This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [14]
“The man’s name is Raccoon? The boy’s name is Pud?” Summer couldn’t suppress a small laugh. She turned to help the children onto the wagon.
“Yeah.” Bulldog cocked his head to one side, as if surprised by her interest. “We call the kid Pud, ’cause he is the puddin’-eatin’est little bastard ya ever did see. I don’t recall jist what his name is. But ya just let a batch of bread puddin’ get made up and that goddam kid’ll eat till his eyes bulge.” He flicked the backs of the straining team. “Raccoon’s name is Fox, but when the boss was a tyke, he couldn’t remember what kind of varmit he was, so he called him Raccoon, and it stuck.”
“Do the boy’s folks live at the ranch?”
“Naw. They was dirt farmers. The old man was a lazy mule and the old woman took off with a peddlin’ man. Jack brought the kid out a few years back. Keeps an eye on him. He’s a good kid, if’n he is mouthy. Stick his head in the fire if’n Jack tol’ him to.”
The day rocked on. It was pleasant sitting on the high seat. The country was lush and beautiful. They followed a creek south, the trail coming so close at times they could see the swiftly running water. Bulldog explained the creek was running full now, due to the rains in the north, but would more than likely be a dry sand-bed before the summer was over.
The riders kept their distance from the wagon, riding mostly to the side and behind. Jack came to talk occasionally with Bulldog. They said as few words as possible, as was the way of men who spent much of their time alone.
“Seen any sign?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing of Slater?”
“Nope.”
“He ain’t far off. Keep yore eyes peeled fer a signal.”
“Ain’t likely to do nothin’ else.”
“I got me a hunch.”
“Yeah?”
“Could be we’ll cross ’em at the gorge.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let Pud do nothin’ hare-brained.”
“He ain’t gonna do nothin’. He’s just full of mustard.”
“We ort to be to the gorge in half an hour.”
“Yeah.”
Jack wheeled his horse and rode away. After that, the men were spaced further out from the wagon.
Happily sucking on the candy sticks, John Austin and Mary lay down in the wagon bed.
“When will we get home, Mr. Bulldog?”
Home. The word came so naturally from her brother that it was seconds before it registered with Summer.
“Afore dark, most likely, if we keep on a clickin’.” Bulldog’s keen eyes were constantly shifting, and he had neglected to dip his snuff for a while. “You younguns lay down, and don’t be makin’ no racket.”
It had all been so peaceful. Summer suddenly felt the sharp spur of anxiety.
“Are you expecting . . . trouble?”
“Ya’d be plumb bad off not to be ’specting trouble in this country. It’s somethin’ that comes sooner or later like a skeeter bite.” Bulldog’s tone was grim. “If’n it comes, ’n I ain’t sayin’ ’twill. You hop over the seat and plop down on top them kids, ’n don’t be pokin’ yore head up fer nothin’.”
Summer smoothed her dress down over her knees with a nervous motion. She started to say something, but would not trust her voice. She looked ahead at the hills. They seemed now to advance on them.
“We’ll do as you say, Mr. Bulldog.” Sadie’s voice was quiet, confident. “Don’t you worry none. Me ’n Summer’ll take care of the kids.”
“I wish you’d put a stop on callin’ me ‘Mr.’ Makes me itchy. Name’s just plain ol’ Bulldog. Ain’t been called nothin’ else fer so long, I’d not answer to nothin’ else but.”
They traveled on in uneasy silence, the rattle of the harnesses and the clip-clop of the hoofs on the hard-packed prairie trail the only sounds to break the stillness.
Slater McLean sat motionless on his buckskin. He rolled the cigarette in his lips, liking the taste of the fresh tobacco, squinted his eyes against the sun’s glare, and gazed down into the valley. He was a big, lean, wide-shouldered man. A quiet man with a weathered face, straight black hair, and eyes so deep blue that they almost seemed black.
He sat easily in the saddle and studied the terrain with care, beginning with the far distance