Where it was patchy, we came upon hard-as-rock dirt clods that bruised our blistered feet.

“Did Mr. Pickett happen to tell you what type of material his house was made of?” I asked Phoebe, two miles into the trip.

“He did not,” she said. “Nor did I ask.”

The scent of urine filled the air, which told us Scarlett’s bladder was workin’ properly.

“Shouldn’t we stop and clean her up?” Phoebe said.

“Under normal circumstances, I’d say yes. But we haven’t covered much ground, and can’t afford to take the time. And anyway, because of how the lean-to is slanted, her upper body’s higher than her privates, meanin’ her piss ain’t likely to get in her wounds.”

“It’s barbaric,” Phoebe said. “A woman shouldn’t be forced to lie in her own urine.”

“There’s worse things,” I said. “Like livin’ in a sod house, for instance.”

Phoebe said, “I’ve always held the opinion that it’s not where you live, but how you live that counts.”

From up ahead I heard Rose chuckle.

“Well, I s’pect Mr. Pickett’s got a sod house,” I said.

We walked a few steps without speakin’.

“And what if he does?” Phoebe said.

“You know much about sod houses?”

“I’ve never heard that expression before, in reference to a house.”

I didn’t know what she meant by expression, so I didn’t speak again until I hollered, “Rose? We’ve got a situation back here.”

“What’s wrong?” Rose said.

“Scarlett just shit herself.”

 


 

 

 

39.

 

After we set the lean-to down, Rose said, “Turn away, Emmett, while I clean Scarlett up.” To Phoebe she said, “After I’m finished, you can lead Major, and I’ll take a turn carrying the lean-to.”

Before Rose could get started on Scarlett, Monique jumped off her horse and insisted on doin’ the cleanin’. Rose allowed her to, but kept a close watch. Afterward, she checked Scarlett’s wounds.

“How’s she holdin’ up?” I said.

“I don’t like what I saw,” Rose said.

“What’s that?”

“Her scat was almost black.”

I knew that to be a bad sign. Meant she might’ve busted somethin’ inside her.

“Is that why she’s unconscious all the time?” I said. “Is she in a coma?”

“No. I’ve severely drugged her. Otherwise, she’d be in such pain I doubt she’d survive the trip.”

We headed onward.

Rose was small, but sturdy, and she got us a mile closer to Molly’s place before needin’ to stop. We rotated positions again, and journeyed on. After our next short break, Phoebe and Monique traded places. By then we’d walked an agonizing six miles.

“Most folks don’t live on the plains for a reason.” I said.

“And what reason is that?” Phoebe said.

“Actually, there’s a lot of reasons. But one is a lack of trees. Since lumber’s scarce, people often dig squares of grass out of the ground and stack ’em up in a big pile and build a house out of it.”

I wasn’t sayin’ all this to be mean. I’d brought a number of women out west only to see the look on their faces when they realized what they were up against.

“The squares are about eight inches thick, with grass on top and packed dirt beneath it that’s held together by roots,” I said. “Among the roots you’ll find all sorts of crawly bugs, the worst of which is chiggers.”

She didn’t respond, so I said, “You know much about chiggers?”

With frost in her voice, she said, “I learned more about chiggers than I cared to when living among them in a cave recently.”

“In your sod house, if you’re lucky, you might have a leaky window or two in the upper curves, to let in some light. You’ll also have a stove with a pipe attached to it that goes up through the roof to let out most of the soot.”

“Well, I assume Mr. Pickett’s house is made of wood and has windows and a veranda,” she said.

“A what?”

“A covered porch,” she said.

“A porch?”

“I envision a wide, wooden porch with a hand rail that wraps elegantly around the front of the house, where people can sit and rock while enjoying conversation.”

Rose stifled a laugh.

I said, “Fuel’s a problem.”

“Why’s that?” Phoebe said.

“I’ve known plains people to travel forty miles to find wood that ain’t hardly fit to burn.”

Phoebe said, “I’d like to believe that Mr. Pickett is a prudent man, and one who would have an adequate supply of firewood for his stove at all times.”

“Well, if he don’t have much firewood stocked up, he’ll still be fine, I s’pect.”

“And why is that?” she said.

“Well, you said Pickett’s a rancher, so if he’s got cows you’ll have your fuel. Assumin’ the cows ain’t dead from the draught and still have grass or hay to eat.”

“What do the cows have to do with fuel?”

“They shit large piles of manure, what we call cow chips.