by Lois Lenski
“I won’t give the money back to Sam,” said Charlie, stamping her foot. “You told me I had to give it to Homer, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll do it right now.”
She ran to get the money and rushed out to catch Homer.
“Better not go in the barn, Homer!” she called out when she saw him. “There’s a live rattler in there.”
“There is?” replied Homer. “Don’t ask me to kill it. I’ve got a hard enough job to do.” He had several Triangle branding irons in his hands.
“Don’t you like branding calves?” asked Charlie.
“No,” said Homer. “I like ridin’ and ropin’ calves, but when it comes to punchin’ ’em with a red-hot iron, and smellin’ burned hair and hide, it makes me sick at the stomach.”
“Huh! You’re as bad as Mama. You’ll never make a top hand, I can see that,” said Charlie. “Bet you couldn’t even drown a cat.”
“Of course not,” said Homer. “Why would I be so brutal?”
“Here’s your money,” said the girl, taking the bills out of her pocket.
“What money?” asked Homer.
“That five dollars you paid me to keep my mouth shut,” laughed Charlie. “I didn’t keep my part of the bargain—I told everybody. Mama got wind of it and insisted I pay you back.”
Homer glared. “You want to pay me, to be released from your promise, I suppose? So you can keep on blabbing?”
“No,” said Charlie. “I’ve told everybody I know. There’s no one else to tell.”
Homer thought for a minute and knew it was perfectly true. He was short of funds, because the men he worked for were also short and he had not been paid lately. He needed the cash, so he took it. He looked at Charlie and could not help but admire her spirit.
“Feud over?” he asked, smiling. “Shall we bury the hatchet?”
Charlie grinned. “Yes,” she said. “Guess we’re goin’ to lose the cows, Homer.”
“So I heard,” replied the cowboy. “Tough luck for your father.”
“You’ll lose your job too, won’t you?”
“Wish I could,” said Homer. “I’d rather clerk in a hardware store any day, but my Pa’s sendin’ me down to a ranch in Sonora. He won’t hear of me tryin’ anything but this cowboy business.”
“It must be tough to have a trail-driver for a father,” said Charlie. “You’re not a bad sort, after all, Homer, only you’ll have to stop gettin’ sick at your stomach.”
“Wish I could,” said Homer in a pitiful tone.
He took the branding irons and walked back to the rock corral, where a fire had been started and the branding of the calves was going on. Charlie did not follow him—her father had told her to stay away. She saddled Gypsy and rode out into the pasture. She could think better when she was riding. She had no desire to watch the branding.
There were no cows in Deer Pasture now. It had nearly four thousand acres and the dirt tank there had gone dry. The windmills had given constant trouble and the men had worked frantically, but could not keep up with the water supply. Uncle Moe said the wells were not deep enough—the underground water supply was giving out. New wells would have to be drilled twice as deep, some time in the indefinite future when there was money enough.
Charlie remembered the cows that had died in the early spring. That had seemed bad enough at the time. She could not be sentimental or even sick-at-the-stomach over a dead cow. If a cow died, all you could do was to sell its hide for the dollar it would bring. A dollar was not much, but it was something. Like all ranch problems, Charlie faced this one squarely.
But now there was a worse calamity ahead—the ranch itself was in danger. Her father had sold off half the cows in June to reduce the number, but that had not prevented disaster. The Bank was going to foreclose, because they had advanced so much money for the feed bill. The Bank was going to take the remaining cows. There was always somebody lying in wait to profit by a man’s misfortunes. The Bank! The Bank! Who was the Bank? Whoever he was, he was an old skinflint and she hated him.
If only rain would come. Rain was the only thing that could save the ranch now.
Over the rolling, rocky pastures she rode. Now and then a jack-rabbit jumped out and she wondered what they ate. The skies were overcast. She saw two dryland turtles and knew they were supposed to be signs of rain. People said that scissor-tailed flycatchers cried in the night just before a rain; and that when a cow shook her hind legs and bawled loudly, it meant rain. People said so many silly things, but Charlie had lost all faith in signs.
