Panhandle

by Brett Cogburn

  The line shuffled along single-file through the dust like cattle will travel. If I had listened close I am sure I could have detected a few hungry, pitiful bawls, as we all came to the feed trough.

  I stood there quiet and slightly out of place, a part of things, but slightly removed as all strangers are. Barby was helping in the buffet line, and Billy, God help his little politician’s heart, was far back in the line jabbering about farming with a few of the locals—like he knew the first damn thing about farming.

  My celluloid collar—Billy’s idea of dressing up for such a formal occasion—was scratching my neck and coming near to choking me. A man can’t relax yoked up like that. I was glad that I wasn’t fool enough to sweat it out in a wool suit coat like several of those around me. Any more sweat and wool, and the place would have smelled like a sheep pen. It was bad enough to have to button a collar on to my shirt, but then again, I never was one to suffer for the sake of style.

  Billy, on the other hand, would have worn a cow chip on his head if he thought it would look good. I glanced at him while I made such an observation about his character, and the devil grinned back at me like he was fixing to be elected for something. It made me feel good to take some starch out of him if only by imagining him with a turd on his head.

  I came near to starving to death before I made my way up to the food, but it was worth the wait once those ladies started helping me mound up my plate. I had been on beef and beans, and the sight of those makings like to have coliced me.

  I got to stand in front of Barby Allen for about two seconds while she helped me top off the precarious monument of food I was building on my plate. The threat of being trampled from behind was so great that I had to move on from her company.

  An older woman at the end of the line asked me something, and I didn’t understand a word of what she said. I don’t know where she was from, but I am certain she came from somewhere other than Texas, because nobody but a foreigner could talk that funny. Come to think of it, there were a lot of accents around me. Most of them were Midwestern Yankee, but there were a few accents that I couldn’t place.

  That foreign woman jabbered something at me again that sounded like German, and I went to looking for a translator. Finally, she motioned at the coffeepots on the table before her, and to a gathering of glasses with some strange, pulpy concoction in them. I was impressed enough with the sight of so much glassware in one place, but after she had repeated herself for the third time I figured out that she was asking me if I wanted coffee, water, or lemonade.

  I hadn’t ever drank any lemonade, but I would be damned if I would pass up such an opportunity. It was real, live lemonade in the middle of nowhere—somebody was showing out. I took myself a glass and found a likely spot to eat. I sat down cross-legged, Indian style, and contemplated that lemonade.

  I wasn’t sure just how to drink it, and wondered if I should hold up my pinky or something when I turned up the glass. I looked around to see if anyone else might notice me drinking such a kids’ drink, but nobody seemed to pay me any mind. In fact, I saw a few other grown men holding glasses themselves. I am not ashamed to admit that the same fellow who often bragged that he never drank water, only whiskey and good beer, enjoyed every last drop of that sweet nectar.

  I drank my lemonade, slicked off my plate in record time, and kicked back to ruminate. To pass the time, I studied the line of people still gathering their food. Mainly, I studied Barby Allen, or to be correct, I studied Billy while he held up the line talking to her. She was smiling again, and my collar started to make me itch even worse.

  It was just like Billy to be holding up the line. Didn’t he know that we were guests, and those hardworking people deserved their food the same as us? It was plainly a blatant case of rudeness and a sheer lack of good manners. And what was she smiling about?

  I couldn’t help but wonder what he kept saying that was so all-fired interesting. She just kept smiling, and even laughed once while he kept right on talking, smiling, and holding up the line like no one cared. Little Prince of Persia.

  I imagine somebody got tired of waiting and said something to him, because he finally quit the table and made his way over to sit down with me. He grinned at me like I hadn’t noticed his behavior in the chuck line.

  “Glad you finally took that turd off your head,” I mumbled.

  “What’s that?” He looked perplexed, but I knew that it was just his way of acting innocent.

  “Ah, nothing.” I made a show of being a whole lot more interested in studying the tree limbs above me than I was in hearing him.

  Billy eyed me carefully and then turned up his lemonade. He took a swallow, and then smacked his lips a time or two, as smug as a cat licking his whiskers.

  “I reckon you like that kid stuff,” I scorned him, all the while keeping my glass hid at my side.

  “What’s gotten your dander up?” A little irritation crept into his voice.

  We studied each other a minute, and then Billy looked back over his shoulder to where Barby stood at the tables. “I reckon more friends have fallen out over whiskey, cards, or women than just about anything.”

  I managed a weak smile. “But not us, huh?”

  “Not by a long shot.” Then he added, “I’d guess we can both handle a little friendly competition.”

  “Why have you got to horn in?”

  “I can’t see that she’s wearing anybody’s brand, although I haven’t got a chance to check her over close enough.” The devil was dancing in his eyes.

  “Damn, Billy! That’s a lady you’re talking about,” I said, a little too loudly, and several heads turned our way.

  Billy kicked his legs out in front of him and leaned back on his elbows. “Are you saying a lady ain’t got any parts of interest?”

  “You had better quit that talk. You ought to know better.” I managed to keep my voice down that time, but the red was creeping up my neck.

  “Are you saying a lady doesn’t have parts?”

