Man of the Family (5 page)

When I told him there were more holes he began to laugh to beat the band. He slapped his leg with his hand, and howled, “Damned if you ain't a salesman. Sure there ain't no bridges out between here and town?”

“No,” I said, “there's only one bridge, but you'll have to look out for the loose planks near Lenheart's end of it. Some of them are pretty bad.”

He waved to his men to start moving the cattle out of the C. & S. cut, then he said to me, “I reckon I already got ten dollars' worth of good outa you, but you ain't goin' to get it till your outfit sees me from here clean on through town.”

I was already pulling Pinto around toward Littleton, but I hollered back to him, “Will I get it then?”

“You'll get it,” he called, and I rode after the boys.

We had a dickens of a time. Some of the boys didn't know you have to move cattle easy, and wanted to play cowboy. And some of them just wanted to play. I had stopped by home and put Lady's bridle on Pinto so I could hold him, but he still didn't like me to ride him. He spooked and crow-hopped every chance he got, and sometimes I had about all I could do to stay on him. And he didn't know any more about heading off an ornery steer than a billy goat. Ace Alexander gave me more trouble than any breachy old cow in the herd. He had borrowed a horse from one of the girls, and couldn't even ride it at a trot. But he didn't care. He'd grab hold of the saddle horn with both hands and war-whoop like a drunken Indian. He wouldn't even let me fire him.

We never did have any lunch. By the time Dutch and I got back there with the boys, there were cattle spread from Dan to Beersheba. They were scattered along the highroad for a couple of miles, and had broken fences in a dozen different places. Some of them had even climbed up on top of the hill by the railroad cuts. It was almost three o'clock before we had them rounded up and headed into town. And I was scared half silly.

By that time the cattle were drier than road dust. The river was only a quarter of a mile from the highroad, and I knew what dry cattle would do when they smelled water. If they'd stampeded for the river before we hit town, it wouldn't have been my fault, but I'd promised to see them safe through Littleton. It was my first chance to be a drover and I wanted to do a good job.

After we crossed Lenheart's bridge, we boys rode ahead, so I could put the best ones on the river side of the highroad. Just as we came into town, school let out. I saw the kids come boiling out of the schoolyard, and sent Dutch kiting down there to tell the little ones to get back from the highroad, and the bigger ones to get on the river side and help us. The girls were the best of all. I guess those cattle had never seen girls before, and they were afraid of them. All the girls had to do to head them off was to flap their skirts—and they did a good job of flapping. There were over nine hundred cattle in that herd, and not one of them got away from us on the river side of the highroad. By six o'clock we had them all through town and headed west on the River Road.

The drive boss was waiting for me at the corner by the gristmill. I asked him if we'd done all right, and told him I was sorry about some of the boys running his cattle, and about Ace whooping like an Indian.

The sheriff was there, too, and he started saying that Ace was full of the devil and that his father was a judge and some more things, but I don't think the drive boss heard him. He stuck his hand out to shake hands with me. There was something hard in it, and he said, “You done all right. Some of them boys ain't worth a damn by at least a dollar and a half, but some of 'em's goin' to make cow hands.” Then he winked at me, and said, “Them girls is all right, too. Bein' you, I'd see they got a treat. Same deal for you and me in October?”

I said, “Yes, sir.” And when I took my hand away there was a ten-dollar gold piece in it.

I wanted to take it home to show Mother, but I couldn't because I had to pay the boys and Eva Snow. We took it up to Shellabarger's and broke it. When everybody had his quarter it seemed as though I had more than my share left. Some of the boys had worked just about as hard as I had, and it seemed as if they ought to get more than a quarter, but Dutch said it would only spoil them. But he did let me give him half a dollar for being my foreman, and the quarter I'd promised him that morning. After that we talked about treating the girls, and decided to spend another half dollar for candy. We looked in the candy case for quite a while, and talked about most of the different kinds, but we decided on lollipops. They were five for a cent, and that way we knew we'd have plenty to go all around. Mr. Shellabarger didn't even bother to count them, but passed us out the whole box.

After everybody'd had some, Eva and I took Pinto back to the schoolhouse where her little sisters were waiting. I walked and led Pinto, and let Eva carry the box of lollipops. I was a little bit worried about what their mother would say because I'd kept them so long after school. So, when I'd hitched Pinto to the buggy—and taken out a small handful of lollipops for the other youngsters at home—I gave Eva half a dollar for using Pinto, and told her to keep the box. I said she could give her mother some, and then pass the rest around at school the next day.

