Buffalo Summer

Badger drained the last of his glass and felt the whiskey burn deep. “Well, boss, you keep tellin’ yourself that and you might just come to believe it. Meantime, you best finish off your drink. It’ll give you the courage to face that silent tribe at supper. I don’t know about you, but I ain’t lookin’ forward to it one little bit, much as I admire Ramalda’s cookin’.”

“Maybe we have time for another,” Caleb said, lifting the bottle from the floor beside him with the expression of a condemned man.

Badger examined his glass. “That ain’t the worst offer I ever had,” he said, holding it out for a refill. “No point rushin’ into things.”

CHAPTER FOUR

PONY WAS STANDING at the kitchen counter when he came into the room, just as Ramalda was running through yet another string of heated rants about Caleb McCutcheon always being late, always late! And then quite suddenly the tall lean broad-shouldered rancher was there, and just as suddenly Pony felt all confused inside, turning quickly back to the task she had set herself—sliding the hot biscuits out of the pan and into a deep basket lined with a clean kitchen towel.

The boys were already seated at the table, washed and silent, watching this next culinary performance with a kind of suspicious anticipation. McCutcheon stopped just inside the kitchen door and glanced around the room, nodding almost imperceptibly when his eyes met hers, and then again at Guthrie Sloane, who stood in the back hallway as if hiding from the moment. “Sorry we’re late,” Caleb said to Ramalda, removing his hat as if he were in the presence of royalty. “It’s my fault. I hope you aren’t too angry.”

Ramalda paused in mid-waddle from stove to sink, holding a pot with something delicious-smelling in it. “Lavate las manos!” she said, nodding her head curtly toward the sink and glaring at them. She wrinkled her nose as if smelling something bad. “Hueles a vaca. You wash!”

“Yes, ma’am.” McCutcheon nodded humbly. He and Badger hung their hats on pegs beside the door and made for the sink, standing politely to one side until Ramalda had finished with it.

Pony had discovered that beneath that gruff and scowling exterior, Ramalda had an exceptionally soft heart. From speaking with her during supper preparations, Pony had also learned that the Mexican woman had worked for Jessie Weaver’s family back in the ranch’s glory days, before the fall of cattle prices, before Jessie’s father had gotten cancer. Ramalda had been like a mother to Jessie, whose own mother had died when she was just a child. When hard times had come to the ranch, both Ramalda and her cowboy husband, Drew Long, had been laid off, and Ramalda had confided that it had been a kind of miracle when Caleb McCutcheon had bought the ranch and hired her back—at Jessie’s prompting—shortly after Drew’s death.

Having washed up, both McCutcheon and Badger approached the table, where they stood awkwardly for a few moments before claiming chairs together at one end of the table. Guthrie joined them, and the three sat down and rested their elbows on the table, glancing around the room. McCutcheon’s eyes touched hers again briefly and Pony felt her cheeks warm. He cleared his throat.

“That bull buffalo is standing right across the creek from my cabin,” he said, reaching for the coffeepot that Ramalda had plunked in the center of the table and filling his cup. He did the same for Guthrie and Badger.

“I’ll be damned. Guess he traveled some today, didn’t he?” Guthrie said, raising his cup for a swallow. “Maybe in the morning he’ll be standing on your porch, lookin’ in the window.”

“That big buff’s like a mountain on hooves,” Badger said. “I’ve never seen any bigger. Kind of spooky, if you ask me. I’ll take beef cattle any day.”

“That’s because you don’t know what from wherefore,” Guthrie said. “Buffalo are the wave of the future. The meat is healthier, tastier, and since when could you sell a beef cow’s skull and hide for nearly a thousand dollars?”

“Since when could you throw a rope around a buffalo and slap your brand on it?” Badger challenged, adding three heaping spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee.

“Speaking of which,” McCutcheon interrupted, “Badger, weren’t you and Charlie supposed to give me a roping lesson yesterday? Charlie mentioned something about it when I ran into him at the Longhorn Cafe.”

Badger’s eyebrows raised and he rubbed his whiskery chin. “That’s the first I heard of it.” He shook his head in disgust. “Charlie’s a senile old coot.”

Pony helped Ramalda with the final preparations while listening to the conversation, and the boys’ heads turned solemnly from one speaker to another as if watching a tennis match.

Guthrie reached for the coffeepot. “Charlie and Badger can’t throw a rope anyhow,” he said, topping off his mug. “Between the two of them, I doubt they could rope a stump and tie it to a tree. Why’d you want to take lessons from them?”

“I was throwin’ a rope long before you hit the ground, son,” Badger said, adding another spoonful of sugar to his cup. “And I expect I can still throw one better’n you.”

“Maybe we should have us a rope-throwing contest after supper,” Guthrie said. “I could use a little extra pocket money betting on a sure thing like that.”

