This Calder Range (27 page)

“Did I say something amusing?” His gaze narrowed.

Lorna quickly wiped the smile from her face as she decided not to test the extent of Benteen's sense of humor. “No, not at all. I was thinking of something else.”

“Have you eaten?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” She wasn't going to conceal anything from him. “All the tables were full except one. Mr. Giles suggested that we share it.”

“Giles? Bull Giles?”

“Yes. He's arrived here in Dodge.” She included the obvious information.

“As your husband, I have the right to request that you have nothing more to do with that man,” Benteen stated.

“I haven't given you any cause to make that request,”
Lorna replied coolly. “Besides, we're leaving tomorrow. More than likely Mr. Giles is another person I'll be telling good-bye and never seeing again.”

“That's the second time you've said that. Is there a particular reason why you keep bringing it up?” Benteen grew stiff.

Lorna wished devoutly that she hadn't. It was too depressing. “No. No reason,” she said in a dispirited tone. A wry smile tugged the corners of her mouth up. “I have grown up some, Benteen. Now I can tell people good-bye and not cry all day about it.” This time she changed the subject. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Shall we go into the dining room, then?” she suggested. “I'll have a cup of tea while you eat.”

That evening, Lorna retired to their hotel room after dinner while Benteen again made his excuses not to stay. Too restless to sleep, Lorna sat on the bed and read the newspaper he had bought earlier.

She was surprised by a knock on the door. It seemed unlikely that Benteen had come back so early, and he had a key to let himself in. She doubted that Bull Giles would be so bold as to come to the room. She glanced at the valise near the bed where she kept the pistol Benteen had given her.

“Who is it?” Lorna demanded, and moved to the end of the bed closer to the valise.

“I am Lady Crawford's maid,” came the precisely spoken reply. “She sent me by with some lotion for the madam.”

Lorna hadn't exactly forgotten about it, but she thought the woman had. She crossed the room and unlocked the door. When she opened it, the maid was standing outside. She wore a black dress with a pristine white apron and a ruffled cap atop her head. She looked as starched and stiff as her clothes, as she made an inspecting glance at Lorna.

“The lotion, madam.” She seemed to sniff her disapproval as she presented Lorna with a small jar.

“Will you express my gratitude to her ladyship, and give her my regards?” Lorna requested with equal formality, and clutched the jar tightly in her hands, treasuring the thought that its contents might make her skin as smooth as Lady Crawford's.

The maid appeared vaguely surprised that Lorna was capable of civilized speech. “I will, madam.” She made a brief curtsy and turned on her heel to rustle down the hall in her starched dress.

The lotion seemed to be all that Lady Crawford had claimed it to be. Lorna swore she felt a difference the minute she applied it to her face and hands. If she used it sparingly, it would last a long time. She could hardly wait until Mary tried some of it.

Most of her elation faded when she thought of her friend. She had hoped she'd be able to persuade Mary to continue on with them. But Benteen had said they were making preparations to leave. With the strain of her marriage, it was going to be a very long and lonely journey to the Montana Territory.

Again Lorna was asleep when Benteen returned in the early morning. She didn't hear him undress and slide into bed beside her, taking care not to touch her.

The first rays of the sun were shining through the window when he stood fully clothed beside the bed. “Wake up, Lorna,” he said briskly.

She stirred and rolled over to blink sleepily at him. For a few seconds there was warmth in her eyes for him; then it faded.

“It's time to leave,” she guessed.

He nodded shortly. “I'll bring the wagon around while you dress. I'll meet you downstairs.”

“All right,” she sighed, but he was already walking to the door.

The ungainly covered wagon lumbered into camp while the morning was still new. The scene awaiting
Lorna had grown very familiar to her. The highly functional chuck wagon with its sideboards for storing the cowboys' bedrolls and chuck box at the tail end was set up for business. A couple of drovers were hunkered down by the fire, nursing cups of coffee. Over by the Stanton wagon, Mary was washing clothes. She had assumed the role of camp laundress during the drive, a chore that usually went to the cook.

