~ The Homesteader ~

by

Mary Jean Kelso

"Get off my rocks!" Molly Kling called out.

"What are you talking about, lady?"

"I said, get off my rocks!" Molly lowered the rifle and felt the trigger against her finger. Lead zinged inches from the man’s left leg.

Her arms and fingers ached from holding the horses in check during the long drive from her homestead to the mountain, but her aim was steady.

No man was going to take what she had come for.

Now, the man stood. He stared at her in disbelief.

She didn’t know if he was surprised to see a woman out here in the backcountry without a man, or startled to be staring down the barrel of her rifle.

"What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?" He glanced at the flat shale chunks protruding from the clay bank beneath his boots. "What are they, gold or something?"

"Better than that. Those rocks are going to be the foundation for my house."

"Hold on, now. Don’t get antsy with your rifle." The man raised his hands in front of him, waving his palms toward her.

"I said, those rocks are mine. I claimed them for my house. I drove all morning through the heat and dust to get them. I’m tired, I’m hot, and I’m not giving them up. Now, get down off my rocks or the next shot will draw blood."

"And I said, hold on. I’m unarmed. Can’t you see that?"

Molly lowered the rifle and looked at the man’s waist where she would expect to see a gun belt buckled. There was none.

"Now, will you listen to reason?"

"You’re on my--"

"Look, lady--" he paused, as if considering the term then went on, "--my horse threw me back there over the ridge. I’m on my way to look for work around Albuquerque. I’m hungry. I’m tired and I’m sore. And I don’t want your damn rocks!"

Molly bristled at his swearing. She considered his comment, squinting against the bright sun. They were alone with no lawman to arrest him for his vulgarity.

He dropped his hands to his sides while Molly decided his fate.

A scrubby tree a few feet taller than the man shaded him. He looked ragged, dirty, and disheveled. His hair hung in filthy strands to his shoulders, framing a square jawed face, with an unkempt beard and mustache.

She had seen many men with a similar appearance when she lived near the coal mines in Oklahoma. She found they were often stragglers meandering from one job to another. Or they were outlaws waiting to jump the first miner that let his guard down on his way home with his pay in his pocket. She had lost her own husband to one of these lurking opportunists. Now, she was left struggling to make a home for herself and her three stepchildren.

Out here, even a hundred miles from any coal mine, the man could only be trouble. She made out that, perhaps, some of the dirt could be attributed to being thrown from a horse. The man’s face bore dust, not the black grime of a mine. Not having any saddlebags, guns or bedroll would bear out his story, as well.

"I ain’t had a meal in some time." The man stared at the picnic basket.

"Haven’t had," Molly corrected out of habit.

Molly relaxed the hammer on the gun. She lowered the barrel, but kept the rifle nearby.

"That’s our lunch." She tossed her head toward the picnic basket where the children huddled behind her. She thought about the food. Surely, she had packed enough food she could share a sandwich with a hungry stranger. But she would not let her guard down.

"Rosie, please get the man one of those sandwiches we made," she instructed her stepdaughter.

"Yes, Ma."

The man stepped in rigid jerks down off the rocks and slid along the hillside until he approached the buckboard. He stopped and waited patiently a few feet away.

Molly noted the stiff way he moved from his perch on her rocks and his efforts to work the kinks out of his legs.

"Your horse do that to you?"

"Partly." He watched Rosie dig into the woven wicker basket.

Rosie picked up one of the large sandwiches and apprehensively held it out toward him. The stranger stepped forward and took the food.

He shoved the sandwich into his mouth. Tearing a large bite off with his teeth, he savored the taste. The roast beef had been cooked in the coals of a campfire and the edges were burnt. The meat’s center, nearly rare, felt tender and moist on his tongue. The bread, rough sliced, but not more than a few days old, held the chunks of beef together.

He ate as if he couldn’t remember when he had tasted anything better.

The food disappeared as though he hadn’t seen a meal in months and Molly no longer doubted that part of his story, either. She moved, tentatively, down from the buckboard. She kept her rifle at her side, the barrel pointed at the ground.

"You work the coal mines?" She still remembered more than she wanted to about the mines.

The man finished choking down the sandwich and looked at the water jug next to the oldest child. He traced the outline of his lips with the tip of his tongue.

Molly nodded. "Give the man a drink, Andy. I imagine that was kind of a dry morsel."

Andy lifted the jug and held it out to the stranger.

The man took a swig and lowered the jug. He wiped his mouth with the back of his dirty sleeve.

"Good water, Ma’am. Cool, too."

"First thing we did was hire a couple of drifters to dig a well." She didn’t want to provide too much information. "I asked if you were a miner."

"No, not much of a one, anyway. I tried it for a few days. That’s where I was coming from when my horse and I got into an argument. He wanted to turn back and eat buffalo grass and I wanted to get on into the nearest town. He always was ornery." The stranger shook his head and looked at Rosie, then back at Molly. "Name’s Trace. Trace Westerman."

"I’m Molly Kling. These are my kids, Rosie, Andy, the eldest, and Seth, the baby."

Seth scowled at Molly.

"Ma, can we eat now, too?" Rosie tugged at the basket’s handles.

The trip had been long and hot across the vast Estancia Valley and Molly gauged the angle of the sun. She judged it was nearing noon, anyway. They would have to hurry if they were going to get the rocks and get back before dark.

"Grab the quilt and spread it out in the shade. We might as well eat. Then, we better load the rocks and head back home."

"I’ll help. In return, maybe you can give me a ride toward town."

"Closest town to us is Moriarty. Not much there. Estancia is a bit larger, but it’s farther on south from our place. Albuquerque’s a good piece on west of us."

"So you’re homesteaders?"