Dry Divide (8 page)

“There's no need of it as far as I'm concerned,” I told him.

“I'd trust her as far as I would my own sister, but if she'd rather have a written agreement I'd be glad to sign it.”

Mrs. Hudson had been sitting as though she had no part in the deal, looking down in an unseeing manner at her folded hands. When I'd finished speaking she raised her head, looked squarely into my eyes, and said, “I'm beholden to you for what you've a'ready done around the place . . . giving me a hand with the milking . . . putting the barges into shape . . . and promising to stay on through harvest and thrashing. There's no man I'd leaver have take care of the crop . . . or to have the horses . . . half of 'em are colts of my little mare, Vixen . . . she passed on last winter. I don't want no paper less'n you do.”

“Then I reckon we've got a deal,” the banker broke in. As he spoke he reached in his pocket, bringing out a checkbook and a signature card. He pushed them across the table toward me, and said, “Better put your John Hancock on that card, so we'll know your checks when they come in. Clara's going to stay a few days with her folks . . . till the funeral's over . . . but Judy'll come out and do the cooking for you—you'll look after her, won't you, Son?—and if you'll give her a list of the grub you want she'll fetch it out this morning . . . Joe'll open up to get it for her. Think you can make out all right?”

“I wouldn't be much of a man if I couldn't make out with backing like this,” I told him, “and I want you to know that I thank you for your confidence—both of you.”

“Don't thank me,” Bones chuckled; “thank Judy. I couldn't get the little tyke off my coat tail till I'd promised to come right on out here and get things buttoned up for you to boss the job. Clara thought, like I did, that the best thing to do was to go on through with the deal you and I made in the first place. She's going to ride back to town with me after the undertaker comes—I've phoned him so he'll be along pretty soon. When there's anything I can do for you, let me know; I'll be dropping out now and again to see how you're getting on.”

There was little more left to say, so I thanked Mrs. Hudson again, and asked, “Did Mr. Hudson get the new conveyor belts for the header last night?”

“No, he didn't,” she told me, “and that's partly what he was so mad about. They wouldn't leave him have 'em without he paid cash.”

“Could I get them at The Bluffs?” I asked Bones. “I'm afraid the ones we've got now are too rotten to run another day.”

“No, not for an old fifteen-foot header like this one—there can't be more than three or four of 'em left in the country,” he told me. “You'd have to go to Oberlin to get 'em, but the Cooperative keeps open on Sundays in harvest time, and they'll take your check all right. Get anything you need, and I'll phone 'em and tell 'em you're good for it. If you talked real sweet to Judy I reckon she'd drive you over there. You could come by The Bluffs and pick up your grub on the way back. Joe'll be up and about by that time, and it would save you making up a list.”

7

On My Own

W
HEN
I left the kitchen after my talk with Bones and Mrs. Hudson, Doc and Judy were still sitting on the windmill platform. I went right to them and asked, “Doc, would you ask the others to come up here? We've got a little business to talk about.”

Judy was as eager and jumpy as a race horse at the barrier when I sat down beside her. Doc was barely out of earshot before she took hold of my sleeve, twiddled it nervously, and asked, “You're going to boss the harvesting, ain't you, Bud? Sis said she wanted you to, and I talked to Bones, and he said . . .”

I took her hand off my sleeve, but didn't let go of it, and broke in, “Yes, Judy girl, and more than that; I'm going to be in business for myself on it. We've made a deal that I'll hire the crew, feed it, and harvest the whole crop. If I get it done by the end of the month, all the horses and equipment will be mine, and I'll have made a good stake to boot. It's going to be a big job—bigger than I can handle unless the fellows stand close behind me and want to see me win out. Can I count on you to help me with it?”

She looked up into my face earnestly, and told me, “You know I'll help you all I can, Bud. Till Sis comes back I'll have to sleep to home, but I'll come early in the mornings, and stay till everything is took care of at nights, and I can pitch wheat almost as good as any man my size. I could . . .”

“Yes, you could kill yourself in about three days if I'd let you, but I'm not going to,” I said. “We'll get our own breakfasts, and take care of the milk and dishes after supper, but you can do the rest of the cooking and dishes, then drive barge for Gus and Lars in what extra time you have—that is, if the rest of the crew sees this the way I do. That'll give you both hands full, because I plan to be a harder slave driver than Myron was.”

Judy sat looking down at our hands for a minute, rubbing her thumb along mine. Then without looking up, she asked, “What you going to do when the harvest's ended, Bud?”

“I don't know,” I told her, “but I like that valley where the bluffs are; it looks to me like awfully good cattle country. If I win out on this job and get the horses, and a little stake, I might stay around a while and try to get a small place of my own—not farming, but cattle. I worked with them when I was a little kid, and I guess I got cattle and horses into my blood. I've always told myself I'd be a cattleman when I grew up, and I'm just about there. I'll be twenty-one in December. If I'm ever going into the business it's about time I made a start.”