When the wagon rattled to a stop, Ely put aside the harness he was repairing and came over to give Benteen a hand with the team. With the brake set, Benteen swung to the ground and turned back to place a steadying hand on Lorna's waist as she climbed down from the wagon seat.

“Thought you might want to know, Benteen”—Ely kept busy with the team, not pausing while he spoke—“me and Mary have talked it over. We'd like to go on with you to Montana an' maybe file on a piece of land there. I can run a few cows an' maybe work for you on the side.”

“I'll be needing a few riders,” was all Benteen said in response.

Lorna heard it all and stared at the two men in numbed amazement. How could they treat such an important decision so calmly? They could have been discussing the weather. She picked up her skirts and hurried across to the Stanton wagon. Mary had squeezed the water out of the last shirt and turned to set it with the others to be spread out on the grass to dry.

“Is it true?” Lorna didn't wait for Mary to turn around. “Are you coming with us?”

Mary's face beamed with a warm smile when she faced Lorna. “It's true.”

But Lorna couldn't take the news as calmly as everyone else seemed to be doing. With a laugh of delight, she gave Mary a quick hug.

“I can't believe it!” she declared. “I was hoping you'd come. What changed your mind?”

Although Mary was smiling, there was a serious light in her eyes. “A combination of things,” she admitted. “I finally realized Ely would never be happy being a farmer. He was trying to please me because he felt he'd let me down by not providing a home for us. I was a farmer's daughter for so many years that I thought I should be a farmer's wife. All along I've been trying to change Ely from a cowboy into a farmer. A man's work is his pride. You can't take it from him or you haven't got a man anymore.”

“I don't believe you really meant to do anything like that.” Lorna refused to think ill of her friend.

“Not consciously, but I did. And I discovered I had pride, too,” Mary added. “Going back to my relatives in Ioway would be the same as saying we didn't have what it takes to make it out here.”

“But you do,” Lorna insisted.

“Once I was the one reassuring you,” Mary pointed out wryly. “I've never had a real friend before, Lorna. I guess the last reason is you.”

Both of them were on the verge of tears. “If the last half of this trip is like the first, maybe we should paint a sign on our wagon like the fortyniners did,” Lorna suggested in an emotionally tight voice. “‘Montana or Bust.'”

The Western Trail angled north out of Dodge City, cutting across the western end of Kansas and taking aim on Ogallala and its railhead on the southern end of the Nebraska sandhills. From there the trail swung west to Cheyenne and the Wyoming Territory north of it.

The herd of two-thousand-plus Longhorns, their numbers depleted by the sale of three hundred steers, was a week out of Dodge City. Since they were handling fewer cattle, Benteen hadn't hired more trailhands to take Jonesy and Andy Young's places. The herd was trailing kindly, so his present crew would be able to handle them.

Benteen was scouting ahead on the trail to choose a site to bed the cattle for the night. It was a sweltering July afternoon in the sun. There wasn't any change on the flat prairie. It seemed they had traveled for miles without seeing a tree. Behind him, the herd made a dust cloud on the horizon.

Off to his left, he heard the distant clatter of a wagon. His gaze swung toward the sound. A pair of mules was pulling a high-sided wagon across the prairie. It looked like a Conestoga with the canvas removed. Some homesteader had probably hauled his family west in it, then converted it for farm use. Not wanting any trouble with farmers if it could be avoided, Benteen reined his horse toward the wagon to intercept it before it reached the herd.

The man pulled in his mules when Benteen rode up.
The unrelenting Kansas sun had burned the farmer's face to a ruddy shade. His eyes were sunken and dull, resigned to his constant war with nature.

“Hot day, isn't it?” Benteen remarked idly, and took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeved forearm.

“Always is. You with that trail herd?” The man spoke in chopped sentences, as if complete ones required too much effort.

“It's my herd,” he acknowledged. “The name's Calder. Benteen Calder.”

“Got a place off the trail.” The farmer gestured over his shoulder. “Water in the crick, and grass. Welcome to bed 'em there. Missus and me be needin' fuel for the winter.”

