Texas Tomboy Page 7

  Charlie rode Gypsy back into the water lot. It was nearing noon, and the men were stopping work. She saw Homer Barton limping to the ranchhouse, carrying his poor crushed Stetson in his hands. He saw her too.

  “Get yourself a horse, kiddo,” he called out, “if you want to chase cows!”

  Charlie, boiling inside, made no reply.

  The men came in, their faces caked with dust except for white rings around their eyes. They washed up on the back porch.

  “Come on in, boys, and be at home,” called Mrs. Carter. “I’ve put newspapers on top of my linen tablecloth.”

  “Your Ma’s starchy, ain’t she?” Homer whispered to Charlie as she came in.

  The dining table was spread to its greatest length, and everybody sat down. Soon great dishes of frijole beans and sweet potatoes, and platters of roast goat meat were moving around, so each person could help himself.

  Charlie crowded into a seat between Jake and Mike Duffy. She had not washed. Her face, dust-covered, except for her eyes, made her look like an owl.

  “Hey, Jake, what you mean by snitchin’ on me?” she whispered.

  Jake looked down at her, frowning. “What you talkin’ about, Hoot Owl?” He hadn’t forgotten, of course.

  Charlie was very hungry. She watched eagerly for a chance to fill her plate. Grace poured hot coffee into the men’s cups.

  “Pass the cream and sugar,” demanded Jake Duffy.

  “Baa! Baa! Bring on the CREAM!” laughed Bud Whitaker. “We got a sheepherder with us today. Only sheepmen are crazy enough to take sugar and cream. Now, cowboys got more sense—they drink their coffee black.” He turned to Homer Barton: “Where you been, Homer? I thought you was gonna help us round up the cattle.”

  “Well…I got sick,” stammered Homer. “Dizzy with the heat and dust. Had to come in the house and get a cup of coffee. Didn’t I, Grace?”

  “Yeah, I saw him,” piped up Charlie loudly. “He was about to faint. I had to throw a pan of water in his face to bring him to.”

  “By jiggers, Hoot Owl!” cried Jake Duffy.

  The men roared with laughter. Homer’s face turned red. He gritted his teeth and cast a hateful look at the girl. Grace bent over him, offering hot biscuits.

  The awkward silence was broken by Bud. “Homer’s a good boy,” he drawled slowly, “but he ain’t no nearer to bein’ a cowboy than I am to bein’ an angel.”

  Mike Duffy stood up, patted his stomach with both hands and burst out: “By gravy, I’m full!”

  The men laughed again.

  “Come on, Charlie,” said Mike. The meal was over and the men streamed out, plates in hand. Even though they had fought at school, Charlie and Mike were good friends. “Let’s have some fun.”

  “What doin’?” asked Charlie. “You ain’t got a horse. You can’t ride.”

  “Let’s go see them dogies o’ your’n,” Mike said.

  The novelty of the cattle dipping had worn off for Charlie. She was ready for something new.

  “Come on, Bones.” She pulled her brother by the arm and whispered, “Let’s go outside quick, so we won’t have to help with the dishes.”

  The trio went to the barn. Snowball, Fleabite and Coal Oil were now three healthy, lively calves. They were fatter than range calves, as they had been pampered and stall-fed.

  “Ever ride ’em?” asked Mike.

  “Sure,” said Charlie. “Plenty times. Let’s try it.”

  Bud Whitaker passed by and called out, “You kids better leave them calves alone. They’ll kick all the whey out of you.”

  “How do you know? You been ridin’ ’em, Bud?” asked Charlie.

  “That bull calf’s gettin’ dangerous,” Bud called back. “ ’Bout ready to butcher. Won’t them juicy steaks taste good! Or—maybe you better sell him for sixty dollars.”

  Charlie thought for a minute, then she said, “I don’t guess I want sixty dollars that bad.” She turned to her brother. “Bones, you can open and close the door for us.”

  Bones stood dutifully by the stall door to let the calves out on signal. Mike rode Fleabite out through the door. He whooped and shouted as the calf ran in circles, tail raised high in the air. Ringo chased the calf, making it go faster. Fleabite bucked hard and threw Mike over his head to the ground. Mike got up, dusted off his hands and smiled. Mike was tough.

