by Judith Pella
“If that there city lawyer knows anything,” said the man to Sam after he waved him down on the road, “he’ll be fishing about half a mile up from the big bend in the creek. There’ll be Falstead’s Hole, or Buzzard’s Quay. Else, he’ll be on the Little Fork.”
Elated, Sam replied that the Little Fork was exactly where he needed to go. The farmer described in detail how to reach this place. Sam decided that if an ex-Texas Ranger couldn’t find Barnum with those directions, he had no right to be let out alone.
Half an hour later he found Putnam Creek, and in another hour he located the Little Fork. From there he had directions given him by Barnum’s daughter to get to the cabin. At the Little Fork he had to dismount and walk his horse because the woods and undergrowth were too thick for riding. It was past noon when he finally came upon the cabin.
It was a log cabin, very rustic but solid, with a warm and homey air. An encouraging stream of smoke rose from the stone chimney and, hitching his horse to a nearby tree branch, Sam approached eagerly, not only anticipating the end of his search but perhaps lunch as well. Several knocks on the door, however, produced only silence in response.
Sam walked around back and, finding no one, explored in a wider circle around the cabin, soon making his way back toward the creek. He was still hiking through the woods when he heard the sound of a voice.
“I’m going to get you one of these days, you ornery critter, just you wait!”
Though a bit alarmed by the unfriendly tone and words, Sam was not about to back down. If the speaker wasn’t Jonathan Barnum, it might well be someone who knew how to find him; but even if it was a grizzly, Sam was determined to confront him. Before drawing closer, Sam, accustomed to the ways of the West, where a man coming upon a camp unannounced could well expect a bullet for a welcome, called out a greeting.
“Hello! Anyone out there?” he called.
“Ho! Who’s that?” came a startled but not unfriendly reply.
A couple minutes later Sam broke out from the thick woods into an open grassy slope that led down a low embankment to the creek. There, sitting on a rock at the edge of the water was a man of about sixty years of age holding a fishing rod, its line extended far out into the middle of the water.
The man turned, put a finger to his lips and said quietly, “Step lightly, lad, or there’ll be a poor lunch today.”
Sam obeyed, and with the practiced stealth of a Comanche warrior he moved slowly toward the water’s edge. He wanted desperately to speak to this intense fisherman, to find out who he was and if his quest had at last come to an end, but he held his tongue, though it took every bit of self-control he had left.
It seemed to take forever, but perhaps only five minutes elapsed before the fishing line began to tug. With expert swiftness, the fisherman jerked his rod back to set the hook, then began to reel in his catch. This was no small feat. The fish, obviously a big one, put up a formidable battle, pulling out many feet of line before the tenacious fisherman finally overpowered it and began reeling it in. The man was now on his feet, sweating in the noonday sun but clearly enjoying himself.
He laughed when the fish, a largemouth bass, was flopping around on the sandy bank. “Look at this fellow! Ten pounds if he’s an ounce.”
“It’s a mighty fine catch,” agreed Sam, peering over the man’s shoulder at the floundering creature.
The man talked as he removed the hook from the fish and deposited him in a gunny sack. “Yes, sir, but you should have seen the one that got away!” He gave Sam a sly grin. “This one’s granddaddy, he was, and twice his size. I’ve been trying to nab him for years, and I almost had him—just before you called out, in fact.”
“Sorry if I was the cause of your losing him.” Sam now understood the strange words he had first heard in the woods.
“Not your fault at all. That fellow is just a fighter. You’ve got to admire such a creature.”
“Might not be right eating a fellow like that, anyway.”
“Heavens no! It’d be the taxidermists for that one.” The man tied off his fish bag that contained three other smaller fish, then straightened up and faced Sam. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” He extended his hand to Sam. “I’m Jonathan Barnum.”
