Nick had clearly decided that forced by Jarrod to hire him, he would try and get him to quit. Nick had put him to digging an irrigation ditch connecting a proposed peach orchard with an existing canal two miles away. Thankfully he put him on the job alone.
He knew Nick had done this to make him quit. Nick had sent a crew of 12 men to work the ditch into the peach grove at the other end of this section of the valley. Nick had sent him to work on this ditch alone. Standing there in the yard, rocking on his heels as he gave the assignments, smirking at him as he sent him out, daring him to complain. He'd just smiled at the big man and touched his hat with his two fingers as he got the assignment.
Every cowboy in California had spent some length of time digging ditches or cleaning irrigation canals. It was part of ranching in a place where all the rain fell in five months and moisture needed to be moved to cattle and crops by ditch. But no one put cowboys to doing this work alone. It was the camaraderie of the labor that made it bearable, the laughing and joking in the cool of the morning, the silent shared misery of the long afternoon when heat and tired bore down hard. Most cowboys would have quit before the day was out, sent to do this work alone.
Had Nick only known that sending him out with a crew would have forced him to quit the first day. No way could he have let the other men see him struggling with the pick. He had to swing the pick the way he did in the mine. Lifting it up only as high as his shoulders, working bent almost double at the waist like a man in a low tunnel. The pain of that new skin covering the hole in his stomach kept that pick low to the ground and him bent like an old man. He was ashamed of his work. Those miserable half full shovels of earth, each one a triumph of his will over his weakness.
The worst though was the afternoons. Tired by 2:00 he could barely work. Digging for five minutes and then leaning on his shovel for a minute. If he'd been in a crew, he would have been laughed off the ranch before the foreman could have fired him. As it was, by getting out to his ditch before first light and driving himself until 6:00 in the evening he could barely make enough ground to justify his wage to himself.
Five days of digging, he hadn't made a half-mile of ground. The foreman had come out on the second day and just looked. Fortunately for him, McCall had come in the afternoon when he was working his shovel.
After the first day, he had taken to doing all the pick work in the morning. Breaking earth for two maybe three hundred yards. Spending the afternoon shoveling it out. The shovel work wasn't so bad as the pull of the pick on the wound in his stomach. That pick was purely painful. Once he had the ground broken, he could just drive himself until he had the earth cleared.
Then struggle to get the saddle back on Gal and ride back to the ranch, forcing his back straight so he sat tall in the saddle, when his stomach cried out for him to fall forward and lie on the pommel. Next morning he would need to go over the same ground with the pick again, make it deep enough, clean the sides, but he was getting her done.
He stopped each night at the river on the way back to wash himself and his shirt, thankful it was so handy to his work. In the end, he'd had to wear the blue shirt, bloodstain and all. It was wear that shirt or have the other one look like Hades in a day. After a day of digging it didn't really matter anymore about the bloodstain. Both shirts had become a sort of hazy brown from his inexpert washing. At least they didn't stink, he thought, though he wasn't sure who would notice.
He slowed his horse and climbed down. He pulled the shovel and pick off the back of the saddle and dropped them to the ground. Then he pulled off Gal's saddle and bridle and dropped them beside his tools. He gave the little mare a hard slap on her rump and she trotted off about twenty feet before putting her head down and beginning to graze. That mare was sure an eating machine, he smiled to himself. He put his old flour bag with his dish of stew and left over biscuits from the previous night's dinner in the shade of his saddle, walked over and picked up his tools.
Stepping down into the irrigation ditch, he looked up the slight incline toward the past five days' work. He glanced up at the sky just coming light off to the east. He needed enough light to see the mark laid out for the ditch. It was unseasonably warm again this morning, already over 70 he guessed and not yet fully light. It would be close to 90 by noon.
He glanced down at the blisters on the palms of his hands and gave a half smile to himself. He'd gotten soft palms breaking horses up in Corning. Been a long time since he'd done all this pick and shovel work. He pulled his handkerchief out of his back pocket and wrapped it around his right hand. He picked up the pick and began working his way down that line in the dirt, starting out slow while he waited for his muscles to stretch a bit and warm. Swinging the pick first to the middle of the line so he would stay true, then taking a bite to the right and the left of the first cut, a step forward with his right foot as the pick came up and down again in the middle as he brought his left leg up. He thought he was moving the pick easier than he had at the beginning of the week, although he still couldn't get a good rhythm, feeling no pleasure in the work because of the constant pain.
