“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said. “It looks like you are going to get your hands all greasy because of me.”
“It’s not your fault,” Tom said. “When a wheel axle has skeins instead of bearings, you are going to get friction. And that friction is going to cause squeaking.”
He got down on one knee, then leaned over and studied the wheel hub. “Yes,” he said, pointing. “It’s nearly dry.”
“Tom,” Rebecca said. “We have to talk.”
“Talk about what?” Tom said. “I was a fool, I know that now. I hurt you deeply. I should have told you that I was married before.”
“And she hurt you? Are you divorced?”
“She is dead.”
“Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t have known. I didn’t tell you, because I couldn’t tell you.”
Tom stuck his hand into the bucket, pulled out a big gob of grease, then started packing it into the hub, working it around the metal extension, or skein, of the axle.
“I didn’t leave because you hurt me. At least, not exactly.”
“Then why did you leave?” he asked.
“Because father said I could not see you anymore,” she said. “He said that he would send you away.”
“Send me away where, Rebecca? He could fire me, he could tell me he didn’t want me on his land anymore, but that’s it. He couldn’t send me away.”
“I know. I have thought about that a lot over the last four and a half months. I know I made a mistake Tom. All I can say is that I’m sorry.”
“What about the saloon?”
“What about it?”
“What were you doing there?”
“Tom, do you think I became a prostitute? Do you think I ran off because I couldn’t have you, and became a prostitute in the process?”
Tom shook his head. “No, I don’t think you became a prostitute,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what you were doing in that saloon, or why you were there, but I don’t think you became a prostitute.”
“Oscar Davenport, the man who runs the saloon, is a wonderful man,” Rebecca said.
“I’m sure he is.” The tone of Tom’s voice was almost sarcastic. “I’m sure all the girls there just loved him. And I’m sure he loved all of them.”
“Oscar Davenport was married to my mother,” Rebecca said resolutely.
“Your mother? How can that be? Your mother is at Live Oaks.”
“Julia Conyers is my stepmother,” Rebecca said. “She is the only mother I have ever known, since she and my father were married when I was a baby, but she is my stepmother. My real mother lived in Dodge City, Kansas, and was married to Oscar Davenport. So you see, I didn’t just run away, I had a destination in mind when I left.”
“What does your mother, your real mother, think about you returning to Live Oaks?” Tom asked.
“My real mother is dead,” Rebecca said. “She died two weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said.
“Did you mean it, Tom?” Rebecca asked. “Did you mean it when you said you couldn’t love me?”
“There is more to it than that,” Tom said.
“What more is there?”
Tom shook his head. “You don’t need to know.”
“Yes, I do. Please, Tom, don’t you understand? I have laid my heart out for you. I have to know why my love can’t be returned. Is it because your wife died? I can understand how that would hurt, but don’t you think I could help you heal?”
“You don’t understand,” Tom said.
“I’m trying to understand,” Rebecca said. “Please help me understand.”
“My wife is dead, Rebecca, because I killed her,” Tom said flatly.
After breakfast the next morning, the three women washed the dishes, then began loading the wagons, preparing to leave. Two of them were loading the wagons, Rebecca was just finishing with the hoodlum wagon and Sally was closing up the chuck wagon. Maria was standing to one side between the two wagons.
Clay rode over to Maria, then dismounted.
“About ready to go?” he asked.
“Si,” Maria replied. “How far do you think you will go before noon?”
“I expect we will reach the Cimarron just about noon,” Clay answered.
“Do you want to have lunch on this side or the other side of the river?” Maria asked.
“Find a place on this side. We’ll cross after we eat,” Clay said.
“All right,” Maria replied. “Don’t be late,” she said with a smile.
Clay kissed her, then helped her climb up onto the wagon. It was difficult for her to climb and he noticed it.
“Are you all right?”
“I am fine.”
“You just seem to be having a harder time getting around.”
“I am pregnant, remember,” she said, speaking so quietly that only Clay could hear her.
“I thought you said that wasn’t going to be a problem.”
“It isn’t a problem.”
“I shouldn’t have let you come.”
“You can always send me back home,” Maria teased.
“All right, you have made your point. But do be careful. Let the other ladies do all the hard work.”
“They are already doing all the hard work,” Maria said.
Sally, who had been closing up the back of the wagon, came up on the other side, then climbed into the driver’s seat to pick up the reins.
“I told Maria, I think you should stop just on this side of the river. We’ll cross it after lunch,” Clay said.
“All right,” Sally said. She called back to Rebecca. “Rebecca, are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” Rebecca answered.
“Let’s move them out,” Sally said, slapping the reins against the backs of the team of mules.
Clay watched the two wagons start out, then he mounted his horse and called out to the others.
“Let’s get these critters moving!”
His call galvanized the others into action. It was always difficult to get the cows started moving each morning. There were several reasons for that. The campsites were purposely selected for the abundance of grass and water, and an area wide enough to allow the cows to bed down for the night. As a result, the cows were quite comfortable where they were, and that made them reluctant to leave.
Clay and the others would have to shout, poke them in the sides with sticks, and swing ropes at them to get the herd underway. After five or ten minutes of this the cows would eventually begin to move. Then, once the herd was underway, it would change from twenty-five hundred individual creatures into a single entity with a single purpose. The same inertia that had tended to keep the herd at rest now became an asset, as it would keep the cows plodding along for as long as the cowboys wanted to keep them in motion.
A herd this size made its presence known in several ways. It was a black, slow-moving mass, a quarter of a mile long, lifting a cloud of dust that could be seen for many miles. The sound of the hooves and the bawling of the cattle to each other provided a music that quickly became familiar to the cowboys who were working the herd.
But perhaps the most distinctive signature of the herd was its aroma. The smells came from sun on their hides, dust in the air, and especially from the animals’ droppings and urine. The odor was pungent and perhaps, to many, unpleasant. To the cowboys who had spent half their lives with cattle, however, it was an aroma as familiar and agreeable as their mothers’ home cooking.
As the two wagons moved on ahead of the herd, Rebecca looked toward the western horizon and saw the
