Out of Innocence

by Adelaide McLeod

  “Says so, right here in the Statesman newspaper," Harlow read. ‘‘As a tonic for run-down people, Duffy’s Pure Malt Whiskey is reliable. This lady, Mrs. Mary Carmody, gained strength and weight by using Duffy’s as directed.

  “Taken just before mealtime it stimulates the mucous surfaces and little glands of the stomach to healthy action, improving the digestion and assimilation of the food and giving to the system its full proportion of nourishment. It is prescribed by doctors and is recognized as a family medicine everywhere.”

  “I don’t know, Harlow.” Belle wrinkled her brow.

  “Says so right here. You read it. They wouldn’t put it in the newspaper if it wasn’t the truth, would they?”

  The armistice came five weeks after Harlow got home: November 11, 1918: the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Everyone tried to pick up their lives where they’d left them before the war. It worked for some but there were many men like Harlow. It took a long time before they regained their health, if they ever did. Belle came to grips with the fact that Harlow’s health was broken but the thought of his never recovering was something she wouldn’t consider.

  One morning at breakfast, Harlow sat at the table with his coffee, as Belle was nursing Hannah. “I was born thirty years too late,” he said. “Wish I’d been around in the Sixties, during the Gold Rush days. Fortunes were made all over the West. Most of those fine houses down in Boise were built out of gold dust. There’s still gold, Belle, but it isn’t easy like it used to be. In those days, all you needed was a pick and shovel. I’ve made a living but I want to make a killing. Shafer Creek has petered out but I did pretty well there. I’d like to land another one like that. Hope to hell the upper mine on Dry Buck proves out. I’m itching to get back up there." Belle was relieved when Harlow talked like that. He’d be better when he got back to the mines. Belle knew that it was more than money and thoughts of being rich that drove him. It was the gamble, the excitement, the winning.

  During the winter, Harlow sat and read the Congressional Record his congressman sent from Washington. He’d get so fussed over what was going on in Washington, he’d have a straight shot or two just to calm down.

  Before the robins or the first new blade of wild grass, in winter’s bleak grayness with its gun-metal clouds that hung low and its relentless cold and unkind winds, Harlow was back in the mines. He couldn’t wait any longer. Belle was relieved; his boredom made him nip at the bottle all too often. Belle suffered from cabin fever, too; the winter had been hard. She needed to smell spring. It was out there hiding beneath the snow. The earth had called to her even in the dead of winter and her only recourse was to bury herself in a seed catalog where she could dream of springtime or lose herself in a good book.

  The first nice day, Harlow went off with his wagon pulled by the Clydesdales. Belle saddled up Horse, cradled Hannah in a blanket on her back, papoose style, sat T. J. in front of her, and headed for the mines. She wanted to see what Harlow was doing. She turned up Dry Buck Creek where spring runoff gushed down the gully. Huge chunks of charcoal-colored basalt stood like monuments, maybe in remembrance of past dreams where some other miner, some other time, had thought he’d strike it rich. In truth, she knew, the rock had been there for eons. Who had inhabited this place? Indians? Cavemen? Dinosaurs? Gold Rush miners? Maybe, no one at all . . . ever. These were old mountains, rounded at the top, girded with medallions of basalt. Their rings of chartreuse lichens and spots of heavy moss would disappear in summer heat. The hills rolled like ocean waves, as far as the eye could see, with no beginning or end. She realized how easy it would be to get lost and never find her way back to the ranch. She wouldn’t leave the creek. Common sense told her it had to flow to the river. The pastels of chamois-colored earth and green-gray sagebrush, against the distant indigo mountains held a sort of beauty: austere, but beauty just the same. She never reached the mines. The repetitive rolling hills, creek or no creek, intimidated her, and made her turn back. As she rode down the lane toward the barnyard, she saw someone standing there watching her, someone she didn’t know. Feeling vulnerable, uneasy, she rode on in sensing something ominous about this man in uniform.

