Little Mountain Girl

A MULE MAKES HER MARK The Missouri River was a broad and restless thing, a silver serpent coiled across the landscape, shimmering in the afternoon light like it was trying to wriggle free from the land itself. Jack and June Bug followed its bends through the river bottoms, hugging the levees and sleeping under bowing cottonwoods where the air smelled of mud and old secrets. They hitched rides where they could, flatboats with weathered pilots who sang to the current, mule wagons that creaked with corn sacks, and once, a hay-hauler who swapped two boiled eggs and a tall tale about a haunted ferry for their company. June Bug soaked it all in. This was not the narrow world of coal shafts and hollers. This was wide country, full of heat and motion, with skies that bled fire at dusk and wind that spoke in whistles and sighs. She kept pace beside Jack with ears forward and hooves deliberate, never trailing far behind. She was still learning the rhythm of open land—but her heart had already galloped out ahead of her. They rolled into St. Charles just before sundown. The town crawled with life—river traders haggling over whiskey crates, gamblers calling out their bets through clouds of cigar smoke, and blacksmiths hammering out a day’s worth of anger into glowing steel. A paddle steamer moaned at the docks. Mules pulled freight carts through cobbled lanes slick with river mist. Voices rose in ten languages and fell just as quickly, swallowed by the clangor and sweat of a town that never quite sat still. Jack said nothing, just nudged June Bug down a narrow alley off Main Street. It smelled of horses, leather oil, and molasses from the bakery next door. A lopsided wooden sign read “Culver’s Livery & Feed.” Inside, the stable was low-lit and warm, with stalls lined in straw and a sleepy swaybacked draft horse snoring in the corner. “You’ll stay here tonight,” Jack murmured, rubbing June Bug’s neck. “Keep your ears sharp.” She nodded, eyes steady. She always did. Jack turned and vanished into the noise, swallowed by steam and crowd like a ghost drifting through old timber. That was his way. Part fog, part rumor. And June Bug, still young but learning fast, stood at the stall gate, heart thudding like distant thunder. She didn’t know what Jack was chasing west—just that he’d picked her to chase it with him. That was enough. Until the ruckus broke. It came from the saloon two blocks down, first a shout, then a crash, then chairs flying and boots stomping like a herd of wild hogs had been let loose indoors. Voices thick with whiskey bounced off the brick walls. “…and he’s got that little mule with him too!” someone slurred, followed by a peel of cruel laughter. “Looked like she just got weaned!” Another barked, “Bet she couldn’t pull a toothpick from a pie!” The stable hands chuckled from their perches on feed sacks. But one, skinny, straw-haired, maybe seventeen, snuck a longer glance at June Bug. His laughter faded into something quieter. “She don’t look like much,” he muttered, “but there’s fire in her eyes.” The stable door flew open. Jack stood in the threshold, hat low, shadow long. Dust clung to his coat, and his jaw was tight as hickory bark. Behind him swaggered a mountain of a man, face red with liquor and ego, arms like iron girders, and the mean glint of a bruised pride. “You think you’re better than me just ‘cause you whisper to mules?” the big man spat, stomping forward. “Bet that runt of yours couldn’t pull my rig outta the ditch!” Jack didn’t flinch. Just stared, that quiet weight behind his silence speaking louder than any shout. The man sneered and yanked his thumb toward the street. “Eight kegs of railroad spikes. Steel-wheeled wagon. You hook her up, and if she moves it five feet, I’ll buy your supper and shine your boots. But if she don’t—” he paused, eyeing the worn handle of Jack’s blade—“I get that fancy knife of yours.” Still no words from Jack. Just a glance, quiet, certain, at June Bug. She was already walking toward him. The stable hands scrambled to their feet. A group of dockhands and card players drifted over from the saloon. Even the blacksmith paused mid-swing, his hammer suspended in midair. A hush rolled over the street, thick as fog off the river. Jack adjusted the rig, buckling her into the traces with skilled hands. He moved like this wasn’t a contest but a ceremony, reverent, slow, sure. One last pat on her flank, one soft word no one else heard. June Bug stepped into place before the beast of a wagon, an old river-freight hauler, wheels rimmed in iron, each keg of railroad spikes stacked like cannonballs. The street seemed to lean in to watch. The big man crossed his arms, smirking. “Let’s see this little thing embarrass herself.” June Bug lowered her head. Set her hooves. Then she brayed. It wasn’t a cry. It was a call. A war song, half-coal dust, half mountain wind. It echoed off the river stones, snapped sparrows into flight, and made more than one grown man blink. She pulled. The chains jumped. The wagon moaned. The wheels gave a stubborn screech. Then they moved. Not fast. Not far. But they rolled. Six feet. Clean. The crowd exploded. Someone tossed a bowler hat into the air. Another slapped the blacksmith’s shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him into his forge. Voices rose, “Did you see that?,” “Mule’s got fire!,” “I’ll be hog-tied!” The big man stood frozen, mouth gapped. He fumbled in his coat, pulled out a silver coin, and pressed it into Jack’s hand without a word. Jack nodded once, tucked it away, and walked June Bug back to the livery without a glance behind him. That night, camped on a bluff above town beneath the wide Missouri sky, the fire crackled slow. The breeze was sweet with river reed and honeysuckle. Crickets sang their dusty tune. June Bug lay curled in the grass, flank still warm from the effort, ears flicking at night sounds. Jack leaned back on his elbows, looking at the stars. “Well,” he said at last, voice soft as the smoke curling above them, “I reckon they know your name now.” She snorted once, then closed her eyes. Respect wasn’t given out here. You earned it. You pulled it. You dragged it, one wheel-screeching inch at a time. And tonight, she had carved her name into the wind.