Читать книгу Buffalo Summer - Nadia Nichols - Страница 10

PONY WAS STANDING at the kitchen counter when he came into the room, just as Ramalda was running through yet another string of heated rants about Caleb McCutcheon always being late, always late! And then quite suddenly the tall lean broad-shouldered rancher was there, and just as suddenly Pony felt all confused inside, turning quickly back to the task she had set herself—sliding the hot biscuits out of the pan and into a deep basket lined with a clean kitchen towel.

The boys were already seated at the table, washed and silent, watching this next culinary performance with a kind of suspicious anticipation. McCutcheon stopped just inside the kitchen door and glanced around the room, nodding almost imperceptibly when his eyes met hers, and then again at Guthrie Sloane, who stood in the back hallway as if hiding from the moment. “Sorry we’re late,” Caleb said to Ramalda, removing his hat as if he were in the presence of royalty. “It’s my fault. I hope you aren’t too angry.”

Ramalda paused in mid-waddle from stove to sink, holding a pot with something delicious-smelling in it. “Lavate las manos!” she said, nodding her head curtly toward the sink and glaring at them. She wrinkled her nose as if smelling something bad. “Hueles a vaca. You wash!”

“Yes, ma’am.” McCutcheon nodded humbly. He and Badger hung their hats on pegs beside the door and made for the sink, standing politely to one side until Ramalda had finished with it.

Pony had discovered that beneath that gruff and scowling exterior, Ramalda had an exceptionally soft heart. From speaking with her during supper preparations, Pony had also learned that the Mexican woman had worked for Jessie Weaver’s family back in the ranch’s glory days, before the fall of cattle prices, before Jessie’s father had gotten cancer. Ramalda had been like a mother to Jessie, whose own mother had died when she was just a child. When hard times had come to the ranch, both Ramalda and her cowboy husband, Drew Long, had been laid off, and Ramalda had confided that it had been a kind of miracle when Caleb McCutcheon had bought the ranch and hired her back—at Jessie’s prompting—shortly after Drew’s death.

Having washed up, both McCutcheon and Badger approached the table, where they stood awkwardly for a few moments before claiming chairs together at one end of the table. Guthrie joined them, and the three sat down and rested their elbows on the table, glancing around the room. McCutcheon’s eyes touched hers again briefly and Pony felt her cheeks warm. He cleared his throat.

“That bull buffalo is standing right across the creek from my cabin,” he said, reaching for the coffeepot that Ramalda had plunked in the center of the table and filling his cup. He did the same for Guthrie and Badger.

“I’ll be damned. Guess he traveled some today, didn’t he?” Guthrie said, raising his cup for a swallow. “Maybe in the morning he’ll be standing on your porch, lookin’ in the window.”

“That big buff’s like a mountain on hooves,” Badger said. “I’ve never seen any bigger. Kind of spooky, if you ask me. I’ll take beef cattle any day.”

“That’s because you don’t know what from wherefore,” Guthrie said. “Buffalo are the wave of the future. The meat is healthier, tastier, and since when could you sell a beef cow’s skull and hide for nearly a thousand dollars?”

“Since when could you throw a rope around a buffalo and slap your brand on it?” Badger challenged, adding three heaping spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee.

“Speaking of which,” McCutcheon interrupted, “Badger, weren’t you and Charlie supposed to give me a roping lesson yesterday? Charlie mentioned something about it when I ran into him at the Longhorn Cafe.”

Badger’s eyebrows raised and he rubbed his whiskery chin. “That’s the first I heard of it.” He shook his head in disgust. “Charlie’s a senile old coot.”

Pony helped Ramalda with the final preparations while listening to the conversation, and the boys’ heads turned solemnly from one speaker to another as if watching a tennis match.

Guthrie reached for the coffeepot. “Charlie and Badger can’t throw a rope anyhow,” he said, topping off his mug. “Between the two of them, I doubt they could rope a stump and tie it to a tree. Why’d you want to take lessons from them?”

“I was throwin’ a rope long before you hit the ground, son,” Badger said, adding another spoonful of sugar to his cup. “And I expect I can still throw one better’n you.”

“Maybe we should have us a rope-throwing contest after supper,” Guthrie said. “I could use a little extra pocket money betting on a sure thing like that.”

Badger laid down his spoon, straightened his spine and smoothed his mustache. “Son, there’s no such thing as a sure thing, but if you want to run on the rope, go right ahead. To my way of thinkin’, you’d be better off keeping your money in your pocket. You’re going to need all the cash you can get to pay for this big wedding of yours that your sister Bernie’s plannin’.”

