We didn’t stay up in the barn all day. About two o’clock in the afternoon, I heard Doctor Browne’s voice down by the barn door. “Grace,” he called, “your mother would like you children to come into the house. She has something she’d like to show you.”
We jumped down through the hay hole without ever touching the ladder, and were at the back steps before Doctor Browne had the screen door open. He put his finger up to his lips, and we followed quietly up the stairs to Mother’s room.
Mother’s face was as white as the pillowcase, and she looked as if she were tired to death, but there was a little smile on her mouth. We all went into the room on tiptoes, and sort of crept over toward the bed. As we came up to it, Mother turned the sheet back, and said, “This is your new sister, Elizabeth Jordan. Isn’t she darling?”
I felt kind of foolish, and I think Grace did, too. It was a minute or two before we could really understand that the baby was our own sister. Both of us knew enough about colts and rabbits and other things being born that we should have guessed what was the trouble with Mother, but it had never once occurred to us.
Mother let each of us sit on the bed for a minute and hold Elizabeth, but Hal hung back. She called to him, “Hal, come see your baby sister.”
He edged up and peeked over the top of the sheet. Then he looked at Mother, and said, “How do you know it’s a sister?”
Mother’s hand brushed across Elizabeth’s head, and she answered, “Don’t you see how her hair parts in the middle? Girls’ hair always parts in the middle, you know.”
13
Riding for Mr. Batchlett
GRACE worked even harder while Mother was in bed than she had before, and she cooked us just about as good meals. Of course, some of the things she tried, like the butterscotch pie, didn’t come out too good, but she made us eat it anyway, and she kept the house shining like a new dime. The only trouble was that she was too bossy. I told her that Mother had never tried to boss Father around, but Grace snapped back, “Of course not. She never had to. Father had a lot more sense than you’ve got. And, besides, he wasn’t just a little boy.” Anybody’d have thought I was seven instead of eleven, and that she was thirty instead of thirteen.
A few days after Elizabeth was born, Sheriff McGrath knocked at our back door. It was right at lunchtime. The sheriff didn’t shout, but his whisper came out through his mustache like wind blowing into an empty barrel, “How’s your maw a-doin’, Gracie? How’s the new baby?”
Grace said they were both doing fine, and asked him if he wouldn’t come in while she made him a cup of coffee. “No, ain’t got the time,” Sheriff McGrath whispered back, “but here’s a little somethin’ I fetched for your maw. Posies; nice sweet-smellin’ ones. Jest set ’em alongside her bed and tell her the sheriff brung ’em.”
Sheriff McGrath started to go down the steps. Then he turned back, fumbled in his pocket, and whispered, “By George, durn near slipped my mind; here’s a little somethin’ for the baby to play with.” He fished a package out of his pocket, and it rattled as he handed it to Grace. “Right purty one,” he said. “Pink. That’s the color for girls, ain’t it?” Going down, he stepped wide on the treads as if he were afraid he’d make them squeak and disturb Mother.
August was hot and, right after Elizabeth was born, the grass began to look a little dry. I hadn’t cut a spear of hay for winter, and I knew that if I didn’t cut it pretty soon it wouldn’t be any good. It worried me. Unless we had plenty of hay in the barn, I was sure Mother would make me take Lady back to Carl Henry’s when winter came.
The Sunday-school picnic grounds—a mile along the west side of the river—belonged to the streetcar company. The best wild hay anywhere around grew along the river side of the strip. I knew it would be stealing to go in and cut it without asking anybody, and I didn’t know who to ask, unless it would be the conductor. He and the motorman always stopped for a smoke at the end of their run, so I waited for them the first morning after I decided to go haying. The conductor said he thought it would be all right to go ahead and cut some of it; the big bosses never came out that way. But the motorman didn’t think so at all. “Jazes, no! Don’t you niver, niver do it! Don’t niver take nothin’ aff thim big carperations; it’s the jailhouse you’ll be landin’ in,” he told me. “Better you go see Mike Mulcahy at the Englewood barn. Mike’s a good lad. He knows all the bosses; he’ll till you what to do.” Of course, I could have ridden Lady over to Englewood and saved a dime, but it seemed to me that Mr. Mulcahy might feel better toward me if he knew I was a streetcar customer. So I climbed on the car and rode over to Englewood.
