Wyoming Trails

by Lauran Paine

  Otto banged the milk bucket against the side of the house, and Shan got up, climbed into his clothes, and hurried outside. The air was like perfume, full of coolness, the scent of flowers, curing grass and cleanliness. He washed at the pump, set the big black hat on the back of his head, and hastened out to help with the chores. Otto was milking. He was whistling, something Shan had never heard him do before. When he saw Shan, he grinned.

  “You’re going to sweat a mite today,” he said. “Before tonight you’ll think I’m trying to get all my time back out of you in one day. You’ll see whether I’m offering you charity or not.”

  Shan climbed to the loft, began forking down feed. “Suits me,” he said, and for a while he worked in silence. As he was coming back down the ladder, he said: “Otto, I got to say this, but I’m no good at it, either. I want you to know how much I appreciate …”

  Otto interrupted. “Wait,” he said. “Just wait until we’re through with those damned cattle. You’ll wish you were back soldiering again.”

  Shan smiled. “I wouldn’t wish that no matter what,” he said. “I wouldn’t even wish that on the redskin that burned my barn … not on anyone.”

  Otto nodded, his smile dwindling. “I expect it was bad,” he said.

  “Bad? You’ve got no idea, Otto. Men walking around tripping over their own entrails. Hanging themselves. Blowing out their brains. Dying in the rain … drowning, Otto … damned rain water running up their noses and drowning them because they were too weak to roll over.” He walked swiftly to the doorway, stood in it, staring at the clean sunlight. Behind him Otto finished milking, arose, hung up the stool, and nudged Shan out into the yard.

  “Come on. We’ve got a big day ahead of us. You got to learn to use a rope, too.”

  Mary was bending over the table when they entered the kitchen. Mrs. Muller looked up and smiled at them both. Her hair was drawn back into a very tight bun; it looked very plain and severe to Shan. He nodded to Mary and sat down at the table. They ate, then Mrs. Muller got up and began doing the dishes. Mary helped her. She avoided Shan. He and Otto went back outside. Mrs. Muller called to them through the door.

  “We’ll come out there in a minute, Otto.”

  Shan looked puzzled. “Does she help?”

  “Sure. Until you came along she was the best helper I ever had. At marking time she’s better’n most men, anyway. Let’s get the corrals closed and the fires going.”

  Out behind the barn where the corrals were, Otto closed the gates and showed Shan where he wanted the branding fires built. It was still cool back there. Otto roped the first calf while Shan got the irons hot. Otto showed him how to tilt the irons downward so heat wouldn’t travel up the handles.

  “Go down the rope,” he told Shan, “and throw him.”

  Shan tried but the calf was wild and like greased lightning. Twice he fell in the manure and both times the calf landed on top and wriggled free. Otto showed him how to do it—go down the rope, reach over the calf, get flesh holds under the flank and just aft of the off side front leg, bend his knees, and lift at the same time. The calf was lying at his feet, slammed down hard. It grunted but lay still. Otto whipped out a pigging string, wrapped the four legs, and stood up. He was breathing heavily.

  “Like that,” he said. “Now for the iron.”

  By the time the women came out, they had branded four calves and altered two that had been bulls. Shan was dirtier than he had been in several years but he’d gotten the hang of throwing them. Otto showed him how to brand, to keep the iron hot but not cherry-red or the mark would heal into a blur. Mrs. Muller took over the fire, showed Mary about tilting the irons, keeping them in the heart of the fire and not getting them too hot, how to test them on a slab of wood before handing them to the men. If they flamed when they touched the wood, they were too hot, had to be allowed to cool.

  Mary learned fast. Her thick black hair had a narrow band around it; she looked more Indian than ever, and when she moved, it was with a lithe, supple grace. When she bent to hand Shan an iron, he could look past the prim neckline of her dress, see that the flesh was golden-colored.

  Otto showed him how to tie calves, especially the bull calves because they struggled and bawled when they were altered. When they bled, Otto showed Shan his mistakes, explained that when they were cut right there was very little bleeding. Shan tightened his face in concentration, his expression leaving no doubt that he did not like what he was doing.

