Dandelion Iron Book One

by Aaron Michael Ritchey

  “What about driving the cattle down south to where we could take a train through Texas on to Arizona?” I asked.

  “Not as good a story,” Pilate said. “And Howerter has contacts in the Union Pacific. I can guarantee you he’d make it difficult. No, the deal was to drive the beef to Nevada.”

  “How do you know so much?” I asked.

  “Your mother hired me on for security before she passed. Me and Petal. So I got all the details, and I tried to talk her out of it, but you know how your mother was.”

  I took in a big, shuddery breath. “We gotta stop this. Sharlotte can’t do it. Mama could’ve, maybe, but even then, driving our headcount west is just plain crazy no matter how much money we’d make.”

  Pilate’s chest moved under my head as he spoke. “Sharlotte’s going to do it, and Wren is going to help me run security, which should scare us—”

  I cut him off. “What do you mean Wren is going?” I moved back to look at him. “Wren doesn’t care about saving the ranch. I figured she’d run back to Amarillo the first chance she got.”

  Pilate’s lips curved into a smile. “Wren loves you and Sharlotte, though it kills her and she can’t figure out how to show it. She told me tonight she wanted to see this through, and you know Wren, any chance she has for a fight she’ll take. Petal and I will be there to make sure your sister doesn’t kill everyone we meet. And we’ll hire some more hands and more guns. You met Sketchy, Tech, and Peeperz. With a zeppelin, we’ll be able to scout ahead and get re-supplied if we need it. We’ll just hope for the best.”

  “Why would you risk your life for us, Pilate?”

  “With your mother gone, you Weller girls definitely need adult supervision.” He smirked, but his face turned serious, spoiling the joke. “Besides, Sharlotte is going to need all the help she can get.”

  “Not from me,” I whispered. “I can’t go. I shouldn’t go.”

  “Really?” Pilate asked.

  That made me mad. “What the heck, Pilate? Shouldn’t you be sayin’ I’m too young and this is too dangerous?”

  Pilate’s face turned serious. “You don’t get to be young, Cavatica. You reloaded for your mother when Queenie attacked, however questionable that parenting decision might’ve been. Regardless, no child could’ve done that. You were born forty years old and battle weary already. You’re a Weller, like it or not. Would you really stay behind while the rest of your family goes off?”

  “Yes!” My head was spinning, but I reckoned I was done throwing up. I had puked up everything but my toenails, and they were pretty well connected.

  “Surprising.” I felt Pilate sigh. “I thought for sure you’d be dying to come along. Well, that was a poor choice of words.”

  I sorted through my options, and none of them were good. I couldn’t go back to school, since we were out of money. My Territory ID was back in Cleveland. No way to get it. Applying for a new one could take months or never. Which meant the United States was beyond my reach. Besides, after Wren’s gunplay, I was prolly a wanted woman.

  If I stayed in the Juniper I’d have to find work, which meant I’d end up either working for Howerter or Mavis. With my name, I could get on, but then I’d be living in barracks with other hands, starting at the very bottom of the rung.

  Could I stay in Burlington? I couldn’t really imagine it, not with my whole family taking off. If I didn’t go, they’d have to hire another hand to replace me. I was free labor.

  No good choice remained for me.

  Still, I wanted to argue. “If I went, what can I do? I can’t shoot anyone, not face to face. I proved that when our zeppelin got attacked. And yeah, I can run cattle, but it’s been a long time, and I’d be real green at it.”

  Pilate touched my face. “Cavatica, the truth is, we don’t know what your story is going to be. And if I know one thing for sure, anyone can be a warrior. The Sino taught me that. As for running cattle, it’s like riding a bicycle, only a lot more smelly.”

  “I can’t go.” I repeated. “I just can’t. You understand, right?”

  He smiled sadly. “I understand. But do you know what kind of life you are choosing?”

  “What kind?”

  “A lonely one. Sometimes safety is a lie. And sometimes the only real heroes are the unexpected ones.”

  It was my turn to sigh.

  Pilate helped me to my room where he tucked me into bed fully clothed. He joked, “If you sleep in your clothes, well then, you know you’ve been to a party.”

