C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
While Danny Reid wended his way down the sand and dirt roads toward the main grid running west of Stockton, the Miltos rehashed the conversation that had taken place during his brief visit.
“He looked worn out this evening,” Connie Milto said as the line truck idled away from the yard.
Robert Milto agreed saying, “I doubt he's had much sleep in the past sixty hours. He seemed to be angling for something, keeping the conversation on the subject of dial phones.”
“Well, it's pretty big news in his world,” Connie said. “It's a huge step for all the small communities. They'll have all the amenities of their city counterparts.”
“Not call display, though, Mom,” Milt said.
Robert Milto smiled at the admonishment. “Yes, that little slip raised Danny's eyebrows and I'm afraid my attempt to smooth it over with that science fiction notion didn't improve the situation.”
“Danny's a sharp fellow, Dad, but I don't think he can see into the future… at least, I hope not.”
“Really,” said Constance Milto, “we don't know any more about the Reid's than they know about us. They moved west four or five years ago from somewhere down east. I've never even heard if they lived in a city, small town, or… were they country folk?”
“I believe Danny Reid is far more cosmopolitan than he lets on,” Robert said.
“Hey! Milt said. “We should ask Danny and Val to come along on the ride next week. Maybe I can interrogate them on the sly.”
'The ride' Milt referred to began with a request Tom O'Brien had made, asking for horseback riding lessons. Initially, Milt planned to take Tom on a few short, one day adventures near the ranch headquarters after haying season, but as the pair discussed the outing in more detail while hauling bales and during lunch breaks on the flat, enthusiasm grew and so did the number of participants; the plan eventually evolved into a camp-out using the holding corrals as a base, with the intention of making one day excursions radiating from that point. Benny and Brenda had been asked to join and now, the senior Miltos were pleased to hear, Danny and Val Reid may enjoy the opportunity as well.
The rancher finished putting up feed on schedule as the weather remained favourable after the storm's brief interruption. Benny and his dad completed their haying operations at about the same time as their neighbour but Benny then spent a couple days helping his future father-in-law with his hay crop.
Milt spent the extra time preparing for the camp out and giving riding lessons to Tom who had temporarily moved in with Sven in the bunkhouse. The Torontonian was an eager student and though he proved to be adept at staying aboard a bucking steer, the lad had no 'horse sense' whatsoever. Most definitely the well broke saddle stock on the Milto spread knew considerably more about their business than young Tom O'Brien did. Patience and an outward calm were the two attributes Milt first instilled in her student.
“Remember,” she said, “the horses already know what they're doing, you are the green one here.” She taught him to use caution around the animals, never making sudden quick movements or loud noises that may startle the mount. Tom learned how to put on the halter, bridle and saddle, how to lead the animal and care for it, including the art of brush and curry comb.
“There's a lot more to this than hopping on,” Tom admitted, but his enthusiasm continued to grow. Milt spent nearly an entire day on preliminaries. It was late in the afternoon when the Easterner finally put his foot in the stirrup and swung smoothly into the saddle. Milt had guessed well when she lengthened the stirrups before Tom sat astride the mare selected for the training session; he seemed quite adequately positioned, though rigid as a crow bar.
“Relax,” Milt said, “I'll just lead her around while you both become comfortable with each other.”
Tom grinned, “Well, this is much easier than hanging on to a bouncing steer with a piece of rope wrapped around his belly.”
The mare turned her ears back as Tom spoke.
Milt said, “I'm trying to put Dolly at ease more than you!”
After the lad had practised mounting and dismounting to the approval of his mentor, Milt passed up the reins and let Tom walk the mare around the corral. She then opened the gate into a larger pen where Tom lifted Dolly into a trot and then a canter. Milt's patient discipline worked well as Tom and Dolly soon grew used to each other.
“That's really good, Tom,” Milt said when the new horseman rode the mare up to his teacher and reined in. “Tomorrow we'll saddle both Whiskey and Dolly and I'll take you on a more realistic journey.”
Benny and Brenda came over for a visit after Ben had finished working for the day in Leonard Yeast's hay field. The tow-headed young rancher and the 'greenhorn' from Toronto had become quite close friends in the short time they had been acquainted. Ben freely admitted Tom adapted considerably more quickly to western life than he would have to city living. “I'd stick out like a crow on a snow drift with these duds,” Ben said.
“Nope, no one would notice you in Toronto,” Tom said. “There are so many people there they don't even realize their own individuality. Someone might note the boots and hat but they'd never meet your eyes to see who owned those… duds.”
“Well… it ain't likely I'll ever know.”
“And I wouldn't blame you. Stick to being a cowboy, it's more fun.”
“It's not all fun,” said Milt. “There's plenty of days when it's all work too.”
“How do you decide what's work and what's fun?”
Ben said, “Well, Tom, the difference between a cowboy and a wannabe is that sometimes the cowboy is on his horse when he wishes to hell he was somewhere else and the wannabe rides when he feels like it, say Sunday afternoon, when the weather is good.”
The Easterner digested this piece of information.
“So, a man on a horse in a snowstorm is a 'don't wannabe' I suppose?”
“I suspect so; especially if he's facing into the wind, going the wrong way with a long ride home.”
The young people discussed what groceries they would need for their adventure. Milt made out a long list as ideas sprouted up. Danny Reid called from town to say they would be happy to join in the ride. He was given instructions for purchases he could make to supplement the food box. Mr. and Mrs. Milto were not riding with the group so Val and Danny were to be loaned the use of their saddle horses and riding gear. Tom was assigned a long legged grey gelding named Lefty from the rancher's small remuda.
“Lefty has a mind of his own,” Benny said. “So you'll have to show him who's boss right off, but he'll get you there and back again.”
“There and back again?”
“He means the horse won't play out or let you down,” Milt said. “Lefty is a dependable horse.”
“Just the way I like it. 'Round trip, first class'.”
“You can take the boy from the city…” Brenda said.
Whiskey and Dolly were kept in a small grass pasture just south of the home corrals. Tomorrow Tom and Milt would use these mounts to round up the saddle stock kept in the larger 'wrangle field' not far away.
After breakfast next morning, Tom and Milt caught and saddled the two horses in the near pasture. Tom needed only a couple reminders and a few extra coaching notes in readying the mare for the ride. Milt held the reins while Tom swung lithely astride. Then she climbed onto Whiskey's saddle and they rode out together. Round up amounted to a shrill whistle from Milt and the herd of about a dozen horses including several yearlings and foals came on the run to meet them.
Once in the corral the riders caught the three extra horses they wanted. After a small feed of oats the remuda was turned loose again in the wrangle field.
Lefty required hoof trimming and, along with Milt's parents' horses, was given a thorough brushing.
Tom and Milt retrieved their previously saddled mounts and led them through the corral gates. This eventually opened into the pasture referred to as the calving field where the commercial herd was kept during the spring while the new calves were arriving. The young people mounted up at the gate and trotted leisurely out into the pasture past the glorious smelling stacks of hay in the feed yard. The short prairie wool had begun to lose its verdure as the hot summer days burned away the surface moisture, but chokecherry trees were in full bloom with their tiny white blossom clusters hanging loosely in the still morning air. Sage leaves and prairie rose blossoms added to the intoxicatingly delicious aroma. Except for the distant clarion ring of a hammer striking steel back in the ranch yard where Sven was working a piece of metal, no sound of human nature interrupted the serenity. The long white vapour trail left by a jet plane in passing rent a fading tear in the otherwise perfectly azure sky. The sun appeared to bless the day with wondrous warmth instead of searing heat; the gods themselves could not have desired more.
