Buffalo Girls (42 page)

Ogden saw that the two men were not making much progress with the bogged cow. They were a very muddy pair. He had asked at the ranch house a few miles back and had been told by a pretty young woman that Mr. Blue was working to the north. She had been kind enough to offer them buttermilk. He had drunk a quart, and No Ears a smaller amount.

He had not expected to meet Mr. Blue in such a muddy state—but then he had not really expected to meet Mr. Blue at all. When he got to the bog he dismounted and waded into the mud to help, an act which seemed to surprise the two muddy men.

“Let me have the rear,” he said. It was apparent to him that the Indian boy who was handling the cow's tail end didn't have the strength to lift her out of the mud.

Teat didn't argue. He took one horn and Blue the other. Blue yelled at the horse, but with Ogden lifting, they scarcely needed the horse. There was a sucking sound as Ogden lifted the cow's rear from the mud and began to shove her forward. He shoved so hard and the cow made such sudden progress that both Blue and
Teat forgot about pulling and just tried to get out of the way. Both tried to scramble aside and ended by falling backward into the mud. Ogden kept walking and propelled the quivering cow up on the bank. He then went back and offered the fallen men a hand.

“We're much obliged to you, sir,” Blue said. “I believe I've seen you before, in Belle Fourche. Isn't your name Ogden?”

“Yes, sir, are you Mr. Blue?” Ogden said.

Blue walked over and took the rope off the muddy cow. “Git,” he said. “And stay out of the damn mud for a while.” Her muddy calf was standing fifty yards to the west, bawling for her, but the cow promptly turned and began to trot off to the east.

“If you're looking for work, Mr. Ogden, you're hired,” Blue said. “Teat and me are smart but we ain't stout—it's easier to be smarter than a goddamn cow, but it ain't easy to be stouter.”

He meant the offer as a joke, but Ogden looked at him solemnly, as if he were really considering it. Blue's thoughts began to move a little faster—maybe the boy had left Dora, or been thrown out, in which case, why not hire him? He would be a great asset with the haying and barn-building and such. He himself was no carpenter and had made little progress on a barn, though he had ranched on the Musselshell for five seasons. Why not hire the man? If he had left Dora it would only make it all a richer joke. The man didn't shy away from messy work, either—a big advantage in cowboying.

Ogden found that he liked Mr. Blue, who was grinning merrily despite being coated with mud. The Indian boy was also grinning. It would be good to work out in the sun, under the open sky. Deadwood was in a crack, shady or outright dark much of the time; it was hard to rise out of a low mood in a place where the sun rarely shone.

“I'll have to bring Bob, and I'd like to bring Doosie,” Ogden said. “Doosie won't want to leave Bob, and neither one of us could get by without her.”

“Oh, I know Doosie, she's a splendid cook,” Blue said. “I can't
imagine Dora would part with her, though, and I don't know this fellow named Bob.”

Ogden began to feel shy. Mr. Blue looked so cheerful, and yet such bad news awaited him. He was glad to discover that he liked the man, though. It made Dora's life seem a little happier that she had had such a fine cheerful man for a friend.

“Well, Bob's the baby,” Ogden said.

Mr. Blue looked startled by that news.

“Oh,” he said. “Bob's the baby. You mean you and Dora had a baby?”

“Yes, sir,” Ogden said, feeling his lowness coming—it was even more powerful than his shyness.

“How could I hire you then, mister?” Blue asked, stumbling a little in his thoughts. Surprising information was coming rather quickly, and he wasn't sure it was information he liked.

As if suddenly worried, Teat walked away several yards. He began to try to clean the muddy rope, rubbing it in the grass.

“You can't tell me that Dora would let you and Doosie and a baby go, all at once,” Blue said, puzzled. “Dora would have to be dead before she'd hold still for such as that.”

Ogden looked numbly down at his hands. Mr. Blue had unexpectedly given himself the bad news; all Ogden needed to do now was confirm it—yet he couldn't speak.

Seeing the sad look spread across the boy's big face, Blue felt a fear seize him—he felt a sudden panic.

“Say, is Dora all right?” he asked. “I'm a friend . . . we met way back down the trail.”

Ogden remembered how Dora looked when she whispered to him last; he remembered how she looked lying dead; he couldn't speak. He looked up and saw that Mr. Blue had gone white under his coat of mud.

No Ears saw it too—it was odd that whites never expected one of their own to die. They were as children when it came to death; they rarely thought of it, although it was never farther than a breath away.

Seeing Ogden so unhappy that he had forgotten how to speak, No Ears thought he had better help.

“Your friend died making the child,” he said. “It was too much for her, but the child is big and strong. When he cries, he's loud.”

Ogden felt ashamed that No Ears had had to complete his task for him; at the same time, he felt grateful.

“Oh, say!” Blue said, sitting down suddenly. The news knocked his legs from under him. He took off his hat and flung it far out in the mud.

“She wanted Martha to come and tell you,” Ogden said, finding that he could talk again. “Martha wouldn't—she's sick too much.”

“From liquor I bet, and I don't blame her!” Blue said.

“Dora asked that one of us come,” Ogden said. He had not really understood his wife's request and could not explain it—he just said it.

“I think she felt you'd be upset,” Ogden said, wishing he had more skill at talking and could put things better.

