Read Online Heart of the West by Penelope Williamson - Free Book Online
Authors: Penelope Williamson
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road. The wind tattered the worm of dust left by their passing. There was nothing to mark the place where the nickel had landed.
Gus heaved a put-upon sigh and pulled his horse around. He pushed his hat down on his head, thrust his boots deep into the stirrups, and shortened the reins. Without warning, it seemed, for she had seen no signal pass between the man and his mount, the horse broke into a wild gallop back down the trail.
Gus leaned far over sideways out of the saddle. His hand dug into the tall grass, his fingers scraping the ground. He was barely upright again before he had reined into a turn so tight the horse did it on its haunches. He laughed as he galloped back toward them, passing the wagon and tossing the nickel at the mule skinner on the fly. Annie pawed the coin out of the air, bit it, and stuffed it into the pocket of her leather britches. Gus kept going, disappearing over a hill of dusty sage.
Clementine watched him with her heart in her eyes. He rode by the seat of his pants and the tips of his spurs, and her chest wanted to swell with pride for him. Her man. Her cowboy.
She wasn't sure she liked it, though, when he rode ahead of them, leaving her alone in Nickel Annie's rawboned company. She had the feeling the mule skinner kept testing her and thus far had found her sadly wanting. "It takes a gritty heart to come out to this country and meet it on its own terms," Nickel Annie had once said, implying that Clementine's heart wasn't near gritty enough.
Normally the skinner drove her team by riding on the back of the left wheel mule. But today she'd chosen to ride with Clementine up on the seat, which wasn't anything more than a rough plank nailed between the wagon's tall slat-board sides.
Clementine clung to the splintery board eight feet in the air with a white-knuckled grip. The ground was pocked and rutted, and the wagon swayed and lurched over it like a rowboat in a heavy swell. She could see why these wagons were called spine-pounders. She felt the jar of every mile deep in her bones.
Miles. There had been an endless number of them in the week since they had left the steamboat and Fort Benton. Flat miles of olive sage and wind-ruffled grass. But today the buttes, which had been but blurred humps in the distance, were now suddenly upon them. It was like the quickening swell of an ocean wave, the way the plains rolled into ridges studded with yellow pines and dipped into coulees choked with brush and old snowdrifts.
A gust of wind buffeted her and drove stinging dirt into her face. The day was raw, the sun hidden behind clouds as thick and woolly as a horse blanket. Yesterday that same sun had been brittle and hot. Clementine had never sweated before in her life, but she could feel the residue of yesterday's sweat on her skin, gritty and sticky. She thought she probably stank, but she couldn't smell herself over the rank odor emanating from the green buffalo hides and Nickel Annie, who probably hadn't bathed since Lee surrendered at Appomattox.
At the road ranch where they'd spent last night, there had certainly been little opportunity to get clean. The place had been nothing more than a sod shack. When Clementine went to wash up before a dinner of boiled potatoes and canned corn, she found only an inch of wet scum in the wash trough and a sliver of soap the size of a thumbnail in an empty sardine can. The tow towel on the roller had been as black as the bottom of a coal scuttle. Their beds that night had been just as horrid: rough bunks lined with coarse ticking stuffed with prairie grass—what Gus had laughingly called Montana feathers. The wall next to the bunks had been smeared with smashed bedbugs.
Clementine shuddered now at the memory. A lick of wind tore at the ground and sent more dust swirling into her face. She wiped her cheeks and forehead with a grimy handkerchief and licked the prairie off her teeth. Already she knew she would come to hate this about her husband's country, this
Gus heaved a put-upon sigh and pulled his horse around. He pushed his hat down on his head, thrust his boots deep into the stirrups, and shortened the reins. Without warning, it seemed, for she had seen no signal pass between the man and his mount, the horse broke into a wild gallop back down the trail.
Gus leaned far over sideways out of the saddle. His hand dug into the tall grass, his fingers scraping the ground. He was barely upright again before he had reined into a turn so tight the horse did it on its haunches. He laughed as he galloped back toward them, passing the wagon and tossing the nickel at the mule skinner on the fly. Annie pawed the coin out of the air, bit it, and stuffed it into the pocket of her leather britches. Gus kept going, disappearing over a hill of dusty sage.
Clementine watched him with her heart in her eyes. He rode by the seat of his pants and the tips of his spurs, and her chest wanted to swell with pride for him. Her man. Her cowboy.
She wasn't sure she liked it, though, when he rode ahead of them, leaving her alone in Nickel Annie's rawboned company. She had the feeling the mule skinner kept testing her and thus far had found her sadly wanting. "It takes a gritty heart to come out to this country and meet it on its own terms," Nickel Annie had once said, implying that Clementine's heart wasn't near gritty enough.
Normally the skinner drove her team by riding on the back of the left wheel mule. But today she'd chosen to ride with Clementine up on the seat, which wasn't anything more than a rough plank nailed between the wagon's tall slat-board sides.
Clementine clung to the splintery board eight feet in the air with a white-knuckled grip. The ground was pocked and rutted, and the wagon swayed and lurched over it like a rowboat in a heavy swell. She could see why these wagons were called spine-pounders. She felt the jar of every mile deep in her bones.
Miles. There had been an endless number of them in the week since they had left the steamboat and Fort Benton. Flat miles of olive sage and wind-ruffled grass. But today the buttes, which had been but blurred humps in the distance, were now suddenly upon them. It was like the quickening swell of an ocean wave, the way the plains rolled into ridges studded with yellow pines and dipped into coulees choked with brush and old snowdrifts.
A gust of wind buffeted her and drove stinging dirt into her face. The day was raw, the sun hidden behind clouds as thick and woolly as a horse blanket. Yesterday that same sun had been brittle and hot. Clementine had never sweated before in her life, but she could feel the residue of yesterday's sweat on her skin, gritty and sticky. She thought she probably stank, but she couldn't smell herself over the rank odor emanating from the green buffalo hides and Nickel Annie, who probably hadn't bathed since Lee surrendered at Appomattox.
At the road ranch where they'd spent last night, there had certainly been little opportunity to get clean. The place had been nothing more than a sod shack. When Clementine went to wash up before a dinner of boiled potatoes and canned corn, she found only an inch of wet scum in the wash trough and a sliver of soap the size of a thumbnail in an empty sardine can. The tow towel on the roller had been as black as the bottom of a coal scuttle. Their beds that night had been just as horrid: rough bunks lined with coarse ticking stuffed with prairie grass—what Gus had laughingly called Montana feathers. The wall next to the bunks had been smeared with smashed bedbugs.
Clementine shuddered now at the memory. A lick of wind tore at the ground and sent more dust swirling into her face. She wiped her cheeks and forehead with a grimy handkerchief and licked the prairie off her teeth. Already she knew she would come to hate this about her husband's country, this
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