Courting Carrie in Wonderland

by Carla Kelly

  “Let’s get one thing straight, troopers,” he said, returning to the porch after he had removed Xerxes’s saddle and bridle, hobbled him, and left him happy in belly-high grass. “I still look out for you and I suppose in formal settings I should be Sergeant Major. My job has changed, but let’s understand one thing: at times like this, I’m Sarge.”

  He watched them relax. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how this works,” Ramsay continued. “I’m the odd man out and I showed up without any warning. Unless something has changed in the year and a half some of us were overseas, that means I do the dishes tonight, doesn’t it?”

  The men laughed. Ramsay knew he was home again when the corporal handed him a fishing pole and pointed toward the fast-moving river. “Sarge, try that spot behind the log where it’s running quieter. We’ve already caught dinner, but we’ll wait.”

  “If you don’t take too long, Sarge,” someone said and the men laughed again.

  He took the pole with a smile of his own and a private handed him a glop of something stinky from the bait can by the front door. He walked downstream to the well-remembered spot. Four casts landed him a cutthroat trout and then another. The tree stump close to the bank still served as the clean and filet station. He tossed the head closer to the bank, knowing the bears would appreciate it. The scales left his fingers iridescent.

  They dined in high style at the table in the great room on trout and crisp slices of potato well-salted and drenched in ketchup. Someone opened a can of peaches and they took turns spearing the soft goodness until nothing was left but peach juice. In time-honored fashion, the corporal silently chose a number. Everyone wrote down a number and put it facedown on the table. The corporal called out the number, and Private Costello was closest. He drank the juice from the can and everyone sat back, satisfied.

  They talked of the coming tourist invasion, road and bridge-building, and when the paymaster could be expected. Content to listen, Ramsay sat back and felt his shoulders relax and his eyes grow heavy. Someone speculated about how pretty the Wylie Camping Company girls might be this season, and Ramsay smiled inside, thinking of Carrie McKay, who cared about bears and made pie.

  “Sarge?”

  “H’mm? What?” he asked, surprised out of his reverie.

  “What do you think?”

  About what? Somewhere in contemplating Carrie’s childlike round eyes he must have missed the ebb and flow of conversation around him. He yawned. “I’m old. Tell me again.”

  Polite laughter. “Think we’ll be called back to the Philippines anytime soon?” the corporal asked.

  Great gobs of monkey meat I hope not, Ramsay thought. The jungle seemed as far away as another planet, sitting there as they were in front of a massive fireplace nearly as noisy as Roaring Mountain.

  “I doubt it,” he said, but how did he know? Somehow the high command in Washington, D.C., made its decisions without his suggestions. It was enough to be back in Yellowstone, warm and well-fed and trying to figure out a strategic move that would land him in Carrie McKay’s orbit again.

  As he looked around, he could tell the men wanted more of an answer. “Two more years here,” he said, basing that on nothing except his own wishes.

  He must have said it with some conviction because most of the men nodded. He looked at the corporal, who had returned with him in November from that former Spanish possession in the Pacific Ocean, and saw the same wariness in his eyes that Ramsay saw when he looked in a mirror. The two privates hadn’t been to war yet.

  “Two years at least, Corporal,” he said. “I’d like to think we did our job.”

  “We did, Sarge, but who listens to us?” the corporal asked.

  Who indeed? One of the privates stretched and stood up. Ramsay remembered Xerxes hobbled out front and rose too. He stopped at the door, remembering what he wanted to ask all the soldiers he saw on this ride-about of his through Yellowstone.

  “Men, think about this and let me know before I ride out tomorrow: would you like to learn enough about the geyser basin here to give our visitors good information, if they asked?”

  “You mean not feed them some tall tale, Sarge?” one of the privates asked.

  “Exactly. We’re in a unique position to provide some education, in addition to following orders of a more military nature.”

  Ramsay looked around at his little audience, seeing skepticism on one face, but interest on two others. That was about the ratio he expected. “Share your ideas with me tomorrow,” he concluded. “I have better things to do right now.”

