by Denise Dietz
Quivering with excitement, she entered Minta’s bedroom.
“Mercy! What’s scared you so?” Mama Min stood before her vanity mirror, crimping her hair with the curling iron. The ballerina atop the jewelry box turned round and round while sounds of a lullaby soothed its eternal pirouette. The room still smelled of spilled scent. Despite the rain, Mama Min had left a portion of the window open. Blue velvet drapes swayed in mild profusion.
“I told Cat I wasn’t scared of nothin’. The lady said I didn’t know what scared means.”
“What lady?”
“A pretty lady on a big horse.” With her fingertips, Flo pushed wet tangled curls away from her eyes. “I rode the horse.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” Minta walked over to an Italian straddle chair and bent forward. “Tie my strings, please. We’re to be extra busy this evening since Fanny’s in jail and Madam dismissed Swan.” Minta clutched at her mouth. “Open my trunk and find my bottle of Vin Vitae, Flo. Dang tooth! It hurts real bad, but I don’t cotton to see the barber and have him yank.”
“Will Dee’s gent be here tonight?”
“Which gent?”
Flo thought hard. Cat . . . McDonald.
“Mr. McDonald,” she said.
“What a mind you’ve got for recollecting. John McDonald usually joins us after you’re asleep ’cause he rides all the way from Divide. Dee says his wife wears a stinky hair shirt and prays all the time. Not that I’ve got anything against honest prayer, Flo. Your sweet mama oft quoted the good book. But I believe a willing body can melt the chill from a man’s bones better than a psalm.”
Flo placed the wine-of-life bottle on top of the vanity and pulled Mama Min’s corset strings tight. “The lady said I had good bones. I rode through the rain. The lady was pretty. The horse went fast.”
“That’s enough, Flo. Imagination’s nice but fibbing’s nasty.” Mama Min tied the ribbons on her petticoat and reached for an orange taffeta gown with flounced sleeves.
“I did ride. The lady had yella hair and sat a white horse funny and said her name was Sally.”
“Sally Marylander?”
“Uh-huh. Do you know her?”
“We’ve never met but I’ve heard Sally rides like a man. She gives us well-bred ladies a bad reputation, galloping through the streets with her skirts flying. I’ve heard she’s a Socialite.”
“What’s that?”
“Upper-class and snooty.”
“Like Mr. Snuffy?”
“No. Socialite men are more educated than our Snuffy. Richer, too. They throw parties at the drop of a hat. Your papa could have been a Socialite if he’d stuck around. Sally’s been courted by Socialite men. Heard she chose a confectioner who owns land near here.” Minta powdered her nose and dusted Flo’s face with the puff. “She’s even got a grave blasted out of the granite on Mt. Pisgah.”
“A grave? Oh, spit! Is Miss Sally gonna die?”
“The grave’s for her white stallion when he passes. Can you believe your ears, Flo? Most folks can’t afford markers. Your mama’s grave’s got nothing but a piece of weathered wood from an old buckboard.”
Flo had a sudden image of a buckboard. Perched on top was a green-eyed boy.
I’ll be like Miss Sally when I’m grown, she thought. I’ll have yella hair and ride with my legs spread. Just see if I don’t, Cat McDonald!
* * * * *
Huddled beneath blankets, surrounded by sacks of flour and sugar, cured ham and dried fruit, Cat McDonald crouched quietly.
“You hidin’, boy?” Cookie crawled inside the wagon. “I’d hate to be in your boots, Cat McDonald. Your daddy’s madder than a bangtailed mustang. He’s airin’ his lungs all through the house, cussin’ up a storm.”
Cat sneezed and watched the old man throw aside the blankets. “Howdy, Cookie.”
“Don’t howdy me, boy. Stomped the ranch far and wide ’fore I reckoned my wagon.”
Grabbing Cat by one ear, Cookie marched him across the yard, through the open door, down the hallway, into the dining room.
Papa paced from table to sideboard. Sipping from a cup of tea, Mama sat in her usual straight-backed chair. Six-year-old Lucas stuffed his mouth with Tonna’s biscuits. Five-year-old Daniel stared wide-eyed at Cat and Cookie. Dimity-Jane, just turned four, tried to control her tears.
