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Authors: Brett Cogburn

BOOK: Panhandle
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“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.”
“That shirt-folding, button salesman ought to be glad we get down off our horses long enough to talk to the likes of him.” He paused for an impressive string of profanity. “I'm certain of something, Nate.”
“What's that?”
“He doesn't know one damned thing about cowboys.”
“Not one thing.”
“We've got good horses to ride, plenty of open country, and we go where we please. That means a whole lot more than money.”
“He doesn't know anything at all.” My blood was getting up all over again.
“Now you're talking, Nate. If we want to sweet-talk his daughter, we'll do it, and if he doesn't like it he can kiss our callused asses!”
Damned if Billy wasn't right. We had it all, and thought it would last forever.
C
HAPTER
N
INE
T
he summer rolled on, and neither Billy nor I laid eyes on Barby Allen for a long time. The roundup south of the Canadian worked east to about sixty miles west of Henrietta, and then north up into the Territory. We worked both the Comanche and the southern edge of the Cheyenne Reservation, where various brands were operating under leases. We logged what must have been ten thousand miles on horseback.
I thought about Barby Allen constantly, and Billy did too. I know, because he told me. Both of us were set on being the object of Barby's affection, and jealous of the other's intentions. For a good bit after our Clarendon picnic there was a touch of the uncomfortable for each of us in one another's company.
It was just a subtle contention between us, nagging and chewing at us, until we talked less, and the old banter between us was all but gone for a time. It was like wearing a pair of baggy, sweaty britches to work. After a while a man gets pretty chafed and blistered, and soon he's sore as hell and walking funny around his best friend.
We recognized the change that had taken place between us, but I figure we were both too proud and stubborn to do anything about it. Barby Allen was just too damned good-looking for either one of us to let go of, even if it wasn't the actual woman that we both claimed to possess, but rather the notion of her.
She was something glorious to carry around inside of us and think upon. Those storybook writers will tell you that we all spent all our nights in camp singing to a bunch of cows, or yodeling and plunking on guitars around the campfire. But many a man passed the quiet hours lying alone in his bedroll, awake and staring at the dark sky overhead—lost in his own thoughts. You might work up a picture in your mind of the old home you'd left long ago, or maybe dream on what you'd like to do or see. Barby was our little dream, and night after night, Billy and I lay down to sleep, each begrudging the other a hard-on.
Given a little time, we seemed to have made our peace over that girl. Maybe we both realized how foolish it was to fight over a girl neither of us had a claim on. That doesn't mean we forgot about her, not by a long shot. We talked about her frequently. It might sound silly, us acting that way over her, but there were few women in the country, and none at all like her. I guess we were about as female starved and girl-crazy as men can get. If Billy told about her just right I would get a picture of her so stuck in my head that it would be an hour after I lay down before I could go to sleep.
And I know it was the same for Billy, because sometimes, when I had lain there unable to sleep, his voice would come quietly out of the night, whispering like some blind oracle.
“She's sure something, ain't she, pard?”
And he was right.
There was another thing that helped smooth things over between us, and that was a change in our fortunes. I mean to say, that we suddenly had more jingle in our pockets.
Nobody ever got rich cowboying, and by the same turn, nobody ever took up the trade who had such lofty financial aspirations—all those types became bankers, lawyers, railroad men, or pimps. A little extra money to spend on liquor, gambling, or trinkets was always a soothing thing.
Our path to riches came to us in the form of one certain paint Indian pony in Billy's possession. That crazy little pinto was faster than greased lightning. And once we determined that Little Paint, as we had taken to calling him, could run, there wasn't anything short of an act of God that was going to keep the money out of our pockets. None of my crew held anything against a little easy money as long as it came by honest means—like gambling.
We ran Little Paint a few times against some of the Lazy F horses that were known to be quicker than usual and none of them could even give him a race. Word soon spread among the outfits on roundup that our camp had a fast horse, and it didn't take long for someone to propose the first race for stakes. Little Paint put the dust in their faces, and we put their money in our pockets. All the riches in the world looked like gravy to us. One after another, week to week, cowboys brought their fastest stock to match against Little Paint. He outran them all like they were standing still.
If someone should ever build a museum in honor of all the good Texas cowboys who ever lived, I would think it fitting for them to paper the walls with playing cards, and plow up a nice sandy lane leading up to it suitable for a horse race. For if there's one thing most cowboys had in common it was the love of gambling.
A lot of us loved a good game of poker, but horse racing was the best of all. In an age where everyone rode a horse there was bound to be a large percentage of people who felt they were experts regarding all things equestrian. Given the frontier's propensity to gamble, there were also a lot of folks willing to wager that they knew more about a horse than the next fellow did.
Horse racing was especially rampant in Texas. There were about as many little brush tracks as there were outhouses in certain parts of the state. There was tale after tale of entire towns losing their fortune backing a local favorite in a match race. And a horse race didn't require any official, organized track to take place. A race might spring up anywhere two riders met.
Most of the races were sprint races, matching good quarter horses over short distances. They were usually under a quarter of a mile, but one might see any kind of a race imaginable here and there. The Indians loved to run longer races where their mustang ponies' endurance played to their favor. A bunch of the high-rollers down in South and East Texas had even been importing good thoroughbreds.
I don't guess it's any wonder that men who spent most of their living hours in a saddle should love horse racing so much. It's safe to say that I don't know if I ever felt more alive than when I was standing at the finish line and cheering on the fast horse that I had bet on at the time. And like every other damn fool for a horse and a dollar, my favorite races were when I won.
