Page 28 of Ellen Found
“Not I.”
“Good.” His face took on a wistful expression. “That little lady who got away... she was a pretty thing with kind eyes, but oh, that cat.”
Charles almost told the merchant how Plato the demon cat saved his daughter’s life and the life of that pretty thing, but that meant more questions. He nodded his goodbye and strolled down the street.
Making sure he wasn’t being watched, he found his way to the alley. The burn smell was even stronger, along with alley odors best leftunidentified. He paused before a door hanging off its hinges. In his mind’s eye, he saw a woman of courage and determination living there, sharing her skimpy meals with a cat.
He looked inside to see a precarious ceiling sagging and a rotting floor. The bed was no more than a cot, and there was a three-legged table and one stool. Pages from magazines were still tacked to the walls, photographs of mountains and streams, and a lady in a frilly dress. With a pang, he wondered if Ellen had tacked the picture there, her homage to a mother she never knew, a lady of the line, but her mother despite all.
“Family’s what you make it, dear lady,” he said.
Where now? He didn’t want to pass those ogling harpies again, so he walked up the alley. He slowed, knowing he was being followed. He tightened his grip on his carpetbag and turned around.
It was a cat. No, a kitten, ambling along, maybe following him, maybe not. Who knew with cats? He watched, amused, as it pounced on a leaf, tried to eat it, then found a prize. He looked closer as the kitten wriggled itsbackside, then pounced on a cricket that had somehow survived into winter. It ate with some relish, then looked around for more.
“Tight times, little buddy,” Charles said softly.
He had always been a careful man, measuring twice before cutting once, taking good care of his wife and daughter, and then his daughter. He kept his saws sharp, and he hammered nails straight and true. He left little to chance, because that was how buildings fell down and chairs collapsed.
In an impulsive gesture he could only credit to a longing to make a pretty lady happy again, he knelt. “How about you come with me... uh... Socrates?”
Without a hiss or a backward glance, the little morsel made no objection when Charles deposited it in his overcoat pocket. To his surprise, he felt an outsized purr against his hip. He stopped at an emporium near what looked like the least-scabrous hotel in town and bought several cans of Carnation, a can opener, and some sardine tins.
“You’re changing residence, Socrates,” he said the next morning as the kitten, its bellyfull of milk and sardines, nestled in his carpetbag.
Careful as always, he telegraphed ahead, so there was a freight wagon held for him at Fort Yellowstone, full of crates and furniture labeledOld Faithful Inn. He looked around, amazed at what a few days away could do. The great melt was on. The wagon had wheels again and not skids.
“Getting ready to open that hotel?” the driver said as he joined him on the wagon seat, carpetbag at his feet, Socrates inside.
“We are. Rooms are almost done. And you’re hauling more furniture.”
As they rode by mounds of melting slush, Ellen Found occupied his mind. He reconsidered. His heart was occupied. The obstacle was Sergeant Reeves.We shall see, he thought.I’ve courted a woman before.
They were almost through scary Golden Gate, that maze of curves and hoodoos where the road cantilevered out over the Gardner River far below, when the driver glanced over his shoulder. “Uh oh,” he said, then something not repeated in polite company.
Uneasy, Charles looked back just as asudden gust of blizzard wind roared down his overcoat collar, followed by icy pellets. The sky vanished in a swirl of snow.
“I can’t see ahead,” the driver said. Charles heard the panic in his voice. “Why’d this happen right here? I daren’t move. Didja bring any food?”
I am afrad. It’s a blitzerd. Did I spell that right? I thot the snow was gone. We all did. My father has been gon to long. Ellen wipes my tears when I cry. She cries latter, when no one noes. When Da comes hom, I will tell him I let Ellen reed his jurnal. I wunder if he will be angree.
ON THE FIRST morning she didn’t wear her coat, Ellen knew it was time to plant Charles Penrose’s gift of seeds on Plato’s grave.
A look around suggested the coming of summer. Soon leaves would bud out, revealing that impossible green heralding spring and early summer. Already the chipmunks chattered at her.
The snow was gone from Plato’s mound. Humming to herself, she made four littlefurrows and carefully spaced the seeds, leaving a few seeds in the envelope in case Charles wanted some after all.
“Lots of critters around soon,” she told Plato as she patted his grave. “I doubt you could have caught them, but I know you would have tried.”
She stood there, hands together, then turned toward the northwest as a sudden gust of what felt suspiciously like winter ruffled her skirt and showed off her ankles. The next blast brought wet and heavy snow with it. She ran inside and slammed the door behind her.
For three days snow fell without pause, the wind blowing it into monstrous drifts. The ropes between the inn and temporary housing went up again. Men shrugged and muttered about, “Mother Nature’s dirty tricks,” and, “That’s Wyoming for you.”
Temperatures dropped to negative numbers. Ellen didn’t think Sergeant Reeves and his men would leave the confines of their quarters, but he came through the storm that fourth day, looking grim about the mouth. While she made breakfast biscuits and worried, he handed her a message.
“Before the telephone line went down, this came from headquarters. Mr. Penrose sent it to the YP transport barn five days ago. I don’t know, Ellen.”
She made herself read it. “‘Arrived Bozeman. Tell freight wagon to wait for me. C. Penrose.’” She looked at Dan. “He’s probably still at Fort Yellowstone, then?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