As often was his custom, Tom O'Brien broke the quiet interlude. “There has been nothing in my life to compare to this, Milt. I feel like a poet, or more correctly, a part of a beautiful poem, a serenade of silence.”
Milt studied her companion and noted the sincerity in his eyes. “You sound like a poet yourself at the moment.”
“It's all so wonderful, so overwhelming.”
The riders reined in atop a small sage crested knoll and gazed out upon the vast rolling horizon; shades of fading greens gave way to grey, then blue and finally the distant purple of the tall ridges far to the west where the rough country met the quietly undulating and comparatively flat terrain of the foreground.
Indicating with a nod of her head toward the west, Milt said, “Out there, in the breaks, is where we plan to spend most of our time during the camp out. It is rough country but very beautiful to the appreciating eye.”
“More beautiful than this?” Tom asked, his long sweeping in an expansive gesture to include all the immediate area.
“Not necessarily more, but the remoteness makes that range… different; more exciting. You'll see.”
Whiskey was fighting the bit, eager to stretch his long legs. Milt let him have his head and Dolly galloped alongside, keeping pace. The young lady kept a watchful eye on her student but Tom thrilled to the speed as the ponies loped across the prairie, wind tugging at their manes. Dolly shied and danced a quick step sideways when a jack rabbit exploded right beneath her feet. Milt cast a worried glance at Tom but he kept his seat and threw back his head, laughing joyously. Hooves thudded dully over the prairie sod and Milt urged her buckskin to greater speed. The gelding bunched his magnificent muscles and put his heart into a burst which quickly left the chestnut mare behind. Up a sandy ridge, dodging chokecherry trees and leaping sage, the girl led her companion a glorious race then slowly brought her mount to a standstill near the fence line and another gate.
Tom and Dolly caught up and the aging mare tossed her head like a young filly as she danced around, wanting to go some more.
“Ha!” gasped the recruit. “Now, that is fun!”
“You rode very well, Tom,” Milt said.
Tom patted the mare's neck, “Dolly deserves the credit, she moves so smooth. I thought horses made a person bounce around a lot.”
“Some are rougher than others. Dad says Mom's horse, that is the one Val Reid will ride, is 'the Cadillac'. You may find Lefty less smooth, especially his trot, but you'll get used to it.”
“We may as well combine a little work with our pleasure,” Milt said as she swung down from the saddle and led Whiskey over to the gate. “We'll ride around this pasture and check on the purebreds. There are three windmills we can visit too so Dad or Sven won't have that to do later.”
Tom dismounted to assist with the gate. He dropped the reins and Milt scolded him. “Hang on to your horse; if that were Lefty, he may have trotted off and left you walking.”
Tom retrieved the reins and said, by way of apology, “Is that why he's called Lefty? Lefty left me?”
“If a horse steps on trailing reins it can hurt his mouth, or, if he's running, could even break his neck, usually it at least snaps the reins.”
“You sound experienced, “ Tom noted.
“It happens.”
Fortunately, Milt had the foresight to tuck food provisions and a Thermos of lemonade in her saddle bags before leading her new friend on a journey which turned out to be longer than initially planned. No breeze stirred the windmills so the young pair couldn't obtain a drink at the trough where their horses watered. Tom learned firsthand about 'saddle sores' and felt stiffness in his legs when, late in the afternoon, they returned to the ranch. His enthusiasm, however, had not waned at all.
Mrs. Milto rang the old wooden handled brass school bell ?a meal summons for the ranch? just as Milt and Tom turned their mounts loose in the small holding field along with Lefty and the Miltos' horses. The Torontonian could not suppress his residual excitement of the day's events and chattered constantly throughout the meal saying Milt did this and the horse did that and listing the many wild animals they had encountered.
“There was even a little bobcat kitten!” he said.
“Oh, that's a rare sighting,” said Mrs. Milto.
Robert Milto asked Milt how the stock fared, the condition of the fences and whether the mills had sufficient water in the event of a prolonged calm.
All seemed in order, Milt reported, adding they had pounded in a few staples along the north fence.
“Danny and Val are coming out this evening and will stay here tonight,” Constance Milto told her daughter. “We'll sort out the groceries, bed rolls and everything when they arrive.”
“I'll call Brenda to see if she and Benny can bring their gear too,” Milt said.
Robert Milto said, “We'll haul your camp equipment and supplies to the holding corrals with a truck in the morning while you 'cowboys' trot your horses out. You can pitch the tents and set up camp and still have plenty of time to fit in a short ride,”
The dust along the main road had not quite settled from Danny and Val Reid's approach to the ranch when Benny and Brenda arrived driving Ben's 52 Chevrolet. Vera Mitchell had accompanied the urban couple as she intended to spend a short vacation at the ranch. The Miltos, Sven Larson and Tom O'Brien all came to meet the new arrivals as the group congregated in the spacious front yard.
“The phone company will fall apart with both of you absent,” Connie Milto said as she welcomed her guests.
“The weather looks good, so I'm not expecting any major breaks unless a severe lightning storm blows in,” Danny said.
Vera Mitchell added, “I've asked Jean Hatt to let you folks know if trouble shows up in a big way. Danny needs his time off too so we won't be bothering him for any minor incidents.”
“Don't sweat the small stuff,” said Robert Milto.
Prior to the guests' arrival, Connie Milto had been in a quandary about where to put Vera Mitchell during her stay. There were plenty of spare rooms in the big ranch house but Vera was engaged to Sven and perhaps she would prefer to move in with her betrothed at his bunk house.
“What protocol applies these days?” she asked her husband.
“That's a conundrum for you. Why not call 'Information'?”
Vera Mitchell, being the local telephone switch operator was the 'Information service' (though no one had heard of such a thing) for the exchange as well.
Connie said, “It's a good thing we have a private line.”
After placing the call and a brief chat, Connie Milto reported to her husband that Vera preferred to stay in the bunk house but had expressed concern that this may upset the Miltos' daughter.
“I assured her Milt would understand. I'll have Tom shift his luggage into a spare bedroom in our house.”
The additional camp supplies and equipment brought by the visitors was sorted through and the nonperishables loaded in Robert Milto's pickup. Bed rolls, grip and Ben's battered but serviceable guitar case were added to the load. The food coolers would be packed just before departure in the morning.
Benny surveyed the load after the truck was parked in a machine shed for the night, a precaution against a surprise rain shower. “Lucky for us we're using the four wheel drive to lug our grip; we'd need that twenty mule team outfit from television to pack all this gear.”
Danny said, “May as well enjoy the luxury. We have enough 'roughing it' day to day.”
Dusk of evening had settled and the two mercury vapour lights that illuminated the main yard were steadily glowing brighter as night approached. In winter and calving season, the ranch had an array of lights to rival a small village. However, these circuits were shut down at this time of year. Ben and Brenda declined an offer for tea and headed home after arranging to meet in the morning when the pair would ride their saddle horses to the Milto headquarters.
Sven and Vera opted for an evening walk and strolled away hand in hand down the long darkened lane where the canopy of maples bowed silently overhead. Somewhere in the dense foliage a robin protested the end of day and an owl hooted questioningly from atop a cupola on the big hip roof barn. The remainder of the group took up seats on the warmly lit veranda of the ranch house. Val and Danny Reid shared the double wide glider positioned against the railing.
“It is so peaceful out here,” Val said.
“Yes, it is,” Connie agreed, “almost too good to last.”