I told Mr. Mulcahy about Lady and Ducklegs, and about being afraid Mother would make me take Lady back to Carl Henry’s if we had to buy hay for the winter, and then I asked him if I could cut some out of the picnic grounds. At first, I didn’t think I was going to get it. Mr. Mulcahy was a big man, and he looked down at me as if I were a pygmy. “Divil a bit you’d know about makin’ hay,” he said. “The best you’d do is be leavin’ a grass hook around for a body to step on an’ be suin’ the company.”
I had to tell him about working for Fred Aultland in haying when we lived on the ranch, and that I’d keep the sickle tied to my overalls by a string so I couldn’t lose it. After that he went into the little office, and I watched through the window while he talked to somebody on the telephone. When he came back, he said it would be all right for me to cut all the hay I wanted, but I’d be doing it at my own risk. Then he leaned over, shook his finger in my face, and told me it wouldn’t be safe for me to be cutting hay down there alone. He said I might cut a leg and bleed to death before anybody found me, or that I might tip a load of hay over on myself and smother. I finally had to promise I’d get somebody to help me and wouldn’t work down there alone. He waved to me when I got back onto the streetcar for Littleton, and called, “God bless you, lad. Be careful.”
Mr. Batchlett was leaning against the hitch rail in front of Monahan’s saloon when I got off the car. He saw me, and called, “Hey, Little Britches!” When I went over, he pushed his hat back, and asked, “What you doin’ to make a dollar these days?”
“Well,” I told him, “when there isn’t any berry picking, I’ve been working for Mr. Wilke, but I’ve got to quit now and put up hay for the winter.”
“Forget it!” Mr. Batchlett said. “You couldn’t put up hay enough to wad a shotgun. Come work for me. I’ll pay you a dollar a day, and you can buy good alfalfa hay for the winter.”
“I’d like to,” I told him, “but I can’t. If we had to buy hay, Mother might say we could only afford to keep one animal—and it would have to be the cow.”
Mr. Batchlett grinned and said, “How ’bout half days? I’d still pay you a dollar. County fair’s starting the twenty-ninth. Got a couple ponies I want to get ready for the races. You could exercise ’em for me.”
At a dollar for half days, I could afford to hire Dutch Gunther to help me with the hay, so I asked, “Forenoons or afternoons, Mr. Batchlett?”
“Mornings. Crack-o-dawn,” he told me. “See ya tomorrow at the fairgrounds.” Then he went into Monahan’s, and I went to tell Dutch I’d pay him fifty cents an afternoon to help me with the haying.
I told Grace about the hay, but when I went up to Mother’s chamber, I just held Elizabeth on my lap, and said, “Well, I’ve got a new job. It might last till right up to school time, and it’ll pay me a dollar a day. I’ll have to go to work early.”
“Ummm . . . hmmm,” was all Mother said. So, of course, I had to tell her a little more.
“It’s for Mr. Batchlett,” I said. “He’s a friend of Hi’s, and he chipped in to get me my new saddle. Carl Henry knows him, too. He’s a real nice man; he’s the one that brings fresh milk cows in to Denver to trade with people whose cows have gone dry.”
“Ummm . . . hmmm, and what sort of work does Mr. Batchlett want you to do for him?”
“Look how the baby’s squeezing on my little finger,”
I said. I had to say something like that, because I wasn’t ready for Mother to ask me that question.
She just said, “Ummm . . . hmmm,” again.
“Well, you know he always keeps quite a few horses,” I told her, “and sometimes he doesn’t have enough work for them, so they have to be exercised. I didn’t ask him, but I suppose there’ll be other things he’ll want me to do besides just exercising horses. With all those cows, he might want me to do a little herding, wouldn’t you think?”
Mother reached over and put her hand on my leg. “Son, you know how I feel about your riding strange cow horses. I know how much you like to do it, and I know, too, that you’re a pretty good rider for a boy, but you will promise me that you won’t try to ride any bucking horses?”