  “There ought to be another way,” he said. “That must hurt like the devil, Otto.”

  “Naw, you see they don’t know, so it don’t last long with them. A day or two and they’re as frisky as ever … steers.”

  “Gold watern … Shan?”

  He twisted and looked down at her. Her face was flushed from the branding fire and she was smiling up at him with the faintest lilt to her lips. He knew he looked a sight, trousers stiff with filth, hair tousled, shirt dark and limp with sweat. He grinned back. “No thanks.”

  Otto took the dipper, drained it, and handed it back without looking at her. “Here,” he said to Shan, “you catch the next one. Hold it like this.”

  By the purest fluke Shan roped the first calf he made a cast at. Since he did not know how to brace against three hundred pounds of frenzied animal, when the calf hit the end of the rope, he was jerked down. Mrs. Muller smiled at her husband. Mary watched Shan struggle to his feet with the rope still in his hands and fight his way down it to the animal, reach over, and bust it. It took a long time for Shan to get the legs tied securely. Otto stood by with the faintly smoking iron. When Shan finally arose, shook sweat off his chin, Otto applied the iron. The calf emitted a wild bellow and from beyond the closest corral bars an old cow answered anxiously.

  They worked until the sun was directly overhead, then sat down in the shade to rest while Mary and Otto’s wife opened bundles they’d brought from the house.

  “You got your pipe?” Otto asked, holding his own pipe.

  “No, just some papers,” Shan said, fashioning a cigarette, letting the smoke trickle upward from his nose.

  “First time I ever did this,” Otto said musingly, “I got kicked square in the belly. I thought all my insides were busted. It takes a lot of practice. Lots of it.” He pointed the pipe at a skittering young heifer, rolling, fat and dark red. “That’s one of your heifers. When she calves, you’ll want to have your rope handy because an unmarked calf wandering round will wind up wearing someone else’s brand on it before it’s very big. We don’t want any Blessing calves sucking Muller cows.”

  “I’ll watch them.”

  “I know you will,” Otto said, and sat there, just looking at his cattle for a while. Finally he began to rummage in a shirt pocket, drew out a shred of blue cloth with a cracked bone button sewn to it. “Here,” he said to Shan, “keep this. Someday I’ll tell you the story about it.”

  Shan held up the fragment, looking at it. It apparently had come from a man’s shirt. The cloth was heavy but well worn and faded. “What about it?”

  “Just keep it,” Otto said, and craned his neck when he saw the women approaching them. “Ahhhh! I could eat the tail off a skunk.”

  Shan put the little scrap of cloth into his pocket and forgot about it when the women spread out a cloth and put food upon it. Mary had the jug of whiskey. She set it squarely in front of Shan. Otto noticed and looked up quickly at her. Mrs. Muller smiled.

  “She must think you need strong medicine,” she said with a twinkle.

  Shan poured some liquor into a cup and drank it. It felt good all the way down. Otto reached for the jug.

  “You probably look like a buck just off the war trail to her, all bloody and dirty like you are.”

  “I feel like one,” Shan said.

  Mrs. Muller had two cushions. She handed one to Mary who held it with perplexity until she saw Mrs. Muller place her
s upon the ground and sit upon it, then she did likewise. Shan repressed a grin.

  Otto said: “They’ve got saddle-galls on their rears an inch thick from riding bareback all their lives. I bet she never sat on a cushion before.” Mrs. Muller shot a dagger look at her husband. He shrugged. “She don’t know that much English, Georgia.”

  “You’d be surprised how much she knows … you and Shan. I never saw anyone learn so quickly.” Mrs. Muller’s look softened. “If you’d take a little time with her, Shan, you’d have her talking good by the time Sarahlee gets back.”

  Shan took two biscuits, popped one into his mouth, and held the other one in his hand. “I’ll let Sarahlee do that,” he said. “I wouldn’t know how to begin.” He looked at the cattle. “Now I know what you mean,” he said to Otto, “about this taking a week and the time passing. I’ll sleep like a log tonight.”