  He just couldn’t take a hint. I decided that as a last-ditch effort I could end his low talk by offering some answer. “No, I ain’t saying that.”

  “Well, what are you saying?” He was as quick as a rattlesnake.

  “I’m just saying that you shouldn’t talk about them.”

  Billy craned his neck around to look at Barby Allen again. “I’ve already talked about them, and I’ve thought about them enough to wear them out. I can’t tell from the look of her to have done any damage at all.”

  I was up on my feet as quick as a cat. Billy didn’t move from the ground, but he was wary. As mad as I was I recognized that. With a slow motion of his palm down he motioned me back to the ground.

  “All right, Nate. You’ve converted me. I’ll not speak slanderously of yonder maiden anymore. I’ll keep all mention of her body to myself from now on.” He used his most consoling tone.

  The pressure in my ears abated a little, and I started to slowly unwind. Then I reconsidered what he had said. I didn’t know what kind of bargain we had just struck, and sure didn’t know if I was going to like it.

  While I stood there halfway between sitting and standing, froze like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Billy jabbed a finger at my lemonade glass.

  “Good stuff, ain’t it?”

  “Ain’t it.” I plopped down in resignation. I just couldn’t help but like him, even when I was about ready to kill him.

  No sooner than I had sat back down than Billy jumped to his feet. “Come on. They’re pitching horseshoes over there. Let’s go show them a thing or two.”

  Billy headed off, not waiting for an answer. I looked longingly back to where Barby Allen had been, but she was gone. I would rather Billy go pitch horseshoes by himself, or piss in the creek for that matter, if it would keep him occupied long enough for me to have one more little visit with her. I made a quick scout of the crowd under the trees, but still couldn’t spot her. Disgusted, I took my plate to the washtub and followed
after Billy. Horseshoes could only give a man so much enjoyment.

  We didn’t teach those milk cow dudes a thing about horseshoes; we just barely could make enough of a showing to keep from embarrassing ourselves. They knew how to pitch them, and our experience with horseshoes was limited to nailing them on, or wearing them out from between our horses’ hooves and the ground.

  I kept my eyes peeled back the way we had come. After about three games with the locals I spied Barby Allen playing with a small group of kids. Billy was tied up in an argument over scoring. It was obvious to me that our opponents had gotten the points they needed to finish us off, so I made my escape.

  I wound my way through the scattered groups of people, impatiently returning pleasantries. Barby was gone again and I couldn’t find her, but I wasn’t about to give up. I could track a wild cow across a rock pile and I ought to have been up to the task of finding one freckle-nosed snip of a girl. I wasn’t, not quickly anyway.

  My search led me to meet darned near every inhabitant of Clarendon, or maybe half the population of the Panhandle, or so it seemed. Every time I ran across somebody I had to talk about the weather with them, and give a short autobiographical account of my young life. I usually enjoy friendly country folks, but right then I was a man on a mission.

  When I had about given up hope my perseverance paid off—sort of. I found Barby Allen, and I found out that Billy had found her too. They were walking alongside the creek, and I was left out in the cold, or rather the hot sun. I scampered my way back to the shade to lick my wounds.

  Barby failed to appear after an hour’s wait, and I was ready to admit defeat, at least for the day. As I was leaving I ran across Mr. Allen down where the horses were picketed. There is more than one way to skin a cat, and maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing at all for Daddy Allen to get to know me. I was getting as devious as Billy.

  “It’s a fine day for a picnic, Mr. Allen.”

  He was a plump little man with a balding head, and wire-rim glasses perched on his nose. I couldn’t tell whether he was uppity, or just looking down his nose at me in an attempt to focus his lenses.

  “Mr. Reynolds, is it?”

  “Yeah, but you can call me Nate.”

  “Well, it is a fine day, Mr. Reynolds.” My smooth talk had yet to take effect on him.

  I couldn’t help but notice again the strong Yankee twang to both his and Barby’s speech. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

  He seemed to be weighing whether that was an accusation, or a question. When he finally answered, it was with more than a little pride. “My daughter and I came from Ohio.”

  Yankee or not, I didn’t hold it against them. As pretty as Barby Allen was, it stood to reason that there must be some good people from Ohio. It wouldn’t do to be discriminating against emigrants.

  “I hale from Kentucky.”

  He didn’t seem impressed. In fact, he began untying his horse from the picket line. Their buggy was close by, and I followed beside him while he led the animal over to harness it.

  “Do you need some help?”

  He stopped in his tracks and turned to me once more. “Is this about my daughter?”

  I tried not to squirm under his gaze, and found it a highly unsettling question to be put before me without warning. “Well, I would like to call upon her at some later date.”

  “I don’t even know you, except for the fact that you come from Tennessee.”

  “Kentucky.”

  “Just the same, that’s little to go on in my book. I haven’t been in this country much more than a month, and already I’ve got cowboys loitering around my store every day and mooning over my daughter.”

  The realization that Billy and I weren’t the only ones to have discovered Barby was worrisome. “I understand your concerns.”

  “Have you a career, or an occupation?”

  “I’m riding for the Lazy F.”

  “I am serious.”

