Karen's Cowboy Read online

  I liked her right away. Mommy, Seth, Granny, Andrew, and I took our places at one of the long benches.

  I was right! There were beans and bacon. There were also eggs (fried, scrambled, poached, or soft-boiled), grits, oatmeal, pancakes with maple syrup or blueberry syrup, applesauce, biscuits, sausage patties, buttered rolls, juice (orange, apple, or tomato), and for the adults coffee or tea.

  “Yum!” said Andrew, spreading butter on a biscuit. I helped myself to a big pile of food and started chewing.

  Besides our family, two other families were staying at the ranch. One was a family with two kids — a girl about my age and a boy about Andrew’s. Perfect!

  I introduced myself to the girl and boy. I am not at all shy about meeting new people. Their names were Jenny and Phil Webb. Jenny wore glasses (like me) and had curly brown hair (not like me). Phil had a big scab on his elbow (Andrew had one on his knee). Jenny and Phil had arrived at the Arrow-A the night before, just like we had. Their parents were Mr. and Mrs. Webb.

  The other family staying at the Arrow-A were Mr. and Mrs. Nemchinov and their son, who was also called Mr. Nemchinov. They were all grown-ups.

  “Eat up, everybody!” said Kate, setting two more platters piled high with pancakes and sausages on the table. “A big breakfast is a Western tradition. Does anyone know why?”

  “Because doing cowboy stuff makes you hungry?” I called out. I love answering questions.

  “That is right,” said Kate, smiling. “Ranch hands work long hours, and they do not always have time to come back to the house for lunch. So they load up at breakfast. Then they wrap a biscuit or two in a handkerchief, slip that in their saddlebag, and eat lunch on the run — or on the hoof, you might say. And that might be all they have to eat until sundown. So do not be timid around the flapjacks and eggs. By noon, you might wish you had eaten more.”

  Wow! Eating lunch on horseback! Western life sounded like so much fun, and Kate had (sort of) called all of us at the table “ranch hands.” I helped myself to another flapjack and a third slice of bacon.

  The younger Mr. Nemchinov asked if the Arrow-A was still a real working ranch.

  “Certainly,” said Kate. “Cattle have grazed this land for over a hundred and thirty years. And there will be cattle here for another hundred years if my husband and I have anything to say about it.”

  “How long has the dude ranch been in operation?” asked the older Mr. Nemchinov.

  “Why, the Arrow-A has been taking in guests nearly since it was founded,” said Kate. “But I will let my husband tell you the story of the ranch. He is the local historian. And here he is now.”

  Everyone turned to see a tall man in a cowboy hat striding into the dining room.

  Kate said, “I would like you to meet the owner of the Arrow-A, Mr. Jonathan Wayne.”

  Jonathan Wayne tipped his hat. “Howdy, pilgrims,” he said in a deep drawl. “You can call me Jon. Jon Wayne.”

  My mouth dropped open. Jon Wayne! The King of the Cowboys!

  Western Riding

  “Saddle up, pilgrims,” said Jon Wayne a little while later.

  All of us guests had gone to the stables, to be fitted out with horses and ponies to ride. Jon had given each of us kids a riding helmet.

  He asked us how much experience we had riding horses. The Nemchinovs kept their own horses back in Maryland, where they lived. Since they were good riders, Jon gave them young, fast, energetic mounts. (“Mounts” is cowboy for horses.) Granny, Seth, and Mommy explained that they had not ridden much, so Jon gave them tamer, more sweet-tempered horses.

  “How about you, little lady?” asked Jon Wayne.

  Now, I knew he was not the real John Wayne. But this Jon Wayne was pretty darn close. He was very tall, he was very wide, and he dressed like a real cowboy: a Western shirt, a big cowboy hat, faded jeans, cowboy boots, and chaps. His face was almost the color of the leather chairs in the ranch living room. I thought he was fabulous.

  “I am very experienced,” I told him. “I have my own pony, Blueberry, and I went to pony camp.”

  “Well, then,” drawled Jon, “I reckon I will give you Mud Puddle.”

  My pony, Mud Puddle, was beautiful. He was taller than Blueberry and not as fat. His coat was a lovely, shining brown the color of chocolate. His mane and tail were long and silky. I fell in love with him right away. Andrew got a smaller, shaggy, gray pony named Snickers.

