Sweetwater

by Dorothy Garlock

  “Thanks. Handsome horse,” she murmured, and sailed the whip over the backs of the team.

  “That settles that.” Jenny’s eyes were suddenly moist.

  “You don’t want me to say this, but I must. It wasn’t Trell.”

  “For crying out loud, Cass,” Colleen sputtered. “The store man knows him.”

  “I don’t care,” the child shouted angrily. “Trell wears his hat pulled down more.”

  Jenny was surprised to see that Cassandra was near tears. She hadn’t even cried the night she had come out of the house, naked, with Beatrice on her back.

  Her little sister was hurting. She didn’t want to believe a man whom she’d grown fond of and trusted would ignore her. She was trying to justify it by denying that it was Trell.

  Jenny was sorry that she’d been so sharp. She had displayed her own disappointment in the tone of her voice. Cassandra needed kindness. While Jenny searched her tangled thinking for words of apology, Beatrice leaned on her shoulder.

  “Jenny,” she whispered. “Why’s ever’ body mad?”

  “Oh, honey. We’re not mad. We’re all tired, and we haven’t had anything to eat. I’d planned for us to eat in the restaurant, but—” She didn’t want to say that she felt uneasy and had wanted to get away from town, away from the watching eyes and the general disapproval.

  “We can have a picnic,” Colleen suggested. “There’s a place up ahead where we can stop, eat, and water the horses.”

  “That’s a good idea. We’ve got cheese, crackers, raisins and apples—” Jenny glanced at Cassandra’s scowling face. Her arms were folded across her chest and she was looking at the sky.

  “I’m sorry I was cross, Cassandra. This has not been a good day for me.”

  “I want to sit in Granny’s lap,” Beatrice whined.

  “Honey, Granny’s tired. When we stop for our picnic you can sit up here between Granny and Colleen. I’ll sit back there with Cassandra.”

  As the wagon rolled along on the uneven track, each of the women was occupied with her own thoughts. Colleen was embarrassed that Trell had winked at her. She had believed that he was a decent man. And Jenny had become fond of him. Had the wink been a signal that Hartog was lying in wait along the trail? No, he was grinning when he winked. He was flirting! It certainly wasn’t what she had come to expect from him.

  Granny Murphy had lived a long time. She had seen good men, bad men, and stupid men come and go. She would have bet her last tin of snuff that Trell McCall was a good man. He had helped to bury her boy, had been concerned about her and Colleen and had brought them to Jenny’s. He’d come back with a cow, knowing how badly they needed one, and spent the day working around the place.

  He was exactly the kind of man she wanted for Colleen, but she’d seen his eyes going often to Jenny. She was a good woman, too, and deserved a good man. Could it be he had a woman in town and didn’t want her to see him talking to Colleen and Jenny?

  Jenny’s thoughts were critical of herself. She had taken Trell at face value without knowing one thing about him except that he had a horse ranch, had appeared when she desperately needed help to put out the grass fire, and had brought Colleen and Granny to her. After he had kissed her so tenderly, she had allowed herself to fantasize that he was attracted to her even though Colleen was more suitable for his kind of life. And, come to think of it, she herself had initiated that kiss. Darn! Damn! She wished that she knew more cusswords. Now was the time to use them.

  She tried to concentrate on the three letters the postmaster had brought to the store. One was from Uncle Noah, one from the Bureau and one from the banker in Laramie. She would examine them closely to see if they had been steamed open. She was anxious to read the letter from Uncle Noah. He would know what had taken place when Charles and Margaret discovered the girls were gone.

  By the time they drove into the yard at Stoney Creek, Jenny was exhausted in mind and body and longed for the cushioned surrey she had left back in Baltimore. But it was not a happy homecoming even though they had a wagonload of provisions that would allow Granny to cook decent meals. There was fabric to make dresses and nightclothes for the girls. Colleen had picked out dress material for herself and Granny, whispering to Jenny that she had money hidden away and would pay for them. She and Jenny carried the new sewing machine into the house and set it up in the kitchen.

