The rain, which had started in Cheyenne, did not let up all the way to the Platte river, and all the world seemed wet through.
Ella's teeth chattered, even though she was wearing a wool sweater and her thick sheepskin coat. September was still summer in Georgia, but in Wyoming, they were deep into fall. She had been surprised that morning to come out from her tent and find frost on the grass. In the first day of riding north, she was sleepy and disoriented, for she had slept poorly the night before. She thought she was dreaming when she saw, instead of raindrops, soft white flakes begin to fall before her eyes.
"What?" she wondered. And Kin said that it was snow.
Snow! Ella had never seen snow before in her life. She was astonished at it. The wind whipped the small snowflakes into a frenzy. She held out her gloved hand and tried to catch them, but they melted before she had a chance to get a good look.
"You'll see plenty of that in Montana," grinned Kin, and a significant glance passed between them.
Ella and Kin had discussed Montana in their tent, at night, for a few nights running. Now that they were not hell-bent on finding her mother—and now that they were really, truly, husband and wife, Ella had started to wonder about their future. She could not see herself going back to Georgia. And Kin did not seem to want to go back to New Orleans. His lip curled when she spoke to him about it.
Captain Lexington was staying on in Montana, and Kin thought that maybe one or two of the other hands would stay with him, and help get the ranch up and running. Boots, maybe, or Tiny.
"And we could stay, too," he propositioned.
Ella thought about it. It was curious to feel so utterly free that you could decide to go anywhere or stay anyplace on a whim. "I won that deed to the land in Colorado," she reminded him. "Two whole acres. Remember?"
Kin smiled.
"It would take more than two acres to hold me in a place," he said. "I need land, Lorie. I need to be able to breathe. I want to be some where new and fresh. I told you that before. Why don't we stay in Montana a while? For a year maybe, to get the lay of the place. Cap'n will hire me on as his right hand—I can manage a ranch. And we could see if we like it."
"And would we live on the ranch, too?"
"Yes—to start out. A snug little cabin, just big enough for the two of us. And maybe a homestead of our own, if we decide to stay."
Ella was thoughtful.
"I think it sounds nice," she said after a moment of reflection. "Let's do it."
Kin kissed her, and she snuggled in his arms.
"You don't still want to divorce me?" he joked, referring to their original plan. Ella shook her head at her own foolishness. How stupid and blind she had been, to even suggest such a thing!
"Never—never."
So that was settled down. The only thing was that Buck could not be convinced to stay on in Montana, too.
"It's too damn cold," he said, shivering, his teeth chattering and his lips faintly blue. Buck had been raised in the hot white sun of South Texas. Here, he was all wilted and puckered, like a magnolia blossom after the first frost.
They tried every trick to convince him. They begged, cajoled, and pleaded—they spoke of the good times and new, interesting whores that could be found in the north. But Buck could not be persuaded.
"Whores don't have the same sway over me that they once had," he mused. "I've lost my taste for them. I think I'd rather have a little woman who was all my own, instead."
Kin and Ella exchanged a look. This was not like Buck.
"But what will you do, if you don't stay with us?" wondered Ella, and Buck shook his head, looking very young without his moustache.
"I don't know," he said, sounding faintly bewildered—like a child who wakes to find that the world has tilted on its axis over night. "I don't know, Ella—I just plumb don't know."
This was not the Buck she remembered from New Orleans. Something was different about him. Kin felt it, too—she could tell. His mouth twisted and he touched his spurs to his horse and surged ahead. Ella followed him.
But Buck hung back, and did not join them. When Ella turned she could see him, growing farther and farther away, until he was no more than a speck on the horizon.
Things were changing.
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Ella was disappointed in her first snow—it melted as soon as it touched the ground, and was soon gone. Within a day, it turned back into rain.
Not a little, drizzly rain, but a heavy downpour. The ground was waterlogged and it slowed them down. Everyone was pretty dismal at meal-times. They could not get a fire going to cook with, and had to subsist on tinned pork and beans.
"I'd rather eat my shoe than eat this slop," commented Flip.
"Let's eat Ignacio," suggested Lank. "He ain't been earning his keep anyway, lately. What's the use of a cook who can't cook?"
There was no singing and laughter, and everybody dispersed. For the first time, Ella felt really guilty for her nice tent, as she watched Little Joe and Looky huddle under a damp tarp.