He looked like a strongman in a carnival, big, tall, and thick all over but not fat. He was dressed like a farmer—frayed overalls, faded chambray shirt, scuffed boots, and a tattered straw hat. Sam would never have taken him for an educated—and famous—eastern lawyer. His drooping eyes, slightly puffy, and the sagging folds of skin around his mouth gave him the appearance of an old hound dog. The hand he offered to Sam was as thick as a ham and bore the calloused marks of a man accustomed to physical labor.
Sam’s wide grin and exuberant greeting must have puzzled the man. “Boy, am I glad to make your acquaintance! My name’s Sam Killion. I’ve come from Texas to see you, Mr. Barnum.”
“Have you? Well, you’ll have to tell me all about it. But not on an empty stomach. I don’t know about you, but I am overdue for lunch.”
“If that bass fits into the menu, you’ll get no argument from me, Mr. Barnum.”
“One other thing,” the lawyer said as Sam helped him gather up his gear. “Here in the woods we don’t stand on formality. You call me Jonathan and, if I may, I’ll call you Sam.”
“Gladly, Mr.—that is, Jonathan!” Sam picked up the lawyer’s fishing rod, pausing a moment to admire the fine equipment. “I’ve seen fishing reels like this in stores, but I ain’t never used one. Must be a dream.”
“I always say good gear is half the battle.”
“Well, this is the finest I’ve seen.” Sam turned the handle on the reel that was made of expertly carved wood, and it responded smoothly. “This ain’t store-bought, is it?”
“Actually, I made it myself. Woodwork is sort of an avocation of mine.”
That explained the calloused hands. When they entered the cabin, Sam saw other examples of Jonathan Barnum’s talent in the furnishings of the cabin, all resplendent with such detail and magnificent workmanship that Sam was in complete awe. He had no doubt that Barnum had built the sturdy cabin as well. Somehow all this gave Sam more confidence in the man than his educational credentials or even his presidential qualifications.
While Jonathan set about cleaning the catch, Sam built up the fire in the stone hearth. They talked as they worked.
“Now, Sam, what’s brought you all the way from Texas just to see me? It must be something important, because I haven’t made myself all that available.”
“That’s the truth, Jonathan! And, by the way, that fellow in your office deserves a raise. He protects you better than a she bear does her cubs.”
“Oh, Chester!” Jonathan chuckled affectionately. “He does take his job seriously. But he’s a good man, been with me for twenty years.”
“I reckon I could understand that, and I didn’t feel real good about hounding him like I did. I mean, you are retired and deserving to be left alone, and all.”
“How did you finally get him to break down?”
“I never did. I happened to meet someone who knew your daughter. She finally told me how to find you.”
Jonathan smiled. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. She never thought I should retire in the first place; said it’d drive me crazy. I’ve been trying this retirement business for a month now—fishing every day, working on my wood projects whenever I like, hiking in the woods—and you know, she was right!”
“Are you saying you’d like to get back to work?”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.” Barnum paused, giving Sam a significant glance. “You wouldn’t have a bit of work for me now, would you, Sam?”
“I do indeed, Jonathan…I do indeed!”
Part 7
Into the Fray
25
Everything was new and the people were all unfamiliar, but aside from that, it was still a ranch like many other ranches in Texas…not unlike the Wind Rider Ra
nch itself. At least, that’s what Carolyn kept telling herself.
The main difference, however, was that at home she would never have become this bored or idle. There was never a time in the year when there wasn’t hard work, and a lot of it, to do. Carolyn had never played the owner’s pampered daughter, or—heaven forbid!—the housemaid to the men. She and her mother worked elbow to elbow with the men out on the range or in the corral. Yolanda took care of the housework and cooking. Sometimes Deborah and Carolyn helped out when there was time, but more often than not, they proved to be a nuisance to Yolanda because neither mother nor daughter was very adept at household tasks.
There was plenty of work on the Stoner Bar S Ranch. Even as Carolyn stood on the porch of the house gazing upon the sunlit morning, nearly every Bar S hand was out on the range busily engaged in spring roundup. Only a couple of stable hands remained behind.
And Carolyn.
Caleb had not exactly given his blessing for her to go out and join the men. He had been scandalized enough by her riding apparel on her arrival, and, thus, she felt it expedient that she try to appease him somewhat. So, for the next two days she had worn a proper skirt and dawdled about the house, getting in Maria’s way and going absolutely crazy with boredom. She had seen little of Caleb during this time, mainly at meals, and she had begun to wonder what was the use of it, anyway. Perhaps he was avoiding her, though when she did see him, he seemed congenial enough. More than likely he was just going about his business and figured she’d fend for herself.
Maybe it was time she did just that. At least that was what she had in mind when she rose that morning and dressed in her work clothes—the scandalous split skirt and a cotton shirt with high riding boots. Maybe she was reading too much into Caleb Stoner’s expectations because of things her mother had said. And if not, perhaps it was time he realized she couldn’t be poured into a mold of his making.
She placed her wide-brimmed hat on her head. Her dark hair was braided into a single braid that reached to the middle of her back. She liked it best that way, practical and simple. She walked over to the stable, hoping she’d be free to use a horse. The one she had rented in town to ride out to the ranch on her first day had been returned to the livery stable by one of the hands who had also picked up her baggage at the hotel.
She poked her head through the crack in the partially open door but saw no one in the dim light.
“Can I help you, señorita?”
The voice startled her because it came from behind. She gave a little gasp, then turned.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just thought I was alone. Don’t worry about it,” she replied. “You’re one of the stableboys, ain’t you?”
He was about Carolyn’s age, and just slightly taller than she, but sturdily built, and clearly accustomed to hard work. His swarthy complexion came only partly from his Mexican heritage; most was courtesy of the Texas sun. She thought she saw some Anglo in the set of his jaw and the light brown of his eyes. His sombrero cast his handsome though boyish features in shadow, but he seemed friendly even if he didn’t wear a ready smile.
He nodded to her question as he pushed open the door to allow more light into the stable as they entered. “If you’re looking for the Patrón, he went to town early this morning.”
“No, I wasn’t looking for him.” She paused in a brief moment of uncharacteristic hesitation, then plunged ahead. He could only tell her no, whereupon she’d do what she wanted anyway—and worry about consequences later. “Actually,” she said, “I’d like to saddle up a horse. I don’t suppose anyone’d mind.”
“The Patrón left no instructions, señorita—”
“Oh, please, call me Carolyn. And what’s your name?”
“Ramón.”
“Well, Ramón, I’m sure Mr. Stoner won’t mind.” She threw off any remaining hesitations and walked boldly into the stable. “What’d y’all have here?”
Ramón explained that most of the stock, the thoroughbreds Caleb Stoner was famous for, the carriage horses, and most of the saddle mounts not used for roundup, had already been taken out to pasture. Only three saddle mounts remained for use by the hands working in the ranch compound. This wasn’t much of a choice for Carolyn, who was used to the pick of the corral at home. A bay mare looked the best of the lot and she gave the animal a friendly pat and cooed soothingly in her ear.
“This one’ll do,” she said briskly. “I can saddle her up if you tell me where to find the gear.”
Ramón had heard that this girl was the Patrón’s granddaughter, but he had not been given permission to let her have the run of the stable. It was a well-known fact that Caleb Stoner had no use for women outside the ranch house parlor. Now here was his own granddaughter making herself at home in the stable, and dressed—of all things!—in trousers. He’d had his ears boxed too many times by the Patrón and his son to relish a repeat. Yet, what could he do to stop this girl short of holding a gun on her? She obviously was not going to accept no from a mere stableboy as a deterrent.
When the bay was saddled, the girl mounted with all the skill and grace of one to whom such a task is second nature.
“If the Patrón should ask, where should I say you are going?”
“Oh, just out for a ride…which direction is the roundup chuck wagon?”
He gave her a concerned glance. “Señorita Carolyn, I don’t think—”
“Come on, Ramón. I’m bored silly. I work roundup every year at home and no one gives it a thought.”
“It would be different around here, I think.”
“I can take care of myself. Just tell me where the wagon is.”
“North of here, ten or fifteen miles by now.”
Carolyn gave him an appreciative smile before turning the bay and trotting away.
Ramón shrugged. When the Patrón found out, the girl would be in so much trouble that Señor Stoner would forget all about boxing the stableboy’s ears.
****
At home, usually four or five spreads participated in spring roundup, with the Wind Rider Ranch and the Flying Y outfit fielding the chuck wagons. Often spreads as far away as the XIT in the Panhandle and even a couple in New Mexico would send representatives to be on hand should any of their stock have strayed that far. It was still mostly open range out by the Wind Rider Ranch, and everyone’s cattle mingled freely during the fall and winter. Thus it took weeks of hard work for the cowhands to gather in the stock that had wintered on the open range, cutting out each particular ranch’s cattle, sorting and branding calves, and sorting the herd according to those ready for market and those to be fattened another season. It was the busiest season of the year—and, needless to say, Carolyn’s favorite. She had left just as roundup was getting underway at home, so she felt fortunate to get in on the Bar S action. There would be less open range in these parts, and thus the operation would no doubt be on a smaller scale, but at least it was something to do.
The sun was arching high in the sky, and she had traversed many miles surrounded by the solitude of the prairie, meeting no one, encountering only a couple of jack rabbits. There was more open range than she had estimated, but now that she thought of it, she should have judged Caleb to be a man to shun modern ways, especially that evil modern invention called barbed wire.
An approaching rider interrupted her thoughts. She urged her bay into a canter to meet him. It was Sean Toliver, Caleb Stoner’s foreman. Carolyn had met him her first day at the ranch; he had been a friendly fellow, and handsome to boot.
“Well, hello!” he said, reining his sorrel mount to a stop. “Are you lost, Miss Stoner? You’ve wandered somewhat astray.” She had forgotten about that interesting accent of his, kind of foreign with a dose of Texas drawl mixed in.
“Not if that’s the roundup camp up ahead.” The closer she had come, the more she could hear the distant bawling of cattle.
“It is, but what would you be wanting way out here?”
> “Just some relief from my boredom, I reckon. You know, I grew up on a ranch. I ain’t cut out for the domestic life.”
Sean gave her a studied appraisal, his eyes boldly scanning her form from head to toe. “No, I don’t suppose you were.” He smiled, a frank, very personal smile that would have made a more worldly-wise woman uncomfortable. Carolyn just blushed a little, hating herself for it, and decided that Sean Toliver was even more handsome than she had at first thought.
To compensate for what she felt was an immature response, she took on a swaggering air and said, “Well, are we just gonna sit here, or are you gonna ride with me to camp? It must be chow time.”
Laughing, Sean gave his mount a gentle prod with his spurs, and they rode into camp together at a brisk trot.
26
The last thing Carolyn wanted to do was make a grand entrance into the roundup camp. That, however, was the unfortunate effect of a woman riding into camp at mealtime when all work had ceased and the men were hanging around the chuck wagon eating.
Heads turned and the men took definite notice. A female on the ranch was rare enough, but at roundup it was unheard of. The cook gave a low whistle as he ladled a mess of beans onto a plate, but the recipient, holding his plate out for seconds, turned his head at just the wrong moment, jerking his plate away, causing the beans to plop with a splat to the ground. The cook leveled a mild verbal harangue at the hapless cowboy, accompanied by a chorus of mocking guffaws from those nearby. However, for the most part, the incident was lost on the arrival of this pretty young woman dressed in a split skirt and not even riding side-saddle, but sitting astride her mount.
“Look what you’ve done, Carolyn! I’m not going to get any work out of these boys today,” Sean said.
“Don’t blame me for their foolishness,” Carolyn replied tartly. “Put me to work if you have to—in fact, put me to work whether you have to or not.”
“You?”