The Time It Never Rained

by Elmer Kelton

  Now Charlie was hoping for an early-spring rain to bail him out, to help him stop feeding before long.

  When the last of the feed was poured, the two men spent the rest of the morning working on a windmill which Charlie had named Pee Wee because it afforded only a small stream of water. Lately it hadn’t pumped at all. Even in wintertime, livestock needed plenty of water.

  It was noon when they drove into the ranch yard. Even cold and hungry, Charlie didn’t look forward to mealtime with much anticipation. When he and Mary were alone in the big house there was a cold emptiness Charlie couldn’t get used to. It was a cavernous old place with big, lonely rooms and a deadly quiet. They seemed to have little to talk about; he had wearied of discussing dry weather, and Mary had wearied of hearing about it. Often as not, the loneliness drove Charlie to the refuge of the barn and corrals, or across the yard to sit awhile with the Flores family and listen to the shouts and laughter and happy thumping of bare brown feet. Mary had turned more and more to visiting friends in town and to a bridge club she had joined years ago but never used to find time for.

  Winter wore on relentlessly with a constant series of cold, dry winds that droned a dusty dirge across the hills and prairies, robbing strength from thinning livestock, seeking out and stealing any vestige of moisture that might still cling in hidden places. Out of necessity, feeding became heavier; it took fifteen sacks of cake a day rather than ten to keep the cattle from showing their ribs. It took longer now to circle the pastures and see that the sheep and cattle received extra protein to supplement the meager dry feed they still managed to rustle on the range. Charlie and Lupe each went in their separate pickups now, splitting the work because there was so much of it.

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed grimly as he watched the feed trucks drive in periodically to replenish the diminishing stacks in the barn. He read the bills and wrote the checks and was thankful he had always been of a saving nature.

  Still, whenever a man got to feeling sorry for himself in this part of the country he had only to look to Mexico to see someone in worse condition. Drouth had become a crippling plague down there—starving the fields, starving the livestock, starving the people. The migration of Mexican wetbacks swelled steadily. More and more of them stopped by the ranch, hats in hand, to ask for a job or for something to eat. Desperation lay dark in hungry eyes. More often than not, the hombres wore ragged clothes which no longer fit them. Sometimes their trousers were tied with a length of cord to keep them from falling. Charlie would watch a Mexican hungrily eat raw lard or bacon grease straight out of a can to satisfy some awful craving, and he would feel his stomach turn over.

  Occasionally he came across a wetback far out in the pasture, heading north afoot. Often they scurried for cover, fearing he might be a border patrolman. Once an old Mexican walked to him with his trembling hands in the air, expecting Charlie to clamp steel cuffs on him and take him to jail. Instead, Charlie took him to the house and filled his belly, then pointed him north, into the raw wind. There was more work to the north, and fewer chotas.

  When his back ached from lifting feed sacks, Charlie was sorely tempted to hire one of these men for however long he might be able to keep him. It was not the law which stopped him; Charlie shared the Mexican’s dim view of hard and fast boundary lines. He considered the law to have been passed in ignorance by people a thousand miles away who would not accept the jobs themselves and knew no one who would. The same people who cried to keep foreign workers out were happy to bring foreign wool in so they could buy it cheaper. That way they hanged the rancher on two scaffolds at the same time.

  “No,” he told Lupe Flores, “I got a reputation among the chotas as bein’ a rancher that don’t hire wetbacks. They don’t bother me. If I ever get to the point that I have to hire one, maybe I’ll be able to get away with it awhile.”

  Wherever the coyote had been, he came back. Charlie’s fresh lamb crop was too much temptation. Charlie looked at the chewed-up remains of the first baby lamb and felt his stomach sinking. Before many days there were more. That same old crippled wolf, the tracks showed. And the trapper’s results were as negative as before.

  A wolf drive was out of the question now. Horsemen would stir up the sheep too much for the safety of the new lambs. A cow separated from her calf would hunt until she found it. A ewe lost from her lamb did not concern herself long; the lamb was abandoned, while for the ewe life went on as always. Much as Charlie hated the thought of the bloody sacrifice, he knew it was better to lose lambs on the installment plan than to risk wholesale starvation by cutting them off from their mothers.

