Wyoming Trails

by Lauran Paine

“It looks like a ranch ought to look,” Otto said. “It won’t be long until it’ll be paying you a living.”

  Overhead the shadowed sky was glowing red; it looked worn and faded far out where the sun’s last reflections touched. The air smelled of heat still, leavened with the lessening of light but hot nevertheless. There was a great depth and a mellowness to the sunset. Objects were rounded and soft-looking.

  “Sarahlee like it, Shan?”

  “She likes it fine.”

  “And you? Had any doubts since we rebuilt the barn and she came back?”

  Shan twisted on the seat to look at Otto. The older man was smoking his pipe placidly, face impassive. “No, I’m satisfied, Otto.”

  “Well, I expect that’s more’n half the battle, son. There’re other things, like the work, but you’d find them any place, and if a man’s to get ahead, he’s got to work hard wherever he puts down roots.”

  “Sure,” Shan said.

  “Decided yet what you’re going to do with Mary? I expect she’s a help to Sarahlee.”

  “She is. No, we haven’t talked about it lately.”

  “Well,” Otto said knocking out his pipe, “let’s get back. I want to get home before dark.”

  They drove to the barn, and while Shan removed the buggy mare’s harness, Otto saddled his horse. He bade Shan good-bye at the barn and rode across the yard, bowed from the saddle when Sarahlee came to the door, and rode out west toward the road. Shan stood by the buggy, watching him go.

  The day after Otto’s visit Sarahlee and Mary worked on more preserves against the long winter. Sarahlee caught Shan at the barn and asked him if he’d go down to Tico for jars and sealing tops, sugar, alum, and salt. The following morning before dawn, Shan passed the Mullers place but didn’t stop because he knew they weren’t up yet. At Tico he found a bargain in two porkers and hauled them back alive. With Mary’s aid he dressed them; afterward Sarahlee took over. She knew how to put down pork, which neither Shan nor Mary had ever done before. The cabin was laden with supplies. Too laden, Sarahlee said, and Shan undertook to build a spring house around the spring box. He had the water trenched to circulate and run under the plank flooring. The walls were insulated with tree bark until the temperature inside, when he finished, never varied summer or winter. It required five days to complete the spring house, then all three of them worked one whole morning, transferring the winter supplies from the cabin to its smooth new shelves.

  After that, there were a few idle days and Shan got restless. He wondered when Otto would want to start haying. Occasionally Sarahlee would ride out with him when he checked the cattle, but they were almost all calved-out now, so they explored a little and once he took her to the brawling little creek where the Indian rings were. While they were there, he made love to her, and afterward he got the shakes and was angry at himself, smoked a cigarette, and said very little on the return trip until they were nearing the cabin, then he drew up, sat there, looking at the distant mountains turning soft red under a setting sun.

  “It’s beautiful, Sarahlee. See how those big damned mountains off there in the west sort of background the cabin and barn.”

  “It is beautiful,” she said. Then: “Shan, you simply must stop swearing so much.”

  The next day they left Mary at the ranch and drove down in the top buggy to visit the Mullers. Mrs. Muller met them with an animated smile and inspected Shan closely, remarked that he looked thinner, that he probably was trying to do in one summer what he ought to spread out over five. Otto was out back, working on his haying tools, and came around the barn at the sound of voices with his shirt tail hanging out and his little pipe unlit and forgotten in his mouth. He stuffed the shirt in when he saw Sarahlee, waved back to her before she disappeared inside, and waited for Shan to walk up. Otto had a jug near the cottonwood tree across the barnyard near his equipment shed. He beckoned Shan toward it, brought it out, and dusted it off.

  “To haying time,” he said, and held it out as Shan came close. “We’ve got to get started pretty quick.”

  Shan drank, and returned the jug. The whiskey made him breathe shallow for a moment and wag his head. “That’s why I came down with Sarahlee today, to find out when you wanted to start.”

  “Well,” Otto said, setting the jug aside, “we should have started a couple of weeks ago, but, by golly, I’ve had more riding to do this year than ever before.”

  “Why?”

