over a fire like iron pots.”
“I suppose not,” Jess agreed, watching Red Deer stir the fragrant dinner.
“When I cook for the men, I must prepare much food. By stone boiling, it does not take so long. Would you like to taste a pine nut?”
Gamely, Jess selected one of the seed-like nuts. It had a soft crunch and a mild flavor. “It’s wonderful. Do you eat these by themselves?”
“The nuts we eat in many ways. If there is a good hunt, we mix them whole with flavorful leaves and berries and cook them with rabbit or antelope. We also grind them into flour and boil them in soups like white man’s porridge. In winter, we sometimes let the porridge get very cold, adding sugar if we have it. I once tasted ice cream—it is much like this, but nutty. The children love to eat it this way.”
An hour or more passed amiably. The stew would simmer until that night’s supper, Red Deer explained, and they needed to make dinner now, for the men would be coming in soon. Together, they prepared ham steaks and beans, which they arranged on the sideboard, along with pans heaped with corn bread that Red Deer had made that morning. Added to the meal were pots of hot coffee and crocks of fresh, sweet butter for the bread. Jess had just finished setting plates and flatware on the sideboard for serving when the ranchmen started pouring in the door.
The men said little, which surprised Jess. They helped themselves from the serving platters, and as they filled their plates, many of them nodded to Jess, treating her as respectfully as they treated Red Deer. At least Bennett’s order to watch me hasn’t caused them to treat me like a detestable miscreant, she mused. They were frugal with their words, but they seemed to accept her presence easily enough. A woman looking to escape couldn’t hope for better.
Jess glanced out a window at the empty compound. Nearly all the men came to eat at once. Yet, she realized, meals were too short to provide sufficient time for her to slip away.
Bennett didn’t come in for dinner, she noticed; neither did Doyle nor Diaz, two of the men she was familiar with and had expected to see. She began to hear the distant tink-tink of Doyle’s hammer, the sound wending through the cookhouse wall, dull but continuous. After the ranch hands had finished and returned to work, Jess fixed three plates of food to take over to the smithy. Working men needed to eat.
The sharp banging became considerably louder as she entered, and the heat in the small building was intense. Jess pushed several tools aside and set the plates on a dusty table, then waited for Doyle to pause so she could tell him she’d brought dinner. Apparently, Jake and Diaz were elsewhere. After a long moment, Doyle glanced up, seeing her and then noticing the steaming plates.
“For you and Bennett and Diaz,” she explained.
He gave her a brief, appraising look, then nodded his thanks and continued his work.
After Jess and Red Deer had eaten, they washed all the dishes and wiped down the tables. With dinner complete, they turned again to their preparations for supper. Red Deer set Jess to grinding coffee for the men’s supper while she selected herbs to add to the stew.
“Where did you learn English, Red Deer?”
“A missionary came to teach us, and to tell us about the Son of the Great Spirit Father, the one they call Jesus. My sister and I learned this language, as did many of my people. We speak it to the whites, but to one another, we speak mostly the Paiute language.” Her face hardened slightly, like a flower petal frozen from cold. “The missionary told us it is wrong to hate, and wrong to kill the white men for harming us. He said that Jesus forgave the people who killed him, and we should do the same. I still struggle to forgive.” She lowered her eyes to the herbs she had been chopping. “It is often because of white settlers that my people suffer. We have learned that many of our Shoshoni neighbors have been killed because of whites in Idaho Territory. Yet we know that your God sees us as His children, also.” She glanced up with a small smile. “The Bible says that many of those who followed Jesus were fishermen, like the Paiute, though we also hunt antelope and gather seeds and berries. All this land near Honey Lake Valley used to be our home, but now it belongs to ranchers. For hundreds of years, Paiute women have gathered the reeds and grasses for making baskets that we need. The lake and creek held food for us, and with branches from the trees our people made their homes. Now the white men say, ‘This land is ours. You can no longer come here.’ We do not understand such a thing, taking land and keeping for one what had belonged to all. My people have been very angry at the settlers, and there have been many battles, fought by Paiutes who did not want to leave.”
Red Deer scattered the dried herbs into the bubbling pot, then wiped her hands on a cloth. “But Mr. Bennett is different. He is a good man.”
Unless danger threatens, Jess thought.
“He lets us live here so that other white men do not trouble us, and he speaks peacefully to all people. The Paiute men work and are paid the same as the white men. Always there is food for us and for our old people and our children.”
Jess was ready for Red Deer to stop talking now, but she continued, oblivious to Jess’s animosity toward Jake.
“Among the Paiutes, he is known as Many Horses, and he is respected. On this ranch, our people can hunt when they wish, and they catch fish. Our elders teach our children the ways of the people, and they also teach them t
o honor the Spirit Father and to send their prayers to Him.”
She sighed in acceptance—no, contentment, Jess realized.
“I know that my family will survive here. While I cook, they are nearby in our village. They, too, work and teach and learn the old ways, and when Lone Wolf and I walk home each night, we know that our place here is good.”
Red Deer looked up. Jessica was sitting as far from the coffee grinder as she could while dutifully turning the crank. The Indian woman laughed softly.
“You do not like coffee, Jessica? I will grind; you may stir the soup.”
Later that afternoon, when they began to set up for the evening meal, Red Deer took the stack of plates from Jess. “You are moving slower. You are not well yet. Why not get some rest? When you feel strong, you may help again.”
True, Jess was utterly exhausted. She had done little physical work, but invading images of battles and fires had begun to trouble her and wear down her mind and, by extension, her body. With a word of gratitude, Jess put on her coat and mittens, then crossed the yard to the big house. The wagon had not been moved, though a canvas covering had been pulled over its bulging load.
Winter’s early darkness encroached, turning the wind cold, and she was chilled and shaking when she pushed the heavy timber door closed. Inside felt blessedly warm, like the cookhouse. The hearth blazed invitingly, and Jess moved toward it, still huddled in her coat. Evidently, someone had kept the fire going just for her, since she didn’t think that Jake spent much time here other than at night, to sleep. She gave the matter no further thought than that. She was far too tired.
Gradually, she warmed up. Red Deer’s words came back to her—how her people lived on the ranch, how she could go home to her family and find comfort with them. Aching with memories and loss, Jess hung the coat and mittens on a peg near the door. She made her way to the staircase and climbed the steps to the privacy of her room.
