The Americans Read online

“No.”

  The promptness of the reply brought another pleased look to Roosevelt’s face. Will was thankful the ranchman didn’t follow him outside to see how confused he became in the darkness. He really hadn’t paid much attention to the precise layout of the Maltese Cross. He found the stable only by following sounds and smells.

  Good smells, he decided as he approached the little building. Sweet hay and horseflesh mingling in the clean, cold air. But he doubted he’d sleep well on a hard dirt floor with cow ponies fretting next to him all night long.

  He spread the blankets, crawled between them and put his head on his valise. He yawned. No pillow had ever felt softer.

  Surprisingly, it took him only a minute or so to drift off. He was stiff when he woke. But he couldn’t remember ever having slept so soundly.

  iii

  Roosevelt rode out before daylight. After breakfast, Sewall drove Will back into Medora so he could spend some of his pocket money for work clothes—blue denim pants, flannel shirts, a sturdy pair of batwing chaps, mule-ear boots, and work spurs. Sewall’s ranching experience was useful when Will was tempted to choose items more fancy than practical. The New Englander did approve of the purchase of an expensive Montana-peak hat.

  “You’ll drink out of it, fan a fire with it, hide from hailstones under it—so it pays to get a good one. Next to a horse, a hat’s a cowboy’s most important possession.”

  Will gathered up the purchases and prepared to pay for them. Sewall tapped his arm.

  “Want one of those?”

  He was pointing to a dusty showcase containing several revolvers—one S&W .45-caliber six-shot model; four of the famous and dependable 1873 Colt Frontier .45 Peacemakers, one with a silver-plate finish, an extra-cost option; and one immaculate and expensive Buntline Special, which was basically the Peacemaker with an extra-long barrel and detachable rifle stock added.

  Will studied the weapons a moment “Don’t think so, Mr. Sewall. I know how to shoot. My father taught me when I was eleven. We used to drive into the country west of Boston, find some woods and plink away at bottles. But I haven’t fired a gun since then. I’m not anxious to take it up again.”

  “Smart,” Sewall said with a brief smile. “Sometimes a gun’s nothing but an invitation for some drunken pup to pick a fight.” Sewall wore no sidearm, though while traveling from the ranch to town, Will had noticed that he kept a rifle in the wagon.

  By noon they were headed north along the river in the wagon. All day they traveled through wild, spectacular country—a country of twisting gullies, huge rocky outcrops, and looming buttes. The only living creatures they saw were a few mule deer, some trilling larks, and pickerel and sunfish in a stream. Gnarled trees creaked in a wind that grew steadily colder as the day progressed.

  High above, sunlight painted the summits of the buttes. Down where the wagon rumbled along there was only deepening blue shadow. It was late at night before they reached the Elkhorn.

  The ranch was twelve miles from the nearest human habitation. It was situated on a low bluff near the broad, shallow river. The place had been named for a pair of wapiti skulls found on the site. The two bull elk had apparently gotten their horns locked during combat and had never been able to pull them apart. They’d died that way.

  The main building, long and low, was constructed of hewn logs. Its veranda faced the Little Missouri and some intervening cottonwoods where mourning doves cooed. As the wagon pulled in, Will heard an owl hoot.

  On the veranda he met Sewall’s nephew Wilmot Dow, another New England Yankee of about the same age as Roosevelt. Together, Sewall and Dow ran the ranch for their boss, Dow told him. Will managed to murmur something. He was numb from the cold. But he refused to let on.

  Inside, he was introduced to two other residents of the ranch about whom he’d heard nothing up till now—the wives of the two men. Both Mrs. Sewall and Mrs. Dow were visibly pregnant, and sleepy from awaiting Sewall’s arrival with the new hand. But the women insisted Will have something to eat before he bedded down in the stable. He didn’t argue.

  While he wolfed freshly warmed biscuits and drank milk, he studied the interior of the ranch house. It had some unusual features, including three long shelves crowded with books. The spines of a few of them bore the gold tea-bottle colophon of Kent and Son, he was pleased to see.

  There was also a rocking chair, and a large panlike object whose composition and function he didn’t immediately understand. Amused by Will’s expression, Sewall enlightened him.