  One cold, miserable day Charlie—by pure accident—came upon the old coyote in the middle of a pasture far from headquarters. Charlie was riding an owlheaded brown horse that cow trader Tooter Thomas had palmed off on him, one Charlie had been trying unsuccessfully to trade to someone equally unwary. It had been years since he had owned a horse he considered to be in the same class with Wander, but he could not afford to ride the roan to death. Sometimes he had to accept second best.

  A cold rain set in after Charlie left the barn. It was not enough to put usable moisture in the ground—just enough to soak his clothing and chill him through.

  Only time it’s rained this winter and it catches me six miles from the house, he thought irritably. On a day like this it was easy to be irritable. If there had been enough rain to grow some grass or weeds, he would be happy to get wet.

  Another damn teaser. I’d as soon have the sunshine.

  His sudden confrontation with the coyote was as much a surprise to one as to the other. Without warning Charlie was hauling up on the reins and looking into the amber eyes of the predator which had just walked out of the mesquite not twenty feet away. It was a pitifully old coyote with blackish-brown coat ragged from uneven winter growth. His flanks were lean. Probably his hearing and his eyes had begun to go bad on him. His crippled forefoot, which he held up in front of him, was another handicap he was too old to overcome. Chances were he subsisted mostly on rats and such—and sheep. A rabbit had sense enough to run. A sheep, likely as not, would stand and stamp its foot until it was too late to get away. And even if it ran, it would soon stop to see if the coyote was still coming.

  A sheep perpetually courted disaster just by being a sheep.

  For a moment Charlie and the coyote held their ground and stared at each other, dumfounded. Then the coyote whipped back and sprinted away on its three good legs. Charlie yanked the hornstring loose and grabbed up his rope. He tied it to the horn, shook out a loop and went spurring.

  As a young man in coyote country along the Pecos, Charlie had tried several times to rope a coyote. Only once had he ever made a catch. He saw little chance of doing it now. But here he was, and there was that sheep-killer, and the rope was the only weapon he had.

  For a fleeting second Charlie thought he saw a man watching from the brush, and the sight gave him a start. But there was no time for speculation. The coyote was getting away.

  The lazy brown horse lagged. Cursing, Charlie swung the loop back over his shoulder and lashed the animal’s rump. The brown leaped forward, his hind end momentarily seeming about to overtake the fore part.

  Sensing the horse was closing, the coyote darted to one side. Charlie’s left hand drew hard on the rein, and the horse followed. Charlie kept touching spurs to the brown’s hide, not jabbing him but simply reminding him who the boss was. Once more the coyote turned back, this time almost under the horse.

  Charlie flipped out a small, fast loop, the kind he had learned on the Pecos and had taught to Tom. He saw it drop around the coyote. “Now, you sheep-killin’ devil ...” He sucked a sharp breath between his teeth and yanked the slack up tight like a fisherman setting a hook. The loop fitted around the coyote’s neck and the bad foreleg. Charlie hauled back on the reins, sliding the brown to a stop. The coyote flipped over backward, yelping. Instantly it was up and darted between the horse’s legs. In. panic the brown snorted and jumped.
The coyote went under, trailing the rope. As the horse came down, one hind leg caught in the tangle of lariat.

  “Whoa-a-a, you jugheaded idiot!”

  Caught off balance, Charlie lost a stirrup. The brown bawled in fear and began to pitch, entangling itself more. The loose stirrup flopped up and down while Charlie grabbed for the horn. His rump hit the saddle, hard, then he was up again, this time far out to one side.

  “Whoa-a-a there, I’ll ...”

  That was all he managed to say. He bumped behind the cantle, and he knew he was gone. Instinctively he kicked the other foot out of the stirrup to keep from being hung to the saddle. One more jump and he sailed clear. He landed on his feet, but his weak left leg caved under him with a pain like the hard thrust of a beef-carving knife.

  Busted her again, goddammit! he thought as the muddy ground flew up and slammed the wind out of him.

