Chapter Four
The first of six line shacks on Joe's grand swing had proved more challenging than expected. In four days' time, the roof had been patched and the chimney cleared of debris. Corral posts stood strengthened or replaced, the shattered window had been boarded, and the cabin's shelves were now stocked for future visits. Knowing the shack would be used as the winter outpost for the northeast range, Joe had felled an appropriate pine, stripped its loose bark, chopped the logs, and stacked the wood against the side of the shack. He'd even gathered the thin strips of kindling and propped them in a bucket near the line shack's fireplace.
The days of hard labor had silenced the voices, but sleeping had been difficult; it engulfed him in foggy spurts. Thoughts of the remaining stops on his swing, the daily running of the ranch back home, and the brother who'd left him behind haunted his dreams.
Over the course of his stay, necessity had lured Joe to the river on several occasions. The abundance of trout kept his belly full, and each evening before dusk, the river's cool, clear water rid him of sawdust, pitch, and sweat.
On his final morning at the cabin, Joe's muscles spoke of all he'd accomplished. He'd considered heading out on an empty stomach, but the prospect of feasting as he rode on a breakfast of hardtack made him groan more than did the ache in his back. As he stood, his back stiff from roofing repairs, and moving slowly, he lit the small cast iron stove and waited patiently for the heat to rise. Satisfied with the flames, he dropped five thick slices of fatback into the cold, black skillet.
As his breakfast spattered and sizzled, Joe took stock of the shack. The Cartwrights were proud of the condition of their line shacks, and the hands sent out to mend fences, gather wandering cattle, and survey the damage from weather could count on them being well-stocked and in good repair. After breakfast, Joe would ride on knowing he'd left the shack "Cartwright ready."
By midday, Joe had covered more than ten miles and logged sightings of the next two markers. His memory told him the next shack lay to the south, just beyond an open pasture framed on one side by some recently-planted pines. He dismounted and squinted into the distance. Something didn't look right.
Was it another case of extreme winter weather that had altered the landscape? Or was his memory clouded by time and the events of the past few months?
Hands on his hips, Joe sighed. He slipped off his hat, ruffled his hair, and slapped the hat back onto his head.
"Guess it's time for a map, eh Cooch?"
Joe had to search for the small, folded square. Perhaps Adam was right – Joe was not an organized packer.
Reaching deep into the fourth saddlebag, he felt the familiar texture of the thick paper, and he smiled as he drew it out and quickly opened it, spreading it against Cochise's side.
"Hm. Looks like we're in the right place, after all. Those trees Pa had planted last fall sure have grown. Didn't expect them to be quite that tall after one season."
He folded the map, tucked it away, and double-checked the reins that tethered Jasper to Cochise. The pasture ahead glistened, the winter run-off and early spring rains fed the low-lying acreage, and caution was foremost in his mind as he crossed to the other side. The last thing he needed, next to an angry, mother bear, was to guide his horses into the deepest part of the mire.
Leading Cochise and Jasper across the pasture was tedious. Each step held the threat of losing a boot to the suction of the sludge. The horses seemed to share Joe's misgivings, and they raised their legs higher than necessary with every step.
Midway through the clearing, the mud thinned, and Joe picked up his pace. As he walked, he studied the ground ahead, raising his eyes from time to time to gage the remaining distance. Each footstep brought moist, slurping sounds. His boots no longer sunk into the mire, but instead, seemed caught in a tight suction along the soupy ground.
Joe smiled, recalling numerous times he and Hoss had found ways to enjoy the early spring thaw, playing all sorts of games in the mud and, to the dismay of Adam, Pa, and especially Hop Sing, tracking the mess into the house just in time for dinner.
Reflecting on more innocent times, Joe's mood lightened. One memory led to another, and another, and the young voices of his brothers and himself soon filled his head. How did Pa survive our antics?
He glanced ahead, pleased to see his trek through the marsh was nearly over, and his smile widened as he remembered hearing the story of the day Adam and Hoss presented Hop Sing with six freshly-patted mud pies and demanded he serve them for dinner that evening. Joe chuckled aloud.
"Maybe that's why Pa's hair was gray even before I came along!"
As he neared the border of the pasture, Joe tilted his head upward. Some of his earliest memories were of standing amid the Ponderosa pines, feet planted firmly on the soil, his eyes shaded with one small hand as he gazed at the treetops against the clear, blue sky. On one such occasion, Adam had come upon Joe, settled in at his side, and gazed upward with squinted eyes along with his little brother.
"What do you see, Little Joe?" Adam had asked.
"Trees," Joe replied.
Adam had stared a moment longer, then turned his attention to his little brother. He scrunched his mouth and scratched at the side of his neck.
"What's so special about those particular trees?"
"Pa says all our trees is special. Even them 'ticular trees."
Adam smiled. "Pa's right, little brother."
"I know that, Adam. Pa's always right. And he says the tops of them trees used to be all the way down here where we are now."
"That's right."
"And now, they're pert near touchin' the sky."
"That, they are."
The brothers stood in silence, eyes shaded, gazing at the waving tree tops.
"Adam, you reckon them trees is happy?"
Adam crouched next to Joe. "I think a tree is meant to grow tall and strong, always aiming for the sky. And those trees have surely done just that. So, yes, I think those trees are happy."
Joe nodded. "I think those trees was happy all along. They just looked at the other trees around and did what they was doin'. They kept growin' and growin', just like you, me, and Hoss."
"You may be right, Little Joe."
"I am."
Adam chuckled.
"I don't think they're as happy as me, though."
"You don't? Why's that?"
"'Cause I got Pa and you and Hoss and Hop Sing and my pony . . . Oh, and Mama, too!"
Joe reined Cochise to a stop, and his memories shifted. I had Mama. He shivered. His boots settled into the soggy pasture surface. I don't ask Pa. It still hurts him. But Hoss tells me things, what he remembers. I have memories, glimpses, the sound of her voice.
Joe closed his eyes. All Clay has is a picture. Time stood still as Joe clung to the image of his mother. "Clay took my picture." His eyes burned. "Why didn't he take me?"