The Great Plains (21 page)

‘Bitten by a snake? That's a nasty way to go,' Tobias commented. ‘When did it happen?'

‘Three months ago.'

‘I'm surprised Wes didn't send a telegram,' Tobias replied.

‘Yes, in any case I'm sorry to hear he's gone. My father always said Hugh was the pick of the Hockings after his father, Clarence,' Edmund reflected. ‘I still find it difficult to comprehend that he took that position, a position of authority given to him in good faith, and then stole from me.' Edmund looked at his son. ‘From you.'

‘You never can tell with some men.'

‘I know. I keep thinking back to when your grandfather was alive and Hugh approached him for help. Clarence Hocking had taken to the bottle and he was losing clients and Hugh wanted my father to speak to their remaining clients on his behalf, to basically ask them to support Hocking & Son.' Through the window, the town of Guthrie with its stately buildings was quiet for the night. The wide streets were cloaked in darkness, the once busy capital now burdened with the mantle of a town disrobed of title.

‘Well, it's all in the past now,' Tobias replied. ‘I'm sorry to hear that Hugh's dead, but I can't say I really remember him. I know you offered him the position in Australia out of respect for Grandfather's relationship with Hugh's father, and Hugh should have shown the same deference.'

‘Your grandfather would have been stunned to learn of my buying land there and Hugh's stealing, of course. Still, the property has proved to be a sound investment in spite of Hugh's pilfering. We made a fortune from the war, both in terms of the wool for uniforms as well as canned sheep meat.'

‘And what about Wes? Will he take over Hugh's role?' Tobias queried.

‘For the time being.'

‘I'm pleased. Wes deserves it. Maybe I can visit him?'

‘We'll see.'

Tobias opened the door to leave. ‘I'll say one thing, Father. Wes has ridden out enough times with you and Sheriff Cadell to know how to catch rustlers, I don't think anyone else will risk stealing from us down there now Wes is in charge.'

‘Yes, he can get a bit spirited when it comes to enforcing the law, but let's hope you're right.'

‘Just as well Hocking managed to kill himself, eh, before Wes got hold of him,' Tobias replied lightly as he said goodnight and returned to his own room.

Edmund stretched out on his bed, fully clothed. A cooling draft blew through the window, rustling the papers piled on the bedside table and bringing with it the sounds of the night: whinnying horses and the sharp screech of a cat. He too was surprised that Wes had entrusted the news of Hugh's death to a letter. Sea mail took many weeks, let alone the time taken to traverse the great land masses at either end. Considering Hugh had been the manager of Condamine Station, a telegram would have been more appropriate. The fact Wes had chosen the alternative means of correspondence raised suspicion in Edmund, however distance didn't allow him the benefit of investigation. He knew he must be content in the knowledge that the end result had undoubtedly been in the best interests of the Wade family. In the morning he would write to Wes and inform him that for the time being he was to remain in charge at Condamine Station. Perhaps the lad could even coerce those dairy farmers, the Todds, to sell their block and, in doing so, give him easier access to the better river crossing.

Behind closed eyelids Edmund conjured an image of Philomena. They sat hand in hand beneath the flowering redbud tree, quiet and satiated in each other's company. Edmund was looking forward to returning to Oklahoma City, to his family home and the garden where his beloved lay. Life had been kind to him, hard but kind, in that he would never want for anything. Blessed with a son to carry on his line, Edmund had also known great love, albeit fleetingly. As his thoughts wandered a picture of Serena flashed before him. She stood as she had on the day she'd come to his home, uninvited and demanding money, the baby Abelena in her arms, her son Jerome by her side. Edmund frowned and rested an arm across his face. ‘Go away,' he muttered, ‘leave me alone.'

