Texas Tomboy Page 5

  Charlie took Papa’s arm and looked up at him. “Did you say a ranchwoman has to know arithmetic?” she whispered.

  “By george, yes!” answered Papa. “You can’t figure out your profits if you don’t. You have to keep books the way Uncle Moe and I do—put down what you pay for everything, and what you get when you sell anything. Only a good business man can run a ranch.”

  Charlie looked thoughtful, then she said: “I hate school, but I’ll go… if…”

  “What’s the if, sly-puss?”

  “If I can ride my horse,” said the girl. “That pokey old buggy’s too slow. Grace and Bones ride like they’re goin’ to a funeral. I can get there in half the time if I ride Gypsy. That will give me more time to feed my dogies every morning.”

  “And dry the dishes?” asked Papa. He turned to his wife. “She’ll go, Beatrice.”

  “There’s more than a month before school closes,” said Mama. “She can make up the work she’s been missing. Do you think it’s safe for her to ride that new horse?”

  “Charlie Boy is safer on horseback than walking on the ground,” said Papa, laughing. “Walking, she’s liable to trip!”

  “ ‘Never walk when you can ride!’ That’s what the cowboys always say,” laughed Charlie.

  “I’ll go a piece with you each morning,” said Papa, “and come to meet you evenings, too.”

  The next morning the sun was shining with all the beauty and warmth of spring. Charlie woke early, put on her shirt and overalls and went out to feed her dogies. When she returned, she ate breakfast and got ready for school. She washed, combed her hair neatly and braided it in two braids. She tied red ribbon bows on the ends. She put on a new gingham dress which her mother had recently made for her, and her shoes and stockings.

  After Grace and Bones started off in the buggy, Charlie picked up a cup towel and began to dry dishes. This was so unusual that Mrs. Carter looked at her suspiciously. The girl dried all the dishes before she went out to her horse.

  A little later, she and her father left the lot on their two horses, riding across the pastures. Dan Carter took Charlie beyond two pasture gates, then let her go the rest of the way alone. He did this each morning for a week. The girl knew how to ride—she had been riding since she was a baby. There was nothing he needed to teach her. He was comforted to think that the new horse had solved the school difficulty.

  The following week, he let Charlie ride the whole distance alone. She had stopped complaining about school and Grace brought no bad reports. Then one day, Ringo barked noisily, and Mrs. Carter called Dan into the house, where he found a visitor waiting to see him.

  Jake Duffy, the nester, was sitting on a chair in the dining room. The man’s face was red and freckled, and he held his hat in his hands. His long thin hair was combed across the top of his head to cover up the bald spot. Jake trapped and skinned small wild animals, and people said he never took a bath or changed his clothes. At any rate, he always seemed to leave the smell of polecat all over the house. Mrs. Carter did not like it, but she was always polite and hospitable to Jake as to everyone else.

  What did Duffy want anyhow? He looked cross. He had come to quarrel about something. Dan decided to be cheerful and tactful. “How you doin’, Jake?” He shook him by the hand.

  “I’m feelin’ puny today,” said Jake. “About tuckered out.”

  “Why, that’s no way for a young feller like you to talk,” said Carter, “what with spring a-coming on so pretty.”

  “When the mesquite puts out and the scissortails come, I always say that winter’s over,” said Mrs. Carter. “The scissortail flycatchers are the prettiest birds in West Texas, with those long tails like scissors. I saw one yesterday.”

  “I’ve seen scissortails frozen,” said Jake, dolefully.

  “Yes, about once every ten years, they get caught by a freeze,” said Carter.

  “Mesquites ain’t puttin’ out yet,” said Jake. “Most of ’em’s froze right down to the roots.”

  “One year the mesquites didn’t put out until June,” said Carter. “My father talked about it as long as he lived. Worst drouth he ever lived through.”

  “Nearly May already,” said Jake. He seemed bound to look on the black side of everything, but he did not mention his errand.

  “Windy day, isn’t it?” asked Dan Carter.

  “She’s windy, all right,” said Jake.

  “That’s one good thing—you get plenty of windmill water when the wind blows like this.”

  “My mill’s broke,” said Jake. “Been packin’ water from the creek, but now it’s dry and there ain’t none to pack.”

  “I wash in the daytime and hang my clothes out at night,” said Mrs. Carter. “If I hung them out for twenty minutes in the daytime, they’d turn the color of dirt, just from the dust in the air.”

  “The wind lays at night,” said Jake.

  “If the wind keeps on blowing this way for a hundred and twenty days, it will rain sure,” said Carter cheerfully. “How’s your crop, Jake?”

  Duffy shook his head. “Soil’s dry—wind blowin’ it away.”

  “This sod wasn’t meant to be plowed. If you farmers hadn’t come a-squattin’ here and turned them roots up to the sky…” It was the wrong thing to say, and Dan Carter regretted it as soon as the words popped out. If the man had a grievance, this would make it worse.

  “It’s all the fault of you blamed cattlemen!” Duffy got up and shook his fists. “This country’s eaten out so short, so dry and naked, not even a grasshopper can live here any more! You’ve overstocked every pasture, put in twice too many cattle for the amount of grass. You’ve ruined the country!”

  Dan Carter began to boil. “Whose country is it? Who was here first, I want to know? This land was all grass by nature, till you nesters came along and squatted right in the middle of our pastures, right inside our fences, plowed up most of the grass and let your old sheep eat up the rest.”

  “Dan! Dan!” cried Mrs. Carter. “What’s the use of arguing it all over again?”

  “It was legal!” Duffy shouted. “When they opened the school lands to homesteaders, I took up my claim. You cattlemen had fenced in all them school lands that didn’t belong to you—that’s how we come inside your old fences. When us farmers had that fight with you cattlemen, in that land rush down there at the courthouse, who won? Who won, I ask you?”

  “You did,” said Carter. “You did. I admit it. You’re right. We fought it out with fists and weapons, we fought it out that time for good, and the courts took your side. No need of you and me fighting it all over again each time we meet. We agreed to that ten years ago.”

  He glanced at his wife. She went to the kitchen stove and got the coffee pot. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Duffy?” she asked.

  She called him Mr. Duffy instead of Jake. That and her gracious manner eased the man’s feelings. His bristling fury subsided. The table had a red-checked table cloth on it, the china-ware was thin and dainty. Duffy pulled up his chair, put sugar and cream in his cup and drank. He couldn’t keep on being angry and drink a man’s coffee.

  Dan Carter drank a cup, too. What did Duffy want anyhow? Help? Was somebody sick? The homesteaders were always getting sick. Did they have enough to eat?

  The memory of the calf that had been missing on the day when Charlie found Snowball in the pasture, flitted across Dan Carter’s mind. Duffy was in the habit of helping himself without asking—to timber for firewood, to unbranded calves for meat, to anything on Triangle Ranch that he fancied. It was simpler to tell him to take what he wanted. That saved all the trouble of accusing him of stealing and prevented a nasty quarrel. He was the Carters’ nearest neighbor, and you could not quarrel with your neighbor all the time. The Lord knew the poor devil had a hard enough time getting along.

  Beatrice brought out a platter of cold fried chicken. Chickens were scarce and hard to raise because the possums killed them off so fast. Fried chicken was a rare treat, reserved only fo
r the family or special guests. Now Duffy was eating it. His wife put a pie made from the canned wild plums in front of Duffy. The man was eating everything. No doubt about it, he was hungry. He wanted something—food for his family? But let him eat first. Then he’d be in better humor.

  Jake Duffy was just one of many old shoe farmers who had built a shack for a nest, and so earned the unpleasant title nester. He was trying to make a living from one little section of land, only six hundred and forty acres. Well, it couldn’t be done in this semi-arid West Texas climate. So his family was always half-starved.

  But look how they hung onto the land! Dry for four years, not one good heavy rain for the last three, but the nesters stayed on and tried to grow crops on land which was never meant for farming. You could not starve them out. If a cattleman with twenty thousand acres had a hard time, what could a man do with a mere six hundred?

  Jake Duffy cleaned off his plate and looked up. “Sure tasted good, ma’m,” he said. “Now, that gal o’ your’n…”

  Dan Carter and his wife looked up, startled. They had expected him to ask for help to get his broken windmill fixed, but it wasn’t that at all.

  “You mean Charlotte?” asked Mrs. Carter.

  “Charlie Boy?” cried Dan. “Has anything happened to her?”

  “Wal no,” said Duffy, “but it’s goin’ to.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Carter.

  “She’s the orniest little cuss. If I ever ketch her, I’ll…”

  “What has she been doing?”

  “She’s on her way somewheres and goin’ there mighty fast,” said Duffy.

  “Hum,” said Carter. “You mean you saw her riding by?”

  “I mean,” said Duffy, “you’re gonna git that kid killed. She cuts acrost them pastures on her way to…”

  “To school,” added her father.

  “She comes by my place like a streak o’ lightnin’…”

  “You think she rides a little too fast?” asked Carter.

  “She rode smack acrost my garden yesterday,” said Duffy, “where I’d planted my frijole beans. That nag o’ hers took the fence and went smack acrost my cotton patch. I tell you I’m a-goin’ to wring that young un’s neck!”

  “Maybe Gypsy was running off,” suggested Mrs. Carter.

  “I might think so, ma’m,” said Duffy, “if it hadn’t happened every day for the past week. She tromped my corn field too—each time she goes a different way. This mornin’ I run her for half a mile, but I couldn’t ketch her.”

  Dan Carter smiled as he remembered Duffy’s team—the tall, gaunt mule and the bony little pony he used for breaking sod and plowing. Neither or both would be a match for Gypsy.

  “She was a-goin’ on a dead run,” said Duffy. “I hope she falls and breaks her neck. You-all better give her a chunk of a cussin’ for it. If you-all don’t eat her out…” His visit was over. He shambled out across the porch and into the yard. He started off into the pasture, then came back. He had forgotten something.

  “That young un shore can ride, Dan!” he said, grinning. “By gravy, I hate to snitch on her, but…well, you see, me and my wife and young uns, we gotta eat.”

  “Holy smoke, I’m sorry, Jake,” said Carter. “All your crop ruined? That’s terrible. If I get more seed for you, will you replant it? I’ll send my cowboys over to fix that windmill of yours, so you can stop packing water. And I’ll see that the girl goes the other way round on her way to school and back.”

  “Thanks, Dan,” said Duffy. “I knew you would.”

  “We’ll soon be dipping cattle for fever tick,” said Carter. “All the neighbors are sending their stock in. We don’t want Texas fever again this summer. Better come over and help us. I’ll let you know what day.”

  “Shore will.” The man nodded as he walked away.

  The next morning Charlie was surprised when her father started out to school with her. They rode along side by side in silence. Then Dan Carter said, “Guess we better strike a lope.”

  They increased their speed and stopped when they reached the next gate.

  “Is that the way you lope?” asked Papa.

  “Yes,” said Charlie.

  “I thought you knew the difference between a lope and a run,” said her father sternly. “I thought I’d taught you something about riding. That’s not a lope. That’s the way a horse runs.”

  “A lope is too slow,” said Charlie. “This other’s the way I like to go. When Gypsy is stretched out, I’m not near so apt to get scared.”

  “You scared?” Her father smiled. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “So I just let her go in a dead run,” added Charlie.

  “If you want to keep your horse, you’ll have to ride as I say,” said her father.

  Charlie’s face fell. “Oh, shucks!” she said.

  “Otherwise Gypsy goes back to Uncle Moe.”

  Charlie knew her father meant what he said. She listened as he explained a horse’s gaits, and showed her how to trot, lope and run. She was to run only when she was with her father. When he threw up his hand, as a signal to run, she could go. He told her to take the dirt road to school, and to stop going across the pastures, thus avoiding the Duffy farm. He decided not to mention the real reason.

  The girl agreed meekly enough. She did not want to lose her horse. “Can’t take the short-cut through the Duffy farm? Why

  not?” she asked brazenly.

