The Women in Pants

by Stan Himes

  Then Mary lowered herself from her horse and as she walked toward Sean with her gun aimed above the horse, his rage turned to pleading. “No, lass, no. I beg of you. I’m good as dead now, I am. Please. Please! Don’t let’m drag me achin’ body!”

  Mary bent over him. “You ain’t worth another bullet.” Then she yanked off his boot and let the horse pull free. “But your horse deserves better and one of my ranch hands needs a new saddle.” She turned and led the horse toward Sally.

  His strength gone, Sean slumped to the ground, dead or soon to be. As with Brute, there was no inclination on our part to bury him. Even if we had the desire, our only shovel was on the chuckwagon that we hoped was now in Caldwell. But I promise you that none of us gave thought to giving any of the dead men a decent burial or saying words over them beyond those I don’t think I should repeat here.

  They had taken our herd and left us behind. We had taken the herd back and would now leave them behind. Unlike us, they would not rise up again.

  Chapter 26

  Assessing our situation after re-taking the herd was a lot more fun than when we had counted our wounds and meager belongings after losing the herd. Under normal circumstances, there’s not a bit of humor in the words “and then there’s the herd,” but it made us laugh with delight every time.

  “I now count enough saddles for everyone,” said Sally.

  “And then there’s the herd,” said Prudence, and bellies shook with had-to-be-there laughter.

  “By my count, we now have six rifles,” I said, setting up whoever wanted to chime in.

  Ruth did. “And then there’s the herd!” Comical every time.

  We counted horses and canteens and pistols and one potential husband, and, oh yes, then there was the herd that we had snatched back from men who dared to challenge us. We were feeling good and happy and successful, and we lived on those feelings for quite a spell until exhaustion finally set in. It had taken time and effort to round up strays, the darkness of night was upon us, and there was one very important item we were unable to count: food.

  More than a day had passed since we’d eaten the last of our jerky. Clean Through had hunted a time or two during our trek, adding mostly rabbits and squirrels to what had started out as beef stew. We’d grown dependent on the chuckwagon, which was natural both because cooking wasn’t part of our duties on the drive and because all of us welcomed the opportunity to be free from pots and pans for a couple of months. Now any of us would have been content to knead some dough or stand over a boiling kettle.

  “Remember how good Clean Through’s biscuits were,” said Katie, and her words had our mouths watering and minds hoping that Clean Through and Pearl and Ernestine were all right.

  Parker had wanted to hunt earlier, but Mary didn’t want to risk losing our surprise attack by the men hearing a shot. Now it was too dark to hunt. I don’t know what owl tastes like, but I was willing to risk it if we could have tracked down the hooting calls floating around us. We couldn’t. At least the horses and cattle had grass, which started to look tempting as the rumbles rose from our stomachs. We hadn’t come across so much as wild berries or something with edible roots.

  “Steak dinners for all after we sell the herd,” said Mary.

  “Bacon for me,” said Sally. “The biggest, most heapin’ plate of bacon in the history of human life on earth.”

  “Steak and bacon,” I dreamed.

  “Steak and bacon and eggs and fried potatoes and more,” said Mary. “We’ll feast. But for now, fool your bellies with water so you feel full.” She turned to Parker who, with a boldness no one objected to, sat holding Katie’s hand. “You’re sure we’re close?”

  He nodded. “Barring trouble, we’ll be in Dodge tomorrow afternoon.”

  Ruth held up her rifle. “I dare trouble to find us.” The spirited pride we felt rose up again, stemming our weariness for the moment.

  “And then there’s the herd,” Prudence added. It made no sense at all, yet we busted out a fresh set of snickers just the same.

  Without Ernestine, it took a few extra hollers for us to start the herd, but we managed. Mary took the lead position. Ruth, Prudence, Sally and I were in our usual spots at each side of the herd. Without the remuda to watch, Katie was free to ride drag. As you likely expect, Parker joined her.

