Authors: Brett Cogburn
Panhandle (23 page)
There were about ten men scooted back against the wall on the far side of the room, and I joined them. The bartender had disappeared, and I realized then that this trouble had been brewing long before I'd arrived. I'd failed to notice why Billy had one end of the room to himself. I was as dumb as the rest of the bystanders who didn't haul themselves out the door and out of danger, but like them, I was determined to see the thing.
Who knows what led Rory to that moment? He spent all his time hunting trouble, and that morning he found some. Rory had a mouth on him, and once Billy got wind of what he was saying there was no stopping what was to come with both of them in town, short of Rory crawling into a hole somewhere. Rory was as proud as he was mean, and he wasn't going to crawl anywhere.
I had never known Billy to kill a man, but somehow I knew he could handle Rory Donnovan. Up until that time, nobody had seen any of Billy's graveyards, yet most recognized him as a man to avoid trouble with. There was just something about him in that regard.
Billy stood with his thumb still hooked in his belt, and his left forearm resting on the bar. He looked calm if not peaceful, while Rory just looked disagreeable and nasty like he always did. He drank the last of a beer and slammed the empty bottle down on the bar top, then wiped the wet from his lips with the back of his hand. He studied Billy with obvious contempt, and let out a loud grunt of disdain.
“I'll say what I please about you,” he said.
Billy said nothing, and that seemed to embolden Rory all the more.
“You're a damned coward to run off and leave a woman in a snowstorm.” He put a hand on his pistol butt.
“And you're a lying little son of a bitch.” Billy's voice never changed or rose in volume when he said it.
And that's all there was to it, no long speeches men are supposed to make before they die, or any band to play melancholy music and beat slow drums. There were just two men mad enough to kill, and willing to do so.
Rory's gun was out quick, and his first shot went into the wall behind Billy. Billy seemed too slow, but he took that little bit of time to do it right. Even at that short of a distance Billy leveled his pistol at arm's length and shot Rory through the guts. Rory was falling when he let off his second shot into the floor at Billy's feet. He fell to a sitting position on the floor with his shoulder and head against the bottom of the bar. He was cussing Billy and struggling for another shot. He didn't get a third, because Billy put one through his skull just above the left eye.
We all watched Rory die out with his brains splattered on the bar, and his lifeblood leaking out on the floor. He looked like a twisted, grotesque rag-doll pitched down there at the foot of the bar with Billy standing over him with a Colt's revolver leveled in his hand. It takes a man time to absorb such as that and we all stood there bound by some unknown law that kept us like silent and immobile Romans, until Billy either moved, or spoke.
He turned slowly to eye every man in the room except me, and every one knew that all they had to do was ask for it. Apparently nobody there had any issues with Billy, or was willing to take them that far. The old saying that you could have heard a pin drop was never more apt than right then. Billy was still holding his Colt when he walked out the door.
I was the first to move as I followed Billy outside, taking care not to step in the bloodspot as I passed Rory's body. I was just in time to see Andy ride up with a spare saddled horse and a pistol in his hand.
“I guess you got the bastard,” Andy said.
“Yeah, I got him.” Billy got on his horse.
Andy grinned at me. “I'm glad you were there to help in case anybody decided to gang up on Billy. A man can count on his real friends when he's in a bind.”
Before I could answer, Billy cut his horse between us, looking up and down the street before he looked at me. “I'm going somewhere else while this cools off. Anybody sticks their nose outside that door with the wrong intentions, you kick them in the shins.”
With that, he and Andy rode off at a trot down the middle of town, with the gawkers already rushing to the scene giving them wide berth. I had to admit that even Andy looked the part of a bold, bad man come to the aid of his leader. The two rode leisurely away while Mobeetie's finest showed up to purvey the gore.
So that's how it was there early in '82, fresh off a blizzard and a killing. I got married to the woman I loved and Billy rode off with a reputation grown even larger by the killing of Rory Donnovan. What a way to ring in the New Year.
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
TWO
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-
TWO
I
don't think Barby laid eyes on another woman for the first three months we were married. I went into the freighting business with Long as soon as I built us a half soddy, half dugout for a home, and turned out a small herd of cattle on the range. I was so caught up in trying to get ahead in life that I didn't think about a pregnant woman left alone in the middle of nowhere being bothered by it all. Maybe I was just dumb enough to think that the garden and three chickens I left her with were enough to keep her company, or that it was all right as long as I made sure to worry about her while I was gone.
don't think Barby laid eyes on another woman for the first three months we were married. I went into the freighting business with Long as soon as I built us a half soddy, half dugout for a home, and turned out a small herd of cattle on the range. I was so caught up in trying to get ahead in life that I didn't think about a pregnant woman left alone in the middle of nowhere being bothered by it all. Maybe I was just dumb enough to think that the garden and three chickens I left her with were enough to keep her company, or that it was all right as long as I made sure to worry about her while I was gone.
Imagine a woman bellied down with a child five months' grown working herself silly carrying water, weeding gardens, and chasing centipedes and pack rats out of the house almost every night. She would tell me all about it when I was home, not complaining, but as if the sharing of her thoughts lifted the worry from her shoulders, at least for a time. The work didn't bother her as much as the being alone. She loved the chickens and her horse, but they were lacking where conversation was concerned.
