by Ralph Moody
“That’s kind of you,” I said, “and maybe we’ll come back to see it again, but . . .”
I hadn’t noticed Lonnie until he cut in, “Look buddy, let’s you and me take a little walk.”
When I glanced around he looked as sad as a little boy who’s been told he can’t have a puppy he’s fallen in love with, so I said, “Okay but I’m not going to buy it, Lonnie.”
As soon as we were outside Lonnie asked, “Look, buddy, didn’t you ever take note how the best cuttin’ horses usually looks the laziest and most no-account?”
“Sure I have,” I told him, “but what’s that got to do with buying a flivver?”
“Plenty!” he said. “Plenty! To a man that knows flivvers like I do, there’s just as much feel to ’em as there is to a horse. They’re either all good or no good, and a man that knows ’em don’t need nobody to tell him which. I knowed that speckled one was plumb good the minute I laid eyes on her.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t,” I told him, “but for a hundred dollars I think we ought to be able to find a better one. That’s a lot of money, and I’m not going to spend it till we’ve looked around some more and . . .”
“Listen, buddy,” Lonnie pleaded, “I can easy talk the bloke down to seventy-five, and you heard him say I could use his tools, and that he’d lend me a hand. With the both of us workin’ on that engine we’d have it purrin’ like a pussy ’fore suppertime, and the looks of the body don’t make no difference to us now. What we’ll need in the back country is a car with an engine we can trust. There’s no sense stopping to do the paint job till we’re on our way. I can do that and patch up them holes in the seats any time along the road. When I get through with her she’ll look and run like she just come out of the fact’ry. How ’bout it, buddy? I’m tellin’ you, we couldn’t do no better if we was to waste a month’s time huntin’.”
There did seem to be some sense in what Lonnie said, and it would cost money for every extra day we spent in Phoenix, so I told him, “All right, Lonnie, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you can buy that one for seventy-five dollars, and if you can have it all fixed up and ready to roll by tomorrow noon, I’ll go along with the deal, but not for one penny more. Is that fair enough?”
Lonnie was hurrying back into the garage before I had the last words out of my mouth. “Fair enough! Fair enough!” he sang out. “I’ll guarantee you’ll never live to regret it, buddy. Now you watch your old uncle drive a sharp deal.”
I think the look on Lonnie’s face ruined his deal the minute he stepped back into that garage. He haggled for more than an hour with the owner, and the lowest they ever got was eighty-five dollars. When I was sure that was the best deal he could make I said, “Come on, Lonnie. We’ve wasted enough time here.”
As I said it I turned and walked out of the place, but I hadn’t gone fifty feet before Lonnie caught up with me. “Listen, buddy,” he said as he trailed along at my elbow, “I had him right on the edge of a deal when you busted it up. And besides, what’s a ten-spot to a guy like you anyways? The work I’ll get out of the bloke will be worth double that. You know these mechanics charge a buck and a half an hour for their time.”
“Sure I know it,” I said, “and he’d probably run us up a bill of twenty or more before we ever got out of there.”
“Uh-uh! Not a penny! That’s a part of the deal,” Lonnie told me. “He ain’t goin’ to charge us a nickel for nothin’—just the dough we pay him for the flivver, and he’ll furnish all the spare parts we need.”
I kept right on walking, and said, “No deal! I wouldn’t trust that man any farther than I could reach him with a throw rope. He’s lied to you forty times and in forty different ways during the last hour. I’d walk before I’d pay him eighty-five dollars for that old pile of junk.”
Lonnie caught hold of my arm and looked up at me like a puppy that’s begging for a cookie. “Listen, buddy,” he said, “leave me buy it and I’ll pay you back the extra ten-spot outa my first pay check when we get a job. I’ll do better’n that. I’ll go halvers on the flivver . . . and on the gas and oil . . . and on the grub bill. Look, buddy, I didn’t never mean for you to buy me no outfit and give it to me. Tell you what: I’ll just keep a fiver for myself each payday till you’re all paid back—clean as a whistle.”
