Shortgrass Song (40 page)

But now his place was here, on the free range. He worked alone most days. Ben rode west from the sod camp and Caleb rode east, sometimes two days east, where the cow chips fell in with buffalo chips. There were still great herds of woollies south and east, he had been told, and bands of wild Indians to hunt them. One day he spotted a lone bull on a distant grassy rim.

Another day he saw three braves trotting across a slope, angling away. Vaguely he recollected that strange winter among the Comanche in the Territory. Another life, it seemed. Another time. Buster had come for him, his father busy with his old pals at war.

The three Indians quartered away from him, but all that day he scanned the rolls of ground around him. They would kill him for his horse, he thought. He wasn't riding his top horse that day, but Caleb suspected any horse might make an Indian murder.

Even here, at the sod house, he wasn't safe from Indians. The nearest reservation was a many days' ride, but not all the red men had resolved themselves to the government dole. Those horses in the corral had to be tempting.

He heard a chuckle and turned to see Thin Ben shaking his head, the hat covering his face. He was thinking about the wolf. Caleb wouldn't sleep with his hat over his face tonight. He would drift off with the light of stars in his thoughts. He put the fiddle away, spread his own blankets, and looked one last time into the darkness for Ol' Bitter Creek. Somehow he knew he'd never see that frosted coat again.

I'm like that wolf, Caleb thought. I'll stay and sing as long as they care to listen, but when my welcome gets worn out, I'll git. I'll vanish like dust blown into darkness. Thin Ben, you'll not know me long.

FORTY-FIVE

Autumn came. Thin Ben and Caleb were ordered south to the Cimarron. They rode past the Two Buttes, piddling landmarks compared with the peaks of the Rampart Range where Caleb had grown up, but he was happy to have the buttes. As they fell behind to the north, the riders descended into the Cimarron breaks. Running water greeted them, laughing among the trunks of cottonwoods. Two dozen boys had arrived at the headquarters on a bluff over the river. Stock pens filled with horses, bunkhouses with cowhands.

They swept dirt from the floors, beat dust from blankets, tuned up, and nearly danced the jinglebobs off their spurs. There were no women to dance with, so the cowboys drew straws on every song to see who would get heifer branded. Not even the toughest hand refused to wear the apron and dance backward. The cowboy who couldn't take a joke fell into the disfavor of the kangaroo court.

His fiddle saved Caleb the indignity of wearing the apron. Though he would never boast of it, he knew he was the best musician in the bunch, and he drew deep satisfaction from the fact. He knew songs to keep the boys entertained with fresh material for days. Most of the other hands could beat him at roping or riding green broke broncs by day. But in the bunkhouse, or by a camp-fire, he owned the night.

They put in the autumn months cutting hay that would keep the cattle living through the winter. The cattle would drift south with the blizzards, across No Man's Land, and into the Texas panhandle. The line riders would follow to turn them back to the north between storms. They would haul hay in wagons and curse the cattle for drifting with such purpose to the south.

Christmas Eve found Caleb forking hay from a freight wagon to two-year-old heifers standing ankle-deep in snow in the Cimarron Valley. Thin Ben was driving the team.

“You think the wind could move a wagon this size?” the fiddler asked, dancing to keep his balance on the slick wooden planks as the wagon rocked over a hump.

Ben Jones looked disapprovingly over his shoulder. He let the heifers bawl his skepticism.

“When I was growin' up, Buster took a crazy notion that he could start a whole line of freight wagons along the Front Range and rig 'em with canvas so he could sail 'em like ships on them chinooks that blow down out of the mountains.”

“That Buster must be one loco African,” Ben grumbled, pulling a scarf up around his ears.

“Started out small,” Caleb said. “I helped him build a wind wagon out of a spring buggy to sort of practice on. We put a mast and a sail on it, and a wheel like a ship's helm where we could turn the front axle.” He laughed and shook his head, remembering.

“Did it work?”

“Slicker'n deer guts. Got to goin' so fast we turned it over, and it throwed us out on the ground like bronc twisters.”

“You're stretchin' the blanket,” Ben said accusingly.

