Pinto Lowery (18 page)

“Never tried to do that, Truett.”

“Maybe not, but you're doin' it just the same. I promised Pa to look after things, but it's you does that. Till today I thought I could manage. Now I see I was wrong ... near dead wrong. I'm sorry for what I said in the past. We do need you here. Pa was right. I'm just a stumblefoot boy no matter how hard I try to be somethin' else.”

“I don't figure you've done so bad,” Pinto argued.

“You needn't lie. I hear others talk. For a time I thought it was only Pa. He never took a shine to me, you see, nor to the things I did,” Truett explained. “I watch Jared and his pa, and I wonder what I could've done so wrong that Pa wouldn't like me. I worked hard, hard as anybody I ever knew. On the way to Kansas, I kept to my saddle longer'n anybody, even though I was near the youngest. l'd've showed him he had a son to be proud of if only that horse hadn't thrown him. He should've been ridin' my horse that day. His was weary, and I ...”

“He ask fer yer horse?” Pinto interrupted.

“No, but I should've ...”

“Can't be forever wonderin' this or that,” Pinto advised. “I los' my own pa, and was a thing on earth I could do 'bout it. Life don't always turn as you'd have it, but things sort 'emselves out in de end.”

“Most times you sound like you know,” Truett said, managing half a grin. “It's awful hard sometimes knowin' what to do when you're just fourteen.”

“Addin' years don't make it easier,” Pinto said, laughing to himself. “I done plenty of fool things in my time, and more'n a few been since I was full grown.”

“That's not much comfort, you know. Anyway, I did want to thank you for draggin' me in from the snow. I'd be dead if you'd left me. It weighs heavy on me knowin' I wouldn't've gone after you if your horse'd ridden in.”

“Seems to me you let yer Pa's passin' burden you enough already,” Pinto said, stepping over beside the young man. “You know, I passed half a year in de Petersburg trenches, holdin' out agains' dem Yankees. Was a fair share o' fightin' early on, but by and by it settled down. We had Carolina tobacco that winter, and de Yanks sniffed it and hollered over dey'd swap us coffee fer some. Pretty soon we had ourselves a brisk trade goin'. Made ourselves a sort o' truce.”

“How'd you do that?” Truett asked.

“Put grudges behind us and shook hands,” Pinto answered, offering up his own hand in friendship. Truett clasped it with his damp fingers, and the truce was sealed.

“Ma said some time back she'd favor you stayin' through winter,” Truett explained as he dressed himself. “Wanted me to ask you. How'd you feel 'bout that? I know you had your heart set on running down some range ponies.”

“Winter's no time to ride the Llano alone,” Pinto replied. “I'd be obliged for the shelter.”

“You'd earn it. As you have been. Understand, you'll get a healthy portion of pesterin' from Ben and Brax, not to mention Winnie.”

“Havin' company close can be a comfort, though. Thing I got to know's how you stand on me.”

“I don't know how to answer you, Mr. Lowery.”

“Ain't no mister to me. Jus' Pinto.”

“I don't find trustin' anybody very easy,” Truett confessed.

“Sure, it's hard mos'ly. But I'm a man to know ridin' alone's no tonic. Dries a man's insides.”

“Yeah, I been feelin' hollow ever since Pa fell. Maybe even before.”

“Well, you lean on ole Pinto if you need. And once de sky clears some, you find some mischief to get indo. Maybe with ole Jared.”

“Sounds just fine to me,” Truett said, brightening.

“By and by de hurt passes, you see. And times get better.”

“I hope so,” Truett said, sighing. “I truly do.”

An hour or so later, after taking a turn at the warming tub himself, Pinto mustered the nerve to have a look outside. The wind had eased, but the ground was buried by a foot of glazed snow. The gray plank walls of the barn were painted an eerie white, and long icicles dangled from the eaves. Standing alone on the porch, even wrapped in three blankets, the damp and cold near froze him stiff.

“Get back inside here!” Elsie scolded as she cracked open the door. “Now.”

“Time I got back to de barn,” he explained.

“You can't mean to go there,” she insisted, reaching over and clamping a firm hand on his arm. She dragged him back inside and slammed the door shut on the icy air.

“She's right,” Truett said from beside the hearth. “It's too cold in the barn, what with no fire and all. We don't even use our room around the side when it snows. Stay here by the fire, with us.”

