While I usually found Luther’s presence boring and annoying, Mama’s mention of him as a possible suitor piqued my interest and so I took more careful watch: of how he dealt with the cold and how slow it made all work; of how he treated Hound and the mules; of what he said to Mama, Baby George, and me.
He seemed kind enough and did not raise his voice at the animals. But I could also tell him what to do, sass him without recourse. He simply listened, didn’t bait me back, and usually did what I told him. The conversations he introduced seemed of petty things: how the school teacher who stayed in their home last term chewed her meat (with tiny chop-chop bites) with her alder teeth, or how much his feet had grown (“two sizes since last year, don’t you know”). Perhaps he mistook me for someone who cared about these things. I didn’t, though I had wondered once about Miss Matthews, our teacher at the Walker School, and how she worked her wooden teeth.
As Luther threw hay to the horses, I watched him and imagined him dancing in my parlor, or myself looking at his pimply face every day of my life as Mama looked at Papa’s. I could not see my future reflected in his eyes.
Several times that winter, lying deep in my goose-down comforter, I dreamed of someone tall, someone special. I walked just behind him, sometimes beside him and reached out to touch him, to have him turn so I could see his face. In the dream, his face would have no features, just whiteness, like the snow, and so I never saw who lived there, in my dream.
After Papa arrived home, we found that the winter simply consumed us. The temperature never rose to permit thawing. Clear days meant no snow but air so cold Papa said his words froze and we could chop them from the air and save them, break them open to listen to whenever he wasn’t there. I didn’t believe him.
Overcast days threatened new snow piling on old snow, its only redeeming grace being the clean look the whiteness brought, if only temporarily. Everything we did could not be done without first contending with the snow, the frozen creeks, the cold. Getting hay and water to our stock, keeping the fires going in the house to keep ourselves from freezing, rationing supplies so we would not be forced to make a trip to The Dalles, all took our energy and time.
Christmas came and left with even the joy of cutting the tree taken from us as we were forced to tromp through deep drifts and arrive home cold and wet, almost like any other day that winter.
We greeted 1862 with the enthusiasm of mourners.
Only once did Lodenma and Senior May venture over with their little ones, so much work it was, so risky to show their faces to the cold. The Mays talked with Papa about opening this eastern part of Oregon, of more travelers that would surely come in spring, and how Papa could make a profit possibly with his own string or teaming up with someone else. Mama reminded him the mules were already spoken for. Papa simply nodded. Later, I heard their voices raised in argument, something about mules and cash and cards. “The money’s not been squandered,” Papa said. “Trust me on this, ’Lizbeth. You’re thinking in areas a woman ought to let be.”
Lodenma and Beatrice and even Senior May spent that night on their one visit, and Senior May took the occasion to show me how to hold his antler-handled knife so I could carve a piece of rough wood as he did, whittling animals and toys carrying the scent of alder and pine. Mama snorted that such was man’s doings. Papa smiled, encouraged me, said perhaps I’d be good enough to sell them someday to support myself “in case no suitor meets my requirements,” he said and laughed.
I liked sharing conversation with the adults. When visitors came, Mama often spoke directly to me and she smiled. And though she never sent me off to care for Baby George, I didn’t mind as much. Other’s might never know of our dissension if they only saw our little family tightly sitting in the parlor with our guests.
The creation of small things from wood filled those dreary days, brushing blond chips from my skirts, pulling little slivers from my fingers, inhaling fresh-cut wood as we sat before the fireplace in the evenings. I thought of Pauline often and her little carved gift. I wondered who of Sunmiet’s people had made it as I chipped at my own.
Papa made only occasional trips on the sled through January and February, not wanting to tire the mules living on sparse rations. Once he made a trip south, to Tygh Valley to Muller’s store. The shelves held little. “Neither grass nor corn trains coming through,” Art Muller told him, sadly shaking his head as he moved Arbuckle coffee cans around on his sparse shelves.
In The Dalles, Papa heard news of low hay supplies and only scattered shipments as little arrived in the region, the snow said to spread from the Cascades clear east to the Rockies. The mighty Columbia River froze completely over.