Caleb ignored him. “There was an Arapaho chief lived up around us then, name was Long Fingers. He was there the day we drove the wind wagon. He gave Buster an Indian name that day. Said the wind pushed his wagon like a cloud, so he named Buster ‘Man-on-a-Cloud.'”

Ben slapped his reins along the back of the wheel horse, wondering how much of this the fiddler was making up. “I guess Buster's sailin' flat cars on the Denver and Rio Grande now. Probably the richest African in Colorado.”

“Nope. He give up on the idea.”

“How come?”

“My old man like to have had a fit over that wind wagon throwin' me out on the ground like that. Wouldn't ever let me ride in it again, so Buster just quit runnin' it.”

“How come?”

Caleb shrugged. “I was his partner. He wouldn't drive that wind wagon without me.”

“Just as well,” Ben replied. “The railroad would have put him out of business anyway.” He looked at the pale gray sky, shivered on the hard box seat. “What do you reckon ol' Sandy Claus'll bring us tonight?” he said as he drove past the last of the hungry two-year-olds.

Caleb kicked the remaining tufts of hay down to the bawling cattle. The air was cold, but under his coat he had managed to work up a sweat that would only chill him on the ride home. “I'd settle for an extra helpin' of that son of a bitch stew back at the ranch. I hope somebody has the stove hot when we get there.” He wedged the spikes of his pitchfork between two boards on the wagon bed and climbed over the seat to join Ben.

“I'd settle for a letter from my sister,” Ben said, “but I don't guess the freight wagons got through.” He shook the reins and turned the horses in a wide circle back toward headquarters.

“I figured you'd want a whore for Christmas, as much as you talk about 'em.”

“Hell, I'd burn a letter from my sister for a whore. But I said I'd settle for just the letter from my sister.”

“Did I ever tell you about that whorehouse in Denver?” Caleb asked.

“Yeah, but you left out the particulars.”

“Did I tell you about the brass coins?”

“What brass coins?”

“Well, you can buy these brass coins at three dollars a head, and every one of 'em has the name of a girl on it.”

“Why don't you just pay her with real money?”

“Repeat business.”

“Huh?”

“Some cow waddie will gallop in there like a bull moose on the prod and swear he's got to rut five or six heifers
tonight
or else he might bust. So he'll blow all his pay on them brass coins. Five minutes later, his conscience is clear, but he's still got all that brass.”

Ben shook his head. “Now he's stuck with one whorehouse till the brass runs out.”

“You're catchin' on, partner. Only thing is, every other whorehouse in town's got their own brass coins, too, so you can swap 'em. Hell, you can gamble with 'em, or spend 'em like money damn near anywhere in Denver. Some folks say they turn up in the church plates on Sundays, but I never went to see.”

“Have you got any with you?” Ben asked.

“Hell, no. I used all mine up when I was there.”

The wagon lurched over snow-hidden obstacles in the river valley as they talked about their Christmas plans. They were going to roast their toes beside the stove, lie in their bunks, and read the newspapers Boss Mose had brought back from St. Louis. Ben was going to write a letter to his sister. Caleb was going to fiddle some, sing with the guitar, and tell some stories.

The stove was hot when the hay wagon returned, and the cook had started the stew simmering. Cowboys were coming in from a short day of chores to muster some kind of holiday spirit. Some of the boys had gone hunting, brought in two antelope bucks and a half-dozen turkeys to roast for Christmas dinner. Sam Parker had stayed to split enough wood to last into the New Year.

After they stowed the harnesses and fed the horses, Ben and Caleb went to the bunkhouse. Ben rolled a cigarette, and Caleb began tuning up his instruments. Bill Frazer and José García were already drinking coffee and playing cards.

“Where's the Smiley boys?” Caleb asked.

“Old Mose sent them down to the White Rock Camp with some other fellows,” José García said. “A lot of cows drifted down there. They took three loads of hay and their guitars.”

“Them Smiley boys can't play them guitars anyway,” Ben said. He thrust the end of a stick into the stove. “At least not like ol' Caleb can play. And, God A'mighty, I've never heard the likes of caterwaulin' as when they take to singin'.”

“They ain't that bad,” Caleb said.

“Say, Ben,” Bill Frazer drawled, “don't you owe me a smoke?”