“All my gear ...” Pinto began.

“Oh, that,” Ben said, grinning. “I fetched it along when I put your horse in his stall. Wasn't all that much, and we got plenty o' warmer beddin'.”

“Clothes need patchin', too,” Winnie announced. “Me and Ma'll start on 'em tomorrow.”

“Some'd be best used for rags,” Elsie added. “Next trip to town you spend some of that money you've put away to outfit yourself proper. If you're goin' to stay under my roof, I'll expect you to be presentable.”

“Elsie, I'd ...”

“We decided, the five of us,” Truett explained, wrapping an arm around his mother. “Once it warms up, if you want to go back to your solitude, then you go. Just now you need the fire.”

“Wouldn't have been any solitude anyhow,” Ben declared. “We climbed up there most nights and half the mornin's.”

“You'll have to get used to some snorin',” Pinto warned.

“Can't be as bad as Pa,” Winnie said, giggling.

“Naw, he's not half so bad,” Brax said, adding a log to the fire. “We heard him comin' home from Ft. Worth. Shoot, Tru can snore good 's Pinto.”

The youngsters ushered him over to the fire and huddled in a half circle around the dancing flames. Elsie was there, too, on the far side with Winnie. He saw her eyes gaze his way, with warmth and rare tenderness. Little Brax burrowed his head under Pinto's right arm, too, and the closeness was near overpowering.

“You all right, Pinto?” Ben asked as the color seemed to flow from the mustanger's face.

“Jus' fine,” Pinto insisted. “Ain't so used to company's all.”

“You'll get used to it,” Elsie assured him. “Can be tight quarters in this house come winter.”

Yes, Pinto told himself. And that would make riding off come spring all the harder. A year ago Pinto might have vowed to leave the first chance the weather provided. But he ached for company just then, and no amount of sensible figuring would prompt him to turn his back on the sense of belonging he felt that moment. No, the Llano never welcomed a lone man come winter. Nor any other time.

Pinto Lowery knew only too well.

Winter hit northern Texas hard that year. It took half a week for that first snow to melt, and twice before Christmas other blizzards tormented the farms and ranches of Wise County. Whenever a hint of sun appeared, Pinto rode out with Truett to have a look after the stock. Sometimes they would drag fodder to a small herd of cattle. Other times they would drive animals out to fresh water and grass.

On other days Pinto would shoulder his Henry and lead the Oakes boys on a hunt. Once or twice they dropped a deer, but most of the time the hunters settled for rabbits or squirrels. Once the real cold settled in, game became scarce. As meat supplies dwindled, Truett would cut out a steer for butchering.

Aside from putting meat on the table, there were hides for working. Pinto already had Truett working on a pair of buckskin trousers. Ben and Brax had been wearing shirts of deerhide since mid-November. With Christmas growing near, Pinto held back some of the hides and worked secretly some afternoons in the loft. By Christmas Eve he'd sewn a warm pair of rabbit fur gloves for Elsie and a second pair for Winnie. Two coons treed in the Trinity bottoms had yielded skin caps for Ben and Brax. Finally Pinto had crafted a fine pair of saddlebags for Truett out of cowhide.

Be some kind o' surprise come Chris'mas mornin', Pinto thought. Only days before, Elsie had warned there was little cash for frills. Looking around the dinner table, Pinto had judged the words not needed. Even Winnie had taken note of the dwindling contents of the sugar bowl, and Pinto had provided a fresh tin of coffee himself, along with a shiny new Winchester rifle he decided couldn't wait for a holiday.

“Good huntin' gun's sure do earn its price back,” Pinto explained when he replaced the ancient Springfield with the new rifle.

“We ought to pay for it, Ma,” Truett had argued. “If we're goin' to be the ones use it.”

“Certainly,” Elsie had agreed. “And Pinto ought to have wages.”

She fetched her purse and doled out the rifle's cost together with fifty dollars' wages. Later, in private, Pinto returned the money.

“Better to spend it on new shoes for de little ones. I'll take what's owed me in stock come spring roundup,” he told her. “Cash's scarce, I'd judge, and needed.”

“It doesn't mean you aren't due a fair wage,” she'd argued.

