Part 8 (1/2)

Chapter Fourteen.

Hackers used the road from Hannah Gulch all the way to Tie Camp Creek, twenty-four miles, hauling wood for the railroad they were building.

Me and Tommy come up here that fall of '86. Well, first we went to Helena. Me and Tommy, Ish, and Gene Hardee driving four wagons. And Major MacDunn. He just plucked us two kids out of school. Since I wasn't about to question the major, I asked Gene Hardee what we were doing, and he said we needed supplies. With the root cellar already full of potatoes and turnips, I told him four wagons was a lot of supplies, and he reckoned that was the truth. I told him they must be important supplies if the foreman and the major was fetching them, and he started brooding. Wouldn't say a word, but before I could pester Ish with questions, Tommy elbowed me in my side. I held my tongue, climbed into my wagon, followed the rest of them to Helena.

One afternoon on the trail down to Helena, I looked up, saw a flock of birds high in that clear Montana sky.

”Look at them ducks,” I said.

Tommy, oh, that Tommy, he had to correct me, point out to the others just how ignorant I was.

”They're geese,” he said.

I reckon they were at that. I could hear them honking, making a perfect V as they flew.

”Wish you had your Ten Gauge, Gene,” Ish Haley said, flicking the reins. ”Some greasy goose meat would sure hit the spot.”

Major MacDunn, now he didn't care about any birds, just kept riding south, sitting deep in his saddle, his mind a thousand miles away, oblivious to the flock following him overhead, then pa.s.sing him. On the other hand, Gene Hardee had reined in, took off his hat, and spied on those geese till they were out of sight.

”Funny,” Gene said.

”How's that?” Ish asked him.

Gene Hardee put his hat back on, and shrugged. ”Kind of early for geese.”

Left the wagons at the depot, waited for the major to talk to the fellow running the station there, then he came back, told us the train wasn't due for two more hours. The major said he'd stand us all to some dinner at the Bonanza State Restaurant before he had to get to a big meeting of the Montana Stock Growers a.s.sociation at the Grandon Hotel.

Hadn't really paid much attention to the city when me and Tommy and John Henry first arrived that summer. Didn't remember much of it, except Teddy Roosevelt talking at the depot about barbed wire. Was different on this second trip. Never seen so many fancy people in all my days. That was Helena. Gold, and livestock, and banks, and real estate had made a lot of folks rich. Millionaires they were. I heard once that some fifty millionaires hung their hats in Helena. No wonder Major MacDunn and the other leading stockmen were meeting here.

You've seen the Grandon Hotel, I reckon, big, fancy hotel at Sixth and Warren. It was fancy then, too, although they hadn't yet added that third story or the cupola. That's where we found Madame Samson, The Gifted Prophetess. She wasn't no millionaire, but she drew a crowd in front of the hotel where the cattlemen were meeting. Drew more folks than even Teddy Roosevelt.

Never seen a woman dressed as fancy as she was, like she had stepped straight out of one of those stories about the Arabian nights. She had set up a table on the boardwalk, charging anyone interested in hearing his or her future a whole dollar. I didn't think the major would hold no truck with a soothsayer, but he stopped, and we watched her for a couple of minutes. She told a young woman with blonde hair that her baby would be a healthy boy, told a man in a checkered vest that he should not draw to an inside straight, and then Major MacDunn sat down, flipped her a dollar, and asked her about the coming weather. My jaw liked to have dropped to the pine planks at my feet.

She turned some cards-not poker cards, either-and looked up with eyes blacker than any I'd ever seen, and said in an accent that sounded mighty strange: ”The loss in cattle this year will not be markedly large.”

The major's face brightened. ”Madame Samson,” he said, tipping her another dollar, ”if you have correctly called this tune, come back to Helena in the spring, and you shall do better business than Hennesy's saloon.”

Some burly men loaded our four wagons at the depot, not a one of us saying a word as we watched. My mouth had turned to sand, and after the tarps were tied over our freight, after Gene Hardee had signed some papers, we climbed into the wagons, released the brakes, and headed out of Helena.

”What about Major MacDunn?” I asked.

”Major's got his meeting,” Gene Hardee answered. ”He'll be here another day or two. Don't want us hanging around town.”

n.o.body said anything else till we made camp that night, and even I had enough brains not to join the conversation.

”This isn't going to set well,” Ish said.

”You ride for the brand,” Gene Hardee reasoned. ”MacDunn pays me money. I don't question his orders, nor his motives.”

”I don't like it,” Tommy said, and I tried to elbow him in the ribs, get him to shut up. Our cargo made him mad, too. I was like Gene Hardee, maybe. I rode for the brand, drew wages from the major, didn't want to question his orders, but I had seen enough of barbed wire-even though this was a different brand than Scutt's, something called Haish's patented Original S-to last a lifetime. Devil's rope. John Henry had come more than a thousand miles to get away from that wire, and here it was. Being hauled by me and Tommy.

