by Gary D. Svee
“I can attest to his superlative skills as a nimrod.”
Arch’s eyes squinted shut. “You got no reason to talk about me like that.”
Standish bowed his head. “My apologies.”
Arch looked at his mother. “We gonna sit here all night?”
Standish cocked his head. “You’ve had all the food you want?”
Arch’s face twisted into disdain. “I figure his Ma must have been a drinker, too. Don’t think locoweed could do that all by itself.” He stared at Standish, willing him to understand. “I ain’t never got tired of eatin’.”
“How about you, Mr. Standish, Miles. Have you had adequate beef, potatoes and salad?”
Standish shook his head. “No, I have had exquisite beef, potatoes and salad.”
Arch jumped to his feet. “You gonna let him talk to you like that, Ma?”
“’Tis music to my ears.”
Arch looked puzzled. “Figure I should go eat some locoweed so I fit in here.”
“While you’re eating locoweed, Mr. Standish and I.…”
Conjecture spread across Arch’s face and then rapture. “The surprise.”
Iona smiled. “The surprise.”
“Seems,” Standish said. “That I’m the only one to be surprised.”
Arch shook his head. “I s’pect it surprises you when you find your way to the outhouse.”
“Arch!”
“Nothing bothers him, Ma. His Ma was locoed.”
“You got any spare willow bark?” Standish asked.
“We’ve got something better than that,” Iona said. “Something much better than that.” She and Arch carried the dishes into the kitchen, and Standish was left alone at the table. He didn’t know which he wanted more, a cigarette or a toothpick. He decided a toothpick would be best. He would carve one from a splinter on his way home. Maybe he would lie in bed with his toothpick. Nothing like a good dinner to make a person sleepy.
Arch stepped out of the kitchen, followed by Iona. Ice-cream maker. Arch was carrying an ice-cream maker, his fingers carving paths through the frost on the canister. Behind him stepped Iona with a freshly baked huckleberry pie.
Iona set the pie on the table, and Standish savored the aroma rising from the pie. Arch struggled with the top of the ice cream canister. It popped open, and a cool spring breeze wafted into the room, merging with the scent of hot huckleberry pie.
Standish raised his arms and face to the ceiling and said, “Lord, I have died and gone to heaven, and it fulfills all promises.”
Iona laughed, and Arch grouched, “Can’t pay too much attention to him, Ma, what with him being locoed and all.”
Standish paused on the porch, hesitant to leave. After dinner, the three had played cards, all conniving to have Arch win. Standish turned to Iona. “Ma’am, Iona, this is the best night I ever had.”
“Perhaps we can do this again.”
Standish shook his head. “Don’t see how. Perfection is rarely experienced. Maybe we should just be content that we have once seen it.”
Iona smiled.
Standish cocked his head. “Are you coming fishing?”
“No, but I will partake of the picnic.”
Standish frowned. “Partake? Maybe you can share a little of it with the rest of us.”
Iona laughed. “I’ll bring the chicken.”
“My turn. I’ll make ham sandwiches.”
“You don’t like my chicken?”
“Iona only a man with a locoed mother would not like your chicken.”
“We’ll be over early, bearing fried chicken.”
“Can’t see any other way.”
CHAPTER 11
Miles Standish was sitting at the Belshaw table. Iona had just placed a slab of huckleberry pie before him. He was smiling in anticipation, but Iona was not smiling. She had a look of utter horror on her face. Arch appeared, carrying the canister of ice cream from the kitchen. No, it wasn’t Arch. It was.… No, it couldn’t be. Not him! But it was. Bodmer opened the canister and poured the contents on the huckleberry pie. It wasn’t ice cream. It was.… blood. It was Standish’s own blood. He tried to scream, but a man without blood cannot scream.