  The books and slates were taken to the school. Newly purchased blankets were put away in one of the trunks Jenny had emptied of clothing; boxes of ammunition for the rifles and handguns were stowed away. The slanting door on the root cellar was laid back and Colleen and Ike carried down sacks of potatoes, carrots and cabbage. Also stored in the cellar was a bushel of lemons and a bushel of apples. Bags of dried apples, peaches and raisins were hung from rafters in the cellar.

  Colleen and Granny had never seen such a stock of foodstuffs outside of a store. The cost of it was staggering. Jenny explained that since she would be paid by the Indian Bureau and had money left to her by her mother’s family, there was no reason why they should scrimp on food.

  In the quiet of the room she shared with the girls, Jenny examined the letters and came to the conclusion that only the one from the Indian Bureau could have been opened. It was only a request that a list of students be included when she sent her first report. The letter from the banker assured her that he had made arrangements with the bank in Sweetwater to honor her drafts. She read the letter from Uncle Noah slowly, then went back and read parts of it again.

  It was too funny, ducks. The bounder had to climb out a window onto the roof and shinny down a tree. He could not find the keys to let Maggie out. Our Cassy had taken care of that. The bloody fool had come out in his underdrawers and could not get into the house to get clothes on to go to town to get help. Tululla and Sandy had left early to market. (Dear Chas must have fresh fish for his noon meal.)

  Jenny smiled as she read, knowing how much Uncle Noah had enjoyed Charles’s discomfort.

  Chas went to the magistrate and declared you a kidnapper. There was no proof, however, that you were anywhere near Allentown on that date. The magistrate did say that he would look into the matter. Your case went on the bottom of the list of matters he intended to look into. You’ve nothin’ to worry about, ducks. I anxiously await hearing from you. I must warn you that I am seriously thinking of braving the frontier and coming for a visit.

  She read the last part several times. Oh, if he only would! Uncle Noah was a man who could get things done. Mr. Havelshell would think he had run into a buzz saw if he came up against Uncle Noah.

  Jenny tried hard not to think about what had happened in town. She could have endured the hostility of the townspeople, but to be snubbed by Trell McCall after he had wormed his way into their good graces, assured them that he was their friend and then—and then—

  Well. She, Colleen and Granny were grown-up. They understood how fickle men could be, but Cassandra had become fond and trusting of him. She badly needed the assurance that not all men were as self-serving and unscrupulous as Charles Ransome.

  Questions rattled around through the corridors of Jenny’s mind. If, as he had planned, he had gone to Forest City the day before, then why would he make a trip to Sweetwater? Why would he look straight at Colleen and give her a flirtatious wink? It was completely out of character … or what she had thought was his character.

  Why had he been so willing to make the long trip to Forest City with her mail? Oh, merciful heavens! Was he waiting to get his hands on it so that he could take it to Havelshell?

  Jenny wanted to cry and promised herself she would … later on.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the second morning after his visit to Stoney Creek, Trell woke at dawn, saddled up, and rode out after downing a cup of lukewarm coffee and eating a few cold biscuits. He had told Joe the night before that he was leaving for Forest City early and would be back home in the afternoon.

  This was the busy season. For the next few week
s they would be selecting the mares for breeding in July and August and culling out the mustangs. Some they would halter-break and sell; others they would return to the range.

  When he left the ranch, Trell struck straight south, following the river. Under him the buckskin’s impatience was contagious. He let him out in full whenever the terrain was suitable. The big stallion had had several days rest and was eager to stretch his legs.

  In his saddlebags Trell carried a thick packet to mail for Jenny. Jenny. Her name slipped unnoticed from his lips. There was something more than beauty in her face; there was breeding and a hint of fine steel. He still couldn’t believe that he had kissed her and she had kissed him back!

  Unlike his brother Travor, Trell was shy around women. If they went to a dance, he sat on the sidelines while Travor danced with every woman there, be she sixteen or sixty. Trell could never get up enough courage to ask one, although some flirted with him.

