Man of the Family (27 page)

My little glass hand lamp was lit and sitting on the kitchen table when I went into the house, but it was the only light—except for the yellow crack under the parlor door. I hung my reefer and cap behind the stove so they wouldn't be too cold in the morning, then unwound the strips of burlap from my feet, took the lamp, and started for bed. As I went past the parlor door, I could hear Carl's and Mother's voices, but they were talking quietly and I didn't hear a word of what they were saying.

When I was undressed, I blew out the lamp and crawled in beside Philip, but I couldn't go to sleep. Long after I heard Carl drive away, I lay there listening to the wind and thinking about Mother and the Crazy Dutchman.

After what seemed a hundred hours of lying there, a dog barked down by the river and another one answered. I didn't know what time it might be, but I couldn't stay in bed any longer. I slipped into my clothes, took my shoes in my hand, and went down to the kitchen. It was already a quarter of five, so I lit the kitchen fire and went out to see how my little rabbits were doing. As cold as it had been all night, I'd only lost one.

Mother wasn't downstairs when I went back to the kitchen for the milk bucket, so I filled the stove with coal and went out to finish the rest of my chores. I was just stripping the last few squirts of milk into the bucket when Grace opened the barn door. She looked frightened, and whispered to me as though she were afraid Lady or Ducklegs might hear what she was saying, “What's the trouble with Mother? She looks terrible; she must have been crying all night. And she wants to talk to us before the others are up.” Her voice was a little shaky when she said, “Ralph, I'm afraid something dreadful is going to happen to us.”

Before we went to the house, I told her what Mother had told Carl about the Crazy Dutchman.

We children never had coffee at home, but if we were real sick or it was a special day, like a birthday, sometimes Mother let us have a cup of tea. That morning when Grace and I came into the kitchen, Mother was pouring tea into three cups on the table. She looked just as bad as Grace had said she did, and it was easy to see how hard she was trying to keep her voice steady. “Sit down, children,” she said. “Mother must talk to you.”

I just took my cap off and sat down in front of one of the cups of tea with my reefer still on. Mother took three or four sips before she spoke—sort of as if she were having to plan just how to say what she wanted to. Then she turned toward Grace and said, “Gracie, I have been carrying a secret in my heart for the past three years. Ralph heard me tell it to Carl Henry the other evening. The time has come when you should know it, too.”

“She already knows,” I said. “I told her every word about Mr. Loediker just before we came in.”

Mother didn't say I'd done either right or wrong. She took another sip of tea and said, “Children, Mr. Loediker is still alive. He has been arrested and is in the county jail. I have been summoned to appear before the grand jury this morning and testify against him.” She started to say something more, but her throat seemed to close and tears ran down her cheeks.

I thought she was going to break down entirely, but she didn't. She took a handkerchief from the front of her dress, wiped her eyes, and laid it down on the table with her hand over it. I was so sorry for her that I didn't know what to say or do. My hand went out all by itself and lay on top of hers. She turned her own hand and held mine tightly as she went on.

“If he were a criminal, if I were not sure in my own soul that he was guiltless of knowingly committing a crime, then I should never have hesitated a moment in seeing him punished. But, children, Mr. Loediker didn't know. He was under an influence greater than any of us can comprehend.

“If I am truthful, I shall assuredly send this innocent man to the gallows. I have fought with myself this whole night long. There is only one course that I can follow. I will not lie about it, but I want you children to pray that I be given strength and guidance to convince the men of this jury that Mr. Loediker was irresponsible; that the whole guilt lies with the woman under whose influence he acted.”

Grace must have been thinking some of the same things I'd thought the night before. She looked up and said, “Mother, do you suppose Carl Henry . . .”

Mother looked straight into Grace's eyes and her voice was firm. “No!” she said. “No, Carl didn't! I was sure of it when I sent Ralph for him last night.” She choked up for a moment, swallowed hard, and went on, “It was I who was guilty. It was I who opened my witless mouth before I was positive Mr. Loediker was dead. Carl didn't say he knew it; he only said he had heard it. His only fault was in careless talking. The evening after he was here he went to the Grange and, believing Mr. Loediker to be dead, told a group of men about the horses. Some one of those men was greedy for the reward.”

Just then we heard Philip coming down the stairway. Mother lowered her voice and said, “I am summoned for ten o'clock this morning; we shall have to hurry.”

The wind went down at sunup. Then it stopped snowing, and by nine o'clock the sky had cleared, but it was still pretty cold. Grace put up lunches for Muriel and Philip, and I drove them to school, then came back home and took Mother to the courthouse at a quarter of ten. I thought I'd freeze before she came out of the building at eleven, but I forgot all about it the minute I saw her. She was leaning on Sheriff McGrath's arm as she came through the courthouse door, and she looked as though she were going to faint. When I ran up the steps to meet her, she seemed to forget all about the sheriff. She clung to me the same way I used to cling to her when I was a little boy and was frightened.

