Читать книгу So Far from Spring - Peggy Simson Curry - Страница 10

CHAPTER III

Kelsey wakened early. He stretched his aching legs and tried to go back to sleep. Finally he got up, dressed, and went down to the kitchen. There was no one around; the fire hadn’t been started in the coal range. From one of the main-floor bedrooms came the sound of Tommy’s snoring. Kelsey found an old jacket hanging on the kitchen wall, slipped into it, and went outside. It was a cold, clear morning; a faint red showed in the east. He walked toward the barn, looking curiously at the corrals. He was leaning against the fence when a man came out of the barn—a tall, stooped man with wide hips like a woman’s. He was leading a saddle horse, walking mincingly in high-heeled boots and wearing wide, flapping leather pants. A black handkerchief was tied around his neck. He saw Kelsey, shoved his hat back from his forehead where a line of white lay above the tan of his face, and grinned.

“Mornin’, Kelsey.” His voice was low and soft. “Heard you’d blown in when I come home last night. I gotta ride the north pasture—coupla heifers are on my mind.” He moved on up to Kelsey, pulled off a glove, and thrust out his hand. It was a smooth white hand, but the grip was firm. “I’m Jake, Monte’s cow boss.”

Everything about Jake was neat and immaculate, from the creased trousers to the top of his big dark hat. Kelsey tried to keep from staring at him, finally blurted out, “Man, how can you have hands like that and work?”

Jake smiled. “I keep ’em that way. Cowpunchers got a reputation for havin’ pretty hands. That’s why the women like us; we don’t rough ’em up too much. I see what I gotta see from the saddle, and most of the work I do can be done with gloves on. Punchin’ cows ain’t like fixin’ fence or shovelin’ manure, kid.”

“I’d like to go with you to see the heifers.”

“You would, huh?” Jake blinked. “Well, I never could figure out a man who wanted to get outta bed until he had to, but you’re welcome to string along. Hold this nag and I’ll fetch you a horse.” He started toward the barn and turned. “Ever been on a horse before?”

“No.”

“It’s a damn good job I asked. You mighta been kissin’ the sagebrush. Don’t worry. I’ll get you an old cowpony that knows more than both of us put together. Say, you don’t have any boots or chaps—well, it won’t matter, for we’re not travelin’ far. North pasture’s only a step.” He looked Kelsey over for a moment. “Reckon you’ll do, kid.” A little later he came out of the barn with the horse. Kelsey stepped eagerly forward.

“Hold it, kid! Even an old horse ain’t gonna tolerate that. You’re on the wrong side. Start over. Take the reins and the horn in one hand—like so. Now reach for the stirrup, and up you go.” And he laughed as Kelsey pulled himself awkwardly to the saddle. “Them stirrups is long, but you won’t be runnin’ no races.”

They rode slowly through the pasture Kelsey had walked across the day before. The cattle were scattered and quiet. There was no wind, and to Kelsey the earth seemed more remote than before, for it had a darker, bleaker appearance.

“We always keep the heifers here,” Jake said. “They been bred as long yearlings, so they’ll calf early, for first calves don’t always come easy. We gotta watch ’em, and we don’t turn ’em out on the flats as soon as the older cows. Older cows can calf by themselves.”

“I don’t know anything about cattle,” Kelsey said. “I couldn’t ask a question that made sense.”

Jake gave him a sidelong glance. “Well, there ain’t much to say about it. You can put the whole shebang in a few words—feed ’em and breed ’em. That’s all of it, kid.” Jake yawned and then straightened in the saddle, staring ahead. “Just the way I had it figured; them two have dropped their calves, but trouble’s started. Well, I’ll be damned. One of ’em don’t want her calf; she’s tryin’ to steal the other heifer’s.” He kicked his horse into a lope, heading toward two young cows standing off by themselves. Kelsey’s horse plunged after Jake’s, and he clung to the saddle horn while the saddle smacked him briskly on the backside.

He saw one cow cleaning off her calf, licking it with her tongue and nudging it to its feet. Near her, the other heifer ignored the calf on the ground, lifted her head, and let out a bellow. Then she ran to claim the standing calf.

“Crazy bitch!” Jake was out of the saddle and running to the deserted calf. He yanked off his shirt, bent over the dark heap on the ground, and began rubbing it, wiping away the membrane. The calf gave a feeble gasp. Jake tipped the head back and thrust his hand down the throat, pulling out mucus. He lifted the calf to its feet, shouting at Kelsey, “Here! Hold him up! I’ve got to head that wild one off!”

