Spirit Pouch (8 page)

“No,” George says hesitantly, as if I am the insane one in this crowd.  “You are in the great territory of Colorado.”

“Colorado?”  I nearly choke on the grits!  “I can’t be in Colorado,” I shriek.

“Oh, you’re in Colorado, all right.  They call it the richest square mile on Earth.”  George continues as if he is reciting a textbook.  “You’re only thirty-three miles from Denver.  A good wagon team can do that in two days.”
[15]

“Where were you hoping to be, son?” Henry asks.

“Home,” I say.

“You can stay with us,” Joseph says with a concerned look that is much older than he really is.

“Thanks,” I say smiling at Joseph.

“I know,” William blurts out.  “Maybe you could come with me into town.  Mr. Roworth could always use another hard worker.  And maybe when you see Central City you will get your bearings and figure out which way is home.”  William turns and, with his eyes, transfers the question over to his mother.

“Well, you boys better get a move on,” Elizabeth says.  “You’ve got chores to do before you go, and you haven’t even finished breakfast yet.”

I can tell that Elizabeth is staring at
my
bowl of grits, so I pick up my spoon and gulp down a combination of grits, eggs and bacon. 
This really is not that bad,
I think.  But I am eating quickly now.  At home my mother would have said, “Taste it, why don’t you?”  But I decide that tasting it can be dangerous.  It would probably be better to just eat it and worry about taste later.  I grab my glass of milk and chug it, only vaguely aware of the slimy clumps as they slither down my throat.

“Come on,” William says, motioning with his hand for me to follow him.

“Thank you for breakfast,” I say, looking at Elizabeth.  “It was delicious.”

“You’re welcome, Jared.  Now scoot along.”  She picks up my bowl and glass, carrying them into the kitchen.

I slide off the bench and run outside with William.  The sun has not risen yet, but the sky is growing brighter by the second.  A field of blue is pushing out the gray sky, and the gray has already extinguished the stars and conquered the night’s blackness.

Dogtown, Colorado is cold, I decide, if that is really where I am.  I fold my arms to shield myself against the cold morning breeze, which blows in from the dark part of the sky, which feels to me like it should be west.

From where I stand on the porch, I can see a panorama of the small valley.  Tall grass covers the land for as far as I can see.  All around me are small log cabins.  Most of them are smaller than the one in which I have just eaten breakfast.  In fact, some are not much more than a hut.

Dotting the grassy mountain slopes across the valley are dozens and dozens of huge mounds of dirt, and for an instant I imagine giant-sized prairie dogs ducking in and out of those giant mounds of earth.  But even without those giant mounds of earth, the land seems oddly strange in a way that I can not place.  Something is different, but I can not put my finger on it.

“Come on,” William yells impatiently from the side of the house.  The giant prairie dogs of my imagination vanish and I step off the porch into the tall dew-soaked grass.

I remember the grass from the night before, only it was not wet then.  I remember the sharp pebbles on the ground, also, but my concentration is on a small section of grass not too far from the house.  The way I figure it, is that if my shoes are anywhere around this place, they will be where I found myself last night … out here in the grass.

I reach the place in the grass, and since it is now daylight, it only takes seconds to scan the ground. 
No shoes,
I think, feeling my heart sink and my feet hurt, but I have discovered that if I step on the clumps of grass, then the sharp, rough rocks do not poke the soles of my feet nearly so much.

“Hey, Jared!  Over here,” William calls waving his hands.  “What are you doing?”

“Just looking for my shoes,” I answer as I get closer to him by way of the small islands of grass clumps.

“Out here?” He asks.

“Where else?”

William shrugs off the question.  “Come help me do the milking,” he says, turning once again toward the back of the house.

I follow him, carefully picking my way along the grass.  When I look up, William is ducking under a single, horizontal wooden pole that is supported by four other poles, two on each end, which are lashed together with wire.  Another pole extends from there and is supported by two more lashed poles. 
A corral,
I guess, following the structure around the perimeter with my eyes until it returns to the starting point.  Although it is nothing like the horse corrals I have seen back home in Arizona, it really does not require much imagination to see the wooden poles as a corral because, grazing in the center is a fat, glassy-eyed cow, and she is staring at William.

I am sure she will run, but she just stares at him as he walks around her to the other side.  With a quick wave of his hands, the cow turns and plods toward the fence near me.

“Throw some hay on the ground next to that post,” William yells, pointing toward a single vertical timber sticking out of the ground.

I grab a couple of handfuls of hay from a small pile outside of the corral and duck under the wooden fence.  I realize what a dangerous task this is, not because the cow is so much bigger than me, but because inside the corral there is less grass, and many more cow pies.  I shudder to think just how awful it will be to step in a cow pie with stocking feet.

Carrying two large handfuls of hay and tiptoeing across the corral toward the post, I feel like a cross between a pom-pom girl and a ballerina.

I drop the hay and carefully back away a few steps.  William lifts the rope that is coiled and hanging on the pole and swings a loop over the cow’s head as it ducks to eat the hay.  In the same motion he wraps the loose end twice around the pole and tucks the end under, making a perfect clove hitch.

I know how to tie one of those knots,
I think as flashbacks from scout camp remind me of the Pioneering merit badge.  But even though I know how to tie a clove hitch, and twelve other knots, I have never seen a clove hitch used for something real.  Of course, in the back of my mind, my subconscious still debates whether all of this, William, his family, the cow,
are
actually real.  But I am giving in.  I do not understand why I am in this real place, but it does seem real enough.

I watch William slide a bucket underneath the cow.  He pats her gently, “That a girl,” he coos soothingly as he kneels down by the bucket and reaches toward her utter.  “Easy does it, Spot.”

