Pinto Lowery
Authors: G. Clifton Wisler
LOWERY
PINTO
LOWERY
G. CLIFTON WISLER
M. EVANS
Lanham ⢠Boulder ⢠New York ⢠Toronto ⢠Plymouth, UK
Published by M. Evans
An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
www.rowman.com
10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom
Distributed by National Book Network
Copyright© 1991 by G. Clifton Wisler
First paperback edition 2014
All rights reserved
. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The hardback edition of this book was previously cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:
Wisler, G. Clifton
Pinto Lowery / G. Clifton Wisler.
p. cm.-(An Evans novel of the West)
I. Title. II. Series.
PS3573.I877P56 Â Â
1991 90-25766
813'.54âdc20
CIP
ISBN: 978-0-87131-634-x (cloth: alk. paper)
ISBN: 978-1-59077-266-9 (electronic)
ISBN: 978-1-59077-265-2 (pbk.: alk. paper)
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information SciencesâPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
All that I am, all that I know,
flows from those who have molded me
.
For Elnora Higgins,
my grandmother
Chapter 1
You couldn't call Hill's Junction a town. No, that would've been a stretch. It was just a meeting of roads where a few folks had chosen to build their houses. A fellow named Robertson had set up a store there a year or so after the first settlers came, and Elroy Tubbs had started up his livery and freight business after that. In all, there were close to a dozen buildings nowâweathered post oak pickets and pine planks mostly, with nary a splash of paint on the whole lot. In the gray mists of the February morning, Hill's Junction seemed to rise like a phantom from the Texas plain.
Pinto Lowery eyed the swirling fog with suspicion. Back in Marshall, growing up, his ancient grandmother would have tossed chicken bones on a table and read the omens. In Lowery's experience, anytime you couldn't see what rested down the road was a time to stand up and take notice. Plenty of times, fighting with Hood in Virginia, the Yanks had come out of a mist, flags waving, and lashed into the Marshall Guards like a pack of winter-starved range dogs.
That war's over now
, he thought as he satisfied himself that the hire horses in the corral had enough oats in their feed trough. He was turning back toward the barn when a door groaned on its hinges, and a shaggy yellow-haired boy of fourteen stepped outside.
“Feels odd, don't it, Pinto?” the boy asked.
“Jus' frog spit's all,” Pinto said, grinning. “Sign winter's passin', Muley.”
“I won't cry over that. No, sir,” Muley Bryant said, scratching the bare quarter of shoulder left exposed by a pair of overalls a size and a half too large and blowing a tune through an old tin mouth-organ.
“Catch a fever takin' de Mornin' air witout a shirt,” Pinto scolded. “Miz Dubbs scrubbed that flannel one las' week. Ain't oudgrowed it, have you?”
“No, but it's tight just the same. Chafes the fool out o' my arms. And other places besides.”
“Maybe I'll shoot up a deer and make you a Comanche breech-clout,” Pinto offered. “Dat or we could jus' leave you oud for dem bucks do snatch some night.”
“Wouldn't be much worse'n slavin' for Elroy Tubbs,” Muley grumbled. “Only thing keeps me here's your promise I can chase mustangs with you come summer.”
“I never promised dat.”
“Maybe no, but you'll let me come along just the same. I'm good company.”
“Good fer aggravation,” Pinto muttered, shooing the youngster back inside. “Now let's ged along after dis work. Got wagons due in today, and we'll be all afternoon unloadin'.”
“And all the mornin' workin' these fool horses,” Muley said, wiping his brow. “If Miz Tubbs wasn't such a fine cook, I'd ...”
“You'd have to find yerself a new pair o' britches,” Pinto said, laughing as he pulled at one of the oversized legs. “Or else get yerself a twin to share dem pants.”
“We can't all o' us match you for style,” Muley replied, pointing to the odd assortment of patches that held Pinto's wool trousers and homespun cotton shirt together. His boots were new, cut from fresh cowhide by his own hands and sewn with proper needle and lace. Why not? Before turning to chasing range ponies, George Preston Lowery had labored a whole year stitching boots and saddles at a Victoria factory.
“Guess dey ain't much to look at,” Pinto admitted. “But den I don't spend my mornin's at de Governor's Ball.”
Muley laughed at the notion, then began scooping oats into feed bags. Elroy Tubbs kept the draft horses in stalls, and they wanted feeding just like the ones outside. As for Pinto, he had himself a look after a roan gelding with a bad front foot. He was still working on the horse when Tom and Ted Tubbs climbed up and sat on the wall of the animal's stall.
“Mornin', Pinto,” twelve-year-old Tom called as he yawned. “Looks like a storm's comin'.”
Ten-year-old Ted nodded shyly.
“Be a storm sure enough if your ma finds you climbin' stalls in yer school clothes. Thought you'd be on yer way to Miz Pritchard's by now.”
“She's sendin' a wagon today,” Tom explained. “Now the Franklin boys and Sarah Mills's comin' along. Makes six, what with Alice.”
“I figured Alice to have all the educatin' anybody could abide,” Muley called from the far side of the barn. “Girl's powerful smart already. Puts me to shame.”
