Duster (9781310020889)

by Roderus, Frank

  Mister Sam stood up and fished around in the pockets of his linen duster for a scrap of paper. He was the only one of us wearing a ready-made coat like that, and he did stand out real fine with the fire flickering bright patches of light on that nearly white-colored linen. Once he found the paper, he smoothed it out and squatted by the fire to read. He cleared his throat and held the piece of paper out way far away from him.

  "We brought up 618 head with us from the Frio. I haven't checked again since we got here, but I don't believe we lost any today when we crossed. Ike's tally, this side of the river, was 273. Most of both herds were mavericks, and we gathered only our own brands of those that had already been marked.

  "Putting Ike's figures with mine for the stock book, I show 262 animals with my Rocker S, 2 S and Pine Tree brands. Charlie, there's 111 with your CJ brand. Hollis has 96 steers in his bunch." Mister Sam looked up from the paper for a minute. "Some of yours are pretty nice-looking stuff, B.J. You might want to cut a few out and hold them another year.

  "Eben, Mister Thorn has 161. And Duster, you've got 78 there. That leaves 183 that belong to MacReedy. He authorized me to make his herd and sell them." He folded the paper and shoved it back into a pocket.

  "Now then, what I figured to do if it's agreeable with everyone, is to drop off what spare hands we don't need and start moving day after tomorrow. That way, if anyone wants to send cattle back to wait another year and hope for a better market, the boys going back can carry them along and turn them loose closer to home."

  I felt my heart drop. If there was one thing Mister Sam Silas didn't need it was to have me along when we had so many hands in the bunch some was being sent home. Not that I could blame him. It takes a lot more people to chase cows out of the brush than to drive a herd. Still, I'd been feeling awful good until then.

  When we set out, I'd been grateful for the thirty cents a day. Then, when I found out I was getting a share of the mavericks I had worked out that fifty of them could mean $300 hard money if the market held. And 78 cows—that would be over $400 maybe. That much hard money would make an awful lot of difference at home. I didn't know for sure, but I calculated it should meet the taxes, pay us up with Mister James's mercantile, and keep us going for another year to boot. But I guess I was getting greedy. I'd been hoping to make enough off day wages to buy me a hat and maybe a pair of boots, too.

  "I'm going along on the drive myself," Mister Sam went on, "and I'll take Ike Partley and Jesus with me. And of course old Bill. I couldn't eat without him to do the cooking." Mister Sam looked over his shoulder into the shadows near Digger Bill's scattered-out cook packs. "But you didn't hear me say that, did you? Darn your lazy ears!"

  "Naw-sir, I ain't heerd a thing."

  "Right." Mister Sam looked at Charlie Emmons for him to say something.

  "I reckon I'll get back home and see to things there. Johnny can go along for us." Charlie Emmons was about the only man around Dog Town who called his brother by his right name instead of Split.

  I wasn't much surprised that Charlie would go home and turn the trail work over to Split. Everyone knew Charlie was getting sweet on Mister Hardy's daughter Sara, and with Sara coming on nineteen and not married, Charlie knew he should do his courting now while she'd be getting worried about what folks would say if she didn't marry soon.

  "I'll ride along," B.J. Hollis said.

  "Eben?"

  "Me and Tommy'll come for Mister Thorn."

  "And you'll be coming too, won't you, Duster?"

  "Yes, sir," I said, tickled to get the chance, and surprised too.

  "All right then," Mister Sam said. "Crazy Longo will be riding for MacReedy, and if it makes any difference Jesus Menendez will be on his payroll for the drive instead of on mine. Okay?" Everybody nodded, me included. "Then if anyone wants to send some cattle back, cut them out of the herd tomorrow and bed them down separate."

  We all got up and drifted off toward our bedrolls or a monte game. Mister Sam Silas, though, walked along with me. When we was out of earshot from the others, he said, "I hired you to come the full drive. That hasn't changed." I got to feeling a lot better right then. I'd been worried, selfish-like, about my thirty cents a day. "But there's one thing. I'd like you to handle the remuda." That kicked me down a peg again. Still, I was going along. And Mister Sam Silas hadn't forgot our talk. Things were really mighty fine, everything considered.