  He was a fool, he decided, to have kissed Jenny. What could he offer such a woman? If he was looking for a woman, he asked himself, why not Colleen? The Irish girl would be a helpmate to a man. She and her granny would make a home for him. He’d have good hot meals and a woman in his bed to take comfort in during the long winter nights. Somehow the prospect didn’t excite him.

  Trell had not given serious thought to having a woman of his own. He had been reasonably sure that someday one would come along before he got too old to have a family. She had not had a face until now. And, he had to admit, when he had considered finding a wife he had thought she would be someone like Colleen, a woman who was well acquainted with ranch life and who would like it as much as he did.

  The town of Forest City was a little larger than Sweetwater but had been laid out no better. The business section was on two sides of what was called the town square, which was no more than a half acre with a gigantic boulder in the middle of it. The founders had wanted to call the town Boulder, but there was already a town in Wyoming Territory named Boulder. So they named their town after the forest of lodgepole pines that surrounded it.

  By the time Trell rode into town, the main street was already busy with wagons and horses. A freight wagon with a six-mule hitch clogged the street on one side of the town square. Trell turned down the side street that led to the livery and stepped from the saddle.

  “Howdy, McCall. Never ’spected ya back so soon.”

  “Howdy. Never expected it myself.” He tossed the man two bits. “Give my horse some grain. We’ve got to head back in an hour or so.”

  “Got ta be important fer ya to make that long ride so soon.”

  “Not really. Need to buy a thing or two.”

  Trell threw his saddlebags over his shoulder and headed uptown. He was hungry but decided to post Jenny’s letters before eating.

  Trell liked Forest City as well as he liked any town. The people were friendly, the stores well stocked. He came here about as often as he went to Sweetwater, even though it was ten miles farther from his ranch. Ten miles east was the timber town of Big Piney. He had been there a time or two. Joe Fiala had kinfolk there. Thinking of Joe caused him to remember that he’d not given the young couple a wedding present. Guess he did need to buy something.

  The post office was in the mercantile store.

  “Howdy, McCall. You thinkin’ you got answers to your letters already?” The postmaster laughed, showing a gold tooth and a gap where another tooth was missing.

  “Naw, I’m not thinking that. Got some more mail to post.” Trell laid out the envelopes from his saddlebag.

  “Christ on a horse! All this to the Bureau of Indian Affairs.” He read the names on each envelope. “And to Mr. Noah Gray, Baltimore, Maryland. That’s a long way from here.”

  “How much?”

  “Four bits.”

  “Miss Virginia Gray will be getting mail here.” Trell pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “Here is her request that I pick it up.”

  “She’s the Indian teacher, ain’t she? We’ve heard of her way over here.”

  “She is. I’d like to think that it won’t be spread around that she’s getting her important mail here. She was a little leery about it coming to the Sweetwater post office.”

  “She don’t need to be worryin’ her head none if it comes here.”

  “She’ll like hearing that.”

  After posting Jenny’s letters, Trell looked around for a gift for Joe and his bride. He decided on a small black-enameled music box decorated with white angels. When the lid was opened it played “Beautiful Dreamer.” The tune was just the thing for a couple as much in love as Joe and Una May.

  It surprised him that he also wanted to buy something for Jenny and for the girls. Colleen always wore her pa’s overalls. She probably needed dress goods, and a good box of snuff would please Granny Murphy. Whit could use a really good carving knife—Trell McCall, you’re crazy as a drunk hoot owl. You act like you’ve been kicked in the head by a mule!

  With the music box in his saddlebag, Trell headed for the eatery.

  “Nice seein’ ya so soon, Mr. McCall. Sit ya down there and start helpin’ yoreself.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fielding.” Trell hung his hat on one of the hooks along the wall. “I couldn’t come to town and not put my feet under your table.”

  “I’d shore be put out if you did. I’ll brin’ you coffee and a plate of hot biscuits.”