Robert Milto said, “The hot weather has kept the mosquitoes at bay the past few weeks. Back in June, they were thick enough to drive us indoors after dark, mind you, the days were long enough, a fellow should be in bed by then.”
Danny asked about the cattle and made general conversation while everyone appeared to deliberately stay off the subject of communications. The young lineman didn't wish to discuss his work while on vacation and apparently the Miltos respected his wishes. The more pertinent fact, however, was that Robert and Connie Milto were careful not to make any further anachronistic comments.
“It's too bad you and Robert will not be joining us on the ride,” Val said to Connie.
“Oh, it's good for you young people to have time apart from us old fogies. We seem to have plenty of hours on horseback as it is.”
Milt and Tom broke off the quiet conversation they were having and Milt asked, “Why don't you and Dad come out for supper and a bonfire tomorrow night?”
The idea sparked everyone's interest and it was quickly agreed to.
Sven and Vera stopped by the step to say goodnight and the others decided to turn in as well.
“I wish this evening could last forever,” Val whispered to her husband as they tarried a moment longer on the deserted veranda… you know… push rewind.”
“Yes,” Danny agreed, “but, I'm really looking forward to tomorrow too.”
An infinite army of sunbeams sought and soldiered out the last of dawn's reluctant shadows as the brilliance of a new day promised to fulfil the weatherman's prediction. Tom, Milt and Danny emerged from the ranch house and, after filling a bucket with oats from a round steel granary, made their way to the small field where their mounts were confined.
A grinning Tom O'Brien, successfully concealing his aches and soreness from yesterday's ride, said, “The horses have breakfast before we do!”
“I noticed an open bag of oatmeal on the counter as we passed, so Connie must have porridge on the menu. It's the same grain as this, Tom,” Danny said, indicating the pail he carried.
“It's oats all around this morning.”
Milt's clarion whistle brought the equine contingent up to the gate. She let them pass through into a smaller pole corral. Danny spread the oats out evenly in a long trough situated along one side of the enclosure. While the horses hungrily munched the oats, Milt moved quietly among them, patting each in turn and speaking in soft tones as she checked them over.
Danny and Tom stood back until Milt rejoined them.
“Everybody okay, Button?” Danny asked.
“Top notch. Let's go have our 'oats' and then saddle up these ponies.”
Benny and Brenda trotted their horses down the maple treed lane and arrived in the ranch yard just as Danny, Val, Tom and Milt emerged, leading their saddled horses from the corral. Benny was astride his own horse, Scoundrel, now fully recovered from the injury, and Brenda rode her father's bay mare. Milt felt a twinge of angst towards Brenda's pony because the mare had an unpredictable temperament and sometimes vented her wrath on Whiskey. Milt mentally determined to keep the two mounts separate as much as possible.
Tom's mount, Lefty, grew excited upon espying the newcomers and became a handful for his inexperienced rider. Milt quickly passed Whiskey's reins to Danny and rushed to Tom's assistance. She soon had the grey gelding settled down, although he continued to prance about nervously.
“He hasn't been ridden for awhile,” Milt said.
“Feeling his oats this morning, is he Milt?” Said Benny. It was more an observation than a question. “I can work some of the kinks out for you so he doesn't try to show Tom who's boss.”
Ben dismounted and held the bridle of Brenda's mare while his girlfriend swung out of the saddle. She then took the reins of both horses while Benny relieved Milt of Lefty's braided leather lines.
Ben spent a few moments soothing the grey horse then eased into the saddle in one smooth motion. Lefty crow hopped around a little but soon realized he had a professional at the helm. Benny rode away from the group, the horse trying to turn back and whinnying in protest. A touch of spur would have worked wonders at this moment, Ben considered, but he normally only wore his spurs while roping and sorting cattle. He dug his boot heels into the gelding's flank and urged him along the lane. Lefty settled down to paying attention as Ben warmed him up then pushed the horse to a gallop out on the main road. The pair soon returned to the ranch yard, Lefty's eyes and ears showing a keen interest and his sides heaving slightly from exertion. Ben pulled him to a halt near the waiting group, then hopped down and handed the reins to Tom. “Make him do what you want and he'll respect you for it.”
Robert and Connie Milto had joined the horsemen while Ben exercised Lefty. Now Sven and Vera also walked up to the gathering.
Ben cast a discreet wink at Sven as he responded to the exchange of morning greetings. Sven merely offered back his trademark fixed grin, though Ben noted that faint twinkle in his eye.
Vera had her camera and requested a group photo. Everyone and their horse plus Chase posed obediently. Milt asked the hired man and his fiancée to come out to the corrals for the evening with her parents; Vera was pleased to accept.
“I'll be along with the gear before you reach the corrals,” Milt's father told them and Connie said she would ride along with her husband to open gates and help off-load the truck.
Milt led the mounted procession down a long alley way (reducing the number of gates to open), across the big corral that contained 'the lonely bull' she and Ben had rescued, and then out into the calving field where Tom had taken his first horseback ride. Brenda's mare constantly swished her tail at invisible horseflies and laid her ears back, suggesting she had a bone to pick with someone. Lefty behaved well and Tom soon relaxed in the saddle, riding alongside Milt and Whiskey as the troop spread out in double file sharing the rutted tracks of a prairie trail.
Ben and Danny rode side by side conversing idly.
Val was having difficulty finding a comfortable position in Constance Milto's stock saddle. Brenda suggested the stirrups be readjusted and called to Ben to hold up a minute. Just at that moment, the Yeast mare spun sideways, lowered her head and, with ears pinned back flat and a demonic squeal, lashed out viciously with both hind feet, striking the right fender of Val's saddle. The loud double “whack” of hooves hitting leather cracked upon the still morning air like a bull whip. Val cried out in alarm; her horse grunted with pain and danced away from the recalcitrant beast. Imprints of the curved hooves were etched in dust left on the broad thick leather skirt above the stirrup. One hoof had pinched Val's high topped riding boots and scarred her pant leg, barely missing the shin bone. Even so, the near hit stung considerably and put the young woman in a fright.
Ben Collins was off his horse and at Val's side before anyone else could react. “Are you okay, Val?”.
“I….I think so,” she attempted to smile and pulled up her pant leg to examine the source of her pain. A faint red welt was forming on her calf just at the top of her boot.
Ben's concern swiftly switched to blue anger as he turned to Brenda who had distanced the mare out of reach for a second attack or retaliation.
“Gimme that horse.”
Brenda swung a leg over the saddle and slid to the ground then retrieved Scoundrel as Ben grasped the lines and leaped aboard the mare. He whipped the errant horse into instant full gallop and they streaked away to the north, Ben lashing the reins savagely across the mare's shoulders and kicking her flanks mercilessly with his heels.
“The lad has a temper,” Danny said.
“Not very often,” said Brenda. “This is the second time I've seen it….”
Milt recalled the first occasion: an altercation at a dance when a loud mouth insulted Ben's girlfriend. It had taken Les Moffat and two of the Miller boys to pull a ferocious Benny away from the luckless stranger.
The mare pounded across the prairie in a direct line toward a tall sand-capped ridge where Ben angrily put her through the paces; churning up the soft sand, he sidestepped the horse up and down the dune, spun her around and around so tight her nose almost reached her tail and then backed her up the full length of the heavy sand. They returned at a brisk trot, the mare's head hanging low, sides heaving and white foam on her chest and mouth. Ben halted her, mopping sweat off his brow.
“She won't kick a sheep now, but I'll ride her for a while; Brenda, you can ride Scoundrel.” He then asked Val Reid, who still looked a little peaked, “How's your leg?”