She drove me past our house on her way home, and Mother was frightened when I went in. The first thing she saw was the dried blood on my face and my shirt, and she seemed to think I was half killed. She thought one of the cattle had done it, so I had to tell her that I'd fallen off Pinto. It was the wrong thing to say. I didn't tell her he'd bucked me off, but I might just as well have. She pinched her mouth right up tight for a minute, then she said, “Ralph you are
not
going to rent or borrow anybody's strange horse. I don't know how you are going to make all our deliveries with Hal's little gocart, but I will
not
have you killed by a bad horse.”

There were tears in her eyes, and I knew she was thinking about Father's getting hurt when he was breaking Lady's colt, so I said, “I won't borrow one and I won't rent one till you say I can.” Then I gave her the six dollars I had left and the lollipops.

It's funny how different things make different people cry. Some people cry when they get hurt, my biggest trouble was when I got boiling mad, but Mother didn't very often cry unless she was real happy. She cried when I gave her the six dollars. At first, she just looked at the money as if she didn't believe it was real—it was a five-dollar gold piece and a cartwheel—then her eyes filled. She pressed the end of her thumb against her teeth for half a minute, as she always did when she was trying not to cry, and then she just bubbled over.

She knelt down and hugged me against her so hard it made my ribs hurt. “Oh, Ralph, I don't want you to have to be a man yet,” she cried. “I didn't mean to scold you about the horse . . . but I'm so afraid. . . . I can't have anything happen to you, Son, and you're so impulsive.”

Then she buried her face against my shoulder. “And it makes my heart ache to have you and Gracie carrying the loads of a grown man and woman . . . but I'm so, so proud of you.”

Father always patted Mother on the back of her shoulder when she cried. I tried to do it the same way, and she stopped sobbing. Tears were still running down her cheeks, but her face was smiling when she looked up and said, “Do you realize, Son, this is as much money as lots of men earn in a week; it's as much as Father earned at the time you were born. We'll put it right away toward the rent. Think how proud he must be of a son who can keep a roof over his mother's head. There, there, I'm not going to cry any more. Let me bathe your face; then you can milk Ducklegs while I'm fixing your supper. You must go to bed early after such a hard day.”

We all went to bed right after the supper dishes were done, but I wasn't a bit sleepy and my head wouldn't stop working. Philip always slept with me. He wanted me to tell him all about the cattle drive, but he was asleep before I even got Pinto out of the schoolyard. I lay there for a long time trying to think of other jobs I could get to help make us a living. Then I began planning how I'd make our first food delivery. I couldn't carry it in my hands, and without a horse I couldn't use our spring wagon.

6

Cookery and Coal

A
T FIRST
I thought I could build Hal's little gocart over into a wagon that would be big enough to carry all the cookery I'd have to deliver Saturday. But the more I thought about its wabbly little wheels and narrow spindly axles, the more I knew it would never be strong enough. Then I remembered about the dump.

The dump was at the other end of town from where we lived—over toward the foundry, where the streetcar tracks went under the Denver highroad. The last time I'd ridden Lady past it, I'd seen an old baby carriage. It was upside down and the body was all smashed, but it had looked as though the wheels and axles were in pretty good shape. I knew they were just what I needed, so I pulled my overalls on, slid down the banister, and went to get it.

It was moonlight enough that I could see pretty well, but there had been a lot of trash thrown on the dump, and I had a terrible time digging the old carriage out. Then I couldn't get the body off, so I had to wheel it home as it was.

After school the next day, Dutch Gunther came to help me build the baby carriage over into a wagon, but we couldn't make it work very well. The back wheels were twice as big as the front ones, and we didn't know how to fix it so it would steer without having the front end wabbly. At last I told Dutch we'd better take it down and see Mr. Langworthy. He was the blacksmith, and he knew everything about wagons.

I didn't know Mr. Langworthy very well then, and I didn't think he knew me, but he did. First he said he'd heard I did a good job of getting the cattle through town. Then, after a couple of minutes, he said, “If you turn out to be as good a man as your paw, you'll do all right. Anything I can help you with?”

He looked at the wheels and axles of the baby carriage a minute or two, then said, “Kind of spindlin', ain't they? But they'll most likely hold up till you can get some better ones. You'll need a fifth wheel and a high bolster in the front. Let's see what I got around here.”

After he'd made us a fifth wheel, so the front end wouldn't tip in going around corners, Mr. Langworthy drew us a plan with charcoal on a piece of board. Then he told me how to put the parts together with bolts and lag screws that he gave me from pigeonholes behind the forge.

I told him I'd come in the next day to pay him, but he said, “Forget it, Little Britches, your paw always give me his business when he was living . . . fine man . . . sorry you lost him.” The way he said it made my throat hurt when I tried to thank him.

