by Lois Lenski
“It’s raining, Bones! Hear the rain, Bones?” she whispered to her brother. “I don’t guess you remember a good rain like this, do you, Bones?”
But Bones just kept on crying.
The rain would make the grass grow. It would settle the dust. Maybe Papa and Uncle Moe would not have to sell the cows now. They would turn around and go home in the morning. Rain would fill all the dirt tanks with water for the cows to drink. Rain, rain, beautiful rain!
Charlie could hear the men shouting now. The cattle were excited by the storm. The men were having a hard time to keep them quiet. Suddenly the wind came in a furious blast. It tore the wagon-sheet off the wagon and carried it away. Exposed now to the fury of the storm, Charlie pulled bedding over herself and Bones. Peeping out, she saw little points of lightning playing across the cows’ backs. The cows were afraid of lightning—they were milling, rushing about and bawling. The men could not hold them back.
Charlie knew it was a stampede. The cows were going now, in spite of all the men could do. As the lightning flashes lit up the pastures, she could see only a great emptiness. The girl’s heart sank, and her brief happiness left her. She had never been so near a stampede before, but she knew the full meaning of the word from tales she had heard. She knew only too well what a misfortune it was.
All she could do was sit in the wagon in the rain. She did not sleep, because all night long Bones kept on crying. The night seemed to have no end.
Morning came at last, and it was still raining. But there was Papa. The children were as glad to see him as he was to see them. All their troubles vanished. They could smile now, even though they were soaked to the skin.
“Where’s your slickers, kids?” laughed Papa.
“Who ever guessed it would RAIN?” cried Charlie.
“The rain’s too WET,” said Bones. He began to cough. “I don’t like it.”
“Put them kids on a horse and send ’em home,” called Uncle Moe. “You had no business bringin’ them along in the first place.”
“Charlie Boy, you’ll have to take Bones home,” said Papa.
“Are you turning back?” asked Charlie. “Taking the cows back home?”
“Why no,” her father replied. “We’re taking them to Mertzon to ship them to Kansas from there. Didn’t you know that?”
“I thought because of the rain…”
Dan Carter’s face turned serious. “The cattle stampeded last night.”
“Yes, I saw them,” said Charlie.
“You couldn’t sleep with rain in your face, I suppose,” said her father. “Well, the cattle have gone all over Watkins Brothers’ pastures, hon, and it will take us days to gather them. You take Bones and go on home.”
“Oh, but I want to help gather the cows,” begged Charlie.
“Gypsy’s too small for cow-work,” said Papa.
“Oh, but Papa…”
“This is a cold rain, hon,” said her father patiently. “Bones has started coughing, he’s taken cold. If he comes down sick, your mother will never forgive us.”
“That’s always the way!” stormed Charlie. “I’ve got to be a nursemaid and take old Baby Benoni home. Why can’t Gus do it and let me stay?”
“I’m short of cowboys, hon,” said her father.
Bones began to cry, then coughed again. Bones was never going to get tough enough for ranch life and Charlie knew it. She loved him dearly, and all at once she was sorry for what she had said. She put her arm around the boy and said, “All right, I’ll go.”
“You’ll have to go back through town, and keep to the roads,” said Papa. “Don’t try the pastures, there will be too much water in the creeks and draws. Better stop at Aunt Eleanor’s…”
“Oh no, Papa!” cried Charlie. “I don’t want to go there. Not in these old clothes.”
Dan Carter looked down at the children in their dirt-streaked, drenched shirts and pants. “You need slickers. It’s six miles to town from here, then seven miles on home.”
“Aunt Eleanor wouldn’t have any slickers, Papa.”
“No, that’s right,” said the man. “I’ll tell you what—go to Rob McKeever’s store and buy new Fisher slickers. Put them on and you can keep dry the rest of the way home. Hurry now, hon, and get started. Here’s a biscuit for each of you for your breakfast.” He tossed biscuits into their hands.
Gus brought Gypsy over to the wagon.
“I won’t ride horseback!” cried Bones. “I want to go home in the wagon.”
‘‘Now that’s no way for a cowboy to act!” laughed Gus.
“I’m not a cowboy! I won’t be a cowboy!” cried Bones.