  And not only that, but I got a real special treat after that night. Most folks only get the chance to wake up to a fine morning once a day at the most. Me, I got to wake up out of my warm soogan and greet the next day twice. Once was about midnight when Fidelio rousted me out for the middle watch over the herd. The next time was about dawn.

  It don't get any easier, that getting out of bed, just because you do it more often. The only improvement was that the second time I woke up to the smell of Bill's cooking—bacon and johnnycakes and that dark, rich coffee that neither Ike nor Jesus could copy very good. That almost made it worth getting up.

  That day was about as easy as we was going to have for a while, and we made the most of it. We weren't supposed to move the herd yet for another day, and it turned out nobody wanted to send any cows back, so all we had to do was to keep the critters together and let them get to the river to drink occasionally. Knowing that, we took our time over breakfast and stuffed ourselves good until Bill got tired of cooking and chased us away from his fire. We knew whenever Bill picked up a skillet and told us to scat, we better do it quick, or the closest heads were likely to get cracked.

  After we'd been chased away from breakfast we settled our gear again, though there wasn't really any need. Everything was already in shape after the cow hunt, but there was always some fixing up to be done.

  Later on most of the Mexican boys sat down to play some more monte. It seemed they never could get enough of gambling, and what money and trappings they owned changed hands pretty regular. Not having much of anything to wager— and, truth to tell, not knowing much of anything about the game—I never got bit by that bug and stayed away from the blankets except to watch sometimes when there was a big wager going on.

  Right then, I didn't feel like watching someone else pike monte, and the boys who were going back to Dog Town had drawn the work for the day, so there wasn't a single thing I had to do.

  There was a young steeldust gelding in the remuda, though, that I'd had my eye on lately and hadn't had a chance to try out yet. Since I had the time, I fetched my saddle and rope, tied the rag around my head, and went to cut the steeldust out of the cavvayard.

  "Hey, there, Jesus, you wanta ride out and look at some country?"

  "I don' think so. I think today maybe I gonna get rich from these estupido cow hunters."

  "Last time I looked you was near as broke as me and didn't have much to gamble with."

  "That was before las' night."

  "Okay." I waved to him and went on. It was an awful nice day—real warm, and the brush wasn't so thick here as it had been, so I left my coat and leggings and just took out riding.

  The steeldust wanted to act up at first and he set to crow-hopping and bucking just a little bit. Being more interested in staying on top of him than in so-called form—like we all was then since we was working at it instead of showing off—I dug in with both heels and both hands and clung tight as a tick. In not more than a minute or two, we'd come to a understanding, that steeldust and me, and we set off. It turned out I'd been right about him, and he had a real easygoing traveling gait.

  Since we'd be heading south to the Nueces again and then east toward Rockport, I figured to go north to look at someplace I hadn't seen and wasn't likely to for a while. Besides, I'd never yet seen the Atascosa.

  That steeldust ate up the couple of miles to where the Frio and the Atascosa come together in no time, and off to my left, then, I could see the outlet where water off the Frio came into the channel after passing real close to our homeplace. I thought about how some of that water had be
en only a few miles from Ma and the little kids—more recent than me it had been close to them.

  I'd never been away from home much before. As a matter of fact, I couldn't recollect spending a night away from home in all the time since Pa left, though once or twice he had took me with him overnight when he went out hunting for hogs in the mottes up along the Frio.

  Up until I saw the Frio again, I hadn't thought too much nor too often about missing anybody, but now all of a sudden, I got to thinking on them—how Ma always used to make a game out of the work that needed done and how when she'd pick up a tool to be used or even a dishrag, she'd call out the word for it and the one that spoke up first with the right spelling would get a treat after supper or would maybe get to turn over a chore to someone else that missed a spelling question or used bad grammar or was messy at table. Ways like that somehow seemed to lighten the load when there was work to be done.