  He lay struggling for breath, pain flashes darting wildly before his eyes. The brown horse took out as fast as it could run. Caught helpless in the rope, the coyote bounced up and down like a matchbox behind a freight train.

  There wouldn’t be enough left of him for bait. Charlie would have felt a little sorry for him if he hadn’t seen so many dead sheep.

  Slowly getting his breath back, Charlie pushed up onto his hands and knees, then managed to stretch the aching leg out in front of him. He wiped mud from his hands onto his khaki pants and gingerly felt of the leg. Pain popped cold sweat onto his face. Presently he was sure of one thing: the leg had not rebroken.

  He pushed to his feet, but pain pierced him so fiercely that he eased to the ground again. Sprained ankle, that’s what it was. He couldn’t walk on it. Yet, he couldn’t stay here, and it was a cinch that brown horse wasn’t coming back to fetch him.

  If he had been in a pasture closer to home, the horse probably would return to the barn sooner or later. Someone would see it and know there was trouble. But out here too many fences separated him from headquarters. The brown would wander aimlessly over the pasture, finally finding a windmill somewhere and going to water. He couldn’t go home until somebody took him.

  It was worth it, Charlie thought, getting rid of that damn coyote. But this is one hell of a mess.

  He wouldn’t be missed until night, when he failed to show up for supper. By then it would be dark, and he would stand about as much chance of being found in the dark as a snowball stands in hell. Best he could hope for was to sit here until tomorrow. He was already wet and cold, and before long he would probably be hungry. There was no dry wood with which to start a fire, and damn few matches in his pocket. By tomorrow morning he would probably be coughing his lungs out with pneumonia.

  Looks like, Brother Wolf, we got each other.

  He made another painful try to get to his feet. He found he could stand, but he could not put enough weight on the left leg to walk. He looked about for something that might serve as a crutch. And he saw the man.

  A Mexican, afoot, moved uncertainly toward Charlie, halting at intervals as if undecided whether to come ahead or to cut and run. For a moment, before he collected his wits, Charlie felt the same way. He shivered. It was spooky, seeing somebody out here like this, unexpectedly, so far from anywhere. Given a moment to think, he knew what the man was—a wetback crossing the country.

  “Está bueno,” Charlie called. “No tenga miedo.” (“It’s all right. Don’t be scared.”)

  It would be raw irony now for the Mexican to panic and run away when Charlie needed him so badly. For a moment or two it appeared he would. The Mexican was scared, but he came on, a few feet at a time. A dozen paces from Charlie he stopped, wary as a young bronc. “You are not a patrolman?” he asked in Spanish.

  “No. Soy ranchero.”

  The Mexican was young, around twenty or twenty-one, best Charlie could judge. He had several days’ growth of whiskers that had not yet lost a youthful softness. His face was thin. An unhealthy pallor lay dull where the strong brown color should have been. His clothes were too large, though Charlie figured they probably had fit him once. The boy coughed. This cold rain, and the kid had only a worn-out cotton jacket that turned neither water nor wind.

  The boy got his throat clear. “You put on a fine show, senor.”

  Charlie grunted and replied in the boy’s language. “It was not meant for a show.” He stared at the young wetback, and a tug of ancient prejudice came unbidden. For a moment he felt a stir of resentment for his dependence upon this stray Mexican. He felt somehow belittled. But the moment passed, and he was grateful for whatever quirk of chance had placed this boy here.

  “My leg is hurt. Will you help me, muchacho?”

  “Whatever I can do, patrόn.”

  “I cannot walk on this leg, and I cannot sit out here all night in the cold, waiting for help.”

  The boy looked him over. “I cannot carry you. But perhaps I could help you walk.”

  “That is the best we can do.”

  The foot was swelling. The boot was already much too tight to slip off. Charlie looked regretfully a moment at. the good Leddy boot, wishing he could save it. But he could buy more boots; this was the only left foot the good Lord was ever going to give him. He took out his sharp pocketknife and cut a long slit in the leather to ease the pressure.

  “A shame,” said the boy.

  Charlie shrugged agreeing. Those boots had cost him forty-five dollars new. He pointed his chin at the floppy-sole pair the young man wore. “You are a cowboy?”

