Montana Winds

This is Part 1 of Montana Winds.

Emily



MONTANA WINDS

Sequel to Follow the Hawk

353 Pages
By

Emily Horswilll





TO HER READERS
Emily saw her first article published 71 years ago. She was13. Subsequently, twenty-five earned awards. Years later, U.S. Congressman, Mike Lowry, read her work in Congress. With their mutual environmental theme, she and Stewart Udall, then Secretary of the Interior became competitors for related literary awards. The fact that, for a period of time, he ran second to her first became a source of amusement among friends.
He wasn’t expected at The 1987 Rocky Mountain Outdoor Writers’ awards banquet, it being a long jump from The Oval Office to Park City, Utah. But, with the smell of steak, the door banged against the wall, and Stewart strode in followed by three photographers. “Where is this woman who writes so much better than I do?” he demanded. “And how come she’s sitting at the wrong table?” Cameras clicking, he plucked petite Emily from her chair. Loudly lamenting his frustration at receiving second place to her first, he studied and rejected table after table as his entourage toured the room. At the last table, he rubbed his hands and smiled. Ignoring the “Reserved for” sign, he introduced Emily as the laughing editors and publishers moved to make room for two more plates. Minutes later, as Stewart rose to leave, he whispered in her ear “Hope this does it for you, kid.”
A few weeks ago, Emily heard the thud of footsteps. “Wait! I know who you are,” a voice called. Panting, she explained. “When I was 6 and my brother was 12, we spent Sunday morning sprawled on his bed reading your column. Now when I can’t stand the world as it is, I read them over again. Hugging Emily she whispered,” Thank you.”

For 10 years Emily was known among her peers as the best writer of secular inspiration west of the Missouri River. Now, at last,
Emily invites you to enjoy all three of her books, Follow the Hawk, Montana Winds and Sometimes Better to Walk than Fly, the collection of columns a six-year-old kept.
With all my love, Emily Horswill, Dr, VUSPA

http://emhorswill.blogspot.com/



CONTENTS

390 PAGES

1889-1901:


