The Woodsman's Rose Page 11

  “Geordie and Suzette have the foreman’s cabin. They can share Frank and Patricia’s rooms, if you and Alec take that. That leaves us with the Callendars and the ranchhands.” The widow Daisy Callendar had a grown son and four younger daughters who were lodged in another of the empty bunkhouses, while the half-dozen permanent hands shared a third. John Patrick’s frown deepened. They could make it work, he was sure, but he couldn’t quite see his way through to it. “Jake, go get your brother Daniel.”

  They came downstairs moments later with Frank and Patricia, Daniel with pencil and paper in hand. Before he had a chance to sit, John Patrick had a question for him.

  “Have Evelyn and Lowell any extra rooms?”

  “No, sir. In addition to Owen and Annie and Carolyn, they’ve got the Entwerps and the new Chinese family. Oh, and the Santiagos. Benson’s got the Taylors, Rileys and Thatchers, all the single ranchers and farmhands from over that way, plus his cowboys. Everybody else from town is out at Cordell’s or on Miller’s farm.”

  “What about the new man—the one who bought the Wilson place?”

  Daniel shrugged, but Tommy answered, “Said ’e was goin’ down t’ Tuba City. Heard it wasn’ so bad there.”

  “Well, let’s hope not.” John Patrick clapped his hands together. “So, how do we do this?”

  It took Daniel a few moments to reply. He’d drawn boxes on the paper while he talked, and began to scribble names in each. He examined his work, then looked up at Molly. “Your room’s the biggest, Mother. I think it can work if we put Daisy and Moira and all the young ones in there.”

  “Of course.”

  “You and Dad could take the guest room. Then we split the rest up by gender. Men in Jake’s room and the front parlor. Women in Irene’s room, and in Frank and Patricia’s rooms. We’ll keep the back parlor open in case anyone gets sick. Plus it’s the only way to the bathroom. That leaves the dining room for the hands.”

  “Wait a minnit,” Tommy said. “Why don’t ya put the hands in the foreman’s cabin? Me an’ Alec can bunk with the tribe. They might be more comf’table with us right there. The li’l ones won't need their own bunks—they can double up or sleep with their Mas.”

  Daniel could see the relief on his mother’s face. She wouldn’t have objected, but to have men camped out in her dining room was the last thing she’d wish for. “OK? Then we’re set. Tommy, I guess we’ve got to go talk the tribe into moving.”

  HAVING SETTLED THE Navajo into the bunkhouses, the Donovans fell into a new routine. A breakfast of ham and biscuits was served in the kitchen in three shifts. At noon, a platter of beef sandwiches appeared and everyone helped themselves whenever they were hungry.

  Dinner was served at 6 o’clock, with kids in the kitchen, adults and babies in the dining room. Supplies might have become a problem, but everyone had brought their food stocks with them, including so many canned goods that some had to be stored on the back porch.

  The logistics of dinner preparation were determined by Molly, who acted as overseer and assigned teams of four women on a rotating basis. As the days went on, Irene’s temper began to fray, and when old Mrs. Johnson again criticized her potato peeling, Irene threw down her paring knife and stormed from the kitchen, the swinging door crashing after her.

  After a few moments in which all the women silently concentrated on their own tasks, Annie whispered to Molly, got a nod in return, and followed Irene out. The sound of sobbing led her to the small parlor behind the stairs, where Irene lay on her grandmother’s velvet couch. Sitting beside her, Annie waited for the storm to pass, then asked, “Are you really this upset about some potatoes?”

  “Oh, Annie, it’s not just that!” Irene sat up and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Mrs. Milligan’s in my room—she thinks she might be having a baby and she threw up all over my new boots.”

  “I’ll help you clean them up after we eat.”

  “Violet already did.” Violet was one of Irene’s school chums—a girl with a shy smile and eyes that matched her name. “But it still smells bad. Then Vi went out to the barn to tell Mr. Milligan to come in, and now there’s mud all over my rug. All my things are getting ruined!”

  The weeping began again. Annie put an arm around Irene’s shoulders and stifled the urge to criticize.

  With her temper once more under control, Annie asked, “Have you thought about what’s happening to Mrs. Milligan’s things?”