We let go of each other's hand when we heard the shuffle of boots, and were talking about going to Oberlin for conveyer belts when Doc came back with the crew. “Sit down and let's do a little chinning,” I told them. “An hour ago I thought the deal I told you about last night was all off, but it isn't. The bankers are out of it now, but Mrs. Hudson has made me the same proposition, and I've taken it. Last night I was figuring on hiring another man to make up a crew of eight, but Judy thinks she could cook for us and help in the field too. If she does, we might get along without another man, but she'd share with the rest of us on the money. Gus and Lars would have to get along without a driver for a couple of hours a day, and somebody would have to pitch in on cooking breakfast and washing the supper dishes. It's up to you fellows: what'll we do; get another man, or say we've got one?”

Judy was still in her rolled-up overalls and jumper, and with her cap pulled down over her hair she looked—from the back—more like a boy than a girl. She kept her head down while I was talking, but when I asked the question she peeked nervously along the line of faces. There was no question about the decision: Gus and Lars began nodding at each other, and Doc volunteered to help with the cooking and dishwashing. Even though Paco couldn't understand a word, he seemed to know what was going on, and his smile showed that he was all for the idea.

“All right,” I said, “now that we know who's on the team we'd better get lined out on what we're going to do next. Judy's going to drive me to town for new conveyor belts and a load of groceries. Before we start, Doc, let's go over the old header, so I can pick up whatever other parts need to be replaced, and tools for doing the job. Paco can mend harness and make check straps to replace those jockey poles, and the rest of you might see what you can do about making two decent barges out of those three old wrecks. Let's get everything shipshape today, so we'll be ready to tackle the job bright and early in the morning.”

By the time I'd told Paco I was going to be his new boss, and what I wanted him to do, Doc was at the header and the other four were fishing barge wheels out of the tank. Within half an hour I had a list of the new parts and tools we'd need, and Judy was waiting for me by the old Maxwell. She'd changed into her bright gingham dress, and looked as pert as a robin in the spring. She jiggled the choke wire while I turned the crank, and the old jalopy backfired as if she thought it was still the Fourth of July and she had all the firecrackers. She was still backfiring when Judy clashed her into gear, and we went streaking out of the yard. Considering the roads, Judy was a fast driver, and she talked nearly as fast as she drove. If I hadn't already been pretty well sold on Beaver Valley as a good place to go into the cattle business, she'd have sold me long before we reached Oberlin.

Bones must have phoned the man at the Co-operative before we got there, for he was certainly co-operative. He seemed more than anxious to please me, got me everything I asked for, and reminded me of some I'd forgotten. When I fished out my checkbook he could have seen that it was brand new, but I didn't want him to know I was writing the first check I'd ever written in my life, so I numbered it 101. And before I filled in the amount I looked up and said, “It being Sunday, I'm a little short of cash; mind if I make it out for an extra five?”

“Not a bit,” he told me. “Make it out for whatever you want; I've got plenty of cash on hand today.”

I didn't want Judy to know that I didn't have a solitary nickel, but I did want to buy her an ice-cream soda while we were in a town big enough that we could get one. She seemed willing enough to have me do it, and I've bought ice-cream sodas for a lot of girls I didn't like as well.

Driving around to Cedar Bluffs on our way back to the place took us about ten miles out of our way, but we were busy enough talking that the trip didn't seem very far. As soon as we'd pulled out of Oberlin I told Judy, “I want to set the best table anywhere around. You do the ordering, and buy enough stuff to run us all the way through harvest. One of the first things my father taught me about ranching was that the boss who sets the best table, and who feeds his horses best, is the one who has the least trouble and gets the most done.”

Judy pulled the old Maxwell over to the side of the road, fished a stubby pencil out of her handbag, and told me to write things down as she called them off to me, so we'd know just what we wanted when we reached Joe's store. Before we reached it I thought she must be planning to set up a grocery store of our own.

“Of course,” she said, “we can't buy enough fresh meat or eggs to go all the way through, 'cause they'd go bad on us. You can't keep much of that kind of things without you've got ice or a dug well to let 'em down into. Up on the divide they're all drilled wells, so there's no place to keep nothing cool. But we'll get a hind quarter of pork—off'n a good young barrow—so there'll be fresh ham for breakfasts, and pork chops for suppers, and plenty of side meat for dinners. And I don't reckon we'd best to get more'n ten dozen eggs to start off with, and let's see . . . a sack of white flour—soft wheat, for biscuits—and a sack of spuds, and a sack of beans . . . do you like the pinto kind?”

“I like them to beat the band,” I told her, “but I can't eat them if I stay on my diet. The reason I'm so skinny is that I have diabetes, so I'm supposed to eat only green vegetables and a kind of bread I won't be able to get here, along with chicken, eggs, nuts, fish, and things like that.”

“Well, there's bullheads in the creek,” she said, “but we won't have no time to go fishing, leastways not till harvest's over.”

