Nadia Nichols - Buffalo Summer

“Damn,” Guthrie said. “That’s good news.”

“I didn’t want to tell Jessie until it was a done deal.”

“She’ll be real glad to hear about it.”

“I paid too much for them, but the ranchers who sold them needed the money.”

“Ranchers always need money,” Guthrie said, smoothing his horses mane with one gloved hand.

Caleb nodded. “I guess. I know they think what I’m trying to do here is nuts, but how much crazier is it than what they’re doing—fighting a losing battle trying to raise enough cattle to make land payments when cattle prices keep falling?”

“It’s the only way of life they know.”

“How many buffalo do you figure we can run on fifteen thousand acres?”

Guthrie’s gaze swept over the valley. He shook his head. “That’s a question for your buffalo girl,” he said. “In the meantime, we have ten cows and a bull to find, and five thousand acres to search. We’d best get at it.”

PONY TURNED her old truck down the ranch road with a premonition of impending doom. Her hands gripped the steering wheel far more tightly than necessary. Jimmy and Roon shared the bench seat beside her. Roon sat pressed against the passenger door, staring broodily out the side window. Jimmy squeezed against him, trying to avoid the stick shift. Jimmy was the youngest at eleven. The other three boys rode in the back of the truck. Dan was fifteen, Martin and Joe were both fourteen. None of them was smiling, but all of them were clean and presentable, and all had agreed—albeit grudgingly—to be on their best behavior.

Pony knew from past experience that their perception of what constituted best behavior was the reason why she was gripping the steering wheel so tightly. By the time she pulled up in front of the ranch house, her hands were so badly cramped that she had to sit for a moment rubbing them together. “Okay,” she said to Jimmy and Roon. “Now remember. Best behavior!”

They both stared at her. Nodded. Roon wrenched his door open and dropped to the ground. Jimmy followed. The boys in back jumped out. Pony was the last to climb from the truck. She stood in the yard, looking up at the ranch house and then down toward the barn and corrals. The place was quiet. Peaceful. She could hear the flutelike song of a meadowlark and the distant bawl of a cow. The wind was moderate, warm and out of the south. The sky was a wide blue dome overhead, providing a vivid backdrop to the snowcapped peaks of the Beartooth Mountains. She drew in a lungful of sweet air and exhaled slowly, willing the tension from her body.

The house door opened and an enormous figure emerged, carrying a broom. It was Ramalda, the Mexican woman who had shut the door in Pony’s face, and she looked as grim as ever. “Good morning,” Pony said. “I’ve come to see Mr. McCutcheon. We’re reporting for work.”

Ramalda held the broom as if she wished it were a rifle. She scowled fiercely at the boys, who stood in a group, seeking safety in each other’s short midday shadow. “Work?” she said as if she had never heard the word before. She threw her head back and laughed. It was neither a long laugh nor a friendly one. She lowered her head and scowled at them again. “Come. Entra.” She turned and squeezed her body through the kitchen door, letting the screen bang shut behind her.

“Get your things,” Pony said to the boys. She lifted her own small satchel out of the truck bed and climbed the porch steps. The last place in the world she wanted to be was inside that ranch house with that woman, but she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, pulled open the screen door and stepped inside.

The room she found herself in transported her into another time. There was almost no hint of modern life among the simple furnishings and wall cupboards, the huge wood-fired cookstove, the hand pump at the big slate sink, the oil lamps—some in their wall gimbals, others set on the table. Even the gas stove was an antique, a cream enamel with green and gold piping and the words White Star scrolled ornately across the oven door. It was a beautiful kitchen, and in spite of her initial trepidation, Pony felt instantly at home.

Ramalda was standing by the sink with her hands on her hips, watching them with great suspicion. “You’re hungry,” she accused.

Pony shook her head. “If you could just show us where to put our things, we can get right to work.”

She was afraid Ramalda would laugh at them again, but instead she turned and walked out of the kitchen and into a back hallway that ran the length of the rambling ranch house and exited at the far end of the porch. Pony and the boys followed. Off the hallway were several doors. She pushed the first one open. “This is my room,” she said, and before they could glimpse inside, she pulled the door shut again with a sharp bang. “My room,” she repeated. She led them to the next door and opened it, turning to Pony. “Your room.” Pony stepped inside, followed closely by all five boys. It was a small room, perhaps ten by sixteen feet, papered in an antique rose print of pinks and greens, with a double bed, a bureau, a chair and a mirror hung above the dresser. A braided rug fit neatly between the bed and the bureau, and a narrow door opened onto a little closet. Pony set her satchel on the chair and smiled.

“It’s very nice,” she said, and the boys all nodded in solemn agreement.

Ramalda led them down the hall and opened yet another door. This room was a third again the size of Pony’s and had two sets of bunk beds on opposite walls and a twin bed set beneath the single window. The boys looked around at the plain whitewashed walls hung with old cowboy prints, the well-worn desk and chair, the one tall bureau, the small closet. A braided rug similar to the one in Pony’s room graced the floor between the sets of bunk beds. The boys laid their duffels down on the bunks, each choosing by order of rank. Roon, Pony noticed, though not the oldest, chose first, and he picked the bed beneath the window. Dan and Martin took the top bunks, Jimmy and Joe got the bottom.

The next room they were shown was the bathroom. It was small, basic, no bathtub, just a shower. Clean, Pony noticed. The entire place was spanking clean. The Mexican woman might not care to host a passel of Crow Indians, but she was a good housekeeper.

Ramalda led them back to the kitchen. “You eat now,” she said gruffly, motioning for them to sit. Pony stood for a moment in indecision, wondering if their hunger was that obvious, and then nodded to the boys, who immediately dropped into five chairs. Pony slowly followed suit. Ramalda then served them a meal that could have fed Pony and the boys for a week. It began with a thick spicy stew of lamb, onions, beans and chili peppers ladled into deep colorful Mexican bowls and set before them with big bone-handled soupspoons on the side. A platter of fresh soft tortillas, still warm, was plunked down in the middle of the table, along with a brimming pitcher of cold milk and six tall glasses. The savory aroma of the stew overcame the awkwardness of the moment. They glanced respectfully at the strange old woman who stood by the stove and watched them eat with a fixed scowl on her face.

Breathless with the joy of having full stomachs, they pushed back from the table with dazed expressions. Every bit of the delicious stew was gone, every tender tortilla devoured, the pitcher of milk empty. Ramalda nodded grimly, went to the oven and drew forth a pan of beef ribs done to a tender turn and dripping with sauce. She used a spatula to push them all onto a serving platter and slid the dish into the center of the table, refilled the pitcher with more cold milk, then stood back and waited.

They stared around the table at each other, and then at the ribs. Even Roon was smiling as they dug into them with rapturous abandon, wearing the sauce shamelessly on their chins and laughing, finally, when there was nothing left but a stack of gnawed bones.