“Different sorts o' pay, Elsie,” he had replied. “Warm fire and good company's one.”

“Then we owe you double, Pinto. And more.”

Come Christmas Eve, everyone living within twenty miles of the RR was invited over for a bit of celebrating. A Methodist circuit preacher would read some verse, and Ryan Richardson would provide a yearling calf for the spit. Fiddlers would offer up music, and those who chose could dance or sing or gossip away half the day.

Jared arrived a little shy of midday with a wagon, and the Oakeses piled in the bed. Pinto and Tru sat up front with young Richardson. As the mules started south toward the Double R, Ben drew out his mouth organ and fetched up a tune. Amid the singing and good feeling, Pinto hardly felt the bite of a bitter December wind.

Once at the Richardson place, the boys dashed off to find some mischief. Winnie quickly located a handful of farmgirls intent on emptying a platter of sugar cakes, and Elsie found herself drawn off by a band of clucking females.

“You seem to've lost a family,” J. B. Dotham observed as he wandered over. “Christmas meetin's always the same. I barely seen my own boys; and the hands, well, one hint of petticoat and they run off like stampedin' bulls.”

“Yeah, I chased a sniff o' lilac water or two in my time,” Pinto added, laughing.

“And now?”

“Well, I'll admit to havin' a glance 'round.”

“If you won't tell Amanda, my wife, I'll confess I took a look or two myself.”

“Comanches couldn't pry it out o' me,” Pinto swore.

“I looked over the Oakes youngsters, too. A little threadbare this year.”

“Times been hard, what wid their Pa dead and all.”

“Times were just as hard when he wasn't. New pair of trousers and a fresh shirt would be nice, but I judge they've all of them filled out some since summer's end. Unusual for farmers. Most years winter takes a toll. You done some fine work over there, I'd guess.”

“Oh, was mos'ly Elsie.”

“Was it? Not to hear Jared talk. By his accounts you must be the best rifle shot and the hardest rider in all Texas.”

“Boys stretch de truth as a rule,” Pinto declared, shaking his head. “I confess I've dropped more deer dis year'n I have since '67. Too many of 'em in de bottomland anyhow. Food's been welcome, and de hides, too.”

“I noticed the buckskins.”

“No swap-off fer cotton come summer, but dey warm a body in de winter.”

Elsie moved past them then, surrounded by a flock of women. She barely managed a hello to Dotham and a nod to Pinto before they hurried her along.

“Elsie's durned popular,” Pinto observed.

“Strange how bothered everybody's come to be about her,” Dotham added. “When Tully was around, nobody wasted a worry on her, and he was about as much use to her as a hammer is to a flea.”

“What do you figure's changed things?” Pinto asked.

“You,” Dotham said, frowning. “It's a small world out here, you know. Jared says something, and Arabella picks it up. Next thing you know it's racin' around Defiance and halfway to Austin.”

“Jus' what is it racin' 'round, Mr. Dotham?”

“Word has it you've moved into the house.”

“Have,” Pinto said, grinding his teeth. “Was firs' snow, and de wind near froze anything that moved. Tru got himself los', and I fetched him home.”

“I heard the tale, and I merit it was a fine, brave thing for a hired man to risk his neck over a fool fourteen-year-old.”

“Been a man or two put 'emselves out fer me when I wasn't much older,” Pinto explained. “Never should've allowed 'em to talk me into beddin' in de house. Wouldn't've if I guessed it's bring on harm.”

“It hasn't,” Dotham argued. “Most people hereabouts would hold it against a farmer to leave a man to freeze in his barn come winter. But where a widow's concerned ...”

“Rules's different, eh? Well, cold or no, I'll go back to that lof'. Appreciate yer speakin' do me on it.”

“It's as a friend, you know. Of Elsie's as well as yours. I don't grudge the either of you a touch of comfort, but ...”

“Ain't any comfortin' gone on,” Pinto said forcefully. “Anybody sayin' there has been's de worse kind o' liar.”

“I take your word on that, though I personally believe the both of you would profit from each other's company. Been a time since we had a weddin' hereabouts. Those boys need a man to look up to, and I wager they've found one. Elsie needs a man, and little Winnie dotes on you. Everybody sees that.”

“I figure everybody's gone and put a nose in business ain't their own,” Pinto responded angrily.