  “Sarge, are you heading to Norris’s chief reason for existence?” the corporal asked with a smile.

  “Besides protecting wildlife and natural phenomena? Are roses red?” Ramsay replied. “After I see to Xerxes, of course.”

  “Of course. Remember the rule, Sarge.”

  He waved a hand and walked onto the porch, looking for Xerxes. He removed the hobbles and led his horse to the stables, staying there a moment to make sure the men were taking adequate care of their mounts. All was well. He knew the corporal understood the equine business better than most.

  And now for something he had been waiting to do for eighteen months at least. Ramsay pulled a towel, washrag, and soap from his saddlebag and headed for the wooden shack down by the Gibbon. Now and then a June rise would carry off the structure, but someone at the Norris Station always replaced it.

  He opened the door and breathed in the rotten egg odor he took for granted. His towel went on its handy nail. Sure enough, there was a box of matches by the kerosene lamp, primed and ready.

  He shucked his clothes and looked in appreciation at the handiwork of some enlisted man in distant days who must have been a mason in a previous career, or more likely an enterprising thief. Whoever that person was, he had lined a portion of the dugout bank with bricks probably brought down from Bozeman, maybe a few at a time, perhaps carefully swiped from some brick yard and stuffed in saddle bags. It was hard to say about some soldiers, but no one who ever used the Norris bathhouse ever questioned the matter, not even the officers.

  As he settled himself onto the brick shelf, he sank back with a sigh into a judicious natural mixture of water from some little hot spring as it meandered into the Gibbon. Mammoth had a so-so bathhouse open to visitors, but the degree of hot to cold at the Norris’s brick-lined soak apparently could not be duplicated anywhere else in the park. It was perfect.

  Amply informed about their bathhouse, the troopers had dictated that no one could soak longer than twenty minutes at a time. Staying in much longer could make even the toughest soldier lightheaded.

  After a lengthy soak, in which whatever cares he hauled around took a distinct back seat in his brain, Ramsay soaped himself and washed. The soapy water flowed away down the river, taking with it another layer of guerilla warfare in the Luzon Peninsula. “Take it all, river,” he said out loud. “I sure don’t want it.”

  Somehow, another much more pleasant layer seemed to attach itself to his bare skin, one that involved blue eyes and a cheerful face. There was apple pie and whipped cream jumbled into the mix, and a bucket of water for Xerxes. It all began to swirl together like the hot spring water meeting the cold river, which suggested he was getting lightheaded.

  It was too soon to feel dizzy from the heat. He smiled to think of how thoroughly he had trashed every bit of good advice in the etiquette book. Maybe some things were just meant to happen, polite manners or not. Maybe the wheel was finally turning in his favor. Or maybe he was a bit dizzy from the heat. That was the more logical explanation for his dreamy kaleidoscope.

  Getting out was nearly as much fun as getting in. He stood up and moved more into the stream of the river, letting the cold smack his body until he felt invigorated and ready to slay dragons, should any appear in this district.

  He toweled off, pulled on his smallclothes and carried his uniform back to the station. The great room was dark now. Even if it hadn’t been, there wasn’t anyone who would
be shocked by his less-than-soldierly appearance. He couldn’t be so casual in a week, when tourist traffic ran past the station until nightfall. Right now, it didn’t matter.

  Back inside the cabin, he prepared to spread his bedroll on the floor in front of the fireplace when the corporal stepped out of his own room and pointed to the empty officer’s room. “You’re entitled, Sarge,” he said.

  “Not really,” Ramsay said.

  The corporal nodded. He leaned against the doorframe of his room. “Sergeant Major, if you don’t mind the observation, you’re neither fish nor fowl now, are you?”

  “I’ve been thinking that same thing, Corporal,” Ramsay said, appreciating the man’s frank observation.

  “How do you like it?”

  “Ask me in a year.”

  The corporal said goodnight and went into his room. Ramsay started to shake out his bedroll onto the floor, but then changed his mind. “Since I’m neither fish nor fowl,” he said and opened the door to the officer’s room. He took the mattress from the empty bed into the great room and plopped it on the floor. His blankets and pillow went down next. He stretched out and sighed with pleasure. Perfect.