  “That’s Mr. Roosevelt’s bathtub. It’s rubber. Came all the way from Minneapolis. You don’t usually find such on a working ranch. But the boss is a stickler for keeping clean.”

  “Wish some others would follow his example,” Mrs. Sewall said with a teasing smile.

  Sewall’s nephew Dow showed Will to quarters like those he’d occupied the night before. Even before Dow wished him good night and carried his lantern away, Will was arranging blankets. He sank down on the hard ground with a sigh of satisfaction, as if he were resting in a plush hotel. After what seemed a very short sleep, he was awakened by the prodding boot of a sinister-looking fellow with bad teeth and a stubbled chin.

  “Rise an’ shine, Kent, if that’s your name.”

  He sat up, rubbing his frozen arms and yawning. It was still pitch-dark.

  “What time is it? Feels like the middle of the night.”

  “Just about,” the man agreed. He gave off a strong odor of horse. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of a huge sheepskin-lined coat that made him look even smaller than he was. The lantern in his hand threw a grotesque shadow of his head—mostly big ears and untrimmed hair—on the stable ceiling.

  Will had never seen so many wrinkles on one human face. He couldn’t tell whether they’d been put there by age, weather, misery, or all three.

  The man went on. “But I got half a dozen wild jugheads to bust ’fore noontime. Guess you’re the one they give me for a helper. Christ on the mount, the things a man’s reduced to doin’ to survive in this world. I got to be a teacher—as if wrangling ain’t bad enough. Y’know these ranchers around here won’t pay more’n five bones for gentling a cow pony?”

  “Bones—?”

  “Dollars.”

  “Oh.” He reached toward the nail on which he’d hung his hat. The man studied him with an increasingly skeptical eye.

  “Say, where you from, anyway?”

  “Boston.”

  “Boston.” A pause. “That anywhere near Illinois?”

  Will decided it would be foolish to antagonize a man with whom he had to work. “It’s in the same general direction.”

  “I was in Chicago once. A year after the big fire. Couldn’t stand the goddamn crowds. Let me ask you somepin’, Kent. You ever rode a wild mustang before?”

  “I’ve never even seen one.”

  The man gnawed his lip. “Ever handled a lariat?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus on the road on Easter morning. May my dear mother forgive my language. Might as well tell me the worst. Are you a complete dude?”

  “I guess that’s what you’d call it. But I’m here to learn, Mister—”

  “Tompkins. Christopher P. Tompkins. My pals call me Chris.” His tone and expression suggested Will was not so privileged.

  The young man felt a flare of resentment, but he struggled to remain friendly. Unconsciously, he imitated Roosevelt’s smile and greeting. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Tompkins.”

  “Wish I could say the same. Don’t try actin’ like the boss. There’s only one of him, thank the Lord. Human race ain’t ready for two. And get this. You ever tell Mr. Roosevelt you heard me cussin’, I’ll rip your gizzard out with my bare hands. The boss and I don’t see eye to eye when it comes to profane language. I say a wrangler’s entitled to all he wants, seein’ as how his job’s so dangerous, I ’spect you’ll come to share my view pretty quick.”

  Despite Tompkins’ irascibility, Will sensed a good-humored str
eak in the man. Tompkins snatched his lantern from the empty nail keg on which he’d set it.

  “Well, come on, Kent, come on. Hasten forward quickly there! Let’s see whether you can stay alive in a horse corral long enough to learn a little something.”

  CHAPTER VI

  THE HORSE CORRAL

  i

  THE NEXT WEEK HAD an unreal quality for Will.

  To be sure, the days were essentially the same as all days; darkness gave way to light, and light to darkness again. But on the Elkhorn—especially if you worked for the head wrangler—the rising and setting of the sun had little impact on your routine. Will quickly began to think of his existence as divided among three main functions, and only three. The first involved working in the corral, in the midst of the dust and noise and sudden dangers that accompanied the process of breaking wild horses for the Elkhorn herd. If not working, Will was eating. At a single sitting, he was soon consuming enough beefsteak, potatoes, beans, and coffee to equal three or four full-sized meals. When not working or eating, he was asleep, desperately trying to renew his energy and rest the strained muscles that filled him with pain from his boots to his neckerchief—and sometimes higher.