Standish woke in a sweat, sheets drenched. He stared at a ceiling defined in dark and darker still. What the hell was he thinking? Standish nodded, understanding spreading across his face grim as a funeral dirge. He should run. That’s what he should do, but.…
Standish ran his fingers through his hair. No sense trying to sleep. He climbed out of bed, the cold embracing his wet skin. He shivered as he stepped to the stove, opening the lid as much by feel as sight. Coals glowed red inside. Wouldn’t be much trouble starting a fire. He arranged kindling over the coals and blew gently. Smoke curled up from the kindling and then flames.
Lantern. He might as well light the lantern and get dressed. Wouldn’t be long before Arch appeared. Standish shook his head. Sleep was a stranger to that boy. Standish stepped toward the nightstand. He found one of the bedposts with his toe and danced to a chorus of ‘damns.’
Standish’s hands were trembling with cold as he tried to strike a match and hold it to the lantern’s wick. He had to get dressed, but he didn’t want to go into the day with the sweat of that dream staining his body. He gasped as icy water from the basin plowed furrows of goose bumps down his back. He toweled himself dry and high-stepped to the dresser where he kept his clothes. They were cold, too, but not as cold as the water. His body and the stove were pumping heat, warming the cabin. Wouldn’t be long before he would want to go back to bed. Standish glanced at his watch—3:30. No more sleep this morning. Might as well slice some bacon and let the horses out.
Standish pulled the cooler from the floor and sliced a generous portion of bacon from a slab there. He still had a few eggs left, so he put those on the table, too, along with a loaf of bread that Iona had given him. Standish corrected himself. Arch had traded him for the loaf of bread. Nothing came free from the Belshaw camp. But this.…
Standish was on his hands and knees. The hopper was a yellow belly, the best kind for trout. It perched on a blade of grass, and Standish reached toward the insect, his hand moving imperceptibly.
“Lunch?”
The word startled Standish and he lunged at the hopper. Another miss. Another dingly miss. He turned, a little perturbed, to see Iona grinning down on him.
“So you would rather have grasshoppers for lunch than chicken.”
Standish climbed to his feet. “There was a time when I would have eaten grasshoppers if I could have found any, but today I’ll settle for chicken.”
“That’s magnanimous of you.”
Standish grinned. “That’s the way it is for those of us born of locoed mothers.”
Iona laughed.
Standish held up four tobacco bags full of kicking hoppers. “Do you suppose we have enough?”
“Arch does tend to the extreme.”
Standish grinned. “That, ma’am, is an understatement.”
“That, sir, is the truth.”
Standish searched the meadow until he spotted Arch pouncing on another hopper. “Arch. Your mother is here with the food.”
Arch nodded, slipping the hopper into one of the tobacco sacks and drawing the string tight. He walked to his mother and Standish. “Figure we should catch some more?”
“Figure we have more hoppers than fish in that pond.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Just a guess.”
“Guesses ain’t worth much.”
“I know you catch more fish in the morning than at noon.”
“You guessing about that, too?”
Standish shook his head. “Nope.”
Arch turned to his mother. “What do you figure the odds are on a locoed man knowing when to fish?”
“He told you how to catch that big one, didn’t he?”
“Kind of.”
“So maybe it’s worth listening to him.”
“M
aybe.”
“So maybe we should go fishing.”
“Guess so.”
Iona had spread a blanket in the shade of a pine overlooking the beaver ponds. From there, she watched Arch and Standish. The day was glorious, sunny and cool still. The soft light painted the pond and the surrounding trees in impressionist colors. Iona wondered if God was giving artists a lesson in beauty.
Iona’s life had been painted in harsh blacks and whites, as confining, she imagined, as a prison cell. She had locked herself in her cabin after that night. Sometimes, if they had warning enough, she and Arch would slip into the darkness of the trees, hoping that the drunks wouldn’t find them or torch their home in frustration. Sometimes they would walk to Klaus’s cabin, and huddle in the darkness there. Neither she nor Klaus recovered from that night. Klaus’s episodes became more frequent. She had urged him to seek medical help, but he had resisted. Death, he had said, was a reality of life, and he would embrace it as he embraced life.