  “Too much feed. The cattle drift more. Every little creek’s running full where most of them’d be dry this late in the year. The critters drift to Kingdom Come and back. And there’s another thing, too. We’ve got more cattle on the range. They keep mixing up.”

  “O’Brien cattle?”

  “Theirs, yes, but some new brands. Marks I’ve never seen before. I guess more settlers are coming in.”

  “I’ve seen brands I didn’t recognize,” Shan said, “but it didn’t mean much to me. The only ones I know are yours, O’Brien’s, and Blessing’s.”

  “Well, north of the old Blessing place there is the Monroe Ranch. The Weaver outfit is about twelve miles west of you. I know their marks, but there’re new ones this year, too, brands I’ve never seen before. It’s a good sign. The country’s growing up.”

  From the back of the house came the insistent clamor of the supper triangle. Otto put the jug away and started down toward the house. Shan fell in beside him. At the washstand out back, Shan splashed water over his face. It felt refreshing as it dried on his skin. Otto dashed water over himself and blew through his fingers each time he did it. Then they went inside and took chairs at the table. The meal consisted mainly of fried chicken, which pleased Shan. He told Otto’s wife he thought she was the only woman in Wyoming who knew how to fry a chicken right. It pleased her.

  “We’re going to crate up some hens and a rooster for you to take home,” Mrs. Muller told him. “You need chickens up there.”

  “We don’t have a place for them yet,” Shan said.

  Otto laughed. “You’ll make a place. When your woman wants chickens, you’ll make a place for them all right.”

  Mrs. Muller said: “You ought to have a milk cow, too.”

  Otto looked up with a sudden thought. “I’ve got a nice little brindle cow’ll be coming fresh in a day or so, Shan. You can take her up there and milk her for her keep. I don’t like milking two cows at a time unless I’ve got porkers, and those I don’t have now. What do you say?”

  It made no difference to Shan either way. Like all cattlemen, he was an indifferent milker. The responsibility of having to milk a cow twice a day didn’t bother him because responsibility never had anyway. “Thanks, Otto,” he said, “we’ll take good care of her.”

  Mrs. Muller looked from Shan to her husband and back to Sarahlee. “When the child comes, you’ll need lots of milk and cream,” she said.

  Otto’s hand froze in midair. Shan’s jaws locked in a bulging stillness. He raised his eyes to Mrs. Muller’s face. Sarahlee was stirring her coffee, stopped, turned a burning brick red, and did not look up.

  “She just told me.”

  Otto leaned back and looked at Shan, whose hands had begun to move along the edge of the table like crippled things. “Congratulations,” Otto said, then got up, got the jug, and filled two glasses from it. “To a boy,” he said lifting his glass. “Maybe twin boys.”

  When the meal was over, Shan paused a moment behind Sarahlee at the wash pan, put a hand on her shoulder, and squeezed gently, then he went on outside where Otto was waiting.

  They sat in the shade at the side of the house, their talk desultory. Shan felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach by a mule.

  Later, when he and Sarahlee were driving homeward, she told him how she hadn’t been sure. How she’d wanted to talk to Mrs. Muller. It would be born in February. She and Mrs. Muller had figured it out. “I’ll have to get some thing
s, Shan. I’d like to take Mary and drive into Tico tomorrow, if it’s all right.”

  “All right? Sure, Sarahlee, you do anything you want to do.”

  And that was one time he was glad Mary went away the same time Sarahlee did. He stood in the barn’s shade, watching them drive off, then he saddled up and rode aimlessly northward. When he got to the sloping ridge between his range and the Blessing range, he sat up there for a while, until the sun grew hot, then he went along the rim as far as a clump of trees and laid down in the grass.

  A man was supposed to be happy at this time, he knew, but he wasn’t. He felt mixed up, bewildered, and fearful. He lay upon his back, looking up through the tree limbs at the flawless sky. In his mind he saw Sarahlee’s handsome, still face, the soft shape of her shoulders, and the shining of her hair; he remembered the almost overwhelming warmth that had flowed over him from her, the way she had rocked him, crooned softly to him, winnowing out his earlier shame and guilt until his fierce desire had dwindled, had become, instead of an urge for mating, a need for mothering.

