Wyoming Trails

by Lauran Paine

  “What kind of trouble? I didn’t get into a fight, if that’s what you mean.” He disappeared overhead, and Otto watched him a moment before he sat down and began squeezing milk into the bucket with rhythmic sounds.

  A moment later Shan appeared on the edge of the hay pile, looking down. “What made you ask that, Otto?”

  “Well, not half hour after you left yesterday the Blessings rode by, headed for Tico.”

  “Well, hell,” Shan said, “I don’t even know them.”

  “No,” Otto said slowly. “They stopped here for a while. They’d ridden past your cabin.”

  Shan leaned on the pitchfork. “You figured they’d look me up in town?”

  “They said they were going to, Shan.”

  Shan turned away, began forking flakes of hay down into the mangers, and when he’d filled them all and worked his way back around to the ladder, he hung the fork up, descended, and leaned against the wall, watching Otto strip the cow dry.

  “Maybe I left too early this morning.”

  Otto nodded. “Well, we knew they wouldn’t like the idea of a cabin up there, Shan.”

  “Did you tell ’em it wasn’t their land?”

  Otto arose, hung the stool on a peg, and threw all his weight on one leg to offset the heft of the full bucket. “No,” he said, “I didn’t argue with them. All I said was that you owned that land and I’d helped you build that cabin and barn.”

  Shan started out through the door. “They must not have wanted to fight very bad,” he said carelessly, “or they’d have hunted me up yesterday.”

  Otto made no move toward the door. “I expect I had something to do with that,” he said. “You see, I figured you were outnumbered … you don’t know them even by sight and they’re handy with guns to boot … and when they asked me to describe you to them, I said you were about my size and build with blond hair and spectacles.”

  Shan stared at Otto a moment, then he began to laugh. Otto shrugged and walked out of the barn. There was a hard twinkle in his eyes. “Let’s go inside, Shan, I’m about half hungry.”

  As they neared the house, Shan said, “I bought the horse pistol and carbine, Otto. Even picked up a used shotgun. Got ammunition, too.”

  “Then you’d better start practicing. Use up all the shells you got if you have to. I’ll pick up more when I go to town next time. Get real good with that pistol.” At the doorway he turned. “I hate this,” he said. “I hate to see trouble amongst neighbors out here.”

  “Maybe there won’t be any. Maybe I can catch them without their guns some time and talk peace into them.”

  But Otto shook his head. “You’ll never catch them unarmed, Shan, and there’s something else you got to know, too. All this talk about gunfights … lies, Shan. The Blessings won’t give you a chance. I’ve seen a hundred gunfights and I’ve known my share of gunfighters … I’ve yet to see either where someone didn’t have an edge over the other fellow. A man that’s good with his pistol baits a man who isn’t, and kills him. What kind of sense does it make going up against a man who might be better than you are with a gun and who might kill you? None, none at all. The only man who ever wins against gunfighters is a wise man.”

  “Huh?”

  Otto set the bucket down, hunched over, and peeked around the corner of the house as if at an imaginary enemy, cocked his finger, and tugged it back. “Like that,” he said.

  Shan’s expression clouded over. He said nothing.

  Inside, Mrs. Muller looked up at Shan, peered into his face, and said: “No fight?”

  “I didn’t meet them,” he replied.

  She smiled broadly at her husband. Shan saw the look they exchanged and dropped down at the table. “They’ll figure what you did, Otto,” he said. “You tricked them … they more’n likely won’t like that.”

  Otto set out the whiskey crock and two glasses. “They don’t scare me. One of us they might get, yes. Both of us … no.”

  But Shan wasn’t as optimistic. They’d be nearly three miles apart. But he didn’t mention it. Throughout supper he was mostly silent. When Otto or his wife would say something, ask something, he would answer with a minimum of words. Otto looked at his wife and she looked back at him.