“I promise, Mother,” I said. “I’m sure there isn’t one bucker in the whole lot . . . and you don’t need to worry any about roundups; there won’t be another one till Labor Day.”
“I do worry; I can’t help it,” she said. “And it seems to me I’ve heard some unfavorable comment about Mr. Batchlett. Doesn’t he drink quite a little?”
“Well, if he does, I never saw him look the least bit drunk, and you ought to have heard what he said about Mr. Wilke letting whiskey be his boss. He’s a lot like Hi. I’ll bring him home with me to see Elizabeth after you get well again, then you’ll know how nice a man he is.”
Mother patted my leg a minute or two without saying anything, then she said, “Now you’d better put Elizabeth back in her crib so you can finish your chores . . . but you will be careful around strange horses, won’t you?”
I was just about as busy as I could be for the next week. I had to get up by four o’clock to have my chores done in time to get down to the fairgrounds at dawn. Then Dutch and I worked on the hay as late as we could see.
Besides the chestnut that Le Beau rode on the Fourth of July, Mr. Batchlett had a sorrel and a bay. Every morning through Saturday, he met me at the fairgrounds track, and we’d work the horses one after another. First, he’d just have me lope a horse till it was sweated up in good shape. Then, before I cooled it out, he’d have me race it while he timed us. He never told me what the time was, but he’d tell me whether it was good or bad. After the first two days, he had me ride the chestnut bareback, and we only raced him a quarter mile. But I always rode the other two with a saddle, and raced them clear around the half-mile track. We were always finished by ten o’clock, and I had all the rest of the day for haying.
Saturday morning there were a dozen other horses at the track, and at least that many men standing around with watches in their hands. Mr. Batchlett told me not to push his horses when I ran them, and at seven o’clock we put them back in the stable. While we were rubbing the sorrel down, he said, “Looks like there might be some excitement ’round here by tomorrow. Better figure on being here full days from now through fair time; might pick up some pretty good money. I’ll spring a fiver for wins.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I told him. “Mother won’t let me work on Sundays. Besides, she doesn’t like match races and gambling, and I don’t think she’d let me ride if there’s going to be betting.”
“Hell, you ain’t goin’ to be doing no betting,” he told me. “Be plenty of match races ’fore the fair’s over. You’d do all right. And with a new mouth to feed, you folks could use the money. Figure on full days starting Monday.”
“Well,” I said, “I’ll have to begin hauling hay Monday, so I can only come in the forenoons.”
Mr. Batchlett swore a little, and asked, “How much hay you got? How long’ll it take ya?”
“About three days, if I can get started by ten o’clock Monday morning,” I told him. “There’ll be about twelve big loads for our spring wagon.”
“Better get at it the first thing Monday morning,” was all Mr. Batchlett said, then he went off to talk to some men who had come into the stable.
All week, Dutch and I had cut hay as fast as we could till three or four in the afternoons. Then we’d rake up what we’d cut the day before, and pile it into shocks. By dark, Saturday, we had fifty shocks.
Monday morning we harnessed Lady and drove down to the picnic grounds, going around by the River Road bridge. We couldn’t see the hayfield till we drove through the cottonwood grove, and then it looked as if all our work was going to be lost. Two big hayracks were standing in among our shocks of hay, and four men were pitching it onto them. I whacked Lady with the end of the lines, and she jumped ahead so quick that Dutch nearly fell out over the tail gate. The ground was pretty rough, but I galloped her right up to the nearest hayrack, and yelled, “What in the world do you think you’re doing? That’s my hay!”
I didn’t know any of the men. The nearest one was the biggest. He poked the tines of his fork into the ground, and leaned against the handle as if it had been a crutch. Then he pushed his hat back on his head, spit tobacco juice, and said, “The hell you say.”
I was so mad that I yelled right back, “I do too say! Mr. Mulcahy gave it to us and we cut it and it’s ours.”
The man just grinned, and said, “You ain’t Little Britches, are you? Batch sent us over to give you a lift—said you’d bit off more’n you could chew. You kids sure cut a raft of it; three doggone good loads, and it’s pretty well cured, too.”
