Authors: Nancy E. Turner
And she decided, she told me, to learn to cook, so she could be helpful at the ranch and feed the ranch hands. Even when I told her they cook for themselves, she insisted that she would feed them for me. When she thought about them, she said, her eyes just watered right up. She wanted to be sure we knew that she knew Ernest had a share of the pecan farm that Albert runs, and he intended to own part of my ranch, especially if she stayed and worked there and cooked for the hands. Cooking was something, she declared loud and long, that she could do for those poor, poor men out there living in the barn with no one to care for them.
Well, I said, They don’t live in a barn, it is a bunkhouse, and they always have a man to cook for them, and they clean their own mess or they aren’t allowed to stay, but she wouldn’t listen. I told her it would aggravate her hand condition, but she said it is purely better from living on the ranch. I told her every way I knew how that it would never do, and then I thought of something that would fix her wagon for sure.
I did it while Ernest and Jack were gone over to Albert’s where they were getting wood to re-roof part of Mama’s house. I figured that’s when Ernest was also going to try to put his hand in Albert’s pocket, too.
I went to the bunkhouse and told my two top hands, Bud Higgins and Sterling Foster, to run up a few of the range bulls that we had missed during roundup, which they had been keeping in a section west by the Raalle land. I said, We are going to have some out-of-season branding. They didn’t really want to do it and I don’t blame them, but I gave them each two dollars extra for the day’s work, and I told Felicity to get ready for some ranch work, as she was about to learn the one thing I needed her to do so she could live here.
Well, Bud and Sterl held the first bull still, tied him with ropes, then told Felicity how to cut the soft part on him to make him a steer, and save enough of the skin to sew shut. They handed her a sharp knife and the needle with the special catgut thread. She cried out and blubbered, and wouldn’t do it. They put the branding iron in her hands and told her to punch him in the rump and she cried some more and only waved it over the fur. The bull wailed at her and she screamed. Then they got out the de-horning saw and started the cauterizing iron heating in the fire and said, Try your hand at this here, Ma’am, and commenced to explain exactly what she was to do with those things, shoving the blade in the head and searing off the horn and all, and she fainted there in the corral onto a little fresh pile of steaming manure.
They said Get up, Get up! We don’t need a cook. We need someone to do this here. It takes a quick hand to get those horns out before he hooks you, and you got to plunge that red cauterizing iron in the hole. She fainted again.
We fairly tormented her until she got up and stumbled to the house, crying sort of addled, saying, Fetch my bags, Ernest, Fetch my clothes!
I just watched her run, and sighed real deep, and turned my back on her. I watched the men brand the half dozen strays, and they simply blunted the horns and didn’t do anything else but leave them to be bulls and turned them into the long corral. Pretty soon here came Ernest saying he has to leave quick and get Felicity back home, clear to his post. He was plenty mad at me and made it real clear I had strained every last nerve Felicity owned.
I am sorry, I said, really sorry that you feel that way. But she wanted to live on this ranch, and I’m not supporting slackers here. Everyone on this ranch works or they don’t eat. And I said, Isn’t that right? to the hands.
Sterling and Bud both said, Yes, Ma’am.
Well, we can’t send them to town in our buggy and have no way to return ourselves, and I don’t want to put out Savannah and Albert, so we are all leaving at once for Tucson so Felicity and Ernest can take the next train out of here. It took me fifteen minutes to be packed and ready, except for five more minutes it took me to go back to the corral and give Bud and Sterling each another dollar. Hallelujah!
December 8, 1892
Two days ago Adelita and George had a tiny baby girl. The baby looks healthy although it is entirely covered with blond hair. She is a bit early, which is the reason for it and it will go away, the doctor said. Everything seemed peaceful with them when we left, and Adelita didn’t have a very long labor, only seven or eight hours. The baby’s name is Hannah.
Tonight it started to rain, and in a little while, the rain turned to ice and then to snow. The children are excited, it is their first time to see snow. I’m sure there won’t be much, but it is beautiful and makes me feel good to be inside with a kettle of beans and ham going on the stove and everyone inside safe and warm.
