WHERE HELL BEGAN
By UC Poika
Copyright UC Poika 2012
Smashwords Edition
Chapter 1
--Thirteen--
“The boy is thirteen now. Let him be a man. If he was a girl he could have a baby. He's old enough to find his way in the world. You have to just let him go. When I was fourteen I went out on my own and I didn't turn out so bad,” his father said.
“What will we do without him?” his mother asked. “He's a lot of help around here.”
“You know as well as I do the crop isn't going to support us this winter. We have to do something. I realize he would be there to help with the chores, but he ain't really big enough for the harvest. He's better going somewhere they can feed him. We won't be able to. You know that. Let the boy become a man, will you? Please?”
“Tobin,” his mother said. “Don't you have anything to say? Are you afraid?”
“Of course he is, Antoinette. He's never been to town much less out on his own. But he's a bright boy. He's got a third grade education. He can read, for heaven's sake. And he can write and add and everything. When I left home I could do none of that. He'll be fine. Just fine.”
“Say something, Tobin,” Antoinette said.
The boy looked at the dirt floor of the cabin a moment, then finally he quietly said, “If Dad wants me to go, I'll go. Who am I to start telling him what to do now? I don't want to leave Mama,” he said and then while fighting tears he added. “But I don't want to starve either.”
The three of them stood and silently looked at each other knowing there was nothing else that could be done. The weather had went against them otherwise he would have been kept another year. But Hiram F. Morland would not reduce his share. He never did. He was a businessman and not known for his charitableness.
Finally Tobin broke off his stare, turned his back and went toward his lower bunk in the main room. The nine kids left would appreciate the extra bed when he was gone. They would also appreciate the increased portions. Such things controlled his thoughts as he quietly drifted off to sleep for the last time in his father's house.
“Good night, Tobin,” his brother said for the last time.
“Night, Ezra.”
“Write,” Ezra said after a long pause.
“Okay.”
When he awoke, it was still dark. He got into his britches and put his boots on in silence. The chores had to be done. It was his birthday, his last day at home, but the stock didn't care about that, they needed cleaned and fed for without them no self-respecting farm could function. Needless to say the chores went very fast that day. He tried his best to drag it out but all too soon the need to leave was upon him.
He came in the door, washed up and turned to the table, but there was no place kept for him there. Tobin was surprised but as he viewed the half of pancake per child he understood. That did not mean however that he was not hungry. But he realized there really was next to nothing for him to eat anyway as Antoinette helped him tie his things in his bandanna—an extra shirt, two handkerchiefs, a pair of underwear, and two pair of socks. He didn't think it very much as he tied the knot he had been practicing for months now. Then she handed him his father's old winter coat, though it was early August, and he strapped it behind his suspenders as he turned and went through the door in silence. But he did not at any time meet his parents' eyes, less they be eyes that insulted him with pity, or uncaring eyes that would foster hatred in his soul, nor did he look, even for a minute, at the eyes of any, not even one, of his siblings that day. Walking away that day, the thirteen year old was then thought to have become a man.
Why then were there tears—not just tears of parting but tears of fear. He had never known a man to cry. His mother had cried when she crossed off his birthday on the calendar he had made in school a day early, but she was a mere woman, women were expected to cry. But Tobin was sure, as I have already said, he never saw a man cry. 'No sir,' he thought. 'A man was just that, a man, a thing to be feared, not a thing given to fearing anything.’ Then also, in spite of the extreme harshness of what had come upon him, he refused to believe he was unloved or unlovable, no matter how it felt.
Hungry, he walked along, marveling that his stomach growled, that the sun seemed so very hot, that the wind irritated his sunburned face and hand—his hat having been late upon his head—that the blister on his left heel could burn so, and hurt so, at the same time, how little he wanted to continue, and doing so, only because there was no real alternative.
Finally his nearest neighbors' house came into view. He knew, however, there was no need to stop there. They would feed him, if they had anything at all, but he would have been taking from others at least as poor as his family was. He was sorely tempted but he would deny himself this one more time. Their eldest, McKinley, waved as he drove the wagon for his dad who pitched the hay and never seemed to notice the sight of the Walker boy walking by on the road. “Good-bye Mack!” he yelled though he knew, of course, the boy who was only two years younger than he was could never have heard him but saying good-bye to his one friend in the world warmed his aching heart, a little anyway.