“Canned salmon is all right,” I said, “and I'm used to it. I've lived on it and eggs and cabbage for the past eight months.”

“Cabbage?” she said, and jumped her foot off the gas pedal. “Why didn't you tell me when we was in Oberlin? Joe, he don't carry fresh stuff like that. Would sauerkraut do?”

“Sure,” I told her.

“Well, put down a case of it. Joe keeps peanuts—a whole barrel of 'em—and we got plenty of chickens to home. I'll bring out some tomorrow. Myron wouldn't have none on the place; said one hen would ruin more crops than a herd of cattle. Peas and beans—green ones—ought to be all right for vegetables. Put down a case of each one, and a case of hominy, and pears, and peaches, and apple sauce—it goes awful good with pork chops. Did I tell you onions? They're mighty good in fried spuds for breakfast . . . and baking powder, and syrup . . . I can make good flapjacks.”

When we reached The Bluffs, Joe was sitting in front of his store, his chair tilted back in the shade under the canopy. Of course he'd known Judy all her life, and he recognized me as soon as we pulled up beside the hitch rail. Without tilting his chair down, he called, “Oh, so you're the one! Reckoned there was somethin' in the wind when Bones give you that note last night. He tells me Myron was kilt by that feisty little old mare of his. How'd she do it, tromp him?”

As we climbed out of the jalopy I told him, “I wasn't there when it happened, so I couldn't tell you. Would you like to get us out a load of groceries? I'll give you a check for them.”

Joe brought his chair down with a thump, jumped to his feet, and fumbled around as he fitted a key into the door lock. With his back to us he called heartily, “Come right on in and pick out what you want. No need to pay for it now; you can leave it go till the month end. Bones, he'll stand good for it if you don't.”

Joe was in such a hurry that he was inside the store before Judy and I had reached the shade of the canopy. “The old boy must be kind of hungry for business,” I whispered to her.

“You can't blame him,” she whispered back. “Any more, folks go to the Co-op over to Oberlin for their big orders—them that can pay cash. About all Joe gets is the fill-ins, and the charge-it-till-harvest-time business.”

I don't know which one of us had the most fun; Joe in gloating over the business he was getting, Judy in doing her shopping, or I in watching them both. She bustled around the store as if she'd been the banker's wife, and she was a sharp little trader. Whether or not she actually knew the prices at the Co-operative, she made Joe think she did. She took a can of peas down from the shelf and called, “How much you asking for these Arbuckle peas, Joe?”

“Fourteen cents,” he called back.

“You're too dear on 'em,” she told him. “Over to the Co-op they're twelve—six for seventy cents.”

“I could leave you have them M-H brand—right there to your left—for eleven,” he shouted back from the counter.

“Don't want 'em,” she sang out. “We don't aim to go hunting no jack rabbits, and them M-H's are harder'n buckshot. How much a case for these Arbuckles?”

After a minute's thought Joe shouted, “Bein' it's a big order, I'd leave you have 'em for three dollars.”

Judy mumbled to herself, “Six into twenty-four is four, times seventy,” then called back, “I'll give you two-seventy-five; that's what they'd cost over to the Co-op.”

On each item Joe met her price, and as I carried the cases out to the Maxwell I went past the counter to see that he wrote them down correctly on the bill.

It was nearly noon when we got back to the ranch, and the old Maxwell was loaded to the top rail. Doc was busy at the header, Paco was repairing harness, and the others were working on the barges. Judy turned sharply at the corner of the milking pen and drove to the back door of the house. While she gathered up a few of the smaller packages, I took the new conveyor belts and what I could carry of the spare parts and supplies, then went to see how Doc was getting along. He was on his knees, and had worn parts scattered all around him. As I came toward him he climbed to his feet and told me, “The undertaker came right after you left, and the banker took the Missis away as soon as the hearse had gone. I'd be further along with this job only we had a funeral of our own; buried what was left of that boar pork deep enough the dogs couldn't dig it up. From the looks of that load you brought in, I guess we'll manage to get by without it.”

“If you're going to be the kitchen canary you might as well get started on the job by lugging the stuff in and helping Judy get some dinner ready,” I told him. “I don't know about the rest of you, but right now I'm hungry enough to put away half of what we brought. How are they making out with the barges? Think we can get them patched up enough to last out the harvest?”

“Say, those Swedes are all right!” Doc told me. “Bet you a hat they're carpenters by trade. Go take a look at what they're doing with those wheels, and I'll go wrastle up some grub.”

When I reached the barges I was sure Doc had been right in his guess. Gus and Lars had taken all twelve of the rickety old wheels apart, had sorted out the best spokes, hubs, and fellies, and had already reassembled four good solid wheels. I stopped just long enough to tell them what a fine job they were doing, then went on to Old Bill and Jaikus. Neither of them was worth a nickel as a carpenter, but they were doing the best they could, so I passed them the sacks of nails I'd brought, and told them they were doing okay, and then went on to Paco. He was doing more than okay.