  Chapter Five

  The following day they took Shan’s loaded wagon and horses up to the cabin. It was such a warm day that he and Otto were sweat-wet and dry-mouthed before they got the stove set up, the bed unloaded, the odds and ends hung on pegs or put upon the slab shelves. Mrs. Muller had come along for, as she’d said, you didn’t just move into a new cabin, first you “warmed” it with a little celebration—a little party. She set them to cutting stove lengths at the wood pile, and there they really sweated. Shan finally removed his shirt and hung it on a little tree. Otto stopped, leaned on his ax, and gazed at Shan. After a while he wagged his head without speaking and went back to work.

  When Mrs. Muller called them from the cabin, she pointed to the carefully erected washstand just outside the door. There was a thick and dazzlingly white towel hanging from the roller. Across its middle in dark yarn were Shan’s initials. Otto laughed and made a mock bow permitting Shan first use.

  They ate and worked until the shadows began to lengthen, then Mrs. Muller said she and Otto had better leave. Shan stood in front of his cabin watching until they were lost to sight in the dusk, then he stoked up the fire, dug out a pipe he’d bought, whittled off some shag, got up a good head of smoke, and lay on the bed, smoking and thinking. At first it was peaceful, snug and warm and fragrant, and when a coyote howled, he listened, enjoying the melancholy sound. Then a specter came. At first it was vague, indistinct, then it got clearer and clearer until he recognized it, saw every pore in the gray skin, every straining muscle—a Rebel soldier who had hanged himself in a barn in Virginia. Shan had found him, cut him down. Who he was, why he’d hanged himself, Shan never knew. Now here he was again.

  He relit the cold pipe and puffed it to life. The coyotes were closer, more numerous, when next they howled. He got off the bed, sought a book he’d bought, and sat down at the slab table, concentrating on the words, making them come off the printed page by sheer force, until he was exhausted, then he slept.

  Three nights went by like that, with the coyotes and the memories. On the fourth night he heard the wailing howl of a wolf and its eeriness made him feel queer, as though he was detached from his body, from everything on earth and was far up in the moonlit night, looking down, seeing it all, himself included—those coyotes, that wolf, the night shadows of gaunt trees, the lift and roll of spun-out earth frozen into black immobility.

  On the fifth day Sarahlee came riding up. He was in the unfinished barn when he heard the fluted sound of a distant yell. He stepped out into plain sight with his heart pounding and one hand upon the butt of the black pistol he wore. It took a while to recognize the rider, to separate the human outline from the horse’s outline, to recognize the sidesaddle, then he hurried across the yard to the wash basin, splashed water over his face and combed his hair, flung into the cabin for a fresh shirt, and was tucking it into his waistband when she came loping up.

  There were faint drops of perspiration on her forehead. It was close to seventy degrees in the sunshine. She wore a little tight coat like artillerymen wore. It was very full. Her skirt was dark, sort of rusty-colored, and she carried her hat in one hand so that her hair shone like polished brass. She was smiling when she reined up, watching him in his doorway with uncertainty behind the smile. The horse fidgeted, acted nervous. He noticed how casually and confidently she handled it.

  “When you said you wanted to be a hermit, you meant it,” she said. “I thought I’d never get up here.”

  “What time did you leave town?” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Before sunup. Can I get down?”

  He flushed and moved toward her. “Excuse me.
You’re pretty as a picture in that dress.”

  He helped her down, couldn’t overcome the desire not to let go of her arm, so he held her with one hand and took the horse in the other, began leading them both toward the barn. There was a huge lump in his throat he tried to dissolve by swallowing. She filled her lungs with the clean air and let her lips lie apart while she looked far out.

  “Two miles of it?”

  “Two miles.” He dropped her arm at the barn door, led the horse inside, fumbled at the cinch, the bridle, hung them awkwardly on a peg, and forked hay to the beast before joining her outside. Her cheeks were red, the darkness of her eyes full of luster. She turned slowly to look up at him.

  “It’s like you, up here. Big, rugged-looking.” She smiled. “I love it. I always have loved it out here. When my uncle was alive and I used to visit him, we used to ride all over this country. He knew every cranny of it … he’d been a trapper and knew where every Indian battle took place.” Her roving glance went to the cabin. “He’d have loved this, too. He’d have thought your cabin was wonderful. It’s larger than I pictured it.”