He would, he knew, reach the next neighbors by nightfall and they would gladly give him a late supper. They were sharecroppers too, but there were only four of them, the baby, its mother, its dad and grandpa. Surely they would have enough. He knew full well they were making hay too, but he still found himself desiring rain. And that it was, raining, when he came upon the Alexander place at very nearly dark, so dark that even his sharp young eyes were having trouble seeing precisely where to step on the road to avoid the muddy puddles, but he did manage as he made his way to the front door of the cabin.
“Why hello, Tobin!” Geoffrey Alexander said. “Is it your birthday already,” he added as if he hadn't been counting the days himself.
“For goodness sake, Geoffrey let him in,” Geoffrey's wife Genevieve said. “Can't you see he's just a boy. A very wet boy. O my gosh! Look at you! Toby you look exhausted. And I bet you are hungry too. You just go ahead if you want and lie down on that cot there by the hearth. We'll have more permanent accommodations for you by bedtime.”
“Thank you both very much,” he managed. Then making his way to the cot he sighed, and then mumbled, “I made it,” as sleep came for him.
Genevieve eagerly went about warming his supper on the cook stove, her pride and joy since most sharecroppers stilled cooked at the hearth.
It was less than an hour later when Genevieve woke Tobin from a deep but fretful sleep.
“Toby!,” she said loudly. “Your supper's ready!”
He stirred, looking at her, thinking he had seen an angel. “Are you one of the angels come to get me?” he asked, being quite serious about it.
“Tobin!” she said firmly. “You're still asleep. Wake up!”
He did.
“Meat and beans!” he exclaimed.
“And my own cornbread,” Genevieve chimed in.
“And cornbread,” he echoed, fighting tears of a different kind this time.
“I think I'll have another piece of that johnnycake too,” Geoffrey said.
“It's not johnnycake! It's cornbread. There is a difference. And I happen to know Antoinette used to make it for all her kids all the time when times were good that is,” she said as she turned on Geoffrey and batted his hand away from the plate where several pieces of warmed cornbread awaited Tobin's appetite. “Let him have all he wants. Then if there's any left you can have it.”
Geoffrey frowned but made no attempt at the remaining cornbread.
“What do you think Pop?” he said to his father-in-law Adolf Feiderman, the older gentleman who until then had been taking it all in from the comfort of his old, quilt covered rocker.
“I think that a good daughter and a wonderful wife would make more for us to eat Geoff,” he said causing them to laugh—that is all but Tobin.
It was good to hear them laugh though Tobin thought as he began to eat for the first time that day. And there was rest that night and work the next day. They had put up a regular bed in the barn with his own kerosene lamp and a personal washbasin, and best of all, it was only a short walk to the outhouse. He had never known such comforts. Why even the baby crying across the yard, up the path and inside the house didn't really bother him except that it did seem to be a little more often than he had remembered any other baby's cries to be. In fact he began to wonder if it ever stopped entirely. However he never thought to ask in the morning and in the evening, he was too tire to care. But when it did not stop for over a week he was not surprised to find Geoffrey and Adolf more and more out of sorts with him as the days wore on.
One morning he came to the house to eat and was surprised to find there was only leftover stew and that it was served by Adolf and not Genevieve. It was not that he did not like leftover stew. He did. But he was concerned that Genevieve and Geoffrey did not even eat at all. Then after he had barely finished, Genevieve burst into the room with the baby wrapped in a blanket though it was already quite warm outside.
“I think you might as well come along,” Geoffrey said to Tobin.
He and Adolf went out and silently took a perch on the end of the wagon loaded with hay that had sat in the yard all night, as far as Tobin knew. He didn't know what was going on but he suspected the baby was very ill. But why they needed him in town, as he presumed, he had no idea.
“What do you figure is wrong with the baby?” he asked Adolf. “Is it going to be alright?”
“It'll be all right in the end, but it's going to take a doctor.”
He understood that already.
“The only doctor in these parts is the dentist in town.”
He hadn't known that, but still couldn't see his part in it all.
“They owe him a lot of money for fixing Geoffrey's leg last year.”
That would explain the hay.
“Without the hay and the hams, bacon, eggs and vegetables under it, they won't be able to afford either you or I from now on.”
He knew what that meant.
“You'll probably have to stay with Boss Richters. He's one mean son-of-a-bitch but he's fair. You'll get what your work deserves if you survive, and he won't let you starve even if you can't earn enough for some reason.”
“I've never been on a ranch before.”
Adolf could understand that. There was a time Boss Richters hadn't been on one either.
“It'll be okay for a while.”