“That ain't sayin' so much,” Tom remarked. “You could take some lessons, too, Muley.”
“Nobody's goin' to educate me!” the stableboy objected. “I'm chasin' mustangs soon as Pinto says the weather's changed.”
“Wish I could,” Ted said, moaning. “Don't guess you'd take me, would you, Pinto?”
“I did, I wouldn't have just Comanches after my hair. Yer ma'd scalp me sure.”
The Tubbs boys laughed at the notion. Pinto just went on working.
“Got a tale for us today?” Tom asked after a time. “Bout the war, maybe? Seen that scar on your hand plenty o' times, but you never tell us how you got it.”
“Was at Sharpsburg as I heard it,” Muley answered. “But he's mum about it. Get him to talk 'bout horses. He don't altogether mind that.”
“Pinto?” Tom asked hopefully.
“Well, dere is one story I recall,” Pinto said as he worked the stiffness out of the roan's tendons. “I was thirteen, jus' a hair older'n Tom here.”
Pinto went on to tell how he'd captured his first range pony, but he didn't quite get to the end.
“Here they are!” Alice Tubbs called as she swung the side door wide open and marched into the barn. “Just like I thought, Pa. Pinto's gabbin' away the mornin', keepin' the boys from their lessons and Muley there from his chores.”
“I was workin' de roan's sore tendon,” Pinto countered. “As to dem boys, I never got myself paid to boss dem. Thad'd be yer natural born pleasure, wouldn't it be, Alice?”
The boys chuckled at their red-faced sister, but it didn't last. Elroy Tubbs waved them outside, then propped a foot onto an anvil and stared at Pinto Lowery.
“Know it's in your nature to spin yarns, Lowery, but I won't have you philosophizin' when work's waitin' to get done,” Tubbs complained. “Bad enough Muley's lazy. Don't need Tom and Ted turnin' out that way.”
“I work hard enough,” Muley objected.
“Hush,” Pinto said, motioning Muley to silence. “Was jus' de boy in 'em comin' out, Mr. Tubbs. Youngsters never have much patience waitin' fer wagons and such. As for de tale, it wasn't one thad'd do 'em harm.”
“It wastes their time,” Tubbs argued.
“Well, some boys burn down barns smokin' cigars. I never heard a story to hurt anybody. I'll hurry 'em along from now on, though. Yer de boss, and you call de tune.”
“It's just you have 'em dreamin' about chasin' horses and huntin' buffalo,” Tubbs explained. “That'd turn any farmboy's head.”
“Guess you're right,” Pinto confessed. “I don't know much, I guess. Do have a knack for drawin' wild cridders, though. Horses and boy children mainly.”
“Well, you do your work,” Tubbs said begrudgingly. “Better hurry it up, too. Saw some dust on the Weatherford road. I'd guess the freight wagons are early.”
“Den I'd bes' lead out de horses,” Pinto said, giving the roan a final touch of salve. “Won't be a minute.”
“Better not,” Tubbs replied. “I hear horses now.”
“What's due?” Muley asked as he trotted over and opened the first stall. Is it two or three? I can't ever remember.”
“Three wagons,” Pinto answered. “So you see, we won't need that pacer. He wouldn't care to heave that load.”
Muley gazed at the sleek horse and covered his face. In another moment the correct animals were paired. Pinto left Muley to watch the team and walked out to supervise the freight unloading. But the expected wagons were nowhere to be found.
“Where are they?” Pinto called.
“Wasn't wagons at all,” Tom said, hurrying over. “Just riders. Pa took them along inside with him. Most anyway. There's a couple o' young ones got left outside. Likely their pa don't trust 'em inside.”
“Could be,” Pinto said, following Tom to where three slight-shouldered young men tended half a dozen horses. One was filling a cigarette paper with tobacco. The other two were seeing their horses got fresh water.
“Why don't you take 'em a dipper from de well?” Pinto suggested as he waved to the three young visitors. “But afterward you trot along to de barn and climb up to de loft, hear?”
“What?” Tom asked.
“Take Ted and Alice along if you happen across 'em.”
“Pinto?”
“Don't ask me questions, Tommy. I got no time nor answers either. Hurry along wid you.”
The twelve-year-old stepped to the well, drew a dipper of cool water from the bucket, and set off toward the strangers. Pinto walked past the trio and stepped inside the freight company office.
“Here's another one now,” a dark-haired man in his early twenties called.
“It's my stablehand,” Tubbs explained as he glanced anxiously at Pinto. “Does some smithin', too. Maybe he could have a look at your horses and tell you what ails 'em.”
“Yeah, Joe, bet he can,” the youngish fellow said, turning to a tall, heavyset man with a nose someone had spread over half his face.
“It's a beauty, ain't it?” the big man asked Pinto. “Little boy there took to it right off, didn't you, son?”
Ted Tubbs nodded his head and hugged his father's leg.
“Got it busted three times,” the younger visitor explained. “Once in a fist fight, once by a pine log, and the last time by a Jacksboro deputy.”
