The Women in Pants Page 14

  Sally took a moment to ease back Pearl’s hair for a closer look at the stitches. Mary handed Pearl coffee and sat down beside her. “Might be a little scar,” said Sally with approval. “Not much.”

  “I hadn’t planned to be your next sewing job, but I sure do appreciate the mending.”

  Sally patted Pearl’s arm. “Just be glad you slept through it. It was a queasy time for us and we weren’t the ones in pain.”

  Sally rose and headed back to the chuckwagon. If there was a problem with those cornfritters, it was that the smell they left in the air kept you hungry for more even when you were full. We felt blessed to have full stomachs on a cattle drive and, despite the troubles we’d encountered, to all still be alive and generally healthy.

  Pearl moved her head around, keeping it slow to hold off dizziness, but clearly searching. “I need to find Katie so I can thank her.”

  “She’s on first watch,” said Mary, who had settled down beside Pearl. Mary sighed. “I should have seen you right away, but I was caught up watchin’ the herd. I’m sorry. Ain’t much of a leader.”

  “I’ll be fine after a night’s sleep. And you’re leadin’ just fine.”

  Mary scoffed.

  “It’s true,” Pearl continued. “I mean it. You know how I know?”

  Mary shook her head.

  “Because everyone’s followin’. Don’t take no more than that.”

  Pearl’s words brought out a gentle smile from Mary. “You’re the one who’s hurt and here you are comfortin’ me.”

  “Makes me feel good to talk with you, and the way some of the others treat me. Ruth, she don’t like me and I can’t blame her.” Pearl hesitated. When Mary said nothing to fill the void, Pearl kept going. “Her man… well, he’s paid for me a dozen times at least. It shames me to see her.”

  “The shame’s on her husband first.” Mary’s voice was stern, then it softened. “Though I do hope you find a new line of work.”

  Pearl sat up with a look of determination, any possible pain or dizziness cast aside as she spoke to Mary with pure heartfelt sincerity. “I will. I swear to God and anyone else who’s listening.”

  She winced as the pain flared in her temple. Mary eased her back onto the saddle. “There now.”

  “At the end of this trail’s a new life for me. Has to be. Has to be.” She closed her eyes and said no more. Mary was quiet as well, thinking what a luxury it was that Pearl could keep her mind on the end of the trail and a chance for a new beginning. Mary was aware that end of the trail could and should bring rewards, but she could not afford to let her mind dwell on it. She had a team of cattlehands—more than that, friends—to care for, a herd to guard and move, her family and their land depending on her success. No, it was one day at a time for Mary. She had nearly lost a crew member today because of a single hawk. What would happen if they came upon a gang of rustlers or if the Cherokee tribe in this territory isn’t as friendly as Parker intimated? How well would she acquit herself as leader? How well would she protect her people and her property? She studied Pearl’s face, now relaxed with sleep, and a wave of determination flowed over her. I’ll get you to that new life, she thought. I’ll get us all there. We’ve survived bandits and storms and pure old bad luck, and we’ll survive whatever’s ahead.

  Her eyes moved to the sky, perhaps beginning to offer a silent prayer for success. The brightest of the stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. Soon it would be lush with stars, far more than she could count or would ever try to. She knew they were beautiful and that she should take more time to appreciate these diamonds in the sky. But not now. Later. In her husband’s arms. On their ranch. Safe, sound and happy.

  Under those same stars, Parker was hobbling his horses for the night. On a normal delivery trip, his mind would be on the food he’d soon be heating up. Since laying his eyes on Katie, though, nothing about this trip was ordinary in Parker’s mind. The landscape seemed greener. The sky had been a richer shade of blue, deep like the blue of Katie’s eyes. And the stars… how many nights had he rested upon his blanket and stared up at these stars? Yet never had they appeared so crisp, so sharp. They were bright like his future.

  He remembered speaking with his uncle after returning from a profitable delivery that had also been his first solo delivery. He was 17 at the time, just a month removed from inheriting his father’s half of the business. He had left with a heavy heart, but the combination of youth and business success had brought back his smile. He had said to his uncle that even though he missed his father terribly, he felt that overall his life was pretty good. He was part of a good business, and his job involved travel across beautiful country. Then his uncle spoke words that Parker would never forget.

  “Enjoy what you have. But know that your work will have more meaning when it’s done to make a better life for a wife and family. That’s the only success that matters. Your father understood that.”

  It amazed him to think that a little over a day ago he had no love in his world and now all he could do was dream of a long life with Katie. And his dreams were fueled with the certainty that wherever she was under these bright stars, she was also dreaming of a long life with him. One day. One chance meeting. One look. Two changed lives.

  He thought he had grasped his uncle’s words before, but they had just been words of wisdom that his mind comprehended. Now he understood them with his heart. It was true—he wasn’t just working for the business. He was working for love, for a shared dream.

  To put it a succinctly as I can, Parker may be a rugged young man who rides tall in the saddle, but there is softness in his heart.

  Jonas was sure getting tired of eggs. He knew how to cook them and the hens kept laying them, so he kept eating them. He missed Mary’s fresh-baked bread and the crumbs that Katie called biscuits. Mostly he just missed them.

  Following Doc’s orders to exercise his leg and hip—“but not too much or I’ll come tie you down!”—Jonas had begun taking morning walks to the henhouse to gather eggs and evening walks around the corral. He was tempted to take a basket of eggs into town to trade for a loaf of bread or some potatoes, but even hitching the wagon was against Doc’s orders until his hip was stronger. Doc was probably right, he thought now as he limped around the corral. His knee was better, but his hip burned with every step. His armpit was sore from the crutch, but that was better than putting extra strain on the hip. He’d follow Doc’s orders if for no other reason than Doc didn’t think he could.

  He wouldn’t have minded if old Doc came out for another checkup. Jonas wasn’t one to get lonely, but he was one to get bored when there wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t even hope the neighbors might drop by because the closest ones, Ruth and Prudence, were out on the drive. Besides, Doc might show up with another letter. Waiting for news was a hard thing.

  Mary and Katie seemed as far away as the stars above, and he wished he could see their faces in the stars like some people claimed to be able to see figures from old stories. He could maybe see the Big Dipper sometimes, he wasn’t quite sure, but when a traveling preacher had pointed to the sky one time and said he could see Orion and Sagisomething and whatnot, Jonas had sent him on his way. He’d heard enough Bible stories to know he hadn’t heard those names, and he’d seen enough stars to know there weren’t people in them. Yet he supposed it was a pleasant thought that the same stars shining down on him were also shining upon Mary, Katie and the rest of the team. Wouldn’t it be something, he thought, if the stars could share sounds? The first thing he’d ask Mary is how are they doing. Then he’d want to know how far they had gone and how much of the herd was still alive. Once he knew that all was well, he would have a question for me: Would it have been too hard for you write who was stolen and what all happened?

  He didn’t know another letter was on its way that would stir him up even more.

  One more person out under the stars that night was Dusty, the nice fellow we had met a while back. He was looping his horse’
s reins around a hitching post in front of the Frontier Saloon in Dodge City. The stars didn’t interest him. He wanted whisky.

  If you wanted a lively time with saloon girls in low-cut dresses and gambling and piano playing and brawls and the occasional gunfight, you went to the Palisades Saloon. But if you wanted to shake off the dust of the trail, slug down some whisky and contemplate life, you went to the Frontier. Dusty was more suited to the wild, carefree chaos most of the time, but his long, hot ride had him brooding. He didn’t need boisterous companionship right now. He needed a bottle.

  Inside the saloon, he slapped four coins onto the bar. “Bottle. Whisky.”

  The bartender was a stocky, bald fellow who appreciated such direct talk but still found it a bit on the wordy side. He handed Dusty a bottle and a glass, then tilted his head in the direction of an empty table. No sense using words when a nod will do.

  Dusty sat at the table, poured himself a drink and swilled it down in one gulp. On an empty stomach—and his was empty—the whisky would start working its magic real soon. He wanted it to loosen the darkness that shrouded his mood. He’d spent his whole life as a happy-go-lucky man, but the long ride under the baking sun had him questioning why he was happy and in what way he might be considered lucky. He was a drifter is what he was. Never stuck with anything. Left farming. Left the livery. Left Leadville after just two days. They likely wouldn’t take him back at the livery, figuring he’d just drift away again the next time the wind blew. How was he going to make something of himself if he couldn’t stay in one place?

  A second drink, this time sipped slowly enough that he tasted it, lightened his load. A third awoke his good nature. He was no drifter! Heck, he was just a fellow that liked a good time and didn’t want to work too hard. He was headed back to Ellsworth, wasn’t he? He had a home, something a drifter doesn’t. His fourth drink was like a beacon, a shaft of light shining down from those stars outside to reveal the truth—it had just been the hot sun getting under his skin. He had plenty to be happy about! Starting with more whisky!

  For the first time, he scanned the saloon. There was activity, but the place was none too prosperous. Cowpokes from the herds were likely over at the Palisades. Probably a fair number of regulars had made the trek to Leadville and hadn’t been as smart as he was, still digging rather than heading home to a roof and a bed. Then again, this was Dodge City. The so-called regulars might be out robbing a stage or rustling cattle or worse. The whisky had refreshed him enough that he remembered this was no town to be loitering in for long, but the whisky had also made him feel at home right there in the chair. And he still had half a bottle left.

  He noticed two men at a corner table back in the shadows, working on a bottle of their own. One of them had his back to Dusty, but from the back alone Dusty could tell this man was a giant. The second man, probably decent sized but appearing puny next to the giant, was doing all the talking. Dusty could hear snatches of words that caught his interest, like “get everyone ready for the next job” and “the money’s been good.” At least he thought those were the words. The fellow’s Irish accent wasn’t always easy to follow. It was worth investigating. Perhaps these men had need of short-term help, which was Dusty’s specialty. Besides, his lighter mood now called for company.

  “Gentlemen,” he said as he strolled to their table, “I’ll share my whisky if you’ll share your company.”

  If Dusty hadn’t had a belly full of whisky, he might not have been able to cover up the stagger he made at the hard stare from the big man. Instead, he just looked a little tipsy. And fortunately the Irishman was more welcoming. “Back home in County Cork we had a saying: ‘Only buy your own drink as a last resort.’ So join us and pour, my new-found friend.”

  Dusty chose a chair as far from the big man as possible. “Name’s Dusty. And I’m pleased to share your table.”

  “You can call me Sean. And this talkative little fella here is Brute.”

  A deep, rumbling vibrated out from Brute’s throat, his version of a sigh. Dusty thought perhaps he had swallowed a bear and was busy choking it to death with his throat muscles. He poured the big man a drink.

  “Good day to you, Brute. Or good evening, I should say.” He watched as Brute’s hand engulfed the glass and pulled it to his mouth. Dusty thought the man might have swallowed the glass until he set it back down with a thud. He noticed some scratches on Brute’s knuckles.

  “Brute’s not one to pass the time of day with small talk,” smiled Sean. “But I’m always willin’ to pay for my drink with conversation. What’s your story, lad?”

  Sean’s charming demeanor was a welcome distraction as Brute rumbled a second time. As Dusty poured another drink for Brute, he shook his head at Sean. “Been out remindin’ myself that work and I don’t get along. Thought I’d make it big in Leadville, but it was more work than I cared to take on.”

  “Aye, the streets aren’t as paved with gold as we were all led to believe. Or silver in this case.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken, Sean! It was fine-looking country, I’ll say that. Mountains like I didn’t know there could be. Like I said, though, diggin’ in them wasn’t for me.”

  “We’re not ones for laborin’ hard ourselves,” said Sean, his Irish brogue extending some syllables and adding a musical quality to the words. He raised his glass. “To the easy life.”

  Dusty raised his glass as well and was partway through his drink when Brute’s first words stopped him cold. “Seen any herds?” The deep voice was raw, perhaps from lack of use. It clawed its way through the ear in sharp contrast to Sean’s melodic voice. Worse than the sound was the tone behind it. Menacing. As if the wrong answer carried horrifying consequences.

  Sean tried to take the edge off. “Oh, let’s let the man wet his pipes and tell his story, Brute. I’m sure if he’s seen any herds that we’ll hear about it.” Another rumble. Brute’s stare seared through Sean and his tune changed in a hurry. He picked up his own bottle and poured a drink for Dusty. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to move ahead to recent days in your travels. Have you perhaps been on the trail and have you perhaps seen any herds?”

  After just one or two drinks, Dusty might have understood the danger he was putting us in, but after seven drinks, his mind was as loose as his tongue. “You can wager your best horse I did! Saw a whole cattle herd bein’ driven by women!”

  “You don’t say?” Sean poured another drink. Even Brute was interested now.

  “Thought I was seein’ things from lack of whisky, but it was true. Got a man cook. Gave me a biscuit.”

  Dusty’s mouth was off and running about the group of women wearing pants and moving a herd up from north Texas. When he awoke hours later, lifting his heavy head from the table where he had slept face down, his only memory of the night before was engaging in conversation with a polite Irishman and a big, quiet fellow. What had they talked about? No matter, he needed to get moving. Well, after one more whisky for the road.

  Under those stars, now fading in the early gleam of dawn, I circled the herd as part of my late-watch duties. I didn’t know Parker’s thoughts, though I might have guessed them had I been thinking about him. Same for Jonas. I had forgotten about Dusty altogether and had never had a flicker of an idea that his knowledge of us could lead to peril. The meeting—or confrontation, depending on your point of view—with Sean and Brute back at the Bartlett ranch was a distant, faded memory, and even if I had recalled them I wouldn’t have let my mind linger on them.

  Instead, my mind was on my companions and my future. During the dinners and suppers, I had become more bold as far as asking people about their pasts and their thoughts. They had opened up a little more each time, and I enjoyed learning about them and turning new acquaintances into friends and turning friends into trusted friends. I felt as close to these women—and I mustn’t forget Clean Through—as I had felt to my own family. Probably closer, though that was a thought I felt badly about. For Mary’s sake, I wanted to see
the herd I was circling, even Uncle Angus, get delivered safe and sound to buyers in Dodge. For my sake, I wanted all of my friends to arrive safe and sound as well.

  Chapter 17

  Pardon my language once again, but, well, doggone it, Clean Through was one heck of a cook. He did more with a wagon of spices and dry goods, some dried beef, a few pots and pans, and a campfire than all of us could do in our own kitchens. Although I have no other experience to compare it to, I have no doubt that we were the best-fed cattlehands in human history. And the most appreciative, too, since we knew what it took to put a meal together.

  After his father had died young, he was raised by his mother and his aunt, who were the unofficial doctors in their area of southern Tennessee. They tried to teach him about the medical uses of different herbs and barks and weeds, but it wouldn’t stick. What did stick, though, was how those items could change the taste of food and bring out the flavor of meats and vegetables. Perhaps it was the hours he spent grinding up herbs for his mother and stirring up poultices for his aunt, or perhaps it was just a natural talent, but somewhere along the line he became skilled at mixing the perfect blends for baked goods. His biscuits were light, with soft insides that soaked up melted butter and jam. His pie crust was so good we often lapped up all the filling just to save the crust for last.

  So it should come as no surprise that we all found ourselves, at times, loitering around the chuckwagon watching him work and asking him questions. He would never let us do any of the work—“it’s my job, not yours”—but he was kind about showing us what he was doing. Once Parker had come into her life, Katie became Clean Through’s most persistent student. She was determined to learn how to make biscuits that didn’t fall apart, and Clean Through was more patient with her questions than Mary had been.