much. We ran with a bunch of other kids who were in the same situation.”
“Did you go to school?”
“Yep. Factory-run school, so at least we had one meal a day.” He shifted positions when a rock dug into his bruised spine. “When we were ten, there was a big fire at the plant and both of our parents died.”
She reached for his hand and squeezed. “Oh Silas. That’s awful.”
He threaded their fingers together. She didn’t pull away, so he resumed talking. “We were luckier than other kids because our folks were devout Catholics. Seriously devout. The Catholic orphanage took us in. We had school and church every day, even in the summer, plus we had chores to do. Might make me callous to say this, but we were better off in the orphanage than when our parents were alive. But space was limited so at age thirteen they kicked you out.”
“Just out into the street?”
“Yeah. That’s when it paid not to’ve been a problem kid. Father O’Flaherty and our folks were from the same part of Ireland, so when our time to leave came, he booked us passage on a train to Denver with other orphans.” He let his thumb steal across the silky skin on the inside of her wrist. “Talk about an adventure. Two town kids finally seein’ what lay outside the smoke and grime of the city. After we reached Denver and we didn’t have no one to claim us, then they’d let other people lookin’ for kids or workers come in and talk to you.”
“You got to choose where you went?”
“Sorta. I mean we wouldn’t be allowed not to choose. Father O’Flaherty had given us paperwork that required me’n Jonas to stay together. It was an incentive because whoever picked us to work for them got paid double. This rough-lookin’ guy wearin’ the oddest clothes and boots that jingled was the first to talk to us. His name was Jeb and he was a drover. We didn’t know what that was, and he explained he was in charge of movin’ cattle all across the West. Down south from Texas, up north to Montana and even east to Kansas. He made it sound like heaven; ridin’ horses on the range, roundin’ up strays, movin’ them across ragin’ rivers and over the plains, dodgin’ Indian raids and outlaws. Sleepin’ beneath the stars every night. Eatin’ by a campfire.” Silas laughed. “Lord, he gave us the hard sell and we fell for it.”
“What did he have you and Jonas doing?”
“We were ‘camp boys’ to start, which meant all the crap jobs plus learnin’ to run the remuda.”
“Remuda?”
“The extra horses. Each cowhand—cowpunchers, they called themselves both—needed three horses to rotate in to ride, since we were on the trail for between three and five months. So me’n Jonas had to keep the remuda in line while the cowpunchers dealt with the cattle.”
“How many cowpunchers were on the drive?”
“Between ten to fifteen, dependin’ on how many cattle we were runnin’.”
“You and Jonas had to deal with up to thirty extra horses every day?”
“Yep. Eventually we worked our way up to cowhands. I’d never been so tired in my life. Took two solid years until I got used to it. But them cowpunchers also taught us everything we needed to survive. How to hunt and fish. How to rope and ride. How to shoot guns and use knives. How to track men and animals. How to doctor men and animals. How to play cards and drink whiskey. How to charm the ladies. How to tell a good story. How to navigate by the stars. Never spent a turn cookin’ with the chuckwagon, but everything else was fair game.” He paused. “I loved it and I’m grateful every damn day that we were chosen to learn that life, ’cause a lot of other orphans ended up like Jimmy. But by the time I was nineteen, I realized I wanted my own ranch, responsible only for myself, my land and my own livestock.”
“You never wanted to do anything else?” she asked.
“Nope. But Jonas did. While he did his part workin’ the cattle, Jonas took to ridin’ like he’d been born on horseback. He also stayed calm in situations that had other men reachin’ for their guns. Whenever we’d come across marshals or a posse, he’d spend hours talkin’ to them and one group deputized him. While he was excited he’d found his path, that meant we’d be on separate paths for the first time