  In my bed, in my room, I watched the light and shadows mix across the familiar corners and edges of my nightstand, my dresser, the walls, the wainscoting. “Pilate, if y’all go and make it, we’ll have enough money to send me back to school. Sharlotte can stay on the ranch, and Wren can go back to Amarillo. You guys don’t need me.”

  “You’re probably right.” Now he was just being nice so I would go to sleep.

  “Do you think you have a chance to make it that far, Pilate? All the way to Nevada?”

  The answer was plain on his face. No, they wouldn’t make it. And I’d be alone.

  But Pilate lied to me, kind of. “If we make it through and sell them beefsteaks, what a story it will be. A ten million-dollar story to be exact. And if we all die, well, then we can work for your mother up in heaven. I’m sure she’ll have started her own business.”

  He went to leave, but I was feeling young and scared. “Pilate, can you wait ’til I’m asleep?”

  “Sure, Cavatica, sure thing.” He took a seat in the rocking chair by the window, looking out. The moonlight showed his wrinkles. His smirky, smart-aleck smile was all gone. Only the troubled and weary was left—sad, like he had been with Betsy. I had the idea that even though he joked about it, sleeping around hurt him somehow.

  “Halfway,” I whispered. “Really, if you could make it halfway, get through Denver, you should be able to make it all the way.”

  “We can’t go through Denver,” Pilate said. “No way that can be done. We were going to cut up north at the very edge of it, but you shouldn’t worry about all that.”

  I drifted off, looking at that sad face, safe in my house, warm in my bed, comfortable with my thick mattress and pillow.

  I’d made up my mind. I would stay on at the ranch, take care of it while they were gone. I could make money by fixing things for our neighbors, since I’d always been good at steam engine repairs.

  I’d let Wren and Pilate have their gunfights, and Sharlotte could order around all her employees, and I’d stay in the house, sleep in my bed, and let them all be heroes.

  (iii)

  The next day, we went into town to hear Pilate preach again at Mass, first Sunday of Lent. Most of the town Catholics were hung over from the night before ’cause of our party. I know I was. But we soldiered through.

  We got home, but I didn’t want to really be with anyone. I hadn’t told Sharlotte I wasn’t going, and I knew it would be a fight even though I was so young.

  I saddled up Bob D, who’d only been a foal when I’d left for the Academy. Now he was a full-grown stallion, a gorgeous pinto tobiano, white with brown like spilled paint all across him, even his nose. He’d remained uncut, but he was still mellow and eerie smart. Like he could see right through me and into my heart.

  Right then, though, he’d have to squint ’cause my heart was a shadowy place full of doubt.

  Being home, going to Mass in Burlington, suddenly I was a young girl again, small under a wide blue sky. Yet having an animal under me, I found myself feeling powerful, his muscles like my muscles, his body like my own, my boots hooked in the stirrups, a saddle creaking, and the reins in my leather-gloved hands. The smell of the horse, while not exactly pleasant, was powerful and right, somehow. Horses should smell like horses.

  I galloped that wonderful stallion off to the edge of our property. It wasn’t marked with fences, just a gully we called the south ditch. There I reined Bob D around to look at the blue house rising up from a plain of yel
low. An easy wind mussed the winter grasses. Sometimes even in February, we’d have nice breezes, simmered warm by a gentle sun. That Sunday was such a day.

  My friend Anju would be taking communion in Cleveland. Billy Finn would be with her. They’d be singing hymns. Becca would be off somewhere nursing her broken nose.

  Becca had called me names, made fun of me for growing up Juniper, and yet I’d always been proud of my heritage. My mama had literally bled for our home. She’d fought for it, over and over. And finally she’d died there, buried not thirty meters from the front door.

  I rode the perimeter of our property, scaring up cows that watched me carefully, chewing their cud, spit drooling from their working jaws.

  Their eyes sized up me and Bob D. It was like they were asking me, Are you really going to stay? Are you really going to abandon your family?

  Every millimeter of our property brought back memories. Playing catch with my dad using salvaged baseball mitts and a ball shedding horsehide. Wren tagging me “it” during a blizzard and me tumbling through the snow trying to catch her. Sharlotte, Mama, and me helping a big heifer give birth to Betty Butter out by the south ditch. The calf’s body steamed in the cold.

