Hattie Big Sky (4 page)

I'd followed Mattie's advice and scooped the top layer of intruding snow into the coffeepot, now heating on the stove. To the back of the range, I set the dish of Perilee's stew to warm. Since Aunt Ivy had been reluctant to trade in her wood cookstove, I was well versed in how to use one, at least for cooking; baking was beyond me. I rounded up some cutlery and found the table, which had been buried under a stack of dime novels and Shakespeare's plays. Uncle Chester and I shared one Wright trait: we loved our books.

Now that I was thawed out a bit and the little shack lit up by my trusty kerosene lamp, I could see that every shelf and surface was covered with books, newspapers, and old magazines. What Uncle Chester had lacked in niceties—Aunt Ivy would be horrified to find not one doily in the entire room—he'd made up for in reading materials. Under a goodly pile of the
Dakota Farmer, Popular Magazine,
and
Saturday Evening Post
magazines, I found a serviceable empty wooden crate that was recruited as a bookcase.

An old rag, lukewarm water, and elbow grease soon brought a sheen to the table. I set out an enamelware plate and a tin fork and spoon. “Just like the Vanderbilts!” I told Mr. Whiskers. He'd bellied up to the stove to warm himself after his first course. There was no proper chair, but an upturned empty lard bucket suited me fine. I wondered if this had been Uncle Chester's favorite perch as well.

By the time my supper was hot, Uncle Chester's house—my house—was on its way to being cozy. I poured myself a mug of coffee and Mr. Whiskers a saucer of tinned milk. “Here's to our new home,” I toasted.

Thinking of the Almighty's earlier guidance, I bowed my head. “Thank you, Lord, for Uncle Chester. May he rest peacefully in your care. Thank you for Perilee, who provided this good supper, and for keeping me safe thus far. Mr. Whiskers thanks you for the mouse. Amen.”

I dug in, spoon clinking against the plate. The stew tasted of sage and carrots and hope. The flavor lingered on my tongue long after the plate was empty. I let Mr. Whiskers lick it clean while I sliced Perilee's strudel. It was even more delicious than it smelled. I shook my head thinking of Perilee's trouble trying to trade in town. People were gosh-darned thickheaded sometimes.

A rhythmic rasping told me Mr. Whiskers was sound asleep. It'd been a long day. I dipped a few ladles of warm water from the stove's reservoir into the largest enamel bowl, then dropped in a bar of soap and rolled it into a lather. I quickly washed up my few dishes, then ladled clean water over each item to rinse off the suds. The dishes rested briefly on a clean flour-sack towel while I dug another out of my things. Never let it be said I let my dishes air dry! When everything was set to rights, I turned to making ready my bed.

Because of the tight quarters—the whole house would have fit in Aunt Ivy's parlor—the bed had been hinged to the wall. I pulled the bed down. Uncle Chester's bed linens were fit for rags and barely that. I briskly made it up using the one set of sheets I'd brought. Within minutes of my banking the fire, the inside temperature took a huge step down the ladder. “Hope we don't turn into icicles,” I said to Mr. Whiskers. He jumped up on the bed.

I pulled off my skirt and blouse and yanked on a flannel nightgown, singing at the top of my lungs to keep warm. “Onward Christian soldiers, marching off to war!” Bellowing and marching in place, I blew out the lamp and hopped into bed. After a few minutes, I hopped right back out. I added several layers of clothes, a hat, and two pairs of socks. Finally, with Mr. Whiskers curled at my feet, I warmed up enough to fall asleep.

         

I woke, bleary-eyed and hungry. And cold.

I started out of bed, then snagged the quilt to wrap around my shoulders. “Brrr!” I bounded across the cold floor to the stove. “I could chisel out the air in here and use it for ice in my lemonade next summer!”

“Meow.” Mr. Whiskers scrabbled his way under my blankets and made a nest for himself in my bed.

“Don't get any ideas.” I blew on last night's embers in the stove. “I've got to fold that up so there's room to move.” I jumping-jacked to the chip barrel and tossed a handful onto the embers. “Let's get something warm inside us. Quick!” I grabbed the coffeepot. Then I remembered: the water was outside, the very cold outside. I began to bundle up. “Lesson number one: bring in a bucket of water each night for coffee in the morning.”