The night sounds like to have driven her crazy at first, but she learned to love the coyotes' howls, and to interpret the stirring of the horses in the corral for what it was. Thunder, lightning, and the wind rattling the plank door on its hinges still made her heart flutter at times, but after a few months she could lie down oblivious to most of the sounds of the night. Most of all, she hoped to hear the sound of my freight wagon rolling up the hill to home.
Despite her many adjustments to fit in with her new and extravagant surroundings she never learned to more than tolerate the seemingly continuous onslaught of prairie wind. Its constant tug and pull irritated her tired body, and every day was a war whereby she fought to remove the dust driven into every crack and crevice of her home, clothes, and person. At times she felt as if a broom, a bucket of water, and a stubborn will were not enough to combat the dust and wind. She loved the day or two after a rain when the ground was too wet for the wind to pick it up and throw it at her. It was a sandy country, and a little bit of mud was a welcome change.
All the while she could feel her baby growing inside her, and she listened while I told her what I hoped and dreamed for us. She must have believed me when I laid out the ranch we would own someday, and just like me, maybe she could picture the beautiful home I would build her with white rail fences and fruit trees edging the road to the house. Maybe, like me, she could see it all as clearly as if tomorrow were today. All she had to do was to hold out and persevere. It was a bold hope, but dreamers often make the best pioneers.
Barby's forced exile from humanity came to an abrupt end exactly three months from the day we were married. I had been out on the trail for over two weeks on my second freighting trip when Long and I decided to stop by my home for a few days on our way back down to Colorado City to pick up freight. What I found at home was a woman who had had enough of the kind of living she was getting from me.
The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back came in the form of a yearling steer that decided to use the corner of the soddy as a scratching post one morning just at daylight. Being a frightened, but brave woman, Barby steadied her nerves and let fly through the wall with the new Winchester I left her. After two good shots into the direction of the scary noise, the threatened invasion of her home was at an end. It took her a while to get her courage up to look outside, but she eventually came out to find the intruder dead from her rifle.
I can attest to the thorough nature of her home defense, as Long and I drove up that very morning to find a crying, crazy woman sitting in the doorway, and one of my steers dead at the corner of the house. Both bullets had hit him broadside, and he had died in his tracks. Early on I had some doubts as to her mental stability, but never questioned her marksmanship.
One might assume at the time that an up-and-coming cattleman like me ate a lot of beef, but that would be incorrect. The small herd we had was for multiplying or selling, and not eating. My rapid plans to achieve riches in agriculture could not be slowed by the needs of our palates. However, I did not stop on this occasion to consider the loss of future income and prosperity, due to the fact that I had a wife threatening to go home to her daddy. That was the same daddy who had warned her staunchly not to marry a man with so little promise as I showed. My entire attention was on said threat, and absorbing the list of complaints thrown at me by my aggrieved spouse.
“Nathan Reynolds, I love you to death, but I'm not spending another night here alone!” Her green eyes were glistening, and her little fists were clenched at her sides.
“I've gotta work, Honey.” I had found that women liked sweet little pet names, and I was hoping to smooth things over.
“Don't you patronize me!”
I wasn't sure what “patronize” meant, but I promised myself not to do it again. “I'll try not to stay gone so long at a time.”
“You'll try?” Her voice raised three octaves, and I was glad her rifle wasn't handy.
Bless Long's heart, he tried to help. “Mrs. Reynolds, he's just working hard to build a home, and he's new to this marriage stuff. You've gotta be a little patient with him.”
Barby chased Long backward with a stiffened finger wagging under his nose. “Don't you go to taking up for him, Long. There's more to a home than just a roof. I've had it up to here with this pioneer stuff.” She chopped the air above her head with a wicked slice of her hand.
Long and I were pretty tough, but she soon had both of us treed up on our wagon seats. She huffed and puffed back and forth in front of us for a while until she wore out and started crying again. I watched helplessly as she trudged to the house.
There is nothing like an emergency to spur a good man to action. I quickly tallied up the things that bothered herâdust, chiggers, wind, noises, loneliness, vagrant cattle, etc.
“What's gotten into that woman?” I asked Long, truly at a loss as to what I should do.
“You're leaving her alone too much.” Long eyed the house cautiously as if unsure it was safe to get down from the wagon.
“What about Fawn? You're gone just as much as I am.”
“She's got her family on the reservation to keep her company when she doesn't go with me.”
“I'd take Barby with me from time to time, but she's too far pregnant to be taking a beating on a wagon seat.”
“That makes it even worse. She's pregnant and alone.”
“I can't help it. I promised her I'd quit freighting as soon as we can get this ranch paying.” That was going to be a long time, considering our small herd.
“I don't reckon she married you for your money.”
“If I hang around here we're soon going to be wearing nothing but buckskins, and I don't think she wants to live like a squaw.” The same notion hit both of us as soon as I said it.
“We could bring Fawn to live here.” Long was already smiling.
“That just might smooth things over at that.”
