Scattered by the Winds

By Lori Micken

Being a widow on a remote Montana ranch in 1897, presents many hardships for Calla Lily Brandy. During her October trip to Buffalo Grass, the nearest town, Molly McAffee arrives on the stagecoach. She has come from Chicago to marry a local cowboy, but finds he has been killed. Having no money to return home, it seems to be a perfect solution both for her and Calla for her to come live on the ranch.
Calla's conniving brother-in-law, Jake, from St. Louis adds to her difficulties by claiming her property is half his. Calla cannot find a paper showing that she and her husband had indeed repaid the loan they made from Jake to buy the ranch.
Molly and Calla contend with weather, livestock, predators, isolation, and each other in the long months of winter. Visitswith neighbors and trips to town are rare.
Reginald Stafford, a widower, arrives from England in the spring to look at the ranch. He has purchased an option to buy it from Jake. Although disappointed with the rustic buildings, he does not believe there are any corrupt dealing, and remains determined to claim that which he thinks is rightfully his
Both Molly and Cal are attracted to the man. Two neighboring young men are competing for Mollys attentions. At 39 years old Calla can find no viable option for keeping the ranch, and few for what to do with the rest of her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467025607

Lori Micken

Lori Micken, a retired biology teacher, lives on a small ranch near Livingston, Montana. Born in Cut Bank, Montana, Lori has remained in the state all her life. Although she no longer hunts, she still fishes, hikes, plows her road in the winter, cuts firewood and spends time at her cabin (which she built) in northwestern Montana. She edited and published a book of her mother’s columns from The Western Breeze, a Cut Bank newspaper, and has written two western poetry books. For a dozen years she performed her poetry at various “cowboy gatherings” in the state. She has also written Rachel, a fact-based historical novel set in Pennsylvania in the early 1800’s, and Scattered by the Winds, a western novel set in the late 1800’s. Several of her articles have been published in W.O.W., a children’s science magazine, Montana Outdoors, Country Magazine, and Montana Woman.

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Contents

CHAPTER I

CALLA LILY

CHAPTER II

GOING HOME

CHAPTER III

HOME BASE

CHAPTER IV

SECOND DAY

CHAPTER V

AUTUMN

CHAPTER VI

NOVEMBER

CHAPTER VII

THANKSGIVING

CHAPTER VIII

CONFESSIONS

CHAPTER IX

DECEMBER

CHAPTER X

COYOTES

CHAPTER XI

FREEZING

CHAPTER XII

STORM

CHAPTER XIII

BLOWUP

CHAPTER XIV

RECONCILE

CHAPTER XV

SPRING

CHAPTER XVI

JACOB BRANDY

CHAPTER XVII

STUDENTS

CHAPTER XVIII

CONFLICTS

CHAPTER XIX

STAFFORD

CHAPTER XX

TENSIONS

CHAPTER XXI

PREPARATIONS

CHAPTER XXII

DANCE

CHAPTER XXIII

ROUGHED UP

CHAPTER XXIV

RECOVERY

CHAPTER XXV

DOCTORING

CHAPTER XXVI

SIGNING

CHAPTER XXVII

CAPTURE

CHAPTER XXVIII

PROPOSAL

CHAPTER XXIX

ALKALI

CHAPTER XXX

DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XXXI

VICTORY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

To my grandmother, Lillian Hillier Micken, who homesteaded near Cut Bank, Montana, with her husband, Pat, and three small children in 1910.

To Alice Chamberlain Lowery who lived her 96 years on a ranch near Roundup, Montana.

To all the other exceptional, competent, indomitable women pioneers who worked hard, had few conveniences, received little praise, and thought themselves ordinary.

