Centennial (108 page)

But the stunning animals were the great Hereford bulls. King Bristol became the most famous stud in the west, with other ranchers hauling cows long distances on the chance they might throw a bull his equal. He grew extremely heavy, walking like a mountain from one valley to the next, and Jim never tired of seeing him flex those massive knees, drawing his hoofs in, then throwing them forward to eat up the next reach of earth.

His sons, too, were fine bulls, and some built distinguished reputations on other ranches, but none really compared with the massive progenitor. He was indeed a king, and other ranchers, buying his offspring, would stand for some minutes, just looking at the old fellow and admiring his perfect configuration, his massive head, the down-drooping horns and the heavy snout.

“A child can lead him,” Jim assured the visitors, and sometimes he would allow Ellen Mercy, John Skimmerhorn’s granddaughter, to bring the great bull to the fence. But -the thing that pleased Jim most about the Herefords was, as he said, “they look so right on the land.” It was as if the clever breeders of Herefordshire, starting a hundred years earlier, had bred this unique animal from Old English strains for the specific purpose of filling the western ranges in America.

The ranch made its income in two ways. It castrated nineteen-twentieths of its male calves, allowed them to wander over the range and sold them at age three to packers in Chicago, receiving cash in return. The heifers were kept on the ranch to breed, but each year ranch owners from all parts of the west visited Venneford to buy Crown Vee heifers for upgrading their own stock, and a few were released at good prices. Also, from time to time Venneford sold young bulls to start Hereford herds in other areas. Thanks largely to the pioneering efforts of the Venneford people, and Jim Lloyd’s scrupulous attenion to honest breeding, the Hereford became the noble animal of the west, and there were many like Jim whose hearts beat faster when they saw the range area populated by “white-faces.”

Some people claimed afterward that the bishop in Chicago had done it on purpose, because, as they pointed out, his father had tried to ranch in Nebraska and had failed. But there seemed little likelihood that any churchman could have been so malicious.

The Union Church on Third Street required a new minister, and the bishop in Chicago sent a glowing report about a serious young man named Bluntworthy who had done a good job in rural Iowa. The bishop did not confide, however, his personal opinion that young Bluntworthy was one of the most gawky and naïve clergymen who had ever served under him. The congregation voted to invite him to preach a trial sermon, and a committee of six, including John Skimmerhorn, Jim Lloyd and three other ranchers, was directed to meet the train, take the reverend to his hotel room and produce him for the Sunday service.

The more they talked with the tall shy man, the more they liked him. His theology seemed sound; he had a reassuring attitude toward pastoral work; and he loved farms “I was brought up on one and feel that towns like Centennial, representing as they do the best of urban and rural, will form the backbone of this nation.”

“You couldn’t have ideas much better than that,” Skimmerhorn said approvingly, and at the church, even before Bluntworthy began to preach, committee members passed the word, “We’ve found our man,” and the banker’s wife elbowed her way into the group to insist that the new reverend dine with them. He accepted with a smile which avoided unctuousness.

When he opened the service with prayer, his delivery was firm, and when the first hymn was sung, his voice could be heard, not too strong but right on key. Men who had been worried about their chance of finding the proper minister prepared to contribute with extra generosity to the collection plates, but then Bluntworthy spoiled everything when he began to preach.

“My text stands close to the heart of every true Christian, for better than any other it epitomizes the spirit of our Lord. It comes, fittingly, from the last chapter of the last Gospel John 21.”

A rancher in the front pew who knew his Bible muttered, “Oh, no!” but Reverend Bluntworthy in his firm, clear voice lined out the message: “ ‘Jesus saith to Simon Peter ... Feed my lambs.’ ” A whisper passed along the pews. “ ‘He saith to him the second time ... Feed my sheep.’ ” From this unfortunate beginning Bluntworthy launched into a perfervid oration about sheep as the symbol of humankind, Jesus as the shepherd, and the world as a great meadow in which right-thinking men took it upon themselves as a holy obligation to
Feed my sheep
. He must have used this exhortation fifteen times, increasing the volume of his voice until at the end of his sermon he implored every man in church to go forth and become a shepherd.

