Yellowstone Memories (15 page)

“You’re just saying that because I’m half frozen and you want to keep me alive.” Wyatt let her pull him to his feet, his arm draped over her shoulder for support.

“Perhaps.” Jewel led him forward, arm around his waist, and he heard her smile. “Is it working?”

Wyatt licked his chapped and split lower lip. “Maybe. Keep trying.”

“You’ve no gold now to buy the Cheyenne land with. You can start over, Mr. Kelly. Free from revenge. No regrets.”

Wyatt groaned. “No, but now Kirby has enough gold to do it. The sorry snake.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “And it’s my fault. It was a fool idea to begin with.”

“Don’t think about that now. Just hold on. We’ll be home soon.” Jewel eased him up onto Bétee’s back, tucking the shawl tight around his shoulders. She slid on in front of him and pulled at the reins.

“But …” Wyatt thought hard, trying not to focus on his throbbing side as Bétee jolted down the rocky side of a creek. “I think there may be a way out of Kirby buying the land.”

“How, if there are coal deposits?”

“The national park.” Wyatt nodded. “That’s it. There are also several rare species of wildlife and botanicals on the land; I think I can convince them to make it a nature preserve run by the Cheyenne. So long as they’ll agree to work jointly with Yellowstone and comply with basic park regulations.”

“With a lifted restriction on hunting, of course. Unless you want them to starve.”

“Of course not. I think I can write up something so convincing that even Kirby Crowder and his gold won’t do much good. Just give me a few days with some books, park regulations, and a local survey of wildlife and plants, and I’ll convince them that it would be a great ecological disaster to sell the land or open a mine on it. You’ll see.”

Jewel actually smiled. “Why, Mr. Kelly—I’m surprised at you. You’re going soft on me.”

Wyatt scowled. “Well, keep it to yourself, will you?”

He gazed out through the white woods, feeling stabs of pain pulse through his side, and felt his mind drift far away—to a snow-crusted plain at the edge of the prairie. A row of rough wooden crosses that made a sob catch in his throat.

The warm tears that burned his eyes felt good—healing—and he didn’t try to blink them back.

They were gone, but he would always remember.

Always.

Until the day he died, he’d be a brother. The lone survivor.

His father’s son, remembering the feel of those burly arms around his neck in a tight embrace. For he, too, carried his father’s blood.

And that would never, ever change.

Jewel turned suddenly. “You know you still have a handful of gold nuggets, don’t you? The ones you stuffed in your pocket there at the outhouse.”

Wyatt’s emotion-hard face suddenly melted into a look of joy as he scrambled for his pocket with freezing fingers. “By George,” he murmured, fingering out a handful of nuggets. “You’re right.”

“You can buy a new horse with it.” Jewel spoke gently. “I know how you’ll miss Samson. He’s been your favorite ever since I’ve worked at your uncle’s ranch.”

Wyatt dipped his head, glad the gloomy darkness hid the watery sheen of his eyes. “It’d be impossible for him to survive out here alone all night, wouldn’t it?” His voice came low and mournful. “Not with wildcats and mountain lions. The cold and coyotes.” He sniffled, trying to keep from blubbering. “As old as he is now. He’s not as strong as the young horses, but I always thought he was fine.” Wyatt scrubbed his face with his palm and said no more.

“Never mind.” Jewel spoke gently. “I’m sure one of the local ranchers will find him and turn him in.”

“There’s nothing around here for miles, and you know it.” Wyatt wiped a palm across his nose. “He’s a good horse, but I don’t think he could find his way back to the ranch in this snow—not at his age. He’ll be so lost he couldn’t find his own tail.”

“Perhaps he’ll hole up for the night, and we can look for him tomorrow.”

“You know a hungry mountain lion won’t let him live that long—if we’re even able to get out tomorrow in the snow. He’s got arthritis. It’d be a miracle if he’s still alive now.” Wyatt sighed.

“Well, doesn’t that God of yours do miracles?”

“Not to fellows like me, probably.” He sniffled in the cold. “I promised Samson his oats,” he said, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I’ve never failed him yet. I might do a lot of things wrong, Miss Moreau, but I keep my word, and I … I …” He wanted to say “love that fool horse,” but the words stuck in his throat.