  The August air was thick and heavy, adding strained breathing to our hunger, aches and weariness. We didn’t care. The end of our journey was near, so near that our minds filled with thoughts of upcoming comforts. Food. Baths. Clean clothes. A bed. More food.

  By noon Mary was the first to ride up a gentle rise that led to a bend in the trail. Once upon that rise, she could see our destination. “Dodge City!” she turned and shouted to Ruth and me. “I can see it!” We shouted back to Prudence and Sally and they shouted back to Katie and Parker. The cattle huffed, snorted and bellowed, so perhaps they were spreading the word as well.

  For a short time we forgot our hunger, our bodies instead feeding off the excitement of reaching our destination. At our slow-but-steady pace, we were still two to three hours out from front to back. I remember reflecting on what we’d been through and wondering about the fates of Pearl, Ernestine and Clean Through, but I must admit to the selfishness of just wanting a carrot or ear of corn or anything to chew on. Hunger doesn’t stay bedded down for long.

  A call from Sally shook us all from our thoughts. “Rider! Comin’ in fast!”

  Like veterans of the trail, which is what we’d become, we pulled out guns in the wink of an eye. “Don’t shoot unless you have to,” Mary called. “We don’t want another stampede.”

  Ruth moved close to Mary. “Single rider.” She put her rifle to her shoulder. “I’ll keep his chest in my sight ‘til you say shoot or don’t.”

  But as the rider approached, I saw his arms up high and recognized him as a friend. “It’s that Dusty! Dusty from back in Oklahoma!” Seeing him made me think of my first letter and it was like a connection to home. “It’s him, I tell you. Put your gun down, Ruth.”

  “Not ’til I’m sure.” I think if she chewed tobacco she would have spit right then to emphasize her toughness.

  It was Dusty all right, and he came riding in with shouts of joy. “By God! By God! By God!” At last he was beside Mary, panting and wiping moisture from his eyes. “By God, you’re alive. I’m thankful for that.”

  “Reckon we are, too,” Mary replied, not sure what to make of the fuss. “Keep ’em movin’,” she called out to us. Fuss or not, she wasn’t about to lose any more time.

  Catching his breath, Dusty paced his horse alongside Mary’s and explained how he had been almost back to his home when it occurred to him that he might have said too much to the wrong people when he had stopped for a drink—which turned into many drinks—in Dodge City. He had ridden all the way back to find out our fate.

  “I learned about the ones who came after you, who were the ones I’d talked to I’m shamed to say. Then I rode down the Western and didn’t find you there. Then I went back to Dodge. It was a mystery how you’d plum disappeared ’til I heard old Yankton talking about the side trail in from the Chisolm. It sure is a relief to know I didn’t cause you no trouble.”

  “We had our share of trouble, but it would’ve found us whether you talked or not. So don’t fret. But tell me about this Yankton.”

  Dusty spit. “Scoundrel disguised as a cattle buyer. Part of an outfit from back east. He buys all the cattle that Irishman and the giant can round up, payin’ half the goin’ rate and askin’ no questions. Then he ships the cattle and tells the firm he paid full price, pocketing the difference.” He scanned the country. “So you ain’t seen that Irish fella and the big man?”

  Mary told him the highlights of our story, pausing at every “By God” and “My stupid mouth” that Dusty interjected.

  “I ain’t seen none of those men back in Dodge,” he said, referring to the ones who had run off. He smiled. “Reckon they ain’t as good around women
as I am.”

  “Reckon not.” Mary kept her mind on business. “How many cattle buyers in town?”

  “Three that I know of. Yankton. Fellow named Hall. From Chicago, I think. Older man from Pueblo named Dawkins.”

  “Know ’em enough to advise me any?”

  Dusty’s smile grew. “Why, ma’am, my advice is to take the best price. You’ll be collecting money, not makin’ friends.”

  My father would have liked Dusty quite a bit.

