Cattle Kate (2 page)

I don't know how they taught it in the States, but in Canada, the American Civil War was taught as a lesson to never do that again.

“America went to war with itself over slavery,” our teacher told us as she began our history lesson about our neighbor to the south. “When President Lincoln was elected, southern senators feared he would interfere with their slaves, and so they threatened to leave the union. They wanted to keep their slaves. They said they needed them to harvest their cotton and keep the plantations working. Northern senators said it was wrong to hold another human being in bondage.”

I thought the northern senators were right.

“But nobody could see how bad that war would be. The North was strong and the South was weak. They thought the North would win so fast, that after the first shots in April, they predicted the war would be over by Christmas. But they were very wrong. The Civil War dragged on for four years. And it killed so many soldiers. Most of them were young men.”

Ma's rant about the senselessness of it all made sense to me now.

“But some say it was worth it because President Lincoln freed the slaves. The war had just ended when President Lincoln was shot while he was watching a play in a theater in Washington.”

“What did the Indians have to do with the Civil War?” I asked Teacher one day, remembering how Ma was so afraid of them.

“Nothing that I know. Why?”

“Well, my Ma was so sad when President Lincoln died, and she and Pa had words that day and she ended with talking about Indians, so I always wondered what they had to do with it.”

Teacher promised to look into it, and came back a couple weeks later with news that showed me exactly why my Ma didn't like Indians.

“I'm sure your Ma was upset over the Sioux Uprising in Minnesota. That happened during the Civil War. The Indians went on the warpath and killed a lot of settlers who never did them any harm. It was horrible. They hanged a whole bunch of the Indians.”

It sounded awful to me. I was a grown woman in Wyoming Territory before I learned there was another side of the story. The Indians fought back because a horrible Indian Agent was starving them. His famous words were “Let them eat grass.” They wanted to hang about every Indian man they could find, but President Lincoln stepped in. Still, they hanged thirty-eight Sioux. I wished Ma had known the whole story, but I bet even if she had, she'd have said that was no excuse to kill and scalp innocent people. And I have to agree.

***

My first brother was born in November of 1861, and even though my Pa had been thrown out of his family, he followed tradition and named his son after his father. Grandpa Watson never saw his namesake. I've often wondered if his heart would have been softened by a boy when it hadn't been by a girl. But we'll never know because Grandpa Watson died in 1872. Like he'd promised, he made no mention of my Pa in his will. It was like my Pa had never been born. That was the first time I ever saw Pa cry.

By the time little Johnny was three, I had fallen in love with Darby.

I called him “my pony,” even though he was already an old horse. But he was a new horse to me and for my entire life, every new horse has been “my pony.” Even my beloved Goldie, years later in Wyoming Territory.

As far as workhorses went, Darby was just fine. He was short and stout, gray with patches of brown. He had a skinny tail, one blotch of black on his right leg and a nick out of his left ear. He was no beauty to anybody but me. I liked the way he smelled and how his tail flicked back and forth and up and down. I liked how his nose felt so smooth. I liked how his hide tickled my little fingers. I heard my Pa brag, “She's a farm girl, alright. You'll be hard pressed, Mother, to keep her in the house.”

My Ma was as good at hitching Darby as Pa was, and she was often in the barn helping out, and I thought of her as a farm girl, too. That didn't stop her from showing off in the kitchen and the garden and at the quilting frame. My Pa was a strong man who was a good farmer. But if you put him in the kitchen, he would have burned the house down. No, my Ma could do just about anything, anywhere on this farm. I wanted to be exactly like her.

***

Mondays were wash days for Ma. She always said that after a Sunday of rest, it was best to get the worst job of the week out of the way. First, of course, she had to build a fire in the backyard, where she stored the tin tub for rinsing and her black iron kettle for washing (it did double-duty for making lye soap). Pa hauled wood for the fire—when Johnny got old enough, this was his first real chore. Thankfully, Ma had a well. Some women had to haul water from a stream, but we had it so much better. Ma taught me to use a fourth-cake of soap for each batch—eventually the family would be so big, we'd need a whole cake for each—and she washed the whites first, the coloreds second, the work britches and rags last. After stirring and scrubbing on the washboard, Ma would rinse everything out and hang the wash on the line that stretched from the house to the big oak tree. It was under this tree that Johnny and I played to stay out of the way.