The collection was one of the bleakest ever taken at Union Church, and in the closing hymn only the minister’s voice could be heard.

It was a custom in Colorado churches for members of the committee to stand in the doorway with the minister as parishioners left, but three of the members refused. “The man must be a fool,” one said, and his neighbor muttered, “He’d have been smarter to use Exodus 22, verse 1 for his text. There God said that if one of His people stole an ox, he must give back five oxen. But if he stole a sheep, he had to give back only four. God understood.”

The banker’s wife sent a boy to inform Skimmerhorn and Lloyd that her husband had been called to Denver and she could not therefore have the minister to dinner, and half the congregation left by a side door so they wouldn’t have to shake hands with the perplexed visitor, who was left standing alone.

Finally Jim Lloyd took his place beside the clergyman, and some semblance of decency was maintained, but when the parishioners were gone, Jim was left with the bewildered minister. “Let’s have dinner at the hotel,” Jim said. “You can catch the evening train.”

“I had hoped to meet ...”

Jim felt he owed the man some kind of explanation, so as the meal was being served, with several ranch families staring balefully at Bluntworthy, he said, “The Lord may be partial to sheep, but this is Hereford country.”

As these words were spoken, Reverend Bluntworthy was about to put a forkful of food into his mouth, but his right arm froze and over his face came first a look of puzzlement, then pained comprehension, and he put down his fork and said, “I don’t feel hungry. In fact, I may be sick, if you’ll excuse me.”

“You can rest in your room,” Jim said. “The five thirty-eight will come in over there.”

The Crown Vee Herefords suffered from one major weakness which afflicted all American Herefords: they. were cat-hammed, and whenever Hereford men met with other stockmen, especially Black Angus breeders, they had to suffer the jibe: “Up front you have a good-looking animal, but it’s awful cat-hammed.” To this charge, there was no rebuttal, for whereas the forequarters were sturdy, they tapered off too quickly, producing a hindquarter much like a cat’s, lean and scrawny. This not only made the Hereford fore-heavy, but it also cut down on the steaks he could provide, and that’s where the money lay.

“We’ve got to eliminate those cat-hams,” Jim told Skimmerhorn. “You ever seen a Hereford bull with real strong hindquarters?”

“No, but they must exist.”

So the two cattlemen began their search for the young bull that would correct the deficiency, but with no success. Exhausting local sources, Jim went as far as Indiana, where the Hereford was popular, but those bulls were as cat-hammed as his.

“Looks as if we’re stuck with what we’ve got,” he reported when he reached home, but he continued looking, and one day he came up with a good idea: “Let’s write to Mrs. Seccombe, in Bristol. She could go right into the Hereford country and try to find us something.” So Jim wrote to the widow, and he and Skimmerhorn waited impatiently for her to reply.

One afternoon as Jim was passing time with Levi Zendt at the store, he noticed how the old Dutchman walked, picking up his feet and planting them solidly, and he burst into laughter. “What’s so funny?” Levi asked.

“You walk just like King Bristol.” Jim chuckled and he imitated the great bull, and Levi understood the joke but did not laugh.

“If I was you, James, and I was thirty-four, I wouldn’t be content to be in love with no herd of cows, white-faced or not.

Jim flushed. Others had teased him about tending his Herefords so lovingly, and he asked, “What would you do, Levi?

“Find me a girl and get married.” And instantly Jim replied, “If I could find Clemma, I’d get married.” And Levi asked, “After all these years?”

Yes, after twenty years Jim Lloyd still believed that one day a stranger would come to Centennial with news of Clemma’s whereabouts, and he would hurry there to claim her. No stranger came, but one afternoon the army officer who had been stationed in Denver years before did return to the area, and as a courtesy he stopped by Centennial to pay his respects to the Zendts.