Mr. Whiskers purred his agreement.

Any cowboy passing by at that moment might have fallen off his horse had he seen me step out the front door. Dressed in every stitch of clothing I could find, I suspect I looked like Mattie's rag doll, shuffling my way down the icy steps and across the snowy yard to the well.

The inside of my nose stung as I breathed in the icicled air. My eyes watered so much I could barely see the pump handle. To stay warm, I jiggled from one foot to the other. It was too cold to think. All the jiggling was reminding me of something else rather important.

I'd run out to the necessary the night before, right before bed. It had seemed a long way then, and it was even longer now—and certainly no warmer. I'd gotten awfully spoiled at Aunt Ivy and Uncle Holt's with their indoor plumbing. One more thing to get used to in Montana. I quickly used the facility, slipped off my mittens to grab a piece of the Monkey Ward catalog to dry off, and hiked up my underthings.

I hurried back to the well and began to pump. It took a significant amount of muscle—how had Chase with his little eight-year-old arms managed?—but soon I had a bucketful. That hot cup of coffee was one step closer!

I tried to let go of the pump handle…and couldn't. My naked hands, damp with the morning air, were firmly connected to the metal.

“Ouch!”
My gyrations made my freezing hands raw and sore. And I was still stuck. Now my feet were tingling and itching with the cold, too. I imagined them puffed up and black inside my boots. My teeth chattered hard enough in my head to loosen each and every one.

I was probably going to be the first homesteader ever to die from extreme stupidity. An image of my skeleton being discovered come spring spurred me into action. I began to tug and twist with renewed fervor.

“Hey there, Miz Hattie,” a young voice called out. “Whatcha doing?” Into view rode Chase. He was astride one of the horses from Karl's wagon team and leading a large, boxy horse and a brown cow with white spots.

“Oh, hello, Chase.” If I hadn't been stuck to the pump handle, I would've thrown myself down the well rather than bear this humiliation. “I seem to be in a pickle.”

He slipped off his horse and tethered him to the well bracing. “Mama keeps an old mitten tied to the handle,” he said. “In the winter.”

“Yes, well, that's a wonderful idea, but…” The sentence hardly needed finishing.

Chase ran inside and fetched the small bit of water left in the stove reservoir. He poured it slowly over my hands.

“Oh!” The sudden warmth sent shooting pains into every knuckle and joint. My hands slipped free, and I tucked them under my arms. “That hurts.”

Chase picked up the bucket and took my arm. “Come on inside, Miz Hattie. You better get warmed up.”

I fell against my lard can chair, a frozen, useless lump, while this eight-year-old boy bustled around my shack. He stoked the fire, put coffee on, fed Mr. Whiskers a saucer of tinned milk, and fetched me another pail of water to fill the reservoir.

“Have you had breakfast?” I asked him, a mug of coffee finally cradled in my hands.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, I haven't. Can you eat a second?” Not bothering to wait for an answer, I flipped open the pamphlet Mr. Hanson had tucked in with my purchases. Put out by the Royal Baking Powder Company, “Best War Time Recipes” was packed with ways to cook to save flour, eggs, and such, what with the war on. I measured two coffee mugs of buckwheat flour into a bowl, stirred in four spoonfuls of Royal Baking Powder—the only kind Aunt Ivy ever used—and half a spoonful of salt.

“Could you please reach two tins of milk from that shelf there?” Chase handed them to me, and I added the milk slowly to the flour mix, as the recipe said.

I licked my fingers and touched them to the greased frying pan heating up on the stove.
Sssss.
“It's sizzling all right!” I stuck my stinging fingers in my mouth. One thing I could make was flapjacks. Soon a stack rose on each of our plates, and we ate.

Warm, full, and humbled, I pushed back my plate. “So your mama ties a mitten to the pump handle,” I said. “Anything else I should know before I do some other foolish thing?” Somehow, I didn't feel such a failure talking with Chase this way. I prayed he didn't tell Karl and Perilee what a featherbrain their new neighbor was.