Ma used the rinse water on the garden, with a special splash on the roses she was trying to grow. Soapy water cleaned the porch. By the time all this was done, so was most of the day, and I remember my Ma was more tired on Mondays than any other day of the week.

It's no wonder she lost track of me one day when I was supposed to be watching Johnny under the tree. But when I saw she was busy, I snuck off to the barn to see Darby. I was just going to pet him, but once I got there, he was standing by the stall wall and well…if I climbed up on the hay bale, I could reach the first log of the wall, and then I could climb up to the top log and get on top of Darby.

Usually, Pa lifted me up and led Darby around so I could have a ride. But Pa was out in the field and Ma was busy with her wash and Darby looked like he wanted to take me for a ride. It never occurred to me that once I got up on him, there wasn't much to keep me there. I could hold onto the mane, but my little legs couldn't even stretch to both sides of his back, so I just slid around on him as he moved. This didn't frighten me. It was a jolt of joy!

The first Ma knew what I was up to was when she saw me and Darby come out of the barn. If she hadn't screamed, we'd have probably just walked around the yard. But her scream scared us both. I turned to look. Darby took off.

Ma said later that she saw me flying off the horse and breaking my neck. She saw a small coffin and me all laid out in the white pinafore she was still sewing. She saw Uncle Andrew destroyed by grief. She saw Pa and Grandma Close and Grandpa Close and all her sisters and all her brothers and everyone in the world screaming, “Why weren't you watching her?”

But that didn't happened.

I realized right away that I had to hold on—HOLD ON—and snug my legs as best I could to stay on top. Darby didn't buck or anything, he just ran for all he was worth and it was a smooth, loping ride once you got the hang of it. I got the hang pretty quick. But then there was that little gully that Pa had built over with a wooden bridge—just four planks, really, with one length of board doing the trick. Darby dashed toward that gully and ignored the bridge like it wasn't even there and when he jumped—JUMPED—he did it in one fluid motion that made my tummy flutter. I'd never felt that before. I liked it. Darby and I landed solid on the other side of the gully and then—they don't call it horse sense for nothing—the animal realized it was time to tone it down. He slowed his gait considerably, ending up in a slow walk as I continued the laughing wail that started with the first leap forward.

“Darby, oh Darby, that was so much fun.” I was giggling and patting my pony in pride and it took a second for me to hear the screams coming at me from two sides. From the house, Mother was running and tumbling over herself, her skirts hiked up to let her run. From the field, Father was running like a sprinter, his hat blown off by the wind he was creating. Back under the oak tree, little Johnny was crying and wetting his pants.

Pa reached me first and pulled me off the horse in his sunburned arms. Ma was there a second later, crying and scolding and laughing and crying and scolding and telling Pa, “I just turned my back for a minute.” Darby looked at the family with his big, brown eyes, and if he could have talked, I know he would have said, “I wasn't going to hurt her.”

Pa patted him on the side of his neck and said, “It's all right, Darby. It's all right.” Then he gave me a big swat across my behind. Then Ma spanked me too. I started to cry.

Ma picked me up to carry me back to the house. “Don't you ever do that again. Do you hear me? You could have been killed. You can't ride off on Darby by yourself. Do you hear me?”

I heard her. But Pa came home the next week with a little saddle. “You're just going to encourage her,” Ma protested. “The girl had no idea she was in danger. I don't want her to be a scaredy cat, but I don't want her to be reckless, either. She's got to learn you can't take off without understanding the consequences.”

But my Pa knew there'd be a repeat performance someday, and it was safer for me to ride on a saddle. That was the best gift he ever gave me. Until later, when he gave me the gun for my homestead in Wyoming.

