Cattle Kate

by Jana Bommersbach

  As we walked away, I put my arm around Ma’s shoulder and whispered, “We’ll never forget them.”

  She sobbed back, “Never.”

  I know for the rest of our lives, my Ma and I shared this: We never looked back at Canada and put our minds on the ten of us who set off in a covered wagon with Bessie Number 4 tied onto the back. We only remembered Canada as the place we left six behind.

  Chapter Four—We Found a New Life

  The second before I heard almost-ten Andrew scream, I was mixing up biscuits and thinking how well this trip was going. Sure, my feet were sore, but I didn’t mind because every step was taking us closer to our new home and our new life. We were already in the western hills of Iowa.

  The kids had been wonderful. I couldn’t believe how well the boys had been about doing all their chores—without anyone ragging on them. We’d stop for the day and they’d instantly run out to find us firewood. Or cow pies if wood wasn’t available, and it seemed less and less was available the farther west we went. Ma said they were hungry and knew without a fire there was so supper, but I know she was proud they were doing their part.

  I had expected the girls to be a problem and to whine about the trip, but even Baby Elizabeth was always cheerful—she liked to sing and that two-year-old entertained us many a long day. She often had a fancy-dancer enacting her songs, as three-year-old Mary was the dancingist child I ever saw. Franny at eight and Annie at five were each given duties, and they never shirked. They set out the dinner dishes and always washed them after.

  I scooped out the butter each night and helped Ma with supper. Franny decided to bring out the blankets for us to sit on for supper, and then shook them out so they’d be ready for bedtime. That was a nice thought.

  It didn’t take a second to know the scream wasn’t a prank his brothers were playing on him or a minor injury like a scraped knee or a fright that he’d seen something fearful. Almost-ten Andrew’s scream was the sound you make only when you think you’re going to die. I don’t remember taking a breath before I saw my Pa dash in the direction of the scream.

  “Get my knife, get my knife,” Pa shouted over his shoulder, and that could mean only one thing. I prayed it was just a small snake. Pa came running into camp with almost-ten Andrew in his arms. The boy’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. His face was red. His right arm was already swelling. He was still screaming.

  Pa laid him down on the ground and growled, “Don’t move. Don’t move.” But even a command that couldn’t be misunderstood didn’t get through my terrified brother.

  “James, Franny, hold his shoulders so he can’t move.” I was barking myself. “Stay still, Andrew, you have to stay still or the poison will go all through you.”

  John ran up with Pa’s bowie knife, and Ma was already on her knees, ready to suck out the poison. “Ellen, get me the salt box,” and I ran as fast as I could to the wagon and back again.

  Pa made an “x” over the fang marks, cutting so deep you couldn’t even tell it was a bite anymore, and pressing his knife blade over the wound to get out as much poison as he could. Then Ma took over, spitting the poison out as she sucked. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. When all she could taste was blood, she grabbed the salt box and poured it into the wound. Andrew would later say he thought that hurt more than the bite itself, and he renewed his screams.

  I sent Annie to the wagon for a towel, and Ma tore it into a strip that she wound around his arm, tucking in the end to keep the bandage in place. She wrapped her arms around the son she’d named after her favorite brother and let him cry as she assured him he was going to be alright.

  “How big was it?” she whispered up to Pa, and he shook his head, like she didn’t want to know.

  We were all praying that almost-ten Andrew wouldn’t die here, on our way to our new life.

  Our neighbors in Canada had been filled with advice before this journey began, some of it useful, some of it absurd: “Never look an Indian in the eye,” someone had said, but nobody knew why not. “Keep your girls hidden at night so cowboys can’t steal them,” someone else had offered, and little Annie kept bringing it up the whole trip. “Watch out for the Mormons,” another said, although we had no idea what a Mormon even looked like. But there was one piece of advice that was worth all the nonsense, and that was from the old fur trader who told us what to do with a rattlesnake bite.

  A week later, almost-ten Andrew was bragging that he’d been bitten by a rattlesnake on the trail to Kansas. It became his honor badge.