Tobin nodded.
But when they came to the “Double B” and he saw the brand made to look like 1313 to distinguish it from the BB brand of clothing made in the big city in those days, he was amazed they used such a number—thirteen, thirteen, being bad luck and all. But Adolf was silent on the subject though Tobin thought he knew more than he let on.
“Is it bad luck or not?” Tobin finally came right out and asked Adolf in the end.
“Bad luck after bad luck,” he said. “That's been my life too. There ain't nothing new in that.”
Geoffrey drove the wagon right up to the barn, and Tobin and Adolf unloaded it into a stack already beside the barn because the loft was full. They were about done when a girl appeared in the corner of Tobin’s eye and, amazed he turned to take in the sight of a beautiful young girl carrying two plates full of hot food towards them.
She set the plate on large blocks of firewood that they apparently couldn't split last fall and turning to Adolf she said, “If you want more just bring your plate to the kitchen or send...” Then turning on Tobin she seemed to be looking him over as one might a heifer at an auction before she, offering her hand, said,” Amelia Richters. Pleased to meet you. I hear you will be staying with us a while?”
He didn't know what to do with the hand for as he reached for it she withdrew it just enough so that he found himself with only a slight hold on just her fingers. Wondering whether he had done something wrong he raised his eyes to hers without a word.
“Where the hell is your manners, boy?” Adolf said after what seemed a long pause had occurred. “Tell the young lady your name.”
Tobin looked at him as if he had never seen him before. Adolf just nodded to urge him on.
“Oh. Uh—Tobin A. Walker at your service, Ma'am,” he finally managed.
“He can speak! I was afraid the cat got his tongue. Bring the plates to the kitchen when you are done and we'll talk. I mean since you are about my own age and you can talk and all,” she said, embarrassed a little by the ordeal. Then she tugged on her hand and he quickly let it go, ashamed he had held it that long. And, once freed, Amelia walked to the house watching him and Adolf watch her as she walked, all the way.
Adolf smiled. “Fine looking gal, isn't she?” he said while unable to shed the smile.
Tobin feigned a cough and then nodded, perhaps pretending, but not able to speak for one reason or another.
Adolf laughed quietly to himself so as not to embarrass the boy, he thought about to become a man, any further.
Tobin finished his plate rapidly and started for the kitchen where he figured Amelia was waiting.
“Just a damn minute there, Son,” Adolf complained. “Wait just a little bit here. Then you can take mine too. Don't be in such an all fired hurry for hellfire. She'll be there when I'm done. I agree with you she is probably in heat and all but it lasts longer than a few minutes you know. Let me give you some advice Son. Take your time, Boy. They like that.”
Embarrassed at his inexperience he did wait but nervously, watching as Adolf took his time with every bite. Finally Adolf handed him his plate and Tobin was off. But he walked so fast it was difficult to tell whether he walked or ran. “Slow down damn it!” Adolf laughed as he shook his head at the boy. Then when Tobin came to the kitchen he suddenly realized he had given no thought as to what he might say.
“Tobin!” Amelia said when he didn't say anything. “You did come.”
He smiled and half giggled, not wanting to come off as too immature and yet wanting to show he enjoyed her humor.
“Do you want more?” she asked.
He did.
“It's going to be so nice to have someone more my age around for a while. How long do you think you might stay?”
“I-I don't have any idea, but I suppose quite a spell.”
She handed him a plate and then went back to her dishes while he sat in a chair with the plate in his lap. When she noticed he didn't eat at the table she thought it odd but didn't say anything. Then, all too soon, he thought, he was done again. So he rose to his feet and handed her his plate again.
“More?” she asked surprised he had finished it so fast.
He didn't want to have to leave. So, even though he was quite full, he nodded.
“I'll say one thing for you. You're not much of a talker, but you sure can eat!”
He said, “I really liked it. I just love—“ he said starting to say what the food had been when he suddenly realized he had paid so little attention to it, he really didn't know what it was.
“You love mutton stew?” she said very surprised by it. “Most people don't!”
“Oh, I always have,” he said relieved to find out what it was. “But what's a beef ranch doing with mutton stew?”
“Some sheep herder paid for damaging my uncle's range with his entire herd. Uncle hates to waste animal flesh even mutton,” she said. “But mutton sure ain't beef. How come you liked it?”
'Oh-oh!' he thought. “I-I just meant that as hungry as I was even weasel meat would have been my favorite.”
She laughed. “You're funny! Who'd eat a weasel? That's silly.”