After a few weeks of racing Little Paint around the roundup camps, our outfit took on a new air. It's a wonder every one of us didn't lose our jobs, but even Hell's Bells hauled himself right into the mix. He was as proud as any of us that our outfit had the fastest horse on the roundup. Being a bit older than the rest of us, H.B., without nomination, took on the role of manager and trainer. Every night he came into camp and informed us of potential matches, giving us his opinion of different horses and their merits, and the prospect of getting a race up.
Carlito, the cook, took on the role of groom, and against all cow camp etiquette he started keeping Little Paint tied to the chuckwagon. He managed to scare up a bit of grain to feed the horse, and he rubbed the little devil until his coat was shiny and slick. You never would have known he was the same long-haired, knotty little pony we stole off the reservation.
Andy became our official jockey on account of his slight stature. We all strutted around some, but he outdid us all. After every race he insisted on recounting the affair in a play-by-play fashion, highlighting the brilliant strategy he had deployed, and the subtle jockey techniques he had made use of to bring about victory. We were all so happy counting our winnings, both past and future, that none of us pointed out the fact that Little Paint was so damned fast that a monkey could have rode him to a win.
The biggest part of the general roundups in the Panhandle was over by the Fourth of July and we were finishing up our last work just east of Mobeetie four days before the holiday. We had worked a big circle between the Washita and the Salt Fork of the Red and had a herd gathered to work about two miles south of the Sweetwater. I was castrating a calf when High Card Henson rode up to the fire I was helping work. I rose to meet him, wiping the bloody blade of my pocketknife on the bottom of my chaps' leg. Two strangers were with him, but stopped off at a distance and waited.
Now old High Card weighed about a hundred pounds, stood about six foot six, and the only thing longer jointed than him was the handlebar mustache he kept tugging down below his jaw while he pulled up his horse and hooked a leg over his saddle horn. He was a professional gambler, and if you doubted the fact all you had to do to was ask him. I even heard that for a while he introduced himself with business cards he had printed in Austin that presented him as such. The thing about High Card was that he spent more time following cow tracks than he did sitting over a card game. Any time you asked him why he wasn't gambling it was because he had had to go to work to replenish his stake. It took High Card about two hours to lose any kind of stake, and at thirty-or-forty-a-month cowboy wages, it took him a hell of a lot longer to rake another one up.
If I was to have summed him up I guess I would call him a determined sort of a fellow. And then again, he wasn't all that much different from a lot of gamblers I knew. Even poor gamblers know that there are very few regular winners and a sight more losers that just show up with their donations. The trick is that almost every gambler identifies himself as a winner, suffering from an eternal case of chronic optimism whereby the rest of the world is just a bunch of suckers.
“Are you winning so much you've taken to traveling with bodyguards?” I pointed to his fellow travelers sitting off behind him.
High Card's face brightened and he seemed pleased that I could expect so much of him. “Naw, that ain't it at all. Those are some of my professional associates.”
“That a fact?”
“We've a camp back up the Sweetwater a little bit—tents set up with tables and such. There's liquor, women, cards, rooster-fighting, and well . . . just about everything a man who's been out working all summer could desire.”
“Are you making the rounds advertising?”
“Yes and no.”
“Speak your piece. I've got a man fixing to need a hot iron.” I gestured back at the bawling calf being drug by its hind legs in a trail of dust toward us.
He twisted in the saddle and glanced back at his friends, followed by a studious observance of the sky. Finally, as if slipping something of the utmost unimportance and trivial nature into the conversation, he slyly said, “We heard you boys have a racehorse in camp.”
“We might,” I replied with equal unconcern and nonchalance.
He continued to make a show of gauging the sun. “That's a coincidence, because there are a couple of gentlemen in our camp that are sure getting frustrated.”
“If it was winter, and it's that Mobeetie crowd you're running with, I'd say the watered-down whiskey froze again and busted the barrels.”
He didn't like my measure of his newfound friends, but he was quick to cover it up. He yawned and stretched and adjusted his tempo before he answered. “They hauled a couple of good horses all the way up from San Antonio a month ago, and ain't been able to find a single bit of competition for their animals.”
“Is that so?”
“That's a fact. It seems they're beginning to doubt the quality of horseflesh in these parts.”
“Maybe they ain't been looking in the right places.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe they're long on talk and short on funds.”
High Card shook his head solemnly. “No, sir. Those boys got money by the sackfuls, and are game and ready to risk a little of it should a worthy challenge for their horses come along.”
“You're meaning they would like a little match race with our horse?”
He appeared to be in serious contemplation. He winced as he said, “Well now, I don't doubt you boys have got a horse you
think
is fast, but how's your financial situation?”
“Have you gone to banking too?”
“No, it's just that those racehorse men up on the Sweetwater are getting pretty bored with the action around these parts and are willing to entertain a little betting on a much smaller scale than they're used to.”
“Why don't your high-rolling racehorse men come down here themselves if they want to dicker up a match?”
“You saying y'all might be interested?”
“We might.” I paused before adding, “Of course we realize that it would be professional horsemen and imported stock that we would be dealing with, and would expect certain considerations.”
High Card nodded his head in satisfaction. “They've invited y'all up to our camp to palaver with them tonight.”
“Where do we find you?”
“Just ride west until you hit the Sweetwater and turn up it until you see our fires.”
“I reckon we can find you if we're interested.”
The men behind me had already worked two calves shorthanded, and I turned as if to go back to work. For kicks, I stopped and motioned for High Card to get down. “You might as well lend a hand to keep in practice.”
He made a show of brushing the dust off the cheap suit coat he was wearing, and then pulled a pocket watch from his vest and studied it as if his schedule required him to be off to better and more important places. “I believe I'll pass. I've had enough of the dust pneumonia and the gyp water squirts.”

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