Cattle Kate

by Jana Bommersbach

  Things got even better at the end of June when Jim was appointed postmaster and the new Sweetwater Post Office opened in the roadhouse. Now folks came here to get their mail and darned if they didn’t time it so they could have dinner, too.

  At fifty cents a meal, my money box was filling up fast. Jimmy teased me about my growing wealth. “So you think you’re rich now, do you?” he’d coo, and then tell me about the astonishing kinds of money some folks had.

  “Well, you aren’t exactly Andrew Carnegie,” he told me one day as he shared the news from the local paper that the industrialist was on another spending spree. “He already gave a half million dollars to Pittsburgh to build a library—do they have gold desks or what?—and now he’s giving one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars to Allegheny City for a library and music hall.” Neither of us could fathom that kind of money, especially money that could be given away!

  I came up with a great idea.“We should tell him about Rawlins. They could use some of that money. They don’t have a library either.”

  Jimmy agreed. “I bet if he knew what a fine town we had, he’d really think about it. Just think, Rawlins is only eighteen years old and they already have an Opera House, and poor Allegheny City, which is probably a hundred years old, doesn’t.” Jimmy smiled at his fine point and I hoped that would remind him he’d promised we’d go to the Opera House one night so I could wear my beautiful hair comb.

  Jimmy and I saw eye-to-eye on most things. But not on the Statue of Liberty. I was surprised that not only had Jimmy not contributed—Pa had proudly sent fifty cents—but he thought the effort was a waste of money. “You don’t give somebody a statue and then tell them they have to build the pedestal for it—that isn’t a gift,” he argued, and I knew that logic held sway with a lot of Americans who still sat on their pocketbooks. “And a bronze woman—what does that mean?”

  I thought it meant a lot. I was proud that the symbol of our country would be a woman holding a torch of light. I started to say so out loud and then thought better of it. But I’m convinced if France had given America a military man on a horse, there wouldn’t be all this fuss about raising money for the pedestal to put it on.

  The loan Jimmy gave me to get started was all paid up by the time the new post office opened, and now my money box was dedicated to the two-room cabin Fales and I would build. Every day after dinner, I’d ride over to my land and help until sundown. By the third trip, I vowed to get myself a western saddle, hang it if it wasn’t lady-like, because this sidesaddle-riding was ridiculous out here. A new saddle went on the wish list.

  I know I amazed Fales at how strong I was, and how I could work like a man. “Your Pa sure raised you right,” he complimented one day. I’d spent most of my life working with Pa and my brothers, so I knew how to work with men to get things done. First thing, you can’t be bossy. They don’t like that. They’ll do something the wrong way rather than take a bossy command from a woman.

  “Fales, do you think we could do it this way?” That’s the way to get a man to do it how you want it done.

  My knowledge of men didn’t work on Bothwell. I didn’t know for a long time that he was harassing Fales, but finally it all came out when progress on the cabin seemed so painfully slow.

  “Miss Ella, Bothwell has been around making trouble. He pulled up one day and sounded like he was the law. ‘And what do you think you’re doing’?” Fales could imitate Bothwell dead-on.

  “I told him that I was building a house for that nice Ella Watson who was filing claim on this land under the Homestead Act. Well he huffed and puffed like he was going to have a stroke, right there on his horse, wearing his red vest.

  “He spat at me, ‘You know you’re right in the middle of my grazing land.’ I wanted to laugh out loud, but I’ve lived in these parts long enough to know that wasn’t a smart thing to do.

  “I did tell him, polite like, ‘Mr. Bothwell, this ain’t your land. This is homesteading land and Miss Ella is going to be our newest homesteader.’ I thought he was going to pistol-whip me right there. He swore instead and said, ‘We’ll see about that. This has been my pasture for a long time and I intend to see it stay that way.’ And then he galloped off.”

  “Oh, I can’t stand that man.”