  “So am I.”

  I could tell he was a little frustrated with me. “That’s no career. Are you a man of property?”

  He apparently didn’t know a damned thing about cowboys. I held down the urge to tell him a thing or two about my line of work. “I’ve never had any trouble finding work.”

  “What is the condition of your soul?” He gave me that beady-eyed preacher look that made me feel like he could see right through me.

  I was at a loss for words, and he was firing off questions like a rifle volley. “Are you right with Jesus?”

  “That’s something he’d have to tell you.”

  “A heathen, and a smart aleck too!” A great sigh escaped his chest, and he began hitching the horse to the buggy.

  “I meant no disrespect,” I said honestly.

  He turned back to me, and he spoke as if to a child. “Listen, we are a Christian family. When Barbara’s mother was lying on her death bed, God rest her soul, I promised her I would raise our daughter right, and see to it that she married well. When, and if, my daughter finds a husband he will be a man of substance, in good standing with the community, and the church. He will not be some drunken, half-wild cowboy.”

  “Have you got something against cowboys?”

  “I am sure that you have some admirable qualities, but forgive me if I don’t see you as an acceptable suitor.”

  He couldn’t see anything through those glasses he kept shoving back up his nose while he lectured me. Blind fool.

  “I think you’re mistaken.”

  “Big hats, forty-dollar pistols, and rackety spurs aren’t the measure of a man where I come from.” He finished with a huff, and a straightening of his coat front.

  Nothing was going as planned. Instead of welcoming me to pursue Barby’s affections, the pompous windbag was belittling and lecturing me. He seemed bothered by the fact, that at my age, I wasn’t governor or something. He could go on about a man’s success and achievements all he wanted. If he was so all-fired rich and prosperous, why did he leave Ohio to come to Clarendon and sell dry goods? From the sound of him, God probably sent him there with a title and a salary.

  What the hell was success anyway? Colonel Goodnight once told me that being a big man in the country meant owing the bank more than anyone else around you. I’ll be damned if I’ve ever heard a better explanation.

  I kept my thoughts to myself. Maybe he would reconsider our conversation, extol my virtues to his daughter, and invite me over for supper one night. Granted, I wasn’t ever going to like the SOB, but it wouldn’t do for me to get too crossways with Barby’s father.

  “I’d best be going. I have a long ride ahead of me.” I started for my horse.

  I hadn’t gone two steps when Mr. Allen, formerly of the greater civilization of Ohio, recently come to Clarendon to sow the seeds of righteousness in the wilderness while making his fortune in dry goods, confident in the wisdom of his years, and generally too all-fired full of himself, asked, “Young man, have you thought about where you’re going in life?”

  Talking to him was like talking to a fence post. I swung aboard Dunny, pulled my hat down tight, and gave him just about as good an answer as he was liable to get before I spurred Dunny off.

  “I am going east until I decide to stop, or turn around, or my horse quits me one.”

  I left him in my dust, without a look back at him. Old Fart!

  I was ten miles east before Billy joined me. I could tell by his sweaty horse that he had traveled fast to catch up. Neither one of us said anything for a long while. In stark contrast to my foul mood, he was all grins. I expected the overly happy little fart to start whistling a merry tune at any moment.

  You will notice that I often refer to Billy as little. In fact, he wasn’t that short, even though I was exceptionally tall. It was just my way of taking him down a notch in my mind when I was riled at him. A lot of the things I did seem childish, but women have that effect on a lot of men. And besides, Billy had plenty of room to come down a little. I guessed he was
gloating over beating me to Barby.

  He chattered away at me for a few miles, but I ignored him. I didn’t especially want to talk to him right then, but not knowing what had gone on between him and Barby was driving me crazy. I could keep my jealous silence no longer.

  “I saw you walking with Barby.” It sounded like the accusation it was.

  “We took a little walk, and talked a bit.”

  “What’d you talk about?”

  “Aw, just stuff. We didn’t get to talk long. Her daddy hunted her down and shooed her off.”

  “That’s too bad.” Maybe Mr. Allen did have a few good points.

  “We’d just walked a little ways down the creek, but he set in to fussing at Barby about what he called ‘scandalous behavior.’ ”

  “What scandalous behavior?” Damn Billy. He was already getting scandalous with Barby before I could.

  “Nothing. We just were talking and wandered out of sight of everyone. You’d have thought he caught us skinny-dipping or something. I was sure I was going to have to whip the old devil, but Barby lit into him first. They had quite a set-to.”

  “They fought?”

  Billy let out a slow, quiet whistle and shook his head. “There were some harsh words said. I get the notion that they’ve been butting heads ever since her mother died a couple of years back. Seems like he is pretty strict on her, and she ain’t too happy with some of his nonsense. She called him an ‘overbearing, old-fashioned tyrant,’ and that was one of the nicer things I recall.”

  “I can see where a person might butt heads with her daddy.”

  Billy looked a question at me. I went ahead and told him about my encounter with the “old fart,” as we called him from that time on.

  When I told Billy about the man’s views on occupations and cowboying, he stopped his horse and looked me dead square in the eye. “He doesn’t know anything, does he?”

  “Nope.”