:
PART ONE: 1889-1890 Page 1

PART TWO: 1890-1892 Page 144

PART THREE 1892-1896 Page 254

PART: FOUR: 1901 Page 377






CHAPTER 1

Beginning as snowmelt in Wyoming's high mountains, the Yellowstone River plunges downward onto Eastern Montana's dry plains. Where descending River meets horizontal land, it sprawls, then gathering strength, this great muttering waterway, for millennia, has started its 650-mile journey East pushing before it thousands of tons of Wyoming's yellow clay thickened with red powder ground from the rock Montanans call ‘scoria'.
Halfway between Miles City and Terry, Montana, on the river, Jim Albright relaxed on his horse, Jingler, beside his corral. Pearly gray light flooded the horizon setting it aglow. The cattle in the corral mooed. Jim swung the gate open thinking, next week, due to Gimpy’s will; they'll graze on my land. Also, March 10, I’ll be 2l and entitled to a full section under current Homestead law. That leaves me nine months to file before the new law reduces claims to a half section in 1889. But what section should I claim. How sure are my squatter’s rights to this valuable land on the River?
He watched the cow with the torn ear break away from the packed herd and take the lead. As the others strung out behind her, his attention strayed to the brand on the nearest cow--two circles connected with a hump. His Spectacle brand: neat. He surveyed it with satisfaction as he closed the gate without getting off Jingler.
A trace of frost glazed the prairie where there ought to patches of melting snow: Bad news to have a dry winter follow a drought, but the new grass ought to be fair on that high bench. Wouldn't hurt to take a look, especially since he was a bit early to go to the Double T.
Jingler fell in behind the trailing cow readily matching the herd's swinging gait, and Jim told her. "Lookee here. When Trouble Rollins comes to meet us at the Double T, you just keep all four feet on the ground. No need to pick one up and threaten to kick him out of The Territory. "'Trouble'. What a strange nickname," Jim remembered saying to Nellie five years ago when he'd been the new chore boy and Trouble the handsome cowboy foreman dressed in silk shirts and fancy hand tooled boots who snapped orders on Bill and Nellie Williams sprawling Swinging B Ranch.
She had answered, "Yup. Boys usually pick something about a feller you'd see right off, then turn it upside down: like our old black man. Most of his 85 years that little feller stood straight as a poker, so they called him 'Gimpy' as if he limped. Raised my share of boys around here all a handful, but this kid was double-trouble. Best cow foreman in the country now."
"Good veterinary and a first-class horseman, too," Jim said to Jingler. So, what's this quarrel between you and Trouble?" Not that I always liked Trouble. Maybe partly envy, Jim admitted, recalling the bunkhouse jokes about Trouble's girl-dodging exploits: and I was 'That skinny, long-legged kid that couldn't do nothing but read'! Of course, Trouble never looks at a book."
The laggard cow stopped. Teeth snapping in impatience, Jingler nipped her. "Shame on you," Jim scolded. "She's heavy with calf, and not as young as you are."
Slapping her on her arched neck, he marveled at her sleek lines. Surely it was one of God's miracles that the wild foal he'd dug from a snowdrift when he first came to Montana could have grown into this dazzling cream-colored creature.
That day he'd found her, he'd still been grieving over the fresh graves he'd left behind in Wisconsin; still dazed over the ferocity of the plague called "influenza,” his image of himself as a young man bound for an elite college and his vision of his future as a minister, shattered--and he'd wrapped his arms and heart around the orphaned foal, and they'd adjusted to their new realities together.
"When you kicked Grubstake out of the way then stepped under the saddle I was trying to throw on him, I was afraid you were too young to carry me. But we're both big and tough," he told her. He stretched his 180 pounds and flexed his muscles. "With a little luck in a few years we'll lift this squatter operation up by the heels and have a ranch we can both be proud of."
He was due at the Double T for a joint work session with Trouble, the work pattern that had evolved since the Swinging B, as all the other big spreads, had gone broke in The Bad Winter of Eighty-seven leaving them both without jobs--and Trouble minus a hand. As for me? Jim winced. Well, I was along on that ride.
He’d heard of friendships built on trial by fire: substitute "snow and bitter cold" and you'd be closer in this case. Then, in their need to work together, he and Trouble learned to respect, and eventually, to like each other. I'm sure glad Trouble's finally shouldering some of the blame for losing his hand, instead of laying it all on me, Jim thought. Gimpy said that if Trouble quit grousing and tried, he'd get real handy with his left hand, and the old black vaquero was right. Right about a lot of other things, too.
After the Bad Winter, Gimpy and Jim lived and worked together, the old man providing the knowledge and Jim the brawn for their fledgling ranch operation. But Gimpy had died two years ago, leaving Jim the sole owner. How Jim missed Gimpy--both his wisdom and his presence in their cabin.
Gimpy's cracked voice rang in Jim's memory. "Now, Son, you hear folks a'telling how the buffalo ate grass, but that ain't so. Them buffalo ate grass seed. Just nipped it off the top. Left them tough stems standing to funnel the snowmelt down into the sod. Sod two, three foot thick and just like a big sponge, Jim. Take care of the land, Son, and it'll take care of you."
"But, Gimpy," Jim argued out loud. "To take care of it, I have to own it— four-and-a-half sections of it, you said, if it's going to take care of me."
His lead cow bellowed. A second joined in. One by one the others followed. Legs braced, necks outstretched, thirty red-brown cattle, bawled at the sky. Jim glanced at it: looked benign—like polished silver. Nothing unusual about that. The air smelled crisp and clean, no trace of smoke suggesting a prairie fire—just thirsty desert air slurping up frost. Jim shrugged. No telling just what triggered a herd of cattle to set up a clamor. The corners of his lips twisted in a wry grin. Trouble called this racket “a singing herd!"