She was crying so hard she could only sob out a word or two at a time, “Oh, Son, I am so afraid I have hanged an . . . innocent man. If I could only have stopped . . . crying. If I could have kept my . . . wits about me. Oh . . . I was the only . . . the only shred of . . . of evidence against him . . . and my crying made him seem more guilty. They wouldn't listen when I said he was irresponsible . . . that he was insane. The trial will be within a week . . . and there is nothing I can do . . . nothing.”

Sheriff McGrath helped me hand Mother up to the wagon seat. I think he felt almost as bad as I did.

Grace helped Mother to her room as soon as we got home. Then we sat in the parlor and waited and waited. Grace held Elizabeth and I held Hal, but we didn't say anything. Even the baby seemed to know it was time to be quiet, and she never made a sound.

Mother must have known we were sitting there waiting. At about noon she came to the head of the stairs and said, “Gracie and Ralph, would you come up to my chamber for a few minutes?”

We put Elizabeth in her crib, left Hal to take care of her, and went up. Mother's door was open and she was sitting on the edge of her bed. She still had her black cloak and hat on, and her face was as white against them as a patch of snow on a mountainside. She didn't ask us to sit down, and she wasn't crying any more, but her voice sounded flat and lifeless when she said, “Children, I have to make the greatest decision of my life—possibly of our lives—and I need your help. I can not bring myself to believe that Mr. Loediker's guilt justifies the taking of his life.

“On my testimony this morning, the men of the grand jury believed Mr. Loediker should pay that penalty. However, he must first be tried before a court of law. That trial will take place within a week, and I shall be called upon as the only witness against him. I can see only one way to save his life:

“If I were not in this state, if I could not be found, the prosecution would have to be dropped for lack of evidence. If we should leave this state, we would have to leave everything we have and love—Father's grave in Fairmount, Lady, King, our friends—and everything we own except what clothing we might carry in our hands. It would take every penny we have in the bank and whatever could be raised quietly from the sale of our household goods, Lady, and the hens. We couldn't say good-by to anyone, and would have to leave like thieves in the night.

“Children, I am not sure. I have prayed and prayed, and I have tried to think what Father would tell us, but my mind is so confused. Ralph, what do you think Father would say?”

I didn't have to think. I said, “I
know
what Father would say, don't you, Grace?”

“Of course I know,” Grace said, “and he wouldn't be afraid of what might happen to us.” Then she turned to Mother and said, “We're not little children any more; Ralph's past thirteen and I'm nearly fifteen. We've been able to make a good living here, and I'll bet we can do just as well anywhere else. Do you have any idea where we'll go?”

For a minute Mother sat looking at her folded hands in her lap. Then she looked up quickly and said, “My good brother Frank lives near Boston. He will take us in until we can find a place for ourselves. Boston is a big city, and we should find something there that we can do to make our living.”

I didn't like to think about going to live in a city, but I didn't want Mother to know it, so I said, “Well, there may not be any cattle to herd or any horses to ride, but I'll bet there'll be plenty of lace curtains, and nobody can stretch them any squarer than we can. We could get along fine in a big city where they have lots of curtains.”

29

We Start a New Adventure

M
OTHER
reached her arms out and drew Grace and me close against her. Then she let us go and said, “There will be a thousand things to be attended to, but let's not disturb the younger children. We must do everything as though we were going about the normal course of our lives. This last batch of curtains must be finished and delivered to the hotel in Denver. The clothing we are going to take must be washed and ironed; there'll be lunches to be put up for a long trip, tickets to be bought, Ducklegs to be returned to Carl, Mr. Shellabarger to be paid, and our money to be withdrawn from the bank.”

Mother sat for a minute or two, pinching her upper lip and staring at the wall in front of her. “What puzzles me most,” she said, “is how we can dispose of our belongings quickly and quietly. We can't ask any of our friends to help us or they might be accused of obstructing justice. If we tried to have a sale, it would arouse suspicion, and I would be put under immediate arrest as a material witness.” She sat for another minute pinching her lip, “Now let me see,” she said; “how can we convert our belongings into cash?”

She'd worked it all out herself in that last word. “I know!” I almost hollered. “Cash! Mr. Cash, the trader that used to come around to the ranch; the one we got Lady from. He'll buy anything. And we'll have Ducklegs to sell, too. Grace and I paid Carl for her more than a year ago.”

After I'd spoken, I was sure Mother would ask where we got the money to buy Ducklegs, but she didn't. She just said, “Why . . . why that will leave us a little money to make a fresh start. But I wouldn't have an idea where to find Mr. Cash, would you?”

“I think so,” I told her. “He used to have a big old barn down near Overland Park. Father and I went there to look at a horse once. I suppose he's still got it, and I'll bet I could find him.”