“Oh, it'll be all right, just a bruise.”
Danny adjusted his wife's stirrups to make her more comfortable and those who had dismounted climbed back into their saddles.
“Wagons… Ho!” Tom O'Brien called out, breaking the tension. “Back in Toronto, I never miss an episode of Wagon Train.”
Mr. and Mrs. Milto overtook the riders as they rode through a long swale about a quarter mile short of their destination.
“See you at the corrals,” Connie called as they drove past the group.
“We'll have to find shade for those coolers or all the grub will be a soggy glob of soup before long,” Danny said.
“Suspend them down the well,” Benny said.
“What a great idea!” Val exclaimed. “Did you just think that up on the instant?”
Ben grinned, “I've done it before, but it wasn't my idea then either.”
Coincidentally, Robert Milto was standing inside the mill tower tightening a bolt when the group arrived. Riders dismounted, loosened cinches and allowed the horses a short drink at the water trough. Connie Milto was aghast to hear of Val Reid's close call. She closely examined the injury which was now a darkening yellow bruise. “Another inch over and your leg would have been kindling!” Connie said.
“I think Ben has taken the mean streak out of Brenda's horse for now,” Val said and Milt added, “Yes, I watched her close the rest of the way and she kept her nasty nose and hooves away from the other horses.”
Lunchtime victuals were extracted from the two food containers, then, with makeshift rope harnesses, the ice chests were suspended just above the water line in the shallow well.
“We can yard them up and tote 'em to camp for the night,” Benny said.
“Where is 'camp' going to be?” Tom asked.
“There is a shady little birch flat just over that ridge,” Robert Milto pointed. “If you can keep the cows out of your gear, that may be a good spot.”
Danny agreed, “Lots of firewood and level ground to set up the tents.”
“I'll sling the ice chests over Scoundrel's saddle and use him for a pack horse when we need the grub in the evening,” Ben said.
Because the less experienced riders, Val and Tom, were already feeling the effects of seven miles in the saddle, an agreement was made to spend the afternoon setting up camp. Appropriate gates were closed and the horses were released into the holding field. Ben leaned on the upper corral rail and studied the little herd. Most of the horses rolled on patches of bare ground, shaking off the hot, cramped feeling of heavy saddles and sweaty blankets. Brenda's mare kept close company with Scoundrel but avoided the other mounts.
Tom and Milt joined Ben. The easterner mimicked Ben's pose by placing a booted foot on the lower rail, crossing his long arms on the top rail and resting chin on hands.
“Sour old nag,” Ben said.
“You don't have to take that, Milt,” said Tom.
Milt swung a light kick against the back of the knee on Tom's supporting leg and he slipped off the rail, collapsing on the grass.
“Ya best be tenden' your own, young lady, afore Ben has to take the fight outen' ya.”
Ben laughed. “Take more'n me to handle Milt if she goes on the fight. I seen her tackle a full grown bull… more'n once.”
“The second one wasn't quite full grown,” Milt said.
Soon after their truck was offloaded, the elder Miltos went home for the afternoon, promising to return for the evening barbecue.
Before he left, Robert Milto cautioned the group about the extreme fire hazard brought on by the prolonged dry spell; the half inch of precipitation toward the end of haying season had done little to relieve the tinder dry prairie wool.
The campers all pitched in and soon two four-person canvas floor tents were set up in a grove of birch and clump willow growing at the foot of a long, low sand ridge about a quarter mile from the windmill. Several cow/calf pairs wandered into the clearing to check out the visitors. A few others had departed with the arrival of the human contingent. Afoot, Ben ushered these late arrivals back toward the trees. The animals trotted off a short distance then turned back to stare curiously.
Milt said, “Good thing that mean Charolais isn't nearby. If she saw you on foot the tables would be turned.”
Bedrolls and personal baggage were tossed in the newly erected dwellings; cooking utensils and dry food containers were stacked to one side near a shallow depression that Danny scooped out of the sand for a fire pit. While the lineman installed an iron grate with a mesh top and adjustable legs above the hollow to serve as cooking surface, Ben and Tom brought in arm loads of the dead wood scattered throughout the area. The ladies installed a temporary clothes line for towels and possible damp disasters by spreading a light cord between two trees.
“All the amenities of home,” Danny said, “we just need a TV and microwave.”
“What's a microwave?” Brenda asked.
“Oh, er, it's a …radio type telephone… something recent in the industry.”
Val said, “But you aren't going to talk about work, right?”
“We can probably manage without a television too.” Milt said.
“Aw, I sure hate to miss 'Bonanza,'” Tom groaned.
The Milto ranch may not have been as large as the fictional Ponderosa of the famous television series 'Bonanza'. However, the property encompassed close to three townships and provided opportunity for Tom O'Brien and his companions to explore more than they had time for. The ensuing days were filled with pleasant, carefree adventure. Each morning the vacationing cavalry rode out in a different direction from their base camp. The weather, except for one rainy afternoon, held perfectly. The riders spent entire days leisurely wandering through the maze of dunes and ridges; following cattle trails along chokecherry and saskatoon draws, across birch flats and through aspen poplar groves; they loped easily over the vast expanses of prairie wool.
Ben initiated a quest for shed antlers from the area's abundant mule deer and whitetail populations. The search soon developed into a friendly contest as to who could collect the largest and most 'drops'. Using windmills as a base, the group would radiate out from the centre and return with bundles of deer antlers tied to their saddles. Ben then stashed them at the mill to be retrieved by Sven or one of the Miltos with a vehicle at a later date. A few buffalo skulls ?remnants of a by-gone era? in various stages of preservation, were picked up as well. Usually the heads were buried in the drifted sand and only a small area lay exposed. Ben's keen eye discovered the first skull, laying face down in the centre of a prairie trail; only the first vertebrate joint remained visible. This head was very well preserved with most of the nose and horns still intact.
Tom O'Brien was ecstatic. “Wow! Real buffalo!” he exclaimed.
The easterner's enthusiasm almost boiled over when Milt later spotted an arrowhead in a sand blow. Tom catapulted out of his saddle, leaving Lefty with reins trailing as the boy dashed to Milt's side to see the arrowhead. Brenda seized Lefty's reins before he drifted away and an amused group encouraged the lad's excitement.
Tom vowed to find an arrowhead of his own and diligently scoured every grass devoid patch of sand he encountered. Where the winds had scooped the sand out of a depression and blown the depths clean to the 'hardpan', the remnants of history were laid bare. Lead slugs from rifle bullets and spent cartridges showed up occasionally. The riders found partial and whole arrowheads, spear heads, even a complete stone hammer head with its telltale ring indented around the narrow circumference. Tom dismounted to inspect an ancient stone hide scraper and howled with surprise to find a metal arrowhead close by. The Easterner's boisterous eagerness drew everyone for a look-see.
“That's a rare find,” Ben said and went on to explain that it was a Hudson Bay issue offered as barter for animal pelts during the days when the famous Hudson Bay Fur Trading Company empire extended across the northern part of North America.
On this occasion, the Torontonian went uncharacteristically quiet as he gazed transfixed at his prize. Emotion showed in his dark eyes and he addressed the group sombrely, “I owe you all so much, and I just want you to know what this all means to me… Thank you.”
An embarrassed moment passed as the Westerners were not accustomed to such open expressions of heartfelt sincerity.
Milt said simply, “You're welcome, Tom.”
“Wouldn't have been the same without you,” Danny added.