Chase relished his role as teacher and, for the next hour, showed me this trick and that of homestead life. “Use the juniper sparingly,” he said after peeking in my kindling barrel. “It's hard to come by.” When we'd finished my hearth and home lesson, he took me out to the barn and helped me get Violet and Plug settled.

“Do you know how to milk a cow?” he asked.

“That's one thing I do know how to do,” I said. One of my stays had been with a second cousin dairy farmer.

“Violet's kind of cranky.” Chase patted the cow's broad flank. “Watch out for her tail.”

“Will do.”

“Chester gave us her calf. I named her Fawn 'cause she looks like a baby deer I saw once, over to Glendive.”

“That's a wonderful name.” I gave Violet a pat, though more tentative than Chase's.

Chase gave me a few more instructions about Plug. “He's a good old range horse and can practically take care of himself,” he said. “I better head on back, Miz Hattie, or Mama will fret.”

I walked him back out to the yard, where'd he left his horse.

“How can I thank you?” I was so touched by how easily he and his family had taken me under their wing.

“You can give me a boost up.” He lifted up his foot.

I cupped my hands, he stepped into them, and up he went. “Tell your mama hello from me.”

“I will.” Chase wheeled his horse around. “Thanks for breakfast, Miz Hattie!”

And with that, my eight-year-old knight in shining armor rode off.

I went straight into the house, rummaged through my things, found an old mitten, and went back out and tied it to the pump handle.

That night my prayers were full of thanks. “For Chase and Perilee and for lessons learned,” I said. “But Lord, if you could help me not learn every lesson the hard way, I'd sure appreciate it. Amen.”

Mr. Whiskers meowed his amen to that, too.

         
CHAPTER 5         

February 5, 1918
Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

Dear Uncle Holt,

You asked me to tell you more about my everyday doings. Such a life of glamour, you cannot imagine! Water must be fetched first thing each morning, and my breakfast is just a hope until I have fed and watered Plug and Violet. This is not such an easy task when the snowdrifts are piled high as a Chicago skyscraper! Now it is not so bad: Mr. Whiskers and I have beat a path to the barn. But the first day—it was over an hour before I had paddled my way through the snow. Sometimes I feel as if this Montana winter is Goliath and I am David. I only hope my ending is as victorious as his!

After I milk Violet, I must also clean out the barn each day. You would think the cold weather might put a damper on the smells. Not so. Plug is self-sufficient; after a handful of oats, he is turned out to find his own grub. Thank goodness for such a smart range horse.

I am eternally grateful for your old work boots. I know you worried that they would be too big, but they are a perfect fit after I've wrapped my stockinged feet in newspapers. If I didn't do this, I don't think I'd have any toes left come spring.

Your niece,
Hattie Inez Brooks

After I finished my letter to Uncle Holt, I added a postscript to Charlie's:

I read this in the
Wolf Point Herald.
I do not know the author, but it may give you and your comrades a laugh: “My Tuesdays are meatless, my Wednesdays are wheatless, I'm getting more eatless each day; my house it is heatless, my bed it is sheetless—they've gone to the Y.M.C.A. The barroom is treatless, my coffee is sweetless, each day I grow poorer and wiser. My stockings are feetless, my trousers are seatless, Jeroosh, how I hate the d——n Kaiser.” Though our sacrifices at home are small compared to yours, we make them with a sense of humor!

Your wheatless, et cetera school chum, Hattie

Sealing both envelopes, I hurried to my morning chores. I dressed in every stitch of clothing I could find, all the time knowing I'd be an ice block the minute I stepped out that door. Back in Iowa, my smooth hands and face had been my one vanity. No more. No amount of fancy Pond's Cold Cream would soothe the chapped cheeks and nose that were now my badge of homestead honor.

Mr. Whiskers and I waded through the snow to the barn. More than once I cursed Uncle Chester for placing it so far from the house. As we struggled along, I heard sleigh bells jingling like Christmas. A painted sledge skimmed the snow, drawn by a pair of ashy horses.

“How do, neighbor!” Rooster Jim called out a greeting.

Even though I was in the middle of chores, I'd learned enough about Montana ways to know I must invite him in. “The coffee's on,” I said.