Lori Micken

CHAPTER I

CALLA LILY

Calla clucked encouragement to her big bay mare as a wagon wheel jarred over a rock. She shifted position on the thin cushion, and looked at the black and white shepherd curled beside her on the buckboard seat. Shag, I’m about lonesomed out. I don’t even want to think of winter comin’. He perked his ears and sat up. I’m just as dull-lookin’ as this country, Cal continued, brushing at her work-stained brown pants. If I fell off here I’d just be one more lump of dirt by the road. No one’d ever find me. She squinted ahead at two parallel ruts winding ahead on the tan and yellow prairie, heading toward the town of Buffalo Grass and reached over to pet her dog. Bah, I’m gettin’ gloomy from livin’ alone too long. Maybe this trip I can find a hired hand. Runnin’ the ranch by myself’s tough in the winter. You’re good company, Shag, but you don’t talk much. She felt tears rising and sniffled, I still miss my Clyde.

The short, wiry woman looked west across an endless vista of rolling hills. Clouds hung so low, defining horizon from sky was impossible. She wiped the tears away, stretched and re-settled. Shag laid his head on her lap.

A precipitous change in scenery at the coulee leading to Big Sag Creek announced the end of the two-hour journey from her ranch. The road dropped quickly between grey, wind-carved sandstones, lit in spots with orange and gold lichens. An occasional rosebush sought shelter against the outcrops and ledges, splashing them with the colors of their saffron berries on maroon branches. A north wind started blowing just before Cal reached the bottom of the coulee where it joined the broad valley.

She patted the dog, That northerner may cut our trip short, Shag. It’ll bring in some weather, I’ll wager. His tail thumped a reply.

Buffalo Grass, composed of a store, community hall, livery with a smithy, saloon, hotel, and a few homes, could have been any, or every tiny town on the undulating Montana plains in 1897. The buildings huddled together as though seeking comfort from each other, trying to slow sandblasting of paint, curling of boards and shingles, and encroachment of blowing dirt and weeds. On the main street Cal slapped worn lines on Pert’s ample rump and the mare swung into a trot. Shag started barking. She pulled up in front of Bay’s General Store in a satisfying swirl of dust and noise.

Pulling off the bandana that held on her Stetson, Cal stepped into the store, and removed her hat, releasing short, fawn-colored hair.

Well, Mrs. Brandy, boomed the balding, be-aproned man behind the counter. That north wind must really mean storm to get you into town.

It just switched on me, comin’ down the draw, Bay, turned real raw. I gotta get a move on. She handed him her list, and they visited while he started piling goods on the counter.

Anyone showed up in town lookin’ for work?

I keep an eye out, Mrs. Brandy, but you know men don’t like working for women folk, even such a good cook as you. He smiled at her affectionately.

Every young cowpoke or starvin’ kid I’ve hired thinks he knows better than me after the first week. I’ve fired more men these past four years since Clyde died than live in the county.

I’ll for sure send out anyone needing a job. Bay pointed a beefy hand toward the door. It’s almost noon. You get on over to Sadie’s. I’ll box your stuff and put it on the wagon for you.

Snowflakes cut the air as Cal left. I better mail out to my sisters first. Iris, Rose, Pansy, how the hell did Ma ever came up with Calla Lily for my name? she mentally fussed. Suppose it’s better than Hollyhock, or Honeysuckle.

She noted the stage clattering down the hill and hustled across the street to the Cactus Saloon. The ladies of Buffalo Grass had insisted a separate room be built on for a post office and stage depot. While Calla bought stamps and checked her empty mailbox she noticed the owner of the livery and his wife clamber off the stage, followed by a young woman who looked up and down the street, obviously expecting someone. The driver and his helper hurriedly unloaded luggage and mail while another man hitched a fresh team. Cal savored the bustle and momentary excitement.

She had the letters to her sisters stamped, and put them in the mailbag before the driver came in and took it to throw into the boot. He climbed to the seat and slapped the team into motion. Strolling the block toward the hotel, Cal watched the coach disappear down the valley, and wondered about the young woman, still standing in front of the saloon.

The Range Hotel loomed two stories high, the biggest building in town. Cal pulled the door open, and stepped into an entryway. To her right the bar’s door was closed. No unescorted lady would ever go in there, but she didn’t look much like a lady anymore. She turned to the mirror, and growled at her reflection as she hung her hat and heavy blanket coat on a brass hook. Her lean-faced image scowled back. Cold had rouged her cheeks and pug nose. She opened the cafe door on her left and inhaled rich odors of boiling meat, spices and coffee.