On the afternoon of the second day when the trail led the cabal of adventurers deeper into the rough country northwest of their base, Milt discovered a healthy stand of saskatoon bushes tucked into the north facing slope of a long sand ridge. Though late in the season for these succulent purple berries, many over-ripe specimens clung tenaciously to their delicate stems. The riders spent a long time gorging themselves on the delicious fruit and then rode on with lips, tongues and teeth stained purple.
While out in this direction, they encountered the infamous B324, the miserable Charolais-cross cow that had raised hell with Ben during the branding round-up and again at the sorting. She charged deep into a dense thicket when the riders appeared and, head down, glared out at them with unwarranted crazed fear in her eyes. Her calf, barely visible, peeked timidly out from beside its mother.
“I'll be happy to see that one walk up the loading chute and into the cattle liner this fall,” Milt said.
Chase sat on his haunches, tongue lolling as he panted and 'grinned'. Perhaps the feisty Border Collie recalled the challenge the wild cow had presented for him. He licked his lips then glanced inquisitively at Milt.
“Not today, Chase.”
Tom and Danny both were equally thrilled when they caught sight of a small band of wild ponies roaming freely in the 'breaks'. There were only about twenty in the group although Ben said in years gone by they had numbered in the fifties. Feral horses, escaped from the days when modern machinery replaced them on the farms, had gathered out in the rough country. While not thriving, they managed to exist. Through the years as numbers declined, so did their size until now they were, as Ben described them, “a stunted group of hammer-headed nags.” Tom was eager to catch a 'wild mustang' and tame it for his own but Milt and Ben talked him around it.
“They're all right just where they are,” Ben said.
“Besides,” Milt added, “Lefty and you have become pretty close pals.”
The city boy and the gelding had indeed come to friendly terms, with Lefty eager and responsive to Tom's every command. The lad was continually patting the smooth grey neck, talking to the horse and, as Milt put it, “feeding him enough sugar to rot his teeth.”
After the first morning when Ben relieved the mare of her mean streak, Brenda's mount had not so much as laid back an ear in aggression. She now stood alert, both ears forward, watching the little herd of wild ponies. They were growing nervous with the propinquity of the humans. Noting the mare's piqued interest, Ben said, “No point in rilin' them up.” He reined Scoundrel about and led his comrades down off the high, bald sand hill they had scaled to view the wild horses.
For a while the riders meandered single file behind Ben and Scoundrel as they wound their way through scrub brush and clump willows below the north face of a long, steep sand ridge. Suddenly, a loud crashing disturbance erupted from heavy cover to the right of the trail. A big mule deer buck broke into a clearing ahead of the cavalcade and bounded up the ridge. He paused and looked back when Ben whistled shrilly across the distance.
Seeing no immediate pursuit, the deer eyed the intruders cautiously. A huge rack of antlers, made more impressive by their full velvet cover, weighed heavy on the magnificent animal.
“Ben's thinking hunting season,” Brenda whispered as the young rancher stared at this grand patriarch of the Sandhills.
The deer, having seen enough, turned and, in one bound, disappeared over the sand ridge.
“Big enough for you, Ben?” asked a grinning Danny Reid.
“He'll do,” Ben said in a far away tone, as though he were already four months into the future with the hunt afoot. “That's the biggest mule deer I've ever seen,” he added, “and I didn't just spot my first one yesterday.”
“Can people hunt here?” Tom asked.
“Dad screens the strangers who show up for the fall hunting season but local people have free rein,” Milt answered. “We realize that our neighbours are willing to help fight prairie fires and assist with branding and haying season so they are welcome on the ranch year round. Many folks like to pick saskatoons and chokecherries, hunt deer or sharp tailed grouse or just go for a drive out here. We don't stop them, locals know to close gates, prevent fires and leave no garbage.”
“I haven't seen anyone out here other than us, except for your parents, and Sven and Vera last night,” Tom said.
Ben shifted his gaze from the spot where the buck had disappeared. “This part of the hills is quite secluded. The trails are rough and it is a long walk out to the ranch if vehicle problems put you in a bind.”
“It's even further to civilization west or south,” Danny put in. “There are two huge government pastures in those directions and to the north you run into more grassland belonging to several smaller private ranches.”
“It's cattle country,” Ben said.
“Wow! What a place to be a cow! Or one of those wild Mustangs!”
Ben laughed. “Winter is a different story for the animals… and us humans as well.”
The riders moved westward and fell into the natural roll of the land as the horses trooped along a faint cow trail which grew increasingly deeper and wider as tributary paths joined the main, like creeks and streams to a river. The cavalcade rounded a hill and the countryside opened onto a small flat with the ubiquitous windmill tower situated near the middle.
“Race you to the mill!” Tom yelled and goaded Lefty into a canter.
The riders took up the challenge and pursued the rapidly distancing easterner and his grey pony. Though Tom had a head start, Whiskey soon overtook him. In his turn, he gave ground to Danny astride Robert Milto's powerful quarter horse who possessed both a lightning sprint and a steady ground eating pace he could maintain for hours.
Four, three-quarter grown coyote pups leapt away from something which had their attention near the mill as the riders swept up to the trough in a cloud of alkali dust.
“Coyotes hauled down a fawn,” Ben said as he stood high in the stirrups for a better look.
“This is like an African Safari. The land is teeming with wild animals.” Tom said.
“Perhaps not as much variety but plentiful,” Milt agreed.
“I'd like to find the shed antlers from that monster mule,” Ben said as Scoundrel splashed the water in the mill trough with his muzzle.
“I'll bet they're laying within a half mile of here,” Danny said. “Do we have time for a quick search before heading back to camp?”
“We can ride in the dark,” Tom put in.
Brenda and Val vetoed that idea. Making supper in the dark would not be so easy.
Ben looked at the sun which was sliding down the late afternoon position, then he glanced at Milt, who shrugged. “We're about an hour's ride from camp. Let's take a quick look.”
Those who already had a few deer antlers tied to their saddles passed the sheds to Ben who had dismounted and was stowing his own collection inside the mill tower.
A half hour search netted another half dozen antlers, one of which Ben decided had belonged to the big buck. Danny studied the sun bleached bone, white on the inside curve where the sunlight and rain could do their erosive work but still quite dark on the less exposed outer surfaces. The base had a bigger circumference than Danny's thumb and finger could encircle and the four tines were long and high. The lineman held the butt of the antler to his head. “How much spread, Benny?”
“Got to be well over two feet,” Ben said. “I ain't gonna lie to you, that's a big, big buck. I'll be looking for the mate to that shed when hunting season rolls around.”
Luck smiled on Ben again, for, soon after the riders pointed their ponies back to camp, Tom espied another antler partially hidden in the grass at the base of a ridge just off the trail. The easterner baled off his horse and scooped up the shed with a flourish. “Does this look familiar, Mr. Collins?”
“Atta-go, Tor-on-to!” Ben exclaimed as he trotted Scoundrel over to Tom and Lefty.
Leaping to the ground Ben quickly untied the first antler from his saddle; accepting the second from Tom he compared the two. He said, “They're a pair for sure.”
The horsemen followed the prairie trail back to camp at a faster pace. On arrival Brenda and Val dismounted, then passed their horses' reins to Danny and Ben who would release the steeds in the holding pen. Upon reaching the mill, Tom helped Ben hoist the ice chests up out of the well. They restored the plank cover and then slung the makeshift paniers across Scoundrel, who still wore his saddle, and led the temporary pack horse to the tenting area.
