But right then, we was in Rockport and had cows to sell.
We put the herd on a big holding pasture back from town a ways and settled them in. They looked around like they couldn't figure what was going on, what with sand but no rocks and clumps of grass but not hardly a thorn in sight. These was brush country cows from the Brasada, and I think they didn't know how to eat something that hadn't any spines on it.
It wasn't yet noon, but Bill laid on a feed thick enough to fill up twice as many hungry hands as was with us. "Keeps 'em out o' trouble if'n they eats befo' they heads fo' the city," he explained.
Mister Sam Silas and B.J. Hollis rode into town after dinner and commenced talking with buyers at the hide factories, looking for the best price they could get. We was all hopeful of a good figure since we could see they hadn't many animals in the holding pens right then.
Jesus and me found an empty pen where we could put the horses and not have to worry about them except to water them from time to time. That was a good thing, too, for we'd already been told we'd have to do most of the work keeping the cattle on their bed. At least, until the growed folks had had a chance to get into town and work off steam.
I didn't really mind. I didn't want to be making any public appearances until I had some coins in my pockets and could get a hat on my head. I was still wearing that dumb rag Bill had give me back up the trail.
So me and Jesus stayed in camp the rest of the day and that night too while the other boys rollicked their way from one end of Rockport to the other. We didn't get to go along, but we surely heard about it after they got back.
Crazy Longo was feeling plenty better, we could tell. Him and Ike Partley, though they was a couple sheets to the wind their own selves, carried big old Eben Dyer home. It turned out Eben was just as easygoing drunk as sober, which was a mighty fine thing in a man his size.
Not everybody stayed the same as usual, though. Lickety-Split Emmons who was just always ready for a joke or a laugh came home this night in a fine, foul sulk so that any comment in his direction was turned back with naught more than a grump and a growl.
And, oh, did many a word get thrown his way. I'd never heard the like before, but that Tommy Lucas was talking and laughing so that you'd of thought him and Split should of changed names for a spell.
Tommy came in singing loud and clear. So much so I sure was hoping there wasn't none of the governor's reconstruction police around or there'd be trouble for fair. For it was "The Bonnie Blue Flag" he was singing—the only song there was that'd been more popular than Dixie in the recent war and an affront well calculated to put any carpetbagger in a blue burn had any been around to hear.
Then here's to brave Virginny,
The Old Dominion state
With the young Confed'racy at last has linked her fate.
Impelled by her example now
Other states prepare
To hoist high the Bonnie Blue Flag
That bears a single star!
Hurrah! Hurrah! For southern rights, hurrah!
Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag
That bears a single star!
Then here's to our Confed'racy
For strong we are and brave.
Like patriots of old we'll fight
Our heritage to save,
An' rather than submit to...
"Hey, Split ole hoss, you ain't singin' with me now. Come on, boy. Rouse up yore mighty lungs, my friend."
Split glowered at him.
"Well, come on now, boy. You wuz whoopin' it up real fine jus' a bit ago, right boy? Sure, you wuz. I seen it...seen it all." Tommy screwed his face up into a ball trying to wink and he poked an elbow toward Split's ribs. He missed, though, and near fell down. Tommy's legs looked about as sturdy right then as a wet rope, but it didn't faze him none.
"I seen you go to put yer brand on that little heifer in Tully's. Yes, I did. An' I seen her bite you, too."
Tommy howled out loud with his laughing. Split growled something in a voice too low for me to hear, which maybe was just as well.
Since Tommy'd mentioned it, I did notice that Lickety-Split's lower lip looked puffy and sort of gnawed up. It might of been that that put him in such a mood.
Next thing, Tommy looked over at Split with a twinkle in his eye and forced the words of Kathleen Mavourneen to a gay, light tune.
Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn's abreaking,
The horn o' the hunter is heerd on the hill,
The lark from her laht wing the bright dew is shakin'
Oh, Kathleen Mavourneen, what, slumberin' still?
Oh, have you forgot how soon we must sever?