“Upset? I guess I'm kilt!” Blue said, getting unsteadily to his feet. He went straight and mounted his horse. He started to ride away but checked himself and attempted to summon his manners. “You men must be tired,” he said, speaking stiffly and carefully. “You're welcome to rest as long as you like at my ranch house—Teat will take you back.”

He started to turn away again, but checked himself once more and looked at Ogden. “The offer of work still stands,” he said. “Bring Doosie, and bring . . . Dora's boy—Bob, I believe. I pay fair wages, and we'll build a bunkhouse. Will you do it?”

“Yes, sir,” Ogden said.

“Good, take 'em home,” Blue said to Teat. “Help Mary look after the stock until I get back.”

Teat didn't ask when that would be; he handed Blue the rope he had been trying to clean.

“Help Mary look after the stock,” Blue said again. He nodded at No Ears to thank him for walking so far to bring him a hard
piece of information. No Ears raised a hand in acceptance of his thanks.

Then T. Blue turned his horse south and rode away. It was three days before he stopped, well south of the Yellowstone. In his mind he was traveling south to yesterday, to the distant evening when he had ridden into Abilene all covered with trail dust and danced his first dance with Dora. He was so dusty he sneezed all through the dance, but she swore she didn't mind. Later in the evening he rode his horse into the hotel and tried to spur him up the stairs to Dora's room, but the horse shied and kicked off the banister; the manager got hot, the sheriff came; Blue's foreman, who happened to be drinking in the saloon at the time, was amused by it all and offered to make good the damages, which satisfied everyone.

Often, in later years, he and Dora had laughed about his dustiness and her sneezing and the kicked-down banister—it seemed a fine beginning, and was the talk of Abilene for a day or two.

Oh, the fun they had then—the cowboy and the buffalo girl.

N
O
E
ARS DECIDED HE HAD TRAVELED FAR ENOUGH WITH
the whites. Blue's wife, the half-Cree woman, fed him several tasty biscuits and some more buttermilk. With the North Star still bright in the heavens, he left to walk down to the Little Bighorn, but when he got there he changed his mind about looking up the Cheyenne. Some of them talked too much—and the Crow talked even more. In No Ears's opinion both the Crow and the Cheyenne ought to move south, far from the Greasy Grass; then perhaps they wouldn't bore their guests with endless talk of Custer.

He himself had no regard for Custer or for any white soldiers; he was happy enough that Gall and the others had killed him and all his men; but it was easily possible to make too much of such a victory. What was one battle to the grass, which had swallowed the men's blood at once and their bones within a few months? The grass forgot the dead it took; probably the ocean, the great plain of water, forgot those it swallowed, too. It was silly of men to suppose they would be remembered long, once the earth or the sea had taken them. The Greasy Grass had swallowed Custer as easily as the gray ocean had swallowed the foolish elk that jumped off the English boat.

No Ears traveled on south, avoiding men. He was not in the
mood for silliness, and where men went there was likely to be silliness. Traveling alone, he could devote himself to watching birds fly; lately he had become more interested in plants, though for most of his life he had not been a student of plants. The most interesting question about plants was why some of them chose to grow underground, although most preferred to reach upward toward the sun. What were the ones that grew downward trying to reach? Could there be an underground sun?

It was while he was thinking about plants that No Ears noticed the sage bush for the third time. Once again, without thinking, he had wandered back to Crazy Woman Creek. No Ears knew that this return was bad news; his thoughts were no longer working as they should, or he would not have done such a foolish and dangerous thing.

No cranes were in the creek, but that in itself was not enough to reassure him; their tracks were there in the mud. No Ears decided to pull up the dangerous sage bush at once. He seized it with both hands and did his best, but it would not come up. The sage bush was stronger than he was; he broke off a few branches, but he could not pull it up—it wouldn't leave its place in the ground. No Ears grew angry at himself and at the bush. He had been foolish to return, but the sage bush didn't need to be so stubborn either. He hacked at it a bit with his knife, but his anger had tired him; it left him exhausted and distracted. He began to wish Martha Jane was there, or Bartle, to help him remove the stubborn, offensive sage bush; even if they didn't succeed they could help him watch for the cranes. But he grew more and more tired; his hacking at the bush had seemed to such away his breath. When he stretched out to sleep, he put on his one wax ear and tried to position himself so he could hear the great wings if they came. It occurred to him too late that he had made another mistake on Crazy Woman Creek: the cranes had only wanted Jim Ragg—it was the sage bush itself that wanted him. It had wanted him badly enough to call him back a third time. He
felt very foolish; all his life he had made little effort to understand plants, and now a stubborn one had caused him to use himself up. He crawled away from the bush for many yards until he was too weak to crawl any farther; then he lay on his back looking upward until the dark sky sucked the last of his breath.

 

Darling Jane—

Forgive me Janey, it has been years since I wrote. I know I am not a good mother, you must be almost grown now and what do I know about my darling? Very little—I don't even know if your Daddy is still alive.

Yesterday I was in a store in Tucson, they had some tablets and pretty papers, I thought I would try and scribble you a letter after all these years.

I came all the way south to the Gila to find Bartle Bone, someone told me he was prospecting in Apache country. I don't think it's true, if it's true he sure managed to dodge me.