Grass, bearded with frost formed a glistening carpet stretching in all directions. Jingler yanked at the bridle reins. "Don't think we'll see the mountain," Jim told her. " But you're pining for action, and Trouble's still chomping bacon." He eased his grip on the reins. Snorting, she tackled the steep grade.
As she scrambled, a mountaintop, sparkling as if crowned with diamonds, floated into view. Jim gaped at it. He'd watched day break from this viewpoint many times, but not in haze with the mountain iced in hoarfrost frost.
The cattle were silent. But a coyote yipped. Surely a day for singing, animal or human. His gaze focused on the view, Jim's rich, choir-trained baritone floated across the plateau. "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. . . .
A silver disc of sun swam through the haze.
"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. . ."
Light slid down the mountainside and canyons fanned up and away, but the twisted canyon land at the toes of the mountains Montanans called, The Badlands, lay hidden. As his last "amen" faded, Jim felt cleansed, revitalized-ready to face the future.
His cows were grazing. Their white faces blending with the frosty grass reminded him of Gimpy's name for them, "The Headless Herds." Jim hadn't recognized the double edge to that till now.
”Them critters you young-uns calls cows don't have enough sense to stand under a cutback in a storm," the old man had said. "Not like our Longhorns. Seems humans got no use for a critter wild and free and able to take care of itself."
"Unfortunately, Gimpy, while your Longhorns are long on independence, my Herefords grow tender beef," Jim answered, as if Gimpy were still alive--"but we better gallop over and get those bent horseshoes cooking so Trouble can hammer them back into shape." Jim reined Jingler toward the Double T.
As she pivoted, he saw clouds: Licorice and gold colored! Rain clouds! A harbinger of a wet spring! Spirits climbing, he watched the clouds spread from the horizon boiling and working like yeasty dough squeezed in the fists of a giant. Thunder rolled. His lead cow snorted. Tails up the whole herd plunged into motion, and the sea of heaving backs surrounded Jingler, sweeping them along as they stampeded back to the corral.
Silly critters, Jim thought, half annoyed. Any native animal would have taken a quick look at these clouds and continued chewing grass. On the other hand, maybe not so silly. To these beasts that corral meant hay, easy grub, easy for them, not so easy for me. He shook with laughter as Jingler bit the nearest cow in a display of temper. "You and Gimpy's Longhorns," Jim commented. "You Montana aborigines hate being pushed around. Besides you'd welcome a bath, infrequent enough here if you have a preference for rainwater.
Damn cold bath, though," he noted, as a torrent of icy slush splatted on the frozen manure and straw padding the corral. Jingler forced a pathway through the packed, steaming bodies and Jim floated above them through the blanket of warm air, fragrant with the musty-sweet smell of regurgitated grass. Slush pelted his shoulders soaking through to the skin as he slid from the saddle. He unlatched both halves of the "Dutch" door and let Jingler in.
Closing the lower one, Jim leaned on it and glanced toward the house he and Gimpy had built: It did look strange, dug back into the hill that way with those wide eaves, more like a mushroom popping up, than like a "root cellar"— Trouble's comment. Jim remembered Gimpy's coaching, "Push 'er an inch to the left, Boy—now just a nudge back," as he laid each rock--and he remembered the aftermath, sore muscles, and grimaced. Still, that rockwork looked darn good— almost elegant.
Something moved on the roof. That would be Tabbit stalking a meal. Jim's grin broadened as he thought of the night he and Gimpy had moved under their new roof and Trouble Rollins had appeared with a "housewarming gift"--a six-foot bull snake. However, due to his territorial distaste for rattlesnakes and his taste for rats and mice, Tabbit had proved a valuable addition to the household. A flurry of activity erupted on the roof as the snake struck.
Jingler nuzzled Jim's pocket, and he dug out a piece of dried apple. She mouthed it with soft lips, then tucked it into her cheek. "Like a darn gopher," Jim commented. She waggled her ears in contentment. "That day I found you all you wanted was your mother's milk. You hadn't acquired a fancy taste for apples yet," Jim told her. He looked out again: Still pouring slop. He couldn't get any wetter. Might as well get into dry clothes. Leaving the door open so Jingler could choose barn or corral, Jim sprinted to the house.
Inside, he lit a fire and changed clothes. He took a long, wishful look at his books—but they'd have to wait for winter. A rancher had no time to read in the spring. Instead, he sat down at his desk and bent over his accounts. Not that it would take a lot of pencil lead to tally his assets. In addition to the 30 cows, he owned the hut, his own bull, Jingler, and a pair of Morgan’s he could ride or harness. He also owed The Swinging B for the bull, for seed that had never peered through last summer's dry ground and for fencing wire. Jim laid his pencil down with a sigh. Trouble says I'm lucky, Jim thought. Nellie, too. Keep rubbing it in that bad times and hungry cattle mean cheap meat for my sausage grinder. Sure I can sell the sausage, and I am better off then some, he acknowledged. I'm still here--but seems to me that since Gimpy left me this place, I'm near two years older and four years deeper in debt." He glanced out of the window.
Too damn bad about all this water rolling off ground frozen rock hard, instead of soaking in. Still, the creeks would be running full again and that meant hay on the banks of the Yellowstone: a cash crop right outside his hut. But the Morgans couldn't handle that haying job alone. If only he had a heavy draft team. He sat frowning at the window and an idea began to churn. He examined it in detail. Leaping to his feet he paced back and forth running it through his mind piece by piece. The more he thought of it, the more plausible it seemed. With Trouble's expertise as a vet and his connections with The Dakota Horse Ranch, Jim thought, how can we lose?
CHAPTER 2

