Read Panhandle Online

Authors: Brett Cogburn

Panhandle (9 page)

BOOK: Panhandle
6.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
What did she mean “wooly little ponies”? I might refer to our horses as ponies, but that was just a habit. I didn't mean cart ponies, or something. And Dunny sure wasn't wooly. His coat was summer slick and shiny as moleskin. I followed her, and I was thinking of plenty to say.
Out the door she went, and Billy and I like to have torn the doorjamb off going out it at the same time. We stopped at the edge of the street, and both of us took our most nonchalant and favorite stances. Dunny stood tied at a rickety hitching rail before us. I don't know where Billy's paint was.
Barbara Allen stepped lightly to Dunny's head, and he eased against his tie, eyeing her carefully.
“You gotta move softly around these Western horses, Miss Allen,” Billy advised.
“Oh, fiddlesticks! He's as gentle as a baby.” And to prove it, she wrapped her arms around Dunny's head, and pressed her face against his jaw.
Now Dunny was generally a quiet, gentle horse who never got in a storm over anything, but he was always a touch skittish about someone handling his head. I'll be danged if he didn't just put his head in her chest like a lap dog. He stood there three-legged with his eyes half-closed, and ate up every bit of the petting she gave him.
“He's a sweetheart.” Her voice had a strange tilt to it that I couldn't place.
“Billy claims he's the best cutting horse in the country.”
“Is that so?” She seemed mightily impressed.
“He's all right,” Billy mumbled weakly.
“Come on, Billy, tell her about him. I ain't going to brag on my own horse.”
Billy looked like he had bitten into something sour. “You wouldn't want Dunny to seem immodest, would you?”
“You and those big words, Billy. You're sure a talker when you get going.”
“Piss on you,” Billy hissed under his breath.
“Sore loser,” I said quickly.
“What was that?” Barbara Allen asked.
Billy returned my slap on the back and answered, “Why I was just telling Nate what a fine day it was to be out on the town with a good friend with such a wonderful horse.”
She eyed the both of us for a moment. “He is wonderful, isn't he?”
“You could ride him if you want,” I said bravely.
She cast a glance down at her dress and then back at me. “I don't think I am attired for it. And besides, we don't properly know each other.”
The red rose in my face and my ears burned like fire. “Perhaps when you get to know Dunny
properly
you might ride him.”
Our eyes met across the space between us, and for a minute I thought she was going to let me have it, but it never came. And then she did the damnedest thing, and winked at me. It was just one little quick flick of her eye, and the slightest hint of a smile. For a second I wasn't sure if I had seen what I saw, and then I was glad Billy hadn't seen what I saw.
Her hands continued to stroke Dunny's forehead. “Perhaps, Mr. Reynolds.”
In the matter of seconds I was made mute again. A moment ago I had been riding high and tight, and now I had blown a stirrup and was one jump away from landing on the seat of my britches. And she knew it.
The door behind us swung open, and the storekeeper stuck his head out. “It's the heat of the day, daughter.”
She stepped away from Dunny's head, and paused at the doorway. “Are you gentlemen's names written in the Lamb's Book of Life?”
Now neither one of us knew a thing about sheep, and nobody was apt to be writing our names down in any kind of books, much less one about the lambs. That didn't stop us though. It didn't even cause us to hesitate.
“Why no, Miss Allen, but I have always felt a strong interest in that subject,” Billy said gravely.
“It is a shame that our work finds us rarely in the vicinity of church houses,” I added.
Both the girl and the man eyed us carefully. “Call me Barby. That's what everyone calls me.” She looked to the storekeeper as if to confirm her statement. “Isn't that right, Father?”
He looked as if he had just as soon we didn't call at all.
Billy stepped forward and offered him his hand. “We haven't met yet.”
“Yes, we didn't,” her father said a bit smugly, or maybe it was just that funny wang to his speech that made it seem that way. He was a stiff sort, and very proper.
“Father, this is Mr. Champion and Mr. Reynolds.” She pointed us out. “And this is my father, George Allen.”