  Otto spat out a piece of gristle, nodded, and glanced sideways at Shan’s trousers. “If Sarahlee could see you now …” he began, and didn’t finish it.

  “How did she get that name?” Mrs. Muller asked. “It’s two names in one.”

  “I don’t know. In the South lots of folks name their kids with two names like that, some of them even name the girls after their fathers.”

  “But she isn’t a Southerner, is she?”

  Shan frowned at the cattle. “I don’t know but I don’t think so.” He was thinking that actually he knew very little about his wife. But he brightened when he remembered that she knew very little about him, too. That made it all right.

  Chapter Ten

  The last day they worked the cattle, Otto said he thought Shan ought to ride up and see how his horses were, if everything was all right. Shan borrowed Otto’s big bay saddle horse because the buggy mare wasn’t broken to ride. He left Mary at the Mullers’.

  It was a beautiful afternoon with fragrance in the air strong enough to lean against. He rode part way in an easy lope. Otto’s horse was like riding a rocking chair; he wasn’t young, but he was wise, which was more valuable in a cow horse. Shan wore his pistol for the first time in almost a week. Its weight was unaccustomed, dragging at his waist. From time to time he hitched irritably at his pants.

  The horses were grazing about a mile north of the spring in back of the barn. He drove them south, past the cabin, and left them to drift. It was all right for them to be that far north, but he thought it likely the Blessings would be turning out soon and didn’t want his horses running with their stock, especially since he hadn’t branded any of them yet and Otto had let enough drop about the neighbors he’d never met to make him cautious.

  When he entered the cabin, it smelled stuffy. An enterprising wood rat had begun a nest behind the stove. Among the articles he found in the debris was an old, sweat-curled pair of gloves, the pencil he’d used to write Sarahlee, a worn-out sock, and a wash rag. He cleaned the cabin, swept the earth floor, and scattered the refuse beyond the door with his boot toe. Over where he’d buried the Indian the ground had sunk a little. He looked at the spot, thinking he’d have to fill it up a little before Sarahlee saw it; she’d probably dislike the idea of an Indian buried that close to the cabin.

  He went to the barn. There were several new bird nests overhead whose occupants fled at the sound of his spurs. The sides showed dull-yellow sap oozing from cracks and slashes in the logs. He rubbed his palm up and down a big peeled log he and Otto had set as the east corner post.

  It was lazily still and peaceful at the ranch. What sounds there were came from the trees and from the grass at his feet—browning a little, curling downward a mite. It was so pleasant he lay full length in the grass and let the sun bake loose the knots in his muscles. He was drowsing, thinking of nothing at all when he heard a horse whinny. He raised his head above the grass and looked around. Out where he’d left his horses he could see them standing motionlessly, heads up and alert. He rolled over, propped his head up, and studied the countryside. Two riders were coming, slouching along, riding easy and slow. They looked a lot alike, what he could make out of them. Both were tall, thin men, ungainly-looking, unkempt, and hawkish. He watched them go toward his cabin, stop in front of it. One of them said something pointing at the open door. The other one drew up in his saddle, looking around. Shan got up out of the grass and walked toward them. One he recognized from two hundred feet away. It was the bearded man he’d knocked down his first day in Tico. The same man he’d faced that night at Sarahlee’s uncle’s cabin. He stopped when he was close enough and nodded.

  “Howdy.”

  The man he recognized gazed at Shan strangely for a moment, then gave an almost imperceptible nod in return. The other man, possibly a year or two younger, did not nod at all. “You the feller lives here?” he asked scratchily.

  “Yes,” Shan said, taking an instant dislike to the second man. “Who’re you?”

  “Neighbors. I’m Art Blessing. This is my brother Amos.”

  “I’ve met Amos before,” Shan said. “What do you want?” Everything he’d ever heard came back very clearly. Remembering Amos from two unpleasant meetings didn’t help the way he felt now, either.

  “Well, hell,” Art Blessing said, “you ain’t a real friendly cuss, are you?”