Ben took the stick from the stove and used the orange end of it to light his cigarette. “No, but, hell, it's Christmastime.” He tossed his pouch of tobacco onto the blanket among the cards. “Help yourself.”

Bill stared at the pouch. “You got a ten-dollar bill I can roll it in?”

Ben frowned and fished the cigarette papers from his pocket, squinting through the smoke that stung his eyes. “Do you want me to roll it and smoke it for you, too?”

Sid “the Kid” Loftus and “Silver” Lee Silvers burst through the door and stood over the stove, pulling off their gloves.

“Damn, Silver, close the door,” Ben said. “You're lettin' the cold in.”

“Well, I've been out in it,” Silvers said.

“So have I! Me and Caleb went four miles up the valley with hay today.”

Kid Loftus backed up to latch the door and prevent any more arguing. “I hope y'all ain't playin' for money,” he said to José García and Bill Frazer. “I saw Boss Mose ride in from the north range just now.”

José and Bill didn't bother to reply, but they picked up some spare change they had lying on the blanket and slipped the coins into their pockets.

Boss Mose came in a minute later, stomped the slush from his boots, pulled a scarf from his neck, emptied the coffeepot into someone else's cup, and slurped with pleasure. The cowboys drew back in dread of him. They knew Mose as a fair boss, but he put up with no nonsense and nobody wanted to cross him. He had to be hard because he was black, and cowboys would take advantage of a black man if they could, even one who stood six two, weighed two twenty, and could shoot hurled coins from the air.

Caleb had the fiddle under his chin, sawing on it monotonously with the bow, trying to bring the E string up to pitch.

“Holcomb,” Mose said.

Caleb squeaked the bow, getting it off the strings.

“I know y'all ain't playin' for money,” Mose said, his eyes on the cards between José and Bill.

“Nope,” Bill said.

“Gamblin' makes fights.” He slurped at the coffee again. “You men been around here all day?”

“No, sir,” Caleb said. “Just Sam has. He's been choppin' wood.”

Sam came in the door just as his name was spoken and let an armload of wood fall on the floor. “Cold out there!” he said, dropping the ax behind the woodpile. “Got to work so hard to stay warm that you'll freeze in your own sweat.”

“You been here all day?” Mose asked.

“Yep. Got a woodpile out there to prove it.”

“Did the freight wagons come by?”

“Nope. No freight, no mail, and no peppermints for these poor younguns.” He waved a stick of cord wood at the boys in the bunkhouse.

Mose grunted. “That's too bad,” he said. He grunted again and slurped the coffee. “Yeah, that's too bad, all right.”

“Too bad for who, Boss?” Sam asked. He could tell Mose had something on his mind.

“Oh, them little Hutchinson chil'rens. They won't have no Christmas.”

“Who?” Bill Frazer asked, throwing down a poor hand of cards.

“Hutchinson,” Thin Ben said. “Up on North Fork. Me and Caleb was cuttin' hay up there at Thanksgivin' and Mrs. Hutchinson cooked a big ol' gobbler for us.”

“Sure did,” Caleb said. “It was good, too. Henry Hutchinson told us they had sent off for all sorts of Christmas truck for the kids.”

“How many kids they got?” Sam asked.

“A boy about eight and two little sisters,” Ben said. “Doe-eyed little girls. They sure took a shine to Caleb's fiddle playin'. You should have seen 'em dance.”

José García stacked his playing cards and put them on a windowsill. “How far away?” he asked.

“Three hours' trot,” Mose said.

“Hell, we could almost get there before dark,” said Sid “The Kid” Loftus. “I got an old busted pocketknife to put in that little feller's Christmas stocking.”

“Yeah, but what in the hell do you bring for little girls?” Bill Frazer asked. “We ain't got no dolls or umbrellas.”

Lee Silvers pointed at the trunk in the middle of the bunkhouse. “They could have those illustrated newspapers Boss brought back from Saint Lou. They'd like lookin' at the pictures.”

Thin Ben kicked open the lid to the trunk and thumbed through a few issues. “They'll have pictures to look at till Easter. We ought not to let 'em have the
Police Gazettes,
though. Little Hank's li'ble get bad ideas from all the murder stories.”

“Little Hank?” Lee Silvers said, snickering. “Ben thinks he's the boy's uncle or somethin'.”