Chapter 2

As I headed towards the cookhouse, I could smell bread baking. My mouth started watering. Agnes Higgins was probably the best range cook I’d ever met. Short, heavy, and mean. That is if you crossed her, but the milk of human kindness if you took the time to get to know her. I started on her good side by bringing in game to add to her larder. Later she took the time to point out wild herbs and plants to add to the menu. Walking in the back door of the cookhouse, Mrs. Higgins started yelling, “whoever that is, you’d best get your ass out of my kitchen. Chow ain’t till 6, and I am not giving out any freebies.”

“Mrs. Higgins, its Matt Reynolds, and I’m bringing a peace offering.”

“Matt, “she squealed as she came around the corner. “you’ve finally got tired of your own cooking.” Grabbing me in a bear hug, she tightened up to where I could hear my ribs creak.

Agnes was a good 6 inches shorter than me, but she had at least 50 lbs. On me. And strong, I’d once watched her punch a summer help tenderfoot who had bitched about her cooking one too many times. We had tried warning him to watch his step. But like most city boys, he knew better. After I reset the knotheads broken nose, Pete handed him his pay and told him to get off the property before Pete took over where Agnes left off. The punk looked at the rest of us as we started to rock, paper, scissors for who was going to follow Pete. He was in his car and down the road in 10 minutes.

Here’s a word of advice if you’re on a working cattle ranch. Don’t piss off the cook. A good cook is hard to find. A good range cook is damn near impossible.

“Matty boy, what did you bring your momma this time?”

“Well, Mrs. Higgins...”

She punched me in the shoulder, “Mrs. Higgins, my ass, Agnes dammit.”

“Agnes, I’ve got about 75 lbs. Of venison and another of bull elk.”

“Good, it’s about time we had something other than beef on the menu,” Agnes said. After we had moved everything to the meat locker, Agnes grabbed my arm and dragged me into the mess hall.

“You’re a good boy Matt, now you go sit down, and I’ll get you something to eat. Ham and eggs, alright?”

“I think that would go down a treat, Agnes.”

As soon as I sat down, Agnes brought out a cup of coffee and my mail. Agnes also acted as the unofficial mail clerk for the hands. Delivering mail in the cookhouse made more sense than trying to get everybody together for a mail call. Each hand had a mailbox just inside the door. But because I had been gone for so long, Agnes held my mail in her office. I started going through my mail. Out of all the usual junk, one jumped out at me. It was postmarked from Butte Montana, and the return address was one of those fancy multiple name lawyer offices.

“Sir, it is my unfortunate duty to advise you of the passing of Jacob Stanislaw. Mr. Stanislaw was killed in a hunting accident this past October. As the executor of Mr. Stanislaw’s estate, I am informing you that you are named in his will. Please contact this office to finalize your inheritance.

Signed S. Gerald Fitzpatrick, Esquire Butte Montana.”

It took me a minute to figure out who Jacob Stanislaw was. Agnes had brought in my ham and eggs. Seeing my pensive look, she asked, “Bad news?”

“Not good, Agnes. “I replied, “I just found out that a good friend died.” Seeing that she wasn’t satisfied with that answer. I started telling her about M.Sgt. Jacob “Jake” Stanislaw.

When I divorced my wife, I was wiped out emotionally. After everything was said and done. And the vultures had finished picking over my bones, financially.

The vultures? My ex, her lawyer, and my lawyer. After they finished dividing the spoils, I was standing on the courthouse steps with the clothes on my back and a $20.00 bill in my wallet

I’m not sure, it might have been my shell-shocked look, or him watching the court docket, but the recruiter didn’t have a lot of trouble convincing me that the Army is where I needed to be. After signing the paperwork, I had a motel voucher for the night and a plane ticket to basic training.

Basic and advanced training was rough, but I got through it. My first duty station was Korea. This had sounded pretty good at the time. Between the bonuses I got for going Infantry, I was in decent shape. In Korea, I was assigned to the 2nd Infantry division. My army career didn’t start off on the best foot, however. I guess it was probably my anger at my ex, but I wasn’t what you would call a good soldier. Between drinking, whoring, and fighting, I was in trouble from day one. After one particularly obnoxious event, the NCOs’ got together and decided I needed an informal counseling session. Master Sergeant Jake Stanislaw was elected, or I should say, volunteered for the job.

Jake invited me behind the barracks. Being full of piss, vinegar, and booze, I took him up on his offer. After Jake handed my ass to me, three falls out of 3. We started talking. I told him everything, my parents, Mary, the miscarriage, divorce, betrayal. By the end, I was in worse shape, bawling my guts out. From that point on, Jake took me under his wing. It’s not that he taught me how to be a soldier, he also taught me how to be a man.

Jake confided in me one day that he had decided that I was to be his legacy to the Army. Mandatory retirement was coming up, and he felt that someone needed to take his place. I was that someone.

Before he left, Jake convinced me to keep going. He also told me what was needed to succeed in the Army. He told me, “Matt, the Army is kind of like the boy scouts. To get ahead, you’ve got to earn your merit badges. The obvious ones are the medals and ribbons. Another obvious one is your rank. Another one that will count, and will put you ahead of the herd are school badges. Airborne, Ranger, Special Forces badges show everybody that you’ve went above and beyond.”

When I re-enlisted, I asked for and got airborne school.

From airborne, I went to ranger school. However, when I tried for special forces, and later, sniper school, I was turned down. They said that my psychological evaluation stated that I had a deep-seated anger based on my experience with Mary, my ex-wife. I guess calling her ‘that miserable bitch’ to the lady psychologist wasn’t very wise.

After I was turned down for sniper school, I was able to get into pathfinder school. This was fine with me. I could be a big fish in a little pond and making big waves. I knew it was just only a matter of time before I would have my senior NCO stripes.

I should explain about Mary. It wasn’t always bad. But the end sucked major league.

My ex-wife and I were the typical high school sweethearts. But not from a typical high school. We were raised in a small town in rural Washington. My dad ran the local hardware store, and her dad was the local game warden. It was inevitable that we would get together, our graduation class only had 15 kids in it.