Stepping carefully from the train, a pale and frail Archie Butts had to be almost carried to the wagon. Saying that Archie Butts had survived a boating accident and had been in the water for a long time, the telegram from Mr. Roosevelt stated the gentleman would remain at the ranch until he recovered from the ordeal. That night, the ranch hands had placed bets on how long the tall gaunt stranger would last. However, the harsh conditions of the Black Hills seemed to strengthen Archie. Before long, he was up. Sooner than anyone had foreseen, the lanky man was walking and taking long rides.

  The watery trial had left the man’s face without the ability to smile or frown. His left hand and arm were still much weaker than the right. But his eyes missed nothing, then or now. Within months of his arrival in the Badlands, Archie Butts was handling all the administration of the ranch as if he had been there all his life. Although obviously aware of his disfigurement, their new ranch manager never used it as an excuse. He never seemed to tire.

  Long before the sun, Archie was up and absorbed in his books. The scorching summer heat and sub-zero winter cold seemed not to affect Butts as he rode to the limits of the ranch and beyond. A crack shot, the hands could always count on fresh game arriving in camp, slung over the back or in sacks tied to Archie’s pack mule.

  The next milepost change had occurred later that year. Archie had left Elkhorn accompanied by Jake, an Indian Scout and several pack animals. They traveled west and north, looking at land. Over the next month, the trio had made a great circle over the grasslands, looking for something.

  Jake had asked several times during the first week exactly what Archie was looking for. Getting the same answer each time, “I’ll know it when I see it,” he quit asking and just rode along. To this day, Jake had no idea exactly what ‘it” was. To him, the land he saw the new owner gazing across looked much the same as most of the other land that he, Archie, and the scout had traversed back in 1913.

  The trio had crossed miles of grassland, gullies and windswept crags where tuffs of vegetation clung tenaciously to the clay and rock. Each night, Archie Butts would write in his notebook by the campfire. Upon returning to Elkhorn, Jake had taken a parcel addressed to Teddy Roosevelt into to town to mail. Although curious as to its contents, Jake had not tampered with what felt like notebooks wrapped in heavy brown paper, tied with string.

  A month later, Jake had been called up to the ranch house for a talk with the foreman. According to Elkhorn’s top hand, Mr. Roosevelt had bought several parcels west of Elkhorn. Archie Butts was moving to the new land which Teddy had named the West Wind Ranch. Archie wanted Jake to go with him as foreman.

  Far from the rundown and abandoned land Jake and a group of handpicked seasoned cowhands moved to with Archie Butts in the spring of 1914, West Wind Ranch had grown prosperously over the past few years. It seemed to Jake that Archie had second sight into exactly when to move their cattle to market and when other surrounding lands could be acquired under the best conditions. West Wind now encompassed thousands of acres of grassland, rivers, craggy canyons and cliffs.

  In the early years, a parade of geologist and mining engineers had scoured the least habitable lands of the ranch and beyond. As quickly as they had appeared, the scientists and engineers disappeared -- not to return. Sometimes nothing would change. But many times, West Wind would add another parcel or two.

  Life on the ranch settled into the familiar pattern of calving in the spring, moving the herds to fresh grass and water as the summer sun dried up the land, and then moving the cattle to the rail spur for shipment to market. Other ranchers began to follow West Wind’s lead. Not willing to admit that he just followed Archie’s directions as when to sale, Jake acquired quite a reputation of knowing just when the markets would be at their highest.

  Occasionally, Archie would leave on a trip east, usually to a location where Mr. Roosevelt was speaking or visiting for a hunt. February of 1918 brought the first real change in West Wind routine. Archie called him in late one night. “Jake, I am going on a long trip to the east. I will probably be gone until early Fall, so you are in full charge of West Wind.”