  “I’m looking for Isabelle Mackay. I’ve a Western Union telegram for her,” he said.

  “For me?” Belle asked. “Please don’t let it be bad news from Scotland.” She hesitated. If she refused to take it, she wouldn’t have to know what news it held.

  “Sign here,” the man insisted as he put a pad in front of her. Belle took his fountain pen and signed her name.

  Gingerly she took the yellow envelope, pulled T. J. off the saddle and put him on the ground. He wobbled on his fat little legs before he sat in the mud. The messenger rode away and left her there to deal with the sealed envelope. Squatting on the ground beside her little boy, with her baby asleep on her back, she opened the telegram. There was only one line:

  Meet train Horseshoe Bend stop 3-l0-I9 11 am stop letter follows

  H. T. Ballard, Atty-at-law, Cheyenne, Wyoming

  Belle couldn’t make any sense of the message. Who was coming on the train? March 10th was only two days away. And who was H.T. Ballard? She called Colleen and read the message to her over the phone. “What do ye think?” Belle asked.

  “Who do you know in Cheyenne?” Colleen asked.

  “I lived there over a winter but I don’t know who is there now.”

  “It’s sure a mystery. Makes a person curious.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep until I find out what this is about.”

  “I’ll come and sit with the children if that would help. I need a change of scene.”

  “If you can spare the time that would be wonderful.”

  She wished Harlow was home, maybe he could make some sense of this strange message.

  On Tuesday, Belle Mackay Pruett, dressed in her Sunday best, with her telegram in hand, stood by the railway tracks and watched the train arrive. As it pulled into the station, it seemed to be all boxcars: freight, no passengers at all. She waited until it had fully stopped. Nothing. No one. She marched into the depot with her telegram and slapped it down on the counter in front of the agent.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said. "You don’t look like you’re exactly dressed to receive your shipment. How are we going to unload? Have you got men here to help you?”

  “I haven’t got the slightest idea what this is all about,” Belle said.

  “Well, ma'am, come on out and I’ll show you.” Belle followed him and watched him as he opened the sliding door of a boxcar.

  “Cattle--the whole car is filled with Aberdeen Angus,” Belle said. She remembered the Aberdeen had been bred in Scotland and considered among the best of Scottish cattle. “There’s some mistake.”

  “Nope. If your name is Isabelle Mackay, these cattle are yours. Folks call them Black Angus around here. There’s more.” He pointed down the track at what seemed to be an endless chain of cars. “Let’s see, there’s eighty head of cattle, an Arabian and two dogs. What are you going to do with them, anyway? Oh, there’s a saddle and bridle, too,” the agent said, rechecking his shipping list.

  “Let me see the horse.” Belle grew anxious as she followed the agent to another car. He slid open the heavy door and Blue was standing there. No question about it, it was Blue. She’d know him anywhere. Whiskey and Brandy, Ben’s beautiful border collies were so glad to see Belle they jumped down out of the car and were all over her. She petted them. But why was Ben doing this? Like knitting that comes off the needles, things began to unravel in her mind. The wire had come from an attorney. Ben had been fighting in France--Flo had told Belle so. His possessions: these were Ben’s possessions. She felt her face flush as her heart filled with agony.

  “Good Lord in Heaven,” Belle muttered, “Ben is dead!”

  Belle climbed into the boxcar, put her arms around Blue’s neck, stroking him, clinging to him as she cried. She couldn’t hear what the agent was saying. She was far away, riding in
a high meadow in Wyoming. Distant hills purpled, the crisp scent of fall in her nostrils, her handsome cowboy riding Blue beside her, in his leather chaps, his Stetson. His big blue eyes that said he loved her. As they got off their horses he was kissing her, kissing her, kissing her . . .

  “That’s a fine looking steed,” the agent said trying to comfort her. “What are we going to do with your livestock?” Belle shook her head.