Oh, have you forgot this day we must part?
It may be for years and it may be forever,
Then why are you silent, you voice of my heart?
Tommy shook his head. "Sure hated to see you have to part from that little gal, boy. Sure did hate it." He grinned at Split, and Split glared back for all he was worth but he never said a thing.
"Now, the way I see it," Tommy went on, "what you shoulda done was to let that little ole gal know what a fine, important cow rancher you be. What you shoulda done wuz to cut out a few critters an' make her a present of 'em. That's what you shoulda done, all right."
Split hunched his shoulders a few times like he was getting ready to throw a punch at Tommy, but he still wouldn't say anything.
"No need to be riled," Ike put in. Him and Crazy Longo had laid Eben down on the ground. "You've handed out enough hazing that you shouldn't fly off the handle when somebody else takes it up."
Split, he glared at Ike then and sort of pulled his head down to his shoulders like a big old turtle going into its shell.
"Yeh, take it easy," Crazy Longo said. "You too, Tommy."
Tommy grinned some more but this time the expression kind of got away from him and wandered loose all over his face. His legs gave out and he flowed straight down into a sitting position. For a little while, he sat there rocking back and forth and giggling to himself. Then he fell over backward and went to sleep.
Split snorted like a horse blowing wind. Then he laid himself down real, real careful right alongside of Tommy, and he went to sleep too.
"That takes care of them two," Crazy Longo observed. He set down nearby and pulled a small, flat bottle from his coat pocket. "Now, fer me an' you."
Ike set down beside him and they shared what was in it, whiskey I figured, taking turns at the bottle.
Now, I’d never had a drink of whiskey, though most of the menfolks around McMullen County were prone to take a drink from time to time, and I begun to figure I was too old to go on saying I'd never tried it. So I sat myself down next to Crazy Longo and politely asked, "Can I have some?"
Crazy Longo looked over at Ike. And Ike, he thought for a minute and then, real solemn-like, he nodded his head once.
They handed the bottle over to me and I wiped the top with my wrist like I'd seen them do. I took a good long pull of it, swished it around in my mouth to admire the taste a bit and swallowed.
Well now, those as have done the same thing know the heat treatment my insides got, and those that haven't wouldn't understand anyway. I'll let those next few minutes go by explaining that I fetched myself a drink of water and then went off by myself to go to bed.
Ike and Crazy Longo seemed to think it funny, but they got no consideration for folks. They at least could of pounded my back so I could of breathed.
21
"AY, DUSTER. WHAT we wan' do now?" Jesus asked. We was walking along the main street of Rockport, both of us swaggering a bit from the cash money in our pockets.
We'd met Mister Sam Silas and B.J. Hollis at the hotel where they was having breakfast, them having stayed in town close to the buyers overnight, and Mister Sam had paid over our wages to us. It come to $11.40 apiece for the days we'd put in.
"First thing I want to do is go buy me a hat. I'm tired of having a rag on my head." Not that I was wearing it right then. I'd
come to town bareheaded rather than show myself on the city streets looking like something that belonged out on one of those piles of rotten meat.
"Hokay, an' mebe I will buy me a pistole, eh?"
"Aw, what would you do with one? You got no more use for a pistol than I do, an' that ain't none at all."
"But mebbe I need one some time, si? Ef I do ever need one it a good theeng to have it. Si?"
"Yeah, sure, and maybe you better buy a pan too 'cause you never know when you'll come up on a stream that's just lousy with gold dust an' you'll have to stay poor if you don't have a pan tied to your saddle."
"You jus' don't know, Duster."
"I know that'd take 'most all the money you've earned for a whole month of riding, and I know in that time I ain't heard but two shots fired. Once when Bill shot that wild hog for meat and once when Split's gun went off accidental an' he near shot hisself."