It was dark before we got away from the blacksmith shop, but the next morning we went to work on the wagon right after breakfast. Dutch was a better carpenter than I, and with Mr. Langworthy's plan to go by, we didn't have very much trouble. Of course, some of the pieces weren't sawed very straight, and, even without a load, the wagon was pretty heavy. But it wasn't wabbly, and we had it all finished by one o'clock. The only part of it that I invented was the shafts, and that was easy. I just bolted the baby carriage handle onto the front axle.

Mother had the beans in a big stone crock and the Injun pudding in a smaller one. She had me nail shelves in an apple box for the pies, and Grace lined an egg case with napkins for the doughnuts and brown bread. By the time we'd put the quart measures and ladles on, there wasn't much room left in the wagon—and it was as heavy as a stone drag. I pulled from inside the shafts, and Philip pushed from behind. We both wore our shoes and stockings, and Mother gave me a little book with all the names and orders in it. She told me to mark down how much I collected from each of the ladies, and not to come home till I had gone in and paid the grocery bill at Mr. Shellabarger's.

The delivery worked just backwards from the way the order taking did. Down on our side of the tracks I didn't have a bit of trouble. All the ladies were at home, and they all paid me. It was up on the hill that things started going wrong. At three of the houses there wasn't anybody at home. And at two others the ladies took the things I had written down for them, but told me to come back some other time for the money. Then two others had changed their minds and only wanted part of the stuff they'd ordered.

It was after dark before we stopped going back to the houses where the people were away, and Philip had got so hungry he had to eat a couple of doughnuts. We did stop at quite a few houses where I hadn't tried to take orders, though, and sold most of the leftovers. Then, on our way down to Shellabarger's, we met Sheriff McGrath. He wanted to know what we were doing and where we got the wagon. After I'd told him, I gave him one of the doughnuts we had left over. He liked it, and bought a dozen and a loaf of brown bread, but he couldn't take any beans because he didn't have anything to carry them in.

Mr. Shellabarger was a nice man. He was big and fat, with a red face and a white mustache. After he'd marked the bills “Paid,” he looked at me over the tops of his glasses, and said, “You gotta dog at home? . . . I give you some scraps.” Then he went into his meat box and brought me out a package about as big as my head. I told him, “Thank you,” and I held onto Philip's hand tight. I was afraid he might say something about the grocery man in Fort Logan giving us candy when we paid our bill.

We had three or four quarts of beans and three loaves of brown bread left over, besides an apple pie and a few doughnuts. I asked Mr. Shellabarger if he could let me have an empty two-pound lard pail and a piece of brown paper. As soon as we were out to the wagon I filled the pail with beans, and wrapped a loaf of brown bread in the paper. It was about seven o'clock and I knew Mr. Langworthy would just be closing the blacksmith shop, so I took them by and told him Mother had sent them for his wife. Of course, she hadn't, but it wasn't really a lie, because she would have if she'd been in my place—and had known what he said about Father.

After I'd paid Mr. Shellabarger's bill, there had been only two dollars and fifteen cents left. I hated to go home and tell Mother. She didn't feel bad about it, though. We were all standing by the kitchen table, where I had poured out the money that was left. Mother stooped down and put her arms around the whole five of us, the way a hen puts her wings around her chickens when it starts to rain. “Don't you see,” she said; “we have had all our own groceries for the week . . . and it's all paid for . . . and we have money left over. Think how proud Father must be of us.”

Then Mother opened the “scraps” Mr. Shellabarger had given me for King. It was all chunks of good red beef—about as big as eggs. When she pulled the paper back, she said, “Why! Ralph, you've picked up someone else's package.”

“No,” I told her, “I didn't. He put it right in my hands and I put it right in the wagon.”

“But it's all good clear meat,” Mother said. “He didn't intend it for King at all. . . . Oh, everybody is so good to us.”

The next week we all worked in the garden—except Grace and Mother—and Mother told us what to do. “We must plant mostly things we can keep for winter, such as carrots, beets, and turnips,” she told us. “I saved some Kentucky Wonder bean seeds. We'll plant lots of those—and tomatoes—for canning. Father didn't think this land would be good for potatoes, so we'll put in lots of carrots and three or four rows of corn.”

Saturday morning, Mother came out to show us how to mix radish and turnip seeds with sand and spread them evenly in the rows. She'd only planted about two feet of the first row when Sheriff McGrath hollered, “Mornin', Miz Moody. Fine mornin', ain't it?”

None of us had heard the sheriff coming, and he startled Mother so that she spilled most of the radish seeds she had in her hand. When we looked up, he was just stepping down from his saddle, and he had a whole box of tomato plants under his arm. He didn't wait for Mother to say whether it was a fine morning or not, but came walking across the garden rows. “Shore do like to see women folks puttin' in a garden,” he shouted; “woman's always got a green thumb; beats a man all hollah, by George.”