  “Well, I told you how large it was.”

  “I can’t envision distances. Most women can’t.”

  “I’ll show you how I’ve got it fixed up.”

  When they passed the door, the first thing he saw was the dirty shirt on the floor near the bed. It looked five times its normal size. He picked it up, scarlet-faced, and stuffed it under a pillow, then showed her the stove, the cupboard he’d worked endless hours over, the shelf of books he’d bought—and hadn’t completed reading even one of—and the towels Mrs. Muller had made with his initials darned into them. She touched things and smiled a lot, and when they were by the stove, she looked up at him.

  “I could cook us supper before I go back.”

  “I’d sure like that. You know, learning to cook’s not very easy.” His courage was growing. He looked at her boldly. “You could teach me, I expect. A few trips up here and I’d learn.”

  She looked at the stove. “I’m all finished in Tico, Shan. Everything’s done but getting the money for the cabin.”

  Silence descended, became a barrier between them. “Finished? You mean you’re going back to Nebraska?”

  “Tomorrow or the next day. Selling the cabin was all that kept me here this long.”

  He looked steadily at an improbably fat Morgan horse on a calendar they’d given him at the Tico Mercantile Company. “What a hell of a thing to say to me,” he said.

  She looked up swiftly, astonished.

  He turned away. “Let’s go outside,” he said, “it’s stuffy in here.”

  She walked just ahead of him with a puzzled expression. At the door she turned back. “What did you mean by that? Why was that an awful thing to say to you, Shan?”

  He moved around her, out into the sun. “I don’t know. I can’t explain what I meant.”

  “Ryan …?”

  “Don’t call me that,” he said sharply. “I don’t like that name. Stick to Shan.”

  She moved up close, gazed into his face, and whatever she saw made her look away.

  “I’m sorry, Shan.”

  “There was a man at the orphanage where I grew up … he always called me Ryan, and the only time he called me was for a licking. In the army when they read off your name … Ryan Shanley! … it means you’ve got to get ready for something …”

  She was looking at him strangely, her eyes round and still and very dark.

  He raised a big arm suddenly, flung it out in front of him, and continued. The words were bitter and hating, like profanity. “See that flat out there, Sarahlee? Otto says that’s where we’ll cut hay this summer. Farther out … see where the lodgepole pines are? Those’ll go into the rail fence I’ve got to build around the hayfield to keep the cattle out.” The arm dropped. “The rest of it’s all grazing land. Back East they’d plow it … out here you don’t plow much.” He frowned at the ground. “I’ve got to learn to make branding irons at Otto’s forge …”

  “Shan.”

  He grunted dully and without looking at her. The sun was making the ground soft. There were tiny green things coming out of the black soil, small and countless, blades of grass as fine as hair.

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “Maybe I put the cabin too far out.”

  “No, Shan. This is where it belongs. See … the mountains back there, the land falling away in front. I think it’s perfect right here.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.” She was looking into his eyes. There was a strange hush in her expression.

  “That’s good,” he said. “I was thinking of you when I put it here.”

  She didn’t look away. Her gaze was fixed upon him. She drew in a big gulp of air and very solemnly she said: “Shan … I’m glad of that. I’m glad you were.” Then she turned a little, facing slightly away from him. He could see the V in her throat and it was pumping erratically. “This is your world now, Shan. You belong here. That’s what I meant about being happy for you. Whatever else has happened to you, wherever else you’ve been … Wyoming is home for you, your world, Shan.”

  “Our world, Sarahlee. You’ve always said how you loved Wyoming. This here is for both of us, Sarahlee.” He could see her mouth tremble. It upset him, and when next he spoke, he wasn’t completely aware of what he was saying. “Hell … anywhere’s my world … New York, Antietam, Wilderness, Richmond … here … it doesn’t matter.”