  Then it was Charlie’s turn. She mounted Snowball’s back and yelled, “Open the door!”

  Bones, always a little dreamy, was not as quick as he should have been. Snowball began to buck too soon, and Charlie bumped her head on the top of the door. Also, Bones did not open the door wide enough. Snowball hit the door headfirst and in so doing, knocked Bones down flat. He jumped up howling and dodged back. Charlie raised her leg up in time to avoid scraping the door. Snowball cavorted about the horse trap and the girl held on.

  “He didn’t throw me!” she bragged. “He didn’t throw me!” She slipped off Snowball’s back. “Now, it’s your turn, Bones. There’s Coal Oil waiting. She’s not a very big calf—just the right size for a little boy like you.”

  But Bones, who had had a hard fall, was now crumpled up in a knot. He howled loudly: “My tummy hurts, my tummy hurts.”

  “Crybaby, crybaby!” teased Mike. “Run in the house and tell your Mama.”

  “Come on, Mike, we got to pen these calves up again,” called Charlie.

  “Gimme a rope,” called Mike. “I’ll rope ’em and drag ’em in.”

  Bones ran crying to the house, while Charlie brought two ropes from the saddle room in the barn. She and Mike ran wildly about the lot, throwing their lassos, trying to rope the calves. Suddenly Charlie saw her father standing by the gate. She dropped her rope instantly, before he saw it.

  “Run the calves in here, Charlie Boy,” he called. “They need dipping too.”

  “Yip-pee! Yip-pee-ee!” Charlie and Mike ran after the calves, shouting: “Yip-pee! Yip-pee-ee!”

  CHAPTER VI

  Tight-Shoe Day

  “TAKE ME WITH YOU, Papa, I want to go!”

  Charlie woke up one morning and saw her father ready to leave the house. She ran to the kitchen in her nightgown.

  “No, Charlotte, you cannot go,” said her mother. “You are not dressed yet.”

  “I’m not riding pasture today, hon,” said Papa, “I’m going to town, and how I hate it. Town’s too lonesome for me. Heap more pleasure out here. I don’t like town, don’t like any part of it. Why, it even smells bad. I like it better where there’s trees…and grass…and water. Nothing would make me go, but I have to get a new windmill leather for the mill in North Pasture.”

  “Take me with you, Papa,” begged Charlie, sitting now on his lap.

  “It’s Tight-Shoe day, sugar,” Dan Carter went on. “Not a ranchman in town but me. All the hoe farmers will be there with their best clothes and new tight shoes on—shoes that pinch their feet. They all go to town on Saturday.”

  “But you’re wearing your best foxed boots!” cried Charlie. She reached over to the table, and began to munch biscuits.

  “Well, the toes were stumped out, and the sides busted out, so the bootmaker trimmed them up with new leather. Don’t they look foxy?” laughed Papa. “They’re the only boots I’ve got.”

  “You riding Old Sam?” asked Charlie.

  Her father nodded. “Hope Moe won’t catch me. He has a perfect contempt for any cowboy who runs to town on Saturday. He snorts and rages—as if cattle can take a vacation from eating, from wormies and other things, on one day each week.”

  Charlie pulled her father’s head down and whispered: “Take me with you, just like you used to.”

  “All right, sugar, come on!” He picked her up and slung her like a sack of feed, under one arm. Kicking and screaming, arms and legs waving, she let herself be carried out. Up on Old Sam behind the saddle—but with no cushion this time—Dan Carter set her, and off they went.

  “Dan! Dan!” called Mrs. Carter. “Bring her back. She’s not dres
sed!”

  “Can’t wait!” shouted the man. “Got to get there and back home soon as I can.”

  “Mama thinks you’re terrible, Papa,” said Charlie, leaning her head against her father’s shoulder. The two laughed comfortably together. Dan Carter rode across the pastures, taking the short cut to town.

  Spring was a sorry promise this year. It was late May and the mesquites were putting out at last, a skimpy halo of tender green. Other shrubs showed leaves, and grass could be seen in some parts of the pastures. The red blooms of the cactus called devil’s pincushion provided the only spots of color. An occasional warm breeze lifted up patches of dust and whirled them in circles.