Sadie, round and beaming, greeted her, throwing out her arms in a huge hug, squealing, There’s m’ favorite rancher! Come on in and sit. Sample a bit of dinner with me. Jim went to Fort Benton for supplies yesterday. He ought to be back this afternoon.

She and Cal jabbered away over coffee, stew, and pie, catching up on gossip and making Thanksgiving dinner plans.

Johnsons are bringing a couple of their turkeys. I’ll make pies. Warrens will bring spuds and carrots. Could you bring your dried corn dish, Calla?

Sure, and I’ll make some fudge, too. Oh, Sadie, I’ve got eggs in the wagon for you, if Shag hasn’t eaten them. Then we gotta head for home. She glanced out the window. That snow’s startin’ to stick, and it’s gonna get cold tonight.

Wait a minute, I picked up your mail for you. Bert said your box was getting too full to put any more in. Sadie went to the registry desk, and returned with several letters. You can save them until you’re home tonight, except maybe the one from Jacob Brandy, she hinted.

He’s as pesky as a hungry horsefly. Cal ripped open the letter from her brother-in-law and silently scanned it. She felt the blood drain from her face, and pinched her lips together.

Sadie looked concerned. Now what’s that devil up to, Calla?

Hell, he’s still on me to sell the ranch. He’s comin’ next March, and got some damned Englishman comin’ out in April to look at it. She inspected the envelope’s insides again. Says he’s got some cut in the ranch, ‘cause of that $600 he loaned Clyde when we came out here.

You paid it off before Clyde passed away. I remember that grand party we had when you two sent the last payment and got the deed. She started collecting their dishes.

Jake don’t remember. Cal thumped a stubby forefinger on the offensive page. He says here he’s gonna take the ranch for non-payment of the loan. Can he do that?

Sadie refilled their cups, nodding to punctuate her words. I’ll talk to my Jim about it. You don’t owe Jacob Brandy a two-bit piece, and you got the deed.

I can’t find proof we paid the loan. This is the second time he’s written about it. Clyde trusted him and didn’t put anything in writin’, except the loan note. Tears threatened to rise, and she lowered her head, looking at her calloused hands. I get powerful lonesome out there, but it’s home. She wiped the tears away and sipped coffee. What could I do if I sold? I don’t know anything but ranchin’ and house keepin’. I couldn’t go back east to my sisters like some spinster, to let them take care of me. She slapped her hands on the table and stood. Aw, we’ve hashed this over so many times. I don’t know why you put up with me. I’ve gotta get goin’. There’s a storm comin’ in.

Sadie rose, and put a chubby arm about her friend’s waist. Let me walk over to the wagon with you. I’ve some things to buy at the store, anyway. She whipped off her apron, and grabbed a shawl while Cal shrugged into her jacket. A bitterly cold wind snatched the breath from them in the doorway.

Icy needles of snow stung them as they hurried down the street. Calla, you hustle home. It’ll be dark early. You’ll freeze stiff in this before you get there. Part way down the block they spied the young woman from the stage struggling toward them with a satchel. She wore no overshoes, and shivered in her long, threadbare coat. "Well, bless me. Hold on, Calla, let’s see who this is.

What are you doin’ here, child? Cal asked, looking into the girl’s pale, pinched face.

I came from Chicago. I’m going to be married. We’d corresponded, but Louis hasn’t shown up. I spent all that money to come. I wanted to, to… Her words petered out and tears spilled down her face.

The two women led her back to the hotel, helped her out of her coat, and, once her sobbing stopped, warmed her with some stew. While eating, she introduced herself as Molly McAffee, and told the rest of her story. Cal watched the girl more than listened to her. She must be near twenty, a mite younger than my girl, Lorraine, would’ve been. She’s been dead seventeen years now. Lorraine maybe would’ve looked like this, black hair, blue eyes… She jolted back to the present when Molly said Louis Nelson was her intended.