Trouble glared at Jingler, his angry flush matching the color of his hair
Ears flat on her head in a temper, Jingler stepped sideways increasing the eight feet between Trouble and herself to ten.
Sliding from his saddle Jim grabbed her bridle and shook it. "Stop that," he snapped.
"You ever hear of a human type animal harboring a lifetime grudge over a dose worm medicine?"
Jim studied Trouble's face. Did he really think Jingler remembered his medical checkup when she was two hours old? Still Trouble was the expert. Controlling his inclination to laugh, Jim glanced at the Double T motif burned into the wood on the corral. Bill and Nell must get a big kick out of Trouble's calling his place the Double-Trouble. Out loud, Jim said, "She sure enough put up a fight."
"Damn legs turned into a whirligig. Couldn't even walk on them yet, and she slit my thumb open. Like to bled to death," Trouble fumed. "And look at her."
Head held high, she tossed it. Not exactly holding out the olive branch Jim thought, suppressing a chuckle.
"Shit." Trouble growled. "I'd shoot her. Too much royal blood for me."
"She'll raise me some dandy colts," Jim argued. Truth was that he liked hearing her whinny her at the door in the morning, liked her intelligence and spunk. "How about firing up that forge?" Jim asked.
"It's fired," Trouble growled as they walked toward the shop. "Done it while you was sleeping in."
The air in the shop was already hot. "How a pony throws a shoe ain't no mystery," Trouble said, pulling on his blacksmith apron. "But never could figure how a cayuse that ain't growed for 20 years, like Old Nell, pulled one off that was too small."
"I'd guess it edged to the smallish side when you put it on."
Trouble's white teeth flashed."You eat jack knives for breakfast?" This was a new Westernism to Jim: eating jack knives to sharpen his wits!! He chuckled. Picking up a pair of tongs with his left hand and the hook strapped to his right sleeve, Trouble retrieved a horseshoe from the fire, glanced at the dull red glow, laid it on the anvil, struck it two quick blows with a hammer, then dropped it into a bucket of cold water.
"You're getting mighty sure of yourself with that iron paw."
"Hell, Jim, I always was better with either one than most folks are with both. How about grabbing that bellows and pumping air on the fire." Trouble stepped back from the steam. "Say, Pard, that team of draft horses you been talking about--you got anything in particular in mind?"
Jim stared at the fire. "Pa always worked Belgians."
"Pure breds!" Trouble whistled. "If you know how to grow that many bucks, save me some of the seed. But just for talk-talk them new Western Belgians the "Dakota" is showing; now they're pretty.
"Any chance I could borrow the money from Miles Bank, if I talked to Burnett. He's always treated me decent."
"Pard, Burnett couldn't loan you the money if he wanted--not that kind a cash. Bank has rules. Thing for you to do is to waltz into the Government Homestead Office first thing Monday morning and get your name on that other section of land. But, for now, keep pumping air on our fire."
"Another section? That's what Bill says. Problem is I want sure title to the one on the river."
"Sure the one on the River, assuming God gave you any brains. So?"
"So how sure is Gimpy's first settler's claim?"
"Hell, Jim. A man has to prove he's first and that he has lived on the land for five years. According to Bill, no one has set on that piece a-tall, except you and Gimpy, not since they come, and you know how long that's been. Just stick tight for another three years."
You hear about those crooks that been claim jumping."
"With bogus papers claiming they lived on the land away back? Jim, nothing's sure but death and taxes. You got to take some chance."
"What section would you file on?"
"Was I you, I'd take up that piece on Coot Creek. Creek's spring-fed. Has the old line shack, that shelter, and a good corral."
"Good corral. You bet. I built it. On Bill's payroll."
"Bill doesn't want it. Hasn't used it since The Bad Winter. Get your name on it before some honyoker finds it." Trouble picked a horseshoe out of the fire, examined it, then buried it in hot coals. "You can ease up on that bellows, but fire won't burn without coal, Pardner."
"Open another sack?"
"Nags got to be shod. Have to cook the shoes to fit. Whoa. Pour half of them lumps back. Say, Feller, what's dimming your mind."
"About that team: Suppose I was to get bred mares."
"Bred mares." Trouble sucked in his cheeks considering. "Figuring the colts would pay the loan. Not bad, Pard. Had I $2,000, I'd gamble on the pair of us. But the bank?" He shook his head. "Still, I don't fault you none for wanting a pretty team. Tell you what, if you're set on this, 'The Dakota' owes me a favor-tell Burnett I'd get them Belgians serviced for free. Tell him you'll gamble four pure-bred Belgians for the price of two."
"You know that smoked meat I delivered to the bartender at the Antler? Haven't collected a dime. Why don't you ride along? We'll get some of it in beer."
"For an invite like that I'll pick up what's left of you outside the bank. Don't figure my thirst will grow whiskers waiting.