“He was hidin’ inside the cook wagon, Mac,” Cookie said and left the room.
Cat’s ear felt hot like fire. He wanted to dip his head in cold water. Instead, he watched Papa unbuckle then unfurl a leather belt.
Rising from her chair, Mama dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin. A large silver crucifix on the end of a chain swung across the top buttons of her black dress.
“A beating won’t help,” Mama said to Papa. “The boy was born bad.”
“At least he was born.”
“Do you blame me for our latest loss? How dare you! The ranch is cursed.”
“Lucas, Daniel and Dimity-Jane were all born on my accursed ranch.”
“That’s because God rewarded my prayers.”
“Did you not pray for the other dead babies?”
“You know I did, but the ranch is bedeviled by a spirit who grows older and stronger.”
“Your devil spirit has blessed us with fat steers and a herd of palominos that rival any in the territory, and four children.” McDonald directed his gaze toward Cat. “Why’d you hide in the cook wagon, son?”
“I wanted to go with you on the drive, Papa.”
“You’re too young for a long cattle drive. Didn’t I say ‘no’ when you begged to come along?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“You disobeyed.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“How long were you planning to hide? The trail hands leave tomorrow at daybreak. Didn’t you think your mother would discover your absence?”
“No, Papa.”
“Are you ready for your whupping?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“You’re wasting time, John,” said Dimity. “Words don’t hurt. Wield the belt.”
“The woodshed, son.”
“Yes, Papa.” Cat turned to leave.
“Wait!” Dimity raised her hand. “I want to witness Cat’s punishment, John.”
“If you insist, my dear. Please send the other children from the room.”
“Why? They have done no wrong, and Lucas hasn’t finished his breakfast. I want you to hit Cat seven times, one for each year since his birth.”
“Cat’s insubordination wasn’t all that serious, Dimity. He didn’t lie or steal.”
“He disobeyed, John. That’s the same as telling a lie. Watch your papa, children, and learn what happens when evil conquers a person’s soul.”
McDonald sighed. “Bend over the sideboard, Cat.”
“Tell him to remove his trousers, John.”
“No, Dimity. In the woodshed he could lower his pants, but not in our dining room. You can’t have it both ways.”
“Very well. You may commence.”
McDonald hesitated.
“What are you waiting for, John? Are you too old? Is your arm too weak? Must I wield the strap myself?”
McDonald stared at his wife. If Dimity had one prevailing sin, it was her temper. He lashed three times.
“Look at your papa, children. Eheu fugaces labuntur anni. ‘Alas, the fleeting years slip by.’ Papa is like that old stallion we sent to pasture. His days of use were over. He couldn’t even be put to stud.”
“Dimity, control yourself!”
“Give me the strap, and I, a mere woman, will show you how to mete out punishment.”
This time, anger at her words nearly obscured McDonald’s vision. Yet his belt landed with accuracy on Cat’s bottom.
From the corner of his eye, Cat saw Mama rub the cross at her bosom.
Staring squinty-eyed at Papa, Lucas sucked a whole sausage into his mouth.
Daniel hid his eyes with his hands.
Dimity-Jane leapt to
her feet, sobbing so hard she could barely stand.
“At least your aim is true,” Mama said. “I’m pleased to see that one part of your body does not tire in its task.”
“I will be obeyed, I will have respect!” Papa shouted. “Do you hear me, Cat? Do you hear me, Dimity?”
Cat felt the pain, like a hundred bees stinging, pausing, then stinging again. He smelled the food on the sideboard, so close to his nose. Bread soaking in milk and cinnamon. Curdled eggs. A rash of bacon. Even though he wanted to sink to the floor, his fingers stubbornly clung to the edge of the sideboard.
Dimity-Jane hurled herself across the room, shielding him with her own body, glaring at her father without fear. “Hit me, Papa,” she hollered. “I told Cat to hide.”
“Did not,” Cat mumbled.
“Hit me, Papa.” Tears puddled beneath Dimity-Jane’s amber eyes, and her taffy-colored curls shook with the force of her plea.
Cat sneaked a peek at his papa, who just stood there, his arm in the air.