  I never did think the snakebite was funny. Everything about it repulsed me. The snake. The wound. The poison that could kill. Every time I replayed the scene in my mind, I felt the same fear I’d felt at the time. It made my skin cold. What was wrong with me? I’m a strong girl. I can do almost anything in the house or the barn. My Ma says I soak up doings like a kitchen rag. My Pa says I’m like a third hand. My folks rely on me to be calm in an emergency. But almost-ten Andrew’s fright kept me awake at night and fear was no longer a stranger. It took a couple weeks before I could finally admit what I’d never say out loud. What if the day came when I had to suck out the poison and I just couldn’t? Please don’t let me ever have to. Please.

  ***

  The road wasn’t so rough, it was just so long. We’d left home with the good wishes of neighbors in our ears and caught the Kincardine Ferry to Detroit.

  All that was brand new—none of us had ever been on a ferry and us kids had never seen that much water. Then off we went, across Indiana, Illinois, Iowa. When we reached Red Cloud, Nebraska, we knew we were almost there. Our claim was near Lebanon, Kansas. That was about as far west as a decent person wanted to go. Farther west was a scary, dangerous, lawless place, filled with territories and Indians. I know more geography than most in my family, so I was real glad we turned south to an established state, rather than north into rough Dakota Territory.

  It took a month and a half to cover the thousand miles, and even I had to admit it was hard to keep up the excitement of immigrating when you’re walking ten hours a day. There weren’t just holes in my shoes, but in my stockings. Clean clothes were a dream and the thought of a real bed almost made me dizzy. All week we looked forward to Sunday for a day of rest.

  And then we were there.

  I was walking with father as we came to the post Mr. MacDonald had staked into the ground to alert Pa he was finally home. He caressed that post like it was the Holy Grail. Then he stood real still, looking over the land with a face filled with joy and hope. I wanted to cry. To anyone else, it was just a hunk of flat prairie covered with chest-high grass and weeds and not a single tree, but to us, it was the Garden of Eden.

  Pa reached over for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “It looks like good land,” he told me.

  “Yes, Pa, it looks like good land.”

  And then he did something we would never forget. “Mother,” he bellowed (scaring the beejesus out of little Elizabeth) “it looks like good land!” And he ran like a boy after a kite, jumping and skipping and hollering his head off. John ran after him—almost a man himself at sixteen and already a half head taller than Pa. Which of course meant James would follow because he always did everything his big brother did, and then like a shadow ran almost-ten Andrew.

  I glanced back to see Ma hand off Elizabeth to Franny and she started to run, too, and that was everyone’s cue to join the race.

  “Oh, Father, it’s wonderful land,” I heard Mother, puffing as she flew by me, her skirts whipping and her hair slipping out of its bun. She ran right into my father’s outstretched arms. We had seen a loving pat here and a peck there, but we’d never seen our folks in a full hug until that morning when we first saw the one hundred sixty acres of land that held all our dreams. Pa lifted her up and swung her around like they were dancing to a smoking fiddle and they were both laughing and crying at the same time.

  “You can t
hank Abe Lincoln for this,” he yelled and the boys took up the chant, “Thank you Abe Lincoln, thank you Abe Lincoln.”

  I finally remembered my little sisters and looked back to see them hanging behind, kind of puzzled—startled?—at the pandemonium they were seeing. They couldn’t be expected to understand. They were young and girls, and land wouldn’t mean the same to them. Oh, someday they’d find a man, and his land would be important, but right now they were just relieved that they were finally someplace where they didn’t have to walk beside the wagon anymore. But I didn’t share those thoughts. My heart was up there, running on this precious land. My heart was with my Pa—and my brothers—with the pride of land ownership. I was jealous I’d never own my own land, but I was overjoyed that we would someday own this.

  “Come on,” I shouted to my sisters. “Come see your new home.”

  Franny led the way, carrying Baby Elizabeth. When Mary got to me, she threw her little arms around my legs and clung to my skirt.

