Wyoming Heather (11 page)

Clara clamped her mouth shut and hung her head. “Of course, Maude. As always I can look to you for guidance.”

“Absolutely.” The rose nearly fell from the hat with that head bob. “Now, where was I?”

“Heather said she mustn’t, she really mustn’t, and you said—”

“For goodness sake, Clara, it wasn’t a question. Oh,” she said then closed her eyes and gave a long, suffering sigh, “my road is indeed narrow, but I will trod it. I will.”

Maude turned back to Heather, who by now was fighting hard not to laugh. As tired as she was, she feared if once started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Poor Maude. Oh, and poor, poor Clara.

“Now, Heather, my dear, you must share whatever is worrying you.”

“Thank you, Maude,” she answered in as sincere and sweet voice as could be summoned. “But even though I know you would readily agree to lend a hand, being such a dear friend of Mother’s, I wouldn’t feel right asking you. Still”—She put her finger to her lips—“you are such giving souls.” Her sigh of resignation filled the air. “No, no, it wouldn’t be right.”

Heather shook her head, a small, disappointed smile clouding her face. If Maude would have looked closer, she would have seen the imp dancing in Heather’s eyes.

By this time, Maude was bursting with curiosity. She could already visualize relaying this visit to the other ladies, holding them enthralled.

“Heather, you must ask me, you must.” She fairly shouted the words.

“But, but, Maude,” Clara meekly broke in. “If Heather feels so strongly about asking you, perhaps she shouldn’t.”

Both women pounced on the poor, unsuspecting Clara like hens on a June bug.

“Hush, Clara,” ordered Maude.

“Oh, no, Clara,” said Heather. “I mean, what I mean is, Maude is right. I should feel free to ask you anything.”

“Indeed you should, Heather. And I,” Maude said imperiously, “will do everything in my power to assist you in whatever you ask. Now. Ask.”

Heather swallowed. This was the performance of her life. “Maude, you see I have a problem. A very embarrassing problem. I wouldn’t want anyone but you and, of course, Clara to know.”

“Go on, go. For heaven’s sake, Heather, quit stalling.”

“Well, we have lice.”

Maude recoiled so fast she bumped heads with poor Clara who had been leaning forward until she was inches from Maude.

“Ow,” cried Clara.

“Clumsy bumpkin,” cried Maude.

“Oh, my dear, Maude,” Heather said. “I worded that wrong. We don’t have lice. I mean we do have lice, but I don’t. Oh, I’m not making myself clear.”

“Heather Campbell. You will make yourself clear this instant.”

“What I’m trying to say is, my chickens have lice, or is it mites?”

“Lice, mites, who cares?” Maude cried in a strangled voice, shivers rolling down her back. “Disgusting.” Her hand tightened on the reins.

“That’s correct, Maude, how perceptive. It is truly disgusting. My poor hens, pick, pick, pick. Do you know”—Heather leaned forward conspiratorially—“they actually eat the vile critters.”

A very green Maude groaned, “Heather.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Maude. Let me get to the point.”

“You’re not at the point yet?” she asked, tears of frustration lacing her voice.

Heather gave her a beatific smile.

“I need another set of hands. Actually,” she said, peering around Maude to a crouching Clara, “two sets of hands would be perfect. Each of you could hold a chicken while I douse them with lime. Hmm, maybe . . .” She paused as though giving her next words grave thought. “Maybe kerosene would be best. No, it’s so messy and smelly. What do you think, Maude?”

“I think,” Maude croaked in a small voice. “Uh, I think Clara and I have given you the wrong impression. Clara, you should have made our visit clearer to Heather.”

“Clearer, Maude?”

“Oh, the suffering I endure. Yes, clearer. You see, Heather, we are on a very tight schedule. Very tight. Right, Clara?”

“Oh, yes, Maude. Very tight.”

“We must have given you the impression we have time to spare. But we don’t. No, we certainly don’t. We just stopped by for a quick, very quick, visit on our way to the Bronson’s. Mary Bronson just gave birth to twins, and I’m sure she needs us far more than your chickens. You certainly can’t expect us to put a chicken before a baby, two babies.”

“But, Maude,” Heather protested. “If I don’t de-louse my chickens—”

“Heather, we must bid you good day. Sister and I have our demands and duties. However, I will relay our conversation, and”—she lowered her voice ominously—“my observations to the Reverend. Now. Step back.”

