Hard Winter Part 7

Camdan, on a buckskin right behind his father, looked paler than his father. His mother brought her hands to her mouth. I wanted to be as far away from that place as possible.

"Your firebreak would never have held, Gow," the major said.

"Not as dry as it has been."

"I do not fault your methods," Mr. Gow said. "But you. . . ." That was about as close as I ever come to hearing Mr. Gow cuss a man. I swear Mr. Gow started to cry. "Thousands of steers and heifers, but, you, you . . . you killed a magnificent, five-hundred dollar Aberdeen Angus bull!"

Chapter Twelve.

Summer seemed to pa.s.s quickly after we rode back to the Bar DD, leaving Mr. Gow grieving over the loss of his prime bull, leaving Camdan Gow with his folks, and a lot of burned-up range.

I'd go to school, read some with Lainie, watch Lainie and Tommy hold hands. I'd work with Gray Boy and some other widow-making bronc's. I chopped wood. Gathered dried cow dung. Mended leather. Practiced my ciphers. Rode Crabtown. Listened to Ish Fishtorn's stories in the bunkhouse. Played some mumblety-peg with Walter Butler. So things went.

The better days of life were ours; The worst can be but mine: The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep; Nor need I to repine That all those charms have pa.s.s'd away, I might have watch'd through long decay.

That's a poem by Lord Byron. Tommy often recited it when we'd be cowboying because the older hands loved to hear Tommy quote some fancy writings. So did Mrs. MacDunn. About a week after the big fire, she was having us all read poetry, and Tommy stood at the head of the cla.s.s. He didn't need a book to read from, he knew Byron so well. So did I. Fact of the matter is that I was a bit riled at him for using that poem because I figured that I'd heard it enough that I would be able to recite it, and impress Mrs. MacDunn.

Just as Tommy had finished, as Mrs. MacDunn applauded like she was at an opera house, Camdan Gow walked into the schoolhouse. Didn't say much, and everybody except Walter Butler had brains enough not to ask him where he'd been all this time. Camdan didn't answer him, just walked to his desk, and sat down.

"We are so glad you are here, Camdan," Mrs. MacDunn said. She didn't ask him anything, either. I wondered, though. Studied on it more than I did my ABCs, because it didn't make sense to me why Camdan Gow would have come back to the Bar DD. His father thought the major had killed that pricey black bull on purpose. To spite him. Or for some reason that only the major and Mr. Gow knew. Camdan liked school no better than I did. No, sir. Didn't make any sense at all.

A few nights later, when Tommy and I were alone in the bunkhouse, I asked him about it.

Tommy snorted. "You've seen where he lives. Wouldn't you rather stay here than in that sod house? A broom made out of willow twigs? A pantry built of tomato can cases? It's not exactly homey there."

For a moment, I thought again of John Henry, wondered how he liked working for the 7-3 Connected, rough as it was. Then I considered Camdan.

"No, Camdan wouldn't run off," I told Tommy. "He loves his folks too much. They sent him back here."

"Maybe Mister Gow isn't mad at Major MacDunn any more."

"Seemed mad after the fire," I argued.

Tommy let out a long sigh. "It's the law," he finally replied, and I could tell my questions irritated him. "He has to attend school."

I shook my head. "That ain't it."

"What makes you say so?"

"Well, I figure we're too far away from Helena. The law don't care what's going on up on the Sun River or Muddy Creek."

The look of annoyance left Tommy's face. He had pulled a book by Mark Twain out of his war sack, and sat on his bunk. "If you figured that out," he said, "why are you still going to school? Why are you still here?"

"I been tempted to leave," I told him. "Especially early on. But I started thinking about what John Henry first told me and you when we started riding with him. You remember?"

His head shook slightly.

"He said he was pure fury on a tenderfoot who'd quit on him, but he'd be a real good teacher. . . ."

"Mentor," Tommy corrected, suddenly smiling. "He said mentor."

"Mentor. That's right. Said he'd be a real good mentor to even a tenderfoot who stayed."

Tommy's face brightened. "He said . . . 'I'll be proud to partner with a couple of stayers.'"

"That's right. And we told him we was . . . we were stayers. Not quitters. So I'm no quitter. I'm a stayer. Even if I don't really cotton to it all. Couldn't let John Henry down. Or you. I'm glad I didn't quit, too. Mostly glad anyway."

Laughing, he slapped my shoulder. "I'm glad you're here," he told me. "Come here. This is a good book. Maybe even better than Treasure Island. Let's practice your reading."