  The agent disappeared and came back with a couple of men he’d dragged out of the saloon. “This here’s Andy and Jess. They’ll drive your cattle, you’ll just have to tell them where to go. I’ve got to get rid of this cargo. We’re running out of time,” he said, looking at the pocket watch he pulled from his vest.

  “Mighty fine looking breeding stock, ma’am. I haven’t seen better,” Andy said. “Black Angus can’t be beat. Do you want to sell them?”

  Belle didn’t hesitate. “No, it appears that I’ve just gone into the cattle business.”

  “That’s a handsome gelding.” It was Jess this time.

  “Yes, he’s a beauty.” Belle agreed. She tied Blue to the back of her hack, and with the collies nipping at the heels of the strays, Belle followed the men as they drove the cattle up the canyon. Ben, dear, dear Ben. Why had she let him disappear out of her life? She was lost again in the Cheyenne foothills where she and Ben had shared their dreams.

  “What do you mean you inherited this herd?” Harlow leaned on the fence, watching the cattle graze in the open field beyond the house. The meadow was shaped as if it had been designed for them. The long shelf of pasture narrowed to nothing against the river as the mountain rose abruptly a half mile down the way, confining the cattle.

  “A friend. A friend left them to me in his will,” Belle said.

  “Why you? Were you his woman?”

  Being someone’s woman implied something she had never been to Ben. “Not exactly.”

  “What in hell does that mean, Belle?” Harlow squinted; his voice rasped.

  “It means I was his girl, but we were never intimate. We were engaged.” Belle spat her words. There was nothing to do but tell him the whole story, even the part about Ben coming to the ranch shortly after she and Harlow were married.

  “Well, I can’t fault the guy for that. You’re one hell of a woman.” Harlow pursed his lips around his pipe. He looked pallid, tired and he wasn’t taking this well. “He was a lot closer to your age, wasn’t he? Not an old codger like me.”

  “He was two years older than me.”

  "And I’m twenty years older. Old enough to be your pa. Why didn’t you run off with him when you had the chance? Don’t tell me you didn’t think about it.”

  “Harlow, leave it alone. Ben’s dead! What difference does it make now?” Belle’s eyes blazed as she turned on her heel and walked away from him. She was angry, but not really at Harlow--she was angry because Ben was dead and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. It was like losing Tommy all over again. She felt tears welling inside her that she couldn’t let Harlow see. She walked up the gully and out of sight where she was free to cry.

  Chapter Twelve

  The dogs barked. There was a commotion in the henhouse.

  Loading her rifle, and with the dogs’ urging, Belle rushed down the hill. “So, boys, what do you think? A weasel or a fox?” she whispered. They really were her dogs now; they were there whenever she stepped out of the house. It made her feel safe, something she’d never felt when she was alone on the ranch before. “We’ll get 'em this time.”

  Slowly, stealthily, she opened the henhouse door. She’d get a bead on the intruder before he knew she was there. A skinny little waif, filthy from head to toe, was filling a cloth sack with eggs out of the nests. He heard Belle and turned into the barrel of her rifle. Belle got a better look at him: matted, stringy hair, a face that needed a wash cloth and the anxious eyes of a trapped animal. Long underwear hung from his frame, covered only by ragged overalls, so dirty Belle guessed they hadn’t been off him all winter. Startled, he let the eggs roll out of his bag and break on the floor. She lowered her gun. He looked relieved, then impish, and his eyes snapped at Belle.

  As she stood there watching him, he grabbed a hen with each hand, holding them by the neck. Quick as a wink, he bolted past Belle. He leapt down the hill with a whoop and holler, the chickens squawked and thrashed, the dogs barked at his heels as he disappeared in the pucker brush down by the river. Belle couldn’t stop laughing. She couldn’t believe what had happened. That little kid sure had brass. He had to be hungry to do that. She whistled for Whiskey and Brandy. They came back and seemed as confused as she was.

