Dorothy Garlock (44 page)

“Smith! We shouldn’t . . . right out here where everyone can see.”

“The only ones to see are Billy and Plenty. They won’t be shocked.”

“Mrs. Eastwood ordered me out of the house.” Willa wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her cheek against his shoulder.

“Was she having one of her temper fits, or did she mean it?”

“She meant it. I told her about us.”

Smith was silent for a moment. “That’s just a sample of what to expect if you marry me.”

Willa lifted her head and looked into his face. “
If
I marry you? Have you changed your mind about wanting me?”

“You may change yours.”

“I don’t care what Maud or anyone else says or thinks. It won’t change my opinion of you one bit. I’m just wondering where I’ll stay until we can marry.”

“You’ll stay with me. Billy will move into the bunkhouse.
We’ve already talked about it. But first there’s something I must do.”

“What?” Willa’s heartbeat quickened with sudden fear as she realized his voice was different; full of resignation and something more: weariness.

“Can you get away for a few hours?”

“Of course. I’m no longer employed here. Remember?”

“I want to take you somewhere.” Smith took her hand and led her toward the barn. His hand held hers tightly. She could feel the tenseness in him. At the door he stopped and, without looking at her, said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

As Willa waited the lump in her throat became larger. She had the feeling that her entire future would be decided within the next few hours. When she was sure she was going to burst into tears, Smith came out of the barn leading two saddled horses.

“The mare is Billy’s. She’s gentle. She’d have to be for him to ride her.”

Smith boosted Willa into the saddle, waited while she struggled to get her skirt down over her knees, and adjusted the stirrups.

“Where’s Pete?” Willa asked when Smith had settled into the saddle on a handsome buckskin with a black mane and tail.

“In the corral. I was afraid he’d get excited around that mare you’re riding.”

Willa was nervous at first. It had been a long time since she had ridden a horse. But as the gentle mare moved along beside the buckskin and they left the ranch to head in a westerly direction, her confidence grew. The terrain that opened before them was a succession of valleys divided by ridges crested with pines, their slopes dotted with clumps of aspen.

Smith was quiet. He was tense. It was evident in his stiff
ness as he sat in the saddle and in the way he held the reins, his hands on the pommel. Willa wondered what was on his mind and where he was taking her.

The horses splashed across a stream and climbed the bank on the other side. The sweep of the magnificent valley glistened in the afternoon sun. Willa’s eyes drank in the beauty of the landscape. Smith headed for the far side of the valley where the land rose to meet a granite bluff from which a stream of water flowed, feeding the creek below. A breeze drifted down from the mountains and waved the lush, green grasses alive with small birds whirring up from under the feet of the horses. It was all so very peaceful.

On a rise, high enough for a full view of the valley, Smith stopped the horses.

“This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” Willa said in an awed, hushed voice, her eyes glowing.

“I think so too.” Smith stepped down from his horse, tied the reins to a low branch and came to help her down.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?”

“Uh-huh. Billy and I own this land. Someday we want to build a house here.”

Willa’s heart was suddenly filled with dread.
He and Billy.
He hadn’t included her.

“It’s a lovely site,” she managed to say without crying.

“Willa—” Smith took her shoulders in his two hands and turned her to face him. “I can’t go on like this much longer—living on the brink, not knowing when I’ll be pushed over the edge.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m midway between heaven and hell. I’ve got to know which it will be.” His voice shook in spite of his desperate attempt to control it.

“Oh, Smith—” She wrapped her arms about his waist even though he was trying to hold her away from him.

“I’ve got to tell you how it . . . happened. You’ve got a right to know before you marry me.”

“Then tell me. I want to share the burden with you,” she whispered, her lips against his cheek.

Smith took a rolled blanket from behind his saddle, spread it on the grass beneath an oak tree, and motioned for her to sit down.

“Are you going to sit with me?”

“In a minute,” he said and walked behind her where she couldn’t see him. “Oliver loved this land and he loved those damned longhorns. They’re mean and unpredictable. If one gets so weak he can’t stand and has to be helped up, he’ll immediately attack his benefactor.” Willa heard Smith strike a match and smelled the smoke from his cigarette.

“I wish to God we’d never left the ranch that day to drive that wild bunch out of the timber,” he said wearily.

Willa waited, apprehension holding her motionless.

27

O
liver, Smith and a cowhand, Gary Base, left the ranch that spring morning and headed northwest into the Bighorn Mountains with enough provisions to last several days. Base had come through the area on his way from Medicine Wheel and told Oliver about seeing a small herd of Eastwood cattle in a primitive area high in the mountains. Knowing they would be gaunt from wintering there, Oliver decided to drive them down to the valley grass so they would fatten for the fall roundup.

Toward evening, after sighting a couple of steers on a rugged mountainside, the men camped in a draw sheltered from the chilly April wind by a thick stand of pine trees. The next morning, in the dim light, they rose and stretched themselves. Oliver loved being in the mountains and was anxious to begin the drive. They ate a hearty breakfast because they knew they would have a rough day getting the wild longhorns bunched so they could drive them down the rugged slope.

Smith admitted to Oliver that he felt uneasy about rounding up steers that had grown wild and primitive after several years
in the wilds. Longhorn cattle were a mixture of big oxen and the smaller fighting cattle from Mexico and they did not easily submit to the domination of man.