Rain, rain—everybody wanted it, and yet they dreaded its coming. After such a long dry spell, rain would be apt to come with a fury of wind and lightning, and a downpour that would run off the surface of the hard ground, and not do anybody any good. She remembered the flash storm on the night of the cattle drive. Why couldn’t it rain gently and string it out a bit?
Without noticing, she came unexpectedly on the old sheep camp. Pilar and Salvador must have delivered their two thousand sheep to San Angelo and returned home long ago. She wondered if the sheep had found water along the way. She could imagine the trail of dead sheep left behind, after the flock had stripped the pastures of grass.
Then she remembered the Duffys. She had not seen Jake since Papa recovered from his fall. She wondered if Jake knew that her father was losing the ranch? Maybe Jake could do something about it. She headed in the direction of the little homestead farm. She kept her eyes straight ahead, looking neither to right nor left. Some late summer grasses had sprung up, but were already yellowed and dry. It was not “pretty country” any more, and although she loved every inch of it, she tried not to see it.
She stopped under a mesquite tree for a while, to let Gypsy eat the beans. The mesquites had produced a good crop, and the ground was covered with long fat yellow beanpods. The horses liked them and so did the cows. Charlie blessed the mesquites and was grateful for them. The trees survived without water and bore nourishing food for cattle. The mesquite beans were conquering the drouth. If they would only hold out until rain came…
She rode on and came to the homestead. Jake Duffy’s fields were a sorry sight. His corn crop had been harvested long ago. Now the soil was blowing away, leaving rows of stubble and roots uncovered. The Duffys’ milk cow was under a mesquite tree, eating beans. Their few sheep were in a small pasture where there was practically no grass at all.
It was strange, but the Duffys weren’t enemies any more. That old feeling of being at outs with them had vanished. Had the drouth done it—the common misery and the common need? Could a terrible visitation like a drouth help bring people together in real friendship—people whose ways had been so different they had felt they could never be reconciled? If one man had twenty thousand acres and another only six hundred, weren’t their needs much the same?
After Dan Carter’s fall from the windmill, Jake Duffy had been Mrs. Carter’s stand-by. He had worked with the cowboys fixing the windmills. He had done all sorts of odd jobs, run errands and made himself amazingly useful on the ranch, for one who was not a cattleman. In his rough way, he had been understanding and kind. He was no longer labeled a “nester,” “a hoe farmer,” or “a squatter.” He was looked upon as a neighbor and friend, for he had proved his worth.
Charlie rode slowly up the lane to the house. Mrs. Duffy came running out and welcomed her with open arms. “Well, if it ain’t Charlotte Carter!” she cried. “I been plumb homesick for the sight of ye. I been tellin’ Fanny May and Clara Belle and Emma-line I hope they’ll grow up as nice as Charlotte Carter, but I don’t guess they will.”
“You’re just in time for supper, Hoot Owl!” said Jake. “Dry weather, ain’t it? I’m so dry I can spit cotton.”
Mike brought a chair for Charlie. She noticed a strange boy sitting at the table. His face looked somewhat familiar. His white teeth glistened in his brown face as he smiled.
“Who are you?” asked Charlie.
“You don’t know Salvador?�
�� asked Jake.
“I’m Salvador,” he said. “I’m the sheep-herder’s boy.”
Jake explained. One day Salvador had walked in, on his way back from San Angelo. He and Mike had fun playing together, and Salvador did not want to leave. He had never had a chance to play with other children before. When Jake asked Pilar to leave the boy there, Pilar said, “Sure, why not?” So the two Mexican men returned to Sonora, and Salvador became a member of the Duffy family.
“Now I got a brother to fight,” said Mike. “I don’t fight girls any more.”
Charlie laughed.
“Salvador’s a good worker,” said Jake proudly. “He and Mike took care of everything, while I helped out over at your ranch.”
“Salvador sleeps on a cot now,” said Mrs. Duffy. “He likes it better than the ground. He likes to play with the young uns, and keeps ’em quiet. He helps me too, cuts wood, milks, sweeps and cooks. Why, that Salvador can do anything!”