  Amos shifted his weight in the saddle. Both his hands lay indolently upon the saddle horn. He spat aside and worked his jaws rhythmically.

  “I said what do you want?”

  “Nice new barn you got there. Too bad about the other one.” Art Blessing’s head was tilted back a little. He was looking down his nose at Shan on the ground. “What burned it … you know?”

  “Indians burned it,” Shan said, and tipped his head toward the sunken place in the yard. “One of them’s buried there.”

  Both Blessings regarded Shan steadily for a moment, then exchanged a glance. Amos smiled, spat again. “Real hell roarer, ain’t you, soldier?”

  “You ought to know.”

  Amos retained his smile. “Yeah, I ought to,” he said. “Only I don’t. I was drunk that night in the saloon last winter.” His beard shone rusty in the sunlight. “And say, soldier, if you ever want to know about Sarahlee Gordon, just ask me. Don’t bother callin’ on her … just ask me.”

  Shan’s face darkened. “You wouldn’t know anything,” he said flatly. “You don’t even know enough to wash your whiskers.”

  Amos’ smile dissolved. One hand moved off the saddle horn. Art Blessing made a short, choppy laugh. “Better not roil him, Amos,” he said. “He’s big and tough. All them Abe Lincoln boys’re big and tough.”

  “Next time you ride down this way,” Shan said, “keep out on the road.”

  “Or?” Amos asked.

  “Or you’ll wish you had.”

  The Blessings sat still, looking down at him. They were no longer smiling. There was a stillness to their faces, a cold, calculating stillness.

  “Rider coming,” Art Blessing said softly to his brother.

  All three men looked up. A solitary horseman was swinging toward them across the range a long way east of the road. They watched for a while, then Art Blessing raised his rein hand. “Let’s go,” he said to his brother. “Listen, squatter,” he said to Shan, “we don’t use that road. Never have, never goin’ to. If you don’t like it, why just put on your war paint and look us up. We live north there a few miles.”

  They rode off, angling westerly and watching the oncoming rider. Shan looked after them. He knew, then, that only the advent of the rider had kept them from shooting him. It was a sobering realization.

  He thought of Amos’ words about Sarahlee. They ate into his mind like acid, left him filled with dark, torturing questions. Now Amos’ smile seemed secretive, mocking. He clenched his fists hard; the next time they met he promised himself one of them was going to get hurt.

  The Blessings rode leisurely out and around the rider, and stopped. Shan watched them
turn their horses, stare as the rider swung past, and very faintly he heard one of them call out, “Squawman,” throw up an arm in a sneering way, and ride on.

  He wasn’t certain what they meant until he recognized one of Otto’s horses. A second later he saw the wind-whipped sheen of raven-black hair. Mary. He turned his head to follow the brothers and his face was savage-looking. When the girl drew up and stopped, he turned angrily on her, but something unusual held him from speaking. Mary was riding sidesaddle. That reminded him of what Otto had said about Indians riding bareback all their lives—about having saddle galls an inch thick, and he lowered his eyes in embarrassment. She had understood.

  She dismounted, stood beside the horse a moment, then reached up and brought a little bundle down from the saddle and held it out toward him.

  He took it, puzzled, opened it, and saw the food. “Well,” he said, the turbulence dying. “Missus Muller send this?”

  “I bring it. You hungry.”

  He folded the cloth and handed it back to her. “You eat it. I’m not hungry. What did they send you for?”

  “I come myself,” she said, taking the bundle but making no move to open it.

  “Oh? Why?”

  She did not reply. Something hot and unpleasant erupted in Shan’s throat. He turned away, squinted out where the Blessings could no longer be seen, then started walking out where he’d left his horses.

  The animals moved away from him, watching in a sidling way, wary but not actually fearful. The grass was thick where he swished through it. He noticed the horses were too fat. A little breeze ruffled his hair, left a dark lock hanging over his forehead. He stood there in the sun, watching an enormous bank of clouds moving majestically across the sky from the north. Below, on the ground, a series of cloud shadows, gray and mottled, trailed after them.