Free Sisters of Grass by Theresa Kishkan Page B

her, she assumed she hadn’t. She decided to ride home right away, the day ruined by the unexpected brutality in the brush near the cranes’ marsh.
    I have dreamed of a girl bent at the waist to make herself low on her horse’s neck. Particles of dust in the dream, strong sweat, long cry of cranes across the pastures. Those men under the pines will be remembered — stern faces looking into a camera lens, broken boots, a worn felt hat. In the memory of a girl, riding in search of wild birds, will linger the image of three men sitting in calm air, a battered coffee pot aslant on a piece of stone. A place that might still hold the mystery of shouts and gunshot, the silenced cranes on the edge of water. Where clouds passing over the bodies of the hills might contain the smoke of their cooking fire.
    At the ranch, there were several men in the yard, talking to her father while the sheets snapped and blew in the wind. One man was saying, “They know where the scoundrels are, more or less, they’ve found tracks, and I’d say they’ll get them any time now.”
    William Stuart called Margaret to him. “I should never have sent you over to the camp this morning. Bill Miner and his gang are on the loose, I didn’t hear until now that they robbed a train over at Ducks last week and have been spotted up by Campbell’s Meadow. The tracks show them heading over towards Minnie Lake. Go now and take the saddle off that horse, and then I want you to stay close to home until they’re caught. A search party is out now with Indian trackers, so it shouldn’t be long.”
    Margaret said nothing. Walking the gelding over to the corral, she began to tremble again. She knew that she couldn’t tell her father what she’d seen, thank goodness she hadn’t remembered to tell him at dinner last night about seeing George Edwards and his companions. But he liked Mr. Edwards, so why was she relieved not to have told him? It was all so confusing. Was the man Mr. Edwards called Shorty or the one introduced as Louis really the train robber Bill Miner? Why were those men shooting, and who had screamed? One thing she knew for certain: if her father knew she had been where men were shooting, he’d never let her ride alone again.
    William saddled up his own horse and headed out with the other men, asking Margaret to milk the cow in his absence. They were headed over to Douglas Lake to see if they could help with the search. Each carried a rifle slung over his shoulder, and Margaret saw her father tuck his Colt into his jacket pocket. She shivered to think of her father in danger and then shivered again to remember how close she’d been to danger herself.
    In the house, her mother was clearing up after what had obviously been an interrupted dinner. Her father’s plate still held a portion of roast beef and a mound of mashed potatoes.
    â€œLet me get you something to eat, Margaret. You must be hungry.”
    â€œNo, Mother, I’m fine. I ate a big breakfast and took some bread along on the ride. I’ll help you with this.”
    The routine of clearing plates, stacking them, putting food away helped to settle her heart and mind. She worked hard at the chores for what remained of the afternoon, taking out dinner leavings for the pigs and making sure the horses all had water. She ate supper with her sisters and brother and washed their dishes when they’d finished. At dusk her father was still not back, and so she took out a scalded bucket and milked the Jersey cow who provided milk for the household. Leaning her cheek against the cow’s warm flank soothed her as she squeezed each teat, felt the warm fluid as it left the cow’s body, listened to the ping against the side of the bucket. Margaret strained the milk, cleaned the bucket and put the jug in the cellar to cool. Already the cream was collecting on the surface; by morning her mother would skim off a full third of