  The Webbs had some experience riding too. Jon picked out horses for the grown-up Webbs and ponies for the kids. All of the horses and ponies looked calm and happy and well taken care of.

  “This trail we will ride on,” said Jon as he swung up into his own saddle, “is wide and easy. It will lead us to a meadow and a stream for the horses to drink from. If anyone gets into a bad patch, give a holler. And you, little fellers,” he said to Andrew and Phil, “you stick close by me.” He winked at them and they grinned.

  Then we moved out. I was sitting in my Western saddle, my feet firmly in the wide stirrups. At pony camp, I had learned how to ride with an English saddle, which is much smaller and lighter than a Western saddle. On an English saddle you can really feel the pony beneath you. On a Western saddle, you feel like you are sitting in a La-Z-Boy recliner. But I got used to it quickly.

  “It is pretty here,” said Jenny Webb. She was riding behind me. Her mother was behind her.

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “Where are you from?”

  “Mississippi,” said Jenny. She looked around as our ponies slowly and carefully followed the trail. We were winding down a low hill through some trees, but we could still see some tall, beautiful mountains in the distance. Their tops were purple and orange from the sun. Their lower slopes were covered with a fuzzy blanket of green trees. I heard birds calling above me. The air was fresh and cool on my sweatshirt.

  “We only have hills in Mississippi,” said Jenny. “No mountains.”

  “We do not have any mountains in my part of Connecticut either,” I said. “Just hills. Big hills.”

  Up ahead, Jon was pointing out different birds, naming trees, and talking about the local environment.

  “Beef cattle are hard on the land,” I heard him say. In the distance we could see hills dotted with brown cows. “They chew up the greenery, pack down the earth, and sometimes uproot trees. That’s why you need much more land per head of cattle than you do for dairy cows.”

  Soon we had reached the meadow. We all got off our horses and led them to the stream to drink. The horses seemed to know exactly what to do. They must have been here a lot, I fig — reckoned.

  Granny organized my family for some picture taking. Some of us had packed snacks left over from breakfast, and we passed them around. I pulled my travel journal out of my backpack. I uncapped my pen.

  I wrote down the names of the birds Jon had pointed out. I wrote down what he had said about beef cattle and dairy cattle. Finally, I wrote this:

  Annie Hancock

  I groaned softly. “I am stuffed.”

  I was lying on the Native-American-style rug in front of the huge stone hearth in the living room part of the ranch house. We had finished dinner a little while earlier. I confess: I made a pig of myself.

  Lying on the floor next to me, Andrew nodded, his eyes closed. Jenny Webb also moaned softly. Her little brother, Phil, just grunted.

  Maybe it was being outdoors all day in the fresh air and sunshine. Maybe it was riding horses, then currying them afterward. (Currying is when you sort of do beauty parlor for your horse.) Whatever the reason, we had all been starving at dinnertime. I had piled my plate with cornbread, beans, roast beef, lima beans, salad, stewed corn, mashed potatoes … and fruit cobbler for dessert.

  Now I was trying not to think about it.

  “Okay, everyone, on your feet!”

  I peeped out through half-closed eyes to see Kate Wayne standing above us, a big smile on her face.

  “Come on, now, time’s a wastin’!” she said, clapping her hands.


  * * *

  “Oh, I’m just a poor, lonesome cowboy,” we all sang. It was half an hour later. The ranch guests, plus Jon and Kate and a bunch of their ranch hands, were gathered around a big bonfire outside. We had toasted marshmallows (I managed to eat a few) and watched the sunset. Now we were singing cowboy songs. The air was chilly, but the fire was warm. The sky was much more black than it ever looks in Connecticut, and the stars were like diamonds. I made a note to write that down in my travel journal.

  Kate and Jon and the ranch hands were taking turns teaching us Western songs. I was snuggled between my mommy and Jenny Webb, and I felt so, so happy.

  “Tell us about the ranch, Jon,” asked Seth a couple of songs later. “How long has it been in your family?”

  Jon Wayne stretched his long legs toward the bonfire. “Just about a hundred and twenty years,” he said. “My great-grandfather, Jeremiah Wayne, and his family ended up here because of Colorado silver.”