  Belle couldn’t wait for Harlow to come home to tell him about her strange visitor.

  “Sounds like you met up with one of the Dugan boys. They live like a pack of wild animals since they lost their ma and pa. I don’t know how they get along. They keep to themselves. The oldest of the lot, Beufer, hires out during harvest sometimes. Saw him at Prichard’s once and he knew how to work but he’s just a kid.”

  “You mean to say that those children are living on their own?”

  Harlow nodded.

  The next morning, Belle loaded bread, a couple of jars of peaches, a sack of dried apples and a side of bacon into the hack. With T.J. and Hannah beside her, she headed out to make a call on the Dugan boys. It was a long way down river to Horseshoe Bend and then up the other side to New Jerusalem, across the river from the ranch. Belle could see them moving about like scattering rabbits as she drove into the barnyard. By the time she got out of the hack, they were nowhere in sight.

  “Hello, I’m Belle. I’ve come to visit,” she hollered. “I know you’re here. I won’t leave until ye come out so ye might as well do it now.” She sat on a log and waited. “I’ve brought ye some fresh bread and some fruit.”

  Finally, one and then another came out from behind the barn. They all looked alike--just different sizes.

  As they came closer, she tore a loaf of bread and handed chunks to them, careful not to make any sudden gestures. They found courage enough to grab the bread and then they retreated to wolf it down. “There now, see. I’m your friend.” Belle was proud of her conquest.

  Maybe Charley at the Silver Slipper was right. She could charm an Indian right off a nickel. Like stray cats who get friendly with those who feed them, the Dugan boys, Beufer, Russ, Ross and Randall quickly latched onto Belle.

  In the months to come, she taught them how to wash their clothes, to cook a nourishing meal, and by fall she hoped to get them in school. It was too late in the year to do anything about starting a garden so she shared what she could out of her own, but never without requiring them to do some chores for her. No one should get something for nothing. Harlow’s attitude about Belle taking on the Dugan boys vacillated between amusement and exasperation. As far as Belle was concerned, there was no other option. It was her civic duty.

  The Dugan boys often showed up at Pruetts' at meal time. It was as if they could smell the food cooking. Belle never hesitated. She simply dealt out more plates around the table as if they were playing cards. Harlow was tolerant of their intrusion but warned Belle not to let them get too dependent on her--they needed to learn to do for themselves. After supper one evening, Belle lined them up, got out the mixing bowl and sheared off their ratted locks in spite of their protests. When the job was done they almost seemed pleased. She decided to show them how they could cut each other’s hair but she had to rescue the shears when it looked like ears might be severed.

  At the end of Beufer’s long hairy legs, his bare feet dangled, almost touching the ground as he straddled Lightning, his mule. Beufer sat like a sack of potatoes sliding this way, leaning that, as he rocked into the Pruett ranch. The mule was so ornery that Beufer rode him with a spade bit and carried a two-by-four board to get his attention. Lightning seldom got out of a walk, and when he did it was into a bladder-busting trot. He didn’t whinny like a horse; he curled up his top lip, showed his teeth a
nd wheezed. Beufer tied him to a hitching post with a frayed rope and went about his work in Belle’s garden.

  Belle had Beufer hoe the rows of vegetables that stretched the long distance between the back step of the ranch house and the peach orchard. She had to keep prodding him as he seemed content to lean on his hoe and watch the day roll by.

  "Let’s get on with this, Beufer. I want you to help me with the cattle before you go home.” When the sun was high overhead, Belle called Beufer in for dinner. She’d set a place for him at the big table in the kitchen. Placing a bowl of chicken and dumplings in front of him, she ladled some for herself

  “Beufer must be a nickname. What is your given name?” She passed him the basket of bread.

  “This is good,” he said, chewing with his mouth open and spitting some of his food on the table. “It’s Beuferguard, my mother’s family name. “