Hurriedly Kelsey dismounted, went to the calf, and put his hands on it. The calf felt warm and damp. He watched Jake ride after the heifer, which ran in circles around the other heifer and her calf. She kept bellowing, and the long bloody afterbirth dangled from her. Then Jake’s horse was right on her flank, darting to head her off, swerving with incredible speed, anticipating her every move, working her farther and farther away from the calf she wanted to claim. Kelsey saw that Jake was taking the wild-eyed heifer toward the barn. He looked at the wobbly calf and didn’t know what to do. Then he gathered it in his arms and started walking toward the corrals, the old saddle horse following. The calf bawled weakly. From it rose the humid, rank, yet strangely sweet odor of birth. It was a smell could turn a man’s stomach, Kelsey thought, but it was the smell of life. The sun came over the east mountain range of the Park, and its light and warmth fell over him and the new calf.

Around him the cattle stirred, some getting up from where they had lain among the sagebrush, some taking a step or two and stretching, some appearing to notice him for the first time and moving away. The pinkish-red light of the sun touched them and stained the tops of the mountains behind the long ridge back of the ranch house. And a small wind came out of the south, bringing the fragrance of woodsmoke, telling him that Hilder was up and had started the cookstove in the kitchen. He saw Jake waiting for him at the corral gate, and he shifted the calf in his arms and walked faster.

They put the calf with the heifer in a box stall in the barn. “If she don’t claim him,” Jake said, “we’ll have to feed him skim milk.” Then they walked toward the house. Jake’s hand rested for a moment on Kelsey’s shoulder. “You got a good initiation, kid.”

Kelsey looked at the stains on his clothes. He remembered the feel of the calf and the way the hair had curled on the top of its head. And he thought how quick was the beginning of life—out of darkness, like the sun bursting over the mountains. “It was fine,” he said, more to himself than to Jake.

The men were at the breakfast table. There were beads of water on Dalt’s thick, slicked-down hair. Hilder’s face was redder than usual from bending over the hot stove. Tommy looked up from his place at the head of the table, and Kelsey felt the coldness in his small black eyes. “If you expect to stick around here,” Tommy said, “don’t let me catch you actin’ the cowboy. You get on the end of a shovel where you belong—and stay there.”

Hilder and Dalt looked down at their plates. Jake took off his hat and smoothed the top of his bald head. “Shucks,” Jake said mildly, “it’s no skin off’n your nose, Tommy. Work day ain’t even started. What’s wrong with the kid givin’ me a hand?”

“You run the cattle,” Tommy said shortly. “I run the ranch, see? I’ll decide what he does and when.”

Jake shrugged. “Some people act like they been hit in the ass with a sour apple.” He reached for the tin washbasin. “Come on, Kelsey. Let’s clean up.”

Kelsey’s face was hot. Did Tommy have to speak so sharply to him before all the men?

Two weeks later Kelsey sat in the bunkhouse with Dalt and Jake; he spent every free moment in the bunkhouse, for that was the only place he could see Jake and talk with him and be free of Tommy’s curt tongue and sharp eyes.

The rain made no sound on the dirt roof, but Kelsey could see it streaking down the fly-specked window. Jake had taken off his yellow slicker and was shaking it. “Keeps on rainin’, a man’ll have web feet,” Jake said.

“It won’t,” Dalt replied. “It’ll turn to snow. Now’s the meanest time in this country. A man’s sick of winter and achin’ clear down to his guts for warm weather. And what kind of summer we got here anyhow? Not much, I’ll tell you. Like an old-timer said, North Park’s nine months winter and three months late fall. And spring—I haven’t seen any of it.”

“Up here at eight thousand feet,” Jake said, “spring’s bound to be mostly a notion a man carries in his mind.” He eased his feet close to the round black heating stove. His boots were wet, and they began to steam. A roaring sound came from the stove, rising and falling with the gusty wind. “Got a few more calves this mornin’,” he added. “Hell of a day for those young cows to be havin’ ’em.”

Kelsey stopped whittling on a match. “Jake, if you were starting a cattle herd what would you buy?”

“She-stuff. It multiplies fast.”

“A man can’t get anywhere working for wages,” Kelsey said. “I’ve got to get cattle.”

