They went inside, and Bronco bought two cans of peaches. They opened the cans with their pocket knives, drank the juice, and speared the peaches with their knife blades and ate them. Then Bronco began asking about the country and the people who came past and the ranches to the east he’d heard about.
“Big outfits,” the man said. “Yonder is Sherman Valley. Bearpaw is on this side of the valley, and Rocking Chair is on the other side at the foot of Shadow Mountain. Funny thing. The Triangle R is east of Shadow Mountain, not more’n six or eight miles the way the crow flies, but damned if they don’t have to go fifty if they want to visit. You don’t climb Shadow Mountain less’n you’re a mountain goat.”
Bronco wiped the peach juice off his face with his sleeve. “Good grass there, I reckon, or those outfits wouldn’t be as big as you’re claiming they are.”
“Grass?” The man laughed. “Mister, the grass is so high they lose their cows in it. Fact.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I stay in this damned desert. Sometimes I ride over there just to look at a country that’s green grass and not gray green like it is here. This water hole’s gonna be worth a fortune someday, but I may die of old age before it is.”
The man scratched the back of his neck. “If I was a young feller like you boys, I’d have me a look over there. Them spreads can always use a couple of good buckaroos, if you’re looking for jobs.”
“Any little outfits?” Bronco asked.
“Sure. In the north end of the valley around the Army post. It’s next to the Blue Mountains where they can get timber for cabins. Game’s close. Good fishing they tell me in Doolin Creek. A lot of land just for the taking, or close to it. Swamp land, you know. A dollar and a quarter an acre to the state, and ten percent down. Not that it’s really swamp land, you understand, but that’s what they call it on the map, and the state’s glad to get the money without looking at every acre.”
Bronco acted as if he wasn’t listening, but Mark, watching, knew he was. Bronco hadn’t been sure what he was looking for, but he recognized it when he heard about it.
“Reckon we’ll camp here tonight,” Bronco said.
“Sure,” the man said. “Two bits apiece for your horses. Water’s free to people.”
“Now that’s generous as hell,” Bronco said. “You mean folks pay you for water?”
“You’re damned right,” the man said. “Better’n riding another fifty miles, ain’t it?”
Bronco paid him and walked out. That night he shaved for the first time in weeks. By way of explanation, he said: “Time I was getting the wolf look off my mug. In the morning we’ll buy a couple of new shirts.”
That, Mark thought, was Bronco’s way of telling him the days of aimless riding were over.
Chapter Five
At noon the next day they stopped on the west rim of Sherman Valley. For a long time Bronco Curtis stood looking down into the valley as if he could not fill himself with the sight of it. For Mark, too, it was an impressive sight, utterly unlike the barren country through which they had been traveling.
A series of long, pine-covered ridges to the north would be the Blue Mountains, Mark thought, but he didn’t know the name of the brown hills to the east, which tipped up to a high peak farther south. Mark remembered that the man at the water hole had mentioned Shadow Mountain.
From where Mark stood he could not see any ridges or rims marking the south end of the valley, but it was probably lost in distance. The west rim was a definite, meandering line, dropping one hundred feet or more from the sage-covered plateau to the almost level floor of the valley.
The lush green below them amazed Mark more than anything else. There was considerable sage, particularly around the edges where the land was rocky and dry. A few junipers, some patches of greasewood, and in the middle of the valley Mark could see two lakes, one probably draining into the other, which apparently had no outlet.
A twisting line of willows marked a creek that brawled down out of the Blue Mountains to take its meandering course across the valley to the first lake. The lower end of the creek and the area around the lakes seemed to be a vast swamp covered by cat-tails and tulles, but the great bulk of the valley, particularly the northern part on both sides of the creek, was covered by grass.
“By God,” Bronco said in awe. “The old gent at the water hole was right when he said this was green-green. A cow heaven if I ever seen one. Even that swamp part wouldn’t be so bad. Them tulles would give protection in bad weather. It’s my guess a man wouldn’t have to feed much unless a winter was awful bad.”