  “Was there a silver rush here?” I asked.

  “A small one,” said Jon. “My great-grandfather’s family were drawn by the rush. They bought some land, then started to mine for silver. They found some, but not enough to keep the mine open. Eventually most of the silver hunters moved on. But Jeremiah stayed.”

  “Why?” asked Jenny.

  “Because he had met a local girl named Annie Hancock,” answered Jon. “My great-grandmother. They fell in love and got married. And Jeremiah decided to stay here and raise beef cattle.”

  “What a romantic story,” said Mommy. “And have there been Waynes here ever since?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Jon. “When Great-grandfather Jeremiah and Annie ran the place, they had the healthiest cattle in the county. Our hands were the best paid and happiest cowboys too. Seems Annie was a genius at the bow and arrow — people came from far and wide to see her shoot, and soon Jeremiah and Annie had the idea of putting those folks up in the ranch house. That’s how the dude-ranch operation started up. It was the golden age of the Arrow-A.”

  The bonfire crackled then. I thought about eating another marshmallow.

  “Things looked a little shaky after Jeremiah died,” Jon continued. “Annie had to sell off some of the land to keep the ranch going. She did what she had to do, but I believe it took something out of her. The story is, she was never the same after that. Eventually, my grandfather inherited the land. He is the one who told me, when I was a boy, about his parents, Annie and Jeremiah. In time, when my old grandpa died, the Arrow-A belonged to my father. And it became mine last year, when my father passed away.”

  I looked at our host. I thought Jon Wayne looked sad.

  I wondered whether he was sad thinking about Annie having to sell some of the land, and not ever being the same. Or whether he was sad because his grandfather, who told him all those great stories when he was a boy, had died long ago. Or because he was thinking about his own father, who had died the year before. Or because of all those things.

  Western Fishing

  The next day was a non-horseback riding day. Over breakfast, Kate explained that we greenhorns had to give our legs a chance to recover from the first day of riding. And she was right! My legs were so, so achy from gripping Mud Puddle’s back all afternoon.

  Mommy and Seth came hobbling down to breakfast looking as if they needed crutches. “We will be okay,” Seth assured Andrew and me. “We just need a few minutes, and a couple of cups of coffee, to work out the cricks.”

  It is amazing how coffee perks up grownups. By the time Mommy and Seth stood up from the breakfast table, they were almost able to bend their knees.

  That morning, Jon Wayne led us guests across the meadow that spread out behind the house, down to a little river. Piled on the bank were tackle boxes, pairs of tall rubber boots called waders, and fishing poles of several lengths. Jon explained that he would teach fly-fishing to those who wanted to learn. Everyone else could do regular fishing if they wanted, or they could just laze by the bank and watch the river. Granny, Mommy, and Seth wanted to try their hands at fly-fishing. I decided I would watch them for awhile.

  Fly-fishing is very, very difficult! It is more than just sticking a worm on a hook (ugh to that, by the way) and dropping the hook in the water. No. With fly-fishing, you use a complicated knot (called a fly, because it looks like a fly) as bait, and you sort of flick your fly and hook over the surface of the water. Using the fly, you try to tease the fish in the water until one of them gets so angry that it leaps up and bites the hook just to show you who is boss. Then you reel it in.

  After a few minutes, Jon caught a nice little trout, which he unhooked and threw back in the water. “Catch and release,” he called it. “It is better for the river, and for the fish.” Then Jon tipped his hat and said, “You will have to excuse me now, folks. I need to go see about a sick calf.” He tipped his hat again and walked back toward the house.

  I was sorry to see Jon go. He was a lot of fun, and he knew so much about Western things. But he was a cowboy, after all, and not just a dude-ranch host, so he had cowboy jobs to do as well.

  I watched Granny, Mommy, and Seth fly-fish for awhile. They were not very good at it. Their lines kept getting tangled up. They did not catch (or release) anything.

