The next morning, Ryan seized the opportunity when he was alone with her. “Mom?”
She looked up from the tortilla dough she was kneading like it had done something to her. “What, Ryan? Is this about riding out on the south fence? Because both your father and I have told you that you cannot do that one alone already.”
Ryan felt a twinge. “I’m not a baby, Mom.” He was taller than she was by half a head, and still growing, she said.
“You’re always going to be my baby.” She looked up at him, her hands stilling and her face softening. “I know you’re near a man grown. But we want everyone to be riding in at least pairs, for now.”
“That’s not what I wanted to ask. What’s a carpetbagger?” He grabbed a piece of the dough, and she made like she was going to swat him.
“You haven’t heard that before? Oh, your school. Bleah.” She sighed, and he could tell she was about to go into the rant he’d heard before.
Ryan held up his hand to stop her. “I know, I know, I’m getting a very watered-down biased view of history and they don’t even call it history any more, it’s social studies…”
She laughed. “I guess I’ve said that too many times. A carpetbagger is a term for people who descended on the South after the Civil War. They preyed on folks who had lost everything, and they forced them off their farms, because they’d been on the losing side. They were like a cuckoo’s egg.”
“What?” Ryan was confused.
“The cuckoo lays their eggs in other bird’s nests, and when they hatch, they push the other nestlings or eggs out, until they have the parents feeding them and only them.”
“So what does that have to do with carpet bags, and farms?”
She covered the dough so it could rest. “Well, the South had spent a lot of money during the War. They weren’t material rich like the North was, so after the war ended, there were a lot of people who were flat broke. It wasn’t about slaves — we’ve discussed that before — it was sheer economic disruption.”
“Ok. What does that have to do with Jefferson? And cuckoos?”
She came and sat next to him at the table. “You overheard us last night.”
“A little. Not all of it.” He was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to have heard any of it.
She sighed sadly. “Jefferson isn’t very rich, yet. We’re trying to abide by regulations put in place when we split off from the FedGov, but they will be ending soon. We had a three-year restriction on mining and five on logging, for instance. Once we can tap into our own resources, then we’ll be able to defend ourselves.”
“From the Brownies?” Ryan used the slang term for the Border Patrol, who weren’t as upright as their title made them out to be.
“And from people who are coming in, offering pennies on the dollar to buy ranches and farms, and desperate folks are taking them up on it. The cuckoo is pushing them out of their nests. But if the rancher doesn’t take the offer…” She shrugged. “Something bad happens.”
“Like their house burns down.”
“Oh, baby…” She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, but that’s the least of it.”
Ryan felt like someone was strangling him, his throat was so tight. His eyes started burning. He stared at her hand on his brown arm. He was tanned, but she was paler, and it was a funny contrast. He’d inherited his hair color from her — light brown, until he’d been out in the sun, and then it was white-blonde — but his skin was closer to his father’s reddish brown in summer.
“I’ve got chores to do.” He told her roughly, and headed for the door. She didn’t follow him. She was a good mom, and gave him space when he needed it.
Ryan found that the heavy work of shoveling manure out of stalls was helpful to get his brain off what might have happened to his classmate, and working on other problems. The exercise cleared his mind. He was working on the last stall when his father came and leaned over the stall door.
“Hey, son.”
Ryan looked up at the tall man with dark hair and sober gray eyes. “Dad.”
“Want to ride south with me?”
“Sure.”
Ryan appreciated his father’s style. Where his mother would use half a dozen words — and big ones, too — Dad just said enough to get his meaning across. And if you knew him well enough, you could read him from the expression on his face. Ryan knew some of his classmates were convinced his dad was scary. Brian had called him a ‘mean mother…’ but Ryan had put a stop of that phrase with a well-timed elbow to his friend’s gut. Brian had shut up. He knew Ryan’s dad wasn’t a bad man. At the moment, Ryan could tell his dad was worried. He’d probably heard all about Ryan’s talk with mom. A little while later, in the saddle and ambling slowly along the fenceline looking for breaks, that was confirmed.
“You know riding fences isn’t just mending, these days.”
“I know. We’re looking for evidence that the Brownies are traveling through Jefferson up to Oregon.” Ryan thought that was baloney, personally. They could just fly into Portland if they wanted.
“Ayup.”
“And raiding ranches.”
His dad looked at him hard for a minute. They were riding side-by-side. It was clear, open country near the house, they’d get into more broken hills and brush later, then some open patches of Ponderosa pines near the southern end of their range.
“It’s not been confirmed,” was what he said out loud. But his tone told Ryan that he hadn’t been off the mark.
Ryan twisted to look off toward the east, where the Wilman place was. He felt the rifle barrel in its saddle scabbard as a reassuring pressure against his thigh. The old Marlin 30-30 was meant for bears and lions, but it would work fine against two-legged varmints.
“We don’t know yet, kid.” Now his dad had that soft tone his mom had been using earlier. “The Sheriff is doing everything he can to collect solid evidence he can use. We cain’t just go vigilante.”
“That would lower us to their level.” Ryan was still struggling with that concept. He guessed that you didn’t bully a bully. But you darn sure gave him a swift punch, if you wanted him to stop and let the little kids alone.
“Ayup. For now, we ride, and we watch.”
They spent the rest of the morning doing just that. Ryan and his dad didn’t talk much, except when they saw some sign. They rode within sight of one another, mostly. Sometimes the terrain got them separated for a minute or two. Ryan found that he was tense and nervous, jumping at every movement in the brush.
They had a place they liked to stop for lunch — a long-established camping spot, with a fireplace built out of loose stones. Ryan knew they wouldn’t build a fire today, just sit and eat their sandwiches and relax for a bit before getting back to the chore. They were just loosening girths for the horses’ comfort when Ryan heard other hooves approaching through the brush. He stiffened and turned toward the sound, and his father caught the motion. The older man held up a hand, signaling for Ryan to stay still and stay quiet.
A voice called out, loud and cheerful. “Halloo, the camp. I’m comin’ in.”
Ryan and his father relaxed. They knew that voice. A minute later a big man on a horse appeared out of the brush, followed by another man. Ryan’s dad walked up to the first man and held out a hand.
“Boll. Good to see you, what brings you out this way?”
“Wa’al, it might be I heard Ms Irina made some gingerbread cookies.” The county sheriff dismounted easily. He wasn’t exactly graceful, but his movements looked deceptively easy for a man of his size.