He became conscious he was silent again as a long pause settled in around the pair.
She wiped her hand on her apron as she finished the dishes and said, “Mind if I show you where you'll be sleeping?” in a manner Tobin was not used to.
“Not at all, Ma'am,” he said and opened the kitchen door for her.
As they walked back to the barn he noticed the hay wagon was gone and he felt guilty for not having seen his friends off. That feeling didn't last long as Amelia boldly, he thought, caught his hand as they walked along. And though he was shocked by her forwardness, he pretended not to notice for awhile, but finally looked her straight in the eye, trying to decide whether she did it meaning to be friendly, or just did it automatically. But when their eyes met, she smiled brightly completely distracting him. He was delighted.
“Mind?” she said confidently looking down at their hands.
He caught her eye and figured he needn't even nod.
When they got to the barn she motioned to a small room to the side. When he walked through the door she crowded him on purpose, pressing her body against his though there was plenty of room for the two youngsters to enter unhampered.
“Like it?” she asked coyly.
He was unsure what she meant, but since he both liked her advances and the room he said he did.
She laid down upon the bed, “Here, try it. I'm sure you'll like it,” she said intentionally not making it clear whether she meant the bed or whatever else she might have in mind.
When he laid down beside her, she rolled up against him, took his arm and placed it about her side, and snuggling, kissed him—his fist kiss. But what happened then was pretty much instinct, so he thought later. It was his first time and yet he seemed always to know what he was doing. Then they fell off to sleep and only woke to the sound of the men returning from the fields.
She sat up, put back on her clothing and said, “That was my first time. I hope I did okay?”
He laughed. “It was your fist time too! It was mine too! Didn't you notice?”
She laughed along with him. Then turning very quiet she ran her fingers up his hairless chest and said, “You’re a natural then, Toby,” lying on the bed again.
Suddenly she sat up on the bed and, listening, rose and nervously paced the floor of the tiny room.
Toby sat up too in a moment, “What's wrong?”
“It's Uncle! He's back,” she said. “He'll kill us!”
Toby laughed. “What do you mean, He'll kill us?”
“Put your clothes on,” she ordered pushing him towards his clothing. “You leave first? Yeah. That'll work. Then I can say I was just looking for you.”
Toby started to laugh.
“I'm not kidding! He just might kill us!”
Toby still doubted he would be killed, but sensing the danger he quickly, but carefully, got dressed and left the barn nonchalantly. But he was barely in front of the distant bunkhouse when he looked back and saw Amelia arguing with a man who was obviously in charge of everything. Was that indeed her uncle? And was the man, in fact, Boss Richters?
“Who's the big shot?” he asked a man standing next to him but watching the horses in the corral.
Turning almost around he said with surprise, “That's Boss Richters!”
“Really?” Toby said.
“And the girl is Amelia, his niece.”
“Nice,” he said admiring her more now than ever.
“Stay away from that one, Kid. Her uncle is about to send her back east to her cousins. He can't handle her and the ranch too it seems. And what with her daddy a rogue criminal, there isn't really anybody else to watch over her.”
Chapter 2
--Boss Richters--
Amelia was permanently, though quickly and quietly, gone, but the boy, though suspect, continued on. And one day as he watched the men break a new bunch of horses he laughed openly when a rider fell off the horse he chose in just a matter of a few seconds. The problem was the cowboy who fell was not to take it lightly that a mere stable boy should laugh at him.
“What’s the matter with you, Boy?” he snarled.
Tobin was silent and worried that the indiscretion might turn into a violent confrontation he knew he could not win.
“Do you think you could ride him, Big Shot?”
Tobin still wisely held his peace.
The cowboy walked over to the boy. “Look Runt if you can’t do any better then don’t laugh at a real man doing a real man’s job. Okay Runt?”
“I am not a runt!” Tobin found himself saying as the cowboy turned on him though he had started to walk away.
“You ain’t huh?”
“Leave him alone, Larry!” someone in the crowd yelled. “Can’t you see, he’s just a kid?”
“I ain’t no kid either!” Tobin replied more than willing to back the definitions of manhood as it applied to him at that point—he was on his own, and he had been introduced to sex. What more qualified a young fellow as a man? Riding a stupid horse? “And what’s more, I can ride that stupid horse of yours. I ain’t afraid.”
“You should be, kid,” the cowboy said quietly as he approached Tobin. “He’s one ornery son of a bitch, boy.”
