by Judith Pella
“Like I said before, I’ve worked a ranch all my life—”
“Hey, Mr. Toliver!” cut in one of the hands. “You gonna do it? We are shorthanded.”
“That’ll be the day!” shouted another.
“Hey, wait a minute,” protested another; “my ma worked our ranch during the war and dang-near turned a profit when no one else could.”
“There just ain’t no way a woman is gonna do the same work that I—”
“Now, don’t be so narrow-minded,” another voice said. “If a gal can do the same work, then she oughta be allowed to.”
There was something in this new voice that forced Carolyn to swing her gaze around toward where it was coming from. The speaker was leaning laconically against the chuck wagon, hands jammed into his pockets, chewing on a piece of prairie grass. The man’s tone, which had arrested Carolyn’s attention, was sarcastic, hinting of challenge. His eyes, though squinting against the glare of the sun, were obviously laughing at her. Carolyn rankled. She had been protected against such old-fashioned oafs on the Wind Rider Ranch, but had encountered the occasional new hand who had to be convinced that the owner’s daughter could hold her own. It always made her furious. And it did so now.
“I can do the work, and I’ll go up against any one of you blow-hards that thinks he’s man enough to take me on!” She glared at the men, particularly the one by the chuck wagon.
“Hey, Gentry, I think she’s challenging you!” shouted one of the cowboys to the fellow by the wagon.
Gentry spit out his grass and chuckled dryly, patronizingly. “Listen here, girl, this ain’t no wild west show, or rodeo; we got real work to do.”
“That it, Gentry? You chicken?” said someone.
“I’m afraid of losing my pay for foolishness,” said Gentry. “But, Stanton, you’re welcome to take the gal on.”
The cowboy named Stanton sputtered, then said, “Why should I? I never said nothing against the girl.”
“Neither did I, now did I?” Gentry aimed his comment at Carolyn.
She was about to retort when Toliver broke in. “Okay, it’s time to get back to work. Like Gentry says, I’m not paying you for foolishness.”
While Toliver’s attention was momentarily diverted, Carolyn dug her heels into her mount’s flanks and rode toward the placidly grazing herd. She pulled up on the fringes and took a moment to survey the cattle. A catch rope and a couple of other lengths of rope were attached to her saddle, so her mount probably had some range experience. She was tired of these arrogant men making sport of her. She would put their doubts to rest once and for all by roping one of the calves.
Spying out an unbranded mid-sized calf nibbling grass beside his mother, Carolyn attached the catch rope to her saddlehorn, took up the coiled end of the catch rope in her hand, and spurred her mount into motion. The cattle cleared out of her way, and the calf tried to do the same. Carolyn kept him in her sights, and he must have realized that he was the object of the chase, for he made a more concerted effort to escape. Carolyn kept on him as he picked up speed, not letting him get more than a twenty- or thirty-foot lead. She let him run only long enough to allow her to lift her rope into position, swing it over her head, and pitch it at and over the calf’s neck. The whole procedure took only a few seconds. Carolyn sighed with relief when she saw it was performed flawlessly. Yes, she knew what she was doing, but even the strongest and most seasoned cowboys had their lapses.
Now, she prayed that her horse knew what it was doing, for the mare would have to hold the rope taut while Carolyn tripped and tied the calf.
“Okay you—I don’t even know your name,” she said to the bay, “don’t let me down now.”
Carolyn leaped from the horse and jogged to the calf, who was prancing about, testing the soundness of the rope. In one swift motion she grabbed the calf’s opposite foreleg, pulled it toward her so the calf fell onto its back, then slipped the loop of another rope around that leg, under the hind legs and back again several times around all three legs. The whole procedure took well under sixty seconds and, though she was satisfied with the time, she would have been even faster had she had familiar equipment and her own horse. Griff could do it in under twenty seconds.
Carolyn stood, avoiding the eyes of the watching men. She wanted nothing more than to witness their incredulous stares, but she refused to let them see that it mattered to her. She had barely straightened her back when she heard footsteps jog up behind her.
“Let’s not waste your effort. Stretch out that hind leg so’s I can get him branded.” It was the fellow named Gentry, holding a hot branding iron in his hand. Apparently while Carolyn had been busy roping the animal, he had noted the brand on the calf’s mother and made ready the appropriate iron.
Carolyn promptly obeyed. In a few seconds the job was done, the calf was untied and loping back to its mother. Carolyn stood again, shook the kinks out of her ropes, and coiled them as she returned to her horse. She pointedly did not wait for any further comments from Gentry. But he followed after her.
“So, now what?” he asked in a quiet Texas drawl.
“I guess I can do the work,” she replied, unable to keep the smugness from her tone.
“You think Mr. Toliver’s gonna hire you then?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Nothing really, just curious.” He started to walk away but stopped and turned back toward her. “By the way, you do pretty fair work…for a girl.” Then he strode off.
Carolyn stood gaping, furious at his back-handed compliment, even if he had sounded sincere. For a girl…of all the nerve!
The arrival of a new rider arrested her attention. It was Laban Stoner. Carolyn groaned inwardly, whether because of her fear of repercussions for her unladylike behavior, or simply because of Laban’s foreboding presence, she didn’t know. Of one thing she was certain, the Stoners did not have the kind of hold on her that they had on her mother. She could walk away at any time, but she wasn’t going to leave easily. A single dark look from Laban—Uncle Laban!—wasn’t going to break her. Because her mother’s life was at stake, Carolyn had a strong motivation to remain at the ranch as long as necessary. And that in itself might be enough for the Stoners to hold over her. She did not want to think in those terms, though. She wanted to believe the best about her grandfather, and even her uncle, as long as possible.
She strode over to where Laban had dismounted and was speaking to Toliver. Laban leveled his brooding gaze at her.
“Who said you could come out here?” he asked flatly.
“Didn’t think I needed permission,” she replied.
“That was your first mistake.”
Carolyn smiled at the man’s preposterous attitude.
“Don’t laugh at me, girl,” he said sharply. “Others have made that mistake, and it was their last mistake.”
“Don’t let one mistake breed another by threatening me, Mr. Stoner,” said Carolyn hotly. “And, as far as my being here, this is open range and I have as much right to be riding on it as you. But I guess I can understand if you don’t like a stranger interfering with your roundup, even if I ain’t some greenhorn. I’ll clear out for now, but I’m gonna speak with my grandfather—so if I do need permission, I’ll get it.”
Her words might as well have been spoken to a wall for all the effect they seemed to have on Laban’s stony countenance.
“Toliver,” Laban said to the foreman, “see to it that she has an escort back to the ranch.”
“I don’t need no escort,” Carolyn protested.
“You heard me, Toliver.”
The foreman shrugged somewhat apologetically to Carolyn. “I’ll take you back.”
“Not you,” said Laban. “I have to talk to you.”
With a barely concealed roll of the eyes, Toliver turned toward the men. Most of them had already gone back to work and were busy roping and branding, but a small knot of men were still milling around the chuck wagon finishing their meal. It was to these, and one in particular
, that Toliver directed his next order. “Gentry, mount up and take the girl back home.”
“Aw, Boss!” Gentry complained.
“Move it!”
Gentry dumped his plate and cup into a washtub. “That’s what I get for standing around instead of working,” he muttered.
27
It was a disgruntled pair that rode away from the roundup camp that afternoon. Carolyn was fuming, not only at the insulting treatment she had received from her uncle, but also at the added affront of being escorted away, as if they couldn’t trust her to either obey or make it back safely.
Then, for Toliver to choose Gentry, of all people, to be that escort! It was simply infuriating. And it only made it worse that Gentry was none too pleased with the assignment.
She rode at a brisk trot until she was out of sight of the camp. Gentry kept pace with her, though he pointedly remained about a length or two behind her. When she slowed to a walk, she turned in her saddle. “Look, if you don’t like my company, you can go back to camp. I can take care of myself.”
“I got my orders.”
“Hang your orders!”
“Wish I could.” Gentry rode up next to her. They were silent for a few minutes; then he continued. “So who in blazes are you, that you can talk to Mr. Stoner that way?”
“I’m his niece. Caleb Stoner’s granddaughter.”
“You don’t say! Even so, the way I was brought up we couldn’t talk to our elders that way.”
“Well, I don’t usually,” she said defensively. “But that man has a way of making a body mad as a hornet!”
“You’re right there.”
They rode farther in silence. Carolyn’s anger began to cool, but she hadn’t forgotten Gentry’s demeaning attitude toward her. Still, it was nice to have someone agree with her about Laban, so for the time being she was willing to let Gentry’s other faults slide.
“What’s your name?” Gentry asked. “Mine’s Matt Gentry.”
“Carolyn.”
“Where you from?”
“North of here, near the Big Bend of the Brazos.”
“That’s mighty rough country up there. Your pa got a ranch?”
“My pa is dead. My ma has a ranch. The Wind Rider outfit.”
“Oh, I heard of ’em. A big spread. So, your ma is that lady rancher. No wonder…”
“No wonder what?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Carolyn reined her mount to an abrupt stop. “I don’t know what you think about women ranchers and women cowhands, but let me tell you, my mother built that ranch from nothing into one of the finest outfits in the northwest of Texas. She could ride rings around you, and has forgotten more about cattle and horses than you’ll ever learn. And on top of that, she’s one of the grandest ladies you’ll ever meet. Now, I may not be much in that department, but you ain’t got no right to judge us by obsolete and twisted standards.”
Gentry had stopped also and was now facing her. “I’m sorry,” he said simply.
His complete sincerity caught her off guard. “Huh?”
“I said I’m sorry. You are absolutely right, you know. But if you can try to understand that I—and most of the boys—just ain’t used to seeing female ranchers, especially them that can work almost as good as us.”
“Almost—?”
“Aw, come on, Carolyn! Give me a little slack, will you? This is all new to me.”
Carolyn urged her horse back into motion, a small, coy smile slipping across her lips. Gentry rode next to her.
“I guess I’m a mite touchy,” she said.
“I reckon I’d be, too, in your place. You get this kind of treatment a lot?”
“Everyone’s kinda used to me on my ma’s place.”
“Well, I’d say most of the boys on the Stoner spread ain’t even heard of a cowgirl, much less seen one. We’re a real backward bunch around here.”
“I suppose I oughta go easier then, huh?”
He nodded and smiled, but said no more.
She returned the smile and they rode for a while in a more relaxed silence. Now that she had subdued her anger, she was able to make a more objective appraisal of her companion, Matt Gentry. He was in his early twenties, but he had an unaffected air of being quite seasoned and experienced. His soft gray eyes, as well as his narrow lips and wide mouth, were already amply lined at the corners as evidence of a life spent under the unforgiving western sun. All this was crowned with a mop of sandy, sun-bleached hair that curled around the band of his hat. A two-day’s growth of sandy beard clung to his square jaw, emphasizing the ruddy, sun-burnt aspect of his face. Though he was not nearly as handsome as Sean Toliver, Carolyn thought he was not at all hard to look at.
She supposed she shouldn’t hold Gentry’s narrow-minded attitude against him. Many men were that way, at least where women were concerned. She had been uncommonly lucky to have been raised in an atmosphere where she was judged for who she was and what she could do, not for her gender. She wondered what it would have been like if her mother had never left Caleb Stoner’s ranch. Carolyn shuddered to think how she might have turned out growing up under the shadow of Laban Stoner’s scowl and Caleb’s austerity. What would her father have been like? More of the same, according to her mother.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Gentry reined his mount. She followed the direction of his gaze and saw several riders heading toward the roundup camp. They were moving at a good pace.
“Who are they?” asked Carolyn.
“Looks like that shotgun outfit from the Bonnell place.”
Sometimes during a general roundup, a big outfit like the Bar S would blackball a smaller ranch suspected of shady activities. This could work a great hardship on the smaller outfit, which couldn’t afford to run its own chuck wagon, and thus often forced the ranch out of business. The small ranch might fight back by getting other small outfits on their side and teaming up to run their own wagon. This was called a shotgun outfit. Carolyn had never really seen this happen, but she’d heard of it.
“Did the Stoners blackball them?” she asked.
“The Bar S has been losing cattle lately, and about a month ago Toliver found one of our steers on Bonnell range with a tampered brand. He didn’t have enough evidence to get Jim Bonnell arrested for rustling, but it was enough for Caleb Stoner to ostracize him. A couple of the other small outfits around here think Caleb is trying to run Bonnell, along with all the small fellows, out of business. This is their answer to Caleb.”
“You think there’ll be trouble?”
“Not unless Bonnell asks for it. But I’ve seen range wars start with less cause.”
The shotgun outfit could just go about their business, round up their cows and be glad they were able to do at least that. But no doubt the wronged ranchers would be touchy and tempers would be hot. Carolyn couldn’t imagine Laban Stoner or Sean Toliver backing down from a fight for the sake of peace.
“You want to go back?” she asked.
“Naw. The others can handle it. Anyhow, I’d really be in trouble if I got you in the middle of a shoot-out.”
Carolyn rankled slightly at this, but she tried to understand Gentry’s position. She also had to be practical. She had other important matters to attend to without getting mixed up in a feud.
“Well,” she said, “I ain’t afraid of a fight, but I’d just as soon not get in the middle of it if I can avoid it. I got enough troubles of my own.”
“Aw, what kind of troubles could a kid like you have?”
“Ain’t none of your business,” Carolyn snapped.
Gentry smiled sheepishly. “There I go again, huh? Being a narrow-minded man. Sorry.”
“Okay, you’re forgiven.” She paused, wondering what would be wrong with her sharing her problem with someone. Gentry might be able to help; he might know things about the ranch that could guide her search for her father’s murderer. But Toliver would really be the better choice of a confidant, because as foreman he’d know a lot more th
an a mere cowhand. The fact that Toliver was so handsome and charming only had a little to do with this reasoning. Since she didn’t want to tell her business to everyone, she said nothing more about this to Gentry. He probably didn’t want to be saddled with her burdens anyway.
28
Carolyn saw her grandfather a couple of hours later at dinner. Maria served a spicy and tasty soup, not like anything Yolanda had ever made. But Carolyn’s mind was not on the food; it was on what she had done that day and what Caleb might think of it.
When he asked, “What have you been doing today?” she toyed with the idea of lying to him—or, at least, softening the truth. But she decided with firm resolve that she was not going to cower before this man as her mother had.
“I rode out to the roundup camp,” she said, an unmistakable challenge lacing her words.
“We are not accustomed to having females out on the range.”
“I ain’t accustomed to having it otherwise.” No matter how hard she tried, she could not mask the disrespect in her words—and even she hated the sound of it. Repentant, she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Stoner. My ma really didn’t raise me to be rude. But sometimes I just don’t think before I speak.” She paused and met Caleb’s eyes for a moment. Was he really the monster her mother painted him to be? He had thus far given no indication of anything beyond a stern and austere bearing. But why should he be treating her differently?
“How did she raise you?”
“I guess she raised me to take care of myself, at least as much as I could without forgetting that God is really the one in charge. She also taught me to speak my mind—and sometimes that gets me into more trouble than I care to admit.”
“I come from a different school.” Caleb held her gaze and seemed to study her as he spoke. “I learned that women were to be taken care of, protected from the harsh realities of this world. And that they are to be obedient and meek—and compliant.”
“Times have changed, you know.”
“For some.”
“Well, I’d think you men would be glad to be rid of that responsibility. It should be a welcome change. But even so, men and women still need each other. I may know a lot about ranching, but there are some things I just can’t do because I’m not big enough or strong enough.”