Rimfire Bride (13 page)

“Come on, boys,” Drew said, trying to sound as cheerful as he could. “Let’s go hire us a wagon and get to Rimfire. Won’t Devlin be surprised when he sees us?”

Just then Drew heard yelling from the Blue Goose Saloon and then a volley of revolver shots. He held the boys close to him as a man came tumbling out the opened door.

“Get the hell out of my place,” the man who was doing the tossing yelled.

“I’ll go when I damn well want to,” the man on the ground said as he crawled toward his gun. When he got to the gun, he began firing into the air.

Sam immediately began screaming.

Without stopping to think, Drew ran to the man, kicked the gun from his hand, and yanked him to his feet, only to land a punch knocking him back to the ground.

“You son of a bitch,” Drew yelled. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing, shooting like that in broad daylight?” He picked up the gun, emptying all chambers of ammunition and sticking the bullets in his pocket. Then he recovered his hat and, rubbing his hand, went back to the boys, who were now terror struck.

“I want to go back. I want to go home,” Sam said, hiding behind Drew, while Benji sobbed uncontrollably.

Drew knelt to console the boys, hugging them to him. “When we get to Rimfire, everything will be fine. Let’s go find Mr. Paddock. He’ll have a fast team of horses for us and we’ll be home in a half hour.”

The three walked down the street, both boys staying as close to Drew as they could. Then it hit Drew what he had just done. He was foolish to have hit the man, not because he didn’t need it, but what would have happened if a stray bullet had hit him? He was all the boys had.

R
imfire
was about five miles from the Little Missouri settlement, and usually the ride was like a soothing balm for Drew. But today the maze of colorful buttes and far-flung hills that rose as a backdrop to the saffron-colored waters of the river did not work their magic. Frank, and even Elfrieda, had tried to convince him not to come, but he had done it anyway. He should have listened to them.

“Oh, look, boys. There’s our new house,” Drew said, trying to shake his own melancholy mood. “Let’s bring our wagon in on the run, so everyone will come out to meet us.” He flicked the team with the whip and the horses picked up speed.

“Well, if it ain’t the boss man,” Devlin said as he came out of the new house, a wide grin on his face. “You just couldn’t stand it, could you?”

“I wanted to see how you’re spending my money,” Drew said as he jumped down from the wagon, shaking his foreman’s hand. “I can’t
believe how much you have done. Come on, boys, let’s go see what it looks like.”

“You’ve brought me some new helpers,” Devlin said as he mussed Benji’s hair.

Benji ran ahead, going in the open door, but Sam stayed beside his father.

“Daddy, it’s a big house. Can we move here?” Benji asked.

“Not now, but maybe sometime we will,” Drew said.

“I don’t want to come here,” Sam said so quietly that only Drew heard him. Drew squeezed Sam’s hand in reassurance.

They toured the house, a sprawling eight-room structure.

“Don’t you like this site I picked out?” Devlin asked. “Right here on this little knoll back of the cottonwoods, you’ll have a fine breeze in the summer when I get the porch finished, and you’re far enough back that you won’t get any water during the runoffs. That is, unless we have a fifty-year flood.”

“It’s perfect,” Drew said, “but isn’t that another cabin over there behind the shack?”

“It is. Ole Toby’s brought his woman, and he built her a house.”

“His woman?”

“Nobody knew. He says he’s been married for more than thirty years, and not one time did he ever tell anybody he had a wife. She’s a real peach.”

“Well, let’s go meet her.”

When they reached the cabin, Toby Carswell opened the door. “Howdy, Mr. Malone. I knowed
it was you come flying in here like a bat out of hell. Come on in and take a bite with me and the missus. She just took a batch of crullers out of the oven. You think these younguns could eat one of them?”

“Crullers, yummy!” Benji said as he climbed onto a bench next to the table.

“Hold up there, young fellow. I’ll bet you’ve not washed your hands for a week of Sundays.” A woman who appeared to be in her fifties brought a cloth to Benji and began wiping his hands and face.

“You must be Mrs. Carswell,” Drew said.

“I wouldn’t know how to answer to that Mr. Malone. I’m just Peach.”