“You’re a good English teacher. Isn’t that what you were going to say?” Jewel spoke quickly.

“Me? Naw.”

“On the contrary. In fact, I think you might make a fine lawyer. I can teach you Arapaho, if you like, and French—and you could consider legal cases and question witnesses from all over the state of Wyoming. Or all over the West, if you like. You could be a Yellowstone legal specialist.” Jewel brushed snow from her long hair. “In fact, your uncle has quite a few connections in the academic world, does he not? You could go to law school. You’ve certainly got enough gold in your pocket to give you a good start.”

“Law school.” Wyatt whispered the words as if hearing them for the first time. They were magic; they rolled over his tongue. Hanging in a shiny haze like the yellow lights of the ranch, visible over the next ridge. “Law school, you say?”

“There’s a shortage of lawyers in the West, Mr. Kelly. You’d be in high demand.”

“Law school,” Wyatt repeated, his voice thin and husky. “And you’d … teach me languages? That is, of course, if you’d consider me.” He swallowed hard, and his mouth felt dry at the thought of Jewel bending over the table, pointing out verbs. Her slender hands guiding his as he formed the unfamiliar letters with his pen. “My Arapaho pronunciation may be a bit garbled, but I’m sure I could learn with time. And … tutoring of course.”

“Lots of tutoring.” Jewel’s voice took on a lush tone. Soft, like the sleek side of a wildcat. “And it would be a pleasure to teach you. But how do I know you’re not feigning your Arapaho language deficiencies, Mr. Kelly? The same way I did?”

“You can’t know.”

Jewel chuckled softly, sounding like sleigh bells. “Well, I’m determined to find out.”

Wyatt blinked back snowflakes. He was delirious, warm and light-headed and cold at the same time.

“And your father would be proud of you, Mr. Kelly, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“For what?”

“For everything you are, Mr. Kelly, and everything you will be. I’m sure of that.”

Bétee slowed to a trot at the entrance to the ranch, her hooves kicking up snow in the fading twilight. Black sky curved over navy blue of snowfall, fresh and smooth on the hillsides like smoothly spread sugar. Wyatt blinked through the snowflakes at the bright front door, where his uncle stood holding out the lantern. A worried look pasted across his face.

And Samson waited obediently at the stable door, his sleek face turned toward Wyatt. Saddle empty and reins dragging. Neighing impatiently for his oats.

To the late Dr. Gayle Price, my friend and English professor
who taught me so much about life, writing,
and the Lord. I miss you dearly.

1937

D
on’t look now, but I saw somethin’ you didn’t.” Frankie grinned, dumping his mud-caked boots in a pile and wiping a filthy sleeve across his forehead.

Justin looked up from scrubbing mud between his fingers, the sunlight pouring behind the Camp Fremont Civilian Conservation Corps barracks blinding him. “What’d you see? That bull moose that showed up over by the bridge?”

“Naw. Better.” Frankie bobbed his eyebrows. “Girls. I saw ‘em.”

“Here? At the camp?”

“Sure thing. Two gals, and they say the redhead’s a real dish. Word is they’re over visitin’ ol’ Bruno Hodges. Lucky stiff.”

Justin rolled his eyes and peeled off his dirty work shirt, which reeked of sweat and loamy mountain soil. The pungent, sulfurlike stench from geothermal mud hung in the nearby rivers, the air, even his hair, messy as it was. The CCC barber had whacked it off short when he showed up in Pinedale, Wyoming, a year and a half ago, but now it hung over his forehead, thick and shaggy. Not slicked back like the movie stars.

“Tommy Wills said one of them dolls is a looker. Swell, huh? Course after this long out in the sticks even the old broads start to look good. Know what I mean?” Frankie elbowed Justin in the ribs. “Man, I can’t wait to get back to Ohio!”

I can’t wait till you get back either, pal
. Justin dug a clothespin out of his pocket and shook out his freshly washed CCC bandanna, securing it to the rusty piece of wire that served as a clothesline. After dozens of washings in hard water and ruthless army-issued soap, its crisp navy had faded to an unappealing moldy blue-gray.