  Later, he rode west across the road. He rode without purpose as though movement in itself was good, and when he saw the rider approaching in a shambling walk, he sat still, watching him. It was Ash O’Brien. He smiled through the tanned, lean strength of his face at Shan.

  “Howdy, Mister Shanley.”

  “Just plain Shan. Howdy. How are your cattle doing?”

  “Real well. How are yours doing?”

  “The same. They’re just about calved-out and I’m thankful for that.”

  Young O’Brien’s blue eyes twinkled. “I know. I never cared for that end of the business, either. You got a lot of Blessing animals on your side of the road?”

  “Quite a few, yes.” Shan watched the younger man’s face closely. “Have you?”

  “Yes, and my paw don’t know hardly what we ought to do with them.”

  “Well,” Shan said, “if they’re eating off your grass, why don’t you push them off somewhere?”

  “We do, but, hell, the next morning they’re back. There’s quite a few of them, too, a lot of unbranded calves, and that ain’t very good for us.”

  “Why not?”

  “Rustlers,” O’Brien said. “If the news gets around, there’ll be a long-rope artist behind every bush. As far as we’re concerned, we don’t care who brands them, but if rustlers get thick out here, we’ll lose, too … and so will you and Otto and everybody else.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” Shan said.

  “We’re branding all our little calves as soon as we find them, but it makes a heap of extra riding.” O’Brien sat slouched in the saddle. “We heard about those Indians burning your barn,” he said.

  Shan was watching his face, saw the way Ash O’Brien’s eyes brightened in speculation. He shook his head at the younger man. “It wasn’t the Indians. You know that, too.”

  O’Brien’s quick grin came up. He looked a little embarrassed. “Well, we did hear later you found out it wasn’t Indians, come to think of it.”

  “What’d you hear about the fight?”

  “With the Indians?”

  “With the Blessings.”

  “Funny how quick word gets around, ain’t it? Oh, we heard there was a fight. The Blessings tried to bushwhack you in your new barn and got killed. Folks in Tico seem to think Art and Amos got what they’d been asking for.”

  Shan looked into the young face and saw nothing there but frankness. He pulled the reins through his fingers and snapped them a couple of times. “They’d ridden down a couple of times before, trying to pick a fight.”

  “That’s the way they were. Our outfit always steered clear of them.”

  “Well,” Shan said, “I expect I’d better head for home. My wife went to town. She’ll need me to unload the buggy when she gets back.”

  “I saw her go past. Her and the Injun girl.”

  Shan rode homeward, feeling morose. He’d gotten two distinct impressions from his talk with O’Brien. One was about the Blessing cattle. Undoubtedly the O’Briens, doing extra riding like Ash had said, had come across some of the calves Shan had branded. The second impression he’d gotten had been when young O’Brien had mentioned seeing Sarahlee and Mary go past in the buggy. It wasn’t as easy to define as the other impression, hadn’t actually been anything more tangible than the look that had touched briefly on the cowboy’s face.

  He got down at the barn, off-saddled, and put up the horse. Maybe Ash had seen Mary up close; no one could deny she was pretty. He went to the cabin, poked up a fire in the stove, and put on the coffee pot. While waiting for it to boil, he drank a cup of whiskey. It made sweat burst out all over him. He stoked up his pipe and lit it, sat at the table with the door open, watching the sunlight dance over the barn like old brass.

  When Sarahlee and Mary got back, they had two sacks of flour and one of sugar in the back of the buggy. He carried them inside, put them down, and straightened up. Sarahlee was watching him.

  “The doctor said it’s true, Shan,” she said, and when he raised his arms, she moved swiftly sideways toward the curtained-off bed. “It’s sticky hot out. I’m going down to take a bath. You and Mary put the things away.”

  He watched her emerge from behind the curtain, go outside, down across the yard toward the spring house until she was cut off from sight.

  “Shan?”

  He turned, feeling a thousand years old, a thousand pounds heavy. Mary went up close, put her hands on his chest, and pressed them against him. He stared down at her for a moment, then caught her savagely and kissed her, ground his mouth over hers and felt the shattered burst of breath that was driven out of her. Then he pushed her away and started for the door.

