The Time It Never Rained

by Elmer Kelton

  Tom’s frown deepened. “I’d give a pretty to know what she’s got on her mind.”

  “Go ask her. Whatever it is, you might like it.” Shorty looked again. “She’s got a little touch of red in her hair. I always was a little partial to redheads myself. But I like blondes and brunettes just as good.”

  The bronc riding ended. Tom helped the boy down from his saddle. “Shorty, you ain’t up this afternoon. Why don’t you take these boys over to the contestants’ stand and let them see the rest of the show?”

  “Me?”

  “You can use my pass for one of them and yours for the other.”

  “What if somebody gets the notion they’re mine?”

  “It’ll just go to prove that some of the braggin’ you been doin’ is true.” He pointed to the smaller boy. “Look at that grin, wider than a wave on a slop jar. You ought to be glad to make some kid that happy.”

  The boys grabbed the unenthusiastic Shorty by the hands and began to pull toward the grandstands. He looked back crossly at Tom but went on with them. He would sulk about it awhile, but he never had a bruise so deep that one beer would not pull the soreness out of it.

  Tom swung into the saddle. He considered a moment, then rode by the Cadillac and tipped his hat for the hell of it. The woman gave him a brief, tentative smile that could be taken to mean anything or nothing. Riding toward the arena, he kept wondering. He was sure he had not seen her before; one like that he would be unlikely to forget. She looked like something out of those girly magazines except that she had more clothes on. That was no obstacle; Tom was a man with imagination.

  Maybe she was celebrity-hunting. His name and picture had been in the papers lately because he was winning many of the rodeos. He had seen it happen to other rodeo hands; they would receive some notoriety and the girls would start hanging around them. Emptyheaded school-girls, mostly, the kind that can land a man so far back in jail that they have to shoot his beans to him with a sling-shot. But this was no teen-ager; this was a full-grown woman, presumably old enough to know about birds and bees, bulls and bucks.

  Tom moved the gray up into the arena gate where other ropers awaited their turn to ride in. He exchanged howdies and shook and joshed some of them a little. To one he said, “Bo, I notice you drawed that Number 33 calf. I had him last go-round. He taken off out there thirty or forty feet and cut sharp to the left.”

  “Thanks, Tom. I’ll sure watch him.”

  Tom caught a whiff of perfume over the rank smell of fresh horse droppings. He turned. There was the woman again, sitting atop a fence nearby, close enough that she could reach out and touch him if she were of a mind to. Or he could have touched her, and he did have a mind to. She wore red cowgirl pants and a pinkish Western blouse bought a size too tight. On purpose, he guessed. Bragging a little, and not lying either. She couldn’t hide a figure like that if she wrapped it in a tarp.

  Quietly he said, “Bo, you ever seen that filly before?”

  Bo thought he meant a mare and started to give age, pedigree, and training of a sleek sorrel up by the gate. When Tom corrected him, he looked a moment. “That’s Dolly Ellender. Sure does shine, don’t she?”

  Tom frowned. “She sure does. But the name don’t register.”

  “You know of the Ellender Trailer Company, over in Dallas? Her‘daddy owns it, him and an uncle. Dolly there, seems like she’s partial to rodeo hands. Went with Buzz Phelps some when he was takin’ the steer wrestlin’ so peart. I expect she was more fun to wrestle with than them steers. Used to go with Marty Sanders, too, when he stood high in the bull ridin’.”

  “Marty Sanders. Ain’t he the one that got a horn through him in Houston?”

  “Yeah. He’d fell apart by then, seemed like. Got afraid of the bulls, or somethin’.”

  Tom glanced at Dolly Ellender’s left hand, on the top plank of the fence. No rings. That was good; he never had fancied hunting in the other man’s pasture, not when there was game to be had without climbing any fences.

  He turned his attention to the ropers then, putting the woman back in the warming oven. Most of the good ones were here. He watched them work and listened to the announcer call out their times. Jim McGinnis came up with the best one, 14.2.

  “Next roper ... Tom Flagg of Rio Seco,” the announcer’s voice came over the ill-adjusted loudspeaker. It was as if he were shouting through a box of wool fuzz. “You watch him, and you’ll see a cowboy that’s liable to be the world’s champion calf roper in a year or two.”