“Ever been here before?” Mark asked.
“No, but I’ve heard about all this country,” Bronco answered. “The stream’s Doolin Creek. Goes into Paiute Lake and then drains into Sherman Lake. That bunch of buildings you see yonder.” He pointed to where the creek broke out of the Blue Mountains. “That’s Camp Sherman.” He jammed his hands deep into his pants pockets. “Mark, there’ll be a town down there in the valley someday and fifty ranches where there’s one now. But there’ll always be more cows than people.”
“This what you’re looking for?”
Bronco took his time answering. He teetered back and forth on his tall heels, then said: “No. Too much of it. If a man had a big herd and could hire a crew to fight and hold a chunk of the grass, he could make it stick. From what I’ve heard, there’s just two big outfits in the valley. You can’t see either one of ’em from here, but Rocking Chair must be over yonder at the foot of Shadow Mountain, and Bearpaw’s probably straight south from where we’re standing. There’s sure a hell of a lot more grass in the valley than them two spreads need, but if you ’n’ me moved in with a shirt tailful of cows, we’d get shot right between the eyes.”
Bronco turned to his horse. “Let’s ride. If we keep looking, we’ll find something our size.”
He mounted and took the road, which dropped to the valley through a break in the rimrock. Mark, catching up with him when they reached the bottom, glanced at Bronco’s face, more alive and eager than he had ever seen it.
Bronco was envious of the men who owned Rocking Chair and Bearpaw, Mark thought, probably wishing he had come to Sherman Valley five years ago with a herd of California cattle and a crew and claimed the grass as they had done. Bronco was tough and practical, but he had his dreams, too, and Mark would have given odds that within five years he’d turn some of his dreams into reality.
They rode in silence, Bronco taking in every detail of the scene before him. One thing he had said back up on the rim stayed in Mark’s mind. “If you ’n’ me moved in with a shirt tailful of cows, we’d get shot right between the eyes.” You ’n’ me. He had never said it quite that way before.
Mark had assumed that sooner or later Bronco would get tired of doing what he had once called “nursing a wet-nosed kid.” Mark had been afraid to look forward to the time when Bronco would tell him they were finished, as he had told Red Malone back there in Prineville, afraid to think what he would do then.
But Mark hadn’t worried about it. The summer had given him a confidence he had lacked. He knew he wouldn’t starve. Now he realized Bronco didn’t intend for them to break up, that he was including Mark in the dream that had been taking shape through all these weeks.
At first Mark was relieved. Bronco would look out for him through the winter just as he had all summer. Bronco had said it as if there was no doubt in his mind about Mark’s staying with him, as if theirs was a partnership that would go on indefinitely. Then he began asking himself why, and he could not think of an answer that made sense.
Bronco was by nature a lone wolf, and Mark had no illusions about any affection that the man had for him. Friendship, perhaps, but one which could continue only on the basis that it had in the past, with Bronco giving the orders and Mark accepting them without argument. Mark was surprised at the sudden rebellion that took possession of him, and the resentment that it created. He had no right to feel that way, and he was ashamed of it.
/> He owed Bronco plenty, including his life in Prineville, when Red Malone would have killed him. Maybe it was a simple matter of working for Bronco, of having a job and a place to live and something to eat, and then, thinking of it that way, he got over the resentment. At least he would stay with Bronco through the winter.
They left the road where it turned north toward Camp Sherman; splashed across Doolin Creek, a languid stream that hardly seemed to move over the muddy bottom; rammed their way through the willow jungle on the east side; and came out on the grass. They angled northeast, and late in the afternoon they reached the road. They were in the sagebrush again, the steep, brown hills directly in front of them.
Bronco had given no hint of where he was headed, and Mark, with the sun resting atop the rim behind them, began to wonder. He asked: “Are we going to Idaho?”
An unexpected grin eased the severity of expression on Bronco’s dark face. “I reckon we would if we kept going.” He nodded at a set of buildings north of the road. “Maybe they’ve got supper on the stove. Let’s find out.”
