Sixty Cows Down the County Road

Two springs ago, when our old baler gave out, Rich lent Kyle four thousand dollars for the used one. Kyle paid it back, but slow, a few hundred at a time over a year and a half.

And before that there had been other loans, smaller ones.

Rich’s wife, Lisa, had kept track of every one of them. I do not blame her for that. She keeps their books, and they have three boys and their own bills.

But she had been on Rich for years about how his little brother always seemed to need something.

So when I called asking for the trailer, Rich heard Lisa in his ear instead of hearing me. And I believe, though he has never said it in so many words, that he figured I would have to call him back by supper and agree to pay.

I did not call him back.

That night after we got home from Rapid City, I made grilled cheese for supper and sat the girls down at the table.

I told them what Harlan said and what Rich said. I did not dress it up, and I did not say anything mean about their uncle.

Brynn’s face went red right away. “He said that? To you? With Dad in the hospital?” She pushed her plate back. “I’m never going over there again. I’m going to tell Jasper his dad is…”

“You’re not going to tell Jasper anything,” I said. “Jasper is your cousin, and none of this is his doing. Eat your sandwich.”

Addie had not said a word. She was looking out the window toward the barn, where the sun was going down behind the roof.

Then she looked back at me, and she had that look her dad gets when he has already made up his mind.

“Mom,” she said. “The cows know the way home. They walked out there in May. What time do we saddle?”

I want to tell you I had already thought of it. I had not. I had been so busy thinking about trailers and money and phone calls that I had forgotten the oldest way there is to move cattle across three miles of open country.

People here still do it. You see it every spring and fall in western South Dakota, a few riders and a herd walking down the gravel with the dust coming up behind them.

The county roads were cattle trails before they were roads.

“It’s three miles,” I said, mostly to hear how it sounded. “Sixty pairs. Three riders. We’d have to turn them at the Moe corner and keep them out of everybody’s yards.”

“Four riders if you count Tip,” Brynn said. Tip is our border collie, and he is worth about two hands on a good day and about half of one on a bad one. Brynn had already forgotten she was mad.

I thought about it while I washed the dishes. I thought about the horses, and the shoes on them, and the gates, and which neighbors had yards that opened right onto the road.

Then I dried my hands and went to get the phone book.

That was Wednesday night. Thursday morning I called every place on the route. I told them we would be on the road Friday morning with sixty pairs and asked them to keep their dogs in and their yard gates shut, if they would.