Guthrie sipped his coffee. “Why, Badger, I thought you was plannin’ to foot the bill. You’re always talkin’ about how Jessie’s been just like a granddaughter to you.”

“That she is,” Badger said, his voice gruff but his expression softening. “Maybe we’d both best be saving our money.”

McCutcheon leaned back in his chair. “I guess this means I’m never going to get my roping lesson.”

Pony set the basket of golden biscuits on the table, but when Jimmy immediately reached for one she said, “Wait.” She helped Ramalda bring the rest of the food, and then took a chair between Jimmy and Roon. Ramalda went back to the sink and began fussing with the dirty pots and pans. Badger reached for a biscuit. “Wait,” Pony said again, and Badger drew his hand back as if he’d been slapped. Pony folded her hands in front of her. “We must wait.”

The boys sat silently. McCutcheon and Guthrie exchanged a questioning glance while Ramalda scrubbed noisily away at the pots in the kitchen sink. The wait stretched out for several long minutes and finally Badger cleared his throat. “Now, maybe I’m practicing rude behavior here, ma’am, but just what the devil are we waiting for?” he said, giving her a reproachful look. “Are you about to say grace?”

Pony’s clasped hands tightened. “It is impolite to begin eating before everyone is seated.”

Badger snorted. “Hell’s bells, Ramalda never sits with us. We’ll all starve if we wait for her. She eats in her own place, at her own time.”

Pony looked at McCutcheon with a surge of indignation. “You mean that she is not allowed to eat with you?”

His face flushed. “She’s more than welcome, but she won’t. Maybe you can convince her to, but I can’t. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

She looked behind her to where the woman worked at the sink. “Ramalda, sientate, y come con nosotros.” Ramalda swung her bulk about and scowled, raised a dripping hand holding a scouring pad and shook her head.

“No. Comaselos ustedes ahora que están caliente.”

Pony faced front again, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “She says for us to eat while the food is hot.”

“There now, you see?” Badger said. “She’s an old-time camp cookie, Ramalda is. She knows full well that us cowboys is nothin’ more than a big appetite ridin’ a horse.” He reached for the basket of biscuits and helped himself, handing the basket to his left, and did the same with the platter of two plump roasting chickens. A spicy dish made of cornmeal with peppers and onions followed, and finally, the big pitcher of milk. For a while there was only the noise of cutlery scraping against plates as the boys dug in and the men followed suit. Pony glanced up as Ramalda plunked a big cast-iron pot of spiced beef and beans onto the table and replenished the biscuits and the milk. She tried to eat but couldn’t, her nerves were that rattled. But it didn’t matter. The noon meal had been sufficient to last her several days.

“So tell me why that big bull buffalo roams,” Caleb McCutcheon said, startling her. She caught his gaze for a moment and then dropped her eyes to her plate and pretended to concentrate on her food.

“The bulls will generally remain near the herd, but they hang together in their own group. The cows stay with the cows, the bulls with the bulls,” she said to her plate. “The only time the bulls run with the cows is during the mating time. Your bull is lonely, but not for the cows. Not right now. Right now he needs other bulls, the same way you men seem to need each other’s company.”

“But won’t they fight amongst themselves?”

Pony nodded, glancing up briefly. “In the mating time they’ll test each other. They’ll fight sometimes, and sometimes there’ll be injuries. But the rest of the year the bulls like each other’s company.”

“Yepper,” Badger said, deadpan. “Maybe you’ll find him on your porch in the morning. Maybe he just wants to hang out with you, boss.”

“How many bulls do you think I should have here?” McCutcheon asked.

“That depends. How many cows do you want to run?”

“How many cows could this ranch support?” he said, fork poised halfway to his mouth.

“How big is your range?”

“It’ll be fifteen thousand acres in another month, but right now we’re working with five thousand,” McCutcheon said.

“And you have ten cows and one bull.” Pony broke a biscuit in half and laid it on her plate. She buttered both halves carefully, concentrating on the task. “You’ll need five bulls to start, and at least thirty cows. Three times that would be better. Anything less, and you won’t make any money at all.”

She laid down the knife and raised her eyes.

He regarded her steadily. “The money part doesn’t matter,” he said.

She paused, carefully considering his statement. “Maybe it should, Mr. McCutcheon.” She felt her heart rate accelerate. “Maybe it isn’t enough for this little herd of buffalo to be the token toys of a rich man. Maybe it would mean more if you could prove that what you are doing here is a good thing, that it is good for the land, good for the buffalo, and good for the people, too. And if you can make money doing a good thing, and make the ranch work again and hold itself up without your support, maybe that would be the very best thing of all.”