  He thought through the day, starting with Sam Deer Nose, moving to Carrie McKay and her apple pie, and finishing with trout for dinner, hot-potting, and now a comfortable bed. As his eyes closed, he made a mental note to visit Jack Strong soon at his ranch in Paradise Valley, per Major Pitcher’s orders, but also for his own pleasure.

  He thought about Carrie again, touched by her unabashed interest in what he was doing in the park, and interested in her easy camaraderie with Mr. Wylie, who had suggested he, Sergeant Major Stiles, find out more about her by stopping now and then. Why would Mr. Wylie do that?

  He turned on his side and tugged up his blanket. He drifted toward sleep, thinking how much he would like to twine one of Carrie’s curls around his finger. Such a bold act would earn him a slap in the chops, which made him decide to do no such thing. She was just a kid, anyway. Probably had her eye on one of the college men, some pup more her age, whatever that was. Someone as pretty as Carrie would never want for stalwart company.

  All the same, Carrie McKay wasn’t that easy to dismiss. He thought about small talk that might engage her interest but discarded that avenue. He already knew she wasn’t a trivial sort of woman, not someone who cared about bears and didn’t mind admitting it.

  He tried to think of a way to spend some time in Carrie’s vicinity this summer. Nothing came to mind, but that didn’t mean a man couldn’t dream. An hour later, he was still staring at the beams overhead, almost wishing one would drop down, conk him on the head, and send him into unconsciousness, if not slumber.

  Supremely dissatisfied with himself, Ramsay got up and opened the front door. He leaned his elbows on the railing and stared at the Gibbon River whispering along. He heard coyotes tuning up in the meadow, their series of yips and barks so different from the howl of a lone wolf.

  The corporal’s observation of his neither fish nor fowl status made him pause and consider. Lone wolves didn’t belong in anyone’s pack. They hunted in solitary, traveled by themselves, and eventually moved on to another valley, looking for something. When he was supposed to have been trapping and hunting them down, per government orders, Ramsay had observed lone wolves trying to work their way into an established pack. The result was usually a fight and a chase.

  I don’t want to be a lone wolf, he thought.

  Chapter Eight

  Carrie McKay turned over her pillow for the umpteenth time, searching for that elusive cool spot. She had reached that state of weariness after a long day cooking, cleaning, and scrubbing that usually ushered in a good night’s sleep.

  Usually. She flopped onto her back and stared up at the red and white striped ceiling. She decided to count the stripes and laughed at herself. She had learned in the hard school of life that it was better to make the most of small moments. Carrie felt herself relax as she reminded herself how nice it was to sleep in a room—well, a tent—all by herself, with no one snoring or chattering with a roommate.

  Any day now, there would be at least two other Wylie girls sharing Tent Twenty-Six for the summer. She hoped they would be congenial and pleasant, at least until Millie Thorne started gossiping and passing on unfounded rumors.

  She turned her head at the sound of laughter from the nearest tent, where two girls from the University of Washington had staked their claim.

  Two days ago and newly arrived herself, Carrie had gone to their tent to see if she could join them for the summer. She went no farther than the pathway because Millie Thorne, a fellow Montana Agricultural College student, had showed up first, making the third tentmate. After that, Carrie knew better than to suggest she make up the fourth. Sure as the world, Millie had already acquainted the U-Dub girls with Carrie McKay’s moral deficiencies as a human being. She could ask, but Millie would tell her nicely that a fourth girl from the University of Oregon was due any day now. So sorry.

  Better to back away without saying anything and pretend it didn’t matter. She could say she didn’t care what people thought of her, but Carrie McKay couldn’t fool herself; what’s more, she never tried to fool herself. She did care.

  It was also true she found it nice to lie in bed with no one else around, warm in her blankets, and stomach full. She finally allowed herself to sink into the mattress, mull over the day, and contemplate tomorrow. The cook had asked her after dinner tonight if she would clean out the dry goods storeroom, then whispered that Carrie could keep whatever crackers she wanted that were left over from the 1902 summer season and not too stale.

