Rose(53)

Suddenly George felt poor. He had always faced the world against the backdrop of an elegant mansion; he’d extended hospitality that depended on the work of a dozen servants. He’d always been a Randolph of the Randolphs of Virginia, privileged, courted, his name a household word from Massachusetts to Georgia.

But this stranger saw only a poor Texas rancher, hardly better off than himself, with no reputation, no standing in society. He was plain George Randolph.

He was nobody.

But quick on the heels of that devastating realization came another. For the first time in his life, he was free of the Virginia Randolphs; he had no reputation to live up to, or pull him down. And if he made something of himself, he would have earned it himself.

If he failed, he would disappear without a trace. In Virginia, a Randolph could never entirely disappear from society’s view. In Texas, plain George Randolph already had.

He was so taken by his thoughts he was almost unaware that the stranger was answering his question.

“You’ve got a roof over your head. That’s more than a lot I’ve seen.”

Rose had stepped out on the porch beside George to take up the burden of conversation.

“Won’t you get down and come inside?” she asked. “I’ve got a pot of stew on the stove. You’re welcome to have some.”

“Thank you, ma’am. It’s sometimes hard for a man to get a full belly. Ain’t no way he can keep it that way.”

“Why don’t you unsaddle your horse,” George suggested, ashamed of his lack of hospitality. “The least we can offer you is a few hours’ respite from the trail.”

“Mighty obliged,” the stranger said. He swung down and George helped him unsaddle his horse and turn him into the corral. When they entered the kitchen, Rose had a bowl of stew, some cold cornbread, and a big glass of milk waiting on the table.

“Have you come very far?” she asked.

“All the way from Georgia,” he replied. “There wasn’t much left of the home place, so I started to drift. Things were better in Alabama, but they don’t have any money. It was even worse in Mississippi. Things seem a little better in Texas.”

Rose refilled his glass with fresh milk.

“I don’t mean to pry,” she said with an ingenuous smile, “but who do I have the honor of serving?”

“Things must have got real bad when I forget my manners,” he said, returning her smile. “The name’s Benton Wheeler, but I’d rather you call me Salty.”

“How did you get such a name?” Rose asked.

“The men in the company gave it to me for liking too much salt on my food. My old ma always said it would kill me someday.”

“My brother and I got home just a few months ago,” George said, sitting down to the table himself.

While Salty ate a plate of the venison stew Rose had simmering for dinner, three chunks of cornbread left over from breakfast, and drank two more glasses of milk, he and George talked.

“I must have passed a thousand ex-Confederates along the road, all looking for work. Lots of them have their families with them.”

“We’re not much better off here,” George said.

“Then I guess I’ll keep moving,” Salty said.

“I wish I knew where to tell you to go. You might try Austin or San Antonio.”

“Already been to Austin. That’s where I heard about your place. I thought I’d drift farther west. Maybe go as far as California or Oregon.”

They discussed the merits of looking for gold against farming, ranching against fighting Indians, homesteading against starting up a business in a new town.

“I guess I’d best get going,” Salty said, coming to his feet. “I’d like to be a good fifty miles west of here before sunset. Thanks for the food, ma’am. I never tasted anything better in my whole life.”

They walked outside. For several moments Salty stood looking into the distance, apparently reluctant to get back on the trail.

“Old Bony sure is going to be mighty disappointed to feel the weight of that saddle again today.”

Rose and George walked to the corral with Salty. “I thought you said you wanted to round up some cows to sell this fall,” Rose whispered to George when Salty slipped through the rails to catch his horse.

“I do.”

“You ever been on a roundup?”

“No.”

“Has Hen or Monty?”

“No.”

“Then you’re going to need help, first with the roundup and then with the drive.”

“I planned to hire men when we got ready to hit the trail.”

“You’ll need more help with the roundup and the branding than you will on the trail. They wouldn’t expect to be paid until you sell the herd. All you need to do now is feed them. They’d probably do most of their own cooking.”