The Mexican boy hid his face at the unaccustomed praise.
Still Charlie could not understand it. She looked at the meager food on the table—beans, biscuits and warm milk. The Duffys drank their milk warm, straight from the cow, since they had no cooler. So little to eat, and yet they had taken in another mouth to feed. They were never so needy that they failed to see the need of others worse off than themselves.
Charlie thought of the time when she had trampled the Duffys’ crops. She thought of the time when she and Bones had eaten the sheep-herder’s dinner. Abruptly, she pushed her plate away.
“No, no, not a bite!” she cried, rising to her feet. “I’m full. I’m stuffed—I’ve had my supper.”
She had come to tell them that her father was losing his ranch and to ask for help, but she couldn’t. The Duffys had plenty of problems of their own. For the first time, she realized the great courage with which they met them.
A resolution formed in her mind. If they kept any of the calves for butchering in the winter, she would ask her father to share the meat with the Duffys. Then his voice came back to her: When their food runs out, we’ll have to feed them. They are our neighbors, they are here to stay. Wasn’t that what he had been doing all along, by saying nothing about the missing calves? Yes, Papa had always known his duty, but it had taken Charlie a long time to find it out.
After supper, the Duffys came out and stood in the yard, looking up at the sky for rain clouds. Their hope was as strong as ever. As Charlie rode slowly homeward, she remembered something else her father had said: “Rain is the only thing that will help us and help the Duffys too.”
When she entered the water lot, she saw that the branding was over. Charlie dropped the reins and let Gypsy stand. The freshly branded calves had been turned into the smaller pen. Charlie went over to the fence to see them. The winter dogies were well-grown now, husky and strong. They had never known hunger or thirst. Nothing had been denied them. She looked at the younger calves too, and was worried over their future.
What was the use of branding them with the Triangle brand, if they were going to be butchered? Or would they be sold? What would happen now that there was no money to buy feed? All summer Charlie had said she would never let her calves be butchered. Now she knew she’d rather let them be sold or butchered than to have them die of starvation and thirst.
Snowball was big and getting rough now. She could not play with him the way she used to. She reached through the fence and rubbed his head. He liked that. His hair was almost as curly as Beau Columbus’s had been. She had never curled the new bull’s hair with the curling iron, because he had been moved back to headquarters by Uncle Moe earlier in the summer.
When she left the calves and went into the barn to get some oats for Gypsy, she saw the barn cat sitting in front of the oat bin. The cat was sitting very still, watching the space under a two by four timber at the bottom of the bin. Now and then, the cat’s tail twitched angrily.
“The rattler!” said Charlie to herself. She had forgotten it. Her hand flew to her throat and for a moment she was sick with terror.
Then fear left her as she realized what she had to do. Bud had told her to stay out of the barn, but she couldn’t. Not while this enemy was there—so close to Gypsy and the stall-fed calves. She’d never put Gypsy in the barn if there was a rattlesnake within a mile of it.
All at once she had pleasure in the thought. For so many months, she and her father and all the others, even all the neighbors had been fighting an unseen, an intangible enemy—the drouth. Now at last, she had a tangible enemy to fight. Killing a snake—it seemed such an easy and simple thing to do, after all the hard things they had been doing.
She had to laugh at the cat. The cat wasn’t afraid. The cat crouched there, waiting patiently for the snake to come out. The cat could not kill the snake, but a pitchfork could. She would help the cat. She found a pitchfork and waited.
Loose hay covered the place where the snake had gone in. She was sure the snake was there because of the way the cat acted. Then she was afraid the cat might get in her way. She picked it up and put it down outside the barn door. But the cat came running quickly back and settled down to watch again.
“All right, we’ll do it together then,” said Charlie.
Gently she pushed the hay aside with the pitchfork. Then she poked under the timber. The snake came out and hadn’t a chance to reach the cat. One thrust of the pitchfork and it was dead. It squirmed for a long time, then lay still.
A thrill of happiness, of surprise at her own daring, went through the girl. The rattler had thirteen rattles and a button. It was a huge creature, fat and long. Had it been living off cottontails and jackrabbits?
Charlie lifted the snake with the pitchfork and carried it out into the lot. Gypsy shivered and shied to one side when the girl came near. A horse did not like a snake even after it was dead. Ringo danced around, barking excitedly.
The men crowded close to see, and Bud Whitaker hung the snake on the fence. He turned to Charlie and said gruffly, “I thought I told you to stay out of the barn.”
“Somebody had to kill it,” said Charlie. “You said girls can’t kill snakes. I had to show you you were wrong.”
“A tomboy like her,” said Gus, “can do anything.”
“Now there’s where you’re wrong,” drawled Bud. “A girl’s got to outgrow her tomboy ways. Killin’ this snake don’t mean she’s a tomboy. In fact, I wouldn’t call her a tomboy any longer. I’d say Charlie’s growin’ up.”
CHAPTER XII
Old Skinflint
A HEAVY BLACK CLOUD HUNG over Triangle Ranch one day in early August. Rocks flew in Little Pasture, as a group of strange men rode up. The family waited inside the gate. Ringo barked.
“There he comes, Old Skinflint and his cowboys,” said Charlie bitterly. “Can’t we padlock the gates and keep him out, Papa?”
“What good would that do?” answered Dan Carter. “He represents the bank. I mortgaged my stock to get money for feed, to keep them from starving. The cows are his now. They are not mine any longer.”
“Oh, Dan,” cried Mrs. Carter. “Have we lost everything?”
“No more than everybody else, Beatrice,” said Dan. “The banks would like to stand by the ranchmen, but the bank examiners won’t let them. So we’re all going broke this year.”
“Cattlemen often go busted,” said Bud Whitaker, “but they come back—they come back.”
“I wouldn’t let Old Skinflint in,” cried Charlie. “I’d fight him. I’d get out my gun.”
“You’ve got your Grandfather Carter’s fighting spirit, Charlie Boy,” said Dan Carter. “But we don’t take the law into our own hands any more—it never pays. When the inevitable comes, we have to accept it.”
Mrs. Carter took her husband’s arm and leaned against it.
“Old Skinflint won’t take our calves, will he?” asked Charlie.
Grace and Bones were anxious. Charlie put the question for herself and for them too.
“Don’t
worry, sugar,” said Papa. “The mortgage doesn’t cover pet stock or dogies.”
“He better not try to take Snowball!” growled Charlie.
“Or Tomato,” said Bones.
“Or Marguerite,” said Grace.
The children all stood together, forgetting their differences, unified now against a common danger.
The cows had been rounded up from the pastures the day before, and brought to the pens and corrals back of the barn for the night. No one rested or slept because of the continued tramping and bawling. Heavy dust clouds hung over the lots. The day was hot and sultry, the air filled with flies, wasps and yellow-jackets. The sky was entirely overcast, threatening rain that never came.
Mrs. Carter went into the house, as the strangers came in the gate. Old Skinflint and his men went to the rock corral at once, followed by Dan and Moe Carter and the cowboys. Ringo, who missed nothing, ran at their heels. The strangers had nothing to do but drive the cows away.
“You going to help us, Grace?” asked Charlie.
“I can’t,” said Grace. “I have to iron and cook dinner.”
“Then Bones and I will do it ourselves. Come along, Bones.”
“Promise me you won’t let them take mine,” said Grace.
“Of course not,” answered Charlie.
The girl and boy went to the barn where the calves were herded. All the doors were padlocked.
“You stand guard at this back door, Bones,” said Charlie. “I’ll stand by the door in front.”
“If I call, you’ll come, won’t you?” asked Bones.
“Sure,” said Charlie. “Just yell ‘Help! Help!’ and I’ll be there.”
Bones was getting over his timidity and wanted to show how brave he could be. Charlie gave him a heavy club and he held it like a gun. “Old Skinflint better not try to come in my door,” said the boy, “or I’ll beat him into plum jelly!”
“That’s the way to talk!” laughed Charlie.
She went to the front door and took up her club. She thought of her father’s rifle, but knew he had no shells. She took her place and waited, determined to give Old Skinflint a good scare if he came near.