  When Trell had finished a satisfying meal and chatted over a second cup of coffee with Mrs. Fielding, it was time to head home. A cool breeze was blowing down from the north, and a few rain clouds hovered over the horizon when he left town. He pushed the horse as much as he dared. The animal had already covered a lot of miles and had had only a couple hours of rest.

  After an hour of up-and-down riding, Trell reached the high-point of the trail as it followed the river to the place where it was safe to cross. The river was running fast and high owing to heavy rains in the mountains.

  For some unknown reason, Trell felt uneasy. He had ridden this trail many times and had seldom met another rider. The rancher with whom he had bartered for the cow ran a few cattle along here. Trell had passed a few straggly steers a mile or so back, but had seen no one herding them. Still he had a prickly feeling at the nape of his neck as if someone was watching him, and he turned often to look behind him.

  Here on the high trail, the wind was blowing at a pretty good clip. Trell pressed his hat down tighter on his head and resisted the urge to put his heels to the horse and get off this plateau.

  He heard the bawling of a calf and pulled up to listen. When he heard it again, he walked his mount to the edge of the plateau and looked down. Not ten feet below, a calf that appeared to be not over a week or two old had its foot caught in a crevice.

  Trell looked around for the mother and saw her standing at the edge of the woods. Something had scared her off; otherwise, she would never have left her calf. It could have been a bobcat or a bear. If it had been a bobcat, Trell reasoned, it would have gone down after the calf. Whatever had scared her off was gone, but the animal’s pitiful cries would soon attract another predator.

  Trell stepped from the saddle and dropped his reins to ground-tie his horse. At the edge of the drop-off he turned to back down over the ledge. He had taken the first step when he felt something slam into the side of his head. Vaguely he saw his horse leap and run. Then he was falling toward the graveled slope and tumbling head over heels toward the rim of the fifty-foot drop-off.

  It was the cold that awakened him.

  He struggled back to something like consciousness. Wet as a drowned rat and shivering uncontrollably, he sensed only the cold—at first. Then he heard voices close by and clenched his jaws to keep his teeth from rattling.

  “He’s here some’r’s.”

  “He washed on downriver.”

  “Ya ain’t knowin’ that.”

  “She … et. He was dead ’fore he fell. I ain’t missin’ no clear shot like that.”

  “S
o he’s dead. Find the body.”

  “Hellfire! If he ain’t here, he went in the river and down the rapids. That’d kill ’em if the bullet didn’t.”

  “We’ll go downriver and look till we find him.”

  The voices and the sound of a walking horse faded.

  Trell lay in the river mud under the roots of a huge old sycamore. Had it been Hartog who had shot him and then followed up to make sure that he was dead? Well, if he didn’t get warm soon he would surely die. One arm flopped helplessly. With the other he groped for a hold on something solid, grabbed a root and pulled himself up out of the mud and onto dry ground. He crawled along the dirt bank until he found a dark hole. It was small, but it was a shelter. He rolled into it and curled up like a babe in the womb.

  Pain knifed through every muscle and bone in his body. The side of his face was on fire and he could see out of only one eye. His thoughts were fuzzy. He forced his mind away from his pain and tried to sort out what had happened. On the steep gravelly slope a calf had caught its foot in a crevice. He had turned to climb down and attempt to free it when something slammed into the side of his head.

  The next thing he knew he was falling. He hit the slope and tumbled head over heels toward the rim of the fifty-foot drop-off. He remembered the wild, ugly yell that came from his throat as momentum propelled him over the edge into space. He must have bounced off an outcropping of crumbly rock ten feet below, for he continued to fall. This time he landed on brush growing out from the side of the cliff and ripped through it as he clawed for a grip. He landed on another slope of sharp shale and rolled a dozen feet more before plunging into a deep pool.

  He came up gasping for air. The current caught him and swept him between the rocks and through the spillway of fast-moving water. It filled his mouth. He almost strangled as the swift current rushed him on and over another spillway and into the middle of the river. The rushing water carried him for what seemed like miles before swirling him into a pool where arching tree branches covered the river’s edge. There he pulled himself from the river.