  She had sort of graduated me from the spelling questions a time back, saying I was too much older to make it fair on the little kids, but in place of spelling, she'd every once in a while throw a ciphering question at me. I might be out at the milking pen trying to wrestle a little milk out of a half-wild range cow or back behind the house whaling away with the ax and all of a sudden she'd stick her head out the door and holler at me. "Douglas. How many pecks of pecans are you going to sell to Mister James at seven cents if you need to bring home a dollar fifteen? Quick now." And she'd stand there and glare at me until I worked it out and told her. Then she'd pop back inside to her work without another word. Unless I was wrong—then I'd hear plenty.

  Sitting there on the steeldust, all by myself and watching the Frio come tumbling into the Atascosa, I got to thinking on that and sat for a long time grinning to myself like a fool who thought he had good sense. Just for the fun of it, I said my times tables out loud to myself and got all the way up to "eight times nine equals..." before I missed a lick.

  It's a funny thing, but when I got done talking to myself and grinning, I got the strangest sort of tickle down in my throat and in behind my eyes and before I caught on to what I was going to do, I like to bust out crying for just no reason at all. I got mad at myself for that. It's not proper for a growed boy to bawl. And though I shouldn't of done it, I took it out on the steel-dust, snatching his head around and digging at him as hard as I could without spurs, and he took off at a run upriver along the Atascosa.

  After a time, I took a note of how foolish I was being and slowed the horse down to a walk lest I run him until he got sol-laoed. When he was cooled off some, I stopped and crawled down off him so he could stand and blow.

  I was mad at myself for treating the steeldust so, and at the same time I was feeling kind of foolish about being such a baby and yet feeling lonesome too. The mad and the foolish and the lonely was all mixed up inside my belly, and I laid down in a patch of shade to get myself put back together.

  I hadn't meant to, but I must of fell asleep, for the next thing I knew the sun had shifted until it was shining right on my face and I had laid there and sweat until my shirt was plastered right to my ribs, and when I opened my eyes there was a couple of fellows on horseback looking practically straight down at me, they were so close. It came to me then that it was somebody talking that woke me. I blinked the sweat out of my eyes and looked up at them and they looked almighty high from where I was laying.

  "Wake up, kid, we're talkin' to you."

  I blinked some more and sat up so they wouldn't seem so tall. They was both hard looking fellows with a good week's whiskers and dirty, store-bought shirts without any collars attached. When I got upright I could see one of them had a pistol stuffed into the top of his pants and the other's coat hung heavy on one side like maybe he had a gun too.

  "Speak up, kid, afore I get down off this horse an' larrup your backside for yuh."

  "Yessir," I said, though I didn't remember it if they had asked me a question.

  "That's better," the closer one said. "D'you see a herd come through here headin' nawth?"

  I thought on that for a second, but the only trail herd I'd seen so far this year was ours. And it was going east, not north. "No, sir. I can't say as I have."

  The one that had been doing the talking got a mean look on his face and raised up in his stirrups, but the other one reached out and touched him on the arm before he got around to saying anything.

  "Leave 'im be, Ben. He's just some local kid. Looks like some dirt farmer's young'un. He don't know nothing."

  Ben jerked his arm away but he sat back down in his saddle and didn't say nor do anything more except to scowl a little. Then he yanked his horse around and dug his spurs in deep. He was so close I almost got kicked when the horse lit out. The other one took off behind him, but at least he looked to see he was clear of me before he threw his spurs.

  I was just as glad they was gone, for I'd been getting a mite scared there. It had rankled that they took me for a dirt farmer, but I hadn't felt like correcting either of them—most especially that Ben. He looked to be as mean as any snake and about as quick-tempered too. And to tell the truth, I could understand their mistake, what with me wearing my rag instead of a hat and with shoes instead of boots, and when I got to my feet I saw that the steeldust had wandered off while I slept so it probably looked like I'd walked to there.

