10/07/2014

Pa flew in the front door like a man possessed. His hat and coat landed on a nail by the door almost by pure chance.

“That sonofabitch McGuinness took em both! That shanty-Irish good-for-nothin’!”

McGuinness owned the acreage west of our homestead. A fair amount of land, not quite as big as ours. He Had a large family, three teenaged boys, twin daughters a year old, and his translucent-skinned wife who was never seen by any one of us without the the frame of a doorway, like the house was keeping her inside. All of them had red hair.

“Pa,” I said, “How do you know it was them?” He didn’t seem to hear me.

“That no-good thieving lot of drunk Irish bastards. I bet that hen is feeding those babies whiskey!” Dad carried off like a tornado straight through the house and out the backdoor. I shouldn’t have followed him but I did. He was already searching for a break in the fence. He finally answered my question. “I saw Tom McGuinness with my two best cow, driving them to market. I know they’re mine. Tom doesn’t have cows and never did.”

“Maybe we can get them back?” I said.

“Ha,” Pa laughed. “Good luck. They’re as good as sold already. Probably halfway to California now. Those were my best ones, Jessie.” He walked over and put a heavy, worn hand on my shoulder. “God knows we could have use that money ourselves.” He sounded defeated, his exasperation echoing off our now empty range.

“What if i went to see? Maybe they’re still there?” Haven’t been bought.”

Pa was already inside the house. I could hear a bottle and a glass clinking together. “Go ahead. Try it.” His fire was out. In an hour he’d be drunk and asleep.

I took my hat and coat off the nail and brushed the dust from it that rubbed off of Pa’s. At market there was a crowd of people standing in front of the auction block. Just two cows remaining next to a mean-looking Irishman. The bidding went off like popping firecrackers. I quickly searched my purse, but all I had was the money I saved up for my visit and enough for the train ticket back to Chicago. The man in the crowd shouted, two, two-fifty, four-hundred dollars. I held up my hands as high as I could, it looked like a pale, white feather among so many ranchers’ and farmers’ hands. “Six-hundred and fifty dollars!” I shouted, like my purse was on fire. The gavel fell.

“Sold to the lady in the hat!” It looked like I would be spending more time at dad’s ranch than I thought.