***

If Ma ever needed proof I was her tintype, it was when her labor came early.

I was in charge of two brothers now. John was four and James was one, and they were a handful. John always wanted to climb and James had just discovered he could follow his brother on his shaky legs. I was forever chasing after them. I was rounding them up, once again, the morning Mother came out on the stoop and shot off the rifle into the air. Twice. All three of us stopped in our tracks and stared at Mother. She was doubled over, holding herself up by the arm of the rocker. It scared me. It made little Jimmy cry.

I ran to Mother, my brothers following. “Mama, Mama, what's wrong? Should I get Pa?”

“Pa is in town, but Mrs. O'Malley will be here soon.”

“Should I run get her?”

“No, she'll come. She knows the signal.”

“Ma, what's wrong?” I was crying now and more scared than I'd ever been because it seemed like Ma couldn't stand up and certainly couldn't walk.

“My water broke. Our baby is coming. Help me to the bed.”

I had been so happy knowing a baby was growing in Mother's stomach, but now that happiness turned to fear and I changed my mind and decided I didn't want a new baby at all.

“It's going to be all right, Ellen.”

Mother only used my given name when she wanted to be serious.

“By tonight, we'll forget all this and we'll be laughing with our new baby. Just like when we got Jimmy. Now, you be my big girl and help me get ready.”

I couldn't remember anything like this happening when Jimmy was born, but then Pa and Mrs. O'Malley were both there, and maybe that made the difference.

Katie O'Malley was twice in age and size of my Ma, but she knew everything there was about birthing a baby. Sure enough, the two-shot signal brought her hightailin' it into our yard.

I'd later learn she had been trained as a midwife by her own Ma back home in Ireland. She liked to say “us rural girls learned birthing and baking while town girls learned linen and lace.”

“Now, there's nothin' to cry about,” she clucked at my brothers who were crying on the front porch. “Your Mama's gonna have a baby, that's all. And while you wait, look what I brought you. It's a molasses cookie and I heard those Watson boys just love molasses cookies.”

They did, and the cookies shut them up.

“Franny, I need your help,” Mrs. O'Malley said over her shoulder as she marched right into the bedroom to check on Ma. “Get me all the towels you have and pile them on the table.”

Mrs. O'Malley came out and grabbed the biggest pot she could find—it was more a bucket than a pot—and ladled water from the crock next to the sink. She stoked up the fire in the cast iron stove and put the pot on to boil. She used one smooth motion, like she'd done it every day of her life. As the pot was cooking, with all the towels stacked on the table, Mrs. O'Malley took the last cookie out of her pocket and handed it to me.

“Now child, you did real good getting me those towels, but now I need you to go out and watch your brothers.”

“But Ma might need me…”

“Yes, your Ma needs you to mind your brothers. She's gonna be busy having this baby.”

“I hope it's a girl, I already have brothers.”

“I hope so too, but right now she wouldn't want anything to happen to her other children, would she?

“No, ma'am.”

“Fine. Now, you might hear your Ma yell, but that's just part of bringing a baby into the world and it's nothin' to worry about, so don't get upset if you hear her yell some. And when you hear a baby cry, you'll know you have a little brother or sister.”

“I don't want another brother. I want a sister.”

“Sure you do. Now outside with you and watch those boys.”

It seemed like we sat there forever before I hear Ma's first cries of pain. I closed my eyes, hoping the pain wasn't bad. More cries. More. I was holding my breath, praying for the cries to end. And then I heard a new noise. A little cry. My new sister!! I wanted to run in, but thought better of that and knew Mother would send Mrs. O'Malley to get me. And then, there was a second cry—a very different cry. It didn't sound like it came from the same baby at all. I was very confused now—the boys were busy with the last crumbs of their cookies and they weren't paying any attention at all. I couldn't wait any longer.

“You stay here and don't you move from this stoop,” I barked at them and ran into the house. Outside the bedroom door, I called out to Ma, and Mrs. O'Malley yelled back, “Just a second, honey, just wait outside a second.”