So Far from Spring. Peggy Simson Curry
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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