Lord, look down here and let me know what to do. It is past midnight. After we went to bed, the snow had stopped and became rain again, chattering on the metal flashings on the roof as the snow-turned-ice broke and slid off. I thought I heard something, an hour ago, and Jack said, no, it is just the rain. But again I heard soft tapping, too regular, and it had a human feel to it, so I went downstairs to see if someone was at the door. The sound came from the kitchen, and when I opened the door, a man pushed his way into the house. I held the lamp high.
Mrs. Elliot, said George Lockwood. I can’t go back there. She’s done something, Oh, God, she’s done something! He was literally sobbing, wrapped tight in his coat and poncho, all white knuckled and wet and freezing. His breath made a cloud around his head.
George! was all I could say.
Then Jack was behind me with another lamp. Come in here, man, he said.
No, George said. I’m going. I can’t stay. Oh, God, he said again. God forgive her!
Lockwood, said Jack, settle yourself. Have a chair. Tell us what’s wrong. Then Jack reached his hand out to pat George on the shoulder. As he did it, George backed up against the wall quick, and there in his hand was a Colt revolver and I heard the hammer nock back on the spring.
No, I’m not staying. No! He said, God forgive me but I’ll kill you if you try to stop me, and then he opened the door and ran away into the dark. Then we heard hooves beating past, slopping in the wet.
So I am sitting here alone in the bedroom and Jack has ridden through the rain and cold to the fort to see what has happened, and then back here to tell me, and now he is gone to get the Marshal. He said it looked like Adelita had murdered her baby, and George found her with bloody hands, and shot her dead with a solitary bullet hole through her head.
Maybe he came here because he thought we would understand. Maybe he thought we could stop him. Or forgive him. But it was too late. He is gone. So he will be wanted for murder and desertion, also, and if he is found he will surely hang. Run, George Lockwood. Run.
December 9, 1892
It is now five in the morning and Jack is gone. He came back here and saddled up for a long ride, since he had ridden bareback to the Marshal’s and the fort. He loaded up both his pistols and the bandolier he sometimes carries, and then took his old army carbine and plenty of shot for it in his saddlebags.
You’re going after George? I asked him.
He just nodded.
Will you take some food? I said.
No, he said.
He might be back in a few hours. He might be gone days. So I went in the kitchen and put some slices of bread and leftover roast beef in some waxed paper. I put those and some hard candy in his saddlebags with a clean handkerchief full of dried fruit. I dread to think what is in Jack’s mind. I dread to think what is in my own.
We both know there is no sense trying to follow a track through mud before dawn. But he thinks he knows where George might go. I put on a pot of coffee but he left without having any. Jack left to track down his friend.
I sat in my parlor and stared out the dark windows. I tried not to think that George might be so wrong in the head that he would lay in wait for Jack, but is just flying for his life on a fast horse somewhere.
The sun was up although it was cloudy and dim when I woke to find Suzy climbing up into my lap. I was cold and stiff.
Mama, she said, have some bed’fast.
I patted her head and went to the kitchen. April and the boys were yawning and scuffling their feet around the floor, looking dazed because the heat stove has not been warmed for them like I usually do. By the time I got a fire going, I heard a strange sound coming from the little barn we built to shelter the buggy and a team of horses. It sounded like a striking of something heavy and wet, like two men fighting, but it never stopped, it kept on and on. I told April to start some oatmeal for the others, and to keep everyone inside while I went to see what the horses were kicking.
In the barn I found Jack, swinging a shovel against a soggy bale of hay. He had already broken the shovel part off, and was beating the hay again and again with the handle. He looked weary and wild-eyed, and damp with sweat and cold rain. Over and over he swung that big handle like a machine of some sort, grunting with every beat. The horses skittered around in their stalls, fretting.
I held a lantern up high as I could. Jack, did you find him?
Yes, he said, and smashed the pole into the hay.
I felt my heart squeeze up and I couldn’t breathe. I was hoping he would never find George. What did you do?
Jack spoke slowly, whacking the hay with every word. I am ashamed to tell you, Sarah.