"You haven't the collateral to get a bank loan, Albricht, but why don't you run through that proposition again," Burnett motioned Jim to a chair, leaned back in his and studied Jim's face. "Rollins donating his sales commission, too?" he asked.
Donating? More like Trouble's skill for my hands, Jim thought. Added up to owing Trouble more work. Shifting his weight under the banker's scrutiny, Jim said, "Hadn't thought of the commission."
This young fellow gambles, but he hedges his bets, Burnett thought. Wonder if he knows how easy it is to lose purebred colts? Certainly Rollins does. The banker, shrugged. But that's their problem. He cleared his throat. "Suppose I lend you the two thousand out of my own cash? At, say, two per cent above bank interest?" Jim nodded in the affirmative. Burnett wrote the note. "Sign here," he said, pointing.
Ignoring Burnett's offered pen, Jim glanced at the note. "Interest up two per cent this week?" he asked.
Burnett's eyebrows rose. This Albricht kid read The Star. "Supposed to go up today, but I'll give you yesterday's rate," Burnett said making the adjustment. Rubbing his chin, he watched Jim walk away. Wouldn't hurt to keep track of this Albricht. Bright young chap. Burnett glanced down at Jim's signature...and educated. Ambitious, too. But what would Rollins gain out of this deal, the banker wondered