With a set jaw and a snap of her wrists, Maude made the horse jump forward. The last Heather saw of the good ladies was through a cloud of dust.

She collapsed on a nearby chopping block and laughed until tears rolled down her face. But when the laughter left, she gave herself a severe talking to for all the lies and deception she’d served out. Still, a few hours later she was still remembering and chuckling.

The visit had served an important part in the day and her life. And, later, when she read in her father’s notes that there was a proper way to “butter” the end of a brick with mortar for a firm bond, she didn’t pause in intimidation. Anyone that could forestall a visit from Maude and Clara would have no problem buttering a brick. No problem at all.

Chapter 21

Morning came early. The darkness crept away like a thief in the night, leaving only the morning star to greet the sleepy sun.

Whip went down the porch steps holding a steaming cup of coffee in his large hand. This was his first cup, and although he was up and walking, his mind would not come to grips with the day until his second cup cleared the cobwebs. He hoped to have the wagon unloaded by then.

He gingerly placed the cup on the side of the wagon and slowly peeled back the canvas. He picked the cup back up, took another gulp of the strong brew, and, rolling his shoulders to ease the night kinks, reached into the wagon with his free hand. It closed around a bare foot.

Whip’s sleep-clogged mind took its time registering what he held. By that time, the body attached to the foot bolted upright, opened wide its mouth and yelled.

“INDIANS! HELP! HELP! THEY GOT ME. I’M A GONNER. HELP!”

“WHAT THE HELL!” Whip shouted. “I’LL BE DAMNED!”

Then when things couldn’t get much worse, they did. Another body bolted upright, opened up its mouth and began screaming, screams loud enough to shake the birds from the trees. Screams loud enough that the bunkhouse door flew open and cowboys in all states of dress and undress came running, cussing and hopping. Their cries joined the other piercing screams, and the boy hollering, “Indians! Help! Help!”

Whip’s grip tightened on the foot that had started this whole mess.

“Run. Run. They’s got me in a bear trap. I’ll hold ‘em off, but you gotta run.”

“Don’t you dare run,” Whip shouted into the bedlam. “Shorty, grab the little screamer.”

“Pee-e-uw! This ‘un stinks like horse manure. I ain’t about to—”

“You leave my, my, uh, my brother alone.” Indians forgotten, the boy wiggled in Whip’s grasp, fists flying at the unfortunate Shorty while he tried to stand upwind of the small offender.

“Quiet!” Whip’s bellow stopped time. Silence followed. “Don’t anybody say another word. I mean it. You, Stinky, you stop that caterwauling. And you,” he said, giving the foot a shake, “you shut up. I have you, but I wish to gosh I didn’t. If you don’t shut up and hold still, I’ll find some Indians and pay them to take you. Now. You tell me, and you tell me quickly, what are you doing in the back of my wagon?”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till you let my brother go.”

“Listen, son. You aren’t in any position to bargain. You and that stinking brother of yours are trespassing in my wagon, smelling up my ranch, ruining my first cup of coffee, and”—he glanced at the men circling the wagon—“making fools out of my hands.  Start talking.”

“Ain’t.”

“What?”

“Ain’t.”

“Ain’t? Well, then, guess I have no choice. Shorty, take Stinky there out to the woods and do your best Indian call. You know. The owl one.” He nudged his head toward the puzzled man.

“What? Oh. Yeah, the owl one. Sure will boss. That owl one always brings in a bunch of Indians screaming mean with war paint all over them. They’ll make short work of this tadpole.”

“Wait! Wait, mister. Mister Shorty, don’t you make no owl call. I’ll talk. I will.”

“Get a move on,” Whip ordered. “Shorty’s got his mouth all puckered.”

“Don’t mean you no harm, mister. All’s I wanted was a ride for me and my brother. We was goin’ to jump off soon as we came to the woods. Didn’t plan on falling asleep. But, now that you know, guess we can be movin’ on out of your wagon seeing we’re tres-tres—”

“Trespassing,” Whip supplied the word. “Sorry, son. But you ain’t moving on anywhere.” Whip frowned. “Just where were you planning on running to after you jumped off?”

“The river probly. Least ways we would start there, I expect.”