“Do it, boy!” someone yelled. “You can show him!”
Then there was laughter by all concerned except Toby, until the young man climbed the fence and walked toward the holding area where they had the horse tied, fit to be killed. He climbed the side rail and wondered as they wrapped his hand in rope tied to the saddle and handed him the reins. “Let her rip!” one of them yelled and he found himself thrown this way and that but tied to the saddle he did not fall off. Soon the horse slowed until almost docile, it seemed to Tobin. And as he walked it back to the gate everyone was quiet.
“Good job, Toby!” the cowhand said as he helped him down and untied Toby’s hand as the boy slid down the horse’s side, relieved to find himself alive. It was meant to be respect, and as respect it was received, the first real respect Toby had ever had from the cowboys at the ranch, he thought as the crowd of cowboys erupted in various forms of exuberance.
“Way to go!” a complete stranger yelled above the din as Toby set out to retreat to his little room in the barn.
“Where the hell you think you’re going?” Larry said.
Tobin was afraid, but tried not to show it. He was, it seemed to him, in a worse spot now than before. After all he had not only challenged Larry, a large, tough looking cowboy, but now it appeared he had shown him up. Surely Larry was about to save face by at least humiliating him.
But a bigger man than he was large, Larry said, “You’re going the wrong way, boy...”
“Tobin,” the boy said defensively.
“Tobin,” Larry laughed. “Your place is in the bunkhouse now. A real man like you don’t sweep stables and he don’t shovel shit either. Come on Boy, I’ll show you your bunk.”
It wasn’t much but it was a lot to Tobin. It was like a badge of honor and he proudly took up the top bunk against the north wall, knowing full well that when winter hit that would be one of the coldest places in the whole bunkhouse to be. It was not then, that it was nice or that he felt he would be comfortable there. On the contrary he would most likely be more miserable in these surroundings than the cozy little room he was leaving behind in the barn. But today he had surprised even himself and won a place among the men. What would his mother have said? What would his dad have said, had he known?
Morning came earlier than most the next day but Tobin rose with the rest of the men. There were horses yet to be broken and he had shown promise as a “bronc’-buster”. In other words, he had work to do and he was not sure he could live up to it. He had a man’s work on his hands and, not so deep beneath the surface, he still felt very much like the boy he had been yesterday morning.
“Here you go, Toby,” one of the hands said to him while handing him the ropes to an unbroken horse. “This first one’s yours. Ride him, boy. We’re all rooting for you!”
Toby watched as again they tied him to the saddle by wrapping the rope around his left hand several times and putting a half-hitch at the last part of it. It was tight. He would never have an opportunity to untie it once the horse let go. Now was the time to complain. But he didn’t, even though he felt like it. Being tied to such a wild beast did not seem very wise to him, but he knew it must have been the standard way of doing things so he put up with it.
“Let her rip!” he shouted at last and he and the horse came bounding out of the shoot. Immediately the horse seemed about to send him to the moon, but he hung on. Then it put its head down and kicked its hind legs so high he felt himself flying over the front of the horse his hand freed from the tying after a struggle somehow. But since the horse turned abruptly as it bucked, he did not face forward as he flew but instead landed on his back. Then the horse’s front legs came down on him, and he took, for a brief time, the full weight of the horse on his privates. Then everything went brown as the pain reached an incredible level, so high in fact was the level of pain that he must have passed out right there in the corral.
Waking in the dentist’s office in town was not what he had expected to happen next but he found it a curiosity rather than a worry. The horse had apparently not killed him he thought. Therefore he must be going to be okay. What could possibly have been so bad as to keep him out for the length of time it must have taken to get him to a wagon and then to town. In a strange sort of way it made him feel special that they would go to all that trouble just for him. He felt drowsy and weak but he had no pain. Perhaps they had given him something for the pain and he was in more trouble than he had first thought.
“So,” said the dentist. “You are still with us. Frankly I was beginning to wonder if I was hearing right when I listened for a heartbeat. You gave us quite a scare my little man.” (That term of endearment irritated Tobin more than either he or the dentist expected.) “Oh I see he’s better than I expected. He has quite a temper,” the dentist said to Boss Richters who apparently had brought him in. “Listen to me young fellow. Do you have a girlfriend or a fiancee in mind?”
Toby couldn’t imagine what that had to do with anything but of course he had neither so he said he did not.
“Well,” said the dentist. “You probably will still be able to perform as any man. But you probably won’t want to. It’s hard to say. But it is highly unlikely you will ever be a father if you are not one already. And I take it you are not. Am I right?”