“Peach, nice to meet you.” Drew stuck out his hand. “And I’m Drew. This is Sam, and that one is Benji, and I think by the smell of things, we’re all going to get along just fine. What about you, Sam? Can you eat a cruller?”

Sam smiled as he sat down, and Peach handed the wiping cloth to him, respecting that he was older.

Drew watched Sam accept a cruller from Peach, thank her, then lift it to his mouth to take a bite. Sam was such a sensitive boy. Drew wished he could find some way to get through to him.

In the week
since the night of the election returns, Jana had changed the way she displayed herself in the window. She convinced Mr. Watson that people would come by more often if they saw her doing something, rather than just standing
en tableau
.
Now she sat in the chair in front of an easel as she sketched, sometimes using a charcoal pencil and other times using a brush and a palette of watercolors. She had the easel turned so that her art could be seen from outside. Today, she was painting a vase of red carnations that had come from Fuller’s Greenhouse, some of the winter-blooming plants that he grew for the Christmas season. Word of her activity spread through the town, and as on the first day, the crowd outside the window was large. And sales in the store were brisk, now expanding beyond the dresses that she modeled, including the jewelry from Eben Strauss, as well as vegetables and flowers from the greenhouse.

She was also selling her artwork, making nearly as much from it as Mr. Watson was paying her.

For the first time since she and Greta had left Illinois, Jana was beginning to feel less apprehensive about their situation. She was earning a living, and even Greta was helping by providing for their room and board. Jana enjoyed watching her savings mount and was pleased when she felt it was necessary to open a savings account at the bank. It was a good feeling, being self-sufficient.

Jana sat in the window most of the day now, changing clothing only a couple of times. Mr. Watson was trying to convince her to paint portraits of people, but she was reluctant to do that. She didn’t think she could capture a good likeness in the limited amount of time she had to work, and if a subject had to sit for several days, the customers would lose interest. Still lifes of flowers or bowls of
fruit were good sellers, and because she could do them quickly, she could paint more pieces.

When her day was over at the store, she went back to the hotel to start her second job. Tom had discovered that when Greta and Jana were in the saloon, it tended to do two things: help business, and keep the patrons calm and well behaved. Jana thought it was humorous that she was paid to sit in a window during the day and have people watch her every move, and that she was paid to sit in a bar every night and have people watch her eat.

“It looks like the hungry crowd is waiting for you,” Jana said when she walked into the kitchen, putting her coat on a peg.

“How many are out there?” Greta asked as she lifted a tin basin from a pail of steaming water.

“I’d say at least twenty-five, maybe thirty. What did you make today?”

“Scotch broth. Last week, Hugh McDonald shot a bighorn sheep over in the Killdeers and he gave me the shinbones, so Tom showed me how to fix it.”

“I don’t think that’s broth in the steamer,” Jana said.

Greta smiled. “I wanted to fix something special tonight because it’s Hank’s birthday. I fixed him some tapioca, but if there are thirty people out there, I don’t have enough.”

“What you have is fine. After all, they’re getting this for free.” Jana grabbed some hot pads to carry the soup kettle into the bar.

When the two women had the soup set up on the serving table, the men lined up quickly.

“Hank’s first,” Greta said as she called to the old gentleman who was sitting in the corner.

“What’s so special about him?” someone asked.

“It’s his birthday today. How old are you, Hank?”

“Seventy-two.” Hank stood with his cane and walked to the table. “In my day, nobody would’ve beat me to the mess line. Why, I followed old William Tecumseh all the way to Atlanta.”

“I guess you was one of the Yankee scoundrels who burned my mama’s house,” a man in uniform said. He was about half Hank’s age.

“I beg your pardon. General Sherman gave us strict orders not to destroy anything unless there was resistance.”

“That’s a bunch of hogwash,” the soldier said. “I saw you steal and burn and rape anybody that got in your way.” The younger man swung his fist at the old man, knocking him against the table, causing some of the soup to slosh out of the pot.

Immediately, three other men grabbed the belligerent soldier and ushered him out of the bar and into the street.

“Hank, I’m so sorry,” Greta said as she knelt beside the old man, wiping his bloody lip on her apron.