Sadie interjected. My land, he’s the cowpoke killed last week over by Clay Bluff, isn’t he, Calla?

Molly gasped. Color drained from her face.

Lou Nelson? Ya, Bay told me his horse threw ‘im. Stepped in a badger hole, I guess.

Molly’s eyes widened, as she looked from one to the other. No, that can’t be. We’re going to get married. Her face twisted as she fought tears. He said he’d meet me here. How could he be dead?

Cal patted her hand. I’m sorry. He was a nice boy, not tough like some of these young fellas try to be. Her thoughts started racing. I bet she don’t have fare home, and there sure ain’t any work in Buffalo Grass. Maybe she’d come home with me. God forgive me, I could use the company. And the help.

Molly, she said, squinting across the table at the shaking girl, How’d you like to winter with me? I could teach you ranch work. You’d have a place to stay, food, and clothes. Come spring, there’ll be enough young bucks ride out of the coulees you’ll have your pick of the crop, if you wanted. She dared not breathe, waiting the answer.

I don’t know. I’ve never seen a ranch, but I’m a hard worker. She bit her lower lip. I guess I could try. She studied Cal a moment, and slowly nodded yes.

The two women hugged her, and Cal whooped, Atta girl!

Sadie said, I’ve an old sheepskin coat that was my youngest son’s. Take our buffalo robe and both of you git. She hustled Molly to the rooms behind the kitchen where she and Jim lived, while Cal ran to Bay’s for the wagon.

Molly pulled on a pair of wool pants, and the bulky coat Sadie gave her. Cal drove up in front of the hotel, hopped down, and helped Molly load her bag behind the boxes and sacks of groceries under the tarp. They drove off into the swirling storm, a no-longer lonely drive home for Calla.

CHAPTER II

GOING HOME

Shag barked at Molly, then wriggled and smiled as she clambered on the wagon seat. She and Calla arranged the buffalo robe over their legs and feet, including Shag under its heavy protection. Cal clucked to Pert and they pulled away from the store. She could barely contain herself. The storm, the long, cold trip home no longer mattered. Winter coming didn’t matter. She thought, "I’ll have Molly to talk to, laugh with, and help with the work . There’s so many things to teach her. We’ll have enough fun for ten people." Her mind bubbled with the prospects. Loneliness had been swept away like the golden cottonwood leaves of autumn.

Molly started to cry again as they headed out. Town looks just like Lou told me in his letters. Not quite so pretty as he said. We were going to live north of here on a quarter section he had picked out. I’d like to see it sometime.

The look of pain that contorted Molly’s thin face made Cal’s eyes tear up, but her high spirits couldn’t be dampened. Sure, we can do that sometime. Next month, when we come in for Thanksgiving, I’ll take you around to meet folks here. They’re all good families, mostly came out from Minnesota. We’ve got two close neighbors near the ranch to visit, too.

The wagon slowed as Pert started up the coulee. Snow had filled the hollows between rocks, covering small plants, and smoothing the stones’ contours. Curtains of snow blew across the hills above them.

Good thing this storm’s at our back, Cal noted. We’ll have a lot easier trip. The Indians say these north winds start at a place they call Medicine Hat, in Canada. That’s where Weather Maker lives, and makes medicine to brew up these storms. Medicine to them is magic, sort of a spell. She slapped the lines, C’mon Pert put some muscle into it.

Molly looked about nervously. Indians? Are there lots around here?

Na, they’re all on reservations now. When Clyde and I came here in ‘83 there were some, but they didn’t make any trouble. We traded goods with them, and they showed us wild plants we could eat, and weather signs. One old squaw, Pretty Flower, and I got to be friends, sort of. Around here, that’s not the best of ideas, the way most white folk look at them. She taught me plenty about livin’ here.

On top of the hill the full force of the wind struck them. It snatched their steaming breaths away into the snow. Molly pulled the collar of the sheepskin coat closer around her head, and slumped further down into the heavy buffalo robe. Their breaths turned to clouds of fog that blew away with the snow in the frigid air. The surrounding world of tan, grey, and white remained half-hidden. Strangely shaped rocks like fortresses, and figures with broad bases, thin necks, and a flat cover of darker sandstone loomed up, then vanished into the blowing snow.