“You can ride on my new saddle, Bones,” coaxed Charlie. “Look! Try it, see how comfortable it is. I’ll take you home to Mama if you’ll get up in the saddle. I’ll ride behind it and hold you.”
At last the forlorn little pair started off in the rain. About two hours later, they reached McKeever’s store in town. Charlie left Gypsy at the hitching rack, opened the door and went in.
“I’ll take some candy, please, sir,” she said.
The two old men, Rob and Terry McKeever looked at her in surprise. Terry handed her a stick of peppermint candy.
“I’d like some for my little brother, too, sir,” said Charlie. “He’s sitting on my saddle.” She pointed out the door to Gypsy.
“By george, these kids are wet!” said Rob. “That sure was a rain, and they’ve been out in it.”
“Papa told us to buy new Fisher slickers from you,” said Charlie. “We left our old ones at home.”
Terry stared down through his glasses. “Who’s your Papa? Ain’t you Mexican kids? You belong to some sheepherder goin’ through?”
“I’m Charlotte Carter and my brother’s Benoni Carter,” explained the girl. “We live at Triangle Ranch.”
“Dog-gone-me, if it ain’t Dan Carter’s kids!” cried Rob McKeever. “Last time this gal come in her nightgown. Never know what to expect.” He looked down at her. “Can’t I sell you a bathing suit? Bathing suits are for water.”
“We want yellow Fisher slickers and Papa said to charge ’em,” repeated Charlie. “One for me and one for my brother.”
“Bring him in and dry him off,” said Terry. “We’ll see what we got.”
Bedraggled little Bones came shyly in and stood by the fire. He smiled a little as he sucked his peppermint stick, and he coughed a good deal. The two storekeepers hunted, but could not find any slickers.
“It’s been dry so many years now,” said Rob. “I don’t guess I reordered.”
“Nobody buys slickers in a drouth,” said Terry.
Charlie and Bones sat down by the stove. Terry kept on giving them sticks of candy to eat. Several men from town dropped in to talk about the storm. The atmosphere was friendly and congenial, so Charlie talked. She told about the stampede, then about Gypsy and the ride to the store. Next she told about her new saddle and that led to Homer and the loping. She had said she would tell the whole world, and this was her chance.
“ ‘Hold on, Homer, I’m gonna lope!’ ” The men repeated the words after her and laughed. “Wait till I see Homer!” “Old Homer will never live this down!” “And his Pa an old trail-driver, too!” The men enjoyed the joke hugely.
“We have to go home now,” said Charlie, taking her brother’s hand.
Rob McKeever gave them some old coats to wear, and the children rode away on the horse. They had not gone far before Charlie noticed that it had stopped raining, and the sky looked brighter. A mile west of town she saw that the ditch at the side of the road was no longer full of water. Soon the road itself was a path of dust. Lazy D, Sam Reed’s ranch, had had no rain at all.
“Look, Bones, it’s dry here,” said Charlie. “It hasn’t rained a drop. The drouth’s not over, after all.”
“Why not?” asked Bones.
“That was just one of those flash storms,” said Charlie, “just over east of town. They hit in certain places. Maybe one will hit a
t home tomorrow.”
“Oh no!” cried Bones. “I don’t like storms. I don’t want one to hit me.”
“Maybe we’ll get a nice gentle rain—for you, Bones,” said Charlie.
After the thirteen-mile ride, the children reached home at last. Ringo met them, barking a noisy greeting. Charlie looked around and saw that nothing was changed. There had been no rain. The lots around the barn were three inches deep in dust from the roundup.
“What’s the matter? What happened?” Mrs. Carter came running out of the house, filled with alarm. “Where’s the wagon? Why are you back?”
“Had to bring old Benoni home!” growled Charlie. “Had to miss the drive to Mertzon. I only went as far as Watkins Brothers’ pasture.”
“But your father promised me Benoni was to stay in the wagon,” said Mrs. Carter.
“It was wetter in the wagon than anywhere else,” said Charlie, “after the wagon-sheet blew off in the rain. The men took the wagon to Mertzon.”
“Did you say it rained?” asked Grace.