“Wood rats or deer mice have been in the grocery box,” Brenda laughed, holding up a loaf of bread with a sizeable chunk nibbled from one end.
“I see they've been chewing on my extra blanket, too.” Val said. “They are literally eating us out of house and home.”
After Scoundrel was relieved of the ice chests, Benny swung into the saddle and loosened his lariat.
“There's dead fall in that aspen grove over yonder. I'll snag a few trees and pull 'em in for tonight's fire wood. They'll burn longer than the sticks we've been gathering.”
Tom strolled back to the holding corral where Danny and Milt were rubbing down the horses. He grasped the top rail and vaulted over the fence, landing lightly on the inside. Lefty whickered softly and came over to Tom, looking for a hand out.
“I swear,” Danny said, “you have that pony acting more like a dog than a horse.”
“I guess Lefty never felt like he belonged to anyone before,” Milt said.
“Maybe I'll have to take him back to Toronto with me.”
“You could ride him back and save the airfare.” Danny said.
Tom gazed out across the pasture. “Riding down a highway just wouldn't be the same.”
Ben and Scoundrel trotted up to the pen and Ben stepped out of the saddle. He turned his horse loose after giving him a quick rub down. Scoundrel immediately went for a roll in the dust.
Dusk descended as the last rays of sun lingered softly on the upper fins and tail of the windmill. The dim shapes of several deer could be discerned out on the flat as the nocturnal animals emerged from cover. Danny rationed oats to each horse from a rain and rodent proof tub Robert Milto had dropped off earlier.
Ben suggested that they feed Leonard Yeast's mare a little back from the rest. “Sharing oats may fire that streak in her.” He said.
Somewhere across the big flat a chorus of young coyotes started to yodel and Milt laughed aloud. “They haven't learned to howl yet.”
Chase trotted out into the open and barked a response. To the dog's surprise, an adult coyote ripped a deep long howl from another direction. The evening went quiet.
“They're on the hunt now,” Ben said.
As the friends strolled back to camp, the flicker of light against the upper branches of the birch trees announced before they could see the actual flames that Val and Brenda had a fire going.
Tom and Milt paused at the foot of the ridge while Danny and Ben continued on toward the tents. The stars were turning on rapidly as the final sunset glow faded in the west. The gibbous moon, well on its way to being a full circle of orange, began to creep up the eastern horizon. A great horned owl glided silently and lit upon the tail of the windmill where he commenced an inquisitive “Hoo? Hoo?”
“These are the best days of my life.” Tom's adolescent voice cracked, then he laughed at himself. “I don't know how to howl yet either.”
Milt laughed at this admission. “It has been fun having you around, Tom, you make the ordinary seem special.”
“What you call ordinary is all so big and new for me. Somehow I feel misplaced in time. City life is so…distant from what you have here.”
Tom heard Milt's deep intake of breath then she repeated his words. “Misplaced in time….that's one way of putting it. I would say specifically placed in time is more accurate.”
“I'm not sure I follow you there, Milt, but I'd like to think of myself as an anachronism… born too late. Maybe someday we will travel in time, who knows?”
Milt smiled in the gathering darkness. “I'm sure, someday we will.”
Danny called from atop the ridge. “You youngsters better come and eat before Val and Brenda throw it to the wood rats.”
As Milt turned to ascend the embankment, Tom reached for her hand and they climbed through the soft sand together.
A kerosene lantern hanging from a birch tree beamed a concentrated bright light in a small circle but cast huge grotesque shadows into the perimeter. As Tom and Milt came into the light they heard Brenda announce, “The fare isn't so extravagant as yesterday but it'll pass for camp grub.”
The extravagant fare she referred to was the supper of the previous evening. Constance Milto had brought marinated beef steaks for everyone and Danny had grilled them to perfection on the grate over the hot coals of the fire pit.
The Miltos, Sven and Vera had stayed well after dark since the evening and company were so pleasurable. Benny had pulled out his six string and played while everyone joined in for a campfire sing-along.
Tonight the hungry riders hastily grabbed utensils and plates to dish up from steaming pots on the iron grill and 'chowed down'.
“Shall we scrub those dishes in the morning?” Val asked as Milt began collecting the plates.
“Yeah, there isn't enough light to do a proper job tonight,” said Brenda.
“Suits me fine,” Benny said, “My hands are already raw from washing too many dishes.”
“Benny Collins, you haven't washed enough dishes to even get your hands clean!” Brenda accused. “Ever!”
Ben shrugged and grinned. “Dad and I just let the dogs lick 'em up after supper.”
“You may well be in line to learn the use of a dish cloth and tea towel,” Danny said.
“And changing diapers,” Milt threw in.
“Better dig out that guitar, Ben,” Tom said. “It looks like you're outnumbered so you'll have to sing your way out.”
The young cowboy reached into the tent and felt for his guitar case. “Dishes, maybe; diapers, never.”
“How about a few old songs for tonight?” Ben asked while tuning the six string to suit his ear. “Here's a couple from the great Gene Autry… who probably never had to do dishes.” He sang and played 'That Silver Haired Daddy of Mine' and 'Back in the Saddle Again'. The ladies joined in for 'Red River Valley' and then the guitarist picked up the tempo and had the audience rocking with his version of 'Peggy Sue'. Ben only missed one verse and earned an enthusiastic round of applause for an excellent rendition of Marty Robbins' “The Cowboy In The Continental Suit.” The latter he dedicated to Tom.
A chill crept up to the fire's edge and began gnawing at toes as the last heat of the day evaporated from the sand. Ben put the guitar away while the ladies sought warmer clothing. Danny pumped the air cylinder of the dimming lantern.
Tom, who was examining the large set of antlers Ben had brought back to camp, said “It's amazing those bucks will grow this much horn in just a few months.”
“Well, that's an abnormally large set but it really is a feat of nature,” Danny agreed.
“Imagine those great big moose paddles though,” Ben said, “Those things must weigh a ton in velvet.”
“I'd like to go with you for the hunt,” Tom said. “I bet you'll get him, won't you, Ben?”
“Well, I know his territory and I know what he looks like,” Ben said. “With a little good luck for me and some not so good luck for him… it's even money.”
“You'll have another advantage, too,” Danny added, “Pete's old rifle.”
“Yeah, I could just leave the Winchester at the windmill and come back next day for the deer. That gun could hunt that ol' buck all by itself.”
Everyone climbed the low ridge in back of the camp for a last look out onto the moonlit landscape. A vagrant breeze swung the head of the windmill and it creaked loudly in the stillness. Rodents rustled in the low bush nearby and Ben detected the steady rasp of a porcupine gnawing bark somewhere further along the ridge.
“A specific place in time,” Tom murmured. “If it were possible to travel in time, I'd stay right in this moment.”
Both Val and Danny looked sharply at the easterner. “Travel in time?” Danny asked.
“Milt thinks that some day we will be able to move through time,” Tom said. “I'd move here and stay put.”
Ben said, “Fred Moffat claims the Americans are planning to send a man to the moon next year, so maybe there will be a way to travel back and forth in time someday, too,”
“Quién sabe; who knows?” Danny said.
Milt said nothing.
Unfortunately, fourth dimension manipulation had not been conceived in Tom O'Brien's teenage years and the young man began to experience feelings toward Robert Milto's pretty daughter that he had here-to-for never felt. Back in Toronto, Tom had been completely submersed in sport activities and had never considered girls as more than an inconvenience. From the first day he saw Milt at the branding he realized there must be more to life than hockey, football and baseball.