  I don’t think Fales was even surprised the next day when he found everything he’d done had been torn apart. He only got things back together because he brought his friend, Frank Buchanan, to help out. Frank was always our fall-back guy when we had extra work, and Fales now knew he’d need to keep Frank on for awhile.

  Frank was convinced the worst was over. “Bothwell has got to accept that when this cabin is up, the claim is real, and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  But everything was torn apart the next day, too, and so Fales decided to camp on the land at night to keep away the “critters” who liked to throw logs all over the place. He set up his sleeping rug beside a partial wall and sat there all night with his rifle resting across his lap.

  I knew the men could use my help, so I hurried after the noon meal each day to get out to the claim. I was mixing mud the day four cowboys rode up and acted like ruffians. I didn’t bother wondering who had sent them.

  “So now you’ve got a woman mixin’ mud for a house that’s never gonna stand,” one of the cowboys said, and the others screamed like it was funny.

  “We’re building my cabin,” I told them, as though this were news.

  “Lady, you’re never gonna live here in the middle of Mr. Bothwell’s pasture. This isn’t a place for a lady on her own, is it men?” All four of them grunted agreement.

  “I hear there’s Injun pox in the soil,” one of the cowboys said. “They liked to bury their dead around here and a lot of them had the pox and I’d be real scared to dig where I could get smallpox.” I had never heard of such a thing, but the look on Fales’ face said there could be some truth in that.

  “If I were you, ma’am, I’d just move on or go back to Rawlins and forget this cabin out here and forget any claims. You know this is all Mr. Bothwell’s land.”

  I knew it would do no good to talk back, so I kept working and wouldn’t look at them and eventually their game got tiring and they rode off.

  “Ignore ’em,” was all Fales said about the visit that day.

  The next day there was a skull left where my front door would be—Fales insisted it meant nothing, but I knew it was a death warning. Then there was a skull and crossbones. Then some more vandalism. If we went two days without a warning sign, we were lucky. I found myself having second helpings of second thoughts.

  “Maybe my claim is in the wrong place,” I offered to Jimmy one night in bed, and I thought he was going to go through the roof.

  “Is Bothwell scaring you? You know he’s all bluster. That isn’t his pasture land. That land belongs to the government of the United States of America and they have offered it for homesteading. If you don’t claim it, somebody else will. If Bothwell had any sense, he’d have filed a claim himself. But no, he thinks he’s due the land because his cows like to graze there. Too bad. That’s not the way it works anymore.” Jimmy was so hopped up, I double-assured him I wasn’t too scared. I swore I’d never give up my claim. I knew every word he said was true. And most of all, I sure didn’t want my new husband thinking he’d married a coward who could be run off by a bully. But in my heart, I knew Bothwell was more dangerous than Jimmy wanted to allow.

  There is a comfort in knowing you’re on the right side of the law and your enemy is on the wrong side. In any decent society, being on the right side is exactly where you should be.

  When Bothwell couldn’t scare me out, he changed tactics. He showed up at the roadhouse one day, all nice and gentlemanly, ordered dinner, and then started up a friendly conversation.

  “You know, Miss Watson, I run my cattle out there by that land where you’re plannin’ a claim, and
I know it’s a great inconvenience to move, so I’d like to offer you top dollar for that land—now I know it isn’t rightly your land, but you have made an investment in getting those logs and hiring those men and I want to make it right by you. So I’ll buy the land from you and you can find yourself another nice spot somewhere else and we’ll all be happy.”

  “Mr. Bothwell, I’m very happy with the land I’m claiming,” I spoke slowly and evenly. “But thank you for the nice offer.” My heart was racing so hard, I feared he could hear it. But again, I was proud of myself for standing up to him.

  He tried another day, this time coming at me like I was the object of his heart. “I have a beautiful ranch house up the way—I know you’ve admired it on the way to that land—and it needs a woman like you to make it a real home and I’m hoping you will consider that seriously, Miss Watson.” I hardly knew what to say. It was nothing but an obscene offer. Jim walked in right after that speech and although he was a lot shorter and smaller than Al Bothwell, he looked like he wanted to punch his lights out.

