Dollybird by Anne Lazurko

always. The sun was higher. Out the window, great fields of wheat and grass stretched to the horizon, like beautiful waves bowing to the wind. My throat closed up with a homesick lump.

    i i i
    We arrived in Moose Jaw to a heat I’d never known.
    â€œHey, Casey,” I picked him up and wiped a shirt sleeve under his runny nose. “Maybe we’ve died and this is hell then?”
    Police met us on the station platform, setting suspicious eyes on each of us, asking after anyone who’d seen the man who stole the horse at Regina. They passed me over quick when Casey started fussing. Stealing a man’s horse was low, almost worse than stealing a man’s wife I figure, but I wasn’t saying anything. I was too afraid to get involved. I grabbed our things and hit the road as soon as they let the barricade down. A member of the North West Mounted Police looked me over real slow from his perch on a broad grey gelding.
    â€œHey. You. With the kid.”
    I turned back terrified. “Me?”
    â€œYou’re the only one carrying a kid.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThey’re looking for workers on a crew in Ibsen, couple hours’ ride south.” He looked away over the barricade again.
    Under my shirt I could feel my sweat go cold. “Uh, thanks.” He didn’t look at me again.
    It was hell, hitching rides with a little one. You’d have thought I was carrying a live skunk the way people wrinkled their noses and drove their horses a little faster as they went by. Finally I had to leave Casey out of sight in the tall grass at the side of the trail until a wagon slowed. Then I’d quick grab him and hoist us both up onto the back until they kicked us off. Some let us ride. Some didn’t, cursing all bums and delinquents, as though I was some kind of representative.
    Finally a driver stopped of his own accord and a woman’s hands reached down to take Casey. They were a husband and wife, maybe fifty years old, a flash of smile between them when they made room on the seat for me. She reached behind to a basket and pulled out a cheese sandwich and jar of milk.
    â€œThanks.” The bread melted in my mouth.
    â€œLooks like you’ve had some hard luck,” she said.
    I nodded, looking down at the holes in my boots and the bundle of dirty grey clothes that was Casey.
    â€œGoing to the crew?” her husband asked, sizing me up with his one good eye. The other wandered to the left a little, so I wasn’t sure where he was looking. I took my chances on the straight eye and spoke to it.
    â€œI was told they were looking for men in Ibsen.”
    â€œYeah, so they say.” He thought for a minute. “But watch yourself. There’s some of those outfits don’t give a damn how they treat ya. Look for a big guy named Henry. He’ll steer you right.”
    â€œWhat will you do with this little guy?” The woman shifted Casey on her knee and smiled down at him. “You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?”
    Casey mumbled through the sandwich he chewed.
    â€œWell, ma’am, I don’t know.” I was thinking quick so she wouldn’t think me an idiot. “I was hoping the farm women would watch him while I worked.”
    She laughed and shook her head. “Oh Lord, those women won’t have time for another little one underfoot. They’ll be too busy cooking for the crew and tending to their own.” Her husband looked at her, she raised her eyebrows at him and he nodded. “It’s none of my business, but where’s his mother?”
    A lump rose in my throat. No one except Doctor Gibson and Mrs. Brody knew how bad Taffy’s death had been. The memory was like a sore that had mossed over, ugly with festering, but hidden from everyone, so saying it out loud was like ripping off a scab. “She died of the typhoid the day he was born.”
    The woman’s eyes went soft, concern creasing at her forehead.