Standing in the shade cast by the bank building, Trouble listened poker-faced to Jim's report. Legs spraddled he examined the hard blue sky. "Nary a cloud," he announced. "Not even one of them little skinny buggers. But no need to worry. If you can squeeze a bundle of greenbacks like that out of Burnett now, you can pray up rain.
"But, Pard, you better let me break this to Bill and Nell, and you'll have to lift a quick brew, then skedaddle if you're going to eat Nellie's birthday dinner.
CHAPTER 3

The dog's wild yelps followed by pounding hooves startled Nellie. Dropping her watering can, she glanced over her potted plants just in time to see Jim jump from Jingler onto the veranda. "I got it," he shouted waving a packet in one hand and warding the dog off with the other.
As the dog gamboled into Nellie's kitchen, she took refuge behind the table. "Since Bill brought that half-growed hound home, it ain't safe to air the house. He's bound to knock me down and romp all over me, and you don't help," she scolded. Her sharp eyes surveyed Jim. "I declare, you and that dog is a pair, all bones and knobs. Better get over here more often so I can feed you." She took the packet he waved. "I see you got it, Boy. Don't reckon this'n looks any different than any other Homestead Rights." Eyes narrowed she stared through the plants and beyond. "Why, I remember when we first built that shelter on Coot Creek. Kids and cows scattering across the prairie like weeds." She sighed. "A'course someone's bound to file on that piece, and you know better than to plow that high prairie."
A long shadow fell across the kitchen table. Bill leaned against the doorjamb. "This is a special occasion, Nellie. "Ain't every day a man comes of age and takes up his own property." Bill stroked his mustache, and Jim realized with a sudden shock that the black was streaked with silver.
When had that happened? "About your buildings on The Creek..." The warm glow spreading from Jim's chest clogged his throat.
"I aim to collect." Bill's mustache twitched. "Like I said, I got plenty of buildings, fencing, too, all needing a strong back."
Jim took a quick step. Putting an arm around Nellie's ample waist, he held out his hand to Bill. "How can I thank you two for taking me in when I was just a dumb kid? How can I ever repay you for letting Gimpy teach me how to run a ranch?"
"Told him training you for his job was plumb crazy. Turned out, he could of done worse."
"That old black man was luck from start to finish." Nellie wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron, and Jim's promissory note slipped from the packet in her hand. He grabbed at it, but it fluttered lazily to the table, then to the floor. Lodged at the toe of Bill's boot it pronounced in the banker's large block print, "I, Jim Albricht promise..."
"That an I.O.U.?" Nellie demanded. "Not mortgage papers! You needed a little help, why didn't you ask?"
Stooping Bill picked the I.O.U. up, glanced at it, then stared. "$2,000!" His baritone rose to tenor. "For a fancy team of horses?"
"$2,000!" Nellie gasped. "You didn't. You couldn't of. Bill, you knew about this? And you didn't put a stop to it?"
"Thought it was just talk, Nellie. Figured he'd come to his senses."
"And you with such a good start," Nellie scolded.
"Wanted a work team..." Jim blundered.
"For $2,000 they better work!" Bill snapped.
Nellie sighed, "When a young feller gets a yen for pretty horses there ain't no use talking."
Pretty horses. Trouble--and now Nellie. "Better get the saddle off Jingler," he muttered, sidling toward the door.
"I put Ron to it. Ain't often I catch him when there's a chore around. But we had something else to tell you today. That property your hut sets on is proved up ground, Jim."
Proved up ground! Jim stared at them. He'd checked Trouble's statement at the land office. First settlers' claims were good. Could some trapper have lived on that section before Gimpy did? Strange that he'd come along with his claim after all these years. Some dirty son-of-a-bitch wants my water and my improvements. Jim slumped into the nearest chair. He rested his elbows on the table and covered his face with both hands.
He heard Nellie say, "Bill, he never heard one word." How could she sound so calm? He felt Bill's hand shaking his shoulder.
"Been trying to tell you, Boy, before Gimpy died he give us this to keep safe for you till you come of age." The rancher bent over Jim holding out a thin envelope. With trembling hands Jim broke the wax seal and pulled out a notarized deed. "Maybe this'll help with your foolishness over that high-stepping Belgian team," Bill grunted.
The envelope blurred as Jim remembered the day Gimpy had listed the duties of a ranch foreman. And as I recall I told him, I'd have the whole bit in my pocket in ten years! Jim thought. What an ass I was. The envelope took shape and Jim mumbled, "Wish I could thank Gimpy." But suddenly he knew that Gimpy would want him to have the Belgians he'd ordered f.o.b. Miles City by rail.