Ten years later
April, 1935 – The Panhandle, Oklahoma

The wind brushed the tips of the pale green vegetation, bending it over as if the treeless plain was paying homage to the wind spirit. The rippling prairie grass carried on the air, filling the plains with noise and movement and the scent of flowering grasses. It was a clean, slightly astringent smell, which spoke of a bountiful spring that would soon drift into a warm summer. The morning haze grew as the sun traced the plains in silver and in its wake the buffalo followed. Spread out across the landscape, their light brown coats dotted the terrain as they dipped shaggy heads into the wavering grass to chew and forage. Jerome could hear the guttural snorts the animals made and the echoing bellows of those scattered further afield as the herd grazed.

Overhead, a golden eagle circled against a blue sky. Dark brown with lighter golden-brown plumage on its head and neck, its wing span edged to a breadth of just over seven feet. Jerome watched the eagle as it soared above, the sunlight catching the flecks of gold in the creature's feathers. The fierce predator rode the gusty current as it wheeled in search of game, its steady wing beats alternating with long glides as it edged closer to the ground.

Gradually Jerome became aware of the prairie diminishing in size, of the land falling away in a concoction of greens and browns, gold and blues until he felt trapped in a web of the eagle's making. He watched, equally fascinated and afraid, as the great bird changed direction, dipping and flying towards him. The bird grew in size on approach and Jerome wanted to run yet the ground held him tight, binding him to the bosom of Mother Earth. His heart began to race and as the sky grew white with glare the bird dived, its yellow eye unblinking.

When Jerome awoke with a start, the world appeared out of focus. Wiping at the lather of sweat layering his face, he could hear his fifteen-year-old sister, Abelena, yet he could not make out the words she spoke. He could see shadowy figures and vaguely recalled his Great-Uncle George being present during the night. Yet there was no clear line between the old world and the new, and with that knowledge Jerome knew that it was possible the eagle still hovered overhead, waiting to swoop.

‘You, old man,' Abelena berated, ‘with your tricks and your imaginings, I have told you before to leave my brother alone.'

His throat was parched and his mouth bitter. There was a haze about him. Jerome lifted his hands as if he could brush it away.

‘This is men's business, woman.' It was Uncle George who spoke.

Gradually Jerome's mind cleared. They were in their uncle's space, a portion of the barn that the farm's owners, the Blums, allowed Uncle George to sleep in on account of his tendency towards a solitary life, and the near uselessness of the building thanks to the ongoing drought.

‘It is old men's business,' Abelena retorted. ‘Cling to your spirits if you must, but Jerome is of the new world.'

‘Such as it is,' Uncle George replied. ‘He is older than you and well past the age for woman's work.'

Jerome rubbed at his eyes. Abelena was standing with a hand on one hip, haloed by the early morning light that streamed through the hole in the barn's wall. Uncle George had removed a timber board for ventilation. She wore a beige cotton blouse and a calf-skimming brown skirt. Black-haired and short like their Mexican father, her beautiful face had a hard look about it that came from lack of food and an anger at the world that she fanned continually, as if a small fire. Only his sister's hazel eyes were left to remind him of the young girl that once dwelt within.

‘The days of the great hunters are gone, old man.' Abelena spoke to their uncle but her eyes were on Jerome. ‘We must all share in the work to eat, not spend the night in one of your secret ceremonies talking rubbish.'

Their youngest sibling, a five-year-old half-sister named Tess, was tethered by a length of plaited hide to a wide leather belt about Abelena's waist. Abelena leant against the Blums' T-Model Ford parked in the barn, and fiddled with the old blanket protecting the Ford's engine from dust.

‘I'm hungry,' Tess whined. It was said her father was also Mexican although no one knew for certain.

‘There is never enough food,' Abelena told the two men. ‘Look at Tess, she is barely growing.'

Uncle George sucked in his breath and whistled the air out between broken teeth. When he laughed, the sound was sour. ‘Maybe you should stay at being a woman instead of trying to be a man.' He sat cross-legged against the barn wall, his bare feet tucked beneath frayed trousers. ‘Women should know their place.' Behind him an animal hide depicted an intricate pattern of symbols and figures drawn with dye. The colourful design was in sharp contrast to the brown waistcoat, stained shirt and necktie that he wore. He flicked a thinning black plait over one shoulder, his eyes still closed.

Abelena wet her lips and tugged at little Tess, who was straining against the tether in an effort to reach Jerome. ‘Do you see a man here who wants to take my place?' she finally spat.

Once before, Jerome had reminded his sister of the part their uncle had played in their survival when they'd left Boise City nearly four years ago. With their mother Serena dead birthing Tess, Uncle George had taught them to steal corn from fields and scavenge vegetable plots. They learnt how to lie still in the tall crops if the owners appeared with their rifles, their eyes darting nervously for snakes. The drought was starting to bite back then, however the fierce black blizzards were yet to smother them and there were still crops about.

Uncle George urged them to steal, reminding Jerome that it was the Apache way, trickery ranked above courage, although being skilled at deception didn't mean bravery wasn't important, indeed it was vital to the Apache male.

‘The boy is busy.' Uncle George waved Abelena away. ‘He learns the Apache ways and talks with the spirits.'

‘Apache ways. And what good does our mixed blood do us?' Abelena challenged. ‘What good did it do our mother? We are nothing to nobody and you speak of the spirits,' Abelena scoffed. ‘You don't talk to spirits. You take bad medicine that makes you see strange things.' Her gaze took in the remains of a small fire and a pouch from which protruded a strip of Peyote cactus. ‘This is no time for conjuring dreams. There is work to do.' Abelena gave the taut length of hide an impatient tug as Tess began pulling the lead in the opposite direction. The blonde-haired child fell on her bottom with a roar of frustration, got to her feet and then reefed on the leather cord so that Abelena unbalanced.

‘Untie her,' Jerome suggested.

‘Why? So she can run away and get herself into trouble with the Blums again? No. I said she'd be tethered to me for the remainder of the week and she'll stay that way.' As she spoke, Abelena coughed up a wad of brown phlegm, which she spat some four feet from where they were gathered. She wiped a hand across her mouth. ‘I have more dirt inside of me than food.'

Jerome dragged a shirt over his head and peered out through the hole in the timber. The brown pall from the ever-present dust had lessened a little. He took a breath and found the grit in the air was not as thick. Still there was little to do on the farm these days. The family worked for free on the property in return for a roof over their heads, water, a fortnightly ration of corn and canned vegetables. Meat was a rare commodity.

‘We have to earn our keep, Jerome. We have nowhere else to go,' Abelena said.

The unspoken word, reservation, settled among them like the dirt that mounded the sides of the building. Jerome looked across at the timber on the opposite side of the near empty barn. Barely any light showed through the planks; the entire outside wall was buried in dirt. ‘Perhaps it would be better to be with our people,' Jerome suggested. ‘Things are only getting worse here.'

Uncle George opened a rheumy eye and nodded. ‘The boy speaks sense.'

‘We have no people, Uncle,' Abelena replied curtly. ‘We only have a dead mother of mixed birthing and a handful of come-by-nighters for fathers who left your niece with a swollen belly and mouths to feed. There is only us left; you, me, Jerome and three children. We must all be fed and clothed and housed, and while you and Jerome sit chewing Peyote buttons, dreaming of the past, someone must be mother and father to us all.' Abelena tugged again on the plaited tether. Tess was trying unsuccessfully to walk towards Jerome.

He winked at the little girl and Tess screwed her nose up in a crinkly smile.

‘And so you would have your brothers and sister stay here?' the old man asked. ‘Very soon there will only be dirt left to eat. Then it will be too late to take the pride that girdles you and feed it to the coyote.'

Abelena bit at her bottom lip.

‘You think you know the world, woman. You don't. You think my people are bad because they captured my mother. You would be protected on the reservation.'

The colour grew across her cheeks as Abelena let forth saliva-coated words of anger. When her tirade finally came to a halt, the barn was quiet.

Tess began to cough.

‘The dirt is eating away at their spirit. Even the Blums know this. They have sent their children away before the dust sickness takes them,' the old man told her.