  “Sí. ”

  Charlie wondered about that. He had seen many a man—Mexican and Anglo—who claimed to be a cowboy but couldn’t pour water out of a boot if the directions were printed on the heel. “Have you ever worked on a ranch?”

  “Sí, all my life I have lived on one ranch. My father was born there before me.”

  Charlie knew, but he asked anyway. “Why are you here, then?”

  “The cattle die because there is no grass. There is nowhere to sell them. Our patrón can no longer keep us all.”

  Charlie wished he had a dollar for every time he had heard substantially the same story, and always true. The thought crossed his mind that this boy, with ranch experience, might be good help around the place.

  “Let’s try it now.” He put his left arm around the boy’s shoulder. They began a slow, tortured movement in the direction of the house. Charlie found he could not lean heavily on the boy; the Mexican was not strong enough to support him. Even with help, Charlie had to put weight on the injured left foot. He would take ten or twelve steps, then stop, his teeth clenched. It was like stepping into a bank of live coals without a boot on.

  They stopped often to rest. After what seemed an hour, Charlie looked back. He could still see where he had roped the coyote.

  “A turtle could outrun us,” he gritted.

  “A turtle would have four good legs. We have only three.”

  Once while they rested the boy pondered, “Perhaps I could find the horse.”

  “You couldn’t catch him, not afoot.”

  An hour of painful limping brought them at last to the two-rut windmill road. Charlie sank to the ground, breathing hard. “This is as far as I can go, muchacho.”

  The boy was nearly exhausted too from supporting so much of Charlie’s weight. “Is it still a long way from the house?”

  “A long way.” Charlie rubbed his foot, grimacing at the throbbing, searing pain. It had swollen so that he knew he would have to finish cutting that boot off when he got home ... if he got home.

  The boy began to cough. They were booming coughs that came from down deep and doubled him over. He’s in worse shape than I am, Charlie thought. But at least he can still walk.

  “Muchacho, would you go on to the house and get help? You can find it easily now. Just follow this road.”

  The boy was dubious. “What of the chotas?”

  “We never see chotas.” Well, almost never.

  The Mexican looked uneasily down the road.

  Char
lie said, “There is medicine for you at the house. And money.”

  The boy took a step or two and stopped. “I need work, señor.”

  “I have no work for you, but I will pay you to bring help. You will be fed and given a bed.”

  The boy broke into a fit of coughing. Reluctantly he said, “Bueno, I will go.” He started down the road.

  Charlie called after him. “I never did ask you your name.”

  The boy turned. “José. José Rivera.”

  “Come back for me, José.”

  “I will be back, señor.”

  Charlie sat in the middle of the road and watched the boy as long as he could see him. He lost sight of him where the old road made a bend around a live-oak motte. Trembling with cold, his clothes still wet, Charlie broke up a dead mesquite limb and whittled away the wet bark with his knife. He pared off a pile of dry shavings. Then he began trying to build a fire. But the chilly west wind blew out each match before he could get the shavings to blaze up. In a few minutes his last match was gone.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, shivering. He sat on the damp ground, staring helplessly at the pile of shavings and the scattering of dead matches. He thought dismally of the thousands of times he could have built a fire and didn’t.

  A dark loneliness settled over him. The boy had said he would be back, but Charlie was not sure. An old Anglo feeling took hold of him: you never can depend on a Mexican . But he couldn’t blame the boy much if he didn’t come back. Chances were this was Rivera’s first time across the river. He was skittish as a bobwhite quail. In his mind the border patrol was trailing him, and he was scared. When he reached the ranch headquarters he would circle it as warily as a coyote stalking a henhouse, watching for a booger. At the first sign of anything suspicious he would break and run for the brush.

  And Charlie Flagg would sit out here all night, soaked through and chilled to the bone.

  Trembling, Charlie looked at his pocketwatch again and again. Wouldn’t be long now till dark, and then he’d be in a fix sure enough. That’s what a man got for setting his hopes too high. That’s what a man got for putting all his hopes on a damn Mexican kid. He knew sure as hell he would never again see or hear anything of that ragged mojado.