A little feminine companionship was just what Barby needed. Both of us patted ourselves on the back for such a clever and wise solution. Neither one of us claimed to be experts where women were concerned, especially unpredictable and volatile pregnant women, but our plan seemed solid nonetheless. I could hardly wait to break the news to Barby.
“You're going to do what?” was all she could scream once I made her aware of the plan.
She threatened me with far worse things than going home to her father, bodily harm among them. I was shocked that the promise of the company of a strange woman of foreign affiliation, and who spoke not one bit of the English language, should come as small comfort to her. After I was able to endure what seemed like an overly drawn-out session of wailing, biting, and gouging, she allowed me to give her a good hug. She was at least closer to her usual self once I had the steer removed and butchered that evening,
I was determined to leave with Long that night in order to fetch his wife to Barby's side as quickly as possible. Yet, once again, I showed my ignorance of the opposite sex, and Barby
convinced
me that leaving her alone one more night was out of the question. I was quick to agree that her idea was much better than mine, and waited until morning to fetch Fawn.
convinced
me that leaving her alone one more night was out of the question. I was quick to agree that her idea was much better than mine, and waited until morning to fetch Fawn.
We returned home two days later with Fawn and her household in tow. That household consisted of a bundle of what appeared to be various animal hides and by-products, a tepee, and three or four Cheyenne camp dogs. Barby was not so unladylike as to appear other than pleased at her female guest's arrival, but I noticed her eyeing the dogs with a little displeasure. They were an ugly, mangy set of mongrels that were too wild to catch most of the time, but always under your feet and growling if you stepped on them. I started to offer Barby comfort by telling her of the value of Cheyenne dogs if we should suffer an unusually hard winter, but thought better of it when I considered her recent state of humor.
A meeting of the minds was held and a site beside the house was chosen to place the tepee. I chewed on Long a little when he lounged about instead of helping his wife erect the lodge, but soon discovered that she was even bossier than my own wife. Fawn scolded me and set me off knowing that she didn't want or need my help. I joined Long in relaxed repose in the shade of a wagon, where we smoked away half a sack of tobacco watching the proceedings.
I was astonished by the fact that Fawn seemed happy enough for Barby to help her, and without one word between them they went about getting Fawn's house in order. Long told me that Fawn considered it woman's work, and a man's job was to hunt enough to keep the family in meat. Given the time and inclination, a man could make love or war at his warrior leisure. Long was obviously proud that idle time found between such demanding duties could be spent making sure that he got plenty of rest to fortify him in his exhaustion. I admit to being shamefully envious. It's not racism that makes me certain that Barby had not one drop of Indian blood anywhere in her pedigree
Surprising as it may seem, pairing Barby and Fawn together worked out fine. By the time of my next return home from freighting, the two of them were getting along like sisters or something. They communicated in a mix of English, Cheyenne, and women's intuition. I hadn't been around them five minutes when I began to feel left out of the loop. Both of them would laugh, or exchange funny looks at times when I couldn't even tell anything had happened.
Apparently, the two women had had no problem communicating from the get-go, or they couldn't have come up with the list of homemaking demands they soon presented Long and I with. It seemed they needed more flour, more chickens, a shotgun for Barby to shoot quail with, two glass windows for the soddy, and a shed built for their horses. A milk cow and a butter churn would be nice when we had the money for it. You can't believe how shocking the accumulation of a household is to a man who has lived out of his saddle and bedroll for many years.
Barby brought an iron bed frame and feather mattress to our home as part of her dowry, and Fawn insisted that she too have one. She was a proud Cheyenne, but had to admit that the whites were on to something in that department. Not only did she want the bed, but showed Long where she had laid out a spot for a house on the side of the hill beside our home. I wondered if Long was regretting bringing his wife under the influence of a white woman.
Being men, Long and I sought to deny these extravagant wants on the basis of budgetary concerns, but of course the girls won out in the end. Soon my soddy had two glass windows, and Fawn and Barby were serving up buttered bread and fried quail. It didn't seem so out of place in our little cultural menagerie, but the specter of a feather bed in a tepee might seem a novelty to some.
Apparently it was novelty enough to have half the cowboys north of the Canadian coming by to look at it.
I was just about home one day when I met two cowboys coming down the trail from my house. They were both even younger than I, and looked a little sheepish. One of them was carrying a little cloth bundle.
“Your wife is about the best cook I ever saw.” He held up the package as if it was evidence.
I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down nervously. I scowled a little, maybe on purpose and maybe because I couldn't help myself. I had my suspicions as to what had brought them to my humble abode. Two pretty women sounded like more of a draw to tourists than buttered bread, especially where cowboys were concerned.
“Is that so?”
“We just stopped by to meet you folks and maybe see if what we'd been hearing about that big fancy bed in a tepee was true That missus of yours is real nice. She and that Fawn loaded us down with food.”
“We hope you don't mind. We were real respectful,” the other of the two added.
You're damn right I minded
.
.
“Yeah, she's quite a gal, but she can be a little nervous. She gets scared so far from town, and from time to time she's had to shoot at sounds before she sees what she's shooting at.”
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