  “What? No. Why?”

  “Their ranch is downhill from the river, isn’t it? It’s going to be full of water and mud. They could lose all their livestock. Even if Mrs. Milligan is pregnant, she’s going to have to share the clean-up with her husband.” Irene tried to interrupt, but Annie went smoothly on. “Violet’s going home to a farmhouse south of the river. Her mother has rheumatism, and her brother and sister are too small to help very much. So Violet and her father will have to do most of the work.

  “And Mrs. Johnson lives alone in town. She’s probably worried that the water’s going to soak everything she owns, and she’s going to have to ask for help. And you know how much she hates to ask for anything, don’t you?”

  “Oh.” After a long silence, Irene added, “I guess I’m being a baby.”

  “Just a little bit.” Annie smiled at her, all vestige of temper gone. “When times are hard, everyone suffers. It’s something to think about.”

  Irene stood and smoothed down her skirts, tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “I’m going to go apologize to Mrs. Johnson.”

  “That’s a good idea. Then we’ll finish the potatoes together, OK?”

  “Yeah. I wonder if she’ll like your way of peeling.”

  Chapter 22

  The village was underwater for two weeks. When the river finally receded, the streets and the ground floors of every building in town were filled with mud, and thousands of cattle were dead. The family did their share of the cleaning up and clearing out. The mud was bad enough—smelling, as Brian put it, “like socks that got worn wet for a month, then thrown in a corner t’ mildew.” But when it came to the disposal of steer, pig, and chicken carcasses, the stench seemed to flare up from hell. Even the camphor-soaked bandannas Molly prepared weren’t enough to cover the stink of rotting meat as it burned. The men trudged home every night so nauseated, the very thought of food made them gag.

  John Patrick had an answer ready for every complaint. The rich tapestry of his mother’s wisdom included a proverb he found especially appropriate to the life they led in this wild land, and he repeated it often to his children. “You can live without your own, but not without your neighbor.”

  With the cleanup finally accomplished, Raymond Benson called a meeting of the Cattlemen’s Association. He proposed a scheme of proportionality to make up for some of the losses sustained in the flood and it met with very little resistance. When a detailed agreement was hammered out, he invited all the residents of the town and outlying areas to a meeting at the Town Hall.

  “Awright, folks, settle down now. Take a seat if you can find one.” He waited for the room to quiet. “Awright, I asked y’all heah t’day t’ see what we can do about the flood damage.”

  “Do?” demanded a man standing against the far wall. “What you gonna do? It’s over an’ done. I’m ruint an’ so’re the rest o’ us, ’ceptin’ you few with money.”

  “What’s yore name, mister?” Benson asked.

  “Sykes. I bought the Wilson place las’ fall.” He was a powerfully built man, with skin the color and texture of aged walnut. His dark eyes snapped at Benson.

  “Well, Mr. Sykes,” Benson began, in his soft Texas drawl. Sykes’ face twisted into a grimace. “I’d like you—an’ all y’all—t’ hear me out. The Cattlemen’s Association met yestidday, an’ we have a proposal t’ make. If it’s awright with y’all, we’d like t’ make a proportional distribution o’ this year’s calves along with their mothers.”

  Benson put up his hands for silence as he was barraged with quest
ions. “Wait a minnit! Jus’ gimme a minnit an’ I’ll explain it t’ y’all.

  “The ranchers who had fewer losses have agreed t’ pool t’gether the calves that’re born this year, along with their mothers, an’ distribute ’em accordin’ t’ the losses each o’ y’all suffered. Now, it won't make up for everythin’ you lost, but it should be enough t’ keep y’all goin’ ’til next year.”

  “You’re talkin’ ’bout charity,” Sykes declared, gripping a cloth cap between strong hands. “I won't take no charity.”

  “We’re talking about neighbors.” John Patrick’s voice carried throughout the room. “All of these good people are my neighbors, and yours. We share the good times, and we can share the bad times as well.”

  There was a buzz of agreement in the hall, but Sykes wasn’t satisfied. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Not a thing,” John Patrick answered, “except perhaps my immortal soul.” The black man shook his head. “Let me ask you this: if this building were on fire, would you join the bucket brigade?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause the whole town might burn down.”

