Providence (3 page)

***

The oil lamp cast its golden glow
across the open ledger on Kate’s desk where her fountain pen scratched quietly
over the pages. Shadows danced eerily across the dark walls behind her keeping
time to the booming of distant thunder. The rest of the house was still and
silent. The four hundred and thirty dollars that Jake had given her that
morning was safely locked in her desk until a trip to the bank in Fallis could
be planned.

 “April 12
^th
,
1897, born one black, polled bull calf. Received $160 as balance of payment due
on sale of steers. Received $150 in payment for one bay stud colt, aged two
years. Received $100 in payment for two sorrel fillies, aged two years each.”
She dutifully recorded the sale of the colts, the birth of the calf, and the
income, limited though it was. Next she enumerated the many purchases and their
costs.

With a deep sigh she laid down
the pen and ran a hand across her weary brow, flinching at the roughness.
Looking at her work-hardened hands in the flickering light, tears spilled down
her cheeks. The money was barely enough to keep the small family through the
next few months, and if she wasn’t able to find some hired help soon, she would
have to seriously consider Matt Johnson’s offer to buy the ranch.

Closing the worn green ledger
book she placed it in the bottom drawer of the old oak desk. Reaching beneath
it, Kate pulled out a small leather bound volume and placed it on the desk
before her. Opening the front cover, she read the words that were a constant
source of comfort to her soul, especially in such troubled times.

“To our beautiful daughter,
Kathleen Rose Dover,

from your loving parents, David
and Amanda Dover,

on the day of your birth March 12
^th
,
1870.”

 She ran a finger lightly
over the words so beautifully inscribed in her mother’s flowing script, as
though in caressing the words, she could once again feel her mother’s healing
touch. Below that in the same loving hand her mother had set out a biblical
promise that had sustained Kate through the years....

But they that wait upon the Lord
shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they
shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. Isaiah 40:31

“Lord, I could sure use some of
that renewing strength right now,” she whispered into the still night. Reaching
out a tired hand, she turned down the wick of the lamp until darkness enveloped
her. Standing and stretching her weary body she walked to the window on the far
wall. Lace curtains blew gently in the evening breeze that drifted through the
open pane. The air was tinged with the faint scent of honeysuckle blossoms. She
lifted her eyes to a black velvet heaven in which a thousand points of light twinkled
merrily. The distant rolling boom was growing fainter, there would be
replenishing rain here tonight. Perhaps tomorrow would bring the renewing
strength they all longed for.

As the last of the cattle were
sorted, counted and loaded into the holding pens of the Rock Island rail yard,
the cowboys turned toward the small town of Addington. “I’m going to the post
office, see if any letters came. Where will I meet you?” Joe asked.

“Try the Hotel. You go get your
letters; I’m going for a hot meal.” Luke suppressed a grin, but the mirth in
his eyes was surely evident.

“Aw, you educated city boys are
all alike. Proper meals, heck, you’ll probably be in a bath tub by the time I
git there!” Joe taunted.

“Yeah, and you’ll be all doe-eyed
over some love letter!” Luke retorted with a grin.

 “You wait, Luke, someday
you’re gonna meet someone and be lookin’ for those letters from home like a
lovesick puppy dog, too!” Joe strode off whistling happily toward the gray
frame building that housed the post office. Luke shook his head with an
indulgent smile and turned to the new brick hotel that advertised good hot
meals for fifty cents.

A city boy he may be, but this
life suited him far better than the schools and seminary that his father had
selected for him. It was less than a week after his mother died that he had
struck out for the Indian Territory and a new life away from the yoke of
oppression he felt under his father’s stern bearing. It had been four years
now, four long years, and still he wasn’t certain he had found what he was
searching for.

The sun was already lowering in
the western sky. They had been on the trail for the better part of the last
month moving over four hundred head of fractious cows and steers to the new
railhead here in Addington. It was a far cry from the herds that had moved
across the Chisholm Trail less than a decade ago, but it still provided gainful
employ for men that were game to try it. Luke Josey was one of those men.