  Dan Carter came past the Duffy farm, but he did not cross their fields. Their little plank house sat in a bare, open spot behind a few mesquites. The clumsy wheel of a wooden windmill was turning in the wind. A pen was fenced in at one side, and plowed fields stretched out in front.

  Dan Carter rode slowly by. He was not in such a hurry after all.

  “Duffy’s corn and cotton’s trying to come up,” he said in his soft, easy drawl. “Trying hard—Jake had to plant the seed twice, poor fellow. First time it got trampled on, he told me. I sure was sorry to hear that. The Duffys don’t have much to eat, only their poor little crop. When a man’s living depends on what he grows, and he has a bunch of little children…”

  Not a word came from the girl behind.

  “No rain all spring,” he went on. “It takes rain to grow cotton and corn and beans. No signs of rain day after day. Looks like we’re in for a long drouth.”

  Silence. No answer from the girl. She did know what she had done. She did have a conscience. Then a mumble: “I’ve seen snakes a-crawlin’…”

  “That’s nothing but an old superstition,” said her father. “All signs fail in dry weather. Now with cattle, we can buy extra feed to take the place of grass that don’t grow, and if we keep the windmills going, the cows have water. But when all your living has to come out of the dirt, and the dirt gets so dry it blows away in the wind, seeds and all…”

  “STOP IT!” cried Charlie, striking at her father with her fists.

  He pulled up his horse, turned and looked at her.

  “No, I won’t stop it,” he said sternly. “It’s not nice to hear, but you are going to listen. You are getting old enough to think of others beside yourself. Have you ever been hungry, Charlotte?”

  The girl winced. He called her Charlotte, not Charlie Boy. That hurt her more than anything else. She knew she had to speak the truth, so she said no. Whenever she felt an emptiness in her stomach, all she had to do was to run to the kitchen and help herself.

  “You’ve never felt that gnawing emptiness in your stomach, that’s always there and never satisfied. You can’t even guess how it feels, you are so fat.”

  The girl hung her head. Only her father could move her and rouse her better feelings. Then suddenly she was angry at him. Bitterly she lashed out: “You said those dirty old squatters had no business comin’ in our country and tearin’ up the sod! You said they deserved to starve! I’ve heard you say it.”

  “I said it, to my shame,” replied Dan Carter. “They are here now. These little old dried-up fields are theirs, for better or for worse. They’re here to stay, the homesteaders. When their food supply runs out, we’ll have to feed them. Hear that? They are our neighbors…and whether we like them or not…”

  “They’re not clean, they dip snuff, they’re terrible people…”

  Charlie threw the words angrily into the air, where they hung unanswered and meaningless. The girl began to sob, as she clung tightly to her father’s back. Nothing more was said as the horse jogged steadily on. Just before they came into the little town, Charlie asked: “Papa, won’t it ever rain again?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie Boy,” he said. “All we can do is hope. Rain is the only thing that will help us and help the Duffys too.”

  The town was all on one street, first a few straggling houses, then a row of stores with high false fronts. Several horses were tied to hitching racks, but not a person could be seen on the sidewalks.

  “Where’s all those old hoe farmers you were talking about?” asked Charlie.

  “Inside, buying more tight shoes, hon!” laughed her father.

  He looked at Charlie and saw the nightgown she was wearing. It had a pretty yoke with ruffles around it, and the skirt was long and full, reaching to her feet. The girl’s hair was tousled, but still braided in two braids.

  “Just what…” he scratched his head, “am I going to do with you? Just where…am I going to hide you?”

  “I won’t be hid,” said Charlie. “I’m going with you, just as I am.”

  Dan Carter could not help but admire her courage. “All right, hon,” he said. “I’m game, if you are.”

  “Only promise me, if you see Homer Barton,” said Charlie, “to hide me.”

  “He’s off on Moe’s ranch today, working,” said her father.

  Charlie took her father’s hand and they walked sedately down the street. Several people passed and turned to look, but said nothing. Then Mrs. Duffy came out of the department store, holding the three little Duffy girls by the hand. Dan Carter tipped his Stetson hat. The woman looked, started to speak, changed her mind, pursed her lips and went on. After she had passed, the phrase, “Well, by ginger!” burst from her lips.

  Charlie looked up at her father and smiled. This was fun.