Milt liked the Torontonian as well but in the same way she cared for Ben or Danny. One of the drawbacks of being a history transplant meant romance could not flourish. Milt's mother had explained to the girl soon after the family had moved to the big ranch that all the 'youngsters' she associated with, were ?in 'real time'? at least old enough to be her father. “We're a generation and a half out of sequence here,” she said.
So, Doctor O'Brien's nephew was, in fact, long past fifty years old. This thought deterred Milt from a blossoming puppy love. “But, Mom!” she had complained, “I have to dance with old men at the sock hops and any one my age isn't even born yet! You and Dad have each other but all I have is Chase and Whiskey.”
Constance Milto smiled and tenderly brushed back a lock of auburn hair that had fallen across Milt's face. “You have us too, darling. Let's make the most of this chance for it really is the opportunity of two lifetimes. When we return to our natural era, you will be able to carry on a normal life and the bonus will be all the fantastic memories of our lives here and now.”
Milt's frustration melted. “I don't want to go back for a long time yet!” She had dashed outside calling for her pup, Chase, and ran to the corral where Whiskey waited.
However, now was becoming a difficult problem as Milt attempted to deter Tom's awkward advances; to him Milt was not a virtual reality, a hologram or a link to a distance future; she was here and now, warm as life and a dozen times as pretty.
And while Tom O'Brien snuggled deep in his bedroll using Ben's guitar case for the pillow he did not have, his head swimming with warm thoughts of Milt, Danny lay wakeful beside him, pondering the brief verbal exchange regarding time travel. Curious situations and strange fragments of conversation occasionally arose involving the Milto family.
Danny silently watched the firelight flickering softly against the canvas wall. At first, a faint snoring came from Ben's bedroll on the far side of the shelter and then the steady even breathing of Tom who slept in the middle. The ladies, who'd had a giggle fit earlier in their tent, were quiet now.
Danny thought about the glorious day they had enjoyed and the subsequent entertaining evening in camp. The previous night had been a fabulous time with the visit from the Miltos, Sven and Vera. The steak barbecue, complete with salad and baked potatoes, had left the campers sated and Benny's guitar had provided a special addition around the campfire. Conversation was simple and had been mostly about cattle, horses and daily activities. The Miltos drove to Stockton only occasionally for their mail and supplies so the single news source was Vera and even she hadn't been in town for a few days.
Danny's thoughts drifted to his work. He had put a few jobs aside in order to take this ride and now wondered if any telephone grief had arisen in the district. Last night Vera reported that she had checked with her assistant operator before leaving the ranch. “No news of thunderstorms or serious line problems,” she had said.
Danny reflected, after Vera had said there were no problems, Constance Milto had said something about “No major nine-one-one's.” What exactly was the comment? He couldn't recall, but the way she said it triggered a little alarm in his subconscious. “What is a nine-one-one?” he wondered.
Though this day had been a full and exhausting one, Danny remained awake for a long time. The soft crackle of the dying fire, the busy rustling of the nocturnal animals, the hoot of the owl and again a distant chorus of coyotes howling at the moon, held more somnolence than fillip and eventually Danny drifted off into a fitful dream-filled slumber….
Danny was whirling wildly through time, popping in and out of history, leaping into the future… he awoke with a start, cold sweat on his brow and the bedroll half thrown off. '9-11!' The eleventh day of the ninth month! Thousands of lives were lost… In his mind's eye he saw billowing smoke rising from a giant edifice. Trapped, hysterical victims were plunging to their deaths from windows and ledges far above a street filled with pandemonium and chaos. But where, when? Was it wartime? No, that didn't fit. What had happened? Or, was it going to happen in another time? Somewhere in the future? It all seemed so realistic. It's only a bad dream, he desperately tried to convince himself and thought aloud, “Too many chilli peppers in the camp chilli this evening.”
Danny adjusted his bed clothes and finally fell into a deep and trouble free slumber that ended with the clang of the kettle and crackle of a new fire as Ben prepared the morning coffee.
Danny poked his head through the tent flap and squinted into the morning sun, now well clear of the eastern horizon.
“Mornin' Ben, you the only survivor?”
“Nope, you and Tom are the stragglers, the ladies have gone over to the mill for a scrub at the water trough.”
A capricious breeze rattled through the birch trees and Danny could hear the distant sounds of the windmill doing its duty. Smoke from Ben's fire drifted lazily upwards until the wind caught at it and sheared the plume, whisking it to oblivion.
“We'll need to watch this fire close today,” said Ben.
Danny said, “That wind is south now, if it swings east we may have a shower later. Best take our slickers along and secure the camp against a downpour, too.”
“'Be prepared. Were you a boy scout, Danny?” Ben asked.
The lineman hesitated. “…not a scout, exactly, I've had some survival training… and a few taps on the noggin when common sense was missing.”
A mournful groan from Tom O'Brien announced his awakening. Danny withdrew back into the tent to dress.
“The worst drawback of a sleeping bag is having to leave it,” Tom complained. “A fellow gets all warm and comfortable and then nature calls….”
“Were you up in the night?” Danny asked.
“Once, when you were flipping around and talking in your sleep. I thought we may have to get Ben's rope and tie you in.”
“Yeah,” Ben called from outside. “That must have been one mean bronc you were trying to ride half the night.”
“Sorry about that, I had the weirdest nightmares.”
As Tom and Danny emerged from the tent the female contingent returned, freshly scrubbed, from the windmill-cum-powder-room.
“Coffee's ready,” Ben said, clutching a mug of the aromatic brew in his hand.
Concern showed in Val's eyes as she studied the haggard, stubbly face of her husband. “Are you okay, Danny? You look more than normal camp-life-dishevelled.”
“I just need a cup of Benny's mud and I'll be right as rain.”
“Was it you making the racket in the night?” Brenda asked. “If I didn't know better, I'd have thought a bear was in camp.”
“Crazy dreams. I think I added too many chilli peppers in that second helping of chilli.”
But the vision from Danny's dream did not fade as nightmares do. The burning building appeared more distinct, it was a monstrous skyscraper or maybe a tower and there was another one beside it on fire too. Where? When? And nine-eleven or nine-one-one; September eleventh? What was the significance of that? The question had him preoccupied most of the morning.
The group rode south this day, facing into the breeze which was stiff enough to warrant warmer clothing. Clouds were building in the distance and Danny's monition of a shower became imminent. Ben led the group through a gap of rough broken ridges and into a series of clay buttes which had withstood the incessant winds of aeons; these abrupt, low cliffs faced west like worn teeth in a gigantic horizontal jawbone, the upper edge trailing eastward to blend into the grass-covered landscape beyond.
“We could carve Prime Minister Pearson's face into one of these cliffs,” Tom said.
“We could not, too,” Ben replied dryly.
“Maybe carve a fresh face on there, Pearson resigned a couple months ago,” Danny said.
Brenda stretched out her arm and pointed. “If you look at the buttes in pairs, you could imagine a politician facing the other way.”
Gradually, the saw toothed terrain smoothed out giving way to a background of large, treeless hills like ancient atrophied coulees that had long ago relinquished their profile. Ben rode up to a stout barbwire fence line at a point where it capped a small knoll and swung out of the saddle.
“Drop gate,” he said and commenced pulling the wires away from several of the posts, allowing the strands to drop downward. Tom inspected the simple system closely: Two large fence staples were driven into the post, parallel to the wire about three-quarters of an inch apart, leaving a half inch protruding. The strand rested between these two staples and a third hooked through both to secure the wire. The fence was a sturdy four strand and the curious staple arrangement was installed on each wire for a few spans along the top of the hillock. At ground level on each post, a heavy spike had been driven, the head angling downward. Ben latched the loosened strands under each of these spikes then carefully led Scoundrel across the wires.
