Man of the Family (4 page)

When Grace had finally gone, Mother said, “I know how you feel, Son, and I know you want to do everything you can to take care of us like Father did. Some day you're going to be able to do it all by yourself, but you're too young now. Gracie may have to stay home and help me for a long time, but Gracie is a girl. I can teach a girl most of the things she'll need to know right here at home, but we must think about your future. Some day you're going to have a family of your own. If you have only a sixth-grade education you will never be able to give your children the advantages other children will have. When you grow up, most of the men you have to compete with will have had high-school—and some of them college—educations. I don't want my boys to grow up to be handicapped men.”

“Father wasn't handicapped,” I said, “and he didn't go to school very much, did he?”

I was sorry just as soon as I'd said it. “No,” Mother said, “Father didn't have much education—or we might still have him with us.”

I said, “I'm sorry, Mother.”

She didn't say anything for a minute or two, and her voice was whiskery when she went on. She laid her hand over on top of mine, and said, “Now, let's talk about Lady and the cow. I think I know how much you miss Lady, and I'd like it if we could keep her, but we can't. You see, there won't be any gardens to be plowed after another week or two, and isn't that about as long as there will be any flocks or herds being moved through Littleton this spring?”

Of course I had to say, “Yes.”

“And don't be too disappointed about the number of orders you got today. I'm sure you'll do much better when you try at the larger houses up on the hill.” Then she looked at me and smiled, “Some women are rather hard to do business with, aren't they? But there are some really fine ones. Now, I'll set this milk while you run along to bed.”

When I was going through the door into the dining room, she said, “Father never raised his voice to me, and I know you never do it intentionally.”

I knew what she meant, and said, “No, ma'am, I won't ever do it again.” Then I went to bed.

I had a lot more luck selling milk the next morning than I'd had selling beans and brown bread. Before I started out, Grace wrote me up some milk tickets. She took a five-cent pad of writing paper and cut it in two, longwise. Then she measured it off into five coupons, up and down, and made lines between each one with the tracing wheel Mother used for sewing. After she'd written

on each coupon, she tore them off the pad so there were four strips of coupons in each pack. All I had to do was to get a dollar and give the customer a pack of coupons. Of course I did have to write down the addresses where I sold coupons, so I'd know where to deliver milk.

I didn't want to get milk customers scattered all over town, and I knew there wouldn't be much use going to the houses where the ladies had said the cookery things were too dear, so I just went to the houses where I'd got orders the day before. It worked fine. By ten o'clock I was all out of coupons, and had eight dollars to take home to Mother. Some of the ladies wanted two or three quarts a day, but they only bought one pack of coupons.

Mother had more cookery samples ready when I got home from school Wednesday afternoon. She wanted me to go to the houses up on the hill, so she made me keep my shoes and stockings on. I think she was afraid I hadn't been polite to all the ladies when I first went out for cookery orders. Before she let me go, she made me practice on her. I had to take the wagon with everything on it out to the road, then bring it in to our back door and act as if I were trying to sell cookery to Mother. I felt kind of silly doing it, and probably I grinned a little. The first thing she said when she opened the door was, “That's all I need to see. If you can grin like that when a lady comes to the door, you can sell beans and brown bread.”

Either I grinned right, or I just went to the right houses, but I got a lot of orders. When it was nearly dark, I stopped to figure up how much it came to, and it was over sixteen dollars—and I still had lots of doughnuts left. I was afraid Mother'd kill herself if she tried to make any more cookery than I'd already sold, so I went running home with the orders as fast as I could go without tipping the wagon over.

After all the other children had gone to bed that night, Mother took her Wedgwood sugar bowl down off the mantelpiece—that was where she always kept the money—and asked Grace and me to draw chairs up to the table. Mother counted the money over twice, then she said, “Mmmm, mmmm. My! Only nine dollars and eighty-five cents! I didn't realize we were quite so close, but the material for those samples took much more than I'd planned on. . . . And, really, eight dollars of this doesn't belong to us yet. You see, it won't be ours until we've delivered all the milk on the coupons. However . . . I think we would be justified in using it for materials to make goods we're going to sell for cash. Hmmm . . . Even at that, I don't see how this amount will cover everything. . . . We're nearly out of fuel. . . . I'll need half a ton of coal—and that will take more than two dollars.”