Most of the boys owned a gun of one kind or another but left them in their bedrolls and only pulled them out once in a while to make sure they was rusting nicely. I mean, when you get right down to it a pistol on a cow drive ain't all that useful unless you're awful scared of snakes or are one of those who figures it is better to shoot an uppity steer through the horn instead of tailing him down to take the wind out of him. Some folks preferred to do that, but Ike said it was a powerful expensive way to work cattle even if it did get the job done. And a rifle was so big and heavy to carry it wasn't much account on a cow drive either.
"Well, you do whatever you're of a mind to, Jesus, but if you buy you a gun don't go looking for me to be around you. You'll probably go an' shoot your own head off inside of a week, and I don't want to have to dig no hole big enough to bury you."
We walked in a store with a sign over the door reading EMPOREUM: ALTON P. HOGAN, PROP. The place was a lot like Hardy's back home except bigger. It had just about everything a body could want to buy, from plows to pins and back again. Factory-woven cloth or cottonseed or cotton meal, depending on how you wanted your cotton. Shirts and pants and dresses and even ready-made diapers. Face powder and gunpowder. Hats and hams. And the prettiest pair of shiny black boots a body ever laid eyes on. The boots was set up special on a little table that hadn't another thing on it.
"What can I do for you boys?" the storekeep asked. I took him to be Alton Hogan, Prop. He was about as ugly a man as I'd ever laid eyes on, with half a head of hair on top, the missing part starting right in front and shoving back from there, and a heavy beard that might of last been scraped off a week before. What made him so odd looking was that he was skinny but had a fat, flat face with the features all squinched together in the middle. He smiled, though, and when he did he looked so friendly and nice that I forgot all about his being ugly and never paid it more mind.
"Well, sir, Mister Hogan, we come in to do a little shopping. I need a new hat if you got one that ain't too dear."
"Sure, boys, I got whatever you need or think you might want. If you got the cash, I got the goods." He led us over to a shelf that was stacked high with all manner of hats nested one in another. There was regular hats with wide brims and some great big ones that took after the Mex sombrero and little bitty bowlers for the dudes and off to one side was a stack of genuine John B. Stetson hats.
Hogan pointed toward the pile of John B. hats and raised his eyebrows, then he shook his head good-natured like. I knew they'd go for fifteen or even twenty dollars each—and some of them more. Then he made a big show of offering me one of them round little bowlers and putting it back. Next he jumped to the other end of the scale. He dipped down into a box and come up with a couple old army Kossuth hats that looked like they'd been seasoned by running a herd of cattle over them.
Finally he got around to some serious business. He gave my head a good looking over and selected a dark brown hat with a flat crown and about a four-inch brim. I was right taken with it, especially after he set it on my head and it fit just perfect.
"Not bad for guessing the size, huh?"
"Nossir, that's real fine. What's it cost?"
"I'll tell you straight, boy. I can sell that hat to anybody for seven dollars but I can see you young'uns ain't rich. You can have that hat for four dollars even on condition you do the rest of your buying from me too."
It was a fair price and I told him so.
"Then it's a deal, boy. Now, let me fix you up with some new britches. You need 'em bad."
I hadn't really give much thought to the state of my britches, but when I took an open-minded look at myself I had to admit he was right about me needing new togs between my belt and my shoes. I'd been wearing these pants steady for over a month and while I'd tried to keep them clean they'd been rough homespun to start with and were wearing mighty thin in spots. And while I'd managed to come from the Frio to Rock-port without a hat I didn't know that I wanted to go back all that way without pants.
"I dunno. I ain't got much money."
"I know that, boy, but if you'll let me I will set you straight." He moved over to another shelf and pulled down a flat, stiff bundle of blue cloth. "These here pants will gall your backside 'til you think you can't stand it but, boy, they wear like they's made of iron pulled into string and wove into cloth. Do you come back with another herd next year you'll still be wearin' these, and if you ain't, if they've wore out in that time, I'll give you a new pair free for nothing," he said.
Jesus poked me with his elbow. He seemed to be admiring them too. "Sounds fair, but how much are they?" I asked.
"They're regular three dollars but you can have 'em for two. But I'll tell you, out in Californy where they make these Levi britches they go for five dollars now an' was worth upward of twenty during the gold fever days."
