by Elmer Kelton
It had not always been like this. They had worked together when Charlie was a big button and Page a cowboy in his twenties. They had ridden broncs together for twenty dollars a month and roped wild cattle out of the thickets and slept on the same blanket under the prairie stars, at a time when the buffalo-grass turf still knew the bite of wagonwheels more than the crush of pneumatic tires. Those had been the good days, the young days, when five dollars in his pocket made a cowboy feel rich as a packinghouse owner. But a change had gradually come over Page. What seemed at first a healthy ambition developed into a cancerous growth, relentlessly twisting him into a driven slave.
Charlie had once heard a cowboy say that most men get drunk on whiskey, but Page Mauldin got drunk on business.
Page said, “Met the chotas comin’ out of your place. Picked up some of your hombres, I reckon.”
“I didn’t have no hombres. They did catch a couple that stopped here to get somethin’ to eat.”
“Damn Immigration, they’re thicker’n screwworm flies. I had a crew of mojados buildin’ fence on my Brewster County place. Immigration suspicioned they was out there but they never could find them; those boys could hide under a bush too small for a rabbit. Finally, the day the boys finished the job, they all went down to a windmill to take theirselves a bath in the tank. Immigration slipped up on them while they was in the water. You never seen such a scatteration of naked men in all your life . . . runnin’ ever whichaway through the brush with them chotas after them like huntin’ dogs. They never caught a one of them boys. After the Immigration give up and left, the boys come driftin’ back to pick up their clothes. All but one. Last time I was out there his clothes was still hangin’ on the fence where he left them. I expect there’s still some poor lonesome Mexican boy out yonder prowlin’ the thickets, naked as the day he was born . . . ashamed to show his face ... or anything else.”
Page looked dourly at his cup. “Damn if I know why I’m sittin’ here wastin’ time. I got a dozen places to be.”
“If you don’t slow down you’ll take a heart seizure one of these days, and then we’ll always know where you’re at.”
“A man’ll rust out before he wears out.” Page stared across the steaming cup toward the ewes in the shearing pens. He changed the subject. “I can’t tell that the dry spell has hurt your sheep much.”
“Sheep’s a dry-weather animal by nature, as long as you don’t overdo it.”
“I tell you, Charlie, they got an old-timey drouth out west of the Pecos. Remember 1918? Country’s got a scorched smell to it, like there’d been a prairie fire over it, only there ain’t been nothin’ to burn.” He grimaced. “I seen that your surface tank has gone dry over in the Red Mill pasture. Why don’t you drill a well there and be done with the worry?”
“It’s a long ways down to water, and it’d cost a right smart. I might need the money later to buy feed with.”
“If you’d swallow that hard-headed pride and go to the PMA office, the government would pay half the cost of a well for you.”
“I’ll spend my own money if I spend any atall.”
“Damned if I understand you, Charlie. Everybody takes money one way or the other, directly or otherwise. The railroads get it . . . and the airlines . . . and the schoolteachers. Half the people that go around talkin’ about independence and free enterprise have got their own pipeline to the government money. They each got a different name for it, is all. Them livestock of yours, they won’t give a damn whether you pay for a well with your money or Uncle Sam’s. The water will taste the same.”
Charlie squeezed the tin cup so hard he bent it a little. “Anything I’ve ever done on this ranch, I’ve done because I thought it was worth somethin’ to me. If it’s worth buildin’, I’ll do it myself. If it’s not worth enough for me to spend my own money on it, it’s not right to expect somebody else to do it, maybe some New York ribbon clerk that’s havin’ a hard-enough time feedin’ his own.”
“That ribbon clerk has got his. He’s got a minimum wage, and unemployment pay if his job gives out; that’s somethin’ me and you ain’t got. His kids get cheap lunches in school because the government gives food away. He rides to work on a subsidized bus or in a subway that don’t charge him what it really costs to run. If he’s bought him a house, he’s probably got a government loan at interest a lot cheaper than me and you can get. We ain’t paupers, Charlie; that ain’t the point. Most of the people who get government money ain’t paupers. It ain’t given to us because we need it; it’s given to us because somebody needs us . . . they need our vote. So everybody’s gettin’ it, and you’re payin’ your tax money for it. Only way you’ll ever get any of that back is to claim what’s comin’ to you. If you don’t, somebody else will.”
Stubbornly Charlie said, “That ain’t the way I was brought up, or you either. We was taught that every man starts with an even chance. We was taught to believe in a man rustlin’ for himself as long as he’s able. If you get to dependin’ on the government, the day’ll come when the damn federales will dictate everything you do. Some desk clerk in Washington will decide where you live and where you work and what color toilet paper you wipe yourself with. And you’ll be scared to say anything because they might cut you off of the tit.”
“Government’s done some good things for us, Charlie. You think the electric companies would’ve ever got off of their lard butt and built lines out to these farm and ranch houses if it hadn’t been for the REA? They don’t tackle nothin’ they don’t see a profit in. We’d still be lightin’ a kerosene lamp when the sun goes down.”
“But that was a loan; it’s bein’ paid back. Nobody got it free. I got no quarrel either with the educational things like the county agent comin’ out here and teachin’ these Flores kids how to feed a lamb or how to tell one grass from another, and the Soil Conservation Service showin’ us how to kill brush and hold the grass and turf together. But the things we can do for ourselves, we ought to do without holdin’ out a tin cup.”
Charlie looked across the pasture, remembering. “You never did know my ol’ granddaddy; he died when I was still a boy. He come to this country when the Comanches still carried the only deed. Granddad, he kept his powder dry and didn’t look to the government to hold his hand. He went through cruel hard times when there was others takin’ a pauper’s oath so they could get money and food and free seed, but he never would take that oath. He come within an inch of starvin’ to death, and he died a poor man. But he never owed any man a debt he didn’t pay, and he never taken a thing off the government.”
“He’s been dead a long time, Charlie.”
“Not long enough that I’ve forgot what he taught me. I’ve always paid for what I wanted, or I’ve done without.”
Page Mauldin emptied his cup. “That’s the difference between us, Charlie. You don’t believe in this stuff and you stand by your convictions. I don’t believe in it either, but I take it because it’s easy money and because everybody else does. You’ll shove your feet under a poor man’s table as long as you live.”
Three hundred yards out from the corrals a little bunch of sheep was being driven along the netwire pasture fence. Two riders broke away and came loping in to open a gate. Kathy Mauldin and Manuel Flores were racing each other. Charlie frowned, hoping Kathy wouldn’t hurt that roan.
Both youngsters jumped down, hitting the ground running. At the gate they wrestled playfully to see which would grab the latch first. At the distance and over the bleating of the sheep, Charlie could not hear what they said to each other, but he could tell they were laughing.
“I wisht you’d look at that,” Page said darkly. “These kids nowadays, they can’t tell one color from another. I wonder sometimes what this world’s comin’ to.”
Charlie shrugged. “It’ll be them that has to live in it, not us. We’re already over the hill.”
Manuel swung the gate open, jumped back into his saddle and turned toward the little bunch of sheep. By his gestures Charlie
surmised he was telling Kathy where to position herself and the roan horse to help put the sheep through the gate. It was a waste of time, for Kathy already knew more about sheep than Manuel could tell her.
Page watched, still frowning. “You’re raisin’ yourself a good cowhand there, Charlie. I wish Diego had raised one or two like that.”
“Manuel? He’s a good boy, as willin’ a kid as you’ll ever see.”
“Too bad he’s a Mexican.”
Charlie glanced sharply at Page. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean if he wasn’t, he could make himself into just about anything he wanted to be—doctor, lawyer—even a banker if he’s got a mean streak in him.”
“A doctor would be my bet. You ought to watch him with animals.” Charlie pondered. “I reckon he could still be any of them things if he was of a mind to. Everybody gets his chance in this country.”
“Not everybody, Charlie. Damn shame he wasn’t born white. But I reckon the country’ll need good cowboys, too, for a while yet. I know I will. I’m leasin’ me another outfit.”
Charlie looked thoughtfully toward the black Cadillac. More hard miles ahead. “You ever goin’ to be satisfied, Page?”
Not many men in West Texas spoke reproachfully to Page Mauldin. Not many dared. There was a widely circulated story about him—untrue but illustrative of the view most people had. Page was supposed to have made a large purchase in a town far from home. When the clerk asked what bank he wanted to draw on, Page was reported to have said, “It don’t matter; I got money in all of them.”
Even the Boston wool buyers, ordinarily as independent as a hog on ice, spoke with some deference to and about Page Mauldin. His wool clip was scattered in half a dozen warehouses, and it was among the biggest in every one.
Page said, “Charlie, I come over to offer you a chance to go into this deal with me. It’s a chance for you to make somethin’.”
“I already got somethin’.”
“This little greasy-sack outfit? It ain’t big enough to cuss a cat on.”
“Big enough to suit me.”
“I been tellin’ you for years—if you ain’t there when the balloon goes up, they make the flight without you. You don’t have to sit here on a poor-boy spread all your life.”
“It’s made a good livin’ for two families—mine and Lupe’s. It’s paid for. A man can have a little bit and feel rich, or he can have a lot and feel poor. Sometimes, Page, Ifeel like you’ll be poor all your life.”
“A man’s got to build somethin’ he can leave for his daughter.”
“You’ll leave it a lot sooner than you think if you don’t take to slowin’ down.”
The sun had set, but daylight lingered as Manuel Flores walked from his house down toward the barn where Kathy had told him she had left her new .22. He carried his own ancient singleshot, the stock dull and scratched, the original front sight long since replaced by a dime, fitted and filed down. He didn’t see Kathy at the barn, where she said she would meet him; he guessed she was still up at the Flagg house eating supper.
A boy of about his own age walked out toward him from the shearers’ camp, stopping to regard the rifle in Manuel’s hand. “Going to shoot an elephant?”
Manuel nodded at Chuy Garcia, the capitán’s son. They had been schoolmates ever since the first grade. Chuy usually spoke Spanish when he could, so Manuel answered him in kind. “Just a jackrabbit or two. Kathy Mauldin has a new rifle she wants to try out.”
“That rich little guera? She has a new everything. With all that money, all she has to do is snap her finger.”
Manuel studied Chuy uncomfortably. Chuy never had much tolerance for gringos in general and rich ones in particular. In school he was everlastingly plotting some minor form of rebellion to demonstrate that he needed nothing they had to offer.
“Kathy is all right,” Manuel said defensively.
“Because she never makes you take off your hat and bow to her, and say ‘Yes, madama’, and ‘No, madama’? You think she sees you as an equal? You are a fool, Manuel. She is laughing at you all the time.”
Manuel began to be flustered. “You are mistaken, Chuy.”
Chuy snorted. “Why do you think she wants you to go hunting with her? It is so she can show off her new rifle and be better than you are because you have only that old relic.”
Manuel rubbed his hand along the worn stock. “It is a good rifle.”
“But old. Where did you get it?”
“Mister Charlie gave it to me. It is one he used a long time ago.”
“Mister Charlie! Always Mister Charlie! Generous, isn’t he, giving you something so old and worn out that he no longer wants it? I suppose you bowed and told him how grateful you were?”
“I said ‘Thank you,’ the way my father told me to. I did not bow.”
“It was probably your father who bowed, then. They are great ones to bow and speak softly, these old men. They are all afraid some gabacho will not like them.”
“I do not like you to talk about my father that way. I do not see your father talk up to the ranchers, either.”
“Because he is afraid like all the rest of them. He is too old to change his ways. He has been under the gabacho paternalism so long he would not know how to live without it.”
Manuel mulled over the word. “What do you mean, paternalism?”
“The way the rancher pats you on the head and treats you like some pet dog, the way I saw old Charlie Flagg do to you this afternoon.”
Manuel thought back, puzzling until he remembered how Charlie had pushed Manuel’s hat down. “He meant no harm by that . . . it is just his way of playing.”
“A man plays with a dog, too.”