“Spot!” I blurt out with a loud laugh.

The cow looks at me and steps to the side, tugging on the rope and kicking the bucket three feet away.

William stands up and pats her side, “Whoa, whoa.  Its okay,” he soothes.  He turns toward me.  “Her name is Spot,” he says quietly.

“But …”  I want to say that Spot is a dog’s name, but William holds up his hand, signaling me to be quiet.

“When you milk a cow, you have to talk softly,” he explains.  “Otherwise she kicks your bucket over and you get nothing for your work.”

I can suddenly think of a dozen questions like, “You don’t drink this stuff before it is pasteurized, do you?” or “How do you know when you’re done milking?” but William stops me again with his hand.

“Tell you what, Jared.  You just watch me do the milking and tomorrow I’ll let you try.”  Patting Spot’s back, William up rights the bucket and sets it back in place underneath the utter.  In a minute William has a gentle, steady rhythm of warm milk flowing into the bucket as he alternately works his hands, pinching off the teat and then gently squeezing it to extrude the white liquid.

The morning is quiet and the early sunshine feels good on my arms and face as I lean on the corral and listen to the steady squirt of milk hitting the pail.  I watch a horse drawn wagon roll by, stopping only once for a man to jump onto the back.

Across the field of grass a woman steps out of a small log cabin that really looks more like a one room hut, and shakes a cloth, then goes back inside. 
What a great morning!
I think.  The sky is clear and the air is crisp and clean.  I can look in any direction and my view seems limited only by the mountains themselves, or by the numerous log houses nearby and dotting the entire valley floor.  It is odd, in a strange way, to be in the mountains and see so clearly.  Pleasant, but odd just the same.

“Okay, Jared,” William says softly as he stands up and hefts the pail of milk.  “Take the rope off her neck and let her go.”  William wrestles the milk pail over the corral fence while I slide the rope off Spot’s fat neck and coil it lazily over the wooden pole.

“How much did she give?” I ask, trying to sound business like.

“About three gallons.
[16]
”  William lifts the pail again and heads for the front porch.  “She used to give more,” he explains, “but she hasn’t had a calf for awhile and is beginning to dry up.”

“How much do you need?” I laugh.  “Your family couldn’t possibly drink three gallons a day!”

This time William laughs.  “Of course not.  But we can nearly drink one.  Mom likes her boys to be well fed.”

“What do you do with the rest of it?” I ask.

“Mom sells it during the day.  There aren’t too many dairy cows around here, so Spot’s milk brings a pretty good price.  When she can’t sell it, Mom makes butter and skims the cream.  That’s when her cooking gets really great.”

I open the front door and William carries the pail into the kitchen.

“Thank you, boys,” Elizabeth smiles.  She hands each of us a small white cloth bundle tied with string.  “You boys better scoot, or Mr. Roworth will hire someone else.”  She kisses William on the cheek.

“Oh, Mom,” he complains.  “Jared is here.”

Elizabeth leans over and William kisses her quickly.  “Jared,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Elizabeth leans over and kisses me on the forehead.  “Work hard, you boys.  And be safe.”

“Okay, Mom,” William says as he steps out the door.

“And come right home.  You have evening chores, remember.”

“I thought we would look at some boots for Jared.  Then we will come right home.”

“All right, but not a minute more.”

“Bye, Mom.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, and follow William out the door before I got kissed again or something.

“You are lucky to have such nice parents,” I say after we have walked a short distance through knee high grass and turned eastward onto what looks like an off-road Jeep trail.  The wheel ruts are filled with a soft dusty powder which transforms into cold, sticky mud at every dip.  My feet do not mind the powdery cushion, though regularly a sharp stone or protruding stick will jab the tender soles of my already sore feet.

“What do you mean?” William asks.  “Aren’t
your
parents nice?”

“Sure they are, … I think.”

William glances at me.

“What I mean is that my mom is nice.  I mean, she’s like the best.  But I don’t really know my dad.  He died when I was seven.  So, you are lucky to have both parents.  And besides that, they’re nice.”

“I guess you are right,” William says.  “I just never thought about it like that.”

I stop and rub my foot where a razor-sharp rock has tried to impale me.

“Your feet are sore, huh?” William asks with compassion.

“Yeah.  They are getting worn out fast.  Even the
soft
dirt is rough on my toes.”

“William looks down the trail the way we have come, and I follow his gaze into the distance.  “See that wagon?” He says.

I nod, pulling my wet sock up tightly onto my foot.

“That’s old man Taylor’s wagon,” William explains.  “He won’t stop for children, but he
will
stop for that man walking just up ahead.  We can jump on with him.  Can you walk fast enough to catch up with that man?”

“I can make it if you can,” I say, trying to sound confident.  I am not sure my feet will make it, though.  They are pretty sore.  But if hurrying a little now will save some walking later, then I am all for it.

“Let’s go then,” William says with a smile.

We catch up to the man ahead of us just as old man Taylor’s wagon reaches us, but to do so we had to walk at a pace that was nearly a trot.

When Mr. Taylor stops his wagon, William and the man with whom we are walking, jump onto the back and sit down.  It is now my turn, but not being trained in the art of wagon hopping, I stumble and drop my lunch bundle onto the ground, where it rolls over twice and stops.

With what I think is a sophisticated swoop, I snatch up my lunch and move toward the wagon, but old man Taylor has already started his horse and wagon moving down the road.

“William!” I call.  I catch his eye and toss him my lunch, a quick, clean shot straight toward his chest.  Yes, basketball practice after mutual actually pays off.  I leap forward and lunge half way onto the back of the wagon before it reaches full speed.  William and another gentleman passenger pull me on board.