While I was harnessing Lady, Grace fixed me some lunch and mother made out a list of things for me to get at Mr. Shellabarger's on my way home.

Mr. Cash still had the same barn, and I didn't have any trouble finding him. He remembered me and said he'd come out the first thing in the morning, but all I told him was that we had a cow and some other things to sell.

I got home just after dark. Grace had finished starching the last of the curtains, and Mother was wringing our own clothes into the rinse tub. The younger children were all in the kitchen when I took in the groceries, so I only said, “Mr. Cash is coming to see us in the morning,” then started out to unharness Lady.

Just as I was putting my cap back on, Mother said, “Oh, Son, don't begin your evening chores just yet. We're going to have an early supper so the children can get a good night's rest, but first there are several things I'd like you to do for me. Clothes would only freeze outdoors tonight, so we'll have to hang them in here. Could you build good roaring fires in the parlor and dining-room stoves, then string up every foot of clothesline we have and bring in all the curtain stretchers?”

Grace hung up clothes about as fast as I got the lines stretched, and by the time Mother had supper ready it was like playing blindman's buff to get through our front rooms. After supper, while Mother was reading the Bible chapter and putting the children to bed, Grace and I hooked the curtains onto the stretchers. We hooked them on four or five deep, and propped them up near the stoves so they'd dry fast.

Mr. Cash was a good old trader, but he didn't care who bought things from him—just so long as he made a good deal. I couldn't help thinking about it while I was milking and shaking fresh straw into Lady's stall.

I was still thinking about it when I took the milk bucket into the kitchen. Mother and Grace were ironing, but Grace set her iron back on the stove, and stopped to strain the milk. I picked it up, and as I started edging it around the yoke of the blouse she had on the board, I said to Mother, “You know, some people are not very good with their horses and cows, and Mr. Cash doesn't care who he sells things to. Do you think it would be all right if I talked to Carl Henry about buying Ducklegs back, and to Mr. Batchlett about Lady?”

Mother didn't look up from her board, and she didn't answer me for a minute or two; then she said, “I'm sorry, Son, but I think it would be best to let Mr. Cash handle everything.”

I finished the yoke, and said, “Well, could I ask Mr. Cash to let Mr. Batchlett have the first chance to buy Lady? He's nearly as good with horses as Hi.”

“Of course, Son,” Mother said, “and I think it would be best if Carl had the first chance to buy Ducklegs from him.”

Just speaking about Hi and horses seemed to make me lonesome for Cooper's ranch again. I didn't even see the blouse I was trying to iron, but I could see all the things Hi and I had done together—teaching Sky High to cut out steers, trick-riding in the roundup, and learning to shoot at tomato cans. After a little while I said, “You know, Mother, we've still got the six-shooter Hi lent me when he taught Father to shoot; don't you think I should take it back to him before we go?”

“You really should, but I don't see where there'll be time for it. If Mr. Cash buys our things, we'll try to take the train tomorrow night, and these curtains must be delivered before we go.”

My throat started hurting and I said, “If I got up real early in the morning, I could get my chores out of the way and make the round trip in two hours; I wouldn't need to stop more than a couple of minutes, and could be back before Mr. Cash gets here.”

Father could always tell what I was thinking by just looking at me, but Mother knew more from my voice. She looked up from her board, smiled, and said, “Why, that's a fine idea. Of course, you couldn't really say good-by, but it would be nice to go and see Hi for a few minutes. Now, you finish your blouse and run right along to bed so you'll get a good night's sleep.”

I didn't sleep very well, though. I was afraid to go to sleep for fear I wouldn't wake up early enough. And then, too, I got to remembering all the days since we first moved to Colorado—and thinking that after tomorrow I'd probably never see it again. I was still remembering when the moon slid away behind the mountains.

It was a quarter past four when I went down to the kitchen. I didn't even build a fire in the cookstove for fear Mother might hear me and say it was too early. By half past four the chores were all done. I set the bucket of milk on the kitchen table, got Hi's six-shooter out of Mother's writing desk, and went to saddle Lady.

When I passed the woodshed, King came dancing out and jumping around me in the snow. It was too far for him to go clear up to Cooper's and back, and I knew the snow would be too deep in places, so I shut him in the barn when I took Lady out. Then I rode her down toward the river so as not to pass the house, along the mill ditch, and out onto the River Road. It was sharp and clear, and the stars shining on the snow made it almost as light as day. Lady seemed to know I was in a hurry, and held a good steady canter except where the drifts were deep. We were in sight of the home buildings at Cooper's when someone lit the first light in the bunkhouse.