Dried cow and buffalo manure was often referred to as “prairie coal.” Where trees were scarce, it was the only source of fuel. With a little bacon rind for kindling, it burned with a hot flame.

“I'll ride over and take a look,” Benteen said.

“Hail took my crop a week back.” Which explained why he was willing to let the cattle graze on his land. They couldn't damage a crop already destroyed.

Handling the team like the veteran driver she'd become, Lorna followed the chuck wagon to the site Benteen had selected for the night's camp. The wagons were going to be positioned between the herd and the farmer's homestead, a hundred yards away.

Their route took them close to the farmer's home. It was the first time Lorna had seen a sod house, although she'd heard about them. She couldn't help staring at the strange-looking structure with tufts of grass sticking out between layers of earth. The door and windows were framed with wood and the roof appeared to be a combination of brush, earth, and poles.

A woman was standing in the doorway of the primitive cabin, halted in the act of wiping her hands on the long apron around her waist. Lorna raised a hand and
waved to her. Suddenly the woman started running toward the wagon.

“Stop!” she cried out. “Please, stop!”

The woman sounded so desperate that Lorna thought she needed help and hauled back on the reins to stop the team. Tears were streaming down the woman's face as she ran alongside the wagon. Her hand was reaching out to Lorna while she continued to sob breathlessly for her to stop.

When the wagon rumbled to a halt, Lorna climbed quickly down. “What is it? What's wrong?” she asked anxiously as the woman stood and covered her mouth with a hand.

“Thank you.” It came out in a muffled sob, as her hand made a tentative gesture toward Lorna as if she wanted to touch her.

“What is it?” Lorna asked again, and glanced toward the sod home, wondering if someone was sick or hurt.

“I'm sorry.” A laugh bubbled through her sobs. “It's just been so long … since I've seen another white woman.”

A cold shiver went down Lorna's spine at the explanation. My God, what kind of life was it that reduced a woman to tears at the sight of another woman?

“You probably think I'm crazy.” The woman brought her hands together and clasped them in a prayerful attitude at her breast. “But I just couldn't let you go by … without talking. Alfred never mentioned there were any women with the trail herd.” She glanced sideways as Mary came up to see what was wrong. “Alfred's my husband. I thought I was seeing things when you waved to me. I thought this emptiness had finally driven me crazy.”

Her words were tumbling out, rushing over themselves in her anxiety. Lorna was torn with pity for the woman, and a little frightened by the picture she painted, too.

“You aren't imagining things,” Lorna promised. “This is Mary Stanton, and I'm Lorna Calder.”

“My name's Emma Jenkins.” She suddenly raised a hand to the frizzy wisps of hair that had escaped from the carelessly gathered bun. “Gracious, I must look a sight.”

Lorna guessed that the woman had ceased to care about her appearance, probably discouraged by the dark hollows under her eyes and the thinness of her face. She made a vow to herself that she would never let it happen to her.

“It's this land, you know,” Emma Jenkins insisted with a resentful glance at the lonely prairie that stretched from horizon to horizon. “The wind moans so.”

Benteen came riding back to find out what was holding up the two wagons. His horse stopped a few feet short of the women and did a sidestepping dance under him.

“What's the problem?” His glance traveled over the three on the ground.

“Mrs. Jenkins, I'd like you to meet my husband, Benteen Calder.” Lorna tactfully ignored his question and introduced them instead.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jenkins.” With a nod, he touched his fingers to the front of his hat brim.

The excitement of the moment had made the woman so highly emotional that all her reactions were exaggerated. Now it was guilt and remorse that claimed her. “I'm sorry. I'm afraid I detained your wife,” she admitted anxiously. “I know you're wanting to set up camp for the night, and I'm keeping you.”

“I'm glad you stopped us,” Lorna said. “It's given us a chance to thank you for letting us camp here.”

“Would you…?” She started to put the question to Lorna, then turned eagerly to Benteen. “Would you and your wife please come eat with us tonight?” Swinging to Mary, she included her, too. “And you and your husband, Mrs. Stanton? It would be so wonderful having company … and someone to talk to in the evening. Oh, please come.”