  Tom always enjoyed talk like that; but he never let the enjoyment show in his face. He tucked the end of his pigging string under his belt and clamped the tiny loop of it in his teeth, where he would not waste a second getting to it when he needed it. He shook out a loop in his rope and backed the gray into the roper’s box. A cowboy drew the spring-held barrier string across in front of him and fastened it. The Brahman calf was fighting in the chute. Tom could feel excitement building in the horse beneath him. A good roping horse became as addicted, sometimes, as his rider. The man in the chute got the calf quieted down. The gateman looked expectantly at Tom.

  Tom said, “Let him out.” The gate swung open. Seeing daylight and freedom, the calf dashed across the scoreline, its hoofs flinging up dust. The flagman’s hand began to drop to spring the barrier open. Tom leaned down a little and gently tapped spurs to the gray. The horse’s chest touched the barrier string as it gave way. Tom always rushed the barrier for the extra tenths of a second it gave him, risking the mandatory ten-second fine if he actually broke it. He was a man who never peacefully waited for anything.

  The gray was fast; if he hadn’t been, Tom would not have put up with him. He quickly overtook the calf. Tom swung a small loop over his head and cast it forward as he would throw a stone. The fit was perfect. As Tom yanked up the slack, the gray dug its hind feet into the ground, sliding to a stop. Tom swung his right foot over the horse’s hip and jumped to the ground before the animal had stopped. The calf hit the end of the rope and flopped over backward. It let out a bellow and sprang to its feet. Tom was upon it as the calf made its first jump. He grabbed a foreleg and shoved his body into that of the Brahman. The calf fell again, on its side. Tom jerked the pigging string loop out of his mouth and dropped it over the foreleg. Almost before the calf could begin to kick, Tom gathered the two hind legs and drew them up to cross the foreleg. He made two quick wraps with the string and finished with the “hooey,” a tie he must have practiced ten thousand times on anything that would hold still, even on his own booted foot. He sprang back, throwing his hands into the air to stop the judges’ watches.

  Without another glance at the calf he walked back to Prairie Dog. The horse had held the rope taut all the while. Tom swung into the saddle with a studied nonchalance, even a slouch, from the wrong side as if to show the crowd he could do any damn thing he was of a mind to.

  He sensed that he had scored good time, and he could tell by the rising applause that the crowd knew it. A man who chased a calf halfway down the arena could usually count himself out of the prize money. Tom did not often go more than a third of the way. He rode the gray forward to give slack on the rope so the arena boys could free the calf. He coiled the rope and listened for the announcer.

  “Well, folks,” the word came from a loudspeaker atop a light pole, “here it is, the best time so far, 13.6. Told you that West Texas cowboy could rope.”

  Steak tonight, and not one of them cheap chicken-frieds, either, Tom thought with satisfaction. The applause increased. It always made him feel nine feet tall. He glanced toward the contestants’ area and saw the two boys jumping up and down, clapping their hands. He made an O with his thumb and forefinger and flashed it at them. Shorty Magee’s sourness was gone; he was smiling.

  The arena boys pitched Tom his pigging string as the calf got to its feet and trotted toward the back side of the arena, its hind legs momentarily stiff from being tied, its long Brahman ears flopping, its dignity violated. Tom rode out the g
ate, listening to the applause that followed him. A heady triumph coursed through him like a double shot of bourbon. Outside, he rode the gray a while, cooling him down slowly before he put him back into the trailer to haul him to a barn he was using. He listened to other ropers’ times on the loudspeaker and noted with satisfaction that none had squeezed him out.

  Shorty came eventually, the smile gone and his studied frown back in its accustomed place. Critically he said, “You strained hell out of that barrier again. You got to watch that.”

  Just as critically Tom said, “You got mustard on your shirt.”

  Shorty attempted to brush it off but only smeared it. He hadn’t even noticed it before. “Tried to fill up them two buttons on hamburgers. If kids are that hungry all the time, I ain’t ever gettin’ married. I couldn’t afford it.”

  Tom led the gray to the rear of the trailer and opened the tailgate. The horse stepped up and into the trailer like a trained dog. Tom shut the gate and fastened it with a hook, chain, and boomer.