  The next time Bothwell broached the subject of the land, there was nothing nice or gentlemanly or romantic in his words.

  “Listen here, little lady,” he began, “if you think you’re going to screw with my grazing rights, you’re dumber than you look. If you value your health, you’ll get the hell out of there and pull up stakes or I can’t be held responsible for what happens to you.”

  Every single time I encountered him, the memory of my first husband came leaping into my head and the steel rod in my backbone hardened. I couldn’t look at Bothwell without loathing and contempt. I couldn’t see him without seeing William Pickell with a horsewhip in his hand. I had never been sure where men got their courage to face danger straight on. But I was learning a woman got her courage when she was tired of a man trying to beat her down.

  Looking back, I’m amazed at how long I took his verbal abuse and his insults and stayed so calm. But that chapter came to an end.

  The last straw was when he grabbed my arm to spit his threats right in my face. I yanked away from him so violently, it made him step back to keep his balance. My courage finally spoke: “Mr. Bothwell, you get out of my face and out of my way. I’m here. I’m staying. Do you hear me? I’m not going anywhere. That is going to be my land. I’m going to raise cattle there. I’m going to live there for the rest of my life. So get your filthy hands off me and stop this nonsense. You’re nothing but a bully and I’m sick of it.”

  The look on his face was of absolute shock. That pleased me, but I didn’t dare show it. Instead, I turned on him and marched away. I heard his horse whinny as he reined her hard to ride off. I held my breath. I prayed I wouldn’t feel a bullet in my back.

  Jim had been hardened like that for a long time, and he did more than tell Bothwell off. Our conflict was just one example of what was happening all over W.T. as homesteaders moved in and the cattle barons felt the pinch. To fight back, cattlemen scammed the land claims acts by filing phony claims. They might get away with it in some places, but Jim was determined not to let them get away with it in the Sweetwater Valley. He started writing letters to the editor to expose their fraud, and local papers like the Carbon County Journal supported him with editorials. Whenever an article came out, it was like a win for our side.

  You could count on homesteaders to come into the roadhouse when Jimmy’s letters were printed, to slap him on the back and tell him to keep up the good work. That should have been extra income for my kitchen, but Jimmy always gave them pie and coffee on the house. I didn’t begrudge him, because it wasn’t that often that our side got a win.

  The point was driven home one day when four men were sitting around a table, and one of the real old-timers spoke up: “You know, I was a kid in Kansas when they were deciding if it would be a free state or a slave state. The slavers would never ask you directly where you stood, but one day one asked my Pa, ‘Where are you on the goose question?’ and my Pa lied and said he was ‘fine on the goose question.’ After they left, he told me that was their code to find out if you supported slavery, and if you weren’t ‘fine,’ they were likely to shoot you on sight. It feels like that out here, now. Those ranchers hate the settlers so bad, but when they talk about us, they use their own code. They say they’ve got a ‘rustler problem.’”

  ***

  I tried to avoid the political talk and convinced myself I just had to stay out of the way. Besides, Fales and I had plenty to do. I felt safe with Fales, safe enough to admit all the things I didn’t know about this new land and the ways of Wyoming.

  “Fales, can I ask you something and you won’t tell Jimmy how ignorant I am?” and I didn’t need an answer to know he wouldn’t. “What’s so important about a maverick?” Fales stopped hammering in mid-stroke.

  “Well, Miss Ella, you gotta know about mavericks or you can’t be a cowman—excuse me, ma’am, a cow lady—in W.T.,” he said. Then began his tutorial that filled me in on how the big cattlemen had stacked the deck. By the end of the day, I clearly saw why Jimmy was so proud of every little win on the homesteader’s side, and I realized he was a big voice in trying to knock over that stack.