  There were times when Dan Carter, who understood his daughter so well, felt that he did not understand her at all. She knew she had ruined the Duffys’ forthcoming crop. She was no fool. She knew she had angered Duffy and that he had chased her. Did she suspect that Duffy had told on her?

  Had she no conscience? Didn’t she care? Didn’t she know that the Duffys had to have beans and corn to eat? Was she so thoughtless as to deprive a family of a year’s supply of food, just for a little fun?

  Even with replanting their seed, the Duffys might not be able to grow anything. With the present drouth prospects, crops would not be apt to grow in their little patches for any of those fool hoe men. A wave of hopelessness went over Dan Carter as he thought of the homesteaders.

  But the Duffys and their struggles were completely forgotten in the light of further events. Charlie’s renewed interest in school and her sudden enthusiasm for regular attendance began to sag. Although there was only a month until school closed for the summer, she did not see the term through. True to her impetuous and undisciplined character, resenting everything in the way of regular routine and duty, the girl brought her school year to an abrupt and dramatic finish.

  Her summer vacation began two weeks before Grace’s and Bones’s did. She was not present, and did not recite her poem at the closing exercises on the last day of school.

  After Duffy’s visit, Dan Carter assured his wife that he had lectured Charlotte, and that no further trouble with the Duffys would occur. The girl rose dutifully each morning, fed her pet stock and dressed neatly for school. She left a little later than the other two children, but after she called good-by and went out to the barn, Mrs. Carter, busy with housework, forgot all about her.

  She was surprised, therefore, one morning, when Gus who came in for breakfast after getting up the horses, inquired: “Charlie ridin’ pasture with her Pa today?”

  “Why, no,” said Mrs. Carter. “She’s gone to school.”

  “I seen her goin’ out on Gypsy, wearing her pants and old hat,” said Gus.

  “When?” asked Mrs. Carter.

  “A little while ago.”

  “But Mr. Carter’s windmilling today. He left at daybreak. The mill in Far-off Pasture needs repairing.”

  “Well, I seen her go off somewheres.”

  All morning Mrs. Carter was disturbed. At noon, Moe Carter came in and she gave him dinner. She decided to ride to town with Moe on his return to headquarters, and to come home with the children in the buggy.

  Moe dropped her in town, and Mrs. Carter went straight to th
e schoolhouse. She wanted to see for herself whether Charlotte was there and was making up the work she had missed. It was recess and the children were out in the yard behind the building, playing. Mrs. Carter hurried in, to avoid being seen. She wanted a quiet talk with Miss Price, the teacher, alone, first.

  “Oh!” cried Miss Price. She was a pretty young woman, but she looked nervous and excited. “How did you hear about it, Mrs. Carter?”

  “About what?”

  “Her rudeness,” said Miss Price. “When I asked little Allie Saunders to count to a hundred, Charlotte burst out: ‘Ninety-nine cows and a bobtail bull—that’s a hundred.’ ” Miss Price’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so glad you came. Grace tried to reason with her, and Benoni begged her…but those clothes…”

  What was wrong with her clothes? Mrs. Carter remembered that Charlotte had put on the new plaid gingham dress that morning. She had made it from a new pattern in the Delineator.

  “I try to dress my daughters in the nicest fashions,” she said.

  “Those overalls!” cried Miss Price. “Charlotte said her father bought them for her. She’s the only girl who wears overalls to school. All the other girls are nice little ladies.”

  Mrs. Carter stiffened. “I try to bring my daughters up to be ladylike,” she said faintly.

  “Grace is just lovely,” said Miss Price, “always sweet and considerate. But Charlotte, when she wears overalls, tries to act like a boy and…She says she doesn’t like girls. She likes to do the things boys do. She hates ladylike girls. She says nobody is going to make a lady out of her.”

  Mrs. Carter did not know what to say. She knew only too well how difficult Charlotte could be. “She wore overalls today?” she asked.

  “Come and see for yourself,” said Miss Price. “She wore them yesterday, and I forbade her to come again unless she wore a dress and acted like a lady. She wore them again today, and the minute she got here, she began to defy me.”

  They walked to the rear window and looked out. “There! You can see for yourself,” said the teacher.