Rooster Jim spoke some quiet words to his horses. Steam rose from their backs, and they shook their heads and stamped their hooves. “I'm on my way to Vida. Better not this time.”

“Your team is beautiful,” I said. “Such an unusual color.”

“That they are.” He grinned. “It gets Traft Martin's goat that I won't sell them. He prides himself on saddling up the best-looking horses in these parts.”

I could tell by Rooster Jim's tone that he was pretty pleased about vexing Traft Martin. I hadn't met him yet. I'd heard from Perilee that he and his mother—the yellow silk lady at Hanson's—ran the largest ranch around. The Tipped M butted up against the northeast boundary of my claim.

“How are you handling this weather?” he asked.

“Well, I will be glad when winter's over,” I said. “I'll bet spring is lovely here.”

He hooted with laughter. “Yep, spring's lovely all right. If you like mud. And summer's even lovelier, long as you don't mind the fires of Hades.”

My face must've given evidence of my dismay. Rooster Jim grinned and sniffed the air. “That Chinook that blew through yesterday will warm things up some.” He must've seen the question on my face. “That's a warm wind that comes through sometimes in winter.”

“Chinook.” I'd have to remember that term and tell Uncle Holt about it. And about Rooster Jim.

“You know, Hattie, Chester and me had a deal.”

“Oh?” My heart sank a bit. What kind of deal? And would I be expected to honor it? My reserves were slim after traveling here and getting set up.

Rooster Jim pulled an enormous blue bandanna from his pocket and blew his nose with astonishing energy. When he pulled the bandanna away I was amazed to see that his nose was still attached to his face.

“Yep. He let me win at chess, and I took his mail to the Vida post office for him.”

“But as I told you at Mr. Ebgard's, I don't know how to play,” I started.

“Perfect. Then it'll be easy for me to teach you how to lose.” He laughed heartily at his joke, reminding me of a ragged version of Clement Moore's Saint Nick from the old poem “The Night Before Christmas.”

“Well, I do have letters ready to mail….”

“Get 'em, then. I'll wait.”

I turned and hurried back to the house, dashing inside without even stopping to take off my boots. On the way back out, I nearly tripped over the coil of rope Uncle Chester had left behind. I kicked it back into the corner.

I handed Rooster Jim the letters to Charlie and Uncle Holt.

“Aha.” He nodded wisely. “Two sweethearts. That's the way to do it. Keep 'em guessing.”

I was glad my cheeks were already red from the cold, so Rooster Jim couldn't know I was blushing. “Oh, they aren't sweethearts,” I said.

He laughed his belly laugh again. “That's what they all say!” He flicked the reins over the horses' backs. “I'll stop by soon to give you that chess lesson.” The horses started off with a merry jingle.

“Well, he'll be an interesting neighbor, don't you think?” I asked Mr. Whiskers. He answered with a small meow, and then he and I hurried back to the barn to take care of Plug and Violet. The barn was a small structure, with room enough for the two animals, some bales of hay, spare parts, and a pitchfork. I'd never had much to do with livestock before. Plug, sturdy, loyal range horse that he was, forgave my every mistake. I suspected he could run things better than I could, but he never let on. He contentedly munched the small portion of feed I gave him each day before turning him out to forage.

Violet was a cow of a completely different color. She felt it her bovine duty to make up for each and every one of Plug's kindnesses. It only took me a day to learn never to turn my back on her. That tail scratched like barbed wire as it flicked across my winter-frozen face. Nothing suited her better than to wait until the milk bucket was nearly full, then kick it over with a back hoof.

“It's a lucky thing for you you're too tough for stew,” I threatened that morning after she'd pulled her favorite trick once again. I smacked her hind end in frustration and righted the now-empty milk bucket. If it weren't for the fact that she was my only source of fresh milk, I would have driven her off that very first day. And gladly.

“Ouch!” Her tail scraped my face. It was almost as if she could read my mind and was punishing me for my thoughts. I smacked her again and practiced a curse word I'd heard on the train. There was no Aunt Ivy to recoil in horror at my language and, truth be told, there is nothing like the occasional outburst of profanity to calm jangled nerves.