His big brother rode out sometime past 2:00 and sat watching him from the back of his horse as he shoveled the dirt he'd loosened in the morning. Just sitting there watching, not saying anything. Feeling like a horse in a pulling competition, he stopped working and just stood there with the shovel in his hand, returning Nick's look, waiting.
Finally, seeming to begrudge him even those few words, he said, "It's payday. We quit at 2:00 today. Head back to the ranch." The big cowboy looked up the ditch past him, but said nothing more.
He nodded, stepped out of the ditch and walked away from Nick back up the line to where he'd left his gear in the morning. He whistled to Gal as he walked giving her a chance to come in so he wouldn't need to wait too long on her. Nick rode down to where his saddle lay and waited there for him.
"I'll ride back with you," he said. "Saddle-up."
He gave Nick a half smile, pleased at the company of his brother. They said very little as he saddled Gal, but the silence was not unpleasant. Nick seemed to have gotten over his earlier anger at him.
The forty-five minute ride was a wonder. Occasionally, Nick would comment on some piece of ground they were riding over. A place they calved in the spring, a good meadow to turn out horses, a spot he was considering for an apple orchard. He said nothing but reveled in every word Nick spoke to him.
When they came along the side of the stream he said his good-bye, indicating the water. "Need to stop and wash."
Nick stopped his horse and sat looking at him a moment without saying anything. He gave him another half smile, almost laughing at himself, so much mirth in one day.
Nick said, "I'll be paying the hands at 5:30. See you then."
He nodded and watched the big man ride away. He took his time at the stream washing himself and his clothes. It felt good after the heat to lie in the cold water and be cool for a while. His shirts dried quickly but it was a struggle to get his pants back on wet. Still, at least he was clean.
The wound on his stomach was closed up now, and except for the angry redness all about, it looked pretty good. He still wore the bandage to keep the doctor's ointment from coming through his shirt. The doctor said to keep putting it on until it was all gone. Said it would help the new skin to form. He smeared the last of the stuff on and wrapped the bandage around his middle twice. He'd been lucky in his doctor. The man had done a good job. Still he wondered if he could stand another week on that ditch.
When he got back to the ranch, the hands were lined up outside the bunkhouse. McCall, the foreman, and Nick were sitting at a table on the porch, paying the men one at a time.
He left Gal saddled and waiting, tied to the fence, and joined the end of the line.
He hadn't been standing there five minutes when Barrett started in again. He knew Barrett wanted a fight. Some men just had to beat another man if they could. Couldn't help themselves, like rats if they suspected one of their number was weak or could be taken down. Sensing the weakness, they just had to have a go. He'd avoided the fight, not wanting to take a blow to his stomach. Fearing to take such a blow. Fearing what it would do to the wound. He knew Barrett had sensed that fear and read it as weakness. Now a week into it and Barrett was baiting him nonstop. Every time he saw Barrett, the man would start with his shoving and trying to trip him, his nasty cracks and dirty jokes.
He'd become bored with Barrett after the first day. He was almost ready to just let the man have his fight and take his chances. Maybe tomorrow after Barrett had a good drunk, in the morning while Barrett's head was hurting, he would give him his fight. Now he just gave him a small half smile and touched his hat to him when Barrett slammed into the back of him and knocked him out of line on his way back from being paid. He knew it infuriated Barrett that he couldn't get a response from his heckling.
"For Christ sakes, Barrett leave the boy alone and get out of here," Nick said, stopping Barrett, who was about to swing at Heath, having finally had enough of his half smiles.
He looked up from his study of Barrett, astonished. Nick had spoken for him. Defended him. Barrett scowled and then turned away, muttering under his breath, "In town, boy, where your babysitter isn't taking care of you."
He ignored Barrett, all of his attention on Nick who had gone back to counting the money into Dice Taylor's hand. That must be what it's like when your big brother looks out for you. He ducked his head and smiled to himself, holding that moment close, replaying it in his head. "Leave the boy alone." That had been him. He played it over again. He wanted to be sure he would remember it later. Could call up the expression on Nick's face when he'd nodded his head and told Barrett to leave him alone. Watching out for him, taking care of his brother.
He took his $2.50 from Nick, signed his name, touched the brim of his hat to him and nodded to McCall. He knew there would be a fight with Barrett now, either in town or back at the ranch, but he figured the fight was coming any way. But that moment, that "leave the boy alone," moment, had been so fine he didn't mind the fight. Well, he didn't mind it too much.
He didn't join the other hands riding to town. He wasn't going in to drink and play cards. No money for that, but he could finally buy himself a shirt and a piece of soap. If he was going to dig a two-mile ditch, he was sure enough going to need more soap. He swung up on the mare and headed away from the ranch.