Cattle Kate (19 page)

***

March 23, 1888, was about the most important day of my life so far. I took the train from Rawlins to Cheyenne to file the formal papers on Claim No. 2003. My squatter's claim had been enough at the start, but this formal claim in the territory's capital was demanded. On the form, I explained it took so long to complete the paperwork because of the time and expense of getting to Cheyenne from Rawlins.

My official homestead receipt came with a special gift from Jimmy: He bought me a round-trip train ticket to go home to visit my family in Kansas that summer, and I was so overjoyed, I thought I would burst.

Of course, I took my homestead papers home with me to show my folks. I only intended to stay the month of June, but then sister Franny decided to get married in the middle of July, so I stayed for that, too. It was the most wonderful visit, being in Ma's home and cooking with her and talking non-stop while we worked on a quilt for Franny. Of course, my brothers ribbed me every day.

“So I suppose you're a bloomer now, now that you've got your own homestead and everything,” Andrew teased, and everyone laughed at the thought of their Ella wearing bloomers like some did.

“You know, you didn't have to go all the way to Wyoming to vote,” John pointed out. “We've got women right here in Kansas taking over whole cities, they're so important now.”

I thought he was foolin' until Pa told me that, indeed, the town of Oskaloosa was entirely run by women. I had never heard of such a thing and couldn't imagine it ever happening in Wyoming.

It was hard to leave my family again, and the good-byes were long and tearful, but I had a new life now and it was waiting for me in W.T.

I had no idea I was going home to a new family and a brand of my own.

Chapter Twelve—I Became a Substitute Ma

It was a cold day in February of 1889, when our neighbor John Crowder came racing into the roadhouse on his horse. “She's burnin' up, she's burnin' up,” he sputtered, getting out that his wife had been sick three days already. “And she's coughing her lungs out. I tried nature's cure, but that didn't work.”

I knew right then that things were bad. It's the first thing I would have done, made Catherine Rose fast for a day on water to flush out the sickness. But since nature's cure had already failed, this sounded like a pneumonia had set in.

Of course, there was no time to fetch a doctor—a fifty-mile ride there and fifty miles back and even if John tried, his horse would never last that kind of ride.

Jimmy and I jumped in our wagon to follow him home, knowing all we had was what we knew of nursing. Out here, you took care of these things yourself because there was no one else. If a neighbor was in trouble, you shared whatever knowledge you had. So I learned all I could about nursing the sick.

On the way out the door, I grabbed the best I had for medicines to help my neighbor. I had Jimmy put the pot of soup I was cooking into the wagon, knowing only a liquid diet would help right now. If Catherine Rose could get anything down at all. Besides, the rest of the family probably hadn't had a hot meal for days now. I grabbed my turpentine oil to massage into Catherine Rose's chest, hoping it would keep its promise to relieve the pain. I took two things for the cough: a bottle of carbolic acid for its fumes and the last of the lemon juice so I could make a drink with lukewarm water and salt. Of course, I took one of the poultices I made every spring. I gathered up fresh herbs and hops from the fields and balled them into little cotton sacks. Soaked them in water and broke open the sack to spread the herbs on their chest to help draw out the poisons. It was my fallback cure for everything.

The Crowder homestead was nothing to brag about—a shack of a house, a little better barn, a couple cows in the corral, a puny garden, a wagon on its last leg, three kids, and now a dying wife. By the time our wagon came thundering into the yard, John Crowder had already been inside the house to see that things had gone from bad to worse. He met me at the door, shaking his head, and I couldn't tell if his wife was already gone or just on death's doorstep.

I carried the pot of soup into the house and hugged the little girls curled together in a rocker. I figured they were five, six, years old. Then I walked to the bedroom door. I stood there a few minutes to catch my breath and used my apron to wipe away the perspiration of hurrying and worrying. My Ma had drilled into me that you never enter a sickroom when you're perspiring because the moment you cool down, your pores absorb what's in the air and that's the quickest way to get sick yourself.

Catherine Rose was barely alive. Every breath was a horrible wheeze and her eyes were the small slits of someone who doesn't have the strength left to open them full. Her whole bed was wet with sweat. I propped her up and pulled the nightgown over her head. Another one was hanging from a nail and I put that on her, soothing to her all the time that everything was going to be alright. I grabbed a towel and snugged it under her to get her off the wet straw bed and threw off the wet quilt. On a shelf at the back of the bedroom I found some tattered old quilts I supposed she was going to reuse someday, and put them on her to keep her warm.