  “Only if you see a need,” Bonnie Boone had added. She understood, because Mr. Wylie must have told his Willow Park cook something about the little strawberry-blond who worked so hard.

  Carrie had thought she would not see the necessity of extra food this summer, but a girl had to be cautious. Maybe next summer she could go to bed without squirreling away a little something to eat. It never amounted to much: a heel of bread, a handful of oyster crackers—something easy to slip into her apron pocket and then put in the cubbyhole by her bed. Sometimes she ate it during the night, sometimes it was still there in the morning, which Carrie considered a modest victory. Right now, it gave her some peace to see food when she went to sleep, and when she woke.

  She couldn’t tell what the girls in the next tent were talking about, but since Millie had wormed her way into their twosome, it was only a matter of time before it became obvious in the way they treated her. Millie, I know you’re eager to tell them that my father was a drunk and deserted me and Mam, she thought, and then tell them Mam was an upstairs woman at the saloon. It’s not true, but that’s what you’ll pass on, because you’re spiteful.

  Papa was a drunk; that much was true. He left one night, saying vaguely that he was stepping out with the boys; she and Mam never saw him again. She was only twelve when he left, but the memory of the relief they both felt had never faded. Mam always saw the positive side of the worst events. “At least we don’t have to walk on eggshells when he’s drinking, or worry about a beating any more,” Mam had said.

  As for her mother, Mam worked hard in the kitchen of Bozeman’s Railroad Hotel, which did boast a stable of sporting women on the second floor. Mam cooked, cleaned, and scrubbed in the main floor café, and Carrie worked right beside her. As Mam grew more and more deaf, the result of one of Papa’s beatings, Carrie found herself speaking for both of them. They managed, but barely. School for Carrie was out of the question, so she didn’t complain.

  Two years of this, and then Mam took ill and died. The city of Bozeman buried her, but didn’t see the necessity of anything beyond a wooden marker with Mary McKay and date of death, written in grease pencil. Carrie touched it up every year and wished she could afford a proper headstone.

  Carrie lay there, wondering why she was reminding herself of those bad years. Usually she daydreamed herself to sleep, remembering
how Mam always sang to her before she drifted off to slumber. Now she mostly wished she could remember Mam’s voice.

  Carrie sang to herself then, keeping her voice low and singing partly under the blankets. Mam’s repertory hadn’t been huge, but there was a song for most moods. Since today had been a good day, she sang the chorus of “Love’s Old Sweet Song,” first in her mind, just to savor the words privately with Mam somehow, and then aloud.

  Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,

  And the flick’ring shadows softly come and go,

  Tho the heart be weary, sad the day and long,

  Still to us at twilight comes Love’s old song,

  Comes Love’s old sweet song.

  “That’s for you, Mam,” she said and closed her eyes, expecting sleep to come, as it usually did after her favorite ritual.

  Not tonight. She knew why and admitted it to herself because she had never learned how to gild a lily. “Mam, I really think Sergeant Major Stiles is a handsome man,” she said out loud, but soft. She liked that his hair color was the same as hers, even though his eyes were brown. She knew he must have trouble in the summer with sunburn, same as she did, and wondered if he used zinc oxide on his nose. Probably not; it wasn’t dignified, and he did look dignified.

  No horsewoman herself, she had long admired the posture of the cavalrymen who regularly patrolled the roads, geysers, and hot springs. Carrie wondered if Sergeant Major Stiles ever leaned back in a chair, and doubted it. From the deferential sound in Mr. Wylie’s voice, a sergeant major must be someone special. Maybe a man didn’t get to that rank if he slouched in his chair.

  He had been kind to rescue her from the backhouse, but she knew he had performed more notable tasks. After Sergeant Major Stiles left, Mr. Wylie told her about the article in the Bozeman paper last winter concerning the trooper earning a Medal of Honor in a terrible place. Carrie laughed to herself about her rescue from the privy by a medal winner. A person could be embarrassed by such a rescue, considering that real ladies probably pretended that they never ever even used a backhouse, or burped, or passed a little gas.