  “While I’m gone,” Archie continued in his matter of fact voice, “Mr. Roosevelt wants another wing of rooms added onto the west side of the house. He also wants a new barn built to handle extra equipment and gear. Mr. Roosevelt will send you the plans. Here are the signed papers you need to run the ranch in my absence.”

  That was it. The very next morning Archie Butts left with one of the hands. The following day, the cowboy returned with Archie’s horse and the word that ‘Ole Stone Face’ had boarded the train for Chicago after giving him some money for a good meal, a room for the night in town, and instructions to return to West Wind the following day. That the cowboy had followed Archie’s orders to the letter, Jake was certain. Mr. Butts was someone who none of the hands were willing to cross.

  True to his word, there was no news from or about Mr. Archie until September. A letter was brought out to the ranch from town. Recognizing the former president’s handwriting on the envelope, Jake was astonished to learn that Archie would be arriving on September 10th with a cook and a couple other people that would be moving into some of the rooms in the new wing of the ranch house.

  Teddy stated that the new arrivals would be dropped off in an unscheduled stop at the head of the cattle spur line, rather than arriving on the local that made a stop in town. Sure enough, at two o’clock in the morning, the transcontinental express eased to a stop at the junction with the freight spur. Archie, two other men and one woman stepped off the train. A conductor handed down several trunks from the baggage car and the train departed without ceremony. It was doubtful that any of the other passengers on the express noticed their unscheduled stop in the middle of nowhere.

  “Jake this is Ann Deming, Alex Troop, and Isaac Carter. They will be staying at West Wind at least for a while. No one outside of the boys must know of their presence at the ranch.”

  In the glow from the lantern that he held to light the way for their guests to board the wagons, Jake saw that Archie was uncharacteristically slumped at the shoulders. Troubled, Jake climbed into the seat without a word. It was the first time in six years that he had seen the ranch manager look defeated.

  Jake had to admit to himself that the food at West Wind improved greatly with Isaac in the kitchen. Cookie had been put out about the arrival of an indoor cook but settled down as soon as he learned that Isaac did not intend to replace him at the chuck wagon. As a matter of fact, the two began to share their recipes. Food for the cowhands took an upward turn as Cookie began to use some of the tips that Jake knew had come out of the kitchen of the main house.

  Nothing seemed to bring Archie out of his depressed mood, though. While he went back to his books and mechanically took control of the ranch operations, but without the interest previously shown. The malaise seemed to envelop all in the ranch house. He had caught Ann several times, crying for no apparent reason. Alex and Isaac were also usually quiet as if they were keeping a vigil and expecting the worst. So, it went for two months.

  December brought a dramatic change. In the early afternoon of December 2nd, four covered wagons arrived at the ranch, totally unannounced. Handling the first team was a face that he knew well – a face that he knew could not be. The voice from the beyond called out cheerfully, “How is Ole Jake today?”

  Jake’s knees began to buckle, and he grabbed the hitching post for support. The word had reached the remote Badlands ranch that the youngest son of Theodore Roosevelt had been killed flying against the Germans.

  The name Quinton was on his quivering tongue when the young man quickly continued, “Jake, don’t you recognize me? Its Sam, Sam Cox.”

  Then he remembered the boyhood friend of Quinton Roosevelt. Yes, that must be it. Jake had not thought about the antics of the two boys in quite a while. Now the survivor of the pair was sitting in the wagon before him waiting for a reply.

  Words came gushing uncharacteristically out of the ranch foreman. “Come down boy, it has been awhile. No one told me you were coming. Who are these folks with you? Never mind me, prattling on like the womenfolk. Let’s get everyone in the big house. It’s is a little nippy here in the open, for the ladies that is.”

  Hardly had the first of the ladies alighted from the wagons than there was a shout and a string of words in a foreign tongue coming from the porch of the ranch house. Ann Deming raced across the snow-covered ground, grabbing one then another of the young ladies alighting from the wagons. Tears streamed from her eyes as she continued to babble in the foreign tongue.