Laundry aside, President Roosevelt’s New Deal ideas were pretty good, Justin thought as he stuck the clothespin in his teeth. At least the CCC, anyway. Shipping hundreds of jobless guys out of the cities and into state parks to do construction and rebuilding might sound a bit nuts, but it worked. They got a paycheck sent back to their folks, and good, honest, hard work to keep them off the streets and out of crime.

And the parks got fixed to boot. Which worked especially well with the drought and dust storms hitting the prairies hard.

The army ran the camps, which served double duty in the event they ever needed recruits—what with the regimented formations and work groups, the morning calisthenics and uniforms. Thousands of guys, all ready to march off to the front with pickaxes, shovels, and bags of pine saplings in their hands.

“Well, I’ll go back to Columbus as soon as I can get a real job of course,” Frankie jabbered on. “This place is the pits! It’s not worth the pay, puttin’ up with all them mosquitoes and cold an’ whatnot. Out in the crummy sticks, gettin’ covered with mud!” Frankie waved brown-and-red-streaked arms for emphasis.

“I think it’s swell.” Justin straightened his bandanna to catch the breeze. “One of the best things to ever happen to me. All the fresh air and work. I’d stay here forever if they’d let me.”

“Are you nuts, Fairbanks?” Frankie pretended to knock on Justin’s head. “Hello? Anybody home?”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just get here?”

“Yeah. Five crummy weeks ago. The only reason I’m here is ‘cause it sure beats hangin’ around town with straw in my pockets, since everybody’s outta work.” Frankie kicked a grass tuft. “This Depression business stinks, ya know? The economy’s s’posed to be comin’ back real soon though—jobs and everything, too.” His certainty seemed to falter as he tugged off a mud-caked boot. “That’s what everybody says—things’ll probably be back to normal by the end of the year. Don’t ya think so?”

Justin slapped a mosquito. Picturing the line of hobos down by the rail yard at Cheyenne. Bone thin, their clothes wearing out in gaping patches. At least here at Camp Fremont, Justin had never gone hungry. Although some of the burned beans and slobbery boiled cabbage made him think going hungry once in a while might not be so bad.

“Anyhow, Ma’s real proud I can finally send home a few bucks every month to help out.” Frankie eyed Justin. “Who you sendin’ yours to?”

Justin’s throat tightened at the sound of the word
home
.

“My older sister Margaret gets my dough,” Justin replied, not meeting Frankie’s eyes as he picked up a wet shirt. “She takes care of Beanie.”

“Beanie? What is he, a dog?”

“My younger brother Benjamin.” Justin shook out the shirt. “We call him Beanie. He’s a swell kid.” He looked sidelong at Frankie, as if daring him to say even a syllable in jest. “The swellest kid I’ve ever seen.”

“What about your folks?”

“No folks.” Justin took another clothespin out of his mouth and secured the bandanna tighter as it slid off the line.

“Crummy. Sorry for ya.” Frankie scrubbed his face with his dirty shirt, mud still smeared over his left ear. Trying to hide a pale blue oval as it fell out of his patched pocket, grabbing it out of the grass.

“I don’t believe it.” Justin spun around.

“Don’t believe what?” One corner of Frankie’s mouth turned up in a guilty smile as he dug for the handkerchief in his pocket and wrapped it around the eggs.

“Gimme that.” Justin held out his hand, and Frankie reluctantly plopped the two speckled birds’ eggs there.

“Got the nest in my other pocket. You want that, too?” Frankie scowled. “And some petrified wood and obsidian and stuff—but I ain’t givin’ ya that. You can go get your own, for all I care. Yellowstone might be the pits, but I’m takin’ some souvenirs with me when I go. Least I can do to make up for all this time I’m wastin’ planting stupid trees.”

Justin shook his head in disgust, turning the eggs over in his hand. “You know you’re not supposed to take anything, bonehead. Some of those birds are rare, and this is a public park. What’s the matter with you?”

Frankie didn’t answer, snatching up his green army surplus backpack and digging through it. A panicked look on his face. He dumped the bag upside down and dislodged a wooden geyser plaque that had been ripped from its base, some agate stones, and a couple of smashed crystals.