I did all I could to make her last hours as comfortable as possible, but it was clear from the start that the poor woman wouldn't make it. I had the men take the children outside so they wouldn't see the end. I sat with this woman who would have become a friend if she'd lived long enough. I held her hand as she died.

John Crowder was like a walking ghost. He reminded me of a man who'd forgotten how to hear or see. He sat there staring as his little daughters clung to him, crying and begging for their Ma. Their older brother stood in the corner, his hands jammed into his pants pockets, his eyes wild, like he was searching for someone to hit. It just broke my heart to see a family so torn apart. I sent Jimmy home and stayed on to help get things ready for the funeral. Besides, somebody had to tend the children and wait for Catherine Rose's kin to arrive, and poor John Crowder wasn't up to any of it.

Eugene was the oldest at eleven and he knew most about what was going on. He acted mad at his Ma for dying and disgusted with his Pa for being so lost, and refused to let anyone see him cry. That attitude could mar a child for life, so I got him busy.

“Gene, you've got to help me and you've got to help with your sisters.”

The boy's eyes said he was needy, too, but when I stepped toward him to offer comfort, he ran to the barn. I guess that was where he did his crying. A little while later, he stepped up to bring in firewood. He gathered the eggs for me, and when I nodded toward his sisters, he went over to put his arms around them.

I dished out hot soup and cut some bread from the cabinet, and those children ate like they'd never eaten before in their lives. The girls were asleep soon after. Gene went out to the barn and I fell asleep in the rocker.

Grief for very youngins is a momentary thing, I knew from my own family. It consumes them until the next distraction comes along. For Lisa and Kara, my distraction the next morning was rag dolls. The ache of losing their Ma would come back, but at least for now, I could redirect their attention.

“Now, how would you girls like new dolls?” Of course, my cheery offer stopped the crying and they were anxious for their presents. “We're going to make them.” Their eyes got big, like saying five- and six-year-olds couldn't do such a thing. “Sure you can. Now you rip this old pillowcase into long strips, Lisa. Kara, you rip this one into small strips.” I knew from watching my own sisters that ripping cloth was a joyful thing for a child to do.

I made Kara's small strips into one long braid and tied them off at each end with a little piece of twine. I took Lisa's long strips and doubled them over. Toward the top I gathered the fabric and tied a string around it to make a “head,” then tucked Kara's braid into the fold for “arms.” I tied the last string in the middle for a “waist.” The girls had been so busy with their own tasks, they hadn't seen that while they were ripping, I took circles of fabric and gathered them to make hats. I tacked a hat on top of each doll and both girls let out an AHHHH.

“I love it,” Lisa squealed.” Of course Kara joined right in, “I love it, too.” So off they went to play with their new dolls and I knew that would keep them busy for a little while.

John hardly left the barn where he was making the casket and the little he ate couldn't keep a mouse alive. Gene disappeared for hours, but he kept up his chores and I had plenty of firewood for the stove.

Without a Ma here, this wasn't a place that could last. By the second day, I was letting the thought creep in that this was a family looking for a Ma. And that could be me. I couldn't have my own children for five more years, until the claim was all set, and I'd be in my mid-thirties by then. But maybe I wouldn't have to wait. Gene was a strong boy and would be a great help on the homestead, and the girls weren't much trouble as long as you kept them occupied. By the end of the day, when their Aunt Mary Margaret arrived, I was set on the idea.

Mary Margaret was a small woman, but only in stature. Although she was less than half my size, she immediately took charge of her late sister's home. I put on the coffeepot but Mary Margaret—“call me MM”—said she preferred tea, so I put on the kettle and once the hellos and hugs were over, we sat down at the table.

I told the story of Catherine Rose's last days and John's dash for help and how I'd arrived with Mr. Averell—“I cook at his roadhouse and have a claim nearby,” was all I said to explain Jimmy.

“You're a good neighbor to be here for my family,” MM told me, as though those words needed to be said when, of course, they didn't. Being a good neighbor is a badge of honor on the frontier. It's a measure understood by all, and it doesn't take long to figure out who measures up and who doesn't.

Mary Margaret was a woman who'd lost some of her family to an Indian raid and some to misfortune and some to illness. She was used to being the survivor to take charge. She instantly saw her brother-in-law was shattered. She'd never thought he was much of a provider in good days, and these certainly weren't good days. He could never hold this family together. Her nephew was in better shape, but that wasn't really saying much. She tried to hug the boy, but he would have none of it. His surly attitude told her all she needed to know about his state of mind.

The girls were something else altogether. MM gathered them up and cooed at them and brushed their hair and talked to them like she was their own Ma. It came so naturally to her that I knew immediately these girls weren't coming home to my homestead.

It was time for me to move on, but MM held me back. “Ella, I need your help. I'm not sure what's going to become of this family. I'll take the girls, of course, but I can't take Gene, and John isn't in any shape to take care of him. Now, he's a big boy and a strong boy and he's ready to start earning his keep.” She stopped there, as though it was my turn to end the story.

“He is a good boy,” I began, to be sure his aunt realized that. “He's just so hurt at his Ma's passing. And he's smart. I can see that in him. And yes, he's strong and he's old enough now to be doing his share.” I continued like that, reciting all his attributes. MM kept nodding her encouragement for me to continue. In the way that women read each other, I knew she was too proud to ask me to take Gene, but was praying with all her heart that I would.

“You know, I could just take him for awhile until John gets back on his feet,” I offered, so I wouldn't sound too possessive.

MM jumped at that idea. “Oh, Ella, that would be so perfect. It would be good for the boy and for John. And you already know the boy and that always helps with kids his age. You're sure, are you, that nobody would object?”

I knew she wasn't clear about this Mr. Averell. “Oh, I'm sure.” I'd have some explaining to do, but I could handle Jimmy.

MM went out to the barn to talk to John and tell him what had been decided. I never heard any objections coming from John Crowder, but I saw plenty of questions in Gene's eyes. Poor kid. I bet he felt lost right then. His sisters were going one place, him another. With a woman he barely knew. To a place he'd only been once before, when he and his Pa came to the roadhouse to buy beans. But you didn't have to be a mind reader to know this boy had no interest in staying here. I thought he might ask his aunt to go along with his sisters, but he didn't. He looked at me like I was a life raft, and pulled together two clean shirts and a pair of pants already too short. He climbed in our wagon and came home with me.

When we walked in and I told Jimmy what was happening, my eyes were so determined, he didn't dare make any protest. But then, I don't think he would have, anyway. Because he took to the boy right away.

Jimmy put him to work around the roadhouse, and Gene did whatever was asked. We had him sleep in the little room behind the kitchen. He didn't say much, but he ate like a grown man and if I ever needed a testimony to the wonderment of my pies, it was in the swooning eyes of Gene Crowder as he ate one piece after another. I bet he put away ten pies in his first week at the roadhouse. As he stuffed his face, I talked to him about anything I could think of. How I'd come to W.T. all by myself and my cabin and my cows, and how I got my cows cheap—that was the first time I heard him laugh.

After two weeks at the roadhouse, I asked Gene if he'd like to move to my cabin. “You know, I'm studying American history so I can take the citizenship test, and I could help you learn your alphabet and numbers. We could study together. My cabin is real nice and I'll put up a blanket to give you your own bedroom. You know my horse, Goldie, well, I could get you a pony of your own. How about it?”

“Guess so.” He didn't have to say another word for me to get him ready to move to my cabin. Once we spent the nights there, I saw the boy blossom. He took to his lessons right away, and he knew more than I expected.

“My Ma helped me learn,” he said one day, and I had a warm thought about Catherine Rose. He showed me right off that he really was smart, and curious about everything. His laughter was no longer a stranger, and every day, I loved that boy a little more.

He had me forever the day we were in the garden, tying up the tomatoes. All of a sudden, I felt the swish of the hoe behind me.

“Got him!” Gene yelled like he'd won a prize. I turned around to see him holding up a long rattlesnake. I tripped over myself running to the cabin. Gene got the hiccups, he laughed so hard.

“Ma, don't worry, I wouldn't let him get you!” he yelled at me, as he flung the snake away. That long, slender body sailed through the air, making wavy patterns in the sky, and it was the first time in my life that a snake ever looked beautiful to me. I guess that means anything can be precious the first time you're ever called Ma.

Gene had been at our place a month when his father finally showed up to inquire about his well-being. The boy ran to his dad, but stopped short, like he wasn't sure if he wanted to hug him or shake his hand or just say “hi.”

John Crowder wasn't a hugging kind of man, so he patted the boy on the shoulder. “You doin' your chores, boy? “They treatin' you alright?”

Gene nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good. Glad to hear that.” John walked into the roadhouse and I brought him a cup of coffee. He said his pleasantries to me and Jimmy—you had to guess that's what they were because he was not a man who gave much. Gene followed after him like a puppy, and I brought him a sarsaparilla as a special treat.