  We were a sight. I know this not because of how battered and grimy and weary I felt, but because people began to line up at the edge of town to stare at us in wonder and delight. After all this time, I had forgotten how unusual it was to see women wearing pants. And to the best of my knowledge a female team of cattlehands was about as common as the parting of the Red Sea. Dodge City was a scattering of homes and buildings, and people of all ages came out of them with eyes wide, mouths agape and heads shaking in a well-now-I’ve-seen-everything kind of way.

  Dusty had told Mary of the massive corral at the far edge of the town, near the train depot, and she trotted up ahead of the herd to make sure it was clear. Two lawmen, who were better known back east from stories told about them than they were known to us, rode up to her. One was a sheriff named Masterson. The other a deputy marshal named Earp. Each doffed his hat at her.

  “Honor to have you here,” said the one named Earp. “Always room for more ladies.”

  “What route should we take to the corral?”

  Masterson laughed and waved his hat toward Front Street. “Lady, you just parade ’em right on through. Ain’t a person here won’t want to see this.”

  Mary was almost too tired to smile back at the welcome. She nodded, turned, and waved us ahead.

  It was indeed a parade! As we marched the herd down that dirt road through the town, the people who had been watching us joined in and sauntered along. A few of the older women looked at us like we were fallen, shameful females, but most gave us welcoming smiles. As filthy and ragged as our clothes had become, they still had a few of the men palpitating at our curves. Some young girls were happy just to be marching along with us. Most interested of all were the young women in the town, who admired Parker as much as they admired our outfits. A few called out as we passed or as they walked with us.

  “You women did this?”

  “I like your trousers.”

  “Where are your men? Who’s in charge here?”

  “Would you tell my mama to let me wear pants?”

  “Bet you’re pretty under all that dirt!”

  That last one brought a mouth-shutting look from one of the hard-nosed deputies that had been lining up. For a town that carried a lawless reputation, Dodge City seemed to have a large number of lawmen. There was a sheriff and his deputies and a marshal and his deputies. Of course, the main duty of a lawman in a cattle town wasn’t so much to stop crime as it was to keep the cowboys from getting so rowdy that they couldn’t get up the next morning and spend the rest of their money. These lawmen looked at us with a dubious curiosity, wondering if we would be like most cowhands and spend the night drinking and gambling our money away, and then wondering just how they’d go about arresting a group of women.

  It was unnecessary worry on their part. All we wanted was food, a bath and a bed, in that order.

  The words that soared through the air like a lovely melody and brought music to Mary’s heart, the words that confirmed we were where we needed to be, came from a brown-suited man on the last step of the boardwalk on the railroad edge of town: “I want to buy your cattle.”

  The words lost their luster a moment later when Dusty said, “That’s Yankton.”

  Then a new round of good feelings stirred up again when a broad-shouldered man called out, “I’ll make you a good offer for them cattle,” followed by a white-haired man in a pale suit saying, “Not as good as the offer I’ll make.”

  At the large corral, a sandy-haired girl, maybe ten, in a pretty blue dress, opened the gate for us. She looked at Mary with admiration as the herd began to fill the space. I noted with both pride and relief that Uncle Angus was among the first to go inside the fence. Mary dismounted and stood beside the girl. “I’m Mary,” the girl said.

  “Why, that’s my name, too,” our Mary replied, making the girl’s day even more special. In just short of an hour, Katie and Parker drove in the last of the cattle and, before rushing off to tell her friends that she shared a name with the leader, young Mary closed the gate.

  Our job was done.

  Chapter 27

  “I’m sorry, but I’m just too tired to shake hands.” It was the first and only time I heard Mary tell a lie. We had turned our horses over to a nice man who ran the livery stable and had promised to rub them down and get them some well-deserved grain. As we started our walk back to the center of town, there was Yankton holding out his hand. She could easily have slapped, kicked, knifed or shot him, but she settled for not touching the man.

  “I understand, I surely do. My name is Sam Yankton and I’m a cattle buyer.”

  “Yes. We met several of your acquaintances on the trail.”

  The shine dropped from Yankton’s eyes and his grin drooped for only a piece of a second. “I don’t know what you mean, Miss…”

  “Mary Bartlett. And it’s Mrs.” She snapped her head to the right. “Ruth! Let it be.” Ruth lowered the gun she had raised.