Mother sat pinching her lip for a minute, then she went on, “I shall have to go down and see Mr. Shellabarger the first thing in the morning. If I show him all these orders, I'm sure he will give us credit until Saturday for what groceries we'll need . . . but, Ralph, you'll have to stop in and pay him just as soon as you finish your deliveries on Saturday. We are
not
going to run up any grocery bill.”

“Then I'll borrow Gunther's old mare to take you down,” I said. “It's too far for you to walk clear to the village, and coal is cheaper if we haul it ourselves.”

“No,” Mother said, “no, I can't let you borrow the Gunthers' horse. We are going to make our own way, not borrow it from our neighbors. Now, you children run right along to bed; I'll be up in a few minutes.”

5

Helping a Cattle Drive

I
WENT
up to bed when Mother sent me, and I said my prayers, but I didn't go right to sleep. With our not having Lady any more, I'd planned a lot on borrowing Gunther's old mare. We really needed a horse. Dutch wouldn't mind lending Nellie to me, and I knew Mother couldn't walk clear to the village and back. Hal's little wagon wasn't big enough to deliver cookery, and I couldn't help drovers through town on foot. It must have been an hour after I heard Mother come up to bed before I got the horse business figured out.

On my way back from my milk route the next morning, I stopped by Gunther's house. Dutch was out feeding his rabbits, and after I'd let him show me his new doe, I said, “I've got to get half a ton of coal this morning, Dutch, and Mother has to go down to see Mr. Shellabarger. She isn't strong enough to walk that far yet, so I'll give you a quarter when I earn one if you'll rent me a horse. You know, we've still got Lady's harness and our spring wagon; all I'll need is old Nellie.”

“What's the matter,” Dutch asked; “you gone loco? You can borrow Nellie any time you want her; I don't want any quarter.”

“No, Dutch,” I told him, “we don't borrow horses from our neighbors. . . . Mother won't let me . . . but I do need Nellie. I'm going to make plenty of money helping drovers; I wish you'd rent her to me.”

I hadn't been home ten minutes before Dutch rode down our lane on old Nellie. I helped him put Lady's harness on her and hitch her to our spring wagon. While he drove around to the front gate, I went in to get Mother.

Mother hadn't seen Dutch bring Nellie. When I opened the front door to take her out to the wagon, she stopped with her lips pinched tightly together. “Son,” she said, “I thought we settled this matter of borrowing the Gunthers' horse last night.”

“I didn't borrow her,” I said; “I rented her . . . on credit. I'm going to give Dutch a quarter as soon as I can earn one.”

“Very well,” Mother said. “If you have made your arrangements this time, I shall let you use her, but you are not to either borrow or hire the Gunthers' horse again. You will have to learn to get along without a horse. Now, we must hurry right along so you boys won't be late for school.”

While Mother was in talking to Mr. Shellabarger, Dutch and I drove to the lumberyard and got the coal. We'd started back down Main Street, when Sheriff McGrath came around the corner by Monahan's saloon. He pulled his horse up the minute he saw us, and shouted, “Ain't that a combination rig you got there, Little Britches? Where's your own mare at? Gone lame on ya?”

I didn't want to yell to him—right there on Main Street—that we'd loaned Lady to Carl Henry for a cow, so I called back, “Yes, it is. No, she isn't.”

The sheriff reined his horse around and rode along beside us, but he still shouted as if we'd been a mile away, “Is what? Ain't what, Little Britches? You lendin' your wagon to Gunther, or he lendin' his mare to you?”

By the time I got through telling him I was renting Nellie, and about Lady and the cow, we were nearly down to Shellabarger's. Mother had come out of the store and was waiting for us. Sheriff McGrath was so busy asking me questions that he didn't see her till I pulled Nellie in toward the sidewalk. Then he swung down from his saddle, swept his hat off, and hollered, “Mornin', Miz Moody. Fine mornin', ain't it? Sight for sore eyes to see ya gettin' around again.”