  Isaac and Alex, alerted by the noise in the front, also piled out of the house, grinning from ear to ear. It looked to Jake that despite the biting December cold, there was a bit of sweat dripping from the men’s eyes as well.

  Who were these people?

  The fourth wagon driver tied off his team and stepped down from the seat. He was a short man, much shorter than the tall thin lady that he helped down. Then Ann Deming did the craziest thing Jake had ever seen. Standing there in the yard, this grown lady, clad in her everyday work dress curtsied almost to the ground before these last arrivals. She did not move a muscle to get up until the lady grabbed her and physically pulled her upright.

  Jake looked around. Luckily none of the other hands were about today. The cow hands were all smitten on Miss Ann. Behavior like this would not sit well with them. You’d think that this was the Queen of England or something.

  The short man, noticing Jake still standing by the hitching post walked over and extended his hand. “I’m Nick Roman, this is my wife Alice, and these people are the rest of my family and a couple friends. Would it be convenient to talk to Archie Butts?”

  “No sir, Mr. Butts has gone to Bismarck to file some papers. He will not be back for a week. I’m Jake, Jake Jones, his foreman. Let’s get your missus and these young ladies in the house where it is warm. I’ll take care of the stock and the wagons. There is plenty of room for them in the barn. I’ll have some of the hands bring your things in. You will be staying with us, won’t you?”

  “Yes Mr. Jones, I think we will be staying for quite a while,” came the dry reply from the man before him.

  “Call me Jake, everyone else does, excepting that young whippersnapper over there who thinks he can get by with Old Jake!” Looking over the group being ushered into the ranch house by Alex and Ann, the reason for the past summer’s construction became clear.

  The last two drivers walked up. “Hello Mr. Jones, my name is Jonathan, and this is Doctor Botkin. I’m told that he is almost as good with mules as he is with people,” announced the teenaged boy before him. The grip was that of a man and not a boy. Jake tried not to wince from the handshake. The Doctor’s grip was much gentler, thank goodness.

  “Call me Jake. If you call me Mr. Jones, I’ll be a thinking that you are referring to my father. Or,” he finished with a laugh, “that you are the law.”

  “Let us help with the horses, Jake.” Jonathan suggested. “That way we all will get out of this cold sooner.

  With that Jonathan climbed up into the first wagon and with a gentle snap of the traces, aimed the horses for the new barn. Sam and the doctor followed suit, leaving the last wagon for Jake.

  The familiarity with which the young Jonathan moved about, unhitching the horses and putting the gear away gave Jake an odd feeling. It was as if the boy had been here before. Couldn’t be. They just built the new barn this past summer. This boy had never been on the ranch before. Of that Jake was certain - a certainty that would dissolve over time.

  Chapter 23: West Wind’s Owner

  Black Hills, North Dakota

  47.36N 103.32W

  1230 GMT, December 31, 1918

  The solitary figure standing ramrod straight and seemingly oblivious to the icy wind whipping at his coat intrigued Jake. He had not met anyone quite like the slightly built owner of West Wind. Even though his accent was at times hard to understand, Mr. Nick as the hands referred to him, seemed able to pick out even the nuisances of their conversations.

  In the bunkhouse, they had wondered aloud about the background of their new boss. The consensus was that they had had to flee the Germans. Obviously, he and his family had come from Europe to avoid some of the nastier aspects of the Great War.

  Warnings, each of them had received personally from Mr. Butts, made it clear that the family was under death threats from their enemies. Nothing could be said about them to outsiders. Only the, what did Mr. Archie call it, oh yes, the cover story was all any of them had ever been told.

  Mr. Nick had proved to be a quick study, Jake thought to himself. He seemed to take naturally to the working of a ranch. Adapting to the western style saddle and horses, the new dude rancher had rapidly learned the respect of his hands when they observed him taking on more than his fair share of the less desirable tasks in the biting December cold.