"They come clear from Californy?"
"Sure thing. They're so tough they'll be sellin' everywhere there's men with horses to ride an' work to be done. They come all the way 'round the Horn by boat, down to Corpus Christi. Sometimes they ship in here, too, on boats that'll go back with hides and tallow in 'em. It works out."
"All right, I'll take them. If they're half as good as you say they'll be good enough for me."
"They will be, but don't say I didn't warn you if they scratch and gall you somethin' fierce until you get 'em broke in. They're like a horse that way. You gotta ride them awhile before you can enjoy them."
"Mister, are you really a shopkeeper or are you funning me?"
"Whatdya mean, boy?"
"I mean I was told to watch out for city-slickin' store-keeps because they'd try to skin me outta all I had. Now you come along, the first city storekeep I ever seen, and treat me right an' even tell me what to expect wrong with what you're sellin' me. I don't figure it, that's all."
"It's simple, boy. I figure to be here next year and the year after that and for a long time more. I figure you'll buy from me again sometime, and I wouldn't be at all su'prised if you told your friends to stop in here when they wanta do some store buying in Rockport."
"Now, that's the truth, sir. I'll tell 'em sure."
"Fine, boy, fine. I ’ppreciate that. An' now what else you need?" He looked me over again and I could see his eyes ticking off my bandanna and shirt as being usable for a while yet. Then he got down to my feet. "Boots. That's next. Boots."
"I don't reckon so, Mister Hogan. I ain't got money enough for boots." I had worked it out in my head that I'd soon be broke again. As soon as I paid for my hat and pants—and I just had to have them—I'd be left with just $5.40 and that wouldn't buy a pair of boots.
"Come on over here an' let me see what we can do." This time he went behind a cluttered-up counter and dipped underneath. I could hear him rummaging through stuff down there. "These here should fit an' they're the cheapest pair I got, boy. I can let you have them for seven dollars. Any lower and I'd be losin' money."
"I know you're telling me the truth, Mister Hogan, but I ain't got that much left. I just cain't buy no boots. I guess you'd best tend to my friend here. I'm done."
> "You know best about what you can spend, boy. I won't push you none." He turned from me and began eyeing Jesus. "Now what'll it be for you?"
"I theenk I need a pistole," Jesus told him.
Hogan looked Jesus up and down like he was looking for a spot to stick a pin into, and he rubbed at his whiskers on his chin while he studied. "Cheap?"
"Si."
"All right," he said. He searched under the counter some more. When he came back up he had a pretty, new Colt's revolving pistol. Dark and shiny it was, and not so big that Jesus's hand or mine wouldn't fit around the grip.
"Is beautiful," Jesus said. "How much?"
Hogan thought on that some. "Seventeen."
"Senor?"
"I said it's seventeen for the pistol. Comes with a bullet mold. Another dollar fifty for a powder flask, and a dollar for a pound of powder, two of lead and a box of caps. Or you can buy paper ca'tridges already made up with powder and bullets for two cent each. Caps is extra."
Jesus looked like he'd been hit in the face. "So much? There is nothing for less?"
"Nope. Not a thing. There ain't a used gun for sale anywheres right now, and this here's the cheapest we got that's new. Got plenty that cost more."
In the meantime I'd wandered over to the little table that held those fancy boots. The table was off to one side and toward the wall a bit from the counter, and I could see some of the stuff piled up on the shelves under the counter top.
In a corner of one shelf I could see a jumble of old pistols laying there. Hogan looked over my way. He didn't say anything but he seemed to be waiting for me to do something. I just smiled at him and went back over beside Jesus. "Anything else you could use?" I asked him. You could see he was just itching to spend some of his pay even if he couldn't afford a revolver at the prices Mister Hogan was asking.
I guess Hogan could see it too, for he came out from behind the counter and took Jesus by the arm. "Let's see what else you might could use, boy."
Duster (9781310020889) Page 18