We shook hands all around, and he looked like he was ready for us to vamoose. The talk had come to an abrupt end, and both of us had just about enough of the uncomfortable silence. We were trying to find a way to leave when we didn't want to do any such thing.
“You should come to the church picnic with us this afternoon,” Barby said. A look passed between her and her father that I couldn't interpret, but could have guessed at. “Wouldn't that be nice, Father?”
Even put on the spot like he was, I was surprised that he quietly, if not fervently, agreed. When she giggled and hugged him for it, I didn't feel like the only sap on the street right then. If she had been my daughter I wouldn't have let the likes of us within ten miles of her.
“I always enjoy a bit of picnicking. Don't you, Nate?” Billy's voice was stuffy and imitating Mr. Allen's accent.
“But of course.”
C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
W
henever I think about picnics, or Sunday camp dinners I shall always remember my way back to that little cottonwood stand on the banks of a small creek at the edge of Clarendon. All picnics should be held there with the sunlight scattering down through the tree limbs, and a little breeze coming cool through the shade now and again, rustling the cottonwood leaves above.
There was a long plank table heaped with the potluck offerings of the women of the community, and they fussed over it like hens in the barnyard while their children ran wild beneath, around, and through them. The men gathered in casual clusters to visit with their fellow men, while remaining within easy striking distance of the food. There was a slight hint of pride in their bearings, as if some ancient office had been placed upon them, and their roles and positions were necessary and invaluable to the whole process of the dinner.
Clarendon wasn't called Saint's Roost for nothing, and a long, tall galoot in a black wool suit was asked to say grace over the food. He was sure fervent, and I figured that was the reason they had chosen him for the job. He missed his calling and should have been a lawyer, because after what seemed like five minutes of praying even I was looking around me expecting to see the Lord himself waiting to eat. The violent noise of growling stomachs must have reminded that sky pilot of Daniel in the lions' den, and rather than face such rampant and terrible hunger he called it quits. Everyone put a little extra wallop into their amens.
The line shuffled along single-file through the dust like cattle will travel. If I had listened close I am sure I could have detected a few hungry, pitiful bawls, as we all came to the feed trough.
I stood there quiet and slightly out of place, a part of things, but slightly removed as all strangers are. Barby was helping in the buffet line, and Billy, God help his little politician's heart, was far back in the line jabbering about farming with a few of the locals—like he knew the first damn thing about farming.
My celluloid collar—Billy's idea of dressing up for such a formal occasion—was scratching my neck and coming near to choking me. A man can't relax yoked up like that. I was glad that I wasn't fool enough to sweat it out in a wool suit coat like several of those around me. Any more sweat and wool, and the place would have smelled like a sheep pen. It was bad enough to have to button a collar on to my shirt, but then again, I never was one to suffer for the sake of style.
Billy, on the other hand, would have worn a cow chip on his head if he thought it would look good. I glanced at him while I made such an observation about his character, and the devil grinned back at me like he was fixing to be elected for something. It made me feel good to take some starch out of him if only by imagining him with a turd on his head.
I came near to starving to death before I made my way up to the food, but it was worth the wait once those ladies started helping me mound up my plate. I had been on beef and beans, and the sight of those makings like to have coliced me.
I got to stand in front of Barby Allen for about two seconds while she helped me top off the precarious monument of food I was building on my plate. The threat of being trampled from behind was so great that I had to move on from her company.
An older woman at the end of the line asked me something, and I didn't understand a word of what she said. I don't know where she was from, but I am certain she came from somewhere other than Texas, because nobody but a foreigner could talk that funny. Come to think of it, there were a lot of accents around me. Most of them were Midwestern Yankee, but there were a few accents that I couldn't place.
That foreign woman jabbered something at me again that sounded like German, and I went to looking for a translator. Finally, she motioned at the coffeepots on the table before her, and to a gathering of glasses with some strange, pulpy concoction in them. I was impressed enough with the sight of so much glassware in one place, but after she had repeated herself for the third time I figured out that she was asking me if I wanted coffee, water, or lemonade.