Oh, you bet I kept my eyes on Camdan, though. Spent more time sneaking peeks at him than I did at Lainie MacDunn. It wasn't like he kept doing things to cause any suspicion. He read a poem at school. Think it was something by Poe. Knew his math. Did his ch.o.r.es without complaint. Said-"Yes, ma'am."-to Mrs. MacDunn and-"Yes, sir."-to Ish, Gene Hardee, and the major. After a couple of days back at the Bar DD, he even started grinning when Walter Butler told one of his jokes.

But . . .

Well, there was one time, afternoon, hot and windy like it had been all summer, dust blowing across the hills, and I come up to the big corral where we had penned Mr. MacDunn's two big Angus bulls. We'd been holding them at the ranch since me and John Henry and Tommy first brought them up, letting them fatten up before turning them loose in the fall. Camdan was forking them some hay, and I had stepped out of the barn after oiling the saddles. I watched him for a moment, walked over to the corral. His back was to me, and, when I called out his name, he liked to jumped all the way to Utica.

"How much hay you planning on feeding them bulls?" I asked.

He stared at me, only for a while there it struck how he didn't really see me, recognize me. Know what I mean? Finally Camdan blinked, glanced around him, shook his head, and looked at me once more.

"Best get some of that hay back out here," I told him. "Major MacDunn don't like waste. Hay ain't cheap."

With a short nod, Camdan tossed the pitchfork over the top post, and started climbing the corral. The Angus bulls inside snorted, and, though I didn't like it much, I climbed up after him.

"I did not ask for your help," he said defiantly.

"Best hurry," I told him as I jumped down. "Those bulls ain't in the mood for any company."

After a quick look over his shoulder, he muttered a curse about those bulls, and started pitching forkfuls of hay over the fence, with me on the other side scooping up handfuls myself while keeping a close watch on those two Aberdeen Angus bulls.

Got out of there without any problems. The major never knew what had happened, and had I told Tommy or Lainie about it, they would have just explained it all away as Camdan Gow being addle-brained. As it was, I never told anyone what had happened, and, truthfully, it didn't amount to much. Didn't have to mean anything. Yet it festered at me.

'Course, had I been a real friend, I could have asked Camdan about it, asked him if anything was bothering him, asked him if I could help him somehow, asked to be his friend. But I didn't. After we were out of the corral, and he was raking up some of the loose hay, I just walked back to the bunkhouse. We never said anything more about it.

Never said anything about what happened two nights later, either.

He didn't wake me up. Wasn't really asleep, I think, like I had been waiting all night, all the past several days, really, for whatever was going to happen.

The floorboard squeaked. A long pause. The soft falling of footsteps. Ish Fishtorn's snores. Walter Butler muttered something in his sleep. Another few steps, and the moaning of the night wind as somebody opened the door. The door closed, and I heard nothing but snores.

Quickly I swung up, grabbing for my boots, debating whether I should wake Tommy. I didn't, and moved to the door in a crouch, waiting, listening. I went out the door quickly, closed it, knelt. I watched.

With the moonlight, it didn't take long for me to spot Camdan. Swallowing, I went after him, trailing, the wind cool, biting, and screaming like a fiend. Camdan might not have heard me had I been wearing spurs and beating a drum. Something glinted in the moonlight. It had to be a gun, and then I got really scared, could just picture him walking into the MacDunn's house and murdering the major, Mrs. MacDunn-and Lainie! I moved after him, running, but stopped when he walked right on past that house. What struck me next was that he was planned to take his own life with that revolver in his hand. I didn't know what to do. He went past the barn before stopping at the corral. No longer running, but just as scared, I walked slowly toward him, watched his right arm raise. It weaved uncontrollably, and he had to lift the left to steady the long-barreled revolver.

Unceremoniously chewing his cud, the nearest Aberdeen Angus bull looked up from the remnants of hay. Camdan Gow gasped, tried to steady the gun.

"Camdan?"

He whirled, let out a sharp cry, and now I looked down that long pistol barrel. Not for long, though. Made myself stare into Camdan's eyes. The gun weaved.

I wet my lips. "Is that why your father sent you back here?" I made myself talk. "To kill the major's two bulls?"

I wasn't sure he heard me over the wind.

"For revenge?" I asked.

The gun barrel spun like an out-of-control watch hand. Camdan tried to steady it.

Boy, don't you get to thinking that I was some brave hero. Camdan hadn't gotten around to c.o.c.king the single-action revolver, and, as wild as he kept shaking, I must have felt pretty confident he couldn't hit me if he took to shooting. He stood there, tears pouring down his face.