  I set off to collect the steeldust and get back to the herd. It was a shame I didn't know more about them fellows at the time.

  14

  WE GOT A fair start that next morning— or I should say, the rest of the bunch did. We had another big breakfast, and at first light the drovers was out there getting the herd stirred along. The steers was already on their feet and beginning to drift, so all that was necessary was to point them in the right direction.

  I sat with both hands wrapped around a tin cup of hot coffee and watched them go to work. I was stuck at the breakfast fire with Digger Bill for a while yet, since the horses would travel so much quicker than the cows. "Come on dere, Dustah boy. Ain't no sense in castin' cow eyes over yander. Maybe nex' year you can go with 'em as a drover, but raht now you'se back here playin' mama to th' ponies same as I'se bidin' with the mules."

  "Okay," I said and started to pitch my coffee into the fire.

  "Naw, naw, naw, now don't you do sech a rash thing as that. Ole Bill's cawfee is jus' too good to go wastin'. You set still an' finish that up. Then me'n you'll get ouah work done an' get on the road."

  I had really ought to be working and I knew it, so I started to get up, but Bill waved me back down again. "Set," he sort of growled at me.

  "Bill," I said with a grin, "you ain't half as mean as you make out to be."

  "Boy, do you git me riled I'll show you jus' how mean I can make out t' be, an' I'll be provin' it with lumps smack on top o' yore haid."

  "All right...you're the boss around this fire. I won't buck your say-so."

  "An' don't you never forgit it neither." Bill grumbled and fussed under his breath for a minute while he puttered with his sacks and pots and stuff. Then he fished a sure enough crockery cup out of one of the sacks. He filled it up with coffee and sat down next to me with a contented rumble that was somewhere between being a sigh and a grunt.

  "Now young'un, you an' me, we'll get along right fine we will, long as you recollect a thing or two. T' start off with, you stay out o' my cookin' sacks. I got fixins in there, sho, but sometimes I tote my val'ables in them sacks too. So do you want somethin' to gnaw on you jus' ast me. I ain't never too much in a hustle to roust out a bite fo' me an' my helper—not so long as you'se bein' a good helper. 'Nother thing is, don't you nevah get in a rush aroun' me, boy, I'se the he-coon o' this cookfire an' I don't like to push meself. Me an' Mistah Sam been together a whole lot of years, an' we got us a understandin'. I don' tell him how to handle his cows an' he don' tell me how to run my cookin' fahr." He nodded sharp and quick once. "It work out fine fo' the both of us."

  Now, I'm just about as lazy natured as the next fellow, a
nd to have someone come right out and tell me not to be in a hurry over work suited me just fine, and I told him so, and reached to pour myself another cup of coffee.

  Bill reached out too and stopped my hand. "They's one other little thing. Do I figure it's time to work, then it's sho time to pitch to it."

  "I guess it's time to work, huh?"

  "It's that time, boy. It sho'ly is."

  And we did. There was tin cups and plates that needed washing—in water, since the river was handy, though it would of been in sand otherwise—and sacks of stuff to tie up and bundles to be put together and lashed in place on the mules.

  I do mean to say, when Digger Bill decided it was time to set down to work he did mean it for fair. But I also got to admit that he never threw work off on me that was any more or any harder than what he did his own self. If anything it was the other way around. When he got down to it, that man could purely fly. I never could of kept up with the way he dashed around throwing this here and that there and something else in another place.

  Before you knew it, all our leavings was in a hole and covered over, the fire looked like it had never been there, and everything was stowed ready for a packsaddle.

  Bill liked to keep his mules on a picket line that he set out himself every night, and I brought them up to the gear for him. We put the pack frames on them in good order and then Bill told me what I'd been dreading to hear. "Take that pile o' sacks there an' load 'em onto Maize, boy."

  I didn't know anything more about making up a pack load than a half-wit grasshopper would of, but I figured the only way to get it done was to pitch in and try. So, I did.