Mother straightened and smoothed down her apron. “Good morning, Mr. McGrath,” she said quietly. “I take it you're something of a gardener yourself. My, what nice-looking tomato plants.”

“No'm, Miz Moody, I ain't worth shucks 'round a garden. Now you take before my wife passed on; always had a right nice flower garden, but it's all gone to pot on me. Don't know a geeranium from a daffydil.” He held the box of tomato plants out toward Mother, and his voice wasn't so loud when he said, “These here is off'n Hockaday's place. Raises the best dad-gummed tumatas in this county, Hockaday does—bushel to a bush. Can 'em with a dite o' sugar, they'll make ya some mighty nice eatin' come winter.”

I stepped over beside Mother and took the box. It weighed nearly twenty-five pounds, and there were at least a hundred plants in it. Mother looked at them, and said, “Oh, my! Aren't they lovely? This was most thoughtful of you, Mr. McGrath.”

“'Twasn't nothin', Miz Moody; 'twasn't nothin',” the sheriff said. “Want I should give you a hand a-plantin' 'em?”

“Oh, I wouldn't think of it,” Mother told him. “A garden is sort of a woman's job, isn't it? I'm sure the children and I can handle it ourselves.”

While they were talking, Sheriff McGrath kept rolling the brim of his Stetson till it looked like a pair of megaphones. “Wouldn't be no trouble at all, Miz Moody. Ain't much to do this mornin'; got the town pretty well under control.”

Mother had to thank the sheriff two or three times more before he climbed back on his horse. As he rode away up our lane, he turned and called back, “Shore is a fine mornin', ain't it, Miz Moody?”

We only had room for a dozen of the tomato plants, so we gave the rest of them to our neighbors. Mother showed us right where everything should go before she went back to her cooking. It was nearly noon by the time we had the last hill of corn planted, but the morning had gone awfully fast. That was the first time I ever worked in a garden that I didn't hate it.

I had better luck on my cookery route that Saturday. Some of the women had been telling others how good Mother's cooking was, and I got my book almost full of orders for the next Wednesday and Saturday. I didn't think about selling more than Mother and Grace could make, but just kept writing down everything anybody wanted. That week I took in four dollars more than Mr. Shellabarger's bill, and there was sausage in the package he called “scraps.” But with so much extra cooking, we'd used up all the coal.

“That half a ton of coal fairly melted away, didn't it?” Mother said Tuesday night. “Ralph, are you sure you brought in all there was?”

“Every last scrap,” I said.

She got up and looked at the two coal hods. “My, my!” she said, “it won't be a bit more than I'll need to finish the beans, and there's all the brown bread to steam and the doughnuts to fry. Ralph, you'd better see if you can find a few chunks of wood anywhere around the barn. After Wednesday's delivery we could pay for a whole ton of coal.”

It was right then I thought about the railroad. When I had been helping get the cattle out of the railroad cut, Pinto had stumbled over a chunk of coal nearly as big as my head. I knew it must have fallen off a train, and if it had, some more must have fallen off too.

“There is some more coal,” I told Mother. “I just remembered about it. I'll bring it in before I milk Ducklegs in the morning.”

“Well!” she said, “that's better. You gave me a terrible start. I was sure I couldn't have used a whole half ton this quickly. Now run along to bed, both of you. I'll lie down on the sofa in the parlor, so I can look after the fire and refill the beans.”

Either Grace or I could have taken care of the beans all right. We tried to get Mother to go to bed, but she wouldn't. She was so tired the frown wrinkles showed deep between her eyes, and her voice was sharp when she said, “We'll have no more talk about it. I'm perfectly all right, and you children are going to have your full nine hours' rest. Now run right along—and don't forget to say your prayers.”

Before I went to sleep I kept telling myself I'd have to wake up at the first crack of daylight. If I told myself enough times it would almost always work. It did that time, but I didn't dare to go down the stairs. So, as soon as I'd pulled my overalls and shirt on, I climbed out the window and slid down the woodshed roof. I took a gunny sack from the barn, and was over to the D. & R. G. tracks before the sun came up. There was coal there all right, but I didn't use my head about picking it up. I started at the back gate of the graveyard, just beyond the end of our lane, and worked toward the south. There weren't many big lumps, but quite a few small pieces, and I had to go nearly a quarter of a mile before I had the sack half full. By that time it was so heavy I couldn't carry it, and I had to run home for the wagon. After that, we never had to buy any coal. With Philip and Muriel to help me, we kept the tracks picked clean for two or three miles south of Littleton, and our bin was never empty.