  “Don’t, Shan. You see I didn’t understand … I didn’t know, exactly, Shan. Maybe I thought …” She turned and looked squarely at him. The pulse in her neck was slowing and her eyes were soft with a strong glow. “I think this is beautiful here. Wonderful. I adore the cabin. I like all of it, Shan.” She watched the twitching muscle in his neck, knew how his fists were clenched. “Shan … I just didn’t know … But that’s all right. We’ll make it all right.” Her gaze blurred when she repeated it. “We’ll make it all right.”

  “Marry me, Sarahlee? I’ve got to marry you.”

  She nodded, then it was as though something within her broke, crumbled. She hurried away from him, toward the cabin. She was crying.

  When he bent over the bench by the washstand where she was sitting, she wiped her face and smiled up at him. “Don’t look so … so … sick, Shan.” She shook her head and perked up the corners of her mouth. “I like Ryan better, but I suppose I’ll get used to Shan.” Then she arose, leaned back against the cabin’s wall. The sun hung in one place overhead. She turned after a moment and very slowly removed the artilleryman’s jacket. The blinding whiteness of the blouse, its contours, sent blood pounding into his cheeks.

  “This will be our piece of Wyoming,” she said quietly, dropped the jacket upon the bench, and stood there looking beyond him, steeled against what was in his face. “All right, Shan.”

  He finally said, “We could eat some supper,” but food was the farthest thing from his mind.

  “Let’s just sit down,” she said, and went back into the cabin where it was cooler. He only had one chair so he sat on the edge of the bed.

  For a long time neither of them said anything, didn’t even move, and happiness was a formidable pain inside him. He hadn’t thought love would be hurting and now the old confusion came back. He opened and closed his fists, looked down at the ingrained dirt, the scars and scratches, and half-healed cuts—they were real, they were tangible. When he moved his fingers, he felt the pain from them. This other thing was intangible. It was fright and even a little dread. It reminded him of the first time a Johnny Reb had shot at him. The bullet he heard was real enough and he knew to duck from it, but he’d never seen it. Fear was something he’d never really understood anyway, and that day the Reb had shot at him he’d lain there on the ground, thinking about fear until an old infantry corporal with gray hair had sworn at h
im.

  He still didn’t understand it five years later, any more than he understood love. It wasn’t altogether her white blouse, the dark richness of her hair, the bigness, the promise, the panting imaginings, it was putting his head on her shoulder, having her rub his hands; it was feeling the warmth of her gaze, seeing the encouragement of her smile; it was wanting to touch her and feeling ashamed for wanting to—it was pain.

  She got up finally, moved to the stove, and said over her shoulder: “Wood for supper, Mister Rancher.”

  He went outside, brought back an armload, and dumped it into the wood box. He stood behind her and watched the way she bent to build the fire, light it, and stand a moment in critical observation before she slammed the iron door. More than ever he was aware of her bigness. He was well over six feet tall and she was only a head shorter. She wasn’t lean and stringy like most tall girls. She wasn’t shriveled like the old woman. There was meat on her and it rippled when she moved, stood out when she strained. Then, for the first time, he noticed the fuzz on her cheeks. The sun slanted in just right to show that. He brought his arms up when she turned to set the graniteware coffee pot on a burner and held them uncertainly in midair.

  She faced him and the serene calm was not there in her face. She didn’t move back but neither did she go up against him, and when she spoke, it had nothing to do with a magic moment that flickered out with her first words.

  “How do we do this, Shan? I’ve got to go back to Nebraska. My family just wouldn’t understand it if I got married up here … just like this.”

  He lowered his arms heavily. “Well, we could get married in Tico, then you could go home, tell them, and come back, couldn’t you?”

  Her answer was delayed. When she looked up quickly, he burned brick red. She started to turn away, stopped, looked at the floor a moment, then turned back fully toward him, still with her head lowered. “I could do it that way,” she said in a faint voice. He touched her. She drew up, raised her arms, and caught his head, drew it down until it was pressed against her bosom. He was shaking. “All right, Shan,” she said in a soothing way. “We’ll do it like you want to.”