Two weeks crawled past. Jim stood on the railroad siding in Miles City watching stock cars slide by. One would have his horses. There it was. Number
24. Couplings clattered and banged. The train jerked to a stop. As he waited for the workman hurrying up with the bill of lading Jim tried to look nonchalant, but the palms of his hands were wet as he gripped the pencil and scribbled his name. The freight door opened with a clang. Jim held his breath when he heard the stomp of hooves. His heart thumped. A current of warm air carried the rich odor of horse as he walked up the ramp. His hands shook and the hardware on the halters he carried jangled as he peered into the dark car. At first he saw nothing. Then his eyes caught a gleam reflecting from a dark form. Gradually, two matched bays took shape in the shadows. He stared at the size of his horses. They made the cow pony sharing the boxcar look like a shaggy burro.
The bays smelled him. Jim licked dry lips as he watched them pick up hooves as big around as his head. As 3,600 pounds of horseflesh descended upon him, his boots seemed nailed to the ramp. Fumbling frantically in his pockets, he extracted two sugar lumps. Arched necks bent. They nibbled, drooling. Inhaling great drafts of air, they blew Jim's hair into a pompadour. Nickers rumbled. As if upon signal, they both rubbed their noses against his shirt with such force that he staggered backward. Pinned against the wall, he gasped, "Just one minute, you two. You think you're lap-size?" His laugh quivered. "Lucky for me you want to be friends."
They submitted impatiently to haltering, then dragging Jim by the rope on the halter they hurried out into the sunshine. Free of the confining quarters, they pawed joyously. Great clods of packed earth flew. Ducking, Jim whooped. "You two don't need a plow. I'll turn you loose in a field and let you paw it."
A cowboy lounging on the board walk whistled and drifted toward Jim calling, ""Royalty! How about an introduction?"
"Can't pronounce the names they're registered under," Jim called back.
The saloon door burst open and ranchers strode out, spurs jingling. By the time Jim stopped in front of the store a crowd had gathered. Some one called, "Two lady horses! You going to work them, Albricht, or they going to work you?" Another rancher removed his hat to scratch his balding head and quipped, "This young feller ain't a family man, or he'd know that, come spring's work, them females will be indisposed."
The crowd parted for the banker, then closed around him. The I.O.U. Jim had signed materialized in his mind, and the man's smile looked like a leer. Two thousand dollars, Jim thought. Would two thousand silver dollars dumped over my head pile up to my belt? My chin?
"Some horseflesh, Albricht," the banker said. "Wouldn't mind owning these myself next spring." The words pelted Jim like bits of sleet. Facts swirled in his head. He, Jim Albricht, was in debt up to his ears. Even the shirt on my back belongs to this bloke. Why did Burnett loan me, a kid achieving a sudden twenty-one, all that money?. Because he can't lose. But if anything happens to the Belgians I lose everything I've got. Jim's stomach churned. He gaped at the hand the banker offered. It felt like a block of wood, and the man's smile looked even more menacing. Muttering, "I better get these two home," Jim left. As he rode down the street leading the Belgians between rows of admiring residents his head cleared. Panic eased. With this team, he had a chance. With any kind of luck, in ten years he'd climb out from under the debt and win clear title to a ranch he could be proud of.
He squinted at the sun. Plenty of time to make it to the corral on Coot Creek. He rode slowly taking time to get acquainted with his new team. "Damned spoiled, that's what you are," he scolded when Jingler objected to his fondling of the Belgians.
He dismounted to check a strap. Dividing his attention between Jingler and the new team, he kicked away a bit of turf. From this clay, grew the gramma and bluejoint, that, in good years, cured by the sun, did a better job of feeding and fattening stock, either cut and stacked or left standing, than corn would. He gouged out a handful of soil with his heel and sifted it through his fingers. The natives called it "gumbo." Exposed by constant traffic, it packed as hard as cement. Where well drained, rain had little affect, except to make the surface greasy, but where water stood, it became a gluey mass. Wheels collected balls of mud that dried like concrete and cattle walked on stilts. Jim grinned at the image of an l,200-pound cow, hooves encased in dried clay, tilting and tottering in her high mud boots. "Like my sisters tripping around in Ma's shoes," he chuckled. The sun had tipped toward the West when he saw Black Butte outlined against the horizon. Pale stars softened the sky as he circled to the lea side and rode onto his new homestead.
He penned the Belgians in the corral, slipped the saddle off Jingler, then felt for his pocketknife and squatted at his saddlebags. He took out a canteen of water, a can of beans and one of stringy, corned beef called, "Canned Willie." As he washed down chunks of bread, beans and the salty meat with water, he remembered building this corral for Bill.