“Why do you stop?” Mama beat at her bosom with her fists. “You must whip away Cat’s evil, John. The boy will never repent if you tire.”
“The boy is seven years old.” Dropping the belt, Papa wiped his hands alongside his trousers. “Dimity-Jane, go upstairs and take your brothers with you.”
“I haven’t finished breakfast, Papa,” Lucas whined.
“Do you want my strap to find your backside, son?”
“Children, obey your papa, and forget Mama’s words about that silly old stallion. Evil makes Mama angry. Did you see how strong Papa looked? God gave him strength.”
Cat heard Papa whisper “God forgive me” as he pried Cat’s fingers from the sideboard and carried him toward the kitchen.
*****
Black Percy spent most of his time working with livestock, so he purely loved the smell of soap. Sniffing like a hound, he walked through the yard toward the kitchen. Then he hoisted a flour barrel onto Tonna’s wash bench. The upper half of the barrel had been sawed through and three holes on each side served as finger handles. “I caulked the cracks and filled her with water to swell the staves.” Percy’s voice was akin to a hound’s, deep-toned and sonorous. “Good a rinse tub as you’ll find anywhere ’cept heaven.”
“It will be handy for next wash day,” said Tonna.
“You’re done already?”
“All that’s left is one collar and the ticking.” She pointed toward the line, where newly washed articles were clothes-pinned in the progression of their cleansing: whites, coarse towels, flannels and woolies, calicoes. Grasping the lace collar, she rubbed it between her soapy fingers and held it out. “Would you hang this, please?”
“That’s a woman’s task.”
“And you are a man who cannot see the forest for the trees.”
“I see the forest but I look the other way.”
“Maybe I should wash your eyes and pin them up to dry, alongside the handkerchiefs and nightcaps.” She looked toward the strawberry patch where Cat lay on his belly. “It is fortunate Cat wore trousers. I have drawn the poison from his welts, but he will not sit his pony for some time to come.”
“He was wrong to disobey Mac’s orders.” Percy cupped his mouth with his hands. “Come here, boy.”
Rising, Cat walked painfully toward the wash bench.
Percy knelt on one knee. “Do you understand why your daddy whupped you?”
Cat nodded. “Mama don’t like me.”
“No, Cat, it’s because you hid inside Cookie’s wagon. I heard your daddy say you couldn’t go on the drive.”
“Papa says Lucas shouldn’t eat so much and he don’t stop and he don’t get whupped. Mama would faint if Luke got whupped.”
Percy placed a callused palm across Cat’s forehead. “He’s fevered, Tonna.”
“Bring him to the kitchen. There’s calf’s-foot broth simmering and I’ve prepared sage, burnet and sorrel.”
“Is Tonna riled, Black Percy?”
“Yep. But not at you, boy.”
Once again, Percy sniffed with delight. The kitchen smelled like the yard. On the floor set a barrel of grease and potash, with rain water added for the making of coarse soap. Draped over the table was the ticking of a feather bed, turned inside-out. Tonna had spread melted bar soap and bee’s wax in a thin layer, and this mixture held the feathers securely until the next wash.
Handing Cat the sorrel draught, Tonna watched him drink. Then she sank down onto a chair and pulled him into her lap.
Percy walked over to the stove and poured from a large enamel pot. “This here coffee is Tonna’s best recipe, Cat, better than calf’s-foot soup. She takes a pound of Arbuckles’ brand, adds water to wet it down, boils it for two hours, and throws in a horseshoe. If the shoe sinks, it ain’t ready.”
Trying to smile, Cat pressed his hot face against Tonna’s shoulder.
“Cat McDonald,” she crooned, “your mother is the mountain lion who runs free and your father is the Chinook wind. One starry night the wind swept down from the sky and mated with the lion. You are the result. Every time you feel the Chinook wind, know that your father whispers words of comfort. Do you understand?”
Cat nodded.
“Today you must obey orders. But your spirit is your own, and your spirit cannot be tamed. You must stand tall as the oak, my Cat, but sometimes you must bend like the willow—”
“He’s asleep, Tonna.”
“Good. Sleep is the best medicine. Are you man enough, my husband, to bring the clean clothes inside? I must press Dimity’s fine calicoes, ginghams and muslins. How I wish I could hot-press the hatred from her heart.”