“Drop gate,” he repeated. “We're now off Rocking M range and into the government lease.”
Val asked, “How did you know the gate was here? There's no trail or anything.”
Ben grinned. “Not everybody knows about this. It's a short cut to where I want to go.”
“And where's that?” Danny asked.
Ben pointed. “That biggest hill over there about half a mile has tepee rings on top. I thought you may be interested.”
Everyone was interested.
Tom was ecstatic. “Ancient ruins!”
The tepee rings were simple circles of small boulders laid out in a random pattern on a large level area at the crest of the highest summit. Near the foot of the hill, far below the tepee rings, lay a fairly large body of water, not quite a lake but a deep prairie slough, its perimeter edged with snow white alkali.
The rocks, heavy enough to anchor the buffalo skin tepees, but manoeuvrable by hand, had settled into the earth and only the top most portion remained visible.
Danny counted eight of the stone circles. The wind blew particularly strong on this desolate hill and the reason for the rocks was apparent. “You'd need good anchors to hold a tent on this knoll,” he said.
“Why perch way up here? Why not down by the water?” Tom asked.
Ben surmised that this encampment would have been a lookout point. “The Indians depended on their eyesight; it was a time when survival of the fittest applied equally to man and beast. They pitched camp on a high spot probably mainly, to be able to see enemies and spot game such as the buffalo herds that once roamed this country. Another advantage of being up here is to escape the mosquitoes and flies that, some years, could drive people and horses crazy.”
Ben stretched out his left arm, pointing toward a long sharp ridge that dropped off sheer from a large table land far to the south. “That high clay bank wall is about eight miles away. The Indians used to stampede buffalo herds and drive them over the edge. It's called a buffalo jump.”
After a long interval, while each person considered this anecdote, Val said, “God! Imagine the terror and the pain of the crippled animals.”
“Imagine the waste,” Brenda added. “What would you do with, say fifty dead buffalo in the heat of summer?”
“A lot did go to the coyotes, flies and vultures, I suppose,” Ben admitted. “Bone fragments are pretty common at the base of the jump; you can only make so much pemmican.”
Ben glanced at the dark cloud bank looming near. “We best put on our slickers before we get wet. I reckon this is far enough for today, anyway.”
The riders reached the drop-gate and were back on Milto land when a light rain commenced.
“Pull your hat down and roll your collar up,” Ben advised Tom, who responded, “I'd rather not be riding in the rain but I have to. Does that make me a real cowboy?”
Ben laughed and Danny said, “Tourists who didn't have the sense to come in out of the rain is what we really are.”
“Let's shift these ponies to a higher gear,” Milt said. “I don't mind riding in the rain but there isn't much sense in prolonging the misery.”
A steady ground eating pace sped the return trip. With the wind behind them, the riders were spared most of the punishing lash of the pelting rain. Ben led the cavalry on a beeline through the rough breaks beyond the clay buttes. In what seemed a very short time, the group broke out onto the flat land that preceded the holding field. The rain had increased but the wind lessened as first the mill and then the holding corrals came into view. The horses were anxious to be finished for the day too and they voluntarily quickened their pace as they neared their temporary 'home'.
“We are tourists and spoiled ones to boot,” Brenda shouted over the thud of running hooves.
Her reasoning became apparent as the rest of the riders saw what the blond girl's sharp eyes had noticed. Someone had erected a large shelter, as yet only partially visible over the ridge near camp.
“Hey! It's the portable shack Ralph Osborne uses for a food booth at his auction sales,” Ben said as they cantered into camp.
“Now, I wonder who did that?” Danny said, giving Milt an exaggerated wink.
“It was probably my parents come out from Toronto for the afternoon,” Tom said.
The straight walled tent had been set up opposite the smaller four person units; the open side faced southwest, perpendicular to what had now diminished to a light breeze. All the camp gear had been moved inside out of the rain and a spare kerosene lantern hung on a peg by the entrance.
“We have room to stow saddles and blankets here, too,” Ben said. “And lookee here! There's a table, chairs, and,” he leaned over in the saddle to read the label, “there's even a mickey of brandy to warm us up.”
Unhappy prospects of a cold damp evening squeezed in two small tents had weighed on everyone's mind but the situation had completely reversed now.
“We'll fire the lanterns to take the dampness out of everything and you men put the horses in the corral,” Brenda ordered.
“You'll be changing diapers, Ben,” Danny said as the male contingent rode bareback, each leading a second unsaddled horse to the corrals.
“God, she almost sounded like her mother.”
“They'll have that brandy bracer polished off, too,” Tom grumbled, mimicking Ben.
“Day three, dissension in the ranks,” Danny announced.
But it turned out there was an equal portion of oats for the horses and an even share of nips from the public brandy bottle for the riders. The lanterns, burning at opposite ends of the large enclosure, soon removed the chill from cold limbs and began to dry dampened gear.
A deck of cards was included with the 'tourist package' and soon everyone was gathered round the table for dealer's choice.
“It certainly smells horsey in here,” Val said as the quarters, doubling as tack room, warmed up. “But I like it.” she was quick to add.
When Milt's turn to deal arrived, she said, with a mischievous glint, “Anyone know how to play Cripple Mr. Onion?”
The round of blank looks supplied the answer so she said, “That's okay, 'cause I don't remember the rules anyway. How about….In Between?”
Benny and Tom discovered that the elves who erected the straight wall shelter had also restocked the ice chest with provisions and a fresh supply of ice. A short note proclaimed that all was well back in civilization.
“Man, we are a spoiled bunch,” Ben said as he and Tom packed adequate supper victuals back to camp.
“Spoiled suits me just fine,” Tom laughed, “I don't ever want this to end.”
Danny worked his barbecue magic on the grate in spite of the dampened wood supply and turned out another fabulous feast.
“I thought cowboys lived on pork and beans,” Tom said.
Ben patted his full stomach. “This cowboy is gonna grow fat as a yearlin' steer with all the grub we been puttin' away.”
Danny sat back in the chair, tilted up his straw hat and said, “Time to put on some fat, winter's coming.”
Darkness descended early under the dense cloud cover. Though the showers had stopped, the evening was sopping wet; the birch and clump willow bent under their burden of rain drops.
After a few more hands of cards, everyone agreed to an early bedtime. The lanterns, used previously for drying damp gear, were moved to the tents to take the chill out of the bed clothes.
Ben, Danny and Tom stood round the shallow pit, poking at the embers and feeding small sticks to the dying fire.
“It's been a long time since man first stared into the fire,” Danny said.
“In the beginning, he probably ran from it, just like the animals do today,” said Ben.
“Chase isn't too afraid,” observed Tom as he watched the Border Collie chewing on a steak bone near the flames.
The ladies came by to bid their male counterparts a good evening and Val anxiously asked Danny if he would be able to sleep tonight.
Danny grinned and winked at Milt, “I'll sleep just fine now unless I dream about that crippled onion fellow.”
A gust of breeze blew raindrops from the trees on to the tent and Danny smiled in the darkness as the bedroll gradually transformed from startlingly chilly to a pleasant penetrating warmth. “Cripple Mr. Onion,” he said and drifted off in placid somnolence.
…Down through the years I've spent many nights out in those hills, occasionally when I hadn't planned for it, but the years when the Miltos owned the ranch were the very best. I recall one particular summer…
Submitted by Ben Collins
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