I'd thought it would be easy to just say hello to Hi and then come away, but it wasn't. He wanted to know what I was doing up so early in the morning, why I'd bothered to bring the gun clear out there instead of giving it to him the next time he came to town, and why I couldn't stay for breakfast. I had to come pretty close to telling him some stories that weren't true. I wanted to tell him how much I liked him and that I'd probably never see him again, but my throat ached and I didn't dare to talk much.

I just kept my head down and said that Mother was afraid to have the gun in the house now that the children were getting older, that I'd come early because I was awake and couldn't go back to sleep, and that I had to hurry right home because Mother didn't like me to be late for school. He asked me a lot more questions, and when I couldn't answer him, he said, “What's the matter with you, Little Britches? Something's biting you. Don't you feel good, or has the cat got your tongue?”

“I'm all right,” I told him; “it's just that my throat hurts when I try to talk.”

At last I said that I wanted to go out to the corral and see Sky High all alone. I guess I acted like a little girl out there. Sky knew me the minute I came around the corner of the barn and nickered to me. I must have sat there on the top rail of the corral for ten minutes or more, just holding his head in my lap and telling him all the things I'd like to have told Hi. I couldn't stop the tears from coming, and I didn't even try to. Before I left, Hi poured horse liniment on a piece of flannel and wrapped it around my neck so my throat wouldn't get any sorer. And I couldn't even tell him that it wouldn't do any good.

Philip and Muriel went to school as though it were just another day, and Mother sent a note saying she'd have to keep me home to help her. They hadn't been gone ten minutes when Mr. Cash came. After he and Mother had talked for a few minutes in the parlor, she showed him all through the house and the fruit cellar. Then I took him out to the barn.

First I showed him how good our spring wagon was—and that the spare seat was almost like new. Then I showed him the big pile of coal we had, and the ties and hay and hens and rabbits. But I told him he couldn't count on the three big does with litters, and not to figure anything in for King. I showed him Lady and Ducklegs last, and made him promise to give Carl and Mr. Batchlett the first bid on them. Then I took him back into the parlor to see Mother.

He didn't stay very long. And as soon as he'd gone, Mother called Grace and me in. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were wet, and at the same time her face looked almost happy. “Children,” she said, “Mr. Cash is a fine, honest man. Though I could hardly believe it, the things we have accumulated will bring enough to pay our railroad fare. We will have all our savings for starting a new home when we get there. Mr. Cash has gone to get the money. He will bring it back within an hour, then come this evening to take care of our stock. He didn't ask me why we wanted to sell and, of course, I didn't tell him.”

Mother had never gone to Denver with me before when I delivered curtains. She stayed on the wagon while I took the baskets in to the housekeeper, collected the money for them, and told her I couldn't pick up any soiled curtains right then. Next, we drove to the Union Depot, and I waited while Mother went in to buy the tickets. Neither she nor I said anything when she came out, but I turned Lady toward the east on Seventeenth Street and drove to Fairmount Cemetery.

Snow had drifted high against Father's headstone. Part of his name was covered, and the figures, 1872–1910. Mother took off her glove and wiped the snow from the stone as gently as though she had been smoothing his face. We stood for a few minutes with an arm around each other, but we didn't say anything aloud. Then we turned and walked to the gate.

We had to hurry back to Littleton as fast as Lady could trot. It was five minutes of three when we pulled up in front of the bank. Mother didn't want me to wait there while she went in to withdraw our money, so she gave me two ten-dollar gold pieces and told me to go by and pay our bill at Mr. Shellabarger's. He couldn't understand why I'd come in to pay it before Saturday, and asked me quite a few questions that I had to duck around. Mr. Baldwin at the bank must have asked Mother some, too. On the way home she said, half to herself, “My! I suppose misleading is nearly as bad as outright lying, but I didn't tell him anything that wasn't true.”

We worked as fast as we could go all the rest of the afternoon. At six o'clock, I drove Grace, Muriel, and Hal down to Main Street, and they took the streetcar for Denver. King seemed to know something was wrong. He followed the wagon all the way downtown, then jumped up into the body as soon as I started for home. He put his forepaws up on the seat beside me, and his tongue flicked out to kiss my cheek. When I turned Lady into Nevada Street and drove to Dutch Gunther's house, King whined a little as if he were asking me what was going to happen to him.

Dutch was out feeding his rabbits when I drove up. I let him show me the new doe he'd bought from Edwin Balmer, and then I said, “Dutch, if anything should ever happen to me, like I should die or something, I'd want you to have King and my three big does that have litters.”

Dutch looked at me as though he thought I'd gone crazy. Then he grinned and said, “What's got into you, Little Britches? You been into the locoweed? The way you had the measles, if you didn't die then, you'll live to be a hundred.”

“Well, anything can happen to a fellow,” I told him; “'specially around horses, and if it should, Dutch, would you take King and the three big does?”

“Sure, I would,” Dutch said, “and if I kick the bucket first you can have this one.” He was just putting his new doe back into the hutch when I drove away.