Twelve
During the next three years, Percy showed Cat how to handle the wild broncs, the shabby range horses called broomtails, and the treacherous mustangs. He taught Cat how to hang off the side of his horse like the Comanche did in battle.
Cat learned how to braid ropes and halters from horsehair. He became adapt at throwing and tying a steer so that the hot branding iron could singe hide into the letters JMD, his father’s registered brand.
And he picked up the language of the hardened hands, drawing reprimands from his father and face slaps from Dimity.
One day Percy cornered him at the corral. “Listen, boy, a cowhand ain’t picking any grapes in the Lord’s vineyard, but neither is he trying to bust any Commandments with his cussin’. It just sits on his tongue as easy as a horsefly ridin’ a mule’s ear. Your daddy’s the boss and he don’t cuss for pleasure.”
“Why do I get the same feeling cussing as I do drinking Tonna’s coffee?”
“You’re growin’, boy. That’s how come a cuss and coffee taste the same. But cussin’ is wasted if it ain’t done right. Always remember not to use all your kindling to get a fire started. When you feel the urge to air your paunch, open up your mouth and let a song come out.”
“Singing’s for birds and ladies!”
“Listen to the hands round the campfire, then tell me again that singing’s for ladies. Stop your cussin’, Cat, and I’ll learn you the guitar.”
Soon Cat rode the range, strumming and singing at the top of his lungs.
*****
“Cat has a voice fit to rival the angels,” said John McDonald, staring at the new diptych atop his wife’s bureau. “He gets it from you, my dear. When you sing hymns the angels turn green with envy.”
“Please do not blaspheme.”
“Are you pregnant?” he asked bluntly, surprised by her reaction to his compliment.
“How could I be with child when you spend every night in Cripple Creek?”
“That can be easily remedied.” With a smile, he reached for her nightgown’s ribbons.
She slapped his hand away.
He turned on his heels and walked toward the door. “I’ll see you at breakfast,” he called over his shoulder.
Truth be told, he preferred Hummingbird Lou’s apple quince and Flo’s coffee, but Dimity demanded his prese
nce at what she called “the family collation.” Family mastication was more the case, McDonald thought, picturing his gluttonous son Lucas.
*****
Dimity’s “devil spirit” continued to bless the ranch, and John McDonald acquired expert wranglers so talented that, when competing in local rodeo contests, they invariably won all the prizes. The JMD boasted the number-one broncobuster and calf roper.
Black Percy was top bulldogger. He’d jump from his saddle onto the head of a racing steer, grab a horn in each hand, and twist until the steer’s nose came up. Grabbing the steer’s upper lip with his teeth, he’d throw his arms in the air to show he wasn’t holding anymore, then fall to one side, dragging the steer along with him until it went down.
It was bulldogging the way bulldogs did it.
Will Rogers visited the ranch and spent an afternoon with Cat, teaching him how to twirl a riata.
On Will Rogers’s recommendation, Black Percy was hired by the Colonel Zack Mulhall Wild West Show to perform his bulldogging trick during Mulhall’s Madison Square Garden engagement.
Confronting the McDonalds inside the parlor, Percy asked that Cat accompany him. “The boy can take care of my horse and equipment, Mac, and it’ll be good for him to see new places and meet others.”
“New York is a city of sin,” Dimity protested, “full of painted women.”
“There’s no more painted women in New York than in Cripple Creek,” said McDonald.
“Lucas—”
“Won’t curry or feed the horses. Lucas can only feed himself. Why do you hate our eldest son so?”
“I don’t hate him, John. How can a mother hate her own flesh and blood?”
“Then why do you malign Cat at every opportunity?”
Her pale-blue eyes flashed with anger. “How can you ask? Cat disobeys and he’s always ready with a cuss and he nearly brought Death knocking. I could have died with his birth.”
“But you didn’t. Why do you always babble about bad blood and the devil when you talk about Cat?”
She frowned, deepening the two lines between her nose and mouth. “I refuse to discuss this in front of a servant, John.”
“Percy isn’t a servant.” McDonald turned toward his friend. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Percival.”