About all Dutch and I did was to tramp the top of the loads, and to push the hay back under the eaves after the men had pitched it up into our barn loft. With four men and two hayracks, the whole job was done by three o’clock in the afternoon.
As soon as the last fork of hay was in our barn loft, I rode Lady down to the fairgrounds to thank Mr. Batchlett. By that time there were fifty or sixty ranchers and cow hands around the track, and the corrals were full of horses. A match race was just starting when I pulled Lady up at the end of the grandstand. The horses weren’t very well matched, and a jugheaded gray won by three lengths.
When I found Mr. Batchlett, he was standing by the track gate with his watch in his hand. He hardly gave me time to thank him for hauling our hay, but told me to get his bay out and warm him up behind the stables. “Give him a taste of spurs and get his dander up,” he told me. “I want you to run him against that gray. Be a close thing. Win, and you won’t owe me no thanks for hay haulin’.”
With his putting it that way, I couldn’t tell Mr. Batchlett I wouldn’t ride his horse in a match race, so I put my saddle on the bay and warmed him up.
I was nervous when Mr. Batchlett came to lead the bay out to the track gate. He noticed that my knee was shaking, and said, “You got nothing to be scared of. Jim Boyd’s ridin’ the gray. Jim won’t do ya no dirt.”
“I’m not afraid of that,” I told him, “but Mother isn’t going to like it when she hears about me riding in a match race.”
Mr. Batchlett grinned and slapped me on the leg. “Quit your frettin’,” he told me; “I’ll fix that up.” Then he walked away toward the judges’ stand.
I was still nervous when the starter opened the gate and Jim and I rode through. We’d just started around toward the quarter-mile post when I heard the call: “Match race at a quarter mile. Jim Boyd on Bowles’ gray, and Freddie Jones on Batchlett’s bay.” I looked back, and Mr. Batchlett was standing by the man with the megaphone.
We didn’t win the race. The bay got a poor start, and the quarter mile wasn’t long enough for us to catch up. The jug-headed gray was still a nose in front when we passed the finish pole—and I hadn’t made up to Mr. Batchlett for hauling our hay.
There were match races all week. I rode in three or four of them every day—and the megaphone man always called me Freddie Jones. Sometimes I rode for Mr. Batchlett, but for quite a few others too. They paid me a dollar every time I rode, and, when I won, it was usually a five-dollar gold piece. At first, I thought that being Freddie Jones would be enough to cover me up, but it wasn’t. In less than two days, almost everybody in town knew who Freddie Jones was.
Tuesday night, when I was milking Du
cklegs, Grace came out to the barn. I pushed my head tight against Ducklegs’ flank and kept milking as fast as I could open and close my fists. Grace stood right at the end of the tie-up—with her arms folded across her chest. “Well . . . Freddie Jones!” was all she said.
The milk sort of stuttered into the bucket for a second, and then my hands got shaking so I had to stop. I didn’t lift my head right up; I had to think a little. And Grace didn’t say another word except “Well?”
“Well,” I said, “you don’t have to be so smart. You’re not Mother. What business of yours is it anyway?” I tried to sound as if I didn’t care, but the words didn’t come out that way.
Grace stuck her nose up in the air and started toward the barn door. “All right,” she said; “if it’s Mother’s business I’ll see she has a chance to handle it.”
Of course, I couldn’t let her go. So I had to show her the money I had stashed away in a marble sack in the corner of the bran bin. “You know how much we’ll need it next winter,” I told her, “and we might need it before winter if Mother isn’t strong enough to cook when she gets up. It’s all good honest money, but you know as well as I do that Mother would never let me earn it if she found out. I suppose you’ll think you’re doing something big if you tell her. Why can’t you mind your own business, anyway?”
I was sorry the minute after I’d said it. I’d been looking down into the bran bin all the time I’d been talking, but when I looked up into Grace’s face, there were tears in her eyes. “I’m not as mean an old skunk as you think I am,” she half cried. “If you’ll keep your mouth shut around home, and if we don’t have too many pesky old ladies coming to call on Mother, I’ll see she doesn’t find out till the fair’s all over.”