The last month had proven a true
test of the men on this drive. They were a small band to start with, only five
punchers; the trail boss, Joe; and a cook. They faced a snowstorm less than two
days out. One of the men had taken sick and had been laid in the back of the
cook wagon. He died three days later, and was laid to rest beneath the broken
sod of the prairie. “How many men lay in unmarked graves,” wondered Luke,
“without so much as a prayer nor even a memory? Is that my destiny?”

 The remaining men had been
pressed into even greater service over the next few weeks. Freezing winds
buffeted them from the north. Every hour in the saddle seemed an eternity. They
hunkered down in their coats, wild rags drawn up over their faces and hats
tilted low against the onslaught of the bitter wind. The cattle were nervous,
milling and lowing, trying to break at every opportunity. It was all they could
do to keep them moving on. Then just as suddenly, the temperatures rose, the
snows melted as fast as they had come, and the run off swelled the rivers to
overflowing.

By the time they reached the ford
on the Red River, it was a madly rushing torrent. They all knew that once the
herd started across they had to keep moving. This ford was notorious for the
quicksand that lay all around. They made camp, and waited two days for the
river to subside enough to make a relatively safe crossing. On the morning of
the third day, the sun shone forth from the east in a blaze of red and gold,
the river shining in the light. Joe decided that it was now or never. Luke rode
ahead with the cook wagon to meet the first of the herd as they emerged.

 The rest of the men
gathered the cattle into a tight bunch and with loud shouts and cries from all
around they ran them into the swiftly flowing waters. At first, the herd stayed
together, moving through the water to the far bank. The lead cow found her
footing on the far side and mounted the steep bank with little trouble. With
more and more cattle dragging themselves from the water and clambering up the
far bank, it was soon a hopeless mire of churned mud. A large brown and white
cow started up but slipped down, buried to the chest in the sticky black ooze.
Others tried to go over and around, cowboys shouted a warning as the cattle
began to split into two columns around the struggling cow. Others become
entrenched in hidden bogs. Luke, joined by Joe, circled the portion of the herd
that made it to the far side, trying to keep them calm and in one place. The
old lead cow, far enough from the commotion at the ford, calmly dropped her
head and started to graze on the lush spring grass. The others, though nervous,
followed suit.

“Stay with the herd, Joe, I’m
going back.” Luke decided.

Joe began to protest, but
realized that his first responsibility was the safety of the herd, and most of
them were now here. He reluctantly agreed and watched as Luke rode off on the
large gray gelding.

Arriving at the ford, Luke
assessed the situation. Two of the men had followed the cattle up the far bank and
were each working the remnants of the herd, gathering them methodically back
toward the main herd. Glancing at the river, he saw the cow still struggling
feebly in the mud.

 “Phillip?” He called. There
was no sign of the young, fresh faced cowboy that had started out with them
that morning. “Where the devil is that blasted boy?” He looked down the river
and saw a hat caught among the branches in a small eddy under the bank where a
grove of trees overhung the muddy water. Fear gripping his heart, he turned his
gelding and galloped to the spot. Swinging down and dropping the reins he
scrambled down the bank and into the swirling torrent. Reaching down into the
icy water, groping frantically, he prayed to a God he wasn’t sure existed,
“Please, Lord, let me find him.” Wading a bit further out, one hand anchored to
a low hanging branch, the other still searching blindly below the water. His
fingers passed over rough boulders, while from all around he was struck by
limbs and debris carried by in the wildly rushing deluge. His arm ached from
trying to maintain a desperate grip on the anchoring branch. He knew that if he
lost his grasp, they would both be done for.

There! At last he felt what could
only be Phillip’s head. Grasping a handful of hair he pulled. Muscles
straining, heart pounding, still praying, he pulled. At last Phillip’s head
rose above the level of the brown swirling waters. With a last mighty effort he
heaved the unconscious boy to dry ground, following as quickly as he could.