  “Where’s our house?”

  “We have to build one. We’ll dig up this grass here, in big hunks, and we’ll stack them up and make a house.”

  Pa had tried to explain a sod house to his youngest children while we were on the trail, but he didn’t get any farther than I was getting now.

  “I don’t want to live in the dirt,” Mary cried, and I assured her a soddie was just a temporary place to live until we could build a proper wood cabin. But when you’re three, the only time that counts is right now and right now Mary was certain she didn’t want to live in a soddie.

  I finally shushed her and took the girls to meet up with the rest of the family. In the middle of the land, Mother quieted everyone down with a prayer. “Oh Lord, thank you for all you’ve given us. Thank you for our children (and here I heard the catch in Mother’s voice). Thank you for saving almost-ten Andrew from the snake. Thank you for our safe travel and our ox, and that Bessie Number 4 is still milkin’. Thank you for bringing us here to this new land. Please watch over us and keep us safe.” And just when everyone thought she was done and we were raising our bowed heads, she threw in, “And please, Lord, bring Mr. Watson to Sunday services.”

  Nobody dared giggle out loud, but we all smiled at the dig and Pa was so happy he just laughed, “Oh, Mother.”

  Our next joy was hearing a wagon coming over the prairie, and there was Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald and their children and a basket full of goodies. Oh, what a reunion that was. Hugs and back slaps and children mingling and the first thing Ma said was, “Where is that Baby Bruce?” and Mrs. MacDonald handed him over with pride. She had brought a basket of biscuits and ham and jams and we decided this was the best lunch we’d ever had.

  Everyone let lunch linger a little that day, with everyone so happy. But a celebration on the day you end a long trip can’t go on forever. The little kids were playing, becoming instant friends, of course, and Ma did allow that they should be given that treat.

  “They were so good on the trail,” she told Mrs. MacDonald, who completely agreed the little ones could get out of chores.

  “We can unload the wagon ourselves,” Ma declared, and I agreed.

  First, I helped my brothers remove the wood arches and canvas that had transformed our buckboard into a covered wagon. John suggested we use the canvas for a tent until we had a soddie done, but it took just one word from Mrs. MacDonald to convince Ma the canvas needed to go on the ground instead. That word was “snakes.”

  The men started right away, cutting prairie sod into rectangles. As soon as the buckboard was unloaded, I ran to help. John was already an old-hand at cutting through the tough grass with a sharp blade. But I was better at stacking them precisely to make a wall. I saw Pa and Mr. MacDonald wink at one another as they watched John and me work, and I had to smile that we were doing our folks proud.

  Mr. MacDonald put out the word and over the next week, homesteaders from all over Smith County came to help our family get settled.

  “They did it for us when we got here, so now we do it for the newcomers,” I was told by two nice sisters who became dear friends.

  “We like any excuse to get together,” Jessica said.

  “Even building a soddie. We don’t care. We just like seeing somebody besides our own. You know, it can get pretty lonely out here.” That was Nancy, who seemed to know everything about everything.

  “We really like wedding dances,” Jessica said, like a woman who knew how to cut a rug.

  “Or chivarees,” Nancy added, and I had to admit I didn’t know what that was. “On the wedding night, we show up at their house late, with pots and pans and we serenade them until they feed us to make us go away. It’s really fun.” I couldn’t wait.

  I was very pleased at how respectful everyone was to my Ma and Pa. What decent folks we’d have as neighbors. And I know it pleased my folks that they said such nice things about us kids.

  “Your oldest boy is always the first to step up,” I heard a man tell Pa one day. “He’s going to grow into a fine man.” Pa nodded and smiled at the truth of it. I wished that John had overheard that one because they weren’t the kind of words Pa would ever say.

  And I know Ma got an earful about me.

  “That Ellen is such a hard worker.”

  “She’s going to be a good farm wife someday.”

  “She’s so pleasant looking. Those pretty blue eyes and that nice smile.

  “I bet she’s going to be snatched up lickety-split.”