"Sharpen your ax," Bill had counseled. "Them badland cedar is like petrified. Now, fifty year ago, Captain Bonneville allowed in his report that them cedars grow, but a feller like me'd never guess it."
Jim wiped his knife on the grass, put it and the remaining bread in his saddlebags and fed the horses a luxury portion of grain. "You two might get nervous in a strange place," he told them. I'll keep you company." Walking through the deep mulch of manure and straw in the corral he opened the gate, closed it behind him, and spread his bedroll on a patch of grass. It would make a softer mattress than the dirt floor in the cabin would anyway. He stretched out thinking of Gimpy.
It was to Gimpy he owed this chance. That old man left me a river of gold. Panning it won't be easy, but I can do it. Jim flexed his muscles. He was young and strong. With the Belgians, he knew he had a good chance to build his spread.
Thunder woke him. He picked up his bed and dashed into the shelter. The Belgians pawed and snorted. Jim talked to soothe them. "You two weren't broke, you were gentled and that's how I aim to keep you. "How would you like me to call you Bonnet and Dolly?"
The downpour stopped. Stars sparkled like polished diamonds against the fresh-washed, blue-black sky. I'll still get a few hours of shut-eye, Jim thought, carrying his bed into the cabin.
The patch of light slipped through the cabin door. It paused, then flitting to Jim's booted figure stretched on the floor, it plopped onto one of his eyes. He opened it. That damn reflection. It always woke him here. But just in time to watch the sun come up, he remembered. As he scrambled to his feet he glanced at the splintered remnants of the wall bunk he'd chopped up for firewood when caught in a storm. Suppose I ought to build another if I ever catch up on more vital chores, he thought.
A nicker attracted his attention. Jingler stood, her neck stretched through the open door. Her creamy coat glowed in the light of the coming day. Jim slapped her on the shoulder. "Get out of the way or we'll miss the morning show." As he pushed past her, he remembered that morning five years ago, when, with the smell of the Wisconsin graveyard still clogging his nostrils, he'd gaped at his first prairie sunrise. The air smelled sweet after the downpour. Filling his lungs with it, Jim focused on the spot where the butte carved a black line against a pale gray sky rapidly turning molten silver. Crimson splashed across it. The sun sampled the edge of Black Butte, then popped up on top, adding its fiery ball of orange to the array. No wonder Gimpy'd chosen The Butte as his favorite place to wake up.
Stretched in the cool shade of the butte, Jim thought, Not the, my. My butte, my cabin, my corral.
The sun rose rapidly deluging the surrounding land with that peculiarly intense light. Toward the River, the prairie sloped down in waving grass as far Jim could see. To the north and west stretched the high plateaus, summer pasture, to the east the coulees and canyons, winter protection for a herd. A short distance from the cabin, Coot Creek whispered a monologue at the diamond willows, Juneberry bushes and cottonwoods that marked its path. Even in the dry years the spring that fed it gurgled.
Jingler nuzzled Jim's hand. "Let's wake our new team up, before we tie on the feedbag," he suggested.
A meadowlark trilled and Jim whistled back. As he strode toward the corral, Jingler kept pace with him, her head over his shoulder. The Belgians weren't in the corral. Must be in the shelter. Open on the east side abutting the corral, its thick sod walls on the north, south and west, plus its pole roof covered with three feet of straw, provided stock excellent protection from the fierce winter storms. Odd that, on a day like this, the Belgians would cram themselves into that low, airless space. Used to a barn no doubt. Jim whistled as he vaulted the rails. The Belgians didn't answer. They'd learn. Squinting into the shadows, Jim stooped to survey the shed's interior. It was empty.
Empty! Oh, my God! His belly cramped and panic threatened. Rustlers! He glanced at the network of canyons leading into the crumpled mountains. And they'd have left miles behind before holing up for the day. "Oh, my God!." Jim slumped against the top rail. The banker's face floated in a red haze, took on features. They gloated. A rolled manuscript took shape in the man's hand. It unfurled slowly to flip like a poster in the breeze. Jumbled letters slid into place:
"I, JIM ALBRIGHT, PROMISE TO PAY TO THE ORDER OF Clem Burnett, $2,000."
Groaning, Jim beat his forehead with the palm of a hand. His mind slid in a circle.
Could he rent his place? Get a job? Renew the note? Pay only the interest? Riding at $30 a month! The banker stretched a finger through Jim's haze and tapped the $2,000 figure. Maybe sell his stock? God I'm crazy. With this Panic heating up, I'd be lucky to break even.
"Oh, my God, I'm ruined," Jim shouted, lashing the air with a fist.