I hadn't ever drank any lemonade, but I would be damned if I would pass up such an opportunity. It was real, live lemonade in the middle of nowhere—somebody was showing out. I took myself a glass and found a likely spot to eat. I sat down cross-legged, Indian style, and contemplated that lemonade.
I wasn't sure just how to drink it, and wondered if I should hold up my pinky or something when I turned up the glass. I looked around to see if anyone else might notice me drinking such a kids' drink, but nobody seemed to pay me any mind. In fact, I saw a few other grown men holding glasses themselves. I am not ashamed to admit that the same fellow who often bragged that he never drank water, only whiskey and good beer, enjoyed every last drop of that sweet nectar.
I drank my lemonade, slicked off my plate in record time, and kicked back to ruminate. To pass the time, I studied the line of people still gathering their food. Mainly, I studied Barby Allen, or to be correct, I studied Billy while he held up the line talking to her. She was smiling again, and my collar started to make me itch even worse.
It was just like Billy to be holding up the line. Didn't he know that we were guests, and those hardworking people deserved their food the same as us? It was plainly a blatant case of rudeness and a sheer lack of good manners. And what was she smiling about?
I couldn't help but wonder what he kept saying that was so all-fired interesting. She just kept smiling, and even laughed once while he kept right on talking, smiling, and holding up the line like no one cared.
Little Prince of Persia
.
I imagine somebody got tired of waiting and said something to him, because he finally quit the table and made his way over to sit down with me. He grinned at me like I hadn't noticed his behavior in the chuck line.
“Glad you finally took that turd off your head,” I mumbled.
“What's that?” He looked perplexed, but I knew that it was just his way of acting innocent.
“Ah, nothing.” I made a show of being a whole lot more interested in studying the tree limbs above me than I was in hearing him.
Billy eyed me carefully and then turned up his lemonade. He took a swallow, and then smacked his lips a time or two, as smug as a cat licking his whiskers.
“I reckon you like that kid stuff,” I scorned him, all the while keeping my glass hid at my side.
“What's gotten your dander up?” A little irritation crept into his voice.
We studied each other a minute, and then Billy looked back over his shoulder to where Barby stood at the tables. “I reckon more friends have fallen out over whiskey, cards, or women than just about anything.”
I managed a weak smile. “But not us, huh?”
“Not by a long shot.” Then he added, “I'd guess we can both handle a little friendly competition.”
“Why have you got to horn in?”
“I can't see that she's wearing anybody's brand, although I haven't got a chance to check her over close enough.” The devil was dancing in his eyes.
“Damn, Billy! That's a lady you're talking about,” I said, a little too loudly, and several heads turned our way.
Billy kicked his legs out in front of him and leaned back on his elbows. “Are you saying a lady ain't got any parts of interest?”
“You had better quit that talk. You ought to know better.” I managed to keep my voice down that time, but the red was creeping up my neck.
“Are you saying a lady doesn't have parts?”
He just couldn't take a hint. I decided that as a last-ditch effort I could end his low talk by offering some answer. “No, I ain't saying that.”
“Well, what are you saying?” He was as quick as a rattlesnake.
“I'm just saying that you shouldn't talk about them.”
Billy craned his neck around to look at Barby Allen again. “I've already talked about them, and I've thought about them enough to wear them out. I can't tell from the look of her to have done any damage at all.”
I was up on my feet as quick as a cat. Billy didn't move from the ground, but he was wary. As mad as I was I recognized that. With a slow motion of his palm down he motioned me back to the ground.
“All right, Nate. You've converted me. I'll not speak slanderously of yonder maiden anymore. I'll keep all mention of her body to myself from now on.” He used his most consoling tone.
The pressure in my ears abated a little, and I started to slowly unwind. Then I reconsidered what he had said. I didn't know what kind of bargain we had just struck, and sure didn't know if I was going to like it.
