Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

“Yeah, I guess O’Rourke talks like his cows are only going to have heifers.” Nate grinned. “It’s a poor piece of land he’s got—a lot of rough country and not much water.”

O’Rourke hadn’t been here during the prolonged drought. And it was something that those who stayed and weathered it out didn’t talk about. But of the nearly eighty thousand homesteaders who had come to till the dryland, over sixty thousand had abandoned their farms and moved out. It had turned into a massive exodus, leaving deserted farms and towns in their wake and more than two hundred failed banks.

So much had changed in such a short time. Anyone going into Blue Moon would find it hard to believe it had once been a boom town, a thriving community bursting at its seams. Most of the buildings had been burned when a transient had started a fire in a vacant store so he could keep warm.

The roadhouse was still standing, owned by a man named Jake. It had turned into a Montana version of a speakeasy, catering to the hard-drinking cowboy crowd that once again populated the region. Another building had been converted into a gasoline station, grocery store, and post office. The hardware store across the street had started carrying a dry-goods section when Ellis’s emporium had gone up in smoke along with the livery. The railroad had abandoned its tracks into Blue Moon. It was just another wide spot in the road again.

All traces of what had been were wiped out. But the land still bore the mark, and it would never be the same again. Except where there was a source of water to irrigate, it had reverted to livestock range, domain of the cattleman. But the native grass never came back to the areas where the plow had turned the sod—that rich, high-protein grass that put hard weight on cattle. New, tough grasses were sown on the millions of eroded acres, but it wasn’t the same. The difference was starkly apparent when contrasted with the preserved range of the Triple C where the grassy plains survived.

The front door burst open and a young boy with a mop of dark hair and bold brown eyes came hurtling onto the porch. Webb turned, catching the boy and sweeping him into his arms to ride high. Chase was five years old, going on six, and eager for each new experience. When he looked at his son, Webb caught glimpses of Lilli in the boy’s boldness and determination, even though Chase didn’t have her coloring. It tightened his throat and stung his eyes—and deepened the love he had for the boy.

“I told Buck I was gonna rope a calf. I can, can’t I?” he demanded eagerly.

Webb had made it a point to take his son with him whenever it was possible. This would be his first roundup, but certainly not his last.

“As much as you’ve been practicing, I don’t see why you can’t.” Webb smiled, then became conscious of someone standing in the background.

He glanced over his shoulder. Ruth was waiting near the door holding a bedroll and a saddlebag stuffed with the boy’s extra clothes. Her own son was standing beside her, not quite as big-boned as Chase. Buck’s mouth was pushed in a pouting line as he stared enviously at his young friend.

“Better go get your things from Ruth so we can start out.” He set the boy down and watched him run over to take his gear.

It was almost more than Chase could carry, but Webb didn’t offer to help. The boy had to learn to do for himself, and he might as well find that out while he was young.

Nate clumped down the steps and waited beside the placid sorrel horse that Chase rode. It was a full-grown horse, not pony-sized, and trained to work cattle. Its gentle disposition had made it a suitable mount for a child, negating the need for a broken-down nag that couldn’t be kicked out of a trot.

Chase managed to half-carry and half-drag his saddlebag and bedroll down the steps where Nate took them and secured the gear behind the child-sized saddle, specially tooled by a Triple C craftsman. Chase had figured out how to mount his horse without help, hauling himself up by the stirrup. When he was in the saddle, his legs were barely long enough to grip the horse’s side. He took the reins Nate passed him and looked at his father.

“You comin’, Dad?” he called.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Webb assured him and turned to Ruth. “If anything comes up, you can send one of the boys to fetch me.”

“Take care,” she murmured, and watched him move away to join his son.

“Why can’t I go?” Buck complained. “Chase gets to go-”

“Yes, but his father is taking him,” she reasoned quietly.

Buck looked longingly after his departing friend. “I wish he was my father.”

The words tugged at her heart, but she said nothing. Webb was a widower now, but she was still married to Virg. She had made peace with her heart and learned to be content to take care of Webb’s home and his son. It was all she could have, and it was better not to want more.

As they rode out of the ranchyard, Nate trailed behind the father and son. It was a custom of the range not to ride ahead of the boss. When Webb set the pace at a walk, Nate followed suit.

As they passed the barns with their big wooden beams and the vast range spread out before them, Webb slid a glance at the small boy perched atop the big horse. “All this is going to be yours someday, Chase.”

It was a fact he was determined to instill in the boy.

After Lilli died, it had been easier to let Chase stay at the Stanton house where Ruth could care for him. But that only lasted four short months until Webb realized it was a mistake. Chase was a Calder; he belonged at The Homestead. He had to learn that he’d never be anything else; more would always be expected from him. Webb didn’t want Chase making the mistake he had made. He’d always be Chase Calder, and never an ordinary cowboy.

“It’s a lot of land, Chase, but it’s gotta be this big to fit under a sky like this.” There was pride in his words, pride in the legacy that would come to his son.

When the stock market crashed and the Great Depression of the thirties came with its collapse of financial institutions, Montanans had already lived through the like nearly a decade earlier. When the lower Plains states suffered through the drought years that turned the land into a dust bowl, Montanans could have told the farmers what it was like. Rains spared their land from suffering through it a second time.

When the land is abused, nature has a way of striking back. Land will eventually go back to what nature intended, but the cost is high. The land is what it is, no matter what man does or thinks he can do. Benteen Calder knew it, and Webb learned it.

Hopes die and man moves on, but the land stays.