  The wild mustangs chosen for the cavvy—the horse herd—averaged seven hundred pounds and twelve hands. What they lacked in weight and height, they made up in orneriness. Tompkins earned five dollars for each one he gentled—though, given the techniques he used, gentling was hardly an appropriate term, Will thought. Literally, Tompkins broke their spirits. His tools included spurs, a quirt, a lariat, some lengths of grass rope for cross hobbling, an old saddle and bridle, and generous quantities of physical strength, profanity, and nerve. The pay was low because the wild, range-bred strays could never be sold for more than thirty or forty dollars, even if perfectly trained. But the work was important because, on a roundup, there was a constant demand for horses that were obedient and didn’t spook too easily. Every working cowboy needed not just one mount like that, but a whole string.

  All the Elkhorn mustangs had been rounded up on the open range. A structure such as a corral, which curtailed their freedom, was frightening to them. Attempts to further limit that freedom by means of riding gear brought instantaneous and terrified rebellion. Bucking, biting, kicking. In essence, Chris Tompkins’ job consisted of demonstrating to the mustangs that rebellion—disobedience—brought an instantaneous penalty in the form of pain.

  He first taught the lesson with a bridle, slipped on while the mustang was tied to the snubbing post. Next, while cross hobbled, the animal received saddle blanket and saddle. The first time Will helped Tompkins sling a blanket, he didn’t dodge fast enough. The horse took a bite out of his wrist.

  Will leaped away. Tompkins quirted the animal till blood showed on the leather. For a harrowing moment, the whip reminded Will of Margaret. It took effort to drive the memory out of his mind.

  Mrs. Dow applied a bandage to Will’s wrist. Then he went right back to work.

  It took him a little while to get used to the noise in the corral, to the sight of the lathered mustangs bucking and kicking, their huge eyes glaring from within clouds of tan dust. Soon, though, necessity taught him to ignore the extraneous, to move swiftly, as Tompkins did, and to keep alert.

  Gradually, too, his concerns about mistreatment of the horses were pushed to the back of his mind by the need to do whatever was necessary to survive in the corral. It was quickly evident that the horses would gladly mistreat him, given half a chance.

  Tompkins heaped scorn on Will for his clumsiness and inexperience. On several occasions the younger man was tempted to punch the wrangler, or just walk away from the whole business. He didn’t walk away because he meant to succeed on the Elkhorn. He didn’t hit Tompkins because he knew there was nothing personal in the criticism. The wrangler would have said the same thing to anyone he was teaching, Will suspected. And contrary to what Tompkins did with the horses, he wasn’t out to teach Will by destroying his capacity for anger. Just the reverse. Tompkins’ technique was to sneer and criticize until his pupil was in such a rage, he’d have died rather than fail again.

  Sometimes the process seemed reminiscent of Will’s experience with his mother. There were significant differences, though. He knew he deserved the condemnation he was receiving. And if he occasionally did something right, Tompkins never failed to mention that, too.

  ii

  It was his seventh morning on the Elkhorn. Somewhere in the preceding six, there’d been a Sabbath, but he couldn’t recall when. Tompkins observed no religious holidays. Shortly after first light, they put a saddle on a blazefaced pony Tompkins identified as a cross between a mesteño—cowboys sometimes called a wild stray by the Spanish name—and a Cavalry thoroughbred.

  The horse clearly hated the saddle, began to pull and roll its eyes and whinny in the cool air. At this stage, Tompkins usually passed the bridle to Will. This morning he hung on to it.

  “Pick up the quirt, Will. Then get up on him like I showed you.”

  “Me?”

  “Jesus Christ walking on the water. You see anybody else out here?”

  “No, but I don’t think—”

  “I don’t give a damn for what you think. Pick up the quirt and ride him. Mr. Roosevelt’s gonna be back here inside of three days. He’ll want to see you’ve made some progress. If he don’t, he’ll find a new wrangler. This job ain’t as bad as some I’ve had. I aim to keep it. Pick up the quirt.”