  I walked downstream a little way, to where Andrew, Jenny, and Phil were skipping stones across a bend in the river. We played in the water together, looking for fish and rocks and interesting hidden things. Jenny found a rock that looked exactly like an arrowhead. We went exploring down the river. We knew we could not get lost, because to find our way home all we had to do was turn around and walk upriver again. After lunch back at the ranch, Jenny taught us to play sardines. It is a kind of hide-and-seek game in which one hider and the seekers all have to crowd into the hiding place once they find the hider. It was fun! Then we went on a nature hike, and identified seven different kinds of trees and collected their leaves. It was another glorious day at the Arrow-A.

  Western Archery

  On Tuesday morning I bounded out of bed early. “Up and at ’em, pardner,” I yelled, whacking Andrew on the shoulder.

  “Aughhh!” cried Andrew, sitting up, wide-eyed. “You made me have a nightmare. I thought something had come to get me.”

  I laughed and threw Andrew his jeans. “Do not be silly, little feller. You did not have time to have a nightmare. Come on! I smell bacon.”

  Well, let me tell you: The adventure never stops at the Arrow-A. After we filled up on a big cowboy-style breakfast, Kate told us about the day’s activities.

  “For grown-ups, there is a challenging trail ride,” she told us. “It includes a packed lunch, because you will not be back until the middle of the afternoon. You will see some of the West’s most beautiful scenery, though. For the rest of us, a day of fun has been planned. First we will take a short ride to a beautiful nearby rock formation. Then we will have to start getting ready for our big Western hoedown on Saturday night.”

  A hoedown? That sounded gigundoly fun.

  “What is a hoedown?” asked Phil.

  “It is like a party and a dance and a barbecue all at once,” answered Kate.

  “Oh, boy!” I shouted.

  Mommy and Seth decided to go on the challenging trail ride. Granny decided to stay with us. I was glad. The younger Mr. Nemchinov went on the trail ride, but his parents stayed. And Mrs. Webb went, while the other Webbs stayed.

  After the trail riders left, the rest of us met in the barn and saddled our mounts. Kate and three of the ranch hands led us down a narrow trail. We crossed a shallow stream to a rocky area. Kate pointed out a rock formation that looked like a medieval tower. She said smugglers used to use it as a lookout point. Cool!

  Nearby was a small clearing, and we all got off our horses.

  “Okay, now,” said Kate. “You all know Larry, Punkie, and Bill, right?”

  “Right,” I called. They were the ranch hands who had come with us.

  “Well, Larry is an expert with a rope,�
� said Kate. “Punkie can’t be bested with the bow and arrow. And Bill is our resident champion square dancer. They are here to offer lessons to anyone who wants to learn. As for me, I’ll be heading back to whip up some lunch in the kitchen. All right?”

  “All right!” we cried. Jenny even punched her fist in the air.

  “Okeydokey,” said Larry with a big smile. “Who wants to learn some ropin’?”

  The rest of the day flew by. We all ended up taking turns learning roping, archery, and square dancing. (Archery is when you use a bow and arrow.) At noon we returned to the ranch for a quick lunch and then went right back to our lessons.

  Andrew took to the roping right away. Larry showed him how to make a slidey kind of knot. Then he swung the rope in a circle over his head, let it out, and it sailed toward whatever he wanted to rope. Larry said the rope-circle is called a lasso or lariat. Cowboys usually use lassos to capture runaway cows or ponies. Andrew was using his lasso to capture —

  “Hey!” I said as the rope settled down over my head.

  Andrew giggled and set me free. For the rest of the day, he lassoed everything: fence posts, me, Phil, and even Beany, the Waynes’ basset hound, who simply could not escape fast enough.

  “I am the king of the lariat!” crowed Andrew.

  As for me, I became queen of the bow and arrow. I do not want to brag, but I have to tell you, I was a natural with the bow and arrow. Punkie lent me a smaller bow than his, and I was using only rubber-tipped safety arrows, but still. I almost always hit what I aimed at.

  “I am just like Annie Hancock,” I said happily as I knocked over my fifth tin can.

  “You do have a natural talent,” agreed Punkie.

  I think Granny liked the square-dance lessons best. We all had a great time learning how to do-si-do, swing our partners, and turn. By the time Mommy and Seth limped in after their trail ride, the rest of us were ready for the hoedown, only four days away.

  “Guess what, Mommy!” I cried. “I know how to shoot a bow and arrow!”