Buffalo Summer. Nadia Nichols

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СКАЧАТЬ others set on the table. Even the gas stove was an antique, a cream enamel with green and gold piping and the words White Star scrolled ornately across the oven door. It was a beautiful kitchen, and in spite of her initial trepidation, Pony felt instantly at home.

      Ramalda was standing by the sink with her hands on her hips, watching them with great suspicion. “You’re hungry,” she accused.

      Pony shook her head. “If you could just show us where to put our things, we can get right to work.”

      She was afraid Ramalda would laugh at them again, but instead she turned and walked out of the kitchen and into a back hallway that ran the length of the rambling ranch house and exited at the far end of the porch. Pony and the boys followed. Off the hallway were several doors. She pushed the first one open. “This is my room,” she said, and before they could glimpse inside, she pulled the door shut again with a sharp bang. “My room,” she repeated. She led them to the next door and opened it, turning to Pony. “Your room.” Pony stepped inside, followed closely by all five boys. It was a small room, perhaps ten by sixteen feet, papered in an antique rose print of pinks and greens, with a double bed, a bureau, a chair and a mirror hung above the dresser. A braided rug fit neatly between the bed and the bureau, and a narrow door opened onto a little closet. Pony set her satchel on the chair and smiled.

      “It’s very nice,” she said, and the boys all nodded in solemn agreement.

      Ramalda led them down the hall and opened yet another door. This room was a third again the size of Pony’s and had two sets of bunk beds on opposite walls and a twin bed set beneath the single window. The boys looked around at the plain whitewashed walls hung with old cowboy prints, the well-worn desk and chair, the one tall bureau, the small closet. A braided rug similar to the one in Pony’s room graced the floor between the sets of bunk beds. The boys laid their duffels down on the bunks, each choosing by order of rank. Roon, Pony noticed, though not the oldest, chose first, and he picked the bed beneath the window. Dan and Martin took the top bunks, Jimmy and Joe got the bottom.

      The next room they were shown was the bathroom. It was small, basic, no bathtub, just a shower. Clean, Pony noticed. The entire place was spanking clean. The Mexican woman might not care to host a passel of Crow Indians, but she was a good housekeeper.

      Ramalda led them back to the kitchen. “You eat now,” she said gruffly, motioning for them to sit. Pony stood for a moment in indecision, wondering if their hunger was that obvious, and then nodded to the boys, who immediately dropped into five chairs. Pony slowly followed suit. Ramalda then served them a meal that could have fed Pony and the boys for a week. It began with a thick spicy stew of lamb, onions, beans and chili peppers ladled into deep colorful Mexican bowls and set before them with big bone-handled soupspoons on the side. A platter of fresh soft tortillas, still warm, was plunked down in the middle of the table, along with a brimming pitcher of cold milk and six tall glasses. The savory aroma of the stew overcame the awkwardness of the moment. They glanced respectfully at the strange old woman who stood by the stove and watched them eat with a fixed scowl on her face.

      Breathless with the joy of having full stomachs, they pushed back from the table with dazed expressions. Every bit of the delicious stew was gone, every tender tortilla devoured, the pitcher of milk empty. Ramalda nodded grimly, went to the oven and drew forth a pan of beef ribs done to a tender turn and dripping with sauce. She used a spatula to push them all onto a serving platter and slid the dish into the center of the table, refilled the pitcher with more cold milk, then stood back and waited.

      They stared around the table at each other, and then at the ribs. Even Roon was smiling as they dug into them with rapturous abandon, wearing the sauce shamelessly on their chins and laughing, finally, when there was nothing left but a stack of gnawed bones.

      “WE’VE MISSED the noon meal, I guess,” Caleb said as they let their horses pick a careful descent down the steep draw. “Ramalda was going to make barbecued ribs.”

      Guthrie was ahead of him. “Don’t worry. She’ll save some for you.” He glanced back, grinning beneath his hat brim. “She likes watching you get fat.”

      Caleb didn’t presume to tell Billy how to get down the steep slope. He gave the gelding free rein and shamelessly clutched the saddle horn to keep from tumbling over the horse’s shoulders. “That’s no lie,” he said. “I was in a whole lot better shape when I first came here than I am now.”

      “Winter,” Guthrie called back. “All those long dark days with nothing to do but eat what Ramalda cooks, and she’s a damn fine cook. Thinks if a person ain’t always hungry they must be sick. But don’t worry, you’ll burn it off. From now till the snow flies you can eat whatever you want and you’ll still lose weight.”

      The slope bottomed out, and Guthrie drew rein, leaning over his horse’s shoulder and studying something on the ground. “That’s fresh,” he said. “Them buff are here somewhere close by.” He straightened and sat for a moment, contemplating. “Wind’s out of the south. We ought to be able to work up this draw and maybe catch sight of them, but if they catch a whiff of us, they’ll be on the far side of tomorrow in the blink of an eye. Ride quiet and follow me.”

      Caleb did just that, and in less than an hour they had ridden up onto a knoll that overlooked a high, pretty meadow shaped like a basin lying amongst the lower flanks of three rugged snow-clad mountains. “That’s Piney Creek,” Guthrie said, raising his arm and pointing toward a dark ribbon that snaked through the meadow. “The old line camp is in that big clump of fir.”

      Caleb had seen the camp once. “Joe Nash flew me in here last fall,” he said. “He said it was the prettiest place in all of Montana, but it wasn’t quite so pretty on that particular afternoon.” He looked at Guthrie. “That was the day we brought you down off the mountain more dead than alive.”

      Guthrie glanced sidelong at him and then faced forward again. A muscle in his jaw corded. He pulled his hat brim down a little lower. “Well, that’s all in the past, and right now we’re hunting for your buffalo.” He shifted in his saddle. “As a matter of fact, I think I’m lookin’ right at one.”

      Caleb leaned forward. “Where?”

      “See that little black dot way down there, followed by a dash? Down near the creek? That black dot is a buff, sure as I’m sitting here. That dash is three or four others, following along behind. I bet the entire bunch is hiding in that brush along the creek.”

      “How close do you think we can get?”

      “If the wind holds, pretty close. Close enough to count ’em, anyhow. You game?”

      “Hell yes, I’m game. What are we waiting for?”

      They heeled their horses and set off at a slow jog. The distance to be covered was over a mile. Guthrie reined his horse to a walk when they got within a quarter mile, and Caleb did the same. The afternoon was a fine one, with a steady breeze and the warm June sun to gentle it. Caleb wished he’d brought his field book along because he was seeing birds and flowers he’d never seen before. The vitality and diversity of the land continually astounded and humbled him. He wondered if he would ever truly be connected to it the way he really wanted to be.

      Sometimes he felt he was so close…

      “Whoa,” Guthrie said, his voice low, and they stopped side by side, stirrup to stirrup. “That big old cow there. See her?”

      Caleb tried to follow Guthrie’s point but he could see nothing yet. No buffalo. He shook his head.

      “She’s СКАЧАТЬ