Mother sort of winced when the sheriff shouted. Then she bowed the least little bit toward him. “Thank you, Mr. McGrath,” she said. “We are having lovely weather, aren't we?” Her voice was as quiet as the sheriff's was loud.

I cramped the wheels around and jumped down to help Mother up to the seat, but Sheriff McGrath was ahead of me. He stripped off his glove and put his hand under Mother's elbow. “Little shaver tells me you ain't keepin' no horse this spring. Costive critters to keep, Miz Moody, but the' ain't no call to rent 'em. You jest let me know. . . .”

Mother had started to get up into the wagon. The step was high, and the sheriff was so busy trying to help her, and hold his hat and glove at the same time, that he forgot what he was saying. He lifted hard enough on Mother's elbow that I was afraid he'd tip her over against the wheel. “My!” she said as she sat down, “I didn't realize our wagon was quite so high. We'll have to hurry right along so you boys won't be late for school.”

So it wouldn't get dirty while we were loading the coal, I'd folded the lap robe and laid it over the dashboard. When I was stepping back onto the wagon, Sheriff McGrath dropped his hat and picked the robe up with both hands. He flipped it open and, as he spread it across Mother's knees, he said in an almost quiet voice, “As I was sayin', Miz Moody, the' ain't no call . . .”

That's as far as Mother let him get. She smiled and bowed her head toward him a little. “That's awfully nice of you, Mr. McGrath,” she said, “but Ralph must learn to get along without a horse. We really have little need for one, and they are expensive to keep.”

I knew Mother was talking for my benefit more than for Sheriff McGrath's, so I clucked to Nellie and spatted a rein down on her rump. She started so quick that we just left the sheriff standing there. I looked back when we turned the corner by the gristmill. He'd picked up his hat, but was still standing in front of Shellabarger's with it in his hand.

It had taken so long to have the wagon weighed before the coal was put on, and again afterwards, that the late bell had rung by the time we got back as far as the schoolhouse. Mother said she'd drive the wagon home, and wanted Dutch and me to go right in to school. We had to tell her that we were already late and a few more minutes wouldn't make any difference. It was a lucky thing we did, too. When we were going past her house, Mrs. Roberts came out and hoohooed to us. She said a Mr. Larson had called half an hour ago from Wolhurst and said to tell me that a herd of cattle was moving north on the highroad.

At first I didn't know what to do. If it was half an hour ago, they'd already be close to town, and I didn't even have a horse. I was so excited I forgot all about thanking Mrs. Roberts, but piled out over the wheel and yelled at Dutch to hurry and get Mother home. Then, as I ran toward the highroad, I put my fingers between my teeth and whistled as loud as I could for King. Then I hollered back over my shoulder for Dutch to get the fellows together while I went out to make a deal with the drover.

I hadn't run a hundred yards before I started to get winded and knew I'd have to get a horse somewhere. The first one I thought of was Eva Snow's Pinto. The Snow girls always drove him to school with their old top buggy, but I'd never seen anybody try to ride him. I didn't think about it then. I just thought that Eva'd be glad to rent him to me for a quarter, so I ran toward the schoolhouse.

King caught up to me just as I got to the schoolhouse, and I forgot to tell him to stay out when I ducked through the back door and down our own coat corridor. Eva's seat was right by the corridor door. I was all out of breath, and I didn't think to ask Mrs. Upson, the teacher, if I could whisper. I just gulped at Eva, “I'll give you a quarter for Pinto. The cattle are coming.” She started to whisper something back at me, but it wasn't “No,” so I didn't stop to listen. Mrs. Upson called, “
Ralph!!!
” when I was going out through the doorway, but I didn't stop to see what she wanted, either.

Pinto was out of the buggy shafts, but he still had his harness on. I ripped it off him, untied his halter rope, and pulled him up close to the feed rack. Father had always told me to move slow around strange horses, but I wasn't thinking about that. When I piled onto Pinto's back from the feed rack, he went crazy. I stayed on till we were out in the middle of the schoolyard, then I went flying, but I held onto the halter rope. By that time, Johnnie Maloney and Terry Bowles had come running out of the schoolhouse. They held him against the back of somebody's wagon till I got on again. That time Pinto crow-hopped clear out onto the highroad, but he didn't buck hard any more. I smacked him with the end of the halter rope, and we took off toward Wolhurst as if King was a wolf that had him by the tail.