Badger laid down his spoon, straightened his spine and smoothed his mustache. “Son, there’s no such thing as a sure thing, but if you want to run on the rope, go right ahead. To my way of thinkin’, you’d be better off keeping your money in your pocket. You’re going to need all the cash you can get to pay for this big wedding of yours that your sister Bernie’s plannin’.”

Guthrie sipped his coffee. “Why, Badger, I thought you was plannin’ to foot the bill. You’re always talkin’ about how Jessie’s been just like a granddaughter to you.”

“That she is,” Badger said, his voice gruff but his expression softening. “Maybe we’d both best be saving our money.”

McCutcheon leaned back in his chair. “I guess this means I’m never going to get my roping lesson.”

Pony set the basket of golden biscuits on the table, but when Jimmy immediately reached for one she said, “Wait.” She helped Ramalda bring the rest of the food, and then took a chair between Jimmy and Roon. Ramalda went back to the sink and began fussing with the dirty pots and pans. Badger reached for a biscuit. “Wait,” Pony said again, and Badger drew his hand back as if he’d been slapped. Pony folded her hands in front of her. “We must wait.”

The boys sat silently. McCutcheon and Guthrie exchanged a questioning glance while Ramalda scrubbed noisily away at the pots in the kitchen sink. The wait stretched out for several long minutes and finally Badger cleared his throat. “Now, maybe I’m practicing rude behavior here, ma’am, but just what the devil are we waiting for?” he said, giving her a reproachful look. “Are you about to say grace?”

Pony’s clasped hands tightened. “It is impolite to begin eating before everyone is seated.”

Badger snorted. “Hell’s bells, Ramalda never sits with us. We’ll all starve if we wait for her. She eats in her own place, at her own time.”

Pony looked at McCutcheon with a surge of indignation. “You mean that she is not allowed to eat with you?”

His face flushed. “She’s more than welcome, but she won’t. Maybe you can convince her to, but I can’t. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

She looked behind her to where the woman worked at the sink. “Ramalda, sientate, y come con nosotros.” Ramalda swung her bulk about and scowled, raised a dripping hand holding a scouring pad and shook her head.

“No. Comaselos ustedes ahora que están caliente.”

Pony faced front again, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “She says for us to eat while the food is hot.”

“There now, you see?” Badger said. “She’s an old-time camp cookie, Ramalda is. She knows full well that us cowboys is nothin’ more than a big appetite ridin’ a horse.” He reached for the basket of biscuits and helped himself, handing the basket to his left, and did the same with the platter of two plump roasting chickens. A spicy dish made of cornmeal with peppers and onions followed, and finally, the big pitcher of milk. For a while there was only the noise of cutlery scraping against plates as the boys dug in and the men followed suit. Pony glanced up as Ramalda plunked a big cast-iron pot of spiced beef and beans onto the table and replenished the biscuits and the milk. She tried to eat but couldn’t, her nerves were that rattled. But it didn’t matter. The noon meal had been sufficient to last her several days.

“So tell me why that big bull buffalo roams,” Caleb McCutcheon said, startling her. She caught his gaze for a moment and then dropped her eyes to her plate and pretended to concentrate on her food.

“The bulls will generally remain near the herd, but they hang together in their own group. The cows stay with the cows, the bulls with the bulls,” she said to her plate. “The only time the bulls run with the cows is during the mating time. Your bull is lonely, but not for the cows. Not right now. Right now he needs other bulls, the same way you men seem to need each other’s company.”

“But won’t they fight amongst themselves?”

Pony nodded, glancing up briefly. “In the mating time they’ll test each other. They’ll fight sometimes, and sometimes there’ll be injuries. But the rest of the year the bulls like each other’s company.”

“Yepper,” Badger said, deadpan. “Maybe you’ll find him on your porch in the morning. Maybe he just wants to hang out with you, boss.”

“How many bulls do you think I should have here?” McCutcheon asked.

“That depends. How many cows do you want to run?”

“How many cows could this ranch support?” he said, fork poised halfway to his mouth.

“How big is your range?”

“It’ll be fifteen thousand acres in another month, but right now we’re working with five thousand,” McCutcheon said.

“And you have ten cows and one bull.” Pony broke a biscuit in half and laid it on her plate. She buttered both halves carefully, concentrating on the task. “You’ll need five bulls to start, and at least thirty cows. Three times that would be better. Anything less, and you won’t make any money at all.”

She laid down the knife and raised her eyes.

He regarded her steadily. “The money part doesn’t matter,” he said.

She paused, carefully considering his statement. “Maybe it should, Mr. McCutcheon.” She felt her heart rate accelerate. “Maybe it isn’t enough for this little herd of buffalo to be the token toys of a rich man. Maybe it would mean more if you could prove that what you are doing here is a good thing, that it is good for the land, good for the buffalo, and good for the people, too. And if you can make money doing a good thing, and make the ranch work again and hold itself up without your support, maybe that would be the very best thing of all.”

Dead silence.