A fallen tree lay nearby. Draping
the limp body face down over the trunk he pushed against his back over and
over. “Come on, man, get it out, come on.” Until the water came flowing from
the boy’s lungs in a muddy rush, he gasped, and sputtered, coughing, finally
taking a ragged breath on his own. Luke fell back, drained, breathing heavily,
as Phillip fought for breath and life.

 ***

Coming out of his reverie, Luke
found himself standing before the door of the Hotel. A sign in the window to
the right proclaimed,

“Hot bath and shave, twenty-five
cents;

Good home cooking, fifty cents;

Rooms one dollar a night.”

He opened the door and stepped
into the dim light of the lobby. His food on the trail had been free, but the smell
of bubbling stew, hot bread, and fresh coffee made it seem almost worth the
fifty cents. A tall gaunt man sat behind the desk surveying the activity in the
busy lobby. A pretty blonde girl, not more than sixteen scurried between
tables. She carried a blue ironware coffee pot in one hand, her fingers
protected from the heat by a dingy white cloth. A stack of dirty pewter bowls
and spoons in the other hand tottered precariously, threatening to tumble to
the floor at any moment.

Just then a rough hand reached
out from one of the tables attempting to grab the girl by the waist. She deftly
side stepped the unwanted attention, but the bowls lost their fight with
balance and crashed to the floor in a jumbled mess, eliciting a coarse laugh
from the offender.

“Sarah, what have you done now?”
called a terse voice from the open kitchen door.

 “But, mother, I...” Sarah
started, tears welling up in her bright blue eyes.

Luke strode quickly to the girl,
scooped up the errant dishes from their resting place on the wooden floor. With
a quick wink and a conspiratorial shake of his head at the frightened girl, he
called out as he made his way toward the open door, “I’m sorry, ma’am, I must
have knocked these from the table. I am such a clumsy oaf. I hope you can forgive
me.”

The rest of the conversation was
lost to the grateful girl’s ears as Luke disappeared into the kitchen. He
emerged a short time later, somewhat cleaner, and very hungry. Sarah’s mother
had indeed forgiven him, and provided him a towel, soap and wash basin. Sarah
stared openly at her sometime savior, wondering how on earth he had charmed her
stern mother into those niceties, then hurried to find him a seat and provide
him with a well-deserved meal.

The steaming stew wafted a rich
meaty aroma; the bread was soft and fresh, the butter creamy. Luke was certain
that heaven couldn’t be any sweeter than this. He ate heartily and well, being
constantly attended by the grateful Sarah.

***

The hotel door opened; Luke
looked up expectantly as Joseph entered the lobby. His warm smile of welcome
faded slowly to be replaced by a frown of concern as Joe made his way to the
table.

“Joe, what is it?” Luke asked.

 Joe laid a small stack of
papers on the table before his friend. One was the pay envelope containing their
wages for the past month, nothing unusual there. Another was a letter from
Zora, Joe’s wife back in Rush Springs; it was dated March 1, 1897, and hadn’t
yet been opened. The last letter was opened, and crumpled. Luke picked it up
and began reading.

“March 28
^th
, 1897. It
is with great despair that I must write to inform you that your wife Zora and
your young son, Samuel, were both taken from this world on the 25
^th
of March. They suffered only briefly with the cholera that has become epidemic
in this region. Burial will be made without delay. Please come as soon as you
can. Your loving sister, Annie.”

Luke felt as though a hot knife
had been thrust into the depths of his heart. Zora was a vibrant, black-haired
beauty, so full of life. She and Joe truly loved one another with the carefree
spirit that youthful love engenders. And Sam, that bright star their love had
created. A charming boy with his father’s open, adventurous spirit, but his
mother’s dark good looks. How was it possible that they were gone?