“Horse apples,” Oliver snorted good-naturedly, dismissing the danger. “We’ll go around and get above them.”

The year before Smith had signed on to drive a herd of Texas longhorns from the Red River to Fort Dodge. The beasts had been hell to drive even on the prairie. They had the strength and stamina to run for miles, and if the notion struck them, they were quick to turn and attack. Cattle in a bunch observed a hierarchy based on strength, vigor, aggressiveness, and set of horn. Smith had learned that strays, even an old cow, many times a grandmother, could be as dangerous as a young bull.

“If we get this bunch trail-broken, I’ll be mighty surprised,” Smith said. “Some of them will weigh a thousand pounds and will have to tilt their blasted horns to get through the trees. They’re not going to want to go down that slope.”

Oliver laughed. “You’re acting like an old man, boy.”

“Maybe so, but I know what they can do. Be extra careful.”

Gary Base didn’t have much to say. He listened to the talk between Smith and the boss. He would rather have stayed at the ranch. He hadn’t had any experience driving half-wild cattle, but if Mr. Eastwood thought they could do it, he’d give it a try. He was a competent cowhand, well-liked, self-assured about ordinary things, and always broke. Now he wished he hadn’t told the boss about seeing the damn strays.

It was almost noon when they reached the highpoint. Oliver counted ten head of cattle on the rocky slope below.

“There may be more farther on down that I can’t see,” he said. “Let’s start with these and maybe we’ll gather more on the way down. Spread out. I’ll take the left flank.”

“I’ll take it,” Smith said when he saw the rugged terrain.
“Base and I will ride swing. Make plenty of racket and maybe we’ll scare them on down to where the going is easier.”

When Smith started down the slope, all his thoughts were concerned with the task at hand. He picked his way down through the natural obstacles and saw a wrinklehorn steer that appeared to be mostly bones. The steer’s tailbone was a peak in the rear and deep hollows showed between his ribs and hipbone. His walk was a swinging stride that caused his dewlap to sway like a pendulum of a clock. He seemed calm enough to make a lead steer and moved on down the slope when Smith slapped his hat against his thigh and yelled.

Smith was still apprehensive. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the kerchief he pulled from around his neck. He moved his horse out of the trees and onto a shelf where he could view the landscape and pick an easier route. This steep terrain was hard on his horse. He saw movement to the right. Oliver was headed toward a clearing below and directly in his path was a big steer.

The longhorn’s coat was not merely shaggy but rough, patchy, coarse: he was still shedding his winter hair. It was the color of sandstone and limestone with highlights and shadows of spotted moss. He was fierce-looking and alert to Oliver’s approach.

From this point Smith lost sight of Oliver for a minute or two. Then he appeared out of the trees seeming to be unaware of the steer. Something about the way the animal stood, his big head sagged far out ahead of his narrow hump, his back legs spread, caused Smith to want to shout a warning to Oliver. He reached back to slip his hat under the strap on his saddle, keeping his eye on the longhorn.

Suddenly, so fast that it was hard to believe what was happening, the beast charged Oliver’s horse. The frightened animal reared. Oliver fought to control it, but he was finally thrown to the ground and the horse bolted out of the clearing.

Smith put the spurs to his own horse while dragging his rifle from the scabbard. He sped recklessly down through the trees, trying to get a clear shot at the beast that was charging the man on the ground. Oliver was dazed and trying to get to his feet. Smith fired, grazing the top of the steer’s back.

The enraged beast attacked Oliver with a vengeance.

Smith came out of the trees to see Oliver on the ground being gored by one of the animal’s long horns. He fired again, hitting the animal in the neck, but it continued to attack with horns and hooves. A horn pierced Oliver again and again, at times lifting him off the ground. The steer turned to face Smith with Oliver impaled on one of its horns. Smith jumped from his horse and steadied the rifle for another shot. The beast shook his head, confused by Oliver’s screams—screams that would stay with Smith for the rest of his life.

Dear God! He couldn’t shoot with Oliver still impaled on the horn. The beast could fall on Oliver and crush him. He had to shoot, he had no choice. He aimed carefully before he pulled the trigger and shot the animal between the eyes. It staggered and lowered its head. Oliver’s body slipped off the horn. And just as Smith had feared, the steer fell on top of him.

By the time Smith reached Oliver, his heart was pounding like a runaway train. Oliver was still conscious and screaming with pain. Smith tried to push the dead animal off him, knowing it was impossible for the beast must weigh somewhere near eighteen hundred pounds. He yelled to Gary Base as the young cowboy rode in.

“Tie a rope to the horns. Pull the head up so I can pull Oliver out from under him.”

“God no, boy! Leave me be—” Oliver gasped.

“Do it,” Smith shouted when Base hesitated.

Agonizing minutes later Smith managed to drag the injured man clear of the dead animal. It was only then that he could
see the extent of Oliver’s injuries. The horns had ripped into his stomach from his ribcage to his groin, both legs appeared to be broken as well as his arms. Smith pulled aside the torn shirt and tried to push the intestines back into the gaping hole.

Gary took one look at the stomach wound and ran into the brush to vomit.

“We’ll make a travois and get you down to the doctor.” Smith’s voice shook. He was scarcely aware of what he was saying as he frantically tried to hold the jagged edges of the wound together.