Lifting the Sky by Mackie d'Arge Page B

kitchen, ripped off her gloves, and slapped them down on the table. “Mr. McCloud wasn’t kidding,” she said.
    â€œAbout what?” I looked up from the math problem I’d just solved and shoved my notebook aside. I’d had it with schoolwork.
    â€œDamn beaver dams.” She filled her teapot, switched on the stove, and banged the pot down on the burner.
    I cringed and peeked over my shoulder. The teapot was still in one piece. Sure, she’d been working too hard, but all in all everything had been going great. It was perfect, her not having a boss around and no one shouting orders at her. It was almost like having our very own place.
    â€œYesterday I went to the ponds.” She drummed her fingers on the edge of the stove as she waited for the water to boil. “It’s a lot of work undoing those dams stick by stick. Today the ditch is bone dry—overnight, the rascals rebuilttheir dams. No
wonder
the hands resorted to dynamiting the dams and setting out traps.”
    â€œBut they have rights too,” I said, twirling my hair on a finger, not sure if I should stick my neck out by sticking up for the beavers. “They only dam up the water to make ponds for their lodges….”
    â€œYeah, so they can have babies and make more dams. Well, the ranch’s got water rights too,” Mam responded. “No water gets to the ditch that’s supposed to irrigate the whole west side of the ranch. It’ll be a full-time job undoing those dams. I’ll have to go up every other day.” She plopped her elbows on the table, propped her chin in her hands, and let out a big sigh. “Unless I try trapping them…”
    â€œI can help undo them,” I said. There I was. Volunteering again. Undoing the dams would be an excellent excuse. I could disappear to them when that dreaded time came around.
Branding time
…
    â€œIt’s like magic, Blue,” Mam used to say, “the way you can make yourself disappear when you want to get out of branding….”
    My absolute total loathing of it started when I was six-going-on-seven. Mam had hired on at a dude ranch where the dudes sometimes helped out, but usually just got out their cameras and took pictures. I’d been happy showing off that morning, riding out to help round up the cattle. Then I’d sat on a corral with some kids and watched as the cowboys roped the calves and dragged them to the pairs ofcalf wrestlers. But as the hot branding iron sizzled the hide of the first calf, I leaped down. To my eyes it looked as if the calf had burst into flames. As usual, back then, when I saw lights that scared me, I took off like a banshee and hid.
    But as I jumped to the ground I’d heard my mom’s voice. “Blue can help.” And she waved me over. I hung back. She yelled my name and I had no choice. I shuffled over.
    â€œThey’re short of hands, and it’s the easiest job,” she said, leaning down to pat me on the shoulder. “When the wrestlers call, you just carry over this bucket.” She put the pail in my hands, squeezed my fingers over the handle, and ran off to help rope calves.
    All the calves got a brand and some shots and maybe an ear tag or some dehorning paste spread on their budding horns. But the male calves got one more thing. I only got called to them.
    â€œBall boy!” a wrestler would yell. No matter that I was a girl. I’d skitter off with the bucket thump-thumping against my legs. Holding the pail out as far as my little arms could reach, I’d crinkle up my nose and scrunch my eyes shut. But that didn’t help. Nothing smothered the smell of scorched hide and burned hair and smoke. Nothing drowned out the clamor of calves bawling and cows bellowing, or blanked out the dark reddish lights flashing up from the hurt calves. And even back then I knew what would be put in my bucket. Knew that a knife was slicing through soft tender skin and