Barn chores finished, I turned Plug and Violet out. As Rooster Jim had noted, a Chinook had blown through a few days before, warming the prairie. Tiny patches of green poked optimistically out of the cold earth. It wasn't much, but both horse and cow seemed content with the change of fare.

I turned back to the house. It was Monday, laundry day. Last night I'd set the clothes soaking in two tubs. Before breakfast I'd put the wash boiler atop the stove and lugged in kettle after kettle of water from the well to fill it. It had been heating all morning and was nearly aboil. Perilee had planted the notion that there were two or three bachelor neighbors who might pay me to do their laundry. Rooster Jim was no doubt one of them, but I wasn't sure I'd want to tackle his wash.

The whites would boil away on the stove awhile. I poured off some hot water into the bread pan, leaned the washboard inside, cut off a hunk of soap, and began to rub. Rub, rinse, wring. Rub, rinse, wring. By the time I got through all the clothes and the last of the whites were rinsed and wrung, my hands were raw and my back was grumbling something fierce. But I still had to hang the clothes. For this, I put on my woolen mittens. They made pegging the clothes to the line clumsy work but kept my fingers from freezing solid.

To keep myself company, I'd taken to conducting chore-time conversations with God. My self-imposed rule was that each conversation must start on a thankful note. Sometimes that kept the discussion from really getting going. I lifted my petticoat out of the wash basket.

“Lord, I do thank you for that warm wind and the promise of spring.” I bent for another clothespin to secure the petticoat. “And I am very thankful that my wash load is small.” Here I thought of Perilee, washing for her family of five. “I count it a true blessing that there are no diapers in my wash.” I shuddered to think of that. “Now, you know I've been working on keeping a sunny lookout on life, but I must speak to you about Violet, who is more devil than cow.”

Mr. Whiskers pranced around my feet in the snow, batting at a clothespin that had tumbled out of the laundry basket. When we'd first arrived, he'd shoot into the house every time he got the chance. Now, fattened up on mice and wearing a thicker coat of fur, he was content to play outdoors most days.

“Hey there, Mr. Whiskers.” I reached out to scratch behind his ears.

“Ye-owww!” He pulled away from me and arched his back.

“What's wrong?” I asked him. He crouched low, growling an eerie warning, ears flattened tight against his solid head.

I looked around the yard, unable to see what might be spooking him. “Now, now, Mr. Whiskers. Everything's all right.”

The growling grew louder. “You stop that now.” I'd never seen him act like this. “You're giving me the heebie-jeebies.” A trickle of sweat wriggled down my spine. I kept talking, as if my voice might calm us both. “It's all right now. It's all right.” I moved toward him, but he sprang into the air, hissed, and flew under the shack.

“What on earth?” Then I saw it: a wolf, silently, stealthily making its way up the coulee to the very spot where Violet had found a patch of needle grass for dessert. Fear clamped its fist around my throat. I croaked out a warning. Violet couldn't hear me from where she was, and even if she could, she was ornery enough not to budge.

I stamped my foot against the frozen ground. “Ha!” I yelled, my voice finally loosened from fear's fingers. “Hya, hya!”

The wolf did not even flinch.

“Run, Violet! Run, you crazy cow!” I screamed the words at the top of my lungs. Fear must have frizzled out the thinking part of my brain, because next thing I knew, I was dashing toward that wolf. I would have scared the bejeebies out of myself had
I
seen me coming—dressed like a scarecrow, screeching like a banshee.

The wolf had one thought: dinner. Without even a glance my way, he hunkered into a lopsided crouch, rear haunches raised, head down.

Violet was drunk on the allure of fresh needle grass, blissfully unaware of mortal danger. She took a step toward another patch of green.

Even in Uncle Holt's old work boots in the settled snow, I made pretty good time up the coulee bank. Now my antics caught the wolf's attention.

“Git!” I shouted.

Violet bellowed, her long tongue sticking out. “Rrroo!”

Without a sound, the wolf propelled himself forward, leaping at my cow.

Violet snorted in surprise. She flicked her head to see that wolf firmly attached to her tail. She started to run, as fast as a stupid old cow can run in snow.