A squirrel scolded her from a nearby tree, and she smiled. The squirrel was right. She shouldn’t be thinking dark thoughts on a day like this. She should open her soul to God and the beauty of His creation. She should be thankful that she felt safe this day, and that she had laughed for the first time in months. Standish was a good man. His patience with Arch was remarkable, she wondered if Standish’s patience was rooted in his own need for understanding.
Whoop, whoop, whoop!
The sound pulled Iona’s attention to the beaver pond. Arch had hooked a fish, a big fish if the bend in his rod was any gauge. Arch was whooping, and Standish was standing beside him, yelling encouragement. Iona smiled. This was a day that the Lord had made, and she was rejoicing and glad in it.
Arch and Standish were hunkered. Arch was nodding as though he had proved his view to his satisfaction. “Both drumsticks for me.”
Standish cocked his head. “And.…”
“Both thighs.”
“And.…”
“One side of the breast. I figure that since Ma fried the chicken, she should get one side of the breast.”
“I get the wings?”
Arch shook his head. “Seems to me you could have one wing, if I get to pick which one.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Lucia had a brush with a skunk.…”
“Lucia the chicken?”
Arch shook his head, and sarcasm dripped from his mouth. “No, Lucia the skunk.” He stared at Standish for a moment, and then continued. “Anyhow, the one wing was kind of.…”
“Shrunken?”
Arch stared into the sky for a moment. “Yeah, I’d say that’s about right.”
“So I get.…”
“The neck, the shrunken wing and the pope’s nose.”
“Seems fair to me.”
Iona burst into laughter. “Doesn’t seem fair to me, Mr. Standish.”
“Miles.”
“Miles gets the first pick.”
“Ah, Ma.”
“He is our guest.”
“How can he be our guest? We’re on his place.”
“Then we are the guests, and the host gets the first pick.”
Arch glowered. “So he gets the first pick, no matter what?”
Iona nodded.
Arch glared at Standish. “So what do you want?”
“How about the neck and the pope’s nose?”
Arch nodded. Seemed fair to him, but he couldn’t understand why his mother was laughing.
Standish rolled over on his back. “Best chicken I ever had.”
“Best ever,” Arch agreed.
“Fit for the greatest castles of Europe,” Iona opined.
“Without question. Makes me feel like a king.”
“Remember your place, varlet.”
Standish chuckled. Arch stood. “We’d best get fishing.”
Standish rolled up on one elbow. “You go ahead. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Arch and Iona stiffened. When Iona spoke, her voice was strained. “Go ahead, Arch.”
Arch glared at Standish. “Don’t you hurt my Ma.”
Standish’s voice was low, soft. “Wouldn’t ever do that, Arch.”
“Didn’t think my Pa would, but.…”
“Arch!”
“Sorry Ma, but.…”
“Mr. Standish will be down in a minute.”
Arch turned toward Standish. The boy looked vulnerable, easy to hurt. “I’ll give a holler if I get into a big fish.”
Standish nodded. They watched Arch trudge to the pond, each step a major effort.
“He’s grown fond of you.”
“That’s the way it is with us locoed varlets. We grow on people.”
Iona laughed, and to Standish it seemed that he was in the midst of a fine orchestra.
“Ma’am.”
“Iona.”
“Iona.…”
Standish dropped his eyes to the grass beside the blanket. He pulled one shaft from the grass, biting off the soft white center of the stem.
“Say it, Miles,” Iona said, her voice filled with dread.
Standish scratched the palm of his hand. Then he turned to Iona and spoke. “There’s this friend of mine.…”
“Male or female?”
“Male.” Standish rubbed his chin, wishing he had done a better job shaving that morning. “Anyhow, this friend of mine came to Montana to mine for gold.”
“Did he find any?”
Standish nodded. “Actually, quite a lot. It was a placer find up in the mountains.”
“Placer?”
“That’s where the gold is in the gravel of a creek. You dig the gravel out of the creek bottom and run it down a sluice. Because gold is heavier than the rest of the gravel, it settles into the sluice’s ribs.”
“What is a sluice, Mr. Standish?”