Jake squinted at him and smiled. “You got the curse of ambition, kid. All depends on what a man wants, I guess. Now me, I wouldn’t own a cow for love or money. Oh, I like ’em. I feel good bein’ around ’em, but let somebody else worry about the market, how many are gonna die with blackleg, and if there’s enough hay to get ’em through the winter.”

“How much hay does it take to winter a cow?”

“A man oughta figure roughly two tons in this country.”

Dalt got up and stood with his back to the stove. “These ranchers in the Park been cuttin’ that short by a damn sight. They’ll end up with too many cattle for the feed they got.”

“They’ve got by,” Jake answered, nodding in the heat.

“Yeah? Well it could happen right here; if Monte Maguire keeps buildin’ up the cow herd, we could lose half of ’em in a tough winter.”

“Ah, hell,” Jake said. “I won’t buy that.”

“Ranchin’s tough up here,” Dalt went on. “Ask some of the Laramie Plains men what they think about raisin’ cattle in North Park. They’ll tell you it’s a lot easier out their way. They don’t put up much hay; the plains bare off with the wind, and a cow brute can rustle most of the winter. They don’t get the snow we get, and it don’t stay on the ground; a cow can find grass.”

Jake sat up straight. “Just because you think the Laramie Plains is a banana belt compared to the Park, don’t figure Wyoming’s foolproof, either. Parts of that country are just as tough as here, and they’ve had some blizzards would curl your whiskers.”

“It’s still an easier way of ranching.”

“Yeah? And what cattle top the markets? The Park cattle. And you know why? Because they’re heavier; they weigh more at market. And another thing, when a cow has to rustle grass she’s a weaker cow, and her calf’s weaker and gotta be tailed up when it’s born instead of standin’ strong.”

“Don’t get your dander up, Jake. I wasn’t figurin’ on tellin’ you anything about cows.”

“The trouble is,” Kelsey said, frowning, “a man would have to go deep in debt to own a ranch and cattle.”

“Shucks, kid,” Jake said, grinning, “a man ain’t livin’ till he’s in debt. Never really get out myself. Come spring I always fall in it all over again.”

“It’s the cat wagons that come in from Laramie that keep him broke,” Dalt said, winking at Kelsey.

“Well, it sure is a nice way to go in debt,” Jake murmured.

The gong rang, announcing the noon meal, sending a clear ping-a-ling across the wet day.

“Hurry up,” Dalt said as they walked toward the house. “Hope Hilder had better luck with his pie today. Last one was all fruit and one before was all crust. Looks like he could strike a happy medium.”

“I want to take another look at that calf his mama wouldn’t claim,” Kelsey said. “Then I’ll be in to eat.”

“He’s fine,” Jake said. “A man’d think he was related to you, the way you fuss over him.”

Kelsey hurried on to the barn. The calf was in the back stall, fenced off from the rest of the barn. It thrust a wet, cold nose through the bars. Kelsey smiled and put his hand on the white face. “Now, young Robin O’Dair,” he said softly, “you look better than you did two weeks ago when I carried you in—and you can’t be hungry again!” The calf sucked at his hand. He fondled it a few minutes longer, wishing it belonged to him instead of to Monte Maguire.

When he left the barn he saw the storm had broken and tatters of cloud were streaming over the shoulder of the hogback, drifting between the aspen trees like smoke. “The creepin’ Johnnies are with us,” he said to himself, and thought suddenly of his mother, Taraleean, who always spoke of the fogs and mists as the creeping Johnnies. How close she seemed! And he stared at the long cloud-wreathed ridge and tried to hear again the sound of her voice. It was at night that he missed her most, drawing the rough, smelly blankets close to warm his loneliness. And it was at night too that he remembered his sisters with a closeness he had never felt for them when he was home. When he thought of them and of his mother, he missed also the Reverend Angus McCullough, who had been his father’s close friend and who had treated him like a son after John Cameron’s death. In the garden of the manse he had spent many pleasant hours with Reverend Mr. McCullough.

And what have I come to? he asked himself now, hurrying toward the house. What has this land to offer but cold and no green and a man’s back breaking from shoveling manure to build dikes in the meadows?

When he walked into the kitchen Tommy said, “You ride the upper ditch this afternoon, Kelsey. The big boss, Monte Maguire, oughta show up tonight. Gotta have everything checked and in top shape. But before you ride the upper ditch, fix that broken dam below the barn—in the upper part of the meadow. Take the sodboat and a load of manure from the corral.”

