Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

“You’re probably too young to remember what it was like in the early days.” Benteen gave him that much. “Do you see this grass?” He indicated the thick tangle growing tall at their feet. “I’ve seen it burned brown in the spring of the year, parched roots setting in ground that was dry and hard as a rock. Without the grass for covering to hold the soil, it would have blown away. That’s why it’s so important not to overgraze it. And those drylanders are plowing up this grass. We’ll have a drought again, and when we do, those homesteads of the drylanders will be a desert.” He gave Webb a long, hard look. “Every time you try to make the land be what it isn’t, it will turn on you and destroy you. If you don’t remember that, this land won’t be here for your son—if you ever have one.”

The grim words seemed to echo in the air as his father turned and swung his lofty frame onto the big gray horse. He reined it away from Webb and pushed it into a canter back to the herd.

After more than a month and a half out on the range rounding up cattle, the band of Triple C riders heading for town were flush with two months’ pay and ready to kick up their heels. They’d washed off the grime and sweat, shaved off the scraggly whiskers, and put on their best clothes. All but Webb and one or two others had drawn their last wages, but none of them intended to keep a tight fist on the money. The winter might be lean, but they were going to have one last fling to trade tales about while they were huddled around a heating stove on a cold Montana night.

They were riding along the dirt track that passed for the main road leading into Blue Moon. There were parallel ruts from the wheels of wagons and buggies, while hoofprints pockmarked the ground in between. A dark object was blocking the trail ahead of them.

“What’s that?” Nate eyed the black-colored obstacle in their way.

“It looks like Doyle Pettit’s automobile,” one of the other riders guessed. “I guess he broke down.”

The possibility presented an opportunity to rag the ex-rancher turned entrepreneur that these mischief-loving cowboys just couldn’t pass up. With a whoop and a shout, they spurred their horses into a gallop and descended upon the immobile automobile.

“Hey, boys!” Shorty Niles pointed to the rear tire that had been pried from the wheel with a sprung leaf and was propped against the back fender. “It looks like it threw a shoe.”

Their laughter didn’t faze Doyle Pettit as he examined the tube he’d extracted from the tire, trying to find the puncture. The large tool box on the running board sat open, displaying a wide array of tools.

“Go ahead and laugh, boys.” Doyle grinned. “I’ll have this tire patched and get to town before you will,” He located the hole. “Ah, here it is.” He picked up a piece of sandpaper and began rubbing it across the area.

“What are you doing way out here in that thing?” Webb leaned over his saddlehorn to watch the curious procedure.

“I went out to Big Jim Tandy’s place. He’s thinking about selling off some of his land, and I had a proposition to give him that will make both of us a lot of money. You won’t believe the prices of land, Webb.” He shook his bead in bright-eyed amazement and reached for a bottle sitting in the tool box. “It’s tripled since

spring, I swear. Harve Wessel got itchy feet. I bought out his share of our partnership. He thinks he’s moved on to greener pastures, but nothing can be greener than right here.”

“What’s that?” Webb nodded at the bottle.

“Benzine.” Doyle identified the product. “You wash it over the area around the puncture, then coat the spot with rubber cement and apply the patch.” He glanced at Webb and laughed. “I can do this in my sleep. I figure I average three flat tires on a trip between my ranch and town, so I got a lot of practice.”

“I thought you had to burn gunpowder to patch one of those things,” Webb said.

“That’s a hot patch, and it’s more complex. Takes more time than a cold patch like this.” Doyle explained in terms that showed off his knowledge. “I oughta stop out and see your pa sometime. There’s a fortune to be made in land right now.”

“You can talk to him.” Webb straightened in the saddle and gathered up the reins to leave. “But I don’t think he’ll listen.” He backed his horse away from the dusty black automobile. “See ya in town, Doyle, and take care or that horseless carriage of yours might buck you off.”

“If you don’t show up by noon, we’ll send somebody back with a horse to get you,” Shorty taunted as they pointed their mounts down the road.

Two miles from town, the band of riders heard the belching horn of the automobile behind them. They split into two groups, riding off the road to make way for the faster conveyance. The noisy vehicle rattled and chugged past them. Doyle risked taking one hand off the wheel, usually gripped with both at all times, and gave them a mocking wave. With his passing, the riders were engulfed in a cloud of choking dust and exhaust fumes.

When they rode into Blue Moon, the street was bulging with carriages and buckboards and the high-boxed, heavy-wheeled grain wagons. The granary had ceased to be an item of talk and was now standing at the end of the street near the railroad tracks. Just about everywhere a man looked, there were farmers and their families. The congestion forced the cowboys to hold their horses in a walk. They were strangely silent, feeling out of place in this scene, with few realizing they were an anachronism in this changed society.

From her seat on the wagon so recently converted with the installation of higher sides to haul their grain, Lilli saw Stefan come out of the granary office. There was an exuberance in his stride as he approached the wagon.

“Fifty bushels an acre,” he proclaimed the success of their harvest. She summoned a smile to show her pleasure in the news, and wondered why she wasn’t as excited as she should have been. It was the culmination of their dream; yet she felt curiously flat as Stefan climbed onto the wagon to sit beside her. “There is talk that Europe might go to var, and they think the price of vheat vill go even higher next year.”

“That’s good news.” Although it didn’t seem right to Lilli that they would profit from someone else’s adversity.

“Now ve go to the bank.” Stefan took the reins and released the wheel brake.

“Are we going to pay off the loan?” She knew Stefan had not liked being in debt.

“No, ve are going to borrow more money and buy more land vhile it is still cheap,” he declared. “And ve vill need money for more seed. Maybe even ve buy a tractor. Franz says a tractor can plow in one day vhat it vould take a team of horses to plow in two veeks. Ve could plant a lot of vheat.”

Stefan had not discussed any of this with her, but it was obvious that he had talked to Franz Kreuger about it at considerable length. It was just another example of the subtle way she and Stefan had drifted apart. They weren’t nearly as close as they once had been.

“I thought we were going to take the money we made on this harvest and build a real house.” Lilli made a tentative attempt to remind him of their initial plans. “Will there be enough to do that, too?”

“The house can vait,” he stated. “Next year, ve vill have much more money and ve can build a big house.”