  Yankton held out his palms. “Now you ladies don’t want to shoot me.”

  “Not now we don’t,” Ruth growled. She gave a quick scan of the crowd. “Too many witnesses.”

  Mary stopped just long enough to look into Yankton’s eyes. “You’ll have to find a new group of rustler partners, Mr. Yankton. Your others ain’t comin’ back.”

  She continued on her walk, which had a burst of energy and a whole lot of backbone to it. As we had for two months, we followed. With pride.

  Well, except for Dusty, who felt an urge to quench his thirst and tell some stories at the Palisades.

  When we walked into a one-story building simply labeled Cattlemen’s Association, it was the first time in quite a while that we couldn’t see the sky. Each of us paused in the doorway, startled for a moment by the ceiling. If it hadn’t been early evening by this time, we might have been even more unsettled. After the slight hesitation, though, the ceiling became a welcome sight and the final bit of proof that we had returned to civilization. The downside of coming into a room was that it became all the more apparent how awful we smelled.

  The two gentlemen in the room were kind enough to ignore our less-than-fetching aroma. Or perhaps they were just used to the stench of sweat and grime and cattle.

  They were the two men who had shouted to us about making good offers for the cattle. One was tall, broad-shouldered, with black hair and a blacker mustache. He introduced himself as Tobias Hall from Chicago. The other man, Quentin Dawkins from Pueblo, was older and shorter with wrinkles around his eyes and mouth indicating considerable time spent smiling. He was smiling now.

  “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to meet you ladies.”

  “The same goes for me,” Hall added. “What you women have accomplished will be stuff of legend.”

  Dawkins noticed Prudence staring with deep longing at an apple on a nearby table.

  “By golly, Tobe, we’re being rude as can be. You ladies could use a good meal, couldn’t you?”

  “Well, sir, yes, we need food and baths and beds more than any time in our lives,” said Mary. “It don’t even matter which order we get them in. But I reckon we’ll enjoy them all a whole lot better if we can conclude some business here right now.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Dawkins. He picked up a small bell and rang it. Almost out of thin air, a cheerful black woman, aproned, appeared in the doorway from the back room. She welcomed us with a smile, then looked at Dawkins.

  “Agatha, we need sandwiches and drinks for everyone here,” he said.

  “Better
make it buttermilk,” added Hall.

  “We thank you kindly,” Mary said.

  Hall tugged on his jacket and assumed a more formal air. “Very well, while we await the food, let’s get down to business. Mr. Dawkins and I each represent different cattle interests. There is also a third buyer in town, a Mr. Yankton.”

  “We have met and rejected Mr. Yankton.”

  Dawkins smiled. “You are wise. Mr. Hall and I, though competitors, share a mutual respect for each other and a mutual dislike of Mr. Yankton.”

  “So you two just make offers right in front of each other? So I haggle with both of you at the same time?”

  This time Hall smiled. “Not always, but in most cases we find it saves considerable time for everyone.” Then he frowned. “Often a less-than-reputable deal has been made with Yankton by less-than-reputable sellers. We prefer to have our dealings entirely above board.”

  “Well, Yankton’s out and I’d sure like to settle this before those sandwiches get here.”

  Dawkins gave an admiring nod. “Down to business it is. Tobias?”

  “I’ve looked over your herd and, though some of the steers are thinner than I’d like to see, the firm I represent in Chicago is prepared to pay you twelve dollars a head.”

  Though arithmetic was in no way my favorite subject, I knew it. And I spent a lot of time around a bank. So it didn’t take me long to know that more than 300 steers at twelve dollars a head meant more than $3,600—well over what Mary needed for clear title to the ranch. I could see in her eyes that she knew it, too.

  She stayed cool. “I had a higher price in mind myself. Mr. Dawkins?”

  “Twelve-fifty a head. Cash money.”

  Mary’s eyes darted to Mr. Hall. “I hear tell that folks back east sure do love their beef.”