“And be sure you get it off’n your rubber boots when you come in for supper,” Hilder said. “We want things to smell good when the boss comes.”

As Tommy walked to the barn with him after the noon meal, Kelsey said, “I been talking to Jake. Jake says the only money’s to be made in cattle.”

“Well, he damn sure better talk that way. He’s cow foreman, ain’t he? That’s what he’s paid for, makin’ money with cattle.”

“If I could start a cow and calf—”

Tommy stopped and stared at him. “You got a debt to pay Big Mina Munro. You got a job—at least at the moment. You got a bed to sleep in and food to fill your belly. And, by God, you’re eatin’ your heart out to get a cow and calf! If you didn’t happen to be related to me I’d send you down the road talkin’ to yourself, so help me!”

“What’s wrong with a man dreaming and planning? Do you think I borrowed money and left Scotland just for a job? I’ve a right to have cattle, just as much right as any man.”

“Not here, you don’t. It ain’t Monte Maguire’s policy to let hired men run stock.” Tommy shook his head wonderingly. “Who the hell do you think you are, anyhow? Now, you listen, kiddo. Hook a team to that sodboat and get to spreadin’ manure. And then ride the upper ditch. Get the lead outta your pants or you won’t have a job at thirty bucks a month!”

Tommy brushed on past him. Kelsey stood for a moment outside the barn door, angry and a little puzzled by his cousin’s words.

Kelsey hooked the team to the sodboat, which was a long low contraption with a frame of two poles with the ends slanted up like sled runners. Over the poles boards were nailed to form a floor for carrying manure from the corrals to the meadow. As Kelsey drove up to the big manure pile at the corner of the barn, a movement caught his eye and he saw a muskrat come out of the slough. The slough was trickling with water that came from the springs in the willow clump above the house. The muskrat curled up in front of the manure pile, which was steaming in midday sun and warmed the muskrat’s back as a stove might have.

Kelsey leaned on the pitchfork, smiling. “Fancy that,” he said. Then he remembered Long Dalton had told him a man could pick up extra money from the pelts of coyotes, beaver, and muskrat. He took a step toward the animal, lifted the pitchfork, and then hesitated. “Go on with you,” he muttered. “I’ll not knock the life from you when your eyes are closed in sleeping and your back warm and not a care to trouble you. But I’m making you no future promises, mind you. And tomorrow you’d better stay in the willows.”

When the sodboat was loaded he put a shovel and a pitchfork in the pile of manure and drove down the meadow, standing up front, his feet set wide apart and braced. Water sloshed up between the boards and drained off brown with manure stain. He came to where the small dam had broken and mended it carefully, tramping down the manure with his rubber-booted feet.

Then he turned toward the hogback; on its lower slopes was the glitter of the outlets from the main ditch, where water spilled down at intervals. Below and parallel to the main ditch was the spread ditch, shaped shallow so that water poured over all its edges, sparkling like scattered diamonds in the sunlight. Farther down, below the spread ditch, furrows and laterals caught up the water again and spread it over the meadow. The whole system of irrigation fascinated Kelsey, and now another thought struck him. There was the way the cattle came onto the meadows in fall and were fed hay all winter; their manure fertilized the spring earth, bringing up new grass to become hay and feed them the next winter. “The wonderful economy of nature!” he exclaimed to himself.

Whistling, he stopped by one of the outlets of the main ditch, where the flow of water was controlled by sod and rock. He got off the sodboat and went to examine the outlet, which seemed to be spilling too much water. After digging sod, he packed the sides to prevent washing. Then he bent over the stones that were in the mouth of the opening. He started shifting them, as he had seen Dalt do to hold back some of the water.

His ear, always sensitive to sound, caught the change in the noise of the water; he moved a big rock, and it babbled forth in a different key. A smile came over his face and, forgetting his work, he began to play with the stones, arranging them this way and that, his head bent to catch the music. And suddenly, when a fine note struck his fancy, he burst out singing, tilting his red head back.

“Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?”

He was back in Scotland. He was walking in the heather with Prim beside him and his arm about her, holding her so close they walked as one person. He closed his eyes and sang again, his heart reaching across the big valley, the mountains, and the far ocean, his singing saying the things he could never say in the letters he’d written at night by the feeble glow of the lantern.

He played with the stones and sang until he felt light and mellow and at peace with the world. Then he went back to the barn, saddled a horse, and rode the ditch above the ranch house.

It was suppertime when he got back. He noticed the gray team in the barn and the buggy standing outside the corral. He hurried toward the house, then paused by the watering trough, which was just outside the yard. He dipped his face deep in the trough, scrubbing the sweat from it with his hands. He dried himself carefully on a worn handkerchief. He didn’t want to look dirty when he met Monte Maguire. A man who owned three ranches and two thousand head of cattle was important, and Monte Maguire might be the key to his future.

He pushed open the kitchen door, took an automatic step toward his place at the foot of the table, and then stopped and stood, staring at the stranger who occupied the place of honor at the head of the table. From a distance he heard Tommy’s voice. “Monte, this is my cousin Kelsey, from the old country. Thought maybe we could use him for the spring work.”

The eyes looking at him so sharply were a cold sky-blue. The hair was smooth and blond and swept severely back from the tanned face with its high cheekbones and pointed chin. But the mouth was full and wide, and against the faded wool shirt the firm, swelling breasts were plainly outlined.

“Sit down, young fella,” she said. Her voice was curt and husky.

He was too stunned to speak. He fumbled for the backless chair, sank into it, unable to take his eyes from her as she got up and moved to the stove and poured herself another cup of coffee. He saw with shock that she wore men’s rough trousers; her hips strained against them. Below the knees her legs were wrapped with gunnysacks that extended down into the worn high-buckled overshoes. As she walked back to the table he was sharply aware of the bigness of her. And he thought, Only a tramp along the shore in the old country would wear such shabby clothes.

“If you want any grub,” she said, looking at him with amusement in her eyes, “you better get it while it’s still there.”

He reached automatically for a biscuit.

“So you rode the ditch this afternoon, eh?” The amusement had gone from her eyes now, and the cold, probing look was in them again.

How old was she—twenty-five, thirty-five? There was no way of knowing. And was it Miss or Mrs. Maguire?

“Yes, sir—I mean, Miss—”

“Madam,” she corrected and glanced around the table, the full mouth quirked in a smile. Long Dalton snickered.

“Yes, madam.” He heard Tommy laughing softly now and looked at his cousin angrily.

“And what did you see when you rode the ditch?”

Kelsey’s hand paused midway between his plate and the platter of meat that oozed blood. “See?”

“Why, yes.” Her voice was impatient. “Were there any holes in the ditch bank?”

“I—uh—I didn’t see any.”

“Then where did the water come out?” she asked dryly.

The muffled sound of stifled laughter swept around the table. Kelsey’s face burned.

“And was there any cattle along the ditch, young fella?”

It annoyed him that she addressed him as “young fella.” Who did she think she was—his grandmother? “I didn’t notice any,” he answered.

“See any cow tracks?”

“Tracks—I didn’t look for cow tracks.”

“Did you notice if the south slopes of the hills north of the ranch were greenin’ or still brown?”

He swallowed and said nothing.

“See any cow manure up there, young fella?”

He shook his head, torn between humiliation and disgust. A woman, a woman talking about things like cow manure! It was—well, not proper at all. And he disliked Monte Maguire intensely. A big bold piece of brass, that’s what she was!

She put down her fork and leaned forward. “Listen, young fella,” she said, “a cattleman’s life depends on noticin’ things. When you ride anywhere on a ranch you see everything. You gotta see if a ditch is runnin’ high or low, if the outlets are washed or plugged. You gotta look at cattle and see what shape they’re in—thin or fat or ailing. You gotta see fences—if they’re up or down or about to fall. And you always check the grass, notice if it’s greenin’ or still hung over from winter. Young fella, you gotta learn to keep your eyes open if you expect to work for me!”

Kelsey sawed at the tough steak, his face smarting. The meat tasted like sawdust. Then he heard the curt, husky voice again. “I come in from the flats this afternoon. I seen three cows, two of ’em dry, up in that country you were supposed to be ridin’ over. By lookin’ across the upper meadow, I could tell by the shine of water the ditch was carryin’ a full head and the outlets filled. I seen green showin’ on the hills north of the ranch and lots of green under the spread ditch. Those three cows bound to have been along the ditch where it was greenest and left their tracks and their manure plain for anybody with eyes to see.”

He felt miserable; he felt smaller than he’d ever felt in knee pants when the schoolmaster laid the strap to his hand. There was the sound of chairs being pushed back from the table, and then Monte Maguire said, “Jake, I seen lots of dry cows in the meadow.”

Kelsey looked at the boss puncher. Jake fingered the black silk handkerchief at the throat of his clean wool shirt. Now Jake examined the nails of one hand.