  Will wiped sweaty hands on his shirt. His mouth was dry all at once. He leaned down for the quirt, then sidled toward the mustang.

  The horse turned its head and started to nip him. Will dodged the wicked yellow teeth. He grabbed the mustang’s left ear and twisted.

  Feeling the pain, the horse whinnied and shied. Will hung on. The horse stood still.

  Holding his breath, Will swung up. He could feel the animal’s pent-up fury beneath him. He squeezed his legs together. Still holding the horse’s ear, he raised the quirt in his other hand. He let go of the ear and snatched the bridle—

  Five seconds later he was sitting on his rump in the dirt.

  His back felt broken. Tompkins chased the mustang, which had run off after throwing his rider. With much cursing and quirting, Tompkins got the horse under control. He brought him back to the center of the corral, jerking savagely so the bit hurt.

  Then, with great sarcasm, Tompkins said, “Next time try to stay aboard long enough to give him at least one whack of the quirt, huh, boy?”

  Through clenched teeth, Will said, “Yes, sir. I’ll surely try.”

  “You don’t sound as if you like this much, boy.”

  “No, sir. Not much.”

  The mustang looked wilder than ever. With steam rising off its flanks and its rolling eyes full of hate, it resembled some hell-born demon. Tompkins spat and scratched his groin.

  “Well, boy, then your choice is easy. Get your ass in the saddle an’ keep it there or drag it back to Boston or Ohio or wherever it is they raise punkin lilies.”

  The last words stirred memories of the Medora depot. Will’s face, brown from a week’s exposure to sun and wind, wrenched into lines of rage. “You son of a bitch—”

  “What’d you say, boy? Don’t mumble.”

  Will jerked his head up. “I said hold the son of a bitch so I can mount.”

  The wrangler grinned. “Yessir, that’s what I thought you said. All set? Here we go.”

  iii

  This time Will stayed on long enough to apply the quirt twice. When the mustang bucked him off, he fell hard. A half-buried rock gashed his forehead. Blood began to drip into his eyebrows.

  He said he wanted to find something to tie around his head. Tompkins apparently didn’t hear.

  “Get on him again.”

  Enraged, Will suddenly noticed Sewall and Dow leaning on the corral fence, motionless figures against the ruddy light in the east. On top of everything else he had to have an audience!

  “I said get
on, Kent. We ain’t got all day.”

  Five more times he mounted and was thrown. On the sixth try, without any warning whatsoever, the mustang gave up and quit bucking.

  Will almost couldn’t believe it. He started to laugh and whoop, half blinded by blood and half crazy with pain. He heard Sewall call congratulations. Dow applauded.

  He slid out of the saddle. His boots hit the dirt with a thump. He weaved toward Tompkins, grinning as broadly as the wrangler. “I made it!”

  “Damn if you didn’t. I knew you would. Hell”—he shrugged—“it was either that or perish.”

  Will untied his neckerchief and used it to swab blood out of his eyebrows. Meantime, Tompkins fetched a slicker that had been hanging on a rail of the corral.

  “We spent enough time on congratulations, boy.” He handed Will the slicker. “Get back up there an’ wave this around. Haze him good, so he gets accustomed to bein’ spooked. That way, he won’t throw the poor dumbbell who has to ride him in a gully-washer, when it’s thunderin’ an’ lightning to beat hell—”

  “Mr. Tompkins, you’re a slave driver.” But he was still grinning. And despite the blood and pain, he felt wonderful. Wonderful and proud.

  “Just doin’ my job, boy. Just doin’ what I’m grievously underpaid to do.”

  Unsmiling, he stared at his young pupil for a moment.

  “I s’pose it’s all right if you call me Chris now. You’re comin’ along okay. I’m not gonna run you off the spread. Well—not for at least the next day or so.”

  iv

  The wrangler was evidently lavish with his praise when Roosevelt returned. The first thing the Elkhorn’s owner said to Will was “Your friend Tompkins says you have the makings of a passable wrangler.”

  The term friend startled Will. He hadn’t quite thought about the profane old bachelor that way before. To do so was gratifying.

  “Well”—he bobbed his head in what he hoped was a modest way—“that’s nice to hear.”