For the first time Toby considered whether Amelia had been pregnant, or even whether they could have become parents that day that didn’t now seem so long ago. He was not afraid, however, except to think that Boss Richters should find out what happened in the barn that day.
“Am I right?” the dentist repeated loudly as if he suspected the boy was hard of hearing as he began to check his ears.
“Not as far as I know,” he said sincerely but he thought Boss Richters must have suspected something by the way he stared back at him as he said it. But he thought only to leave it alone beyond that. And Boss Richters, if he suspected anything, was more than happy it seemed, to let it lie in the sun a while longer at least.
Chapter 3
--Alone--
Most of the summer, he was somewhat inactive at Boss Richters’ orders. But ironically as autumn began to near and the harvest closed in upon them, the boy, Tobin, began to become bored and even craving activity. Boss Richters must have sensed his restlessness for quite unexpectedly he was called to the house and given orders to ride fence, light duty, even tediously so but duty just the same. Tobin’s demeanor improved remarkably even in the face of one of the least desirable jobs on the ranch. He was, it was clear, glad to be back in action.
The line shack was filled with enough provisions to take him through an early, and/or unexpected storm as had happened only rarely in the past, but was still possible. Often he would sing songs to himself though, as he set out alone each day at sunup to make certain that everything was alright with Boss Richters’ fences. And occasionally a post had rotted and fallen over requiring he dig a new hole and place a new post from the wagon in the old place and fasten the barbed wire to it. The job required very little skill but a sharp eye and an ever increasingly incredible taste for being alone with no one to talk to.
“Home, home on the range…” he sang as he rode along stopping only to look at the sun and the empty prairie. He thought how the grass seemed to move as the waves of the ocean he had never seen, and how one could actually seem to see the wind coming from quite some distance through the grasses, moving right up to him. But except for the occasional prairie dog and the odd butterfly he saw no other living thing, not even a fly. He had to keep reminding himself that what he was doing was important, and needed to be done or he might have felt completely insignificant—a mere speck surrounded by what seemed to be an endless area of nothingness. Such thoughts as that, he reasoned, stood only to breed madness. He would rather battle the loneliness than to succumb to irrational thoughts about an environment that changed only with the weather, and as the latter days of summer seemed exactly like the many, many days of summer he had already experienced he thought he might even welcome, even need a storm to break the monotony.
As if to grant his wish, a storm blew in quite unexpectedly one day. In the morning the sun was bright as usual but as it neared midday clouds began to appear in the northwest and an ominous haze covered the entire big sky above Tobin. A sudden gust of wind brought a large tumbleweed alive a short distance from the wagon and it unexpectedly broad sided the horse. Tobin who was afoot at the time putting finishing touches on a stretch of barbed wire found himself chasing the horse and the wagon until it turned over as the horse unwisely veered to one side and injured its leg requiring Tobin to free it for it was indeed injured and could hardly run as it sauntered away. In a short time then, Tobin found himself alone, and afoot on the prairie with a storm brewing in the west. All he could do was try to reach the next line shack before the storm hit. The obvious problem was that it was a full half day’s ride to either shack and he had lost his ride. But there was nothing to do but to try to make it on foot.
As temperatures dropped and the relentless wind continued to grow more and more ferocious with the passing minutes Tobin knew it was going to be a bad one. Therefore he was relieved to find a bunch of cattle nervously grazing within a short walk from the fence. As he struck out for the cattle he knew that the herd, small as it was, would provide some shelter, at the least, against what he feared was an early season blizzard by the way the weather acted. And, as he reached the cattle he was not surprised to find that it was beginning to snow. What he had not expected was that the cattle had no intention of being led by a man on foot, being used to being herded only by riders. It presented a new problem for if he stayed with the cattle for the shelter, he would become lost depending entirely upon the preferences of the cattle. And if he struck out for the fence line he would most likely not reach the line shack before the weather had become quite severe, in which case he was probably going to freeze to death before reaching shelter. Therefore he decided, well actually he did not decide, but wound up following the cows downwind.