“That so, Monte? Didn’t figure there were any more drys than usual.”

“Well, there are. What happened?”

“Couldn’t say,” Jake said in his soft, slow voice. “We run the bulls with ’em like always.”

“Some of the cows are pretty old, ain’t they?”

“About eight years, I figure.”

“Ship ’em come fall. I can’t afford to keep cows that don’t calf. We got enough cost in this country, having to feed hay all winter. How are the two-year-old heifers? I question if it’s smart to breed them as long yearlings.”

“Well, they’re comin’ along. We’ll have some loss, as usual. They don’t calf easy when they’re so young—gotta pull lots of ’em, too. Most places in Wyoming ranchers don’t try to breed long yearlings.”

“It’s different here, though,” she replied. “Costs us to carry a cow through the winter. In Wyoming they don’t put so much into a cow—not when she can rustle most of the winter. Besides, the way we have to feed heifers in this country, they get too beefy if they’re not bred young. Still, I wonder if it’s practical, breedin’ ’em the way we do. Now, about so many cows showin’ up dry this spring—”

“I tell you,” Jake said, clearing his throat, “I handled things the same as all the years before. But it did get terrible hot last July when we turned the bulls out with the cows. Wasn’t like this country at all. Cows was layin’ around in the aspen shade with their tongues hangin’ out. Might be that had something to do with ’em showing up dry.”

“Christ a’mighty,” Monte Maguire said, “wasn’t that hot, was it?”

Kelsey pushed back his chair and left the table. If a woman wanted to use such language, he wouldn’t listen to it.

Her voice stopped him. “Wait a minute, young fella. I’ve something more to say to you—when Jake and I get through talkin’.”

Kelsey stood by the stove, hearing Jake go on talking about the dry cows. “Well, Monte, I’ve heard of it happenin’ in lower country than the Park. Cows just don’t breed when the weather’s too hot. But if you want the truth, I’d rather lay the dry cows to them old bulls you oughta shipped. I told you when we culled the herd last fall that you needed to ship three or four old bulls and replace ’em with young bulls. But you got stubborn and put your foot down.”

“Did I? Well, I was too damned optimistic. See many slinkers this spring, Jake?”

“A few—and maybe some more comin’ up. And, as always, we had some abortin’ in the heifers in January and February. But these cows, the mature ones that slink a calf, ain’t worth a damn. If they start doin’ it, seems they do it again the next year. And ain’t it a funny thing how you can’t let a slinkin’ cow run in a pasture next to the young heifers havin’ their first calves? Seems they’ll slink their calves too.”

“I know. An abortin’ cow’s got to be kept clear of the heifers. Seems there’s a sympathetic understanding between ’em. Can’t be explained—like a lot of other things about animal life, Jake. Well, we’ll ship all the slinkin’ cows this fall. Fatten ’em up on summer range, and they’ll weigh in good when they hit the market. Now, one more thing, Jake. I see Tommy’s got the irrigatin’ started and you still got cattle on the meadows. You know I like the meadows cleared of cattle before the water starts pouring across ’em. How come?”

“They just got the water goin’ good the last few days, Monte, and I didn’t think the grass was quite ready on the flats. I figure on kickin’ the cows onto the flats tomorrow.”

She nodded. “That’s good enough.”

The other men walked out. Kelsey stood nervously by the stove, moving his feet restlessly. He watched Monte Maguire roll a cigarette with neat quick motions of her hands, put it in her mouth, and light it. The sight revolted him.

She looked at him through the drifting smoke. “Don’t think much of me, do you, young fella?”

“The name’s Cameron,” he said shortly, “Kelsey Cameron. No, I don’t think much of any woman who wears men’s clothes and smokes tobacco.”

“I see you speak your mind like I do. But you don’t need to get huffy. The worst I ever say to you will be to your face, Mr. Cameron. And what I oughta do is kick you off the place—dreamin’ along up that ditch—but maybe I expected too much, you being strange to the country.”

“I don’t have to stay here,” he said angrily. “I’ll be glad to leave.”

“Didn’t say you had to leave, did I? What did Tommy say I’d pay you?”

“Thirty dollars a month.”

“I’ll make it forty. And let me tell you something: there’s a lot to learn about ranching and cow business. Don’t expect to soak it all up overnight. Be a little patient. Now get the hell outta here. And the next time you ride a ditch, open your eyes.”