“Start what?” Whip’s patience was wearing thin. One spilled cup of coffee, the brown stain already soaked into the dry ground, lingered on his lips and in his mind.

“Gettin’ us some of that gold.”

“Gold?” Whip and several of the men barked out the word.

“I wasn’t gonna take much of it. Just enough to get us a house and some food. I ain’t no thief, Mister. I smelled them apples you got in that sack there, but I never touched them. They smelled mighty good, but I didn’t. I figured I’d catch us a couple fish before we started looking for them gold nuggets lying on the ground.”

“Whoa, son. Let me get this straight.” Whip loosened his grip on the boy’s foot while keeping a close watch. “You and Stinky there hitched a ride in my wagon. Right?”

“Yessir, mister.” The boy’s eyes looked everywhere but at the man questioning him.

“And you were planning on jumping out of the wagon at the most likely spot. Right?”

“Yessir.”

“And once you were there at that most likely spot, you planned on running to where those big gold nuggets were just lying around.” Snickers greeted this statement. “Right?”

“Yessir. But I wasn’t planning on taking them all.”

Whip sucked in his cheeks to stop his grin. The young boy, barely daring to look at him, was serious, and it would crush all the boy had, his pride, if he was laughed at. Whip threw a warning glance at the hands surrounding the wagon. The shake of his head stopped the grinning and poking that had started.

“Well now, son, I appreciate that, I sure do. But there is one fact you’ve overlooked.”

“What’s that, mister?”

“Well, you see, there are no nuggets.”

“No nuggets?” The boy’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“No.”

“None?”

“Not a one, son.”

“Somebody took ‘em all?” Incredulous disappointment shrouded his face and body. Each word, each question, was embroidered with wonder and dread.

“Well, son, that’s not quite the way of it. You see, there never were any gold nuggets just lying around waiting to be picked up.”

“But my pa—” The boy’s voice cracked. “My pa said one day we would pack up and head West where gold nuggets were just waiting for our picking. He said that.” Then in a much lower voice, he repeated the words. “He said that.” His head dropped to his chest and despair emanated from the small body.

Several of the men lowered their eyes and slowly shook their heads. Then one by one each drifted back to the bunkhouse. No one was laughing now.

Whip wiped his hand roughly across his face and swallowed hard.

“You hungry, son?”

“I could eat a bear, mister. I surely could.”

“Well, I don’t have any bear on hand, but I can offer pancakes, honey, and side pork. Would that fill the hollow spot?”

“Thank you, mister, but I guess the answer is no.”

“No?” Whip’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Why? You just said you were hungry.”

“I’m real hungry, mister, but I don’t eat lessen my, uh, my brother eats too. Did the offer include him?” he asked hopefully.

Whip looked away, stalling for composure. Then in a quiet voice, he answered, “Of course it does, son. Of course it does.” He turned to the child still in Shorty’s grasp.

“What about you, Stinky? Are you hungry.”

There was no answer unless you could call the widening of big blue eyes in too small a face an answer.

“Well?” Whip asked.

“He don’t talk, mister. But he’s hungry. I know that for a fact.”

Whip turned his attention back to the young boy standing bravely in the back of the wagon.

“What do you mean he don’t talk?”

“He just don’t. Reckon he’s too scared.”

“Scared?” Whip posed the question gently into the morning air.

The boy nodded. “You see, mister, nobody likes my, uh, my brother. So’s they whip him or push and shove him.”

An oath fell from Whip’s lips as the facts were related without any sign of self-pity or expectation for fairness. Things were what they were, and both boys had come to grips with that.

Whip took a couple of deep, steadying breaths as admiration filled him for the spunky child who, being dealt a bad hand, hadn’t succumbed, but had stood and fought not only for himself but for his brother.

Whip’s heart filled with compassion. “Why don’t they like him, son? Can you tell me?”

The answer came hesitant and begging for understanding. The boy looked fully at the big man, and with the wisdom children so often have and lose as they grow older, knew that before him stood someone he could trust. This man, waiting so quietly for his answer, wouldn’t hurt him or his brother, no matter his reply. His fingers reached out and, like a butterfly, skittishly touched Whip’s hand resting near his foot.

“He, uh, he can’t help it, mister.”