They left the road to follow the wheel ruts that led to the ranch, climbing now, for the buildings were set on a bench beside a small stream, the hills rising directly behind the ranch. A dozen pines were scattered on both sides of the creek, two of them in front of the house and close enough to shade it through most of the day.
It was a pleasant place, clean and orderly, and Mark, glancing at the outbuildings and corrals, had a feeling that people lived here because they liked it and not because they had become so tired they couldn’t keep going, which seemed to be true of many greasy-sack spreads he had seen during the summer. This was a ranch site a man would pick because he was the first one here and so had his choice.
Suddenly a wild and unreasoning fear possessed Mark. Bronco might decide this was the place he wanted, and, if he did, he’d get it, one way or the other. Mark had never forgotten what Bronco had said that night when they were camped on Crooked River. “I’m a getting man. When I see what I want, I’ll take it.” Since then nothing had happened to make Mark think he hadn’t meant what he’d said.
The barn and the outbuildings were made of lumber, but the house was log, tall and square and well-built. Grass ran up to the front door. Here there was no white-crusted bare spot where the wash water was thrown. Instead, there was a row of red geraniums set close to the house and a climber rose at the corner, which had probably been given life through the summer by the rinse water.
A man had been washing on the back porch. Now he walked toward Bronco and Mark, who had reined up in front of the house, his hair damp and carefully combed in a high roach above his forehead. He said—“Good evening.”—in a neutral voice, his gaze switching from Bronco to Mark and back again.
Bronco said—“Howdy.”—and Mark nodded. Both waited for the man to make up his mind, Mark thinking it was a good thing they had bought new shirts and Bronco had shaved last night.
The man was thirty-five or more, Mark guessed, quite tall and slightly stooped and smooth-shaven, a spare, gray man who wore steel-rimmed spectacles. He was no fire-eater, Mark thought, and was vaguely disappointed. To him this fellow looked more like a Willamette Valley farmer than an eastern Oregon rancher.
“Light and rest your saddles,” the man said after he had given them a careful scrutiny. “I’ll have my daughter fry some extra meat. We’re having antelope steak.”
“Thank you kindly,” Bronco said, and turned toward the corral, Mark following.
When they returned to the house, the man met them and held out his hand. “I’m Herb Jackson,” he said. “This is the Circle J.”
“Bronco Curtis,” Bronco said as he shook hands. “My partner, Mark Kelton.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Jackson said, giving Mark’s hand a firm shake, his gaze so direct it was embarrassing. Then he motioned toward the pump. “Wash up if you care to. I’ll go in and give my daughter a hand.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. Bronco pumped a wash pan of water, scrubbed briskly, and dried. As Mark washed, Bronco said: “We’re getting close. Real close.”
Mark dried, thinking he had been afraid of this very thing. Bronco had neither the patience nor the vision to build something from scratch. Instead, he would take what another man had built and go on from there.
Mark walked to the corner of the house and looked out toward the valley. Dark shadow covered the western half of the valley, the sun still sharp and bright on the eastern hills.
Jackson didn’t wear a gun. He didn’t look the least part of a fighting man. The question that had been half formulated in Mark’s mind earlier in the afternoon now began to nag him. What would he do if Bronco tried to coerce Jackson into selling?
Mark would profit if Bronco succeeded. He was Bronco’s partner. He’d have a place to live, a place to work, a roof over his head and a good tight one, too, by the look of the outside of the house. Then another question hit Mark. What chance would he, an eighteen-year-old boy, have against a tough hand like Bronco Curtis? None. It would be like stepping on a fat ant.
Jackson called from the door: “Come and get it!”
Mark followed Bronco into the house. Jackson introduced them to his daughter Ruth. She was probably seventeen, Mark guessed, a pretty girl with blue-black hair, dark brown eyes set in an oval face, and an impertinent nose. When she gave Mark her small brown hand, her grip was as firm as her father’s, her gaze as direct. She was suspicious of them, Mark thought, but she wasn’t afraid, and it struck him that he had no cause to worry about the Jacksons. It would not be easy to take anything from them they didn’t want to give.