“Yes,” he said expansively, after informing them of his duty along the Canadian border and of his adventures in pacifying Indians, “believe it or not, I’ve met your daughter. Actually talked with her. I was waiting to change trains in Chicago and went into this little Irish restaurant. Kilbride’s Kerry Roost ...”

As soon as Lucinda had the name properly written down she sent a messenger up to the ranch to inform Jim Lloyd, and he rushed down to discuss the startling news that Clemma had been located. And once more he made plans to seek her out.

“James!” Levi reasoned when the cowboy told him he was going to Chicago. “She’s known where you were all these years. If she’d wanted ...”

“Don’t you care for your own daughter?” Jim cried. “All you ever think about is your son. Because he’s here, helping you. Well, Clemma’s not here, and she needs me.”

Levi saw no sense in further argument, no reason to explain to this irrational cowboy that he thought of Clemma every night, even prayed for her in Mennonite German.

So Jim caught the night train to Chicago, and as soon as he landed in that busy city, hurried to Kilbride’s Kerry Roost, where the white-haired, lugubrious owner remembered Clemma Ferguson: “Fine-looking girl. Good waitress.”

“Where is she now?”

“Owner of a fancy restaurant came in here for lunch, saw her, offered her a better job.” He shook his head mournfully, as if to indicate that bad luck hounded him.

Jim found her working in an oak-paneled restaurant near the railway station used by the Union Pacific. From the doorway he watched her as she managed her customers with that raffish smile and naughty good humor he had loved years ago. She seemed smaller and her eyes were deep-sunk. She was older, much older, but strangely, she did not look worn out.

He waited till she paused in her work, then walked firmly toward her, extending his hand. “It’s me, Jim Lloyd. You’re to come home with me.”

As gaily as if she had talked with him only a day ago, she said, “Jim! How nice to see you again.”

“You’re to come home,” he repeated.

“Sit down. I’ll bring you a menu.” She deposited him at one of her tables, and after a decent interval, handed him a printed menu offering many dishes.

Later she came swinging back, treating him as if he were a first-time customer. “The lamb’s good.”

“I don’t eat lamb.”

“Of course not. The veal here is very good. Crown Vee calves only.” She was laughing at him, and before he could order she had moved deftly away to tend another customer.

When she returned, with her order pad open, she asked, “What is your desire? and the words sounded so awful that he threw the menu down, then quickly recovered it and said, “I’ll take the veal.”

“You’ll not regret it,” she said professionally, and after he had finished the excellent meal, unable even to speak a dozen words to her, she presented him with a bill, and he caught her hand.

“Please!” she whispered. “Mr. Marshall watches me.” She took his money and returned with his change.

“When can I see you?” he pleaded.

“I work here every night.”

So every night he walked from his quarters near the railway station to the restaurant and tried unsuccessfully to engage her in serious conversation. On the fourth night he grew desperate, and finally thought of something which he hoped would pierce her armor: “Your parents can’t live forever. Don’t you want to see them?”

“I see lots of people,” she parried, but he could see that she was affected.

“Not too much idling, there,” Mr. Marshall warned as he walked by.

“What keeps you here?” Jim whispered when the owner had moved on.

“Wait for me outside,” she said in a low voice.

She led him to her cheerless room, where she tried to convince him that return to Centennial was impossible: “I like the city. I never want to go back to that tiny town.”

“You like this?” And with a wave of his hand he indicated the drabness of her flat. “Surely you can remember the good land?”

She cut him off. “Here in Chicago it doesn’t matter if you’re an Indian. Life is better when no one knows who you are.”

The bleakness of such reasoning was so contrary to the warm love he had known on that Texas farm with his mother, and so alien to the friendships he had experienced on the trail north with Poteet that he could not accept it. “You must come home. Where people love you,” he pleaded.

She replied, “You know I’m grateful to you, Jim. Coming all the way to Chicago just to talk with me.”

“I went to St. Louis, too.”

For a brief moment she appreciated the stubborn love this cowboy must always have had for her, and she was tempted. “I’d marry you ... if I could. You know that. But I already have a husband.”