flank, and turned, laughing, showing his toothless smile under that thick, drooping mustache.
By the time I returned home, the bottom of the western sky was smeared bright orange as the rest of the sky darkened to blue-black. The sound of the river brushed my ears as I rode back toward the house, almost putting me to sleep with its soothing flow. The wagon was out in front of the barn, so I knew that Dad and Jack had returned from Belle Fourche.
After feeding and combing Ahab, I went inside and sat up to the table, where a plate of food waited. I could hear Muriel playing outside, and I figured that Katie must be with her. Bob was wrapped in a blanket, curled up in a chair. Like Katie, he had been battling the flu. But unlike her, he didn’t show any sign of recovery yet.
Mom had torn the whitewashed flour sacks from the walls to wash them, and she scrubbed one against the washboard. Dad dug at his thumb with a pocketknife. From the moment I entered the kitchen, I felt tension, and I knew my parents had been arguing again. Ever since George’s disappearance, they had fought more than I could ever remember, sometimes raising their voices to the point that the only relief was to go outside.
“I was just about to come looking for you,” Dad said, his voice tight.
“Yeah?”
“How’d it go today?” Mom asked. But her voice was also strained, and I knew I was only being addressed as a diversion. A wisp of red floated from one side of her head.
“All right. I found an old cow caught up in the bog over at HayCreek.” I decided not to mention what happened with Art, thinking it would only add fuel to a combustible situation.
“You got her out?” Dad pulled a splinter from his thumb, then studied both. I bit into a chicken leg.
I nodded. “It was Art’s. He helped me out. Where’s Jack?”
“He took Katie fishing,” Mom answered.
“Good.” I wiped grease from my chin. “What time did you guys get back, Dad?”
“Around three.” Dad sucked blood from his thumb. “What’s that?” He pointed at my forehead.
“Oh, nothing. Just banged my head against the hoe.” I touched the knot.
Mom squeezed murky water from a flour sack and shook it out with brisk, angry strokes. She hung it on the line she’d stretched across the kitchen.
“Did you stay at the road ranch, Dad?” I asked.
“Yep. That second Roberts gal, Sophie, I think it is…she ran off to Oregon to marry some older guy.”
“Really?” Despite her mood, Mom’s ear for gossip was strong.
“Is she the tall one?” I asked, knowing perfectly well that she was. Sophie Roberts, the second daughter of the couple that ran the ranch where people could bed down for the night on their way to or from Belle Fourche, had been a striking figure from the time she finished grade school. She had the kind of flour-white complexion contrasting her shiny black hair that, when she entered a dance, everyone lost a step.
Dad nodded. “God, son, you should see all the honyockers moving in. There must be twenty new homesteads between here and Belle, and those are just the ones I could see from the road.” He shook his head.
Mom dipped another sack into the tub of water. I was glad that Dad brought up this topic, as it was something my parents were in complete agreement about—empathy toward these newcomers. By thistime, the prime land, along the river and bigger streams, had all been claimed. Everyone knew that these latecomers were working against odds they hadn’t anticipated, lured by ads from the railroads claiming five times more production from 320 acres than anyone could expect.
I noticed a tiny white dress draped over one of the kitchen chairs. “What’s that?”
Mom glanced up. “That’s for Jenny’s baby.”
I nodded. Jenny Glasser, Gary’s son Steve’s wife, had lost her baby a few days before. “When’s the funeral?”
Mom stopped what she was doing, her eyes shifting from side to side.
I studied her. “Mom?”
“Wait!”
By the time I returned home, the bottom of the western sky was smeared bright orange as the rest of the sky darkened to blue-black. The sound of the river brushed my ears as I rode back toward the house, almost putting me to sleep with its soothing flow. The wagon was out in front of the barn, so I knew that Dad and Jack had returned from Belle Fourche.
After feeding and combing Ahab, I went inside and sat up to the table, where a plate of food waited. I could hear Muriel playing outside, and I figured that Katie must be with her. Bob was wrapped in a blanket, curled up in a chair. Like Katie, he had been battling the flu. But unlike her, he didn’t show any sign of recovery yet.
Mom had torn the whitewashed flour sacks from the walls to wash them, and she scrubbed one against the washboard. Dad dug at his thumb with a pocketknife. From the moment I entered the kitchen, I felt tension, and I knew my parents had been arguing again. Ever since George’s disappearance, they had fought more than I could ever remember, sometimes raising their voices to the point that the only relief was to go outside.
“I was just about to come looking for you,” Dad said, his voice tight.
“Yeah?”
“How’d it go today?” Mom asked. But her voice was also strained, and I knew I was only being addressed as a diversion. A wisp of red floated from one side of her head.
“All right. I found an old cow caught up in the bog over at HayCreek.” I decided not to mention what happened with Art, thinking it would only add fuel to a combustible situation.
“You got her out?” Dad pulled a splinter from his thumb, then studied both. I bit into a chicken leg.
I nodded. “It was Art’s. He helped me out. Where’s Jack?”
“He took Katie fishing,” Mom answered.
“Good.” I wiped grease from my chin. “What time did you guys get back, Dad?”
“Around three.” Dad sucked blood from his thumb. “What’s that?” He pointed at my forehead.
“Oh, nothing. Just banged my head against the hoe.” I touched the knot.
Mom squeezed murky water from a flour sack and shook it out with brisk, angry strokes. She hung it on the line she’d stretched across the kitchen.
“Did you stay at the road ranch, Dad?” I asked.
“Yep. That second Roberts gal, Sophie, I think it is…she ran off to Oregon to marry some older guy.”
“Really?” Despite her mood, Mom’s ear for gossip was strong.
“Is she the tall one?” I asked, knowing perfectly well that she was. Sophie Roberts, the second daughter of the couple that ran the ranch where people could bed down for the night on their way to or from Belle Fourche, had been a striking figure from the time she finished grade school. She had the kind of flour-white complexion contrasting her shiny black hair that, when she entered a dance, everyone lost a step.
Dad nodded. “God, son, you should see all the honyockers moving in. There must be twenty new homesteads between here and Belle, and those are just the ones I could see from the road.” He shook his head.
Mom dipped another sack into the tub of water. I was glad that Dad brought up this topic, as it was something my parents were in complete agreement about—empathy toward these newcomers. By thistime, the prime land, along the river and bigger streams, had all been claimed. Everyone knew that these latecomers were working against odds they hadn’t anticipated, lured by ads from the railroads claiming five times more production from 320 acres than anyone could expect.
I noticed a tiny white dress draped over one of the kitchen chairs. “What’s that?”
Mom glanced up. “That’s for Jenny’s baby.”
I nodded. Jenny Glasser, Gary’s son Steve’s wife, had lost her baby a few days before. “When’s the funeral?”
Mom stopped what she was doing, her eyes shifting from side to side.
I studied her. “Mom?”
“Wait!”
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