Jackson led the way to the table that was set for four. As Mark sat down, he was haunted by a feeling that this kitchen was little different from what his mother’s had been in the Willamette Valley: white curtains at the two windows, the big range, the pantry door, which was open, the cherry-wood sideboard set against the opposite wall with a number of colored dishes placed upright against the back.
As Mark pulled up his chair, Jackson bowed his head. He said: “We thank Thee, Lord, for this day and for this food and for the bountiful blessings Thou hast bestowed upon us. Amen.”
Mark had to turn his face to hide a grin. Bronco had started to reach for the platter of meat when Jackson began the blessing. He had been shocked into immobility, his hand suspended in mid-air. Now he withdrew it, his face turning brick-red. It was probably the first time he had ever sat down at a table where someone said a blessing.
“Help yourself to the meat, Mister Curtis,” Jackson said. “There is one good thing about this country. We have ample game. Antelope. Deer. Sage hen. Ducks and geese in season.” He nodded at Ruth. “With a good cook it’s manna in the wilderness.”
Ruth blushed and looked away, embarrassed. Bronco needed no more urging. He helped himself liberally and began eating in his usual noisy fashion. Mark covertly watched Ruth. He had gone to school with girls his age and played with them, but that seemed a long time ago. He had seen few women during the summer, and no girls at all except the little ones with pigtails who hid behind their mothers’ skirts.
It was a pleasure to sit and look at Ruth. If she was aware of his scrutiny, she ignored it. Her front teeth were small and white, her cheek bones were rather high, her lips long and full. The skin of her face, deeply tanned, had a fine texture.
She could ride well, Mark guessed, and probably helped her father with the cattle. She was still a girl, her breasts quite small under the blouse of her calico dress, but in time she would be a fine-looking woman, Mark thought, and was a little surprised at the line his thinking took.
When Bronco finished eating, he sat back and belched as usual, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Me and Mark here are looking for a place to settle down,” he said. “Anything for sale hereabouts?”
Jackson nodded. “A man named Orry Andrews owns the Cross Seven on the other side of the Paradise Hills. It’s in Ten Mile Valley, good grass and
plenty of hay land. The winters are more severe there than here, but not too cold.”
“We’ll have a look in the morning,” Bronco said.
“You might find a place for sale in Sherman Valley,” Jackson said. “A few people are talking about moving, with the Indians as uneasy as they are. Personally I don’t think we have anything to worry about with the military here, although I have to admit they don’t keep enough soldiers at Camp Sherman to do any good if there was an uprising.”
“Some folks scare easy,” Bronco said.
“That’s true,” Jackson agreed. “If you decide to look around in Sherman Valley, I have one piece of advice. Stay in the north. There are two big ranches that claim most of the grass, Rocking Chair and Bearpaw. Dave Nolan owns Rocking Chair. Bearpaw belongs to Matt Ardell. The two men are entirely different, but alike in the sense that they act as if the Lord gave them the earth and all that is upon it.”
The bitterness in his voice amused Bronco. He said: “Well, one way to beat a big man is to be bigger.” He rose. “I think we’ll roll in. We’ve come a ways today.”
“Have breakfast with us in the morning,” Jackson said.
“Be glad to,” Bronco said, and left the house.
Mark paused beside Ruth’s chair. He said: “Thank you for the meal.”
She glanced at him shyly. “You’re welcome,” she said, and looked away again.
When Mark was outside, Bronco said: “She’s a right purty heifer. I reckon she’s worth your staying around here for.”
Mark glanced at him, embarrassed, not sure how Bronco meant it, but the big man was looking straight ahead, his mind on other things. Then Mark, his thoughts turning to Ruth again, knew that he did want to stay here, wanted to more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
Ten Mile Valley Page 4