Papa said the only good news came from the China boy, Tom, a cook at the Umatilla House, who said the tea leaves predicted a harsh but sudden spring sometime around April.
We did not go to church in The Dalles at all that winter, instead finding ourselves on Sundays reading from the scriptures. Once or twice, word spread and we gathered at the school for music and prayer with neighbors becoming preachers for the day. We missed the weekly fellowship though most of us were too tired and too compassionate to spread the animals’ strength out over our wishes instead of just onto our needs.
And I confess, I thought often of the tall Californian, the way he had spoken to me as a young woman, an adult. Once I even wondered if it was his face who would someday fill the whiteness of the stranger in my dream.
In April, the floods began seemingly overnight. One day the snow still drifted with dirty veils of dust beside the barn. The next day, the drifts began to sink, seeping dirty water beneath them that became fast-moving flows over frozen roads, thawing fields, rock-washed ravines. Passive pasture streams roared torrents that kept some families split: half holed up in the barn where they were when the little stream became a raging river and the other half in the house. Roads and bridges washed out and at the mouth, the Deschutes spread like a dark stain into the Columbia.
I wondered, idly, if the flooding would keep the Californian away.
THE PLANS OF MEN
So who’s the dandy with the dog, J. W.?” my father said, nodding to his card partner. He spoke loud enough for Joseph to hear despite the clatter of dishes and men’s voices in the bar.
J. W. Case, my father’s card partner, uncrossed his size tens from beneath the gaming table knocking dried mud from his boots onto the polished floor at the Umatilla House. Smoke swirled around the players and diners like flies on a day-old carcass. Joseph watched them in the back bar mirror. J. W. rubbed his eyes with his fists like an overgrown child, glanced up briefly from his cards to see Joseph staring back at him.
J. W. couldn’t have recognized the tall stranger wearing a wellcut jacket and turquoise bola who had just entered carrying a pointy-eared dog beneath one arm. For like the long-awaited spring, Joseph had just arrived.
A mule skinner’s whip coiled at his hip above Mexican leather boots that captured his pants inside.
“Don’t know him,” Joseph heard the lean man answer. “Looks like he’s been on the trail, judging by the mud. Maybe he come ’cross the river.”
“Benson’s friendly enough with him,” Joseph heard my papa say though he didn’t know then who Papa was. He watched Papa adjust his hat with a nervous gesture typical of him. “Look at that. That barkeep just slipped some silver into his pocket,” Papa said.
“You could use some of that, hey, George,” J. W. told him, smiling. “Take the sting out of losing.”
“I win enough,” Papa said, still loud enough for Joseph to be unintentionally eavesdropping.
“Loud when you do,” J. W. razzed, “and you’re pretty quiet tonight.” He laughed his high-pitched laugh and slapped another card on the table. “Call!”
“I don’t think a man should bring his dog into an eating establishment,” Papa said, laying his cards down flat on the green felt to make his point. He adjusted his hat once again pulling it farther forward, shadowing his good eye.
“Leave it be,” J. W. said. “Stick to your hand.” He scratched at some hairs growing out from his nose. “Hey! Your cards are getting wet. See there?” Moisture from Papa’s whiskey glass seeped into the table felt turning a spot beside the cards a darker green.
Papa said: “Forget it!” He picked up his soggy cards, took one last look, probably calculating his losses, and folded his hand. “You’ve already got most of what I have,” he said and pushed his chair back from the table.
“You can’t just quit!” J. W. said. “I’m on a roll here! You owe me!”
“I’ve paid. In full,” Papa said and stood up.
In the mirror, Joseph watched the transaction, watched my papa dismiss J. W. with the palm of his hand as if grateful for a diversion, approach him.
“New policy?” he said to Benson, the barkeep. Papa’s voice held sarcasm, his eye contempt as he eased in beside Joseph, keeping him to his left where his good eye could watch him. He rested his foot on the brass rail and pushed his hat farther back onto his head. He was only a few inches shorter than Joseph. His bad eye watered and he dabbed at the marble in it.
“Nothing new,” Benson said, wiping off the lip of a whiskey bottle. “Man just likes to drink with his friends. Happens this man’s friend is a dog.” Benson set the bottle down, moved his cloth in a circular motion over the bar polishing what was already shiny and smooth.
“Doesn’t say much about a man, can’t find anyone to eat or drink with besides a dog,” Papa said.
“Both’re well behaved,” Benson said quietly. “Don’t make anything more of this than it is, George. Just go back and finish your game with J. W.”
Papa’s words were even, contained. “I got a wife to tell me what to do,” he said. “Don’t need advice from you.”
Familiar with Papa’s sour, sometimes uncompromising attitude, Benson backed off. “Look, let me introduce you. This is someone you should know.”
“Don’t know anything I’d have in common with a man who drinks with dogs,” Papa said. His good eye floated over Joseph smooth and slippery as a catfish in a murky hole.
“There’s a seat there at the window table,” Benson said hurriedly to Joseph, motioning him out of the tension.
Joseph paused, deciding about this intrusive person then tipped his hat at the barkeep. He turned to walk toward the window when the kelpie twisted its head around to look at the surly man, rolled its lips back, and breathed a low, menacing growl.
“Look at that!” Papa said. “Dog’s mean!” He turned his back to the bar, his voice even, loud. Men stopped their card playing and looked. “Hear that? Growled at me!” He reached for Joseph’s arm, to grab the dog, but Benson grabbed Papa’s arm instead.
“Leave it!” he said. “The dog’s fine.” Then softer, so few could hear it though Joseph did, he said: “Starting a scene won’t do anything ’cept spread bad talk. Which I know you don’t want. Not with the election and all.”
Someone near the back laughed out words about “some beast.” The tension lowered and Papa calmed. “Got a hound of my own I’ll bring in since you’ve decided to serve dogs,” he told Benson, brushing his arm off and turning abruptly back to J. W.’s biscuit-sized eyes.
Joseph kept silent. He didn’t know who the man was or why he’d decided to be so cantankerous toward him, and he was too tired to really care. If the man wanted a fight, he could give it. If the barkeep could avoid it, more power to him. He had enough on his mind.
Joseph ate quietly, thinking of days past, the kelpie at his feet. Much had happened since he’d last been in this bar negotiating a deal with Brayman. When winter finally broke, he left the Klamath ranch and headed to California to determine his losses. He discovered that Fish Man had gotten through, given the message to Benito, but efforts to sell off the sheep had failed before the snow fell. Without cash from the sheep sales, Benito had been unable to buy up mules before winter. They’d had severe losses with the sheep.
The cattle, fortunately, had survived well despite the weather which had not been as cruel in the Hupa Valley as here, along the Columbia.
Once he headed to Oregon, though, Joseph could see the destruction of the cold and raging floods. It had taken them nearly two weeks to bring fifty head of cattle and his small band of fifteen mules on up from California.
He reached for another biscuit. He planned to sell the cattle here, as he knew the losses from the winter would be great. He had not planned on there being so little cash available for purchases. Worse, more and more men were leaving for the gold fields perhaps with nothing to keep them in The Dalles and the promise of riches luring them east, so he wasn’t sure who was left to buy cattle. He planned to use the cash from their sale for the mules. He only briefly considered that the winter might have stolen his secured mules as well as stable men’s plans.
Brayman told him two pieces of news that could be taken as good or otherwise: Joseph now owned a ranch at Fifteen Mile Creek, not far from the Herberts, as he’d requested Brayman negotiate in his absence, and he had competition from three other stringers. J. W. Case, J. J. Cozart, and D. N. Luce, all men so busy they had no time for names, just initials, had pack strings ready to head into gold country.
Joseph realized that with their outfitting complete, mules would be at a premium.
“Should have let me set the string for you,” A. H. told him when they met earlier in the day. “But, so be it. Just let’s get going as soon as we can.”
Now Joseph wished he’d brought more mules north rather than counting on finalizing his agreement made late last fall. As hard as the winter had been, Herbert’s mules may not have even made it. And he wasn’t at all sure that the Herberts would consider a trade. Cash he’d set for the ranch would have come in handy now. Herberts might be wanting cash too, something he’d find out the next day.
Benson brought a refill on his brew and said softly so only Joseph could hear, “J. W. is one of the stringers.” He nodded his head in the direction of the surly man’s card partner. “Set to leave in the morning. May want to talk with him about the route and all. He’s a good egg. Hard-worker. But best save your discussions for when he’s alone,” Benson added cautiously.
Joseph thanked him but he knew he wouldn’t be talking with anyone right then. He had all the information he needed about the trail, first hand. The rerouting because of the swollen rivers and the washed out roads had put him and his men and cattle and mules into a maze of ravines and ridges.
He had been within a day’s ride of The Dalles when he and Benito and his men moved the cattle down Buck Hollow. He looked forward to crossing on the narrow bridge, sure that so high above the water, it would have survived. He was close enough to allow himself to think of a featherbed following a seven-course meal.
Instead, he’d faced surprise and disappointment. The little creek in Buck Hollow was swollen three times its normal size. It swirled with juniper branches, grasses and roots, waterlogged snakes and foam. Crossing it took an extra day, with ropes and horses and cattle getting in each others’ way and growing more agitated by the minute.
And when in the morning they moved the cattle toward the bridge that he and Peter Lahomesh had stepped carefully across, Joseph found himself fighting away tears of frustration. For ahead he could see that the bridge he needed to cross the Deschutes was gone.
He was angry with himself that he had not listened to Philamon about taking the roads through the reservation, up the western side of the Deschutes. He had remembered the bridge and believed he could save time by taking it. He’d also looked forward to seeing the falls again, the terrain that led to it.
But not that day. There’d been no choice: he faced the falls and blood-red rocks that lined the gorge without the presence of the bridge.
The men blew their noses on their patterned kerchiefs, rubbed their hands with goose grease to soften the calluses, cinched their saddles extra tight as though it were the horses’ fault, and turned the cattle back to cross, again,
swollen Buck Hollow creek. A light rain fell.
Animals died this time. And when they headed north and reached the Columbia, they were again thwarted by the unruliness of rivers and streams. For where the Deschutes disgorged itself into the Columbia, a massive river twice the normal width churned angrily with dark red mud. Islands like thin green paint strokes sliced the rolling brown and blue. Tree roots, limbs, remains of bloated cattle, and sagebrush bobbed like wood chips in water, swirling, going under. No Indian offered canoes for passage, a sure sign that whoever was on this side was meant to stay. “We cannot cross, yes?” Benito asked him.
“We will cross, yes,” Joseph said. “In a few hours or days maybe.” He lifted his hat and ran his hands through his sweat-stained hair. “We’ll see how much it drops.”
They had waited nearly a week before risking the crossing. All the time, they suspected others were ahead of them, loading and preparing for transport into the gold fields. What made it worse for Joseph’s men was knowing that this would be the same route the pack string would now have to take to Canyon City since the bridge at the falls—Joseph’s idea for a shortcut—had been taken by the flood.
Joseph shook his head to brush away the agonizing thoughts. He wiped his beard on the linen napkin hanging from his stiff collar. Tonight, his first evening back in The Dalles, he simply wanted a warm bed and no more effort.
The kelpie perked up, swatted his skinny tail against the floor in friendly greeting, giving Joseph advance warning of Benito coming into the saloon behind him. “All is finish,” Benito said as he sat down. “French Louie, he make arrangements. For cattle for night. And mules. You sleep soon?”
Before Joseph could answer, the kelpie skittered forward from under the table and growled. Joseph looked up to see the man with the bad eye approach his table, his sour disposition still in tow.
Papa stopped, looked at Benito sitting at the table and he said something he would not have thought to say I’m sure without rye whiskey in his blood. “Greaser,” he said. He spoke it softly, Joseph remembered, almost like a hiss. He spit his next insult directly at Benito. “The Umatilla House really does serve dogs.”