and this makes ten dollars and two bits.”
“We are rich,” Amelie said solemnly.
“I believe we are.” He nodded to Lily and spoke to the horses.
The next stop was the Bar Dot cemetery, a bedraggled patch where the zinnias would look at home. The only occupants were cowhands like Jean Baptiste, and four others done in by more horse than they could handle, or a stubborn cow. The sixth grave was even more recent than Sansever’s, a pile of bones with two arrowheads and a belt buckle buried deep. He wondered if some mother back East still watched for a wandering son.
While Amelie left her little gift for her father, he took a hard look at the Bar Dot, wishing the woodpile were bigger. He had sent the others to cut more wood and he saw them down by the river. There had been protests—Will even had the nerve to point out that the wood lot was already full—but Jack was the foreman. He knew it wouldn’t happen to Will, but the others didn’t want the dubious freedom of riding the humiliating grubline from ranch to ranch during the winter, hoping for a handout. He had done that one winter, and that was enough.
Wisner basked in early September warmth as they came to town. It had been a silent trip. Amelie had looked at him when he passed his own little ranch without stopping. “We’ll visit Manuel and Bismarck on the way back,” he assured her.
“I like Manuel,” she had said, and that was their sole conversation.
Since the only game in town for them was Watkins’ Superior Mercantile, he tied up the horse in front of the store. He helped down his little guest, touched to see the wonder on her face at the metropolis of Wisner. She seldom got off the Bar Dot, and he tried to see the shabby little place through her eyes.
He remembered his own childhood, a hard drill of work and hunger, growing up on a piece of land tired from years of cotton that wore out the soil, but was the only thing his father could rent. Jack never went to town. He joined up in 1863 when he was thirteen, not because he believed in states’ rights or slavery but because he hated the farm. The sight of Savannah had kept him awake all night with the wonder of it. He could have told Amelie that Wisner wasn’t much, but why ruin the gentle child’s pleasure?
He wondered what she would make of the Superior Mercantile, which was anything but. Her eyes widened as she looked around the crowded store, smelly with smoked fish and coffee beans. Elbows on the counter, Mr. Watkins watched the whole show. “Why, Jack, twice in one week? And each time with a pretty girl? What’ll that faro dealer at the Back Forty think?” he teased.
Jack put his hands over Amelie’s ears. “That’ll do,” he said in his foreman voice. He handed over Lily’s list. “We have ten dollars and two bits for school supplies. Can you help us?”
Lips pursed, Mr. Watkins surveyed the list. “So the pretty high yaller gal is a schoolteacher?” he asked, which meant that Jack’s hands covered Amelie’s ears again.
“Mind yourself, Watkins,” he said, “or I’ll . . .”
The store owner looked around elaborately. “Go to another store?” He got the hint, though, because he returned to the list. “ ‘And if there is enough money, Franklin Colors.’ Let’s see what we can do.”
Perhaps feeling some amends were owed, Mr. Watkins handed Amelie a basket. “You help me and there’ll be something in it for you.”
Jack could have told the merchant that Amelie would have helped for nothing, but the man had never seen her scrubbing pots.
“Keep her busy, Watkins. I have a plan,” he said as he stood in the doorway and looked across the street to the Back Forty.
Watkins followed Jack’s gaze. “Gonna drink? I can’t keep Amelie busy that long!”
Jack crossed the store in a few quick strides until he leaned over the counter to speak in Watkins’ ear. “Not another word, and it’s not what you think.”
There must have been enough menace in his
“We are rich,” Amelie said solemnly.
“I believe we are.” He nodded to Lily and spoke to the horses.
The next stop was the Bar Dot cemetery, a bedraggled patch where the zinnias would look at home. The only occupants were cowhands like Jean Baptiste, and four others done in by more horse than they could handle, or a stubborn cow. The sixth grave was even more recent than Sansever’s, a pile of bones with two arrowheads and a belt buckle buried deep. He wondered if some mother back East still watched for a wandering son.
While Amelie left her little gift for her father, he took a hard look at the Bar Dot, wishing the woodpile were bigger. He had sent the others to cut more wood and he saw them down by the river. There had been protests—Will even had the nerve to point out that the wood lot was already full—but Jack was the foreman. He knew it wouldn’t happen to Will, but the others didn’t want the dubious freedom of riding the humiliating grubline from ranch to ranch during the winter, hoping for a handout. He had done that one winter, and that was enough.
Wisner basked in early September warmth as they came to town. It had been a silent trip. Amelie had looked at him when he passed his own little ranch without stopping. “We’ll visit Manuel and Bismarck on the way back,” he assured her.
“I like Manuel,” she had said, and that was their sole conversation.
Since the only game in town for them was Watkins’ Superior Mercantile, he tied up the horse in front of the store. He helped down his little guest, touched to see the wonder on her face at the metropolis of Wisner. She seldom got off the Bar Dot, and he tried to see the shabby little place through her eyes.
He remembered his own childhood, a hard drill of work and hunger, growing up on a piece of land tired from years of cotton that wore out the soil, but was the only thing his father could rent. Jack never went to town. He joined up in 1863 when he was thirteen, not because he believed in states’ rights or slavery but because he hated the farm. The sight of Savannah had kept him awake all night with the wonder of it. He could have told Amelie that Wisner wasn’t much, but why ruin the gentle child’s pleasure?
He wondered what she would make of the Superior Mercantile, which was anything but. Her eyes widened as she looked around the crowded store, smelly with smoked fish and coffee beans. Elbows on the counter, Mr. Watkins watched the whole show. “Why, Jack, twice in one week? And each time with a pretty girl? What’ll that faro dealer at the Back Forty think?” he teased.
Jack put his hands over Amelie’s ears. “That’ll do,” he said in his foreman voice. He handed over Lily’s list. “We have ten dollars and two bits for school supplies. Can you help us?”
Lips pursed, Mr. Watkins surveyed the list. “So the pretty high yaller gal is a schoolteacher?” he asked, which meant that Jack’s hands covered Amelie’s ears again.
“Mind yourself, Watkins,” he said, “or I’ll . . .”
The store owner looked around elaborately. “Go to another store?” He got the hint, though, because he returned to the list. “ ‘And if there is enough money, Franklin Colors.’ Let’s see what we can do.”
Perhaps feeling some amends were owed, Mr. Watkins handed Amelie a basket. “You help me and there’ll be something in it for you.”
Jack could have told the merchant that Amelie would have helped for nothing, but the man had never seen her scrubbing pots.
“Keep her busy, Watkins. I have a plan,” he said as he stood in the doorway and looked across the street to the Back Forty.
Watkins followed Jack’s gaze. “Gonna drink? I can’t keep Amelie busy that long!”
Jack crossed the store in a few quick strides until he leaned over the counter to speak in Watkins’ ear. “Not another word, and it’s not what you think.”
There must have been enough menace in his
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