So I knew. Jack would have been cut to the bone to have to take George in to face a gallows, but he would be purely ashamed to let a murderer go away free. He must have done something the others don’t know about to let George Lockwood slip away, so he is paying this debt all by himself. That explains him coming back so soon, too.
I told him, You did the right thing, whatever it was. Come in the house when you get through, and take a warm bath so you don’t get sick. And then I left him alone.
It was only a few more minutes until he came in.
All the food was gone from his saddle bags.
We haven’t talked much today. Now and then I see him watching me closely, and when I look up he turns his eyes away.
April 8, 1893
My life feels like a book left out on the porch, and the wind blows the pages faster and faster, turning always toward a new chapter faster than I can stop and read it. We lost the baby I was carrying at Christmas, in February. It was a little boy almost full term, but born too small and never took a breath. I knew something was wrong. My back hurt so terribly the whole time I carried him, and I just felt sick and so tired so I tried to take it extra easy. But suddenly one night, about two months early, I started laboring, and there wasn’t even time to send for the doctor. The children were asleep, and Jack was gone just until the morning, and Anna never stays the night. I didn’t know what to do, but I couldn’t get help on my own and I was afraid of frightening the children. I wished Blue Horse was singing on my front porch again. I patted the baby, just a little handful of a fellow, but he didn’t wiggle or stir at all. I think the life was already gone out of him before he was born. I am so very sad.
For weeks afterward I had nightmares about what happened at George Lockwood’s house, and my friend Mrs. Page said it is likely that a fright like that can cause the baby to drop early. The doctor said that is just an old wives’ tale, and sometimes these things just happen, and not to worry. But I still felt mournful because I had felt the little one move, and was happy expecting him. We hadn’t even chosen a name yet, but we had to buy a little coffin. It made me too upset. Jack had to tend to it all.
Jack and I comforted each other with thoughts that we will have another one, maybe next year. In so many things he is rough and ornery, but in ways of our family, he is always so gentle it is like I am married to two different men. I love them both and need them equally.
June 9, 1893
Just as we might have expected, Harland and Melissa declared to us that they have been in love since they were children and they married last week. Melissa had on a beautiful white dress sprigged with tiny yellow flowers, with dark blue trim and buttons. Harland had on a gentleman’s suit and a bowler hat. He looked like a professional man and indeed he is, for he has graduated now and has gotten a position at an Architect’s office in San Francisco. He said they will return for visits, but we all miss them so. I’m sure Mama feels lonely and I’m glad Mr. Sherrill continues to pay her calls.
August 22, 1893
Two days in a row I have been troubled by a nightmare. It is the same one each night. When I awake I am shaking and my heart is banging like a drum, but I cannot put back to my thoughts just what it is that scares me so. I wake on the verge of tears from fear, and hold onto Jack like he is my last chance to stay on earth. He just pats my hand and goes back to sleep, but I lie there fearing to shut my eyes.
I was looking at Jack this morning after breakfast, and followed him into the bathroom and watched him shave. He looked at me and grinned kind of puzzled, and said, What are you up to?
I couldn’t answer. I just told him, I want to remember you real good, for those times you are gone.
I’m coming back, he said.
I know, I told him. If you don’t I’m coming after you.
He just smiled and nodded. Then he said, I’m counting on that, Sarah.
September 1, 1894
Time is flying. It is Gilbert’s first day of school. The boys walked to school together today, tagging after April, who walks with her girlfriends and told Charlie and Gilbert not to walk with them, only behind. The boys let her put down endless rules for them, quietly taking all her orders as if it is the natural way of things. I am sure in a few years, they will grow tired of her bossiness and have a mind of their own, and their peaceful way of doing whatever she asks will be gone for good.
I hope Gilbert pays attention. Often he comes up with the most curious questions, and he takes his time but finds some real clever answers. Charlie is fast on his feet and can throw a ball long and hard, and rides real well. Gilbert is good with little things, and he has fine, even handwriting for such a little fellow, and can put together a puzzle or work a letter box fast as lightning. His whittling has taken to looking more like animals and such, also, pretty fine for such a little fellow. They look so big to me, but walking from our front gate down the road to the school house with a little pail of lunch in their hands, they seemed mighty small.