"You can't do it, Camdan," I said. "Major MacDunn didn't kill your pa's bull on purpose. He was just trying to save your gra.s.s. That's all. Bull was closer than any steers or heifers, and that fire kept coming fast. He saved your pa's ranch." Now, I was talking just to be talking. Not sure if I believed what I was telling Camdan, but a boy'll do funny things when he's staring down a gun barrel, even if the gun ain't c.o.c.ked, and the gunman ain't Wild Bill Hickok. "Camdan, you can't kill those two bulls, no matter what your pa wants. It just ain't right. You know it. Besides, I don't think your pa really wants you to do this. Certainly not your ma."

The whirling gun slowed.

"Camdan," I tried again.

The gun fell to his side, and Camdan walked to me, dropped the big revolver at my feet, and whispered: "Papa had nothing to do with this." He went back to the bunkhouse.

I stood there, oblivious to the wind, for another two or three minutes before I picked up the pistol. Then I started trembling, shaking worse than Camdan had. Finally I somehow walked back to the bunkhouse, quietly slipped the revolver into my war bag, and laid down.

Didn't sleep none that night.

For another week or so, I couldn't think straight, do anything right. Camdan-it really surprised me that he stayed after he went out to kill those two bulls-remained the same: quiet, alone, doing his ch.o.r.es. 'Course, we kept away from each other.

"Let's get out of here," I told Tommy one Sunday evening when he was reading to Lainie and me. Just blurted it out.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, closing the book.

"I got a bad feeling about this place," I said.

"Jim!" Lainie cried. "I don't want you to leave."

"Yeah," Tommy said. "Remember what you told me about John Henry. . . ."

I cut him off right quick. "This ain't no place for us, Tommy! I got a bad . . ."

"Quit being superst.i.tious!"

"Please don't leave," Lainie said again, and Tommy give her a stern look.

I sighed. "I don't want to leave, either," I told her, and looked at Tommy. "But . . . I . . ." I didn't know what else to say.

"Grow up, Jim Hawkins. You're either a stayer or a quitter," Tommy snapped. "Which is it?"

I didn't answer, but I knew I'd stay. Stay for Tommy. Maybe stay for Camdan Gow's sake. Maybe my own. Mostly for Lainie. I still had a bad feeling about the Bar DD, about Montana, but I was a lot like Camdan Gow. I'd just bottle it all up inside me, not talk to anyone about it. Bottle it up till I exploded.

Back in the bunkhouse, I made sure Walter Butler wasn't sticking his nose in my business, and grabbed my war bag. I withdrew the revolver Camdan had dropped by my feet, and stared at it. It was an old Army Colt, a relic from the War Between the States that had been modified to take bra.s.s cartridges, some flakes of rust on the barrel and cylinder. Not fancy, but serviceable. Scratched rudely into the walnut stock was a crooked letter K.

Often, John Henry Kenton had told me and Tommy that he'd give that pistol to the first one of us who became a man.

Chapter Thirteen.

"Grandpa," the boy asks, "what happened to these trees?"

They had made it into Sun River Caon, setting up camp a few miles back at the edge of the caon near the remnants of what his grandfather calls a line camp, one washed away in a flood decades ago. Now they ride deeper into the caon carved by the river, the water roiling from the early spring run-off, climbing into the forest, the giant blue sky partially hidden by cobweb-like clouds. Jim Hawkins has been stopping frequently, looking across the Sun, eyes searching, but seldom talking.

The flask of Dewar's is long empty, and, like it, Jim Hawkins's monologues have dried up. He has climbed back inside his sh.e.l.l, reticent, hard. He swings his horse around, and approaches Henry Lancaster, sees where the boy is pointing.

An ancient pine, bark long gone, sawed off at a height of about four feet. Ages ago. The boy counts about a dozen similar dead trees, some even cut down at heights of up to six feet, while others have rotted and collapsed, being overtaken by new, fresh growth.

"Hackers," the grandfather answers, and spits.

"Hackers?"

"They were cutting down trees, even in the winter." He looks away.

"For firewood?"

"Railroad," he answers. "Let's ride up a little more."

It will be like this for the next couple of days, but Henry will be persistent, asking questions, getting answers, prodding a story out of Jim Hawkins. Every once in a while, however, his grandfather will open the spigot again, letting his story come out.

Autumn, 1886 It seems the gra.s.s is already cured and the only effect this rain will have upon it, if any, will be to reduce it in strength, washing out the qualities which render it so much more nourishing than ordinary hay or gra.s.s.

-Yellowstone Journal and Live Stock Reporter, October 16, 1886