As night settled in upon the prairie, the storm was in full force. Tobin was very cold—colder than he had ever known it could be. His reasoning became fuzzy and he found he could not remember the words to his favorite song. “Home, home… home.. ?” he sang completely preoccupied with survival. He noticed that he was moving slower and slower—so slow in fact that the cattle began to leave him behind when even they had to stop. Knowing only that he was soon to freeze to death, Tobin, guided by shear instinct perhaps, walked up to a particularly large steer, drew his knife and cut the animal’s throat. Then he cut open the beast driven by his skill in such matters and both his need to be warm and his instinct to survive. The surprising thing that happened next was that the lad crawled up inside the carcass and pulled the entrails up with him because they were still warmer than the air around them. Covered with blood and weary from the cold he soon slept inside that steer, giving no thought as to how bizarre it might seem to anyone else, as the snow banked up around his curious shelter and the night wore on.
When Tobin awoke in the morning he was surprised to find he was still alive and that the storm had all but ended. He suspected that a foot or more of snow had fallen and only a bitter cold wind remained above the snow to bear witness to the unexpected arrival of winter. As far as he could see, whirlwinds swirled with loose snow, giving an eerie look and feel to the whole region. In his cold impaired mind it seemed he was alive in a vast white desert wherein dance many a ghost dancer reminiscent of the ballroom dancers’ picture on his mother’s music box at home when he was a child. Fearing the cattle would soon start to move, he cut off a large chunk of steak and began cooking it on a fire he made of the prairie grass and the few odd stick matches he had in his pockets. It was nowhere near done yet when he was unable to maintain the fire but he knew he could last a long time on the meat he had eaten though much of it was barely warm by the time it touched his mouth.
“It’ll only be days at most when they find us,” he said to a disinterested heifer that seemed to grunt her disapproval of his forwardness to speak directly to her under such circumstances.
But he was wrong. The days turned to weeks and the weeks… Well to make it clear, he had no idea how long it had been except that the thirteen days he expected his matches to last had come and gone many days ago. He still ritualistically slaughtered cattle for food and for shelter still wearing the hide of that first steer he had killed the night of the storm over his blood stained coat. And, he reasoned, they had given him up for dead when they found the horse and nobody else, even along the fence line. Perhaps, he thought, they even considered holding a funeral for him, and yet he was very much alive as the cattle had even taken to allowing him to herd them toward the north, or perhaps they also knew that town was far more likely to be found than the ranch, it being several times the size of the ranch as far as the area with buildings on it were considered.
They topped a rise one afternoon and heard a strange yawn of civilization ring out across the snow clad prairie. What was that? Was it…? He dared not even think it for fear it would leave him empty as the rest of his thoughts had left him in the past month or so. But the cattle stopped too. Motionless, soundless, witnesses, shouting that a train had just let off steam, they stood in disbelief of their senses.
“My God!” he said and knelt in the snow on one knee his tears flowing without restriction. They had found civilization and it was only a short time when they came across the familiar tracks in the snow that the huge locomotive had made as it hurried its cargo toward town. But which way had it gone? Which way was the way to town and which way was the way to the town it had come from? The train whistle had seemed to come from nowhere to him, or to be more precise it had seemed to come from everywhere. Then he heard it again as if the train itself had answered his question.
“Thank you,” Tobin said grateful for the answer and the conversation.
He was a curiosity, to say the least, as he and a couple a dozen cattle came wandering into to town following the train tracks. Two cowboys that sat on the fence of the stockyards ribbed each other and laughed as they noticed him walking in. But as he and the cows neared, the pair opened the fence and allowed him to drive the cows in without a word even though clearly impressed that he should drive the wild cattle so easily. Then as he headed toward the hotel and a bath, a cooked meal and warm bed, he said nothing to the mystified cowhands.
“You know Pete,” the one cowhand said to the other. “I can figure walking out of the prairie with a couple cows but what the hell did he do to get covered with blood like that?”
Pete smiled wildly almost daring to laugh.
“The cows will keep. Let’s go see how he comes out at the hotel, Pete.”
With that both cowhands deserted their post and followed this blood stained cowhand, silently wondering what his story might have been had he been the talkative type which it was clear he was not, at least not now.
“Help you Mister?” the desk clerk asked as Tobin walked up to him.
“I’d like a room,” Tobin ordered.
“Mister? You a murderer? Or what?” Peter asked unable to keep his presumptions to himself any longer.
Tobin just looked at him as if he were an alien being of some sort.
“You are,” Peter said. “Aren’t you?”
The clerk came up with a key and handing it to Tobin said, “You can have 202 on the second floor to your right.”
Tobin nodded and tipped his blood stained hat.
“Well?” the other cowhand said. “Are you or aren’t you a killer of some sort?”
Tobin tipped his hat and walked past them up the stairs to the second floor, disappearing to the right.
