Showdown at Buffalo Jump by Gary D. Svee

taste.
    Catherine carried the steak and a few potatoes back to the dugout where she coated the meat with flour and salt and pepper and shaved the potatoes into thin slices.
    There was a bucket of kindling and a box of coal beside the stove. Catherine tossed the kindling into the stove and threw in a scoop of coal. Next, she spooned lard into a frying pan and set it on top. Within moments, the lard was smoking, and Catherine shoveled steak and potatoes into the pan.
    There was a cabinet against the wall that held Max’s dishes, four mismatched plates, three coffee mugs, an odd assortment of forks, table knives, and spoons, and worn-out sheets he apparently used for tablecloths.
    The settings were rough, but no rougher than the table on which they were put, or the two chairs—one new and obviously for Catherine—that were drawn up to it.
    By the time she had arranged the table with the kerosene lamp in the middle, the steak and potatoes were done, and then, as though by cue, Max stepped through the dugout’s blanket door. He fussed about, washing his face in a panful of cold water carried from the creek, then slicked down his hair and waited for Catherine to call him to the table.
    When she did, he sat down and reached for the steak in one single motion.
    â€œMr. Bass!” Catherine snapped.
    Max jerked to a stop. He sat awkwardly, not knowing what he had done wrong, but knowing Catherine wouldn’t hesitate to tell him.
    â€œMr. Bass,” Catherine repeated, her voice taking on a superior air, “it is not proper to attack your food without first giving thanks.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am,” Max said, reaching again for the steak.
    â€œMr. Bass, it is not I you thank, but the Lord for His bounty.”
    â€œThank you, Lord,” Max said, spearing a hunk of steak with his fork, and drawing it back to his plate.
    Catherine’s face was livid. “I can see now why you choose to live in a hole in the ground. Your manners are not suited for the company of humankind.”
    Max mumbled, “Sorry, ma’am” around a mouthful of potatoes. The effect was something less than he might have hoped.
    Catherine bowed her head in prayer and crossed herself, then reached for the plate of steak and potatoes.
    After he had finished eating, Max settled back in his chair to drink his coffee and pick his teeth with a splinter of wood broken off a piece of kindling. “Bunkhouse, ma’am.”
    And when Catherine looked up with a puzzled expression on her face, Max continued. “My manners are suitable for a bunkhouse. You grab in a grub shack or you don’t get.”
    There was a touch of challenge to Max’s voice, and when Catherine finished her dinner, he leaned across the table and looked directly into her eyes.
    â€œI’m glad to see that you’re a good Catholic. I was counting on that,” and when Catherine’s face took on an even more quizzical expression, he continued. “You were probably thinking that you would go back into town tomorrow and get the priest to annul the marriage and then skedaddle back to Boston?”
    Catherine nodded.
    â€œWell, the priest isn’t in Prairie Rose, and he won’t be back for another three months. There isn’t another priest for a hundred miles, and none of them would give you an annulment unless they talked to me first. So you’re married to me, Mrs. Catherine O’Dowd Bass, whether you like it or not.”
    Catherine drew back her fist to give Max another lesson in Irish ladies’ rights, but something in his eyes, his voice, made her hesitate.
    â€œThe straight of it,” Max continued, “is that you’re not leaving tomorrow, or the day after that, or the next week, either.”
    Catherine’s anger boiled over. “I will leave this den of yours tomorrow whether you allow me to or not!”
    â€œNo!” Max’s deep voice cut into Catherine’s speech