C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
A real bonus of correspondence education lay in the fact that a student was not required to adhere to a regular clock schedule for completing school work. Milt Milto always started her day at the same hour as the children attending the school in town but she usually had the day's work completed ahead of time and didn't have to endure the monotonous and trying bus ride.
On this day the young tomboy had finished her studies even earlier than usual and was enjoying the freedom of a brisk ride on her buckskin. The black and white border collie raced along with horse and rider. As Milt topped the rise which opened out on to the farmland east of the Milto headquarters, her quick eyes detected a plume of smoke billowing up in the vicinity of Pete Liscombe's buildings. Fire on the prairies is never taken lightly and the girl instantly goaded the gelding to a full gallop and fairly flew down the road toward the bachelor's yard. Whiskey's long legs ate up the sandy trail, while Chase's shorter legs were a blur. The cow dog barely managed to keep pace as the trio raced toward the scene. Milt had opted to use a saddle today and now she clung tightly to the horn as she leaned forward, cutting the wind resistance, and urged the horse to greater speed. Sensing the anxious urgency in the young girl's voice the buckskin delivered a heroic burst of energy and they swept into the yard sliding to a halt with the horse rearing up in a whirlwind of dust.
The east end of Pete's barn flamed a wicked bright orange and clouds of thick grey smoke belched from the partially open door in the loft. Dropping the reins, Milt swung from the saddle, calling for Mr. Liscombe. No answer came and the girl sprinted into the small one story farm-house, located the telephone and yanked the receiver from its hook. Giving the crank on the magneto set a hefty twist she tried to calm her pounding heart. Vera Mitchell, the exchange operator, responded to the call.
“Pete Liscombe's barn is on fire!” Milt reported in a breathless rush.
The operator repeated the statement before saying, “I'll put through a general right now.”
One of the benefits of the open wire and rural telephone exchanges was the ability for the local operator to seize all lines and supply an extended ring that reached every household having a telephone. Vera Mitchell placed the 'general' and waited briefly as many phones went off-hook in response to the “emergency” summons. In a coolly professional voice, she announced that a fire was out of control at the Pete Liscombe residence. Milt did not stay on the line to hear the message. The long ring of the general faded from her ears as she raced out to the fire.
Assessing the situation, Milt noticed a pen attached to the barn surrounding a litter of half-grown pigs who were squealing with fright as they crowded each other in an attempt to escape the heat, smoke and roar of the fire. The young girl searched for a gate and realized with horror that the only opening in the fence was almost engulfed with flames. Milt dashed over to her horse who had strayed away from the blaze and stood tossing his head, shaking the reins in nervous fear. The girl tried to suppress her own anxiety, talking soothingly to the frightened creature. She climbed into the saddle and urged the reluctant horse toward the flaming barn. Milt uncoiled the lariat that was tied to her saddle and though she did not consider herself a roper, managed to dab a loop on the weathered corner post of the pig pen. With a quick dally around the horn she slapped heels to the gelding. Pointed in a direction away from the fire, Whiskey had keen interest in moving that way. The big horse rose on hind legs and plunged forward. Slack in the rope was taken up at the optimum second. As the front feet of the buckskin struck earth and powerful hind quarters delivered more thrust, the corner post snapped like a picket. Two posts adjacent broke as well and the buckskin hauled fifty feet of page wire away from the barn.
Though an escape route had now been provided, the young porkers were too confused and afraid to leave the enclosure which had always been their home. Milt whistled for Chase and the obedient cow dog darted in among the pigs.
“Lift 'em, Chase. Lift 'em outta there!” With the collie snapping at their haunches, the squealing weaners burst through the opening and raced away as though scalded with hot bacon grease.
As the noise of the frightened pigs diminished Milt detected another bawling of anguish above the roar of the hungry flames. The sound seemed to originate from within the burning structure. The girl hadn't considered that any livestock would be in the barn as most farmers kept their animals outdoors during the milder weather. The flames as yet consumed only the east end of the building and Milt believed she could enter from the west side hoping to free the trapped creature that puled pitifully from inside. When she opened the main door of the barn the smoke almost choked her and the heat seared her face. Fortunately, the fresh air swept in around her and, though it fed the roaring flame at the far end of the barn, the breeze served to clear the air near by. Immediately, Milt spotted a small, Hereford-Jersey crossbred calf staring wild eyed and blatting plaintively through the bars of a nearby pen. The girl ran forward, snapped up the latch and yanked the door of the box stall penning the frightened calf and tried to haze the little animal out. The terror stricken creature would not be pushed, pulled or dragged from its pen. Milt recalled her father's statement about obdurate and foolish people: “Dumber than a pail fed calf.” She knew how well that anecdote applied now. With the smoke building again and the heat growing dangerously intense, Milt could not wrestle any longer with the little waif. Abandoning the box stall, she quickly scanned the barn for other occupants. Seeing nothing alive, Milt picked up what she could. She grabbed Pete Liscombe's aged Association saddle, blanket and a hackamore from the saddle rest, collected a pitch fork and lugged the equipment toward the open doorway. As she struggled toward the exit trying to salvage anything she could, Milt jabbed the long wooden shaft of the fork through the wire hooped handle of a milk bucket which happened to be standing in the barn's alleyway. The stricken calf saw the moving pail and immediately ran after the fleeing girl. Coughing and gasping, Milt lunged out of the barn and dragged the treasures to safety. The diminutive cross breed dogged her heels trying to shove its head in the pail.
“You're even dumber than a pail fed calf!” Milt scolded the little animal when she regained her breath.
Shouts from the other end of the building alerted her that help had arrived. Robert Milto and his hired man were the second people on the scene. Danny Reid soon arrived, still wringing his hands in pain as he had been testing a line when the exchange operator delivered the high AC voltage for the 'general' call. Milt glanced down the road leading into Pete Liscombe's yard and noticed the dust rising into the sky from the steady stream of traffic racing to the fire.
Milt's clothes were covered with dirty black streaks and her face fairly glowed a bright red from the heat and exertion.
“Are you all right?” Robert Milto asked.
Milt nodded, “I don't know where Mr. Liscombe is though! I called for him but he didn't answer.”
As nothing could be done to save the barn which had rapidly become totally engulfed with the roaring flames, a crowd gathered near the young girl who seemed to have the most information about the blaze.
Danny Reid stepped closer to father and daughter. He said, “I saw Pete heading down the road with a stock rack on his truck earlier this morning. He is probably off to the auction with some pigs or a couple of cows.”
An audible sigh of relief arose from the onlookers upon hearing this good news.
Mr. Milto addressed the group, “There isn't much we can do for the barn but we best make sure the fire doesn't spread to the other buildings.”
“What about livestock? Was there any critters in the barn?” Lou Collins asked.
“Whiskey and I tore down the pig fence, so there will be some hogs on the loose around here somewhere, and there was a little calf in the barn, but he escaped.”
“Probably Pete's Jersey milk cow’s calf… but, how did the calf break out of there?” Ben Collins asked.
The neighbours listened with a suitable mix of humour and approval as the brave girl related the story of rescuing the baby bovine.
Lou Collins said. “Ol' Pete ought to give you a medal for saving that Association saddle of his. That danged ol' piece of leather has been up and down this country for sixty years and Pete treated it better than his kin.”
The old barn collapsed inward, the flaming walls and roof sagged under weakened supports as beams, rafters and studs were eaten up by the blaze. A blistering cloud of sparks and debris mushroomed skyward as the weather battered structure lent itself to cremation. With shovels, pitchforks and wet gunny sacks that had been dipped in the stock watering trough, the fire fighters hurried about the yard beating out the dozens of little flames which sprang up where flaming debris alit. In a short time the entire building had been consumed, leaving a smouldering pile of ashes and rubble. As the fire diminished, so did the fire fighters. Only a handful were on site when Pete Liscombe came driving up the lane in his pickup, a home-built wooden stock rack loaded on the back. The leathern features of the old stockman allowed little emotion as he surveyed the ruins and talked with his neighbours. When Lou Collins related the story about the calf and Milt saving the saddle, Pete's face broke into a wide grin.
He gave a gentle tug on Milt's ponytail and said, “When you folks came here, I couldn't decide what to think. You seemed to have so much and the rest of us was all dirt poor. A man can make a hell of a mistake judging others by what they have and not by what they do. I reckon you're made of the same stuff as the rest of us.” He placed his long bony arm around Milt's shoulders and drew her close to his side with a little hug and said in a husky voice, “An' I especially want to thank you, little girl, for savin' my saddle.”
The next day, Robert Milto brought a tractor with a front-end loader to push the rubble into a heap. Together he and Pete Liscombe loaded the remains of the barn on Pete's old two-ton grain truck and hauled the loads to the municipal landfill. Pete insisted it would be all right just to dump the garbage in a deep draw he had on his property, but the younger man advised that such an idea, though seemingly perfectly normal today, may not appear so prudent in the eyes of the next generation.
Old Pete shook his head in amusement. “You are the doggonedest guy for lookin' down the road. Sometimes I think you can see into the future. An' I'll have to agree with you too; we don't need no junk pile on ever' quarter section in the country.”
The grizzled old cowman's tone changed, “Bob, do you think I ought to build a new barn?”
Robert Milto was a tall, solid built man. His dark hair and keen grey eyes set off the chiselled features of his handsome face. The prosperous cattleman now leaned on the shovel he had been using to scoop up refuse the tractor loader had missed and gazed at his neighbour in surprise. Though he knew Pete had been among the first to accept his family in the district, it shocked the newcomer to be asked advice by a man thirty-five years his senior. “Well, Pete,” he began slowly, “that depends on what your plans are. You could go on raising cattle and farming here for a long time yet, and if you keep cows, you'll be needing a barn for calving and that sort of thing.”
Pete Liscombe interrupted, his faded blue eyes peering intensely into the honest greys of his neighbour. “But do you think I'll be needing a barn?” he asked as if Robert Milto knew the answer.
Milto never skirted or evaded an issue in his life and he didn't hedge now. “You know, seventy-five years old isn't exactly the proper age for starting over, Pete. Maybe you should consider taking up a house in town. You'll have plenty to live on with the proceeds from a sale of your property, livestock and equipment.”
Pete Liscombe grinned. “Well, you're honest, Bob. You could have been more definite but you've told me more than you think.”
“I'm not sure I understand what you're telling me, Pete.”
“It was something I saw yesterday when you folks was up here fighting fire. After everybody finished talking and started to head home, I fetched that buckskin gelding for your girl. He had wandered off by that row of caragannas over there.” Robert Milto nodded as his gaze followed the out-stretched arm and crooked, pointing finger. Pete continued, “The rope was still trailing behind the horse from when Milt had pulled that there corner post. I coiled up the lariat and tied it to her saddle and when I done that I seen that one of the saddle bags was tore part way open and was scarred pretty good from that rope.”
The old man paused as this was the most he'd talked for a long time. At Robert Milto's urging he continued. “I seen, through the tore part of that saddle bag, a real nice book; it was bound in leather and lettered in gold. Now, I couldn't read my own name without my spectacles if the print was held up close, but I could read it if it were a few feet away. Bob, I saw some of the writing on that book's cover.”
Realization and a slight hint of panic may have flared in the younger man's eyes. Pete Liscombe said, “Your secret is safe with me, Bob. I am confounded if I can grasp it all, but I won't ask any questions and I sure as hell won't tell anybody else.” He chuckled at the thought. “Most everybody figgers I'm crazy as it is!”
“…Though neighbours insisted on a barn raising bee, Pete Liscombe never rebuilt his barn. His health took a turn for the worse and he passed away less than a year after the fire.”
Submitted by Leonard Yeast
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