Toby was still sleeping when there was a knock at the door the next morning. Waking slowly he just laid there and listened. Then in a little bit there was yet another knock at the door.
“Breakfast!” he suddenly shouted and jumped out of bed covered only by the bedclothes the clerk had furnished after his bath last night.
“No. It’s the sheriff! I need to talk to you.”
Tobin went to the door and opened it.
“You have caused quite a stir coming into town the way you did and all.”
Tobin was not surprised.
“Folks say you were covered with blood? Mind me asking how that came about?”
Tobin told him in as few wards as possible.
“So, you expect Boss Richters to buy that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Well, Son. That may be. But I have a problem on my hands. Boss Richters has reported the theft of over 50 head during or shortly after the storm. And since they never found your body they figured you—if you are Tobin Walker—to have stolen the cattle using the excuse they were lost in the storm as your cover to sell them and then slip out of town.”
“Is there a warrant out for me then?”
“No sir, Mr. Walker. But I don’t think anyone will buy your cows and it would be impractical to take them back. I’m afraid sir, you have no way to pay your hotel bill, let alone buy clothes and food until we can straighten this out.”
Toby was more than a little concerned but tried not to let on that he was in the slightest bit worried.
“Pete! Get your damned ear away from that door and get your ass in here.”
Peter entered through the door sheepishly.
“Here!” the sheriff said flipping Peter a large coin. “Get this man some duds.”
“And the change?” Peter said hoping to be told to keep it.
“Keep spending until there’s nothing left.”
Tobin was thankful but silent.
“You’d better come over to the jail. I’ll put you up for a few days, at least, until you can find work,” the sheriff said and sat down to wait for Peter to return.
“Name’s Joshua Benderlink,” he said. “Josh to my friends. Sheriff to my enemies. I hope you’ll be one of those that call me Josh.”
“I sure hope then that we can be friends, Sheriff Josh,” Tobin said to indicate he was unsure which the sheriff was.
“How old are you, boy?” the sheriff asked. “Seventeen? Eighteen?”
Toby was flattered.
Then the sheriff fell silent and the two of them took turns walking to the window and then sitting down again, more on the order of pacing like a couple of caged prisoners than out of curiosity as they waited for Peter.
“Pete!” the sheriff shouted at his knock on the door. “What the hell took you so long?”
“Mr. Walker is a strange size. Not many young men that short in these parts that are as stocky as he is.”
“Mr. Walker is it Pete? Damn you have good ears.”
Pete handed the clothing to Toby who quickly and gratefully put them on.
Finishing he said, “Thank you, Josh,” to the sheriff and extended his hand.
The sheriff ignoring his decision and his extended hand of friendship said, “Jail’s this way. Follow me.”
Toby did follow him.
The next morning there was a knock at the door of the jail and the sheriff opened it cautiously.
“There’s a telegram for Tobin A. Walker here,” a man dressed like some sort of a clerk said, handing a piece of paper to the sheriff, who in turn handed it to Toby.
“You are fired. Boss Richters,” is all it said.
Toby handed it to the sheriff.
“That’s it then. You’re free of all responsibility to Boss Richters.”
Tobin was sad to think his days at the ranch were over.
“Don’t be so damned down in the mouth, boy,” the sheriff said. “Boss Richters was in a mind to hang you. I’ve never known him to change his mind so easily. He must really like you, boy.”
“Do you have to call me, boy?” Tobin said. “I think after all I’ve been through, I deserve the respect of a man whether I am one or not.”
“Yes, sir., Mister Walker,” the sheriff said.
Chapter 4
--House Guest--
“My it is good to see you in town again, Mr. Walker,” the girl in the hardware store said as Tobin walked in and began looking around. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“No. I’m just looking while Peter loads the grain I ordered at the feed store, Geneva,” he said.
“You used to work there too, didn’t you?” Geneva said, making conversation. “Why you worked almost everywhere in town; is there anything you don’t know how to do?”
“Well, I can’t get wheat to grow without planting it first.”
“Now that would be a miracle. If you ever manage it, bottle the secret and we’ll make a fortune you and I.”
“Yeah. Well that’s about the only way a guy is ever going to make a ton of money working a farm. Maybe I should start to work on it immediately.”
Geneva laughed and Tobin fell silent.
“What do you hear about the Gypsies come to town? Are they as big a problem as everyone says?”
“Oh, that’s what’s got you scanning the horizon, is it?” she said coyly.
Toby nