Name : Shinta Dame
Class : A4. 3
When I Am Weak
about the ranch had given Mitch a lot to think over that morning. That, and the
note from Mrs. Pearson about Ben. Even if Mitch could do nothing else but
befriend the boy himself, he would find someone suitable for Ben. His own
childhood had been a solitary one, filled with frogs, and insects, and any book
he could find, but Mitch would try.
Mitch stood back from the mirror. His face filled the small glass, so he had to
step back to see if his beard was even or not. He flicked a glance to the
haircut Red had just given him with the office scissors. It didn't matter. No
one would be able to see the haircut with a hat on, which is how Mitch went
about life anyway. At least while he was outside. Mitch stepped closer with his
comb and small trimming scissors and went back to work on his beard, while
noise from the bunkhouse carried through the open barn doors. The boys were
taking turns with the tin bathtub, while outside the bunkhouse, Red gave
haircuts. Some washed their clothes in the creek, while others slept, not
having enough strength to free themselves of the dirt and sweat they had
accumulated over the roundup.
Mitch stepped back and looked over his beard. He always thought he looked
better with a beard-- that without one, he might scare delicate women and small
children. He kept it trimmed short, just enough to hide his face, but not so
long he looked like a brooding general contemplating war. Using the comb as a
guide, he trimmed his mustache while Stretch, a hardworking cowpuncher, cleaned
the stall behind him.
"How long'd it take you to grow that?" Stretch asked.
Mitch grunted. "A few weeks."
"Wish I could grow a beard. All I can manage is this mustache."
Mitch turned to look at the middle-aged cowboy.
"A beard would make me look taller. Don't you think?"
In his high-heeled boots, Stretch only came to Mitch's shoulder. Stretch. It
was a nickname only a good-natured man of his height would put up with-- one
any other man on the ranch would've fought off with both fists.
"I think if I had those red whiskers, I wouldn't want a beard." Mitch
went back to the mirror. "How has everything been at the ranch, since I've
been gone?"
"Meaning I'm so short I'd look like a leprechaun?" Stretch laughed.
"I figure it's better to be noticed, than not at all. Why are you asking
me about the ranch? Yancy's the one you left in charge."
"I know, but I'm asking you.""Life has been a little livelier
than usual, I suppose, but Yancy... well, he's Yancy."
Mitch put away the comb and scissors. He had some questions to ask.
‘*
* * *
The bunkhouse was a long affair, with a room at each end, and the storeroom in
the middle. The outside door was in the storeroom, everyone entered the
bunkhouse there, so they went by the supply cupboards every day. Everyone
likely knew what was in them because they weren't locked, and Cook opened them
often to get what he needed. As Mitch stood in the storeroom, he thought it
over. The doors to the living quarters were on either side, and were usually
kept open, so it would have been no easy task to take all that flour without
someone asking questions. Unless of course, no one thought to, because like
Stretch had said, that man had been in charge.
That Mr. Franklin hadn't thought to ask more, wasn't surprising. Their boss had
more pressing matters on his mind.
The outside door behind Mitch opened, and one of the cowboys-- Bailey-- peered
in. "I've been looking all over, but it's no good. Scout's missing."
"Not again." Mitch groaned, for he already had a lot to manage
without this, as well. "If that dog wanders off one more time--"
Mitch slapped his leg, and left the rest unsaid. He would never have carried
through with it, anyway. "When was she missed? Is Pepper still here?"
"I think Pepper's in the next room, sleeping by the stove. I knew we
should've taken Scout with us, instead of leaving her here to guard the ranch.
By leaving her here, we were just begging for that jug-headed mutt to go
running off again."
"When was she missed?" Mitch repeated.
"This morning."
"Find Yancy. Tell him to saddle two horses."
Bailey shook his head, and started off to find Yancy. "As if we didn't
have enough to do."
Mitch really didn't want to hear it. He was still waiting for his turn at the
tub, and his body ached for more rest. He wanted to sleep, not climb on a horse
and go looking for a dog that loved trouble. Besides any sentimental value,
Scout was a valuable dog. Pepper and Scout had worked sheep before they'd been
bought by Mr. Franklin to see if they could herd cattle. And they could-- they
had proved themselves, time and again. Those dogs had a lot of courage to take
on animals several times their own size. They were committed, skilled workers.
Mitch hated to think of even one of them doing what Mitch was fairly certain
Scout was doing right now.
Mitch kept going as Yancy's quick stride caught up with him, and they reached
the side door of the main house. "Can't we wait for her to come
back?" Yancy asked." Do we have to go looking for her?"
"I thought you liked that dog."
"I do, but--" Yancy sighed as Mitch opened the door and stepped
inside.
"Mrs. Pearson?" Mitch waited until she had stopped kneading dough and
had turned to look at him. This was important. He didn't want to do something,
only to find out later that he hadn't gotten her permission. "I'm riding
out to look for a missing dog. Would it be all right if I took Ben? You have my
word I'll return him unharmed."
She wiped her hands, and paused, her eyes taking a quick survey of what she
saw. He understood. She was weighing whether or not to trust him with her son.
Ever so slightly, her head tilted to one side. "If you were anything like
Ben at his age, you may want to reconsider that promise."
It was true most of his childhood had been spent with scabbed-over knees and
ripped pants from climbing trees and too much adventure, but Mitch wasn't about
to tell that to Mrs. Pearson. From the look on her face just now, he didn't
need to. "Ben won't leave my side," he assured her.
"I'll settle for that," she nodded, and went back to work.
"Thank you, Mr. Everly."
The mister annoyed him, but he left without comment.
Outside, Yancy shook his head. "We've got to take the boy?"
"Saddle another horse."
Though Yancy looked as though he wanted to kick, he didn't, and left with only
a grumble.
Mitch looked about. Now, where was that boy?
Someone came from the bunkhouse and emptied a washtub, the dirty water
splashing near the bedroll of a lounging cowboy. The cowpuncher had a few
choice words for nearly being drowned, but Mitch was satisfied when no one
swore. They were well aware of Mr. Franklin's rules of the ranch, and in
general, they tried to keep them. No card playing, and no cussing were two of
the rules. Outside the ranch, they were free to do whatever they liked, so long
as no one came back intoxicated. These rules were well established, and were
even tacked to the wall in the bunkhouse.
They were there for everyone to see.
Including Yancy.
Mitch shook his head, and went looking for Ben. For someone who had promised to
keep that boy at his side, he was getting off to a poor start.
In back of the chicken house, Mitch found Ben bellied down beside a fine
looking ant hole.
"Better watch yourself, or you'll get bit."
"They don't bother me."
Mitch smiled. "If you could spare the time, I could use a hand." He
didn't have to say a word more, for Ben scrambled to his feet like someone who
had only needed to be asked. "Feel up to a ride?" Mitch asked, and
Ben nodded wildly-- yes. "Can you ride?" Mitch asked, and Ben
nodded. Mitch started for the barn and Ben followed stride for stride.
"Do you know my father?" Ben asked. "He travels a lot, so you
might know him. He had a hat like yours, but someone stole it while he was
sleeping."
"It wasn't me."
A smile tugged at the corner
of Ben's mouth. He grew quiet as Yancy came in from the pasture, and watched as
Mitch went to talk to the cowboy.
The rested horses hadn't seen the roundup, so Mitch didn't have any complaints,
but he shot Yancy a glare when he saw the third horse. There was one on every
ranch, or one on every ranch Mitch had ever worked. One saved by the men for
the greenest of the greenhorns. Just how green was he, and how long could he
sit that troubled beast? It wasn't a joke Mitch liked to indulge, but
especially, especially not on a seven-year-old boy.
Mitch stared at Yancy, and Yancy shrugged.
"He can handle it. His ma said he was good with horses."
Mitch said nothing, and Yancy swiped at the reins and took the horse back out.
Sometimes, Mitch felt he understood animals better than he did people. As a
boy, he'd often been admonished by his ma to learn to read others. When he was
older, the ability to read what lay just below the surface had become more than
useful; on more than one occasion, it had saved his life. Where had that skill
gone? Maybe he was aging faster than he'd thought. More often than he liked,
the younger cowpunchers made him feel like an old man, especially when his leg
acted up. His body wasn't as quick as it used to be, and when they saw him
wrenching his guts out-- well, there was no pretending in front of them. At
thirty-nine, he felt twice that age. Maybe age explained it, maybe that was why
he'd been having trouble reading Yancy.
When Yancy returned with a sedate pony, Mitch sent Ben to the house to ask for
some chuck for the trail, for they would be gone awhile. If it had only been
himself and Yancy, Mitch wouldn't have bothered Mrs. Pearson. They would've
willingly roughed it, for this wasn't a picnic. Since Ben was with them, Mitch
figured to let Mrs. Pearson play the mother hen if she had the mind to, and let
her send along whatever she wished. Of course, it didn't hurt that her cooking
was the best Mitch had ever tasted.
As Mitch checked the cinches and looked over the horses, Yancy rocked back and
forth on the heels of his boots.
"Anxious to get going?" Mitch asked.
Yancy stopped.
About ten years younger than Mitch, Yancy had rode for Mr. Franklin for almost
as long as Mitch. Yancy also had the gift of being more well liked among the
men than Mitch, for he was always telling jokes, and making them laugh.
Everyone liked Yancy.
Faster than Mitch thought possible, Ben was back with a wrapped parcel and
panting to catch his breath. "Ma asked if this is enough, and if it isn't,
she's making pie, but it'll be awhile until it's ready. She hasn't got the pies
into the oven yet," Ben added, "so do we have to wait?"
Yancy brightened. "Pie?"
Ignoring Yancy, Mitch lifted Ben onto the waiting pony, then placed the food
parcel into Ben's saddlebag.
"I'd like to have some of that pie."
The comment went unanswered by Mitch as Mitch led his horse, and Ben's, out by
the corral. Mitch whistled for Pepper, and the dog appeared in the doorway of
the bunkhouse, his tail wagging, though not with as much enthusiasm as usual.
It was clear the poor dog was pleading not to work. He wanted to go back to the
comfort of the bunkhouse and lie down. He wanted to rest.
"Find Scout, boy. Find Scout."
Pepper's ears perked up, and he bounded into action. It was time to work. Mitch
mounted his horse as Pepper sniffed at the ground, then headed away from the
ranch, his heavy black and white fur blowing in the wind.
"Wish I was going with you," Red shouted, as he paused the haircuts
beside the bunkhouse.
Mitch waved back, and rode after Pepper, keeping his eyes on the dog that kept
stopping to smell the ground as he went. "Keep up with me, Ben." A
glance showed Ben hurrying his pony to Mitch's side. "Be on the lookout
for a medium-sized black and white dog that looks a lot like Pepper. If you see
any coyotes, I'll want to know about that, too."
Ben nodded, and looked back as Yancy rode several feet behind them in brooding
silence.
Up ahead, Pepper had stopped, and was marking his territory. Mitch scanned the
high bluffs in the distance. "Come on, boy. Find Scout." Pepper
wagged his tail, and resumed the search, every so often pausing with such
intensity, Mitch couldn't help but feel they were getting close. He looked over
at Ben, and saw the boy standing in his stirrups as he rode. They kept after
Pepper, but Mitch couldn't help but notice how Ben rode that pony, always
standing in the stirrups even when there was nothing for a small boy to see.
Yancy caught up with Mitch.
"Well?" Yancy asked.
Mitch looked back at Yancy. "Well?"
"Aren't you going to say what you brought me out here to say?"
Mitch was silent.
"Before we left, Stretch told me he talked to you. I figured it was only a
matter of time before you found out."
Mitch looked at Ben. "Who taught you to ride like that?"
"Nobody."
"I was going to replace it, Mitch. I swear I was."
Mitch said nothing.
"You left me in charge." Yancy waited. "I was just having some
fun. I didn't hurt anyone."
"Gambling is against the rules of the ranch," Mitch said quietly.
"No, it isn't-- card playing is. The rules don't say anything about
gambling. I even checked the bunkhouse wall before we left."
Mitch looked back at Ben. "Sit in the saddle, and move your hips with each
stride. Move with the horse."
"But I want to stand."
"Standing in the stirrups makes it easier to bounce off."
"So you aren't going to punish me for gambling away a few of the
provisions?" Yancy asked.
Mitch looked at Yancy, and Yancy went silent. Mitch checked Ben, and saw him
bouncing up and down in his saddle, trying to keep his seat. "Follow the
movement with your hips, and sit deep in the saddle-- like I'm doing."
Riding was as natural to Mitch as using his own two feet, only he got more done
on the back of a horse. Just because he had to spend part of his time at a desk
though, didn't mean he no longer loved that wide-open sky. Cowboying was his
life, and every chance he got, he left the office behind.
While Ben tried to sit his pony, Mitch watched Pepper trot ahead of them, the
dog's nose constantly at work.
Yancy rode in heavy silence, and only grunted when Mitch called out that he saw
a coyote in the distance. Pepper's head was already up in full alert.
"Stay, boy." Mitch brought everyone to a halt, and waited. The coyote
stared at them, then high-tailed it to the west at a full run. Mitch tensed.
His heart pounded as a black and white dog came into view, and darted after the
coyote, dogging it this way and that. Pepper started after them before Mitch
called him back. Pepper looked at Mitch with pleading eyes, but Mitch would not
let him join the chase.
"Fool dog." Yancy shook his head as they watched Scout run her heart
out. "She doesn't have the sense to stop."
Mitch gritted his teeth. He looked at Ben. "Can you stay in the
saddle?"
Ben nodded.
"Then keep up." Mitch ordered Pepper to find Scout, and Pepper took
off with Mitch in pursuit. The day had grown warm and for a dog in a heavy
coat, working itself to exhaustion, the danger was real. Mitch called to Scout,
and she slowed, but the chase was in her veins and she was obsessed. He called
her name again-- not in an excited tone, but one free of anger, and in the calm
assurance that she would come. Her legs slowed to a galloping lope, and she
looked at him. "Come to me, Scout." Her sides heaved so decidedly he
feared she would collapse, but he held the concern from his voice. He gave the
command to stop work and return, and she obeyed.
Panting hard, Scout left off her chase, and came to Mitch as he stepped down
from his horse. He knelt and stroked her fur, but she stood unmoving, panting,
staring.
"Yancy, your canteen. Ben, yours too."
Yancy climbed down and handed Mitch a canteen, while Ben slid down from his
pony with a hard thud.
Opening a canteen, Mitch took off his hat and filled it with water, and Scout
pushed her way into the hat and began lapping up the water. Mitch thought it
was a healthy sign that she hadn't needed to be coaxed. He tipped the canteen
over her, and soaked her fur as best he could. He only wished it was cold
water. Ben stroked her thick black and white fur, and cooed, "Easy
girl," over and over, while Yancy led his horse over to them and blocked
out the sun to shade Scout. Jealous of all the attention Scout was getting, and
thirsty as well, Pepper pushed in and drank from the hat while Scout greedily
lapped up all she could hold. Mitch emptied Ben's canteen into the hat, but
knew they needed to do more to cool her down. This wasn't enough.
"The Chugwater's not far from here," Yancy said, as though reading
his thoughts.
When Scout had stopped drinking, Yancy lifted the dog into his arms, then
hefted her up to Mitch, as Mitch sat ready on his horse. Then, with Pepper
trailing beside them, they made their way to the Chugwater Creek with the high
sandstone bluffs to stand watch over them.
"Will she be all right?" Ben asked, as he rode beside Mitch.
"She's sick, isn't she?"
Yancy shook his head. "You should've taken me AND the dog with you on
spring roundup."
A low plaintive whimper came from Scout. With his free hand, Mitch stroked her
fur and tried to calm her. He tried to calm Scout the way he would soothe
cattle-- by singing to her. Cattle don't know one song from another, and on the
trail, cowpunchers will sing most anything handy, even hymns, to keep the
cattle from running. It didn't make the punchers spiritual, just practical,
though Mitch liked the hymns best. As Mitch quietly sang, he thanked God for
letting them find Scout before she'd run herself to death and left poor Pepper
alone. He hugged the dog close, and sang about the mercy of Christ, while the
horse made its way to the Chugwater.
When Scout saw the creek, she wagged her tail, and wanted to be let down.
It was a very good sign.
Ben slid off his pony and went to help Scout. The boy led her into the water,
and Mitch stayed back, and watched. Scout was feeling better, and walking on
her own, and by the look of her, fully enjoying all the attention she was
getting from Ben. Pepper followed, and when he wasn't noticed, nosed Ben in the
side. Ben cupped his hands in the water, and soaked Scout. She shook herself,
but when Ben doused her again, Scout left the water to rest under a willow tree
to get away from the game. Not to be deterred, Ben followed her, and crawled
next to Scout. He stroked her long fur, and even from where Mitch stood by the
horses, he could tell she liked that best. She even rolled over and let Ben rub
her stomach. Not to be ignored, Pepper got on Ben's other side, and soon Ben
was busy rubbing bellies and singing Mitch's cowboy hymn while two cattle dogs
panted their appreciative smiles.
Mitch nodded to the boy. "Good job, Ben. Good job."
Tying their mounts to a willow, Mitch went to the creek, wearily took off his
hat and splashed water on his face. It felt so good, he washed his neck, then
knelt down and doused his head. The coolness of the water revived him too, and
he thanked God for the creek, for the day, and for his life. Water dripped from
his beard as he looked up at the sky and let the sunlight soak into him. He had
done this before. Knelt when all strength was gone, and thanked God for being
alive. Only then, the taste of gunpowder had been in his mouth, and the sound
of exploding cannon shell had still filled his ears. And around him-- the
shattered and dying.
He could see everything so clearly. Weren't memories supposed to fade?
Mitch leaned into the creek and watched the water flow away.
"I thought it wouldn't matter." Yancy's voice carried Mitch back to
the present. "The supplies were mostly ours since they were being stored
in the bunkhouse, and we were the ones who would use them. So I thought it
wouldn't matter. And I was going to replace everything the first chance
I had."
"I'm glad to hear it." Sitting on the bank, Mitch pulled off his
boots. "You're going into Cheyenne for those supplies, and they're coming
out of your wages."
Yancy shrugged. "That's fair."
"Gambling might not be against Mr. Franklin's rules, but as of now,
consider those rules changed. Card playing may have been the wording, but
gambling was the intent, so when you find your work is harder the next few
weeks, you'll know why. If I find you've been gambling with the JM3 punchers
again, you'll be fired. Is that still fair?"
A sour looked crossed Yancy's face, but he nodded yes.
Mitch put his boots back on. "You disappointed me, Yancy. I had been
hoping better from you."
"Ah, you know me," Yancy grinned. The cowboy played with a twig in
his hand, and when he said no more, Mitch pushed up to get the food from Ben's
saddlebag. Like leaning on a broken leg. That was Yancy.
"Hungry, Ben?" Mitch looked over to the willow where Ben was sitting
against the tree, a dog on either side of him, tails wagging every now and then
as Ben petted them with both hands. Ben nodded that he was. Mitch took out the
wrapped parcel while the horses grazed and flicked their tails at mosquitoes.
Opening the parcel as he moved to the willow, Mitch sat down next to Scout. Her
tail flapped once or twice in greeting, and Mitch scratched her ears, and
looked her over to see how she was doing. "You have to stop running off,
Scout. You know that, don't you?" Mitch handed Ben two of the biscuits,
then he fed one to each of the dogs. When Mitch called "chuck," Yancy
tossed the twig away and came over to sit with them. Mitch gave the cowpuncher
his share of the biscuits, then Mitch leaned back to eat.
Mrs. Pearson had given them a
picnic of carrots, and dried apples. Since the ranch didn't have a vegetable
garden currently in operation, it likely meant she had bought the carrots while
she and Mr. Franklin had been in Cheyenne. They tasted good on a clear day like
this one, when every muscle strained to work when it needed to rest.
The dogs enjoyed the few carrots Mitch gave them, and they eagerly ate the
vegetables as the treat they were. When Scout finished hers, she barked for
more, and Ben laughed.
As Mitch fed her another, he thought of those dear to him, far away from the
Wyoming Territory. Old feelings came over him, and he turned his eyes to the
ground and ate his share of the sweet orange roots. By the time they had
finished the slices of dried apple, Yancy was rubbing Scout's head and telling
her to be a good girl from now on.
"She will. You'll see." Yancy stood as Mitch prepared to leave.
"She's gotten all the naughtiness out of her."
"You won't run away again, will you, Scout?" Ben hugged Scout, and
she licked his face. "Stay with us always, Scout. Please stay."
The plea in Ben's voice went deep. It didn't go unnoticed by Mitch.
On the ride home, Mitch carried Scout, in case she still needed to rest, while
Pepper trotted beside them. Ben stuck fast to Mitch's side, always keeping
careful watch over Scout, and calling to her to see if her ears perked up--
which they did. Scout never tired of hearing Ben call her, for her tail wagged
every time. Mitch was just grateful she didn't leap from his horse to ride with
Ben.
"Where do Scout and Pepper live?" Ben asked, riding as close as he
could to Mitch without bumping into Mitch's horse.
"In the bunkhouse."
"Could I live there, too?"
"That depends. Where do you think you belong?"
Ben sighed. "In the house."
"It's good for a man to know where he belongs."
Ben gave a half-smile, and they settled into a comfortable silence. For the
rest of the ride home, Mitch felt no need to talk, or to push himself into
being sociable. He found Ben was comfortable with the silence, that he wasn't
afraid of the quiet, or felt the need to talk like other people did. Mitch
didn't know what that said about himself, or Ben, but Mitch found it a relief
to not have to manage or amuse. Especially when he was already so tired.
When they rode into the ranch, Pepper barked as Red stepped from the bunkhouse,
and Scout struggled to get down.
"Glad to see you found her," Red nodded. When Scout struggled even
more, Red lifted her to the ground. "Chasing coyotes again?"
"Afraid so." Mitch climbed down and nodded to Yancy to take care of
the horses. "How close am I getting to my turn at the bathtub?"
"Give us a few minutes to pour in clean water, and you can go next."
"No need. I can wait for my turn like everyone else."
"Everyone else hasn't been chasing after runaway dogs the day after
roundup." Red walked away with the dogs, leaving Mitch to simply accept
the fact, and let Red take care of it.
A door opened behind Mitch, and he turned to see Mrs. Pearson coming to greet
them from the house. Flour smudged her cheek, and over her right eye, making
her look as though she'd gone to war with a flour sack and had lost. Trying not
to stare, he motioned to Ben. "I brought him home." Mitch wished he
could've taken back the words the moment he'd said them, for the boy was
standing right there. Of course he was home. Where else would he be? Back at
the creek? The smudge rose in a smile, and when Mrs. Pearson moved toward Ben,
Mitch could smell the strong scent of kerosene. "If you'll excuse me,
ma'am." Mitch tipped his hat, and started for the bunkhouse at a quick
stride.
That smell.
The kerosene probably meant she was planning to use the lamp in the kitchen.
Mrs. Franklin had put it away when he'd started eating his meals at the house,
and especially after he'd moved in. They'd been using candles ever since. And
now Mrs. Pearson had been handling kerosene.
Probably getting the lamp ready to use again.
He hated being the strange one, the odd one who couldn't live like everyone
else. Mitch pushed into the bunkhouse and started unfastening his shirt. Now
that he'd moved back with the boys, Red had asked them to put away the kerosene
lamp for Mitch's sake. They probably blamed him for making life harder than it
needed to be. All because of one man.
Mitch crossed over the bedrolls on the floor, the cowpunchers who had camped
out wherever they could, and reached his quarters-- which consisted of the
bottom half of a wooden bunk. Another cowpuncher slept in the bunk above Mitch,
making the situation a snug one. Bunks filled the room, except for the stove
that sat against the wall opposite the storeroom door. Few paid him much attention
as Mitch tossed the shirt on top of his unmade bunk, for he had yet to sleep
there since he had moved back from the house.
Oh, he had not missed this place.
Red took a bucket from off the stove, and poured it into the tub. The dogs
raised their heads to see what was going on, and when they saw no reason to get
up, they resumed their naps.
When the bathtub was ready, Mitch lost no time in using his turn. The hot water
felt so good, he couldn't help but relax for a few moments. He leaned against
the tall back of the tub and closed his eyes, his knees up, for he couldn't
stretch out. But still, the warmth felt soothing to his sore muscles.
"So--" Red sat on Mitch's bunk and folded his arms-- "how are
things at the main house?"
"How should I know?"
"You slept there last night. I walked past the window and saw the bed by
the table."
"Did you?”
Red nodded. "I was glad to see Mrs. Pearson was looking out for you."
"I don't need--"
"Yes, you do. If this ranch loses you, I'm going to have to break in a new
foreman. And before you buck any further, that's no easy task." Red
searched the floor, then handed Mitch some soap. "How did Boss take the
news? How badly does he think the winter hurt us?"
"He's still planning to buy Ed's ranch."
"Guess that explains why Boss went into Cheyenne this morning. No offense
to the boss, but what he should be doing is saving his money. He just
lost--" Red looked around and saw he was attracting attention. Red leaned
in and whispered. "There's talk some of the ranchers around here will sell
off, and leave. They can't afford another winter like the last one."
"Tired men will always say things they don't mean."
Red shrugged, and left Mitch to scrub in peace.
It was Mitch's job to keep speculation from turning into panic, but Mitch hoped
he wasn't just talking to calm Red down. Mitch wanted it to be true. He wanted
to see this ranch survive.
It wasn't until Mitch had on clean clothes that he felt the weariness set in.
Never minding the unmade blankets, or the belongings in the sack by his pillow,
he collapsed onto his bunk and closed his eyes. He breathed out, and didn't
fight back as sleep overtook him. Beside his bed, the water stirred as someone
else used the tub.
*
* * *
At the table, Ben worked at
the slate with all the enthusiasm Jane could have wished. Only he was drawing
pictures of cowboys, horses, and dogs, when what he should have been doing was
writing out his spelling words for the day. Still, Jane let him alone, and
watched him from across the table as she finished cleaning the lamp. Until the
slate had come out, Ben hadn't stopped talking about Mitch and Yancy, Yancy and
Mitch. And of course, the dogs. She'd told Ben that she hoped he hadn't called
the men by their first names unless he'd been asked to, but inside, Jane was
delighted. The outing had meant more than the men could have possibly known.
For the first time since Willie's death, Ben was responding to life. They were
small signs, things only a mother would notice: a smile where there had been
none, interest in something new where before Ben had kept asking to go home.
"Mama, this is Mitch and Yancy." Ben held up the slate and showed her
a drawing of horses and men, and she felt the gratitude of knowing Mr. Everly
was a man of his word.
Her son had a friend.
She smiled to herself as she cleaned the table to start fixing supper. Mr.
Everly had looked quite distinguished with a haircut and trimmed beard, not as
intimidating as when she'd first saw him. It was a random thought, quickly put
away while she went to work peeling potatoes. In truth, her heart felt guilty
for even noticing Mr. Everly at all, for she half expected Willie to show up as
he always did after a long period of absence. There had even been a time years
ago when she'd come to terms with the fact that he must be dead. Only to later
see him stride into the restaurant.
Pain glanced into her thoughts, and Jane looked down to find she'd cut her
finger. She sucked the blood, pushed aside all thoughts of the past, and
concentrated on the present. Supper would not get on the stove by itself.
* * * *
To Ben's disappointment, Mr.
Everly didn't eat at the house that night. As far as Jane knew, he didn't even
visit the office. She had set out his plate, and had kept the door to the
office open, but Mr. Everly had never stepped inside the house. For the first
time since their arrival, she and Ben had eaten by themselves, for even Mr.
Franklin had been absent, having gone into Cheyenne on business.
Though Ben kept asking to go out to the bunkhouse, Jane thought it best to keep
Ben from getting in the men's way. The cowboys had been cleaning themselves up
all day long, and from the activity outside the bunkhouse, they looked like a
weary lot. Though the sun had yet to set, men were sleeping in their bedrolls
on the ground. She could only assume the cowboys in the bunkhouse were doing
the same. Today was a day of rest for the men. It wasn't the Sabbath, but they
needed the rest all the same.
She waited to see what would happen tomorrow.
Early the next day, Jane set out Mr. Everly's plate, then knocked on the office
door to announce that breakfast was on the table. She understood it had been
the tradition with the Franklins for the foreman to eat at the main house, but
when he didn't come out, she started to think this foreman had made other
plans.
A few minutes later, Mr.
Everly appeared in a clean shirt and pants, and took his seat in front of the
fireplace. He placed an open book beside his plate, paused to say a quiet
prayer, then helped himself to the food while he resumed his reading.
Jane looked at the book, then at Mr. Everly. "Good morning."
"Humm?" He looked up for the briefest of moments. "Oh, yes. It's
good bacon-- thanks."
Ben no longer played with his fork, but started in on the fried potatoes and
bacon.
"That book came from the office?" Jane asked.
Mr. Everly turned a page, and kept reading, so Jane tried again.
"I admire Mr. Franklin for such good taste in literature. It seems like
very wholesome reading, don't you think?"
No answer.
"I've been meaning to ask him for permission to borrow from his
library."
Frowning, Mr. Everly moved to the next page and shoveled in a bite of potatoes.
It broke his concentration, for he turned from the book to take a second bite.
Then he went back to his book, and reached for his coffee.
"You aren't much for conversation, are you?"
Gasping, he put the cup down.
"The coffee is hot," she said simply.
He closed the book. "I apologize. I think you may have been talking to me
a moment ago, and I wasn't listening."
She cut her bacon, and smiled, and he went back to his breakfast, this time
leaving the book alone.
"Thank you for taking Ben with you, yesterday. When he came back, it was
all he could talk about."
Mr. Everly looked at a loss for words, and gave a nod to acknowledge that he'd
heard her. She was fairly sure that's what the nod had meant.
"Would Ben get in your way if he visited the bunkhouse? Not too
frequently, but just a visit every now and then?"
"I suppose not." Mr. Everly put an elbow on the table and stared at
the surface. "I don't have any children, so I'm in no position to say what
should be done. I can only say the language in the bunkhouse can get a bit
rough at times. There's no swearing to speak of, but you've seen them. They're
mostly young men."
"Thank you, I believe I understand you."
He didn't seem able to meet her eyes while talking about such things, and
stuffed breakfast into his mouth so she couldn't ask him another awkward
question. She wasn't as surprised as she thought she would be to find that Mr.
Everly was a gentleman. The cowboys she'd served at the restaurant in Fort
Collins had been perfectly behaved, so why shouldn't Mr. Everly? She chose to
forget the scowl of their first meeting, and was thankful they could now be
neighbors. She appreciated his advice, and was glad she could count him as a
friend.
Since he wanted to be left alone to read, she kept silent, and when he went
back to the office with his coffee and book, she said nothing about the clouds
in the distance, or how many eggs the hens had laid. Instead, she took her
conversation to Mrs. Franklin, while Ben sat at the table and finally wrote out
his spelling words.
With no neighbors close by, and most everyone on the ranch being male, Jane
found herself starved for conversation. Taking some sewing to Mrs. Franklin's
room, Jane asked if Mrs. Franklin would mind some company.
"Of course not!" Mrs. Franklin motioned to the chair beside her bed,
and begged to share in some of the sewing. "I keep asking Zach to let me
mend his clothes, but he's afraid of setting back my health. 'It can wait until
you're better,' he keeps saying, but I need to feel useful."
The remark gave Jane a moment of alarm, but when she saw Mrs. Franklin going to
work so contentedly, Jane could see no harm coming from a little sewing.
"You have good even stitching." Mrs. Franklin admired the seams of
Jane's handiwork before threading the needle. "Boys are hard on their
clothes, aren't they?" As Mrs. Franklin talked, Jane learned the Franklins
had three children, none of whom had survived to adulthood. They had lost the
twins during childbirth, and nine-year-old Zach Jr. had been taken by
diphtheria. When Jane ventured to look up, Mrs. Franklin was blinking the wet from
her eyes. "It's a well-made shirt. It will last Ben until he outgrows
it." Mrs. Franklin nodded knowingly, and Jane agreed, and drifted the
conversation to something less sorrowful, to the work she'd been doing in the
kitchen.
The world was filled with suffering. Of that, Jane needed no reminding. She'd
been raised to believe in a merciful God, but she was no longer a child. She
knew what life held-- now she knew better.
"You took out the lamp?" Mrs. Franklin asked.
"Pardon?" Jane had almost missed the question, for she was so lost in
her own thoughts, she had forgotten what she had just told Mrs. Franklin.
"You mentioned you cleaned and filled the kerosene lamp?"
"Yes. I found it in the back of a cupboard, of all places. The men have
been running this house for far too long, Mrs. Franklin. I'm only glad you
couldn't see the sad state of things before I started cleaning house."
"Please, put the lamp back.”
"I don't understand."
"It was there for a reason. Oh, dear." Mrs. Franklin dropped the
sewing and looked across the room at the open door. "Did Mitchell look
well this morning?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't he?"
"Put the lamp back-- right this minute. Did you use it last night? Good.
Never use kerosene around Mitchell."
"But why?"
"Never mind why. We use candles here. Always keep a good supply of
candles, so we never have to use that smelly kerosene. Run along, and put the
lamp away." Mrs. Franklin was adamant, as firm as she had ever been about
anything, so Jane hurried to do as she had been told.
It made no sense. Still, Jane took the lamp from the mantle and placed it back
in the small cupboard where it had been kept with the buckets and scrub
brushes.
Then Jane went to check on Ben's progress. The office door opened, and she
looked up to see Mr. Everly go to the basin. He wore a frown that wasn't quite
a scowl, but it was close enough to make Jane uneasy.
She held her breath. "Have we interrupted your work? Ben and I can go
elsewhere if we're disturbing you."
Mr. Everly shook his head, and splashed water on his face.
"May I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?"
"No. Thank you." He wet his face, and stood over the basin for a long
while, until Mrs. Franklin called his name down the hall. He looked up, and
that's when Jane saw it-- the grimace-- ill tempered, and harsh, just as she
had remembered it. That he had dislike for herself, Jane could believe, but for
Mrs. Franklin? Never. "I'm coming," he answered, and went to answer
Mrs. Franklin's call.
Unable to stop herself, Jane followed.
"Mitchell, I asked her to put the lamp away. Oh, no-- it's too late. I
knew it."
He waved away her concern. "I'm fine."
"Jane assures me she won't use kerosene in the house."
He smiled grimly. "You and I both know it's not that simple, but thank
you." He turned to leave, and Jane backed a step as he noticed her in the
bedroom doorway. He looked at Mrs. Franklin. "You'd do me a great service
if you'd tell her."
"Are you sure?"
"Why not? Everyone else knows." Mr. Everly moved past Jane, and she
watched him go back to the main room where he splashed more water on his face.
"Jane, come in and shut the door."
Quietly, Jane closed the door. Then Mrs. Franklin asked her to sit down.
*
* * *
Why did Mrs. Franklin have to make it a secret, as though these were something to be ashamed of? Maybe the Franklins were
ashamed of him. These weren't a sign of strength, and he was their
foreman. They never should have promoted him. He had warned them. They had
known. He had warned them, and they had promoted him anyway. Mitch sank into
the chair behind the desk, and rested his head in his hands.
Please, God, not today.
Mitch glanced at the book he'd been reading, and shut it with disgust. He'd
felt it coming on, and still he'd read. What had he expected?
A soft knock sounded on the office door. Too soft. He groaned, for he knew what
that meant. Mrs. Pearson had been told. It had been necessary, but it still
didn't make this pleasant. "Come in."
The door opened, and Mitch saw what he hadn't wanted to see in Mrs. Pearson's
face. Pity.
"Mr. Everly--"
"Why do you keep calling me that?" He leaned back in the chair and
fought the growing churn in his stomach. "I'm Mitch. No more, and no less.
Nothing but me.". She was quiet.
"I've had these since I was a boy. So I'll be fine."
She shook her head. "I had no idea the smell of kerosene could give you
sick headaches."
"I woke up with this one, so please don't blame yourself." Mitch
could see she wasn't calming down, and put the book away in exchange for a
ledger. He wanted to change the subject, to get back to work. "Is there
anything else?" he asked.
"What treatments have you tried?"
"I don't have time for plasters, or well-meaning remedies, Mrs. Pearson.
My mother tried several, and they only wore her out-- they never did me any
good. This is the way I am. Until God heals me, I'm at peace with it. So
please, may we go back to work?" Mitch clenched his hand and waited for
the pain to pass. It came in waves, so all he had to do was wait for the worst
to pass.
"Mrs. Franklin said the change in weather..."
"Or hunger," he added, "or having a lot on my mind. I hear
General Grant had them, so at least I'm in good company."
"General? He was more recently our president."
Closing his eyes, Mitch smiled. "He will always be the General to
me."
"I apologize."
Mitch opened his eyes. "For what?"
"I prefer not to tell you." She straightened the paperweight on his
desk, then turned to leave. "If you need anything, please let me know.
I'll make sure we won't make too much noise."
Mitch nodded in reply, and she softly closed the door behind her. Now that she
was gone, he shut the ledger. He silently prayed for the headache to pass, that
it wouldn't make him too sick, and that they would leave him for good. It was a
familiar prayer request, one God often answered-- all but the last.
What had Ma called this? His thorn in the flesh. Maybe Ma had been right. Mitch
had never considered himself so great that he possessed a great abundance of
anything worthy, but God knew what he needed. And since God knew what was
coming, maybe all this pain was meant to strengthen him for something that was
yet to come. Who but God could know, for Mitch certainly didn't.
Though his head still pounded as much as before, something good had happened in
this office. Mitch couldn't figure it out, but he had a suspicion it had
something to do with her.
It was a puzzle bigger than he could manage, so he set it aside and closed his
eyes to wait on God.
The pain spiked a moment, and
Mitch forced himself to relax. He remembered the quiet look in her eyes as she
apologized for nothing at all. He had smiled. Had he smiled? He couldn't be
sure. He took a deep breath, and thought of something else-- anything to get
his mind back to where it should be.
The boys had earned some time off to rest, so Mitch would rest, too. Then life
would go back to its normal routine, as it should be.
He hadn't smiled. He was almost sure of it.
"Lest I should be exalted above measure... there was given to me a thorn
in the flesh... For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart
from me. And He said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for My strength
is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my
infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take
pleasure in infirmities [sick headaches, i.e., migraines], in reproaches, in
necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am
weak, then am I strong."
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