The whole world seemed changed by rain. The sky was not blue but flat and gray. The grass was brown and dead from too much water. Whole clumps of earth had been washed away. Ella was most surprised when they came to the Platte. In Nebraska, it had been a wide, shallow, placid river. Here it was rushing and foamy, brought over its banks by the deluge. It was not gentle and shining, but roaring and swift and menacing.
At first she could not get Mr. Butler to step into it. She puzzled at him. He had forded so easily before, even at the deep, churning Red. Once she had whipped him into the water she understood why he had balked. The current was rough and treacherous, tearing at her legs, pushing them downstream. The water was cold—first it foamed against her legs and burned like pins and needles, and then it numbed her.
She clung on for dear life. When they had crossed the South Platte, Mr. Butler could walk easily across. Here, it was too deep. He had to swim, and Ella cried out as the current began to carry them far downstream. If she fell off she would be swept away, and, strong swimmer though she was, she knew that she could not stand a chance in this rough water.
She breathed a sigh as her horse's hooves touched the river bottom again—with effort, he hauled himself up onto the bank, and stepped onto the dry land. She dismounted and patted his neck.
"Good boy," she said, and turned to watch the river.
The cattle were crossing now. Ella saw that they had finished caulking the wagon—it was ready to float. For a moment or two it bobbed dangerously like a cork and she held her breath—surely it would overturn, surely it would be swept away. But soon it, too, was rattling up the bank. Ignacio crossed himself in thanksgiving.
She held her breath as Kin crossed, but he did it easily. Far away at the back she could see Buck's white charger, bringing up the rear with Little Joe. The cattle were all almost across now. She took her eyes away for a second, to watch Kin as he talked with the Captain. When she turned back, all hell had broken loose.
Somehow, Little Joe had fallen off his horse and was clinging desperately to the saddle. She heard, above the sound of hooves and water, him call to Buck, who tried to swim his horse toward him. But his horse would not go. Little Joe and his mount seemed so small as they bobbed in the middle of the wide, rushing water. They were still in one place—hung there for a moment. And then the merciless current began to carry them. In a second he was twenty yards downstream. They were battered against the rocks. And Little Joe lost his grip on the saddle.
She watched in horror as he went under, once, and cried out when she saw him reappear, alarmingly farther away. He went under again.
"Help him, help him!" she screamed. "He can't swim, oh, he can't—the current's too strong!"
Ella heard Kin shout and she saw him run toward the river and she wished she had never said anything. Kin must not go into the water. He, too, would be swept away. Little Joe broke the water to gasp and claw frantically at the air. And, for a third time, he went down.
He did not come up again. There was a scuffle as Captain Lexington tried to hold Kin back, but the other boys were already charging into the river, forming a chain of bodies against the rapid water.
"Where is he?" sobbed Ella, frantically scanning the water. "Where is he, oh, where is he?"
It seemed forever before she spotted him. Little Joe was floating facedown in the water. The current lazily carried his body to a little, calm eddy in the shallows where it circled and circled like a piece of driftwood and no more.
"Please," she thought, and it was all she could think, for her mind had gone as numb as her feet.
Kin and Buck hauled him out, and the water fell in a slick from his limp, heavy form. Little Joe's lips were blue and his eyes were wide and staring.
The Captain and Kin worked over him for a quarter of an hour, trying to pound the water from his chest and breathe air into his lungs. All the time Little Joe started unseeingly at the vast gray sky. They could not help him—he was dead
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They buried him in a field half-a-mile away, where the rushing river could not disturb his grave. It was a pretty field—still dotted with buttercups which had survived the frost. Little Joe would have liked it, Ella thought. He was always so appreciative of things like trees and flowers.
Even the Captain cried as his body was lowered down. Buck was sober, his face and eyes red from weeping.
"Why, it was my fault," he told Ella, over and over again, until she wanted to scream. "I twitted him about drowning—don't you remember? Before we reached Ogallala. 'Mebbe you'll drown in the Platte,' I told him. Ella, I couldn't help him—damn my stupid joke. He has drowned and I couldn't help him, though I tried."
"I know you did." She tried to comfort him, but her own grief was too raw.
"He was just a little mite. This was his first drive. He had his whole life in front of him—hadn't hardly begun to live yet. Only just had his first poke. Just a boy, just a boy. It should have been me instead."
"Don't say that!" Ella cried, but Buck turned away from her. The rest of the men dried their tears and went back to the herd with heavy hearts, but Buck would not be moved. He stayed when the rest of them had gone, staring down at the makeshift little cross, and thinking things that he did not venture to put into words.