Cal stole glances at the young woman as they moved across the icy land. Best wiggle your feet some, so’s they don’t get frostbite, Molly. Even with Shag by them they could. She pushed at the robe to close a gap letting snow sift on to her thigh. You look worn out.

I haven’t had much to eat. She managed a thin smile. I am tired. I didn’t sleep a lot these past three days. I was thinking of my family, and Lou. I met him in Chicago. He’d ridden on a train with cattle from the ranch he worked on. He gave me his bandana before he left, and sent me his picture. She paused and shook her head. That’s all I have. And a few letters. I guess I didn’t know him very well. It all seems so foolish now. Spending all my money to come out west, getting married, starting a home with Lou were all an adventure. She brushed at tears freezing on her cheeks. Without him, there’s no adventure. It’s like a bad dream, and I can’t go back.

Cal’s heart ached for her. I’m sorry about Louis. He drifted in here a couple years ago. I heard he had no family. He worked for the Walking A outfit over west. Folks said he was a nice boy.

The wind diminished, but snow increased as the leading edge of the storm raged south. Pert kept up a steady trot, her ears alternately forward, then flicking back for messages from her driver. The mare seemed intent on getting home before the weather worsened.

Molly’s voice edged with hysteria as she twisted her head to peer into their milky surroundings. We won’t get lost will we? I can’t see a block any direction. Everything looks the same.

Na, Pert knows the way. Always give a horse its head and it’ll take you home. You remember that. I used to worry lots, too, and get scared, when we first came out here. Storms, and loneliness, and so much space put civilization a long way off. She pulled her bandana to cover a cheek. It’s a hard land, but I bet you’ll like it here. It’s pretty country. And the people are good. They’ve helped me a lot since I lost my Clyde.

How long ago was that, Mrs. Brandy?

Cal, call me Cal, or Calla. He died four years ago last month. I’d just turned thirty-five. He’d started buildin’ a bunkhouse. Got a bad cough that really laid him up. She shrugged and rubbed her nose. Doc Swenson said it was probably pneumonia. Anyhow, it killed him.

How could you stand living alone all this time?

A body gets used to about anything. She shook snow off the buffalo robe. I finished the bunkhouse that fall myself. The work got me through some of the misery of losin’ him. I use the building for the pigs and chickens, now. Never did get a floor done. Clyde had planned on runnin’ more cattle, hirin’ a couple hands to help, but I can’t do that without him.

You don’t want to get married again? Molly shifted to look at her benefactor.

She shook her head. Guess I’m gettin’ too cantankerous. Nobody around here I’d want. Nobody asked me, neither. She waved a mittened hand to their left. We’re close to home. That road goes about a mile to Johnson’s place. They got eight kids, brand new baby in September. Oscar and his boys help me with some of the heavy work. I borrow their bull for breedin’ my cows when they’re done with him. That way my calves come later when the weather may be better. They use my work team in hayin’ season. Folks out here help each other however they can.

Molly perked up, I have six brothers and sisters. Mom had twins last spring. That’s when my two oldest brothers and I moved out.

You ought to like Johnsons, then. We’ll get over for a visit soon. They’ll be goin’ to town for Thanksgiving, too.

Cal started touching her boot to the brake. The road angled down the flank of a long, gentle hill. They jostled and jounced over deep ruts. Hang on, Molly, or you’ll bounce out. We hit my land at that last big rock. I got a section. She swung her arm ahead and to the right. About fifty acres along the river here is good for hay. The rest’s grazin’, and jackrabbit country further out. We don’t get a lot of rain, so you can’t really farm it, least that’s what Clyde said. Some folks hereabouts try growin’ a little wheat and oats.

The road continued by an aspen grove, and took one more drop. Buildings started taking form before them in the snow. We’ve got about half an hour before dark to get the work done.