  Fales turned out to be a natural teacher and he started from the beginning: “Well, Miss Ella, as you know, a maverick is an unbranded calf. But that poor little thing has become the most despised critter in all of W.T., thanks to the Wyoming Stock Growers Association.” He said the name like he was reciting Lucifer’s title. I already knew the stock growers were the enemy, but now I was learning just how far they’d gone to shut out the likes of me and Jimmy, and I wished I’d paid more attention to the political chatter back in Cheyenne.

  “Used to be, that in the spring roundups, those new calves were brought in with their mammas and whether you were a big cattleman or a small cattleman, they were yours. It worked out just fine and that’s how guys grew their herds. But a few years ago, the stock growers got the legislature to pass a law they call the Maverick Act. Now all unbranded calves are branded with an M on their neck and that means they’re the exclusive property of the stock growers association. So if a small cowman finds some calves with his cows, he no longer owns them like he should—they now belong to the association. Then the association auctions them off to the highest bidder and even in good times, you can imagine who’s always the highest bidder. But it’s even worse than that!” Fales sounded like a locomotive picking up steam, and you could hear the frustration and anger in every word he spoke.

  “This year they made the act even more horrible by saying no one can brand calves except if they have a registered brand from the state, and to get a brand from the state you have to go through the Stock Growers Association. So the little guy doesn’t have a chance. He can’t get a brand, and without a brand, he can’t get any calves. He can’t even bid on mavericks without a brand. See, they shut out the little guy and the homesteader altogether. And they call it legal.”

  And just when I thought he was done, Fales rounded another corner with another outrage: “And listen to this, Miss Ella. There’s this homesteader over the way named Larson and those cowboys stole his milk cow—his God-damned milk cow, oh, excuse me, ma’am—and they branded that cow as a maverick and sold it for the Stock Growers Association. Well, the paper in Rawlins went on a rampage and the stock growers were forced to give it back. Then they told the papers that giving it back shows they’re a friend to the homesteader. Nobody could believe they would try to turn around their sins like that, but they did. And that’s the kind of men they are.”

  I agreed none of this sounded fair, but I had been in W.T. long enough to know the cattlemen’s side of the story was that they were being robbed blind. “They’re always screaming about rustlers—that people are just taking their cattle and they’re losing big money,” I said, watching for Fales’ reaction.

  “Oh, they talk big about rustlin’, but they stretch that whopper as far as it wil
l go,” he said, reaching his arms from the ground to the sky to demonstrate what a big lie it was. “Sure, some cows go missing now and then. Around here, we say they got caught by the longest rope. Or we call ’em ‘slow elk.’”

  Fales ha-ha-ha’d to himself for a couple seconds. “But the problem is nowhere near like they say and some of them are pullin’ the same tricks, too. Some of those big outfits have investors back East or abroad and they say they’ve got hundreds more cattle than they ever had. It’s their ‘book count’ and a lot of time, it bears little resemblance to the truth. So when the count comes up short, they scream they were rustled. Everybody knows it isn’t a true count. And some of those big ranchers—know how they got to be big ranchers? By being rustlers themselves. And their men do it all the time to start their own herds. I’ll tell you this, Miss Ella, if you took all the rustlin’ goin’ on in W.T., homesteaders would be doing this much.” He spaced his thumb and first finger an inch apart. Then he spread his arms as wide as they would go: “And the cattlemen and their cowboys would be doin’ this much.”

  Then Fales fell silent for a second, like he was mulling over something important and when he looked up, he looked right into my eyes. “But I won’t lie to you, Miss Ella. If you call a man a thief and treat him like a thief and don’t give him a chance to earn an honest living, odds are high he’ll oblige you and become a thief.” And I knew an honest thing when I heard it.

  “So if I have cows…” I began, moving the subject along.

  “If you don’t have a brand there’s no use to having cows,” Fales said, “and good luck getting a brand.”

  “But if I had a brand,” I pushed on.

  “Then you’d better have yourself a corral to keep all your cows,” Falls shot back, “because if one of your calves was found on the open prairie it would be called a maverick and you’d lose it.”