I met the point rider of the herd about halfway between Littleton and Wolhurst. I could tell right away that he wasn't the drive boss. He didn't seem to know just what he ought to be doing, and scrawny-looking, long-horned cattle were spread out all along the railroad tracks.

The Colorado and Southern and the D. & R. G. railroads ran south from Littleton beside the highroad. Most of the way, there was a barbed-wire fence between the road and the tracks, but in some places it wasn't very good. Just beyond where I met the point rider, both railroad tracks cut through a high hill, but the highroad curved out around it.

Somewhere south of the hill, the herd had broken down the fence, and I could see cattle coming through both railroad cuts. Three or four riders were in among them, swinging ropes and swearing so loud I could hear them above the bawling of the cattle. It was easy to see that they were trying to turn the herd back, but they weren't having any luck. I wasn't having much more with Pinto. He didn't like having me ride him, and bareback, with only a halter, I couldn't hold him very well. He swung around and around in a circle, and tried to walk on his hind legs when I was asking the point rider where his boss was.

“Damned if I know,” he yelled back, “but I wisht that him and this whole outfit was in hell.”

I knew they might be, and pretty soon, too, if they didn't get those cattle out of the D. & R. G. cut, so I whacked Pinto again and ran him back to where I'd seen another break in the fence. The tracks were graded up nearly twenty feet high after they came out of the cut. I kicked Pinto through the hole in the fence, then raced him along the bottom of the grade toward the hill. As we came up over the bank, a man I knew was the trail boss yelled at me, “Get the hell outa here with that dog before you stampede the stock.”

I was so excited I yelled right back at him, “You won't have any stock to stampede if you don't get them out of there before the D. & R. G. mail train comes through. It's about due.” I rode right on toward him, and he didn't tell me to go back again.

Ever since I'd seen the cattle in the cut and thought about the mail train being due, I'd been trying to think what Hi or Father would do if they had cattle in that kind of fix. By the time I rode up to the trail boss, I knew; so I hollered, “Don't try to turn these back, and never mind the other track. Send your men over the hill to cut 'em off at that end, then drive 'em out this way.”

He started bellowing like a bull in a cattle chute, and waving his arm for the men to follow him up over the hill. I didn't go with them, but rode Pinto up onto the track where King and I could head the cattle down off the grade as they came through the cut. One breachy old heifer dodged past us and went galloping along right between the rails, but I didn't have time to go after her. Less than two minutes after the drivers brought the last cattle out of the cut, I saw the mail train coming. I would have had time to ride Pinto to the end of the grade, but I was a bit scared I wouldn't, and slid him down over the cinder bank. After I saw the train I forgot all about the old cow that had dodged past me, so I didn't see when it hit her. It must have knocked her twenty rods; about all we ever found was hoofs and horns.

While the train was going by I rode over to the trail boss. He looked as if he'd just come through a dip tank. He had his head down, and sweat was pouring off both him and his horse. Pinto wasn't acting up so much, either. He was getting a little more used to me, and he was probably a bit tired, too. All of us must have looked sort of beaten up. I didn't know it then, but the side of my face got a little bit skinned when Pinto tossed me off in the schoolyard, and some blood had run down my neck and onto the collar of my blue shirt.

I thought I'd better make my deal right away, before the boss got busy with the cattle again, so I said, “I think you'll have a lot more trouble when you get this herd into Littleton. . . .”

That's as far as I got for two or three minutes, but I don't think it would be right to put down what he said about those cattle, or fences, or the railroad, or Littleton. I waited till he'd cooled off some, then I told him about having ten boys on horseback, and that we'd see his herd safe through town for ten dollars.

“It's a holdup,” he hollered. Then he grinned at me, and said, “You didn't bust down that fence so's to get me into this mess, did you?”

“I never broke down any fence,” I said. “You come back with me and I'll show you where all those posts are rotted off at the ground. There are a lot more holes between here and Littleton.”