I didn’t expect Lonnie to pay me back, but he seemed to have fallen in love with that old rattletrap Ford, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him he couldn’t have it. I just passed him my roll and said, “That’s fair enough, and since you’re making the deal it’ll look better for you to do the paying, but have the bill of sale made out in my name. I’ll make a new one, putting Shiftless into partnership, when you pay me back the first five dollars.”
Lonnie grabbed the bills and ran, and he was already peeling the eighty-five off our little roll by the time I got back to the garage. I don’t know which looked the happiest, he or the garage owner.
It was noon by the time the bill of sale was made out, and the motor vehicle office was right near Larsen’s restaurant, so I told Lonnie we’d better go and have the flivver registered, buy a license, and eat our lunch right away. “Uh-uh!” he told me, “I ain’t hungry. I et a big breakfast, and it’ll hold me over till suppertime. You go on down while I and Joe fix up them connecting-rod bearin’s. We’ll have to hump right along to get ’em finished ’fore closing time.”
When Joe, the garage owner, went to his truck for his lunch pail, Lonnie slipped me what was left of our roll, and whispered, “Say, buddy, while you’re down that way why don’t you mosey ’round to the hockshops and see what you can find for outfits? Look, you don’t need to get me as good a one as you get for yourself. Just so’s it’s got good stirrups and a horn to snub a rope onto, that’s all I’ll need. And there’s no sense you botherin’ about chaps for me. My legs don’t skin up easy, and there’s no tellin’ we’ll be workin’ brush country anyways. Understand, buddy, I ain’t tryin’ to rush you none. Just figured it would be a shame—us having to hold up and hunt outfits tomorrow, after we’re all set and ready to roll. It don’t make no never-minds if you ain’t back before dark, ’cause you couldn’t do no good here noways. It takes a real mechanic to work on automobiles. Kind of like a watch. A man’s got to know what he’s about before he goes to fussin’ with ’em.”
I had better luck than I expected on the license. Because a quarter of December was past and the 1919 plates had gone on sale, the clerk told me I’d only need to buy one for the new year. Even at that, I began finding out there were more costs to automobiles than just the buying price and gasoline, but I didn’t begrudge the expense. I was more proud to be the registered owner of an automobile than of the automobile itself. Before I went to hunt for outfits I took the ownership ticket to Mr. Larsen, so there would be no chance of my losing it.
Mr. Larsen didn’t come right out and tell me we’d been stuck when I told him about the Ford and what we’d paid for it. But he asked me dozens of questions I didn’t know anything about—were there any shorts in the magneto, were the cylinder walls scored, and was I sure the crankshaft hadn’t been worn egg-shaped? When I said I’d never even heard of a magneto he hunched his shoulders and spread his hands, as much as to say, “Well, you’ve been caught for a sucker, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.” Then he said that if we were going to leave early next morning I’d better let him order the groceries the doctor had told me to take with us. I told him I’d appreciate his ordering the stuff, but I forgot to ask how much it would cost.
To me an automobile was only a collection of dead iron parts, but a saddle was a living thing—almost a part of a cowhand himself. Each one is different in some way from any other, particularly after it has been used a year or two, and a man with a saddle that is wrong for him can be as out of luck as if he were trying to work cattle bareback. If it’s right, his behind will cuddle into the hollow of the cantle securely and, no matter how hard a bull hits the end of a line or a pony pitches, he’ll
be topside when the fun is over. Then too, a saddle talks. On night herd it whispers at every step of the pony, just to let a cowhand know he’s not alone.
I was thinking all these things as I left the restaurant and headed for the back streets where the pawnshops were—and the more I thought the faster I found myself walking. That’s what saved me from getting cheated on our outfits. It made me remember how Lonnie had clutched my roll and run back to the garage to buy Shiftless. Common sense told me that we could have bought that old heap for half the price if he hadn’t shown from the very start how much he wanted it. I made up my mind that I’d see every saddle in every pawnshop in Phoenix before I bought one. And the more I liked any one of them the less I’d show it.
The first shop I went into had at least thirty saddles displayed in a long row, and the pawnbroker led me straight to one at the center of the line. I was hooked as quickly as Lonnie had been hooked by Shiftless. There in front of me was exactly the saddle I wanted—the only saddle I wanted. It was an Oregon half-breed, with the back ring hung straight down beside the cantle, so the saddle could be used with or without a flank cinch. The whole outfit yelled “custom-made.” The cantle was low and sloping, the fork just wide enough for my thin shanks to cling to, and the short seat curved upward enough in meeting it to make a neat pocket. It would have cramped a heavy rider, but was exactly the right size for my skinny behind to fit into. Over the well-shaped, but not too high horn hung a split-ear bridle, with a light spade bit and braided rawhide reins.
I think I could have moved on from any other saddle in the place without a word from the little shopkeeper, but when I passed up the half-breed he grabbed me by the sleeve and pulled me back. He wanted me to feel the tooling, twisted a stirrup leather to show me how pliable it was, and started giving me a long story about having paid two hundred dollars for the saddle. When I pulled away he caught my sleeve again and told me that because it was the off season he’d sacrifice both saddle and bridle for seventy-five dollars.
“You’re making your sacrifice at the wrong altar and in the wrong town,” I told him. “That’s an old Oregon half-breed, probably older than I am, and it was custom-made for a midget. You couldn’t find an Arizona cowhand who would give you five dollars for it, but I’ll give you ten if you want to get rid of it.”
“Sixty!” he shouted, like an auctioneer who senses a rising bid. Then, “Fifty!” as he tried to pull me back. I only shook my head and walked out of the shop.
From there I went to every pawnshop in Phoenix, and did a little haggling in every one, just to get in some practice and to find out exactly how much they’d come down before letting me walk out. I found that thirty percent was just about the limit. If an outfit was priced at a hundred dollars, I could have bought it for about seventy, and if it was priced at fifty, I could have it for thirty-five.
I waited until about an hour before closing time, then headed back for the shop where I’d seen the Oregon half-breed. The little shopkeeper pounced on me like a hungry cat on a fat mouse. He grabbed my sleeve and dragged me straight down the row to the half-breed saddle, and that time he tried to start the haggling off at fifty dollars. There was only one thing I could do. I shook my head without more than glancing at the saddle, then pulled away and went to look at a real good double-rigged job farther up the row. He started off with sixty dollars on that one, but I turned my mouth down and said, “Thirty. With bridle, blanket, and chaps.”
For a minute or two I thought the little man was having a stroke of apoplexy. He shouted at me in such broken English I couldn’t understand a word, and scurried around the shop like an insane pack rat. First he pawed over a stack of saddle blankets till he found one that was fairly good. He slapped it down on top of the half-breed saddle, glared up at me, and yelled, “Fifty!”
I only shook my head and kept on examining the double-rigger. It was a better saddle than I had thought at first—not more than a year old, and exactly the right kind of saddle for a fellow built like Lonnie. I made up my mind I’d buy it for him, even if I had to go as much as fifty or fifty-five dollars for it—that is, with the rest of the outfit. If I hadn’t really liked that saddle, I might have had trouble keeping my eyes turned away from the half-breed, and could have ruined my deal. But instead of paying any attention to the shopkeeper, I went over and began sorting through the pile of saddle blankets.
At first I think he had the idea I didn’t like the blanket he’d put on the half-breed and was hunting for a better one. He stood, rubbing his hands together and grinning, while I pawed nearly to the bottom of the stack and pulled out a real fine Navajo. Then he went wild again when I carried it to the double-rigger, tossed it on, and said, “Thirty-two fifty.”
He rushed toward me, snatched up the Navajo blanket, ran to exchange it for the poorer one he’d put on the half-breed, whirled around, and yelled, “Fifty!”
When I turned my mouth down he snatched a fairly good pair of cowhide chaps from a peg, tossed them on top of the Navajo, and again yelled, “Fifty!”
I didn’t even bother to turn my mouth down that time, but hunted around until I’d found a better pair of chaps, laid them across the double-rigger, and said, “Thirty-five.”
I did the same when the little man added a slicker to the heap on the Oregon saddle. And as he added a throw rope and spurs, I did too, but I always hunted until I’d found something a little better than what he’d added. Each time he tossed something on the half-breed he yelled, “Fifty!” And each time I tossed something better on the double-rigger I went up fifty cents or a dollar on my offer.