“It rained, it stormed, it lightninged, it thundered!” cried Charlie. “Why can’t you believe me?”
“Well, there wasn’t a drop here,” said Grace. “If I ever saw a blade of grass again, I’d walk around it. I’d feel like planting it in a pot and nursing it. Where did you get those old coats?”
Charlie told the rest of the story while Mrs. Carter put Bones to bed and began to doctor his cold. “Charlotte, you’d better come to bed too.”
Charlie hurried out the back door. “Bed? Bah! I got to take care of Gypsy.” She put the horse in the barn, fed and watered her, and covered her with a blanket. Then she brought the saddle into the house. It was thoroughly soaked. She hoped the rain had not hurt it. Grace was cleaning out the room that was going to be a bathroom.
“You can’t bring that wet old saddle in here,” she said.
“No, Charlotte,” said Mama firmly. “Take it back to the saddle room in the barn.”
“But it’s wet. It’s soaked—it got rained on,” said Charlie.
“Take it to the barn and keep it there from now on,” said Mrs. Carter. “I don’t want it in the house any more.”
There was nothing to do but take it back. When Papa was away, Charlie had to mind her mother. So back the saddle went to the barn.
That evening Bones woke from his sleep and Mama let him get up. Charlie took him out to see the new calves. In the water lot by the barn, they met Homer Barton. It was the first time Charlie had seen him since the loping incident. Uncle Moe must have sent him to look after the stock while the other men were away on the cattle drive.
“You’re fired, drugstore cowboy,” said Charlie. “What you doin’ here?”
“I’m takin’ orders from your father, not from you,” said Homer angrily.
“Just wait, you’ll get a can tied on you yet,” said Charlie.
Homer gave her a black look and Charlie shivered. She wished he had not come back. She did not want him around, for fear he would try to pay her back. She knew he would do something, but little did she dream how deeply he could hurt her.
“Let’s go see our new calves, Bones,” she said.
“I don’t want any old calves,” said Bones. “What will I do with them?”
“Feed them and take care of them,” said Charlie. “Grace is going to take care of hers. I’ve got six now, you have three and Grace three.”
“How do I know which ones are mine?” asked Bones. “They all look alike to me.”
In the water lot, besides Charlie’s dogies, were nine young calves, recently separated from their mothers. They were spring calves, still small, red and white Herefords. The children climbed upon the fence.
“You’ll soon get to know them,” said Charlie. “You have to name them. That one with the red spot on her face that looks like a tomato…”
“I’ll name her Tomato,” laughed Bones.
“And that pretty little one, her hair’s so curly…”
“I’ll name her Curly,” said Bones.
“And that one with the big red spots.”
“I’ll name her Spotty.”
“Now you know them—Tomato, Curly and Spotty,” said Charlie. “What are you naming yours, Grace?” She turned to her sister who had come out.
“I like pretty names,” said Grace. “Mine are Marguerite, Lucille and Isabel.”
“What do I want calves for?” questioned Bones.
“Well, when they get big, you sell them and get the money…or, you butcher them and eat them…” said Charlie.
Bones shivered. “You gonna eat Snowball?”
“Of course not,” said Charlie.
“Then I won’t eat my calves either.” The small boy shook his head. “I still don’t know why Papa gave me his little old calves.”
Charlie looked at Bones and felt hopeless. He had no feeling for the ranch at all. She could not understand it.
“I don’t know either,” she said.
The reason was an important one, but it was a long time before Charlie and Bones found it out.
CHAPTER VIII
A Calico Dress
THE DAY STARTED BADLY for Charlie.
Breakfast was nearly over when she got up. Grace teased her and said she had stepped out of bed on the wrong foot. On her way out the back door, she stumbled over a stick of firewood and stubbed her big toe. Ringo came and licked it. She went on out to feed her calves.
When she returned to the house and sat down at the table, her face was white and she refused to eat.
“What’s the matter, hon?” asked Papa.
Ever since he and the cowboys had returned from the cattle drive, Charlie had been angry. When Bud and Gus told stories of their adventures during and after the stampede, the girl fumed. She was angry because she had missed all the fun.
“Is Homer coming today?” she asked.
“No,” said her father. “Come on out and ride pasture with me, hon. That will make you forget your troubles.”
“Won’t never ride again!” said Charlie emphatically.
“Oh, come, now,” laughed Bud. “Nobody could keep you off that little ole horse of your’n, unless they roped and tied you.”
“I mean it,” repeated the girl. “My saddle’s ruined.”
“What did you say?” asked Dan Carter. “A little rain don’t hurt a saddle.”
“It’s not the rain, it’s Homer! Just wait till I catch that mean old Homer. Homer did it.”
“Did what, sugar?” asked Papa.
“Come and I’ll show you,” said Charlie.
She ran to the saddle room in the barn, and her father and the cowboys followed. At the sight of her saddle, resting on the saw-horse, she pressed her lips together. Hatred like a black cloud, engulfed her. She pointed. The saddle strings were gone.
“They’ve been cut off—with a sharp knife!” gasped Charlie.
“Them soft lace leather strings are mighty useful,” drawled Bud Whitaker. “Good for lacin’ saddle girths, lengthenin’ stirrups and a hundred other things.”
But Charlie could not be reasonable. “Where’s Homer? Just wait till I catch that mean old sneak.”
“Good thing Homer’s not here today,” laughed Gus.
“You’ll fire him, Papa, won’t you?” cried the girl.
“Of course not,” said her father. “There’s no proof that Homer did it. Besides, Moe and I need him for extra help. Give Homer a little time and he’ll be as good a cowpuncher as his father.” He started for the pasture. “Come on, if you’re coming with us.”
“I can’t ride,” she answered. “I can’t never ride again.”
It was not often that Charlie was angry with her father. She slumped on a pile of hay in the feed room, but did not cry. She stayed there until the men were out of sight. She could never ride again. She could not bear to touch the disfigured saddle. All her pleasure in it was spoiled. Homer had done this terrible thing. Homer had hurt her more deeply than she h
ad dreamed possible.
After a while, she left the barn, went into the bunkhouse and came out with her father’s shotgun. She had found a gun shell to load it. She stayed away from the house, so her mother would not see her, making her way to the dirt tank. She would shoot a cottontail. Mama did not like the shooting part, but she would cook the rabbit, and stewed rabbit was good.
A few fruit trees had been planted on the tank dump to get seepage water, but they did not look thrifty. The watermelon vines were drying up too, the water was so low. The girl walked slowly around the tank dump, then sat down in a bare spot and waited. The peace of the place calmed her angry spirit.
She heard a wild dove crying its mournful cooah—coo—coo—coo, and knew it was a sign of rain. “They keep on hollerin’,” she said to herself, “but don’t bring rain. The rain-crow hollers and don’t bring rain either.” She looked up at the sky and remembered what Bud had said: “If you see a little cloud, don’t let it scare you.” Bud could always laugh, even when he was sad inside. If only a flash storm would come, it would be better than nothing. After a real good rain, the pastures would grow grass again, and pretty wild flowers and leafy trees. If it would only rain, Triangle Ranch would be Paradise.
It was surprising how thirsty all the animals were, and how many came to the dirt tank to drink—doves, ducks and all kinds of birds, rabbits, ring-tails and coons. She saw fish in the water and heard bullfrogs croaking. Gus and Benoni sometimes caught them. She liked fried frogs’ legs to eat.
Charlie laid the gun down and picked a horned toad up in her hand. “Now spit blood!” she said. A red liquid seemed to ooze from the queer creature’s eyes. He had small horns on his head and body, and he arched his back when she scratched it. “He’ll eat ants till he pops,” she said, putting him down on an ant hill. But he did not eat. He pushed his horned head down into the warm earth and soon had buried his whole body.
She waited a while.
A large bird stepped out of the dry grass and Charlie held her breath as he took a drink.
Paisano the Mexicans called him, some people said chaparral, but road runner suited him best. She thought of Salvador and his pet. This one was not tame—he was on the run. Where was he going? Why did he cock his crested head and make such curious cries? Charlie wished she could catch him. She had wanted to catch one ever since she was a baby and her father had said to her: “Don’t go too near the chaparral, sugar. He likes to kick little girls in the face.” No matter how fast she ran, she could never get close.