“Okay. It’s okay. You can tell me, son. What can’t he help?”

“He, he wets on himself. When he’s scared, which is mostly all the time, he just starts letting it run down his leg, or if’n he’s in bed, it gets soaked too. Didn’t nobody want to adopt him. He can’t talk, he’s scared, he wets himself, and he smells. You see, mister, we slept three, maybe four to a bed in the orphanage and the other kids, well”—he swallowed hard—“the other kids they’d start hitting him. Then the man would come and he’d smack him pretty hard and call him names. Sometimes they just threw him in the corner. Without blankets or nothing. That was the good times cause then I could sneak him a blanket or two when no one was paying attention. See, mister, he can’t fight, ‘cause he’s little. But I can, ‘cause I’m big.”

“So you fought his battles, didn’t you?” Not waiting for or needing an answer, Whip went on. “Why the manure? He’s pretty ripe, son.”

The boy nodded. “I know, mister. But you see, that manure keeps people away from him. Cause sometimes I’m not there to protect him. And sometimes, well, sometimes. . .”

Whip didn’t press him to continue. He knew what the boy couldn’t say. That sometimes the opponent was too big for the boy to fight off. He looked hard at the little gladiator and judged him to be no more than six, maybe seven. Too young, too small, to have taken on the burden he carried. Too young, too small, to face man’s cruelties. Yet, by darn, he’d fought back.

Whip felt a surge of pride at the pluck and determination of the boy. Then, a random thought came to the surface of his mind and from the pit of his gut. He knew another boy who had been born having to fight one enemy after another.
But
, he thought,
I had Buster
.
Yeah, maybe not at first, but I had my own champion to help fight battles. Buster Walking Tall stood by me like this small boy is standing by the little one he’s calling brother.

Brothers
. Whip smiled to himself. The two boys were as improbable brothers as he and Buster. Improbable because of birth, but not improbable because of fierce protectiveness and caring. One small boy with black hair, big brown eyes, and a darker skin tone. An even smaller boy with hair a pale blond, a blond that would border on white once the dirt and manure was washed away. Blond/white hair, blue eyes, long eyelashes, and fair, fair skin. At least it looked to be fair under all the filth.

“How old are you, son?”

“Six. My pa died when I turned five, and I been in the orphanage since then. Pa said my mother died when I was born.”

The innocent response gave Whip the answer he already knew. There was no way this six-year-old could have a little brother.

“Uh huh. Then how old’s your brother?”

Whip wished he could take back the question when he saw the frightened look on the child’s face. Like any cornered animal, he prepared to fight for his very life.

“Don’t remember, mister.” His hands turned into fists where they hung stiffly by his side. “Well, ‘spect my brother and I will be headin’ on out. If we could trouble you for them pancakes we’d, I’d, be willing to work for them. My brother can’t ‘cause he’s little, but I can ‘cause I’m big.”

“You don’t owe me anything for breakfast, son.”

“Don’t take no handouts. We’ll eat, then I’ll work, then we’ll leave.”

The hands slowly uncurled, and the boy jumped down from the wagon. He stood there for a long moment, slowly looking up at Whip.

“Say, mister. You don’t happen to need an extra worker, do you? I’m strong and I don’t eat much. Neither does my brother,” he added as an afterthought.

In the days that followed, Whip would wonder at whatever had possessed him to give the answer he did.

“You know, I sure do.”

“You do?” the boy asked, his voice wonder filled.

“Yep. Got too much work here for me and the boys. Lots to do before winter. I sure could use someone of your size and strength.”

Inches grew around the boy’s small chest. Worry and fear vanished and shoulders squared.

“My brother, too?”

“Your brother, too.”

Whip glanced over at the smelly child still in Shorty’s grasp and saw the look on his ranch hand’s face. All he could do was shrug his shoulders. Two kids. Two boys, babies really. Two orphans no one wanted. One six years old and the other probably no more than three with, from the looks and smell of him, as many years of filth encrusted on his body. Bathing would be a fierce fight, one he wasn’t sure he was up to because he knew, without a doubt, he’d have to take on the big brother.

“Shorty,” he said, his voice dry. “Take both these boys to the bunk house for breakfast. Tell Cookie to give them as much as they want.”

“Okay, boss,” Shorty said, his mouth in a wide grin. “Right away.”