Dead silence.

McCutcheon pushed his plate away and set back in his chair. All eyes at the table were on him, awaiting his response. He picked up his coffee and took a swallow. Set the mug down gently. “Okay,” he said, nodding slowly, his blue eyes calmly speculative. “So where do we get these buffalo?”

“There are auctions,” she said. “Usually these are held late in the year. You can also buy directly from other ranches. You could talk to Pete and see if he will sell you some more. But first you need to get your fences fixed, or the buffalo will just push them down and wander off.”

McCutcheon nodded again and glanced at Guthrie. “We’ll make an early start in the morning. Everyone had better get a good night’s sleep,” he said, standing abruptly. “That was a good meal, Ramalda. Muchas gracias.” He lifted his hat off the wall peg and walked out of the kitchen without looking back, the screen door slamming behind him.

Pony watched him go and felt a sudden twist of anxiety at her brashness. The words she had spoken were true, but they had hurt the way the truth sometimes did. He was no doubt standing on the porch thinking about how he could politely ask her and the boys to leave, because this much she already knew about Caleb McCutcheon; he might be a rich man, but he had a good and honest heart.

CALEB WALKED OUT into the twilight, grateful for the chill air that cooled his flaming face. The words she’d spoken had stung, but she was absolutely correct. If he wanted to make a real difference, it had to be in a real way. He couldn’t rely on his inexhaustible bank account, because that wouldn’t help this land or the people who lived upon it.

He walked to the porch rail and leaned over, elbows braced, gazing at the last shreds of color in the sky. The cow dog, Blue, rose from her nap and crossed the porch to sit beside him companionably. He let one hand drop to stroke the top of her head and shortly afterward heard two sets of boots come onto the porch behind him. Guthrie and Badger walked up to the porch rail and stood—one on each side of him—staring out at the June evening.

For a while they were quiet, and then Guthrie made a strange choking noise and turned away, limping a few steps to put some distance between them. His head was ducked and his shoulders rounded over. Caleb stared at his back for a moment, wondering if Guthrie was all right or if the pain he had lived with for the past eight months had suddenly overwhelmed him. Just as he was about to voice his concern, the young man straightened, drew a deep breath, wiped his forearm across his eyes and turned to face him.

“You’re laughing,” Caleb accused. He shot a suspicious glance at Badger, but the old man was stuffing a wad of chewing tobacco into his mouth. “Damn!” he said, beginning to get angry. “The both of you think I’m a fool, don’t you? A rich fool, just like she does.”

Guthrie shook his head but he was still fighting down the laughter. “Nossir,” he said. “God’s truth, we don’t. Nobody in this whole valley feels that way about you. But the look on your face while she was talkin’ to you…” He ducked away again in another paroxysm of laughter, and Caleb watched him. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Guthrie Sloane laugh before. He swung around to face Badger, but the cowboy’s expression was neutral.

“Yepper.” Badger nodded, working the tobacco into position with his tongue. “It took millions of years for man to evolve from monkeys, but a woman can make a monkey out of a man in seconds.” He pondered for moment before adding, “Now I ask you, is that the least little bit fair?”

The anger drained out of Caleb as quickly as it had come, and he slumped in defeat, resting his forearms on the porch railing. “All right, then, have your laugh. But just remember, we’re in this buffalo fiasco together.” He gazed toward the pole barn, watched the horses walking about in the corral, and felt his tension slowly ebb. “Tomorrow the work begins, but tomorrow’s still half a day away. I’m heading to the cabin for a nightcap, and you’re welcome to join me.” He started down the porch steps, and the two men fell in behind, trailed by the cow dog. Halfway to the cabin he paused and looked back up at the ranch house. “Did any of those boys say one word during supper?” he said.

“Nossir,” Guthrie said. “Nary a one.” He stood beside him, wearing a puzzled frown. “It’s like they were just sitting there, waiting for something to happen.”

“Yeah,” Caleb said. “But what?”

WHEN THE KITCHEN was tidied and the dishes washed, dried and put away, Pony walked into the living room looking for the boys, but they were nowhere to be found. Ramalda had retreated to her bedroom after banking the cookstove and lighting the oil lamps, and Pony allowed herself the luxury of enjoying the peaceful room in silence. It was a comfortable space, not too big, with the fireplace as its focal point. Above the mantel hung an old gilt-framed oil painting of a herd of longhorn cattle being driven across an arid plain, with a wall of mountains shimmering in the heat-baked distance. She knew little of art but recognized and admired the quality of the work.

A couch and two overstuffed chairs flanked the fireplace, and there were bookshelves on either side, filled with hardcover books. She withdrew a few to thumb through the pages. A book by Einstein about the theory of relativity. A very old copy of Stewart Edward White’s The Forest. Her eye caught another title and she drew the book from its spot. Hanta Yo, by Ruth Beebe Hill. This volume was well-worn and her hands caressed it as if she had found an old friend after a long absence. She had read this book as a young girl, read it again as an adolescent, read it one more time in college. It had taken her on a mystical journey down the red road, and she had absorbed more each time she’d traveled it.

The room had a pleasing smell, a mingling of cedar, saddle leather and winter apples, though she could find no evidence of any such things. The floor was sheathed in wide boards and covered over with a large handwoven rug of Navajo design. There were several periodicals scattered on a scuffed plank coffee table in front of the sofa—cattlemen’s journals and such. And over on the wall, beneath a window, was a desk with a large computer workstation. The computer seemed glaringly out of place in this room. Pony replaced the book and walked down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, tapping lightly on the boys’ door.

Nothing.

She peeked into her own room. Empty. She walked through the kitchen and out onto the porch, standing in the darkness and wondering where they were. Her eyes came to rest on the dark bulk of the pole barn, and she descended the porch steps and walked toward it. She could hear the horses moving about in the corral as she drew near and the murmur of low voices from inside the barn. She opened one half of the big door just wide enough to peek inside, and stared, unnoticed, at the sight of five boys and one flashlight crowded around a big western stock saddle draped over a stall partition.

“No, stupid,” she heard Jimmy say as the flashlight beam shifted. “That’s called the horn. This part back here is the cantle.”

“Then what’s this thing called?” Martin said, and Jimmy’s head bent over the little paperback guidebook he carried—the one Pony had given him a week ago.

“That’s the cinch. It goes around the horse’s belly and holds the saddle on.”

Pony quietly closed the barn door and stood for a moment beneath the bright spangle of stars. She smiled with relief at what she had just witnessed. It was going to be okay. If Caleb McCutcheon didn’t send them packing tomorrow, everything would be all right. And in the event that he allowed them to stay, she had some studying of her own to do before blowing out the lamp. In her little bag she had packed the notebook that Pete Two Shirts had given her, filled with his unruly, nearly illegible scrawl. It contained all his notes about the buffalo—everything he had come to know from his years of working with the tribal bison herd.

Pete had given her the notebook shortly after finding out she’d gotten the job. He’d come to the school again—it was a safe place to see her, a neutral place—and he’d waited until the children had gone home before walking into the classroom and laying the book on her desk. “Thought you might need this,” he said. “In case you’ve forgotten what you learned that summer.”

The blood had left her head with a rush, and for a moment, looking up at him from the relative security of her chair, she felt as if she might faint. “I will never forget,” she said. “I only wish I could.”

His eyes had held hers in a steely grip that she couldn’t break. “Don’t let the past haunt you, Pony. Don’t let it destroy your life.”

He was right. She knew he was right. But she couldn’t change what had happened by pretending that it hadn’t. She would have to live with the guilt for the rest of her life.

Now Pony climbed the ranch-house steps, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, and stood for a moment in the vast, almost-palpable silence of the night. She suddenly felt alone and lonely, overwhelmed and scared. Sometimes those dark memories became too powerful to push back and she felt as if she were drowning in all the mistakes she’d made.

Sometimes, she wished she’d died that summer.

CALEB MCCUTCHEON WAS NOT a night owl, but at one o’clock in the morning he was still reading by lamplight, studying the history of the Crow Indian tribe. He was reading a book called Parading Through History by Frederick E. Hoxie, because he felt compelled to learn more about Pony and her boys. He found the book fascinating enough to make a pot of coffee at midnight, turn up the lamp wick and draw an old wool blanket over his lap to thwart the night chill. At 1:00 a.m. he paused to listen to the wild and eerie song of a group of coyotes yipping in the foothills and wondered where the old bull buffalo was, glancing at the window and hoping he wouldn’t see the reflection of the great beast looking back at him.

He didn’t. He got up, poured himself another cup of coffee and returned to the comfortable chair, the warm blanket and the book. It was 2:00 a.m. before he finally blew out the lamp and went to bed, and a short three hours later he was rolling out from under the warm blankets with a reluctant moan, boiling up a fresh pot of coffee, drinking his first cup on the porch, bare toes curled over the edge of the weathered porch boards, and shivering in the quiet, mist-shrouded dawn.