Part 13 (1/2)

”You wasn't in Texas in January,” I told him.

He grunted. Didn't believe me. Didn't believe it ever got cold in Texas. I let him remain ignorant.

Fortified with some stout Folgers, I headed back to my bunk, fetched my s.h.i.+rt, pulled my s.h.i.+rt over my head, and grabbed my hat.

”Where is everybody?” Walter asked with a big yawn.

”Working.” Hardee rubbed some feeling back into his nose. ”Stupid cattle. A horse is fair smart. Smart enough to forage for food. A horse'll eat snow when it can't find any water, but a cow'll just founder and die in belly-deep snow.”

”We best get after them,” I told Walter Butler, grabbing my heavy coat, and headed for the door. Good, loyal Walter followed me.

”Where you two goin'?” Busted-Tooth Melvin said.

”I earn my keep,” I told him.

Walter said: ”I got to visit the privy.”

Gene Hardee piped in, ”Not like that, kiddoes.”

I didn't like that word. Kiddoes. It was what John Henry always called me and Tommy. I kept right for the door.

Gene Hardee cut me off. Shaking his head, he opened the door, let me see just what that storm was doing. Just briefly, mind you, but long enough to get another scolding from Melvin. I saw nothing but white. Then Hardee pressed himself against the door, got it closed, and sent me and Walter back to our bunks.

”You break a leg,” Hardee said, ”you don't want to freeze to death lying on the ground. Got to dress you proper.”

Well, Hardee and Melvin rigged me up so that I could hardly move, and done the same for Walter. Four pairs of socks, two of them thick woolies, and one of them stretching all the way over my knees-Dutch socks, Hardee called them-flannel underwear pulled up over my summer muslins, and an itchy unders.h.i.+rt, too, my duck trousers, and a heavy wool bib-front s.h.i.+rt. And my boots, of course. That wasn't all, neither. Though I already felt like I'd put on more clothes than I'd ever owned in all my years, Gene Hardee sat at the table, nursing coffee while using a pair of scissors on . . . well . . . it still kind of embarra.s.ses me, all these years later. . . .

Ladies undergarments. Black, thin, real fancy. And soft.

”What are those?” Walter Butler said.

”Cashmere hose,” Hardee said, handing me my pair and going to work on another pair for Walter.

”Hose?” Walter wailed, and I looked at the unmentionables in my hands. ”You mean for a woman's . . . limbs?”

Busted-Tooth Melvin snorted so hard, he sent a bunch of spit flying between his missing front teeth, causing the stove to sizzle.

”Put them on your arms.” Hardee said and tossed Walter his pair. ”Use them as extra sleeves.”

”Uhn-uh!” Walter dropped those black hose like they were rattlesnakes. ”I'm not putting a woman's underwear on my arms!”

I just stared at mine. Hardee had cut out the feet.

”You'll do like a say, Walter. It's not going to get any warmer for quite a while, and, if you lose your arms up to your elbows because of frostbite, Missus MacDunn'll never let me hear the end of it.”

I started to pull one of the things over my right arm, while Walter reluctantly picked up his pair.

”Where'd you get a pair of cashmere hose?” I asked.

”Two pairs,” Busted-Tooth Melvin corrected, spitting on the stove again.

Gene Hardee grinned. ”Utica,” he finally answered. ”Stole them from a couple of . . .”

”Poor, distressed ladies,” Melvin chimed in.

Hardee finished his coffee. ”Wouldn't call them ladies.”

”Nuns,” Melvin said. ”Nuns from Saint Peter's Mission.”

Walter dropped the hose on the floor again, and I thought both Hardee and Melvin would die.

”Nuns don't wear cashmere hose,” I told those men. I knew they were funning us.

I also knew what kind of women Hardee had been visiting in Utica.

Wasn't finished dressing, yet. Put on overalls-looked like I was nothing but a poor granger-and chaps, my gloves, and a mask Melvin had made for me by cutting out the inside lining of an old coat. You wouldn't recognize me. Felt like I was a bandit about to rob a bank. Wrapped my bandanna over my head the way Gene Hardee had done, pulling the brim of my hat down over my ears. Walter was luckier. He had a cap made of sealskin to keep his ears warm. He also had a pair of big overshoes instead of stovepipe leather boots.

Thus fortified, we stepped outside.

And like to have froze to death.

This was like no wind that ever blew, the most vicious gale, carrying with it the screams of thousands and thousands and thousands of men and women and animals and monsters. Like it came from the depths of h.e.l.l, only with a numbing cold instead of the worst heat, filling the air with snow that stabbed like rock salt fired from a shotgun.

It slashed. It cut. It tore. It wailed.

No matter how many layers of clothing Gene Hardee and Busted-Tooth Melvin put on me, it wasn't enough. Nothing could protect you from that icy fury.

When I think about it, the snow didn't really amount to much. Not then. The big storms came later. That November day, I'd guess we got six inches, maybe seven, but the wind kept whipping it around. It felt more like riding through a West Texas sandstorm than a snowstorm. Those Aberdeen Angus cattle, black as midnight, were easy to spot in the wailing, gray-tinted whiteness. That was our one bit of good fortune, but the cattle hadn't gotten used to this range, and they'd drift, and bawl, and drift, and moan, and drift, and drift, and drift. Snow drifted, too, piling high against the walls of the ranch buildings, producing mounds scattered on the wind-swept, snow-covered hills that surrounded the Bar DD headquarters.

Heads bent low, hands stuck deep in our coat pockets, reins hanging around saddle horns, me and Walter, Gene Hardee, and Busted-Tooth Melvin pushed some Angus and longhorn toward something that might resemble a shelter. Finding a windbreak in Montana proved mighty hard.

I didn't see the accident. Didn't even hear it. If Busted-Tooth Melvin hadn't been paying attention, we might would have left our boss lying in the snow to die, but Melvin kept yelling, and finally the wind blew his shouts in my direction. I pulled my hands out of the pockets, took the reins, stopped Crabtown, and shouted hard at Walter Butler. Walter was riding right beside me, but the wind cried so loud, blew so hard, it took me four or five good whoops before he heard me, and reined up. I pointed, and we turned our mounts, rode into that brutal wind, and saw what had happened.

Gene was standing, hopping, favoring his left leg, trying to catch the reins of the buckskin, which was lying on the snow. He yelled something. Couldn't hear it. Couldn't hear anything. Saw Busted-Tooth Melvin's head shake.

”Get down!” Busted-Tooth Melvin made a motion with his hands, and me and Walter swung from our mounts, watching Melvin pull a Marlin repeater from the scabbard. Next he handed me the reins to his claybank.

”For G.o.d's sake, boy,” he said, and I could just barely hear him, ”don't drop these reins! Keep between the horses. That'll protect you from the wind. And hold 'em reins tight. Tight! You hear me?”

I wasn't green. Knew if I let any horse wander off, we'd be in a bad fix. My head bobbed, and I started to pull off one of my gloves, so I could get a better hold on the stiff, cold leather, but Melvin stopped me p.r.o.nto.

”You want to lose 'em fingers?” he barked. ”Keep that glove on!”