  “And the whole town is needed by you, as it is by all of us.” John Patrick pointed his pipe, moved it to encompass the entire room. “We all need one another. Which of you would live in this wilderness alone?”

  A low chorus of denials greeted his inquiry.

  “But what about plow horses?” one of the farmers asked.

  “I got some,” Tommy answered. He’d loosed all of his horses when the river overflowed. With the help of the Navajo, he and Alec had managed to catch most of them again.

  “I’ve an extra,” added Seamus Flaherty, and three other farmers followed suit.

  “Y’all get t’gether after the meetin’,” Benson said. “See if you got what you need, an’ if not, lemme know. Anythin’ else?”

  Marvin Entwerp stood up. His ranch was far south of town and he’d lost not only his cattle and horses, but most of his family’s belongings as well. “First off, I wanna say thanks. An’ I don’t want nobody t’ think I don’t appreciate what you’re tryin’ to do here. But I lost everything, an’ some calves an’ cows ain’t gonna be much use to me. I need cattle I can sell this year. I won't make it through another winter on what I got put away. I’m sorry, gentlemen, I hate to be...”

  “No, no,” Benson said, “anybody else in the same boat?” Five or six hands went up. “Awright, jus’ wait a few minnits, will ya?” Benson motioned to his committee. Daniel followed his father and Adam as they gathered in the corner with the other ranchers.

  “Whaddya think?” Benson asked. John Patrick shook his head and the others looked perplexed.

  “How about this?” the woodsman suggested. “We use the same calculation based on the number of new calves, but we put mature cattle in place of some of them. It actually works out better for everyone, doesn’t it? We wouldn’t be giving up this year’s entire crop, and the others would have stock they could breed or sell this year.”

  “I think that’s it,” Adam agreed. “And if we put together a breeding program, it’ll give everyone a fighting chance at some growth next spring.”

  “Any objections?” Benson asked, looking around at his committee. “Awright, I think that’ll work. How we gonna control it?”

  “Three of them, three of us,” Daniel suggested. “Make the counts together. Calves have already started dropping. We can keep a running tab, and go out every two weeks or so for a recount. Deduct the ones we’ve already counted, and that’s the new number.”

  John Patrick clapped his hands together. “Ray, let’s get this done.”

  At the end of the day, both Daniel and Sykes were appointed to the counting committee. Eli marched over to John Patrick as he left. “I still don't know how I feel ’bout this, sir. I don't like t’ be beholden.”

  “Everyone in this town is beholden, son. It’s the way we all stay honest.”

  Chapter 23

  After the first round of calf-counting, the committee dwindled. Ultimately four members dropped out, saying they were too busy and would trust the information Daniel was gathering. Eli Sykes, however, maintained his position.

  “Not ‘cause I don't trust you,” he told Daniel, “but they gave me this job, an’ I don’t feel right bout letting it go.”

  “Then let’s go out to the canyon today. Haven’t been there yet, and Adam says they have at least a dozen new calves. Not that he’s been out to count them!”

  “Awright, Mr. Donovan. This Adam—he’s kin o’ yours?”

  “Call me Daniel. And yes, he’s my oldest brother. My brother Brian lives there, too.”

  “My name’s Elijah. Eli for short.”

  As they rode out west of the Donovan lands, Daniel searched for a way to get some personal information from his companion without sounding too nosy. He was about to speak when Eli asked, “Where’s your daddy from?”

  “Ireland.”

  “Thought he might be. How long y’all been here?”

  “About eighteen years here in Arizona,” Daniel replied. “I was the first one born over here—I mean, in America. Texas, to be exact. Family moved here when I was ten.” He got no response from the man at his side, so decided to elaborate. “Adam and Brian were born in Ireland—they’re twins, almost five years older than me. My brother Conor was born there, too, but he’s at sea and doesn’t get home much.”

  “Nice family. All boys, huh?”

  Daniel had to laugh. “Nope. We go all the way to ‘J’ now.” At the other’s look of confusion, he explained his grandmother’s method of naming the Donovan children. The first, Adam, had been named after her deceased husband. Then Molly had named Brian to honor her father, William Francis O’Brien, and John Patrick had chosen his mother’s maiden name for Conor. “Gran called my three brothers her ‘little alphabet’. When I was born, she suggested Daniel, or ‘Donal’ as it is in Gaelic. Then there’s my sister Evelyn, and the younger twins, Frank and Geordie. Then Henry—he died when he was two years old, before we left Abilene. Irene and Jake were both born here in Arizona.”

  “Whew! That’s a big family!”

  “How about you?”

  Several minutes elapsed before Eli spoke, his voice rumbling in his chest like a locomotive. Yet the words came out slowly as a drip of molasses. “I was born a slave.” He looked over at Daniel before he continued. “Back in Mississippa, on the Big Black River. Worked a cotton plantation. We worked hard an’ didn’t have no days off, an’ sometimes in winter the roof’d leak. But that wasn’ too bad compared to what come next.

  “Masta’s name was Ryan, and he had jus’ the one child. The young masta, he went t’ fight in the big war an’ got hisself killed. Masta Ryan, he just fade away after that—let the whole plantation go straight t’ hell. An’ when he died, well, there wasn’t nobody else left in the family, so the place got took over by the plantation down the road. An’ that man—name o’ Groven—he was wuss than the devil hisself. Blamed us for lettin’ the place go t’ rack an’ ruin. Ran us twenty hours a day. An’ that overseer, he’d flog you at the drop of a hat.

  “My boy,” he continued in a lifeless voice, “my boy was seven years old. He worked in the kitchens. One day ’e dropped a bowl o’ soup. Just one bowl. An’ that ol’ devil Groven called out t’ the overseer that this here boy don't know ’is place.

  “They took my boy out t’ flog ’im. But I fell right down on top of ’im an’ took the beatin’ for ’im. But afterwards, when they pulled me off, they was all set t’ flog ’im anyway. So I just picked up a pitchfork an’ I run that overseer through. Then I grabbed my boy an’ lit on out.”

  The horses had come to a stop at the entrance to the Rocking Chair Ranch. Daniel’s hands were trembling and when he found his voice, it was deeper, gruffer than usual. “You did what you had to do. I would’ve done the same thing.”

  He heard a long sigh from Sykes and glanced over to see
his hands were trembling, too.

  “I never told that story before. I guess the way they trust you... I been waitin’ a long time t’ get it off my chest.”

  “You did what you had to do,” the woodsman repeated. “And it doesn’t matter way out here. No one cares about the past—or what happened somewhere else. Where’s your boy now? And your wife?”

  “It was goin’ on winter when the boy an’ me run away. I run inta the river t’ keep the dogs from followin’. I dunno how long I run—two, mebbe three days—an’ I was just about t’ give out when a raft come downriver. There’s a white man on it, so I started t’ run away, but alla sudden, he shouted out he was a Quaker. Them Quakers, y’know, they helped a lotta us escape.”

  “I know,” Daniel said. “They’re a wonderful people. They helped Ireland out when the famine hit. But that’s a story for another day. You go ahead—what happened then?”

  “Well, we got on ’is raft an’ ’e took us to a boat further upriver. We hid down in the hold an’ they covered us with bales o’ cotton. It was a long, dirty ride, but the boat went up to Cincinnata. Way after dark, they pulled us out an’ put us in the back of a wagon, covered us up with more cotton. An’ they brought us t’ Mr. Levi Coffin.

  “We was sick. We was both real sick. We couldn’t go on. They hid us in a root cellar, but the boy already had the grippe an’ there wasn’t nothin’ t’ be done. He died jus’ a few days later.

  “I was okay after a while, an’ they told me they’d take me up t’ Canada. But then the war was alla sudden over. I got me a job at a warehouse—sortin’ cotton if y’can believe it! I saved up my money, an’ then I tried to find my wife.

  “One of the first things that Groven did was sell half the women down river. I went back to the plantation an’ heard she’d been sent to Baton Rouge. But she wasn’t there anymore. A friend o’ hers told me she went to Prescott, so I tried there, too. But no luck. I left messages there for her if she ever does get there, then I came north to see if I could find a li’l farm. I always did like see the crops grow—startin’ from a li’l bitty seed an’ growin’ tall an’ strong... It’s just somethin’. So anyways, here I am.”