While I stood there halfway between sitting and standing, froze like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Billy jabbed a finger at my lemonade glass.
“Good stuff, ain't it?”
“Ain't it.” I plopped down in resignation. I just couldn't help but like him, even when I was about ready to kill him.
No sooner than I had sat back down than Billy jumped to his feet. “Come on. They're pitching horseshoes over there. Let's go show them a thing or two.”
Billy headed off, not waiting for an answer. I looked longingly back to where Barby Allen had been, but she was gone. I would rather Billy go pitch horseshoes by himself, or piss in the creek for that matter, if it would keep him occupied long enough for me to have one more little visit with her. I made a quick scout of the crowd under the trees, but still couldn't spot her. Disgusted, I took my plate to the washtub and followed after Billy. Horseshoes could only give a man so much enjoyment.
We didn't teach those milk cow dudes a thing about horseshoes; we just barely could make enough of a showing to keep from embarrassing ourselves. They knew how to pitch them, and our experience with horseshoes was limited to nailing them on, or wearing them out from between our horses' hooves and the ground.
I kept my eyes peeled back the way we had come. After about three games with the locals I spied Barby Allen playing with a small group of kids. Billy was tied up in an argument over scoring. It was obvious to me that our opponents had gotten the points they needed to finish us off, so I made my escape.
I wound my way through the scattered groups of people, impatiently returning pleasantries. Barby was gone again and I couldn't find her, but I wasn't about to give up. I could track a wild cow across a rock pile and I ought to have been up to the task of finding one freckle-nosed snip of a girl. I wasn't, not quickly anyway.
My search led me to meet darned near every inhabitant of Clarendon, or maybe half the population of the Panhandle, or so it seemed. Every time I ran across somebody I had to talk about the weather with them, and give a short autobiographical account of my young life. I usually enjoy friendly country folks, but right then I was a man on a mission.
When I had about given up hope my perseverance paid off—sort of. I found Barby Allen, and I found out that Billy had found her too. They were walking alongside the creek, and I was left out in the cold, or rather the hot sun. I scampered my way back to the shade to lick my wounds.
Barby failed to appear after an hour's wait, and I was ready to admit defeat, at least for the day. As I was leaving I ran across Mr. Allen down where the horses were picketed. There is more than one way to skin a cat, and maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing at all for Daddy Allen to get to know me. I was getting as devious as Billy.
“It's a fine day for a picnic, Mr. Allen.”
He was a plump little man with a balding head, and wire-rim glasses perched on his nose. I couldn't tell whether he was uppity, or just looking down his nose at me in an attempt to focus his lenses.
“Mr. Reynolds, is it?”
“Yeah, but you can call me Nate.”
“Well, it is a fine day,
Mr. Reynolds
.” My smooth talk had yet to take effect on him.
I couldn't help but notice again the strong Yankee twang to both his and Barby's speech. “You don't sound like you're from around here.”
He seemed to be weighing whether that was an accusation, or a question. When he finally answered, it was with more than a little pride. “My daughter and I came from Ohio.”
Yankee or not, I didn't hold it against them. As pretty as Barby Allen was, it stood to reason that there must be some good people from Ohio. It wouldn't do to be discriminating against emigrants.
“I hale from Kentucky.”
He didn't seem impressed. In fact, he began untying his horse from the picket line. Their buggy was close by, and I followed beside him while he led the animal over to harness it.
“Do you need some help?”
He stopped in his tracks and turned to me once more. “Is this about my daughter?”
I tried not to squirm under his gaze, and found it a highly unsettling question to be put before me without warning. “Well, I would like to call upon her at some later date.”
BOOK: Panhandle
6.21Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Dust: (Part I: Sandstorms) by Bloom, Lochlan
White Water by Linda I. Shands
Deliverance (The Maverick Defense #1) by L.A. Cotton, Jenny Siegel
Pursued by Evangeline Anderson
Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow
The Edge of Honor by P. T. Deutermann
The Little Things by Jane Costello
La sexta vía by Patricio Sturlese