“It’s like a long box that’s open at both ends. You shovel gravel into the upstream side, and water washes the gravel over ribs in the sluice. The gold collects in the upstream side of the ribs.”
“You seem to know a lot about mining, Mr. Standish.”
“Miles, ma’am.”
“Iona.”
Standish stared across the blanket at Iona. “Do you suppose we’ll ever get that right?”
Iona grinned. “Don’t know.” Her face grew serious. “You were telling me about this miner friend of yours.”
Standish nodded. “Well, this find was way up in the Beartooths, way above the timberline. They call that alpine tundra.”
“Who are they?”
Standish grinned. “I can see now that Arch is your son.”
Iona persisted. “So what is alpine tundra?”
Standish leaned back on both his elbows. “It is a rash of tiny plants clinging to the earth for nutrition and warmth, like a rug of greens and reds and yellows unlike any other you’ve seen. It snows up there about every two weeks, even in August, and the nights are cold. Some mornings you wake up, and there’s ice in the water bucket.”
“So you’ve been in this alpine tundra.”
“Just for a few days…to visit my friend.” He leaned toward Iona. “It is a brutal place, a brutally beautiful place.” His face wrinkled as he tried to wrench the words from his mind. “It is like sitting on the edge of the world. You see mountain peak after mountain peak—and then nothing.”
Standish shook his head. “I know that sounds crazy, and maybe it is, but to sit on the edge of a ridge is to see rivers turned into trickles below. In the immensity of those mountains, you realize that you are nothing more than a speck of dust dancing soft breezes. The mountains shrink everything.”
Standish rubbed his eyebrows with his fingertips. “The land is covered with tiny flowers, each hugging the ground for safety, each reaching through that thin air toward the sun.”
Standish shook his head. “I could cover half a dozen of those flowers with my thumbnail.”
Standish threw the grass stem as though it were a spear, watchin
g it come to Earth. “We…I mean the miner friend of mine, tore at the earth, spewing gravel and sand and mud. We crushed those fierce little bits of beauty beneath our feet. We were a plague of ugly, tearing at God’s broad canvas for bits of paint to serve our greed.”
Standish sat cross-legged on the blanket, his face torn into bits and pieces. “I think God must have decided to rid the world of us, such terrible creatures we were. I think he sent that early blizzard as a shroud.
“We were above the tree line. We had no logs to build cabins, so we lived in tents. The wind and the snow tore down most of those tents, left us exposed to the wind and the cold, that terrible fierce cold.”
Standish stared at Iona. “We were like insects under an overturned rock. We scuttled around, trying to keep that terrible wind from carrying us away.”
Standish coughed, clearing his throat. “Getting caught in that blizzard was our own fault. We had all planned to leave the claims earlier, but none of us would go until we all left.”
Standish’s need to explain plowed furrows across his forehead. “I suppose that people thought we starved to death, and we did, but it was greed that killed us. We couldn’t leave the mountains because we were afraid someone would steal our gold. It wasn’t our gold, you know. It was God’s, just as everything is, but.… Anyway, we ran out of food and we ran out of wood. We had only our bodies’ heat. We huddled in one tent, hoping to keep each other warm. Every now and then, someone would step outside. Most of the time he wouldn’t come back.
“Hunger was almost a relief. It dulled the senses, We didn’t talk much. We just sat there. Every now and then someone would say, “Charlie’s gone, or Fred or Jacob, and we would take their clothes and haul them outside. And then.…”
Standish’s body shook. He looked as though he wanted to cry but all the tears had been wrung from him. “And then Paul died, and somebody said, ‘Maybe we should eat him.’ There was a roar, as much of a roar as we could raise anyhow. People were shaking their heads. Nobody liked the thought of that, and then somebody, ‘Christ gave us his body and blood to eat.’”
Standish fidgeted on the blanket. “I told them not to talk like that. I told them I would go for help. I asked them to give me three days, before they.…”
Standish stood, pacing back and forth in front of the blanket. “I wrapped my legs in dead men’s coats and started down that mountain. I don’t know if I was going for help, or if I was running from what they were going to do.”