‘The school-house closed,' Abelena retorted, ‘that's why they left. With the number of farmers that have walked away from their farms over the last few years, it wasn't worth keeping it open.'

‘What are Mathew and Mark doing?' the old man asked amenably. Enquiring after the brood of children that had fallen under her care could help stem the worst of their arguments. The ten-year-old twins Serena birthed to a cowboy were only comfortable with each other. Named by the pastor who baptized them, the elder boy Mathew shouldered the guilty burden of having shared a womb with a weakling who emerged dim-witted and disfigured with a body like a cornstalk.

‘Watering the pigs. Come on, Tess.' Abelena lifted a finger, beckoning the child to her side. ‘And I will hear no more talk of the reservation.' She walked the length of the barn. Tess followed but she ensured the length of leather between them was kept tight.

Jerome stood tentatively, his head slightly fuzzy. ‘She is worried for the children. We aren't starving but the younger ones are thin and sallow looking. Tess's teeth are rotting in her head.'

‘Teeth,' Uncle George commented, ‘are overrated. You only need a few to survive.'

Jerome leant against the T-Model Ford and ran a hand across the dusty hood. He would never understand how some people could have so much and others, very little.

‘Life for the Blums has not changed much.'

‘No, it hasn't,' Jerome agreed with his uncle. Fuel was cheap and the Blums still went to church on Sundays and sold their excess eggs to buy groceries on a weekly basis. There were even fortnightly dinners in the local hall with other farmers. ‘I remember their trips to Boise City. Their children would tease us with stories of white bread, ham and pickle sandwiches and lemonade, and shake paper bags of hard candy in the little ones' faces.'

His uncle grunted. ‘You must talk to your sister about the future.'

‘There is still plenty of corn on the farm, Uncle.' Oversupply from other farmers across America had made the grain practically worthless so it was used to feed everything. The corn was stored on the ear in a separate shed and only shelled when needed, and Jerome was sure Mrs Blum kept a count of every kernel that left the building. Thanks to the corn, the Blums' pigs and chickens continued to eat grandly and it was a staple in his own house, although Mr Blum still measured their fortnightly ration as if the supply would run out tomorrow.

‘There may be corn, but I think the time is coming when the Blums will want us to leave. I have told you this before. What is the point of having us here, Jerome? We are not earning our keep, there is barely enough work for a child. Eventually the Blums will resent us being here. Our people have seen how the whites behave when suspicion and dislike set in.'

Jerome had hoped things would improve, that it would rain or that the Blums would see some benefit in keeping them on the farm until the season broke and work began in earnest. Instead, he'd slowly begun to realise that his uncle was right. There had been fifteen bags of wheat stored in the barn a year ago and then last spring Mr Blum and his eldest son, a gawky youth named Michael, had entered the building in the middle of the night and carted the last of the precious grain into the cellar beneath the homestead. Uncle George had watched them through half-closed eyes, listened to their whispered conversation and observed their conspiratorial gestures. It was right, he said to Jerome the next day, for the Blums to have done such a thing. The Great Plains were changing. This was no time for trust.

‘You think we should leave,' Jerome stated, ‘and I know you're right. The farmers go to church and pray for rain, but it doesn't feel as if rain will come any time soon.' When Jerome had arrived on the farm with his family nearly four years ago, it seemed as if the entire county still believed that the drought was soon to end. Homesteaders like the Blums who'd been here since the late 1890s still spoke of the real estate agents saying that rain followed the plough. Only Uncle George seemed to know the truth of things.

‘There have always been droughts across the great grasslands, yet these people take and take from the soil, making a dry season many times worse.' He rubbed his shoulders against the timber wall. ‘I see no rain for many moons. As for whether you should go or stay, your path is your own, Jerome.'

‘And the others?'

‘Not all of us will leave here when the time comes.'

At his uncle's words, Jerome sat opposite the old man, cross-legged. ‘Has the sickness come again?' A few months ago his uncle woke with a temperature and cough that lasted for many weeks. He'd not been the same since.