  The new owner did not make the same error more than once and seemed appreciative when someone showed him the correct, or a better way, of doing something. By fall, this new owner of West Wind would be a top hand. That was more than you could say for some of the grandees who owned ranches in the badlands and only showed up on holiday.

  Lost in his thoughts, Jake almost missed it as a second figure emerged from the main house and walked across the snow-covered ground to join Mr. Nick. Almost a head taller and thicker built, the Lady of the Ranch, strode with a purposeful step up to Mr. Nick. Putting her arm through his, Mrs. Roman rested her head against the owner’s shoulder. Although she was not as outgoing as their boss, she was not standoffish as some of his fellow foremen described their bosses’ wives.

  Sunny, Mr. Nick’s nickname for his wife was certainly appropriate. Despite the bleak gray cold of her first month on the ranch, Mrs. Roman seemed to radiate a true joy of living as she moved about the main house and ranch buildings. Although he occasionally glimpsed a faraway look in her eyes, Jake had rarely seen a frown on the lady’s face. He, along with the rest of the hands, had taken to referring to her as Miss Sunny occasionally—to her back that is.

  Almost all mothers loved and showed pride—in their children. That was a given, he thought. Even the ranch guests’ brats, he had been saddled with over the years, had benefited from motherly affection. But there seemed to be a special joy and awe in her eyes when Miss Sunny watched her son. Jake sensed that there was more to it than a mother’s love, but knew, whatever it was, it was buried in the past that was not to be discussed, even around the campfires. Archie was clear on that point.

  “Nicky, you are going to freeze me if you don’t come into the house. What are you thinking?” Motioning westward toward the horizon, she whispered, “Homesick or plotting?” There was a little lilt to her voice as she teased her husband.

  “I’m just saying a final goodbye to the past, Sunny.”

  Pointing to the rapidly darkening sky to the west, Nicholas continued as he led his wife back toward the warmth of the main house, “That sun will be bringing daylight to Siberia. A new year is beginning for Russia. I don’t think it will be a good one.” With a last glance at the now black night, he finished with a sigh. “I fear Mother Russia will live in the black shadow of death far into the future. They have bought into the same false promises that the French did over a century ago.”

  “A society built by and for anarchists is doomed. The French have still not emerged from the rot to their souls caused by embracing the anarchy in 1789. Likewise, the new Russian society will resemble a peach stung by an early freeze. The fruit may look attractive on the outside, but the core will be black and rotten, unable to sustain a society in the modern world.”

  Entering the outer doors to the main house, the two stomped off the last of the snow from their shoes. Nick Roman hung his elk hide coat on a peg and helped his wife out of her heavy woolen cloak. Opening the inner doors, the two moved directly toward the roaring fire in the room’s stone fireplace. The scents of the fine dinner being prepared in the kitchen permeated the air. “Isaac is really enjoying cooking again. He is going to have all of us as round as a ball before spring.”

  “Not the way you and Alex are working, Nicky. I think ranch life becomes you.” Also, she sighed wistfully, “Baby is not a baby anymore. Yesterday, he was up in the hay barn tossing bales down like they were toys.” Crossing herself, she continued, “I know there was a miracle on the train that night. I just wish that I could thank the monk in person. He is truly blessed by God. Not like that scoundrel who held me in his spell for so long.”

  “You really don’t know who he was, do you?” Nick asked, his eyes squinted almost closed and the corners of his mouth turned up under the edges of the full beard.

  “Nicky, you have that look again. You act like you know a secret too delicious to share. Who was the mysterious Brother Veritas? If you really know, tell me and lose that smirk.” Sunny Roman wiped her hand across her husband’s beard as if to wipe the slight smile away. “Okay, Mr. Nick, tell me or admit you don’t know either.” Balling her hand into a fist and drawing it back playfully, she continued in a gruff voice, “Tell me or I will punch your lights out, Mr. Nick!”

 

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