Tommy told them about the drift fence, how much havoc it had caused in the Panhandle, and Ish and Gene Hardee listened solemnly, but, when Tommy finished his story, Ish said: ”This isn't Texas, Tommy. And Major MacDunn isn't building a drift fence.”

”What would you know about it?” Tommy yelled, shooting to his feet. ”You're nothing but a knock-kneed Oregonian son-”

Ish slapped him down with his hat before Tommy could finish, and, when Tommy jumped up, Ish knocked him down again. I started after Ish myself, but something caused me to change course, and I leaped in front of the cowhand and tackled Tommy, held him down, which took some doing, Tommy typically being not only smarter, but faster and stronger than me.

”Let me go!” Tommy yelled, but I squeezed him harder. Gene Hardee had also grabbed Ish's arms, pinned them back, but I could make out Ish's head nodding, his eyes not so angry.

”Let it go,” I told Tommy. ”That's Ish . . . our friend. You ain't . . . fighting . . . him.”

Finally I loosened my grip. Gene Hardee made them two shake hands, be pals again, and things settled down.

It rained on the ride back. Not much of a rain, and, like G.o.d wanted to match our moods, He turned the rain into hail. We got beat by those hailstones, about the size of my thumbnail, a good ten, fifteen minutes. Long time for a hailstorm. It broke a bird's wing. I remember that. Saw the bird hopping along, flapping its one good wing, on the side of the road. We didn't stop, of course, to help it.

Tommy stayed. He was a stayer. But he wasn't the same Tommy O'Hallahan that I'd ridden with up the trail. I suspect he stayed because of Lainie MacDunn. Same as me.

Chapter Fifteen.

See that tree, boy? The marks on it? Up higher. There you go. Grizzly sign. Marked his territory by slas.h.i.+ng the trunk, letting everyone know he's segundo of this outfit. Bent it, too, likely from rubbing against it. You probably could have found some grizzly fur in the bark before winter came along. From the looks of that mark, he did that sometime last summer or thereabouts. He ain't around now. Horses would have caught his scent, but we might best head back to camp, just to be safe.

Reminds me of the time Tommy roped an old silvertip.

When we first started riding together, Tommy didn't know nothing about roping, but he had a stubborn streak in him, a determination, and, more important-like, he had John Henry for a teacher. Tommy beat himself black and blue trying to master a lariat, but he did it. Down in Texas, boys used to bet on him roping a coyote. So Tommy was the best roper, and me a pretty good bronc' buster. 'Course, John Henry was best at everything.

Well, after we got the wire hauled down from Helena, Major MacDunn let me and Tommy start working the fall gather. Oh, we still had school Mondays through Thursdays, but we didn't have to go to school-Mrs. MacDunn frowned on that-Fridays. I suspect that was a compromise between the major and the missus, him wanting us to earn our keep seven days a week. So on Thursday, after school, we'd mount our horses and ride over toward the Sawtooths, helping out Fridays and Sat.u.r.days and partly on Sundays-Mrs. MacDunn must have really stewed on that, what with us missing church and all-before coming back to the Bar DD headquarters that afternoon.

Must have happened the second weekend. Ish Fishtorn was bossing us, with Gene Hardee ramroding another group on the far side of Castle Reef, and he had me night hawking the remuda. Never cared for being a night hawk. Always figured that was a job for some tenderfoot, and I fancied myself more as a top hand. Yet I sure looked like a tenderfoot, and riled all the grown-ups in our outfit, because the horses scattered Friday night and Sat.u.r.day night.

”Boy, can't you do nothin' right?” said Busted-Tooth Melvin. ”We burn daylight chasin' down the mounts you scared off!”

I promised it wouldn't happen again, and Ish took me aside, told me it better not happen again, said if it did, I'd be back in school and church, and they'd let Walter Butler night hawk. So Sat.u.r.day night, with it raining slight but steady, I aimed to keep them horses in one bunch. Around midnight, the rain turned to sleet, but I rode around the herd, singing softly with my teeth clattering, doing my job, making sure I stayed awake by chewing tobacco and rubbing the juice in my eyes. Burned like blazes, but I told myself that at least my eyes were warm. The sleet stopped an hour or so later, and the horses seemed settled down, and I started to feel a little better. Cold, but relaxed.

Right before dawn, they all busted loose.

Well, you never seen such a ruction. The horses didn't just scatter, they stampeded. Some of them ran right through camp, and I'd stupidly thrown my saddle on Gray Boy that night, and he took to bucking, had me pulling leather, hanging on for dear life. Most of the boys had their best horses handy, but it took some doing for them to get a foot in the stirrup. Couldn't hear a thing but horses snorting and men cussing, and most of those cuss words were aimed at me.