  Behind him a voice said, “That’s a valuable animal you have, Tom. But I’ll bet the trailer you haul him in isn’t worth a hundred dollars.”

  Tom turned. The man he saw looked vaguely familiar; there were people who followed the rodeos as spectators and bettors whose faces became known but whose names remained always a vague blur. Tom was always a little distrustful of strangers who made free and easy with his first name; he had found they usually wanted to sell him something. “How do?” he spoke with reserve. His eyes widened as he saw the redhead standing just behind the man, smiling. “How do?” Tom said, a little friendlier.

  The man said, “I’m Jason Ellender. You’ve heard of the Ellender Trailer Company? I’m the president of it. Like to talk some business with you.”

  Tom had much rather talk business with that redheaded woman. He was sure he could come up with an interesting proposition. He said, “I need to be feedin’ this old gray horse.” But he stood there looking at the woman. He didn’t give a toodly damn about the man or his business.

  Ellender saw where Tom’s gaze was fastened. He turned. “Tom, this is my niece, Dolly Ellender. She’s a fan of yours.”

  Tom grinned. “You don’t know how tickled I am to hear that.” He bowed slightly.

  Ellender said, “Of course we’re all fans. Nothing I like better than a good rodeo. Best show on earth, I always sway.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tom paid little attention as Ellender went on telling how long he had been an avid follower of the rodeo game, and how he always wished he might have contested some himself. Tom had immediately marked the man as a talker rather than a doer, and anyway he distrusted any man who wore a suit on weekdays. That much he had picked up from Charlie Flagg. Tom let his gaze drift slowly over the woman, giving her the careful appraisal he would give a young mare, though with somewhat different motives. He wondered idly if she could read his mind, if maybe a picture of his thoughts might hover over his head like the dialogue balloon in a comic strip. Well, maybe it would be a good thing if she could read his mind. There wouldn’t be any room for innocent protestations later about misunderstanding.

  He noticed that her hair wasn’t really red, as he had originally thought; it was more auburn. The sun, dropping now in the west, caught her hair and seemed to build a red halo in the edge of it.

  He doubted that a halo was standard equipment with her; he hoped not.

  Ellender pointed his chin toward Tom’s old trailer; it was one Charlie had bought from a tin-barn welder, its running gear made from an old car chassis. It might not look like much, but it was hell for stout. Ellender said, “That trailer doesn’t do justice to the fine horse you haul. How would you like a new one?”

  “Mister, if you’re tryin’ to sell me a trailer, forget it. One of them good big ones you make costs too much money for me, and a cheap one wouldn’t be half as good as what I got.”

  “It wouldn’t have to cost nearly as much as you think. I spend a lot of money on advertising, Tom. And one of the best advertisements I can have is for good rodeo hands like you to be seen pulling my trailers to hell and gone. I think I’ve got a good offer for you.”

  Tom thought he would much rather hear an offer from Dolly Ellender than from her uncle, but maybe listening to one would help promote the other. “What’s the proposition?”

  “I’ll sell you a trailer for cost. No profit, no dealer, no overhead ... just cost.”

  Tom frowned. Before he would accept a stranger’s def inition of cost he would like to get well acquainted with the bookkeeper. With little effort to hide his suspicion he said, “In return for all this favor, what would you expect of me?”

  “Nothing. We’d paint your name on the trailer in big letters where everybody could see them: TOM FLAGG. And below, much smaller, would be the company insignia. People would say to themselves, ‘If an Ellender trailer is good enough for Tom Flagg, it’s good enough for me.’ And wherever you went, people would know Tom Flagg was in town.”

  That touched Tom in a tender spot. His mouth turned up in an ill-suppressed grin. “Can’t say as I see anything bad wrong with that.”

  Shorty Magee warned, “Tom, don’t you go and say yes to somethin’ till you’ve scratched your head over it a little. Hell, there’s other trailer companies, and maybe they’d sell you one at less than cost. Man never knows till he asks around.”

  Ellender’s annoyance was not well hidden, but his mouth still smiled. “Your friend is right, of course. Tell you what” Tom ... I’m having a little party for some people tonight after the show. What say you come out and join us? Plenty of drinks. Besides, it’d give Dolly a chance to get acquainted with you.”

  Tom said, “I’d be tickled.”

  Dolly held back as her uncle walked away. “Don’t forget, now. We’re at the Ranch Courts. Knock on the door of Suite 10.”

  “Brimmer bulls couldn’t keep me away.”

  He let his eyes follow those tight britches till they disappeared into the Cadillac. He pushed his hat way back and whistled. “I swear, Shorty, yonder goes a woman!”

  Shorty sniffed, suspicious. “I thought you had a woman back home in that dustbowl, Rio Seco.”

  Tom shrugged. “But I’m a long ways from home.”

  Chapter Nine

  CHARLIE FLAGG STOPPED HIS PICKUP IN FRONT OF THE wool warehouse and stepped out into the spring heat. An empty livestock truck passed. Charlie turned quickly away and shut his eyes against the dry dust that boiled from under it. Stepping through the big wide-open door, he blinked away the burn and saw a few men loafing in the rear of the building. He could hear Rounder Pike’s loud voice winding up a windy yarn.

  Pike turned to look at Charlie. “Charlie, I was just tellin’ the boys here that I’ve made a bet with several people that it never will rain again in this country.”

  Charlie shook his head. “That’s a silly bet.”

  “I don’t know. Two of them have already paid me off.” He took a good laugh at Charlie’s expense, then eyed an empty coffee can that was being used as a spittoon. He reared back and took aim. A metallic thump testified that he was on target.

  Warehouseman Jim Sweet didn’t bother to get up. He motioned for Charlie to find himself a seat on a stack of sacked feed. Sweet said, “Charlie, I don’t suppose you’ve met Bruce Hammond.” He jerked his thumb toward a khaki-clad man. “Wool buyer out of Angelo.”

  Charlie shook the man’s hand. “See your name in the paper once in a while. Pleased to meet you.” From the fast clip of the buyer’s speech, Charlie knew he was not a native. But Hammond was relaxed and seemed to feel at home. To buy wool in West Texas the Boston men had to learn to whittle and spit and horse-trade, forgetting they had ever read a clock. Sometimes it took as long to buy a little ranchman’s ten-bag clip as to buy three carloads from Page Mauldin’s big accumulation.

  “How’s wool?” Charlie asked, knowing what the answer would be. He had never met a wool buyer who didn’t say the market was on the verge of g
oing to hell.

  “Mills haven’t made a dime this year,” Hammond said. “The futures market slipped three points yesterday. Grease prices are due for a drop.”

  Charlie nodded, his judgment vindicated. He had always observed that when the futures market was going up, wool buyers said it had no bearing on the spot market. But when it was. going down they always mentioned it. He wised he had a dollar for every time he had heard a wool man predict hard times; he could buy a right smart of feed with the money. He asked Hammond, “They finished shearin’ yet in the Del Rio country?”

  “Just about. Wools are shrinking heavy this spring—too much dirt.”

  “No wonder. Every time a sheep puts its foot down it stirs up enough dust to choke itself to death. Gives you boys somethin’ else to beat the price down with.” He smiled to indicate he didn’t really mean it, but in fact he really did, and the wool buyer knew it.

  Hammond said, “If you could find a way to keep the dirt out of that wool ...”

  “Can’t keep the sheep indoors,” Charlie said, “and there’s damn little outdoors except dirt.” He got up from his feed-sack seat and ambled curiously to a small bulletin board beside a wool scale. Tacked on it were two calendars—one a Western sheep scene, the other a buxom lass who seemed bewildered over the loss of all her clothes. Charlie spent about as long looking at the sheep as at the girl. They didn’t paint girls as pretty any more as they used to, seemed like.

  He came back and sat down again. “Gettin’ hot already. We don’t have much spring any more—just go from winter right into summer, and neither one of them any fun.”

  Rounder Pike worked his jaw to spit again. The bucket sang as he hit dead center. “Gettin’ much green stuff up, Charlie?”

  “Not grass. I’m gettin’ up a way too much green stuff over at Big Emmett’s bank and bringin’ it over here to buy Jim Sweet’s feed with.” He smiled, but the smile did not cover the worry deep in his eyes. “Rounder, you seen any good sheep buyers lately?”

  “Never seen a good sheep buyer. They’re as rare as good wool buyers.” Rounder glanced at Hammond, but the San Angelo man passed up the bait.