  “Maybe I should start saving sugar for a wedding cake.”

  That last one came from Mrs. Kline.

  “Oh, I think you’re jumping the gun,” Ma piped up, but the busybody wouldn’t stop.

  “This is important. We want our young people settled down and you know, a woman isn’t happy until she has a man to care for. Besides, there’s only two ways to see Kansas grow. Either we import people or we birth them.” Nobody knew who’d named Mrs. John Kline the president of the Kansas Booster Society, but she had accepted the post.

  So mine wasn’t the only head that turned the day a handsome bachelor with a ready smile rode over to help with the soddie.

  And that’s how William Pickell came into my life.

  Chapter Five—My First Big Mistake

  The first time he hit me came as a complete surprise.

  “Will…iam…you’re…dr…drunk,” I sputtered, like I was explaining it to myself as well as to him.

  The punch had been so hard I reeled against the dinner table, lost my balance and ended up on the floor. I’d never been sprawled down here before and now I saw the crack under the door was more than I expected and I told myself, “Ellen, you need to get a bigger rag to keep out the skeeters,” and then I thought, “What kind of goose are you to be thinking of that at a time like this?” and I finally heard my husband screaming at me.

  “Shut up, bitch, or I’ll hit you again. Don’t you ever talk back to me and don’t you ever ask me my business. Do you hear me?”

  For a second I was hoping this man just looked like my William and wasn’t him at all, but it was just a second and that passed. He stood over me and I knew he was waiting for me to cry, but I wasn’t givin’ him any reward, so I just picked myself up and pretended to be tending to the rising Sunday bread.

  William staggered off to the bedroom and I heard him flop on the straw mattress and it wasn’t until I heard a snore that I let my tears come. Don’t know if I was crying’ from pain or shame, but I think it was both.

  Nobody had ever struck me before—oh my Pa once, on my behind, when I was a little girl and had my joyride on Darby—but never in my twenty-two years had anyone struck me in anger and that’s the worst kind of hit. And nobody—NObody—had ever spoken to me like that. I’m betting my Ma had never in all her years been called that name and I sure never thought I would be. It’s not a word you use around decent folk. />
  Until that slap, I was a married woman nearing her third anniversary with a husband and a decent cabin on a claim near my folks’ home place outside Lebanon, Kansas. For the most part, I was a happy woman with a cupboard full of canning from my garden and a barn full of wheat from a good harvest and a new quilt ready to piece. But that all changed the instant his fist hit me that October 23, 1882.

  Oh, was he a sweetie when he woke up and smelled the roasting chicken. He was all lovey and kissy and he acted like it never happened and we were still the happy couple that got married on November 24, 1879, just before Thanksgiving. He was just like he was when he courted me, when I thought I was the happiest girl in all of Kansas.

  I’m not saying there hadn’t been problems in our marriage, but the problems we had were ones I could overlook or, after fuming for awhile, forget. As my Ma always said, “In a marriage, you’ve got to make the best of it.” And until that moment, I thought I was doing a pretty good job of living that advice.

  The worst disappointment was the kind of thing a decent woman never discussed with anyone, so I always wondered if other women disliked how rough a man can be when he’s claiming his husband rights. I don’t know what I expected. Nobody ever explained anything. Ma just said to do what my husband wanted and to act like I enjoyed it. But I didn’t enjoy it. Not from our wedding night when the sweet man who’d been courting me acted more like a routing pig. I guessed that was normal, because Ma said a man had needs we didn’t understand. But our stolen kisses had been so sweet, and our secret hand-holding had been so tender, and I thought that was what the wedding bed would be like. I was so very disappointed. But I figured every woman had the same disappointment and, of course, I didn’t complain. Besides, this is how we got babies and so I just closed my eyes and thought about the sweet children we’d have and hoped it would be over soon. But my time came every month and there was no baby. It became a monthly torture to get out the pail with the old rags that I’d need, and every one I washed was a stab to my soul that this was another month I wasn’t growing a child.