  I drove the horse across the grass and through the memories until we stopped in front of the graves of the baby girls and my daddy and my mama.

  If we lost the ranch, what would happen to the graves? What would happen to our sacred home, made sacred by the blood spilled there, by the bodies buried there?

  It would be gone, all gone, and everything Mama had worked for would be chaff before the flame.

  I dismounted and stood there before the graves of my ancestors. Bob D nestled his head under my arm, and I petted him while he nickered softly.

  He didn’t bend to eat. It was like he could feel the power in the moment.

  As could Sharlotte.

  She strode over in her New Morality dress, her hat low on her forehead, and her boots churning up dirt. She stopped beside me on the other side of the grave markers.

  “Pilate told me you ain’t going.”

  I nodded. Shame dug into my chest. Standing before the dead, it felt like a betrayal to everything Mama had held precious—work, duty, family, and the entrepreneurial adventures she’d dedicated her life to.

  Sharlotte cleared her throat and spoke. “Mama borrowed from Howerter, borrowed three million dollars. No one knows it but me. She put up the farm, our land, our headcount, all as collateral. Used it to keep us going and to finance this drive west. Also, a fair chunk of that money went for your schooling. College and such. You know how much your tuition and board were each year?”

  More shame. I didn’t.

  “A hundred thousand dollars. So she spent nearly a half a million dollars already on you, Cavvy, and was going to spend a bunch more. Not that I blame her.”

  That was a laugh.

  Sharlotte’s voice bristled with bitterness. “Mama went all in betting on this cattle drive, and on you, Cavvy. That’s a poker term. You remember?”

  I nodded. The amount of money choked me. In Cleveland, I never had money for anything extra other than school. I felt poor, and yet me going there had marked me as rich and privileged even though I hadn’t felt like it.

  Now I knew why Wren had tried to strong-arm Ms. Justice. There had been fifty thousand dollars left on the table.

  It’d been quite a wager, but then Mama had loved Texas Hold ’Em and could bluff anyone to throw away full houses and flushes—throw them down in disgust onto the green felt of our poker table. Even Pilate. Only Wren would ever stand up to Mama, and my sister would lose just as often as she won. ’Cause Mama was so good, reckless, but always so lucky.

  “That old poker table still in the basement?” I asked.

  Sharlotte nodded.

  What would happen to the poker table if we lost the ranch? Gone. Salvaged. Sold off to Dob Howerter and his evil Colorado Territory Ranching Association.

  “If we sold every one of our beefsteaks in Hays, we’d get around three million dollars. Just enough to pay off the loan, but then we’d be broke. I asked Howerter about letting us stay on our ranch if we let him buy us out. He said we’d missed our chance to join the CTRA, and he wouldn’t let us keep our house even if we begged. He said to the victor go the spoils. And you remember, he was real mad that Mama didn’t join his association when he started it, but then why would she? Mama wasn’t about to give Howerter any of her profits, just so she could get his dumb seal of quality. Stupid, it’s all so stupid, but this is his revenge.”

  I couldn’t believe how vile the man was, but then I could. The scuttlebutt claimed that Howerter had gone sterile, and it never sat right with him. Since he couldn’t have babies, he wanted the rest of the world instead. Mama had children. Mavis Meetchum had children. And Howerter had the Colorado Territory Ranching Association.

  “So we have no choice,” I said with a sigh.

  “None that I can see.”

  “What about leaving the Juniper?” I asked. It was a question loaded with dynamite.

  “To do what?” Sharlotte asked right back. “I don’t know computers. And the way I hear it, after the SISBI laws, immigrating to the U.S. would be harder than getting our headcount to Nevada. No, I was born here. I’ll die here. Your story might be different, but then after Wren’s gunfighting in Cleveland, it might not be.”

  I swallowed hard and harnessed my shakti. “Are you ordering me to go, Shar?”

  Surprise, surprise, but Sharlotte softened. “Not hardly. I can’t order you to die with us. ’Cause you know as well as I do, this is a suicide.”

  “Then why do it at all?”