  Then who should they meet but Aunt Eleanor and Cousin Genevieve. They wore gloves and were dressed in silk. Aunt Eleanor carried a dainty pink sunshade. After one shocked glance at Charlotte, she pretended not to notice. She talked about the weather. Genevieve stared and said nothing.

  “Oh, do you think it’s going to rain, Dan?” asked Aunt Eleanor. “Our well water is getting so low, I can’t water my house-plants or the front lawn any more. Soon we’ll be living in a desert. I’m urging Curtis to take us back to Austin to live.”

  “A cow can go without water for just eight days,” said Dan Carter sharply. “Then it dies. You ought to see the way its tongue sticks out!”

  “Oh! Oh!” cried Aunt Eleanor, in a shocked voice. “When my geranium died…the one spot of color in this arid desert…”

  “Let’s go, Charlie Boy,” said Dan Carter. He had heard enough. He tipped his hat and rushed across the street. Aunt Eleanor stared at Charlie’s curious street costume, as the girl pattered in her bare feet after her father.

  “How poor Beatrice can endure that rough life…” Aunt Eleanor’s voice faded away.

  Dan Carter glanced at the window of McKeever Brothers General Store, then took Charlie inside. “How about a new dress, hon?”

  “A new dress?” said Rob McKeever. He looked at Charlie, but did not show surprise at her nightgown. “For a pretty young lady, eh?” He turned to his brother. “Terry, a new dress for this young lady.”

  Terry McKeever brought out a bundle of dresses. Charlie looked them over one by one. Something was the matter with each. They were too big or too little, too ugly or too pretty.

  “Wouldn’t wear ’em to a dog-fight!” said Charlie emphatically.

  The front door opened and a man came in. From his mincing walk, it was easy to tell he was a cowboy, but his face was in shadow. He came down the aisle and stopped.

  “Well, if it ain’t kiddo!” cried Homer Barton. “Gettin’ dolled up for a fancy ball, eh?”

  But Charlie had ducked behind the counter.

  “Does my brother know you are in town today, Homer?” asked Dan Carter.

  “Sure…oh, sure, he sent me,” said Homer. He purchased a pair of levis and hurried out, as if eager to return to Moe Carter’s ranch with all speed, so his absence would not be noticed.

  “Come here, hon,” said Dan Carter. “Homer’s gone.” He turned to Rob McKeever. “We’ll take this one.” He picked up the first dress at hand. “Put it on, Charlie Boy.” He tossed the dress to her, and Charlie put it on over h
er nightgown. It was too big for her, but she buttoned it down the front.

  “Charge it, Rob,” said Dan Carter, and they walked out.

  Neither of them looked to see what the dress was like. It covered up the nightgown, that was the main thing. Charlie picked up the long skirt, so she would not trip. Out on the board sidewalk again, they saw that more people had come to town. More horses were tied to hitching racks, and two Ford cars were parked in front of the bank. The people stared at Charlie worse than when she wore her nightgown.

  “Those old hoe farmers…Oh, Papa, look! See the horse!” cried Charlie.

  They came to the saddlemaker’s shop. For many years, Ned Carlson had been making saddles and harness for ranchmen in the county. On the sidewalk in front of his shop stood a large wooden horse. It was painted a beautiful dapple gray. A real saddle was displayed on the wooden horse’s back.

  The minute she saw it, Charlie knew the saddle was hers. She wanted it more than she had wanted a horse of her own. She knew she couldn’t live without that saddle. She dragged her father into the store and demanded that he buy it.

  For a vague moment, Dan Carter wondered how he would pay for a new saddle. If the drouth continued, and he had to keep on feeding a thousand head of cattle through the summer, he wondered where the money would come from. But Ned Carlson was as eager to sell the saddle as Charlie was to get it. He could not resist them both. Dan was an easy-going fellow, who liked to please, and Ned had been a good friend all these years.

  Ned said pathetically: “I’ll have to be closing up shop soon. Ranchmen don’t buy new saddles when their cattle are dying in a drouth.”

  There was no choice now. Dan Carter bought the saddle.

  “Can we take it with us?” asked Charlie.

  “No, hon, how could we, on Old Sam?” He arranged to have Old Man Drake bring it to the ranch on his next freight load. He promised to pay for it as soon as he could.