Manuel’s face twisted. The capitán’s son always made him uncomfortable, made him feel somehow disloyal to his blood. Yet in some disquieting way he was always drawn to listen, to consider. Chuy usually left him a lingering and troubled suspicion that there was truth in what he said.
He wished sometimes that Chuy Garcia would move from Rio Seco. Manuel did not like this uneasiness that Chuy aroused in him.
Kathy Mauldin came whistling down from the big rock house. Chuy said, “Listen to her. I bet she had a better supper than you and me.”
Kathy was oblivious to Chuy’s contempt for her. “Hi, Chuy,” she said cheerfully. “Want to go shoot a few rabbits with us?”
Chuy looked Manuel in the eye as he coldly replied to Kathy, “I have more important things to do.” He walked back to the shearers’ camp.
If he had meant to offend her with his tone, he failed. Kathy skipped on to the barn and came back with the new .22 in her hands. “Okay, Manuel, let’s go. I bet I can outshoot you.”
Manuel cut a quick glance at her. Chuy had aroused a nagging suspicion. “We’ll see,” he said with a sudden reserve.
This had been a moderately good jackrabbit year, although Manuel thought dry weather was causing some drop-off in numbers. They were not overrunning the country as in the occasional lush years of tall grass and plentiful weeds. He remembered what Charlie Flagg had told him once:
“Nature has a way of protectin’ the wild creatures, like the jackrabbits and the cottontail. You take a good year, when there’s plenty to eat and the rabbits are healthy, they just naturally breed up better. They have bigger litters, and more litters in a year’s time. Seems like when the year is good, God likes to see more creatures alive to enjoy it. You take another year when it’s dry and the animals have a hard time, Nature cuts the numbers to fit the feed. She ain’t sentimental. Some starve to death, and maybe some disease like rabbit fever sweeps the country. But mainly there’s just less rabbits born. There’s not as many litters, and not as many babies to the litter. He knows how much feed there’s goin’ to be, and He fits the creatures to it.”
Manuel had always liked to hunt jackrabbits, ever since Lupe had decided he was old enough for Charlie’s .22. For justification he often reminded himself that it didn’t take many
jackrabbits to eat as much as a sheep, and that if the jackrabbits became numerous enough they might conceivably starve out the sheep and cattle. That was one reason many ranchers. were liberal in their tolerance for responsible rabbit hunters who would not be reckless and bring down a bigger animal. But Manuel knew this, on his part, was only an excuse. The simple truth was that he liked to hunt. And about the only thing in open season the year around was the jackrabbit.
A hundred feet away a gray jackrabbit popped out of a mesquite and began to gallop along slowly, long black-tipped ears working back and forth while he tried to decide if he was in any danger.
Manuel said, “Let’s see how that new gun shoots.”
Kathy Mauldin shook her head to fling her long braid back over her shoulder and out of her way. She closed the bolt and raised her rifle. She whistled softly, gambling whether the rabbit would stop out of curiosity or be startled into flattening its ears back and streaking away. The rabbit stopped and sat on its haunches, its sensitive ears working. The rifle cracked. The rabbit took one long jump and fell.
Another jackrabbit, flushed by the shot, darted out from nearly. Kathy feverishly worked the bolt back and tried to ram another cartridge into the breech. Manuel fired. The rabbit rolled, its white belly flashing.
Kathy whistled. “Hit him on the run. I couldn’t of done that, even with this semiautomatic.”
Manuel straightened a little, allowing himself a moment of pride. “With a singleshot you have to learn to shoot straight. You just get one chance.”
The girl sniffed. “You’re braggin’. Bet you can’t do it again.”
A cottontail rabbit broke from beneath a prickly pear clump. Manuel brought his rifle up in reflex, then lowered it.
“Aren’t you goin’ to shoot?”
He shook his head. “I never did like to kill a cottontail.”
He didn’t know exactly why. The jackrabbit with its lanky body and gangly legs was not a pretty creature, not one to arouse any protective feeling. Besides, its speed and wily trait of zigzagging gave it a good chance, made it fairer game. But the little cottontail with its soft furry body and its large brown eyes seemed pathetically helpless. Manuel felt the same emotion toward the cottontail that he felt for dogie lambs and calves.