“Girl, it wasn’t your fault, and it sure ain’t the first time I ever got my lip bloodied,” Hank said as Greta and a couple of other men helped him to his feet.

“The rest of you men stand back,” one of the other patrons said. He looked at Hank, then held his hand out invitingly. “This is Mr. Hank’s birthday,
and we’re goin’ to wait until he’s served and seated.”

“What gentlemen you men are,” Jana said.

“Yes, ma’am, we try to be.”

Jana refilled Hank’s soup bowl, and Greta filled a second bowl, this one filled with tapioca, then walked with him, carrying it over to the table.

“Happy birthday, Hank,” she said, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead.

“Whooee, Greta, do we all get a kiss on our birthday?” one of the men asked.

“Tell me, Ken, who would kiss your ugly mug?” Carl called over to him.

“Well, I ain’t no uglier than Hank.”

“I’ll tell you what, Ken. On your seventy-second birthday I’ll give you a kiss,” Greta said, and the others laughed.

A couple of
days later, Jana was on her way to the First National Bank with a painting for Asa Fisher. He had especially commissioned a painting of a cornucopia filled with pumpkins and squash, as a present for his wife. The canvas was much larger than what she usually painted, and she was having trouble getting through the bank door.

“Here, ma’am, let me help you,” a man said, holding the door.

“Thank you,” Jana said, then she recognized him. “Oh, Mr. Allen, how nice to see you again.”

“Miss Hartmann,” Allen replied with a nod of his head. “I’ve heard great things about your talents, and if this painting is an example, I can see why people are talking.”

“I’m not accustomed to so much attention.” Jana lowered her eyes. “I’m afraid the impression that some people have of a woman sitting in a window is not so good.”

Allen chuckled. “Ignore what people say. Drew tells me that Walter couldn’t be happier with what you’re doing for his sales, and that’s all that’s important.”

“Mr. Malone said that?”

“Yes, he did.”

“I’ve not seen your partner for some time. Is he well?”

“I think he is now, but Elfrieda’s going to skin him alive if he brings those kids back from the ranch with the sniffles.”

“Kids?” Jana said weakly.

“Yeah, Sam and Benji. He took his boys to the Badlands for a couple weeks. I didn’t think he’d stay the whole time, but I’ve not heard from him, so I’m guessing everything’s all right.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. Thank you, Mr. Allen, for helping me with the door. Good day.”

Jana hurried into the bank, taking a deep breath to steady her trembling hands.

Took his boys to the Badlands.
The words hit Jana like a blow to the stomach.

Drew Malone was married.

Drew and the
boys had been at Rimfire for over a week, and he had allowed the activity of the ranch to wash his soul. The pace of actual ranch work was slowed down in the crisp November air,
as many of the hands were let go for the winter. All the horses, except the personal mounts of the cowboys, were turned loose on the open range. That allowed them to forage on the grass that had dried in the late-summer sun and now provided a natural hayrick for the animals that roamed the Badlands. The horses fared better than the cattle, as they were better able to paw through the snow and find the food.

The cattle required little work during the colder months. Some cowboys were assigned to the line shacks, which were put on a perceived line that would indicate how far the cattle would be allowed to drift. A few of the men did some line riding, looking for any cow or calf that they thought was weak. When they found such an animal, they would bring it back to the home ranch for temporary care, and when it had regained its strength, they would turn it back on the range.

Occasionally, if the herd began to wander off the open range, and especially if the cows were heading toward an Indian reservation or an area that was largely settled by grangers, cowboys from several ranches would band together to drive the herd back closer to the home ranches.

During the winter most of the work around the home ranch was in oiling and repairing leather harnesses or saddles, or building outbuildings or corral fences. But the men’s favorite pastime was practicing roping. The cowboys would throw their forty-foot lariats at anything: a set of cow horns put on a sawhorse, a fence post, a stump, a deer
that came down to the river for a drink, or, if they were in a particularly playful mood, they’d just lasso each other.

Drew was watching Toby trying to teach Sam and Benji how to make an overhand knot in a length of rope.

“Pull it tight,” Toby said after Sam had put the loose end of the rope through a loop. “Now make another one, just below this one, but don’t pull it tight.”