  “I’m going down by the dead fall tree this afternoon.”

  The dead fall was a toppled pine that had been shriven by lightning generations gone. Its trunk was barkless, gray, and smooth to the touch. Around the dead fall was a patch of soft, fine grass that was still green from a tiny seepage spring hidden in the tangle of rotten old wood.

  He usually tied his horse in a gully that gaped fifty feet from the tree, but today he didn’t. The animal dragged its reins through the underbrush, seeking green shoots. Shan was sitting there with his hat far back, sprawled and listless, when Mary rode up.

  “I can’t stay long, Shan.”

  “I know,” he said roughly. “Get down. Come here.”

  Mary left her horse and it nosed over near Shan’s. She went over beside Shan and sank down in the coolness and shade. Her face was very grave. She did not look at him and her hands lay together in her lap. “This is no good, Shan,” she said, very low.

  “Don’t you think I know that,” he said bitterly. “It’s like water … when you start drinking, you can’t stop.” He put a heavy arm across her shoulders but made no other move. “I got a wife and I’ve got you.”

  “Trouble come someday, Shan. Trouble come and you be real mad at me.”

  He took his arm down, put his hand in her lap. She looked down at the thick fist, put a hand over it softly and closed her fingers. The contrast of rich golden color against his gray, rough skin was very noticeable. “Come over closer, Mary.”

  She did not move until he pulled at her. She kept her eyes away from his face.

  “Are you worried, Mary?”

  “Not worried, sad. She going to have a baby. No good, Shan.”

  “The baby’ll get whatever it needs. So’ll she and so’ll you. There’s nothing to worry about.” He didn’t believe it, but he wanted to. He’d take care of his child, sure; he’d also take care of Sarahlee and Mary.

  “There isn’t?” she asked, looking into his eyes for the first time. “You know there isn’t anything to worry about, Shan?”

  “Sure I know,” he said, and kissed her.

  For a while she look
ed at him very gravely, then she put her face against his chest and melted against him. Finally she looked up again and said: “It is like drinking watern. Get more, you want more. Too good, Shan, a big love too good. I love you. I told you that before. I don’t know what more to say. I love you.”

  He drew her closer.

  Over where the horses were there was movement. First one animal lifted its head, then the other one did. They stood like that, ears up, noses twitching, looking southward at a moving shadow. Shan and Mary did not notice them. Later the horses returned to grazing but every once in a while they would throw up their heads and stare far out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  An unexpected run of late summer calves just before haying time kept Shan busy for seven days, but when it was over, tired as he was, he felt good. He had not lost a calf that he knew of, nor a cow. For the most part there were no complications and that relieved him. Wherever he rode over his land, there were pairs, cows and calves. Some of the earlier calves were large now, shifting for themselves and gaining steadily. It required one full day to tally. Counting his split with Otto, there were over a hundred and sixty pairs. He rode with a deep-down smile that barely showed on his face. By next year at the same time he’d have some large animals to trail down and sell. In five years he’d have as many cattle as Otto had. He pocketed the tally sheet and sat his saddle with the contentment like wealth in his soul. He’d build onto the cabin, buy a brand new saddle, and maybe one of the short-running horses he’d heard the liveryman in Tico talking about.

  There’d be money. They’d go visit Sarahlee’s family, and he’d cut a swathe in Nebraska. When the shadows lengthened, he went home with a singing spirit. At the barn his smile drew down a little. For much of it he could thank the Blessings.

  The next morning Otto showed up with his team and wagon. It was time to start haying. Shan laughed aloud and said he’d hay the full length of Wyoming if Otto wanted to. Otto shook his head. Just the two ranches would be enough, he replied, and they went to work. The days spun out, grew shorter, and occasionally there would be a quick rush of cold wind down from the slopes with a scent and taste of snow fields to it. At night Shan would lie there, picturing sparkling new Red River wagons and brass-studded harness and new black hats and frilly dresses for Sarahlee, some close-fitting things for Mary. He’d build a separate cabin for Mary after the baby came; it would be better if she lived apart a little. Maybe he’d build it closer to the barn.