I knew it must be way past his regular closing time when the shopkeeper gave up trying to sell me the Oregon saddle—and I knew that I’d just about run out my string. His shoulders drooped, he came up where I was beside the double-rigger, examined everything I’d put on it, and said, “Sixty-five. Final!”
I was sure it was awfully close to it, and that I’d have to make my move right then, or he’d throw up his hands and walk away. “Well,” I said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you eighty-five dollars for both outfits together, but I won’t buy one without the other.”
Half an hour later we made our deal—at $87.25. It was more money than I’d intended to spend, but I wasn’t a bit sorry. We’d have outfits that were a lot better than the average, and a good rancher will usually hire a cowhand quicker if he has a good outfit than if he has a poor one. With jobs as scarce as they were, it seemed to me that the few extra dollars were well invested.
7
Shiftless
I FOUND a bum who was glad to make a quarter by helping me carry our new outfits to the hotel, but when we got there Lonnie hadn’t come in, and it was nearly seven o’clock. I laid each outfit separately on the bed, with the saddles on the folded blankets, but I put the Navajo under Lonnie’s saddle instead of mine. Then I left the lamp lit when I went to the restaurant to see if he’d been there to eat. He hadn’t, so I went on out to the garage. A couple of lanterns were sitting on the floor by Shiftless’s front wheels, and both Joe and Lonnie were underneath. There were greasy nuts, bolts, and odd parts lying all around them, and they were so busy arguing that they didn’t hear me come in. I stooped down just as Joe shouted, “There ain’t no need of haulin’ the engine, I tell you! Them main bearings ain’t so bad but I can fix ’em right up where they’re at. Shim ’em up a mite and pour in some hot Babbitt, they’ll be as good as new.”
I didn’t want Lonnie to find me there and think I was snooping so I asked, “What is it, all shot to the dickens, Lonnie?”
He rolled his face toward me, and his eyes looked as though he were peeking through holes in a black rag. “No, buddy,” he said. “Honest, it ain’t bad. It’s only the bearin’s. A bolt come loose in the oil pan, and some fool run it after the oil had all leaked out.”
Joe seemed to think Lonnie needed a little help. He reached up above his face, grabbed hold of something, and jiggled it. It sounded like a handful of sto
nes being shaken in a bucket. “Ain’t scarcely no play in ’em at all,” he shouted. “Like I was tellin’ Lonnie, all them main bearin’s need is a shot o’ hot lead. Come morning, so’s’t I can see to get at ’em, I’ll . . .”
I didn’t have the slightest idea what Joe had hold of, but I did remember a few of the questions Mr. Larsen had asked me, so I broke in, “What’s that you’ve got hold of, the crank-shaft?”
“Yep. Yep,” he called back. “Ain’t scarcely no play at all in it.”
“Is it worn egg-shaped?” I asked.
“Not enough to ’mount to nothin’!” he shouted. “You won’t notice it none after I get some hot Babbitt poured ’round them . . .”
I didn’t want to go any further till I’d talked to Mr. Larsen some more, so I broke in, “Come on Lonnie. It’s about time for the restaurant to close. If we’re going to get any supper you’d better start cleaning up.”
All the way downtown Lonnie kept telling me there was nothing wrong with the flivver that he couldn’t fix the next day, and the more he talked the more I realized how badly we’d been stuck.
The restaurant was already closed when we got there, but Mr. Larsen unlocked the door and let us in. Then, while Mrs. Larsen was in the kitchen cooking our supper, he and Lonnie talked about Shiftless. As far as I was concerned they might as well have been talking Choctaw. It was all about camshafts, and piston rings, and carburetors, and differentials, and a lot of other things I’d never heard of. After a while I got tired of it and went out to talk to Mrs. Larsen till supper was ready.
Lonnie didn’t say three words while we were eating, and when we’d finished Mr. Larsen beckoned for me to come to the kitchen. He whispered to me that Lonnie knew we’d been stuck, but wouldn’t listen to reason when he’d suggested that we take our loss and sell the car back to the garageman.