  Sharlotte pointed to the graves. “’Cause Mama loved a long shot. She would’ve done it, could’ve done it. Us together, our family, even Wren, we have a chance. It’s a bad chance, but remember how Mama went all in that one Christmas Eve? She had nothing but off-suited low cards, but she won with bad cards, and we can, too. We have to. If we can get a ten million-dollar payday, we could pay off Howerter, re-invest in a new herd, heck, we might even make this a regular thing. We’d be flush. You could go back to school. Wren could go back to hell. I might even consider other options. If we can make it through.”

  The memories came on strong—Mama at the table, laughing, clutching her cards to her chest, betting high on every hand, and winning, always winning.

  She’d taken out impossible loans from her worst enemy to send me to school, all to save a ranch she loved in a land she’d chosen above the U.S. I felt the guilt and obligation keenly.

  “I have to go,” I whispered.

  Bob D nudged me as if to agree.

  I talked on. “We have to save our ranch and show Dob Howerter he picked the wrong family to mess with. We have to be heroes.”

  “Whether we want to be or not.” Sharlotte tacked on those last words, gazing down on Mama’s grave. A fire burned in her eyes. Anger. Not at me, but at Mama.

  It was raw shakti, but right then it didn’t feel like a creative, powerful female energy.

  To borrow from the Hindu myths, it was Kali’s fury in her eyes.

  And what did Kali’s fury do?

  It destroyed the world.

  Well, let the world die. I was going to save the ranch even if at the end of things, it was the only dirt left in the universe.

  It was our land, where our parents and baby sisters were buried. It would be ours, forever and ever, amen.

  You don’t let go of sacred ground. You fight to the death for it.

  (iv)

  A month passed. Sharlotte had rushed the funeral, rushed to get me home, all so we could prepare for this cattle drive. Going west.

  A month of work, of fretting and fighting and preparing our headcount—a round-up, branding, medicine for the sick, and bullets for the terminal.

  We left on Monday, April 1, 2058. Most of the same people were there from Mama’s funeral to help us with the final pack. More cooking. Aunt Bea’s churros,
two henhouses of eggs, and enough coffee that even Pilate couldn’t have drunk it all. Everyone laughed we were leaving on April Fool’s Day, but hoped for the best, predicted the worst, being neighbors, friends, enemies, and consultants, as people are wont to do.

  The Moby Dick floated over our heads all loaded up. Before dawn, we had bucked bales out of our hay sheds and into the Moby’s cargo hold. Sketchy said we needed the calm of the morning ’cause around 9 AM the wind would pick up, and the Moby didn’t like wind that close to the ground.

  She was right about the weather. Down to about five minutes.

  Aunt Bea took off first in our Chevy Workhorse II, steam-powered, pulling the two-axle supply trailer. We called the whole rig our chuck wagon. Then our employees and new hires led Charles Goodnight, our best steer, and Betty Butter, our best cow, to amble after the chuck wagon. Both were really smart, but Betty, a scarred-up and snotty Holstein, had the temperament of a shaken wasp’s nest. Ask the two coyotes who’d gone after Betty one night. We’d found her bleeding but alive the next morning, a hundred meters away from the mangled corpses of the coyotes.

  Sharlotte, on her horse Prince, trotted into the herd moving west. She’d sheathed Mama’s M16 in a leather scabbard next to her thigh. We’d named Mama’s gun Tina Machinegun, partly ’cause as kids we confused sixteen with Tina, partly ’cause Mama had loved Tina Turner. Seeing the assault rifle put a tremor in my belly. Bad memories.

  The dogs barked around Sharlotte and Prince, happy to be working and moving, but dodging the falling steps of the cows around them.

  Wren galloped ahead to look for trouble. She’d found her old traveling clothes—worn chaps, a leather vest, and a dark green wool poncho. The poncho, woven rough, swirled around her in the breeze of her speed.

  Pilate and Petal rode tail, which was the worst place to be on account of the dust raised by the hooves of our headcount.

  On my favorite horse, Bob D, I turned around one last time to look at our blue house. It was a cloudy day, a little windy, but all in all, it felt like spring was knocking on the front door with her sister summer waiting to kiss us on the porch. My favorite New Morality dress, gray as the sage, was enough to keep me warm, though I had thick leggings and my Mortex parka stuffed into my saddlebags for when the weather turned chilly.