A hill of beans, p.5
A Hill of Beans, page 5
Mac grabbed the bar and began whirling it inside the triangle with a practiced flourish, sending a clamor all through the camp as he hollered, “Everybody roust up! Right away! We got an injury here and a man in serious need of help!”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, the sun was partly risen above the horizon and the flurry of activity within the Rafter B camp had finally settled down. Orson Brandenburger was laid out on his bedroll under one end of the chuckwagon, resting fitfully, at times snoring, other times moaning softly.
This state was the result of consuming nearly half a bottle of whiskey meant to dull the pain from his wound and then the two dozen stitches required to close it and stop the bleeding. The deep laceration left by the slipped knife ran from the web between his thumb and forefinger down over the ball of his thumb nearly to the base of his palm. By the time he was done applying the stitches, Shad Hopper was blood-spattered, dripping sweat, and reaching to take a belt of the whiskey himself.
“That’s a mean cut,” Hopper reported now to those gathered around him. His voice was tight, his expression grim. “I got the bleeding stopped—I think. As deep as he sliced, I can’t even swear that will hold. Plus he cut through who knows how many nerves and tendons, then ended up almighty close to that big vein in his wrist. If he’s to have any chance of getting back full use of his hand, we really ought to get him to a doctor.”
“Can he travel? What I mean is, will he be able to sit a horse?” Bradley asked.
Hopper’s mouth twisted wryly. “When he sobers up enough to sit upright at all, he ought to be able to. Long as he don’t start pumping more blood.”
“The next question,” said Bradley, frowning, “is where are we likely to find the nearest doctor?”
“I’d say the closest place would be Cheyenne. Can’t be more than thirty miles to the northeast. A decent start and a good horse could make it there by dark.”
Bradley rubbed his stubbled jaw for a moment before saying, “Well, I guess that’s the right thing to do then. We owe it to the ornery cuss to give him the best chance we can.” He looked at Mac. “Looks like you may get your chance to visit Cheyenne after all.”
“Not so quick, Pa,” spoke up Roman. He tossed a quick glance toward Mac. “It’s not that I begrudge Mackenzie making the trip. But here’s the thing. Without Orson, this outfit is going to be minus a cook. None of the rest of us are cut out for that. If we were, we wouldn’t have put up with the slop Orson’s been feeding us up to now. But the one exception—and I’m telling you this based on experience from eating his trail cooking while him and me were after those rustlers—is Mackenzie. He can cook like nobody’s business. Be a shame to let him get away and then the rest of us suffer through the kind of grub we’d have to get by on with him and Orson both gone.”
Bradley frowned. “What do you say to that, Mac?”
Mac shrugged. “Well, I told you at the start I’ve got experience as a chuckwagon cook. And I won’t deny that I’m kinda proud of the grub I’m able to rustle up. As far as going to Cheyenne, after we talked last evening, I’d pretty much put that notion out of my head. So going or not going now, on account of this new development, doesn’t really matter to me. If I can help the outfit more by staying and cooking for the drive, I’m fine with that.”
“I’ll go, Pa,” young George piped up. “I’ll take Orson to Cheyenne and get him doctored up proper.”
Bradley didn’t hesitate in the least to shake his head. “Oh no, you won’t. You’re too blamed eager. You’d get to Cheyenne, have your head spun around by the big city, and who knows how long it’d be before you found your way back to us.”
“Aw, come on, Pa. That ain’t fair! I’d behave myself. I’m just as responsible as—”
Bradley cut him short. “I said no, and that’s the end of it!” He took a breath and then turned to his middle son. “How about you, Henry? You seem to tolerate Orson’s crankiness better than most, anyway. You up for riding him to Cheyenne and seeing to it his hand gets patched up proper?”
Henry’s generally mild expression didn’t change. “If that’s what you want, Pa. But if it’s what we’re gonna do, then let’s start pouring some strong coffee into the patient in order to get him sobered back up enough to sit a saddle. And Colleen, will you round up a couple sturdy horses for us? If we want to make Cheyenne by nightfall, we’d better get a move on.”
And so it was that Mac became, at least temporarily, the new cook for the Rafter B. But in no time at all—only as long as it took for the crew to taste a few bites of the first breakfast he served, consisting of fluffy, golden biscuits smothered in creamy redeye gravy containing thick chunks of bacon, accompanied by rich, strong coffee that wasn’t so bitter it curled teeth—the compliments and murmurs of satisfaction issued around mouthfuls of the food sent a pretty clear signal there might be some powerful resistance to Orson reclaiming his position whenever he got back.
CHAPTER 10
Face flushed a bright red, his tone ringing with indignation, Orson Brandenburger demanded an answer. “So I’m fired—is that what you’re telling me?”
Standing with his feet planted wide, not withering under Brandenburger’s angry glare, Norris Bradley replied tolerantly, “I said nothing of the kind. You’re more than welcome to finish the drive with the rest of us. We’ll find work for you to do. But with that contraption the doctor slapped on you . . .”
Bradley’s words trailed off uncertainly as he scowled down at the “contraption” covering Brandenburger’s left hand and part of his forearm.
“It’s called a cast, Pa,” Henry Bradley said. “The doc in Cheyenne explained it’s made of something called plaster of Paris. It dries hard as a rock and is meant to keep the hand and wrist protected and totally still so everything has the best chance of healing in a way that will give Orson all or mostly full use again.”
“That’s all well and good. And I naturally hope Orson does regain full use of the hand,” Bradley said. “But in the meantime—that being two to three months before the doc said this cast thing would come off—I don’t see how a one-handed person can perform the cooking duties for our drive. Wrangling pots and pans, building the cooking fires, cutting and mixing, even handling the mule team . . . I can’t picture it. It would be too much.”
“Yet you say you’d find me other work,” Brandenburger huffed. “What would that be, for me and my one hand?”
“A man can sit a saddle with one hand, can’t he?” Bradley replied, starting to show some impatience. “You could help Colleen with the remuda, take turns as a nighthawk. Things like that.”
“Wrangler work,” Brandenburger said as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “If I’d wanted to be a cowboy, I would have signed on as one. I am a cook!”
“And when your hand is healed, you’ll be one again. But for the time being, I don’t see how you could manage. Are you telling me you think otherwise?”
Brandenburger scowled fiercely, refusing to give a direct answer. Attempting to dodge the question and instead focus attention elsewhere, he aimed his scowl in the direction of where Mac was working over by the chuckwagon.
“And is that my replacement?” he said acidly. “The upstart who came out of nowhere and claims to be a cook?”
It was the middle of the day. The outfit had just finished its noon meal, and Mac was buttoning up the chuckwagon in order to start rolling again. Henry and Brandenburger had shown up when lunch was nearly over, but Mac put together a couple of bacon and biscuit sandwiches and cups of coffee for them. They’d taken those and wandered off a ways to converse privately with Bradley.
In answer to the question Brandenburger had posed along those very lines, Bradley told him, “Yeah, Mac’s been filling in while you were away.” Then he added, “And doing a mighty fine job of it.”
The corners of Brandenburger’s mouth turned downward even more. “Bah! Any saddletramp knows how to throw a piece of meat between a couple slices of bread. But can this Mac cook up a satisfying meal, time after time, that’ll stick to a workingman’s ribs?”
“If he’s the one who made the biscuits that were wrapped around those sandwiches he fixed for us,” Henry spoke up, “then I’d say that’s a pretty good sign my ribs would be plenty happy to have his cooking stuck to ’em.”
“Is that another dig at my cooking?” Brandenburger demanded.
Roman Bradley, who was standing not far away, took a step closer. “You want to know what I think, Brandenburger?” he said. “I think what needs help is your stinkin’ cooking. We’ve put up with it all these weeks on account of my father feeling obligated to keep you on because you were willing to join us at short notice. And now he’s willing to keep you on some more, even after you’ve hobbled yourself into a nearly useless condition.”
“You wouldn’t dare talk to me like that, you barking pup, if I had the use of both of my hands!” seethed Brandenburger.
“If that’s all that’s stopping you,” Roman said through clenched teeth, “I’ll gladly tie one of my hands behind my back.”
“No, you won’t. Stop this, the both of you!” his father said.
“I demand an apology,” insisted Brandenburger.
“Then go to hell and wait for it,” Roman told him. “The day snow starts falling there, I’ll bring one by.”
Bradley’s voice rose to a low boom. “Enough, I said!”
Roman eased off slightly, but Brandenburger wasn’t so willing. “Enough is right. That’s what I’ve had—enough of this whole ungrateful outfit. I’ve seen the wrinkled noses and heard the muttered complaints from day one. But nobody ever had the guts to say anything to my face, did they? And now, now that I’m injured in the performance of my duties, you all slide around and deliver the ultimate insult . . . Expecting me to sit a blasted horse, eat dust all day, and then eat somebody else’s cooking. There’s no way I’m willing to do that!”
“It’s the only offer on the table,” Bradley said, his words as flat and direct as his stare.
“Then cash me out,” Brandenburger said stubbornly. “Pay me for the time I’ve put in, and I’ll be on my way.”
Bradley nodded without hesitation. “If that’s the way you want it. Collect your personal gear and pick a horse from the remuda. When you’re ready to ride out, I’ll have your money waiting.”
* * *
That night, after supper was done and he’d finished his cleanup chores, Mac sat apart from the others. He was leaned back against a wheel of the chuckwagon, sipping from a cup of coffee, so deeply lost in thought that he wasn’t aware of Colleen’s approach until she spoke.
“Any particular reason you’re being so antisocial tonight?”
Mac looked up with a start. “Oh. Hi, Miss Colleen.” He started to rise to his feet.
Colleen halted him with, “Hold it right there. We had an agreement, remember? You’re supposed to stop popping up like a jack-in-the-box every time I come around.”
Mac settled back. “I recall you saying that’s how it should be. But you’ll have to forgive me having a lot of years drubbed into my head saying otherwise.”
Colleen smiled. “Okay. We’ll have to just keep working on it, then.”
“Fair enough.”
“Now that that’s settled, would you mind some company?”
“Of course not.” Mac reached a couple feet to his right and overturned a wooden bucket. Patting the now upturned bottom, he said, “That is, if I’m at least allowed to pull out a chair for you.”
Colleen giggled and sat down on the bucket. “There. We’ve reached a compromise.”
“Reckon it wasn’t so bad,” Mac allowed.
“Now,” said Colleen, “I’m going to push my luck and be forward enough to repeat my original question—why are you over here all by yourself ? Sparky’s playing isn’t so bad it’s keeping you at bay, is it?”
She was referring to Sparky Whitlock seated over by the central campfire, blowing some low, lonely notes on his harmonica. Every once in a while, some of the other men sitting around would hum along for a few bars.
Mac grinned. “No, that’s not it at all. Sparky blows some right pretty music on that thing. Though I can’t say all the voices joining in are necessarily of equal talent.”
“Imagine,” said Colleen, “what the poor cattle have to endure on nights when some of those same voices are riding nighthawk and feel moved to warble songs meant to keep them soothed.”
“I know what you mean,” Mac agreed. “I’ve heard some mighty dreadful nighthawk warbling in my time—and that’s not to say I got a great voice myself. I’ve wondered more than once, given some of that really bad singing, why the cattle don’t stampede more often than they do, just to get away from the sound.”
Colleen waited a minute but then, being persistent, said, “So if it’s not the music keeping you away . . . ?”
“I don’t know,” Mac told her truthfully. “When I was done cleaning up and putting things away after supper, I just felt like sitting here for a while and pondering on some things alone. Didn’t mean for it to be offensive or seem standoffish.”
Colleen shook her head. “No, and I didn’t mean to imply anyone took it that way. I only noticed because . . . well, I was worried about you.”
“Worried? What for?”
“Because, all during supper, you seemed . . . I don’t know, distant somehow. Not like your normal self. Like something was weighing on your mind. And then, afterwards, when you stayed over here by yourself . . .” Colleen let her words trail off.
Mac held her eyes for a long moment before saying, “Well, it’s nice to be worried about. Thank you for caring. But there’s no call for it. Really. Like I said, I just had some things to ponder.”
“Were you thinking about Orson Brandenburger?” Colleen said, not quite ready to give up. “You’re not feeling guilty about taking his job, are you?”
Mac considered before answering. “I never thought about it in terms of feeling guilty. Brandenburger didn’t deserve to be the cook for this outfit, that much is certain. Nor any outfit, as far as that goes. He’s just plain no good at it. But you’re right, I do feel a little uncomfortable horning in where another man has been put out on his ear.”
“Put out due to being totally unreasonable,” Colleen was quick to point out. “My father gave Orson every opportunity to stay with the drive. Even offered him limited duty based on his injury—which, not to sound unkind, came about through nobody’s fault but his own.”
Mac nodded his head faintly. “All that’s true enough. I can’t help wondering, though, if I wouldn’t have been here and hadn’t spouted off right from the get-go about having experience as a chuckwagon cook, would Orson still have been turned out as quick as he was?”
“If he hadn’t, then that would have required somebody to serve as a full-time nursemaid to him and his bum hand for the sake of driving the chuckwagon and the cooking preparation. That would have meant being even shorter-handed when it came to wrangling the herd, not to mention having to continue eating Orson’s lousy cooking.” She shook her head vigorously, causing her spill of chestnut hair to shimmer in the pale light. “So you see, Mac, you’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. Quite the contrary—you are a savior.”
Mac lifted his eyebrows. “Certainly never saw myself worthy of that description, ma’am.”
Colleen smiled. “Now, in addition to working on that hopping up whenever I come around business, something else we definitely need to focus on is this ‘ma’am’ thing. I want no more of it. You’re Mac, I’m Colleen, and that’s that. Understood?”
Mac nodded. “Yes, ma—er, Colleen. If that’s the way you want it.”
CHAPTER 11
“I can stretch out the supplies we have for a while,” Mac was explaining to Norris Bradley in the wake of another evening meal. “But some staples—flour and beans, mainly—will need to be restocked pretty soon, and Shad tells me we’ll be heading into some mighty open country before long, a stretch where there won’t be much in the way of places to pick up anything.”
Bradley nodded. “That’s true. We’ll be passing near a pretty good-sized town by the name of Torrence sometime tomorrow, then after that we can’t count on any resupply stops until we get up near Montana.”
“Then I suggest that I make a swing over to Torrence in the morning and get some things we’re going to need,” said Mac. “Or I could make a list and you can send somebody else if you’d rather do it that way.”
“No, you’re the logical one,” Bradley replied. “You know best what you need and you can load it directly onto the chuckwagon.”
“I’m thinking I could leave right after breakfast. Before I head out, I’ll make up an extra batch of biscuits. That way, everybody will have fairly fresh biscuits and jerky for a noon meal. Barring anything unexpected, I should be able to get back to night camp in time for supper.”
“That’d take some pretty hard pushing on your part. But I know you’ll do it if anybody can.” Then, after considering a moment, Bradley added, “Tell you what. To make it a little easier and give you your best chance to meet that schedule, how about I send Shad along with you? He knows the land hereabouts pretty good. He can get you to and from Torrence the quickest, plus he’ll have a good idea where we’ll be bedding down the herd at the end of the day.”
“Fine by me. Shad’s good company, and if he knows the lay of the land, so much the better.” Mac grinned wryly. “These rolling hills all tend to look sort of alike to me. Left on my own, I might miss Torrence and end up in Idaho or somewhere before I got my bearings.”
Bradley showed a brief grin of his own. “I doubt that. For one thing, as popular as your cooking is with the crew, I expect they’d hunt you down and drag you back long before you made it that far.”
Mac accepted the compliment without comment. But it felt good to hear all the same.
This was the third day since the departure of Orson Brandenburger, and things were going generally well. The drive was averaging about seventeen miles a day, helped along by the grassy, gently rolling terrain. Mac’s acceptance by the Rafter B crew—or the acceptance of his cooking might be a more accurate way to put it—was well established by now and his own discomfort at having taken over the chuckwagon full-time had been put to rest.
