Page 31
Colton
WE ARRIVE AT Bear Claw Rock a little after 5:00 p.m. A cool breeze blows in from the north, pushing out some of the stifling sunbaked air that has hung around for most of the day. Dad always calls this “good sleeping weather,” which is a bonus to have on the trail, where there aren’t any fans or AC to keep you cool. The worst is when it’s hot and humid and a stifling breeze provides little relief.
The passengers set up their tents or wagon accommodations while it’s still light enough to see. Tonight, Wild Wanda will be cooking her famous bison, beans, and rice casserole with potato pudding, berries, and cream for dessert. She already has a roaring cook fire going and is hard at work supervising Felix, who’s assembling the Dutch oven tripod for her. A few of the adults gather around for a cooking lesson and to assist with the preparations.
Dad walks through the camp, lending a hand or some helpful advice. He gives me a nod as he passes the portable animal enclosure, where I’m almost done getting Chance and the mules settled in. He meets Ty at the back of the supply wagon to check the latest National Weather Service report using a satellite phone, like they do every night. The sky looks clear enough now, but weather on the plains can change quickly, and it’s always best to be prepared.
On my way to dinner, Dad catches up with me. “If we’re lucky, the weather should hold out until we reach Fort Bellows, where we could be in for a shower or two overnight.”
That’s a relief. Fort Bellows has a stable for the animals and plenty of buildings for us to shelter in. The guests usually enjoy spending the night in one of the boardinghouse rooms above the saloon or in the hotel, where they can enjoy a mattress, electricity, and indoor plumbing.
“But there’s a different storm brewing,” he says, tipping his chin toward the group of younger boys. “They’re hungry and bored, and Wanda can’t cook fast enough. Think you can provide a distraction?”
“I could give ’em an ax-throwing demonstration,” Felix says as he walks past with a burlap sack full of potatoes.
Dad grunts. “We don’t carry enough insurance for that.”
“An ax goes wild one time…,” Felix murmurs.
There’s still a huge gouge in the side of the supply wagon. Thank goodness no one was hurt.
“How about a lasso lesson?” I suggest.
Dad nods. “You can have ’em practice on the sawhorses.”
Thirty minutes later, everyone under the age of sixteen is testing out their roping skills. Some are having more luck than others, and I’m surprised to find that the youngest of the group, ten-year-old twins Marcus and Lucas, are doing better than anyone else.
“Yeehaw,” Marcus says when he manages to drop the lasso around the sawhorse for the third time in a row.
Riley’s brother, Caleb, and the other boys—I haven’t gotten everyone else’s names down yet—lose interest in the lasso lesson pretty fast. After a few minutes of half-hearted tosses, they decide it would be more fun to play tug-of-war. They divide up into two groups, and right away, I can tell it isn’t gonna be a fair fight. For starters, it’s five against two and the teams aren’t evenly matched. After watching two rounds of Caleb and his team annihilate their smaller, scrawnier competitors, I lift my fingers to my mouth and let out an earsplitting whistle.
“First things first,” I say, once I have everyone’s attention. “If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do this right. Let’s even things up a bit. Marcus, Lucas, you join that team.” I point to the side with fewer players.
One of the kids on Caleb’s team mumbles that it isn’t fair that the other team has one more player than they do now. Funny how that wasn’t a problem for him when the roles were reversed.
“You don’t think it’s fair,” I say. “Okay. How about seven against one?”
“All of us against you?” Caleb asks.
I nod and a few of the guys snicker.
“You’re going down,” says a scrawny kid with bleach-blond hair.
Tossing my hat onto the sawhorse, I unbutton my cuffs and roll my shirtsleeves up to my elbows. “We’ll see.”
The old, faded red bandanna in my back pocket tears easily. I tie one-third at the center of the rope for the midpoint, and the other two pieces on either side, about three yards back. Then I take the heel of my boot and drag it across the ground. “Gentlemen, the battle line has been drawn.”
Once the middle marker is lined up to be perpendicular to the center line etched in the dirt, we take our places on our respective sides. The other team has opted to line up from shortest to tallest. Unfortunately for them, they’re going to get whooped.
“Ready?” I reach down and grab a handful of dirt to dust my palms.
“Wait,” Lucas says. “We need a judge.”
“On it.” Caleb darts off behind the wagons. He returns a moment later with Riley. When she catches sight of me and the rest of the group, her lips twitch with amusement.
Caleb joins the rest of his team and Riley walks over to me. “So, I hear you need a tug-of-war referee?”
There are some muttered grumblings about “a girl” and “what does she know about tug-of-war?” which has her glaring in her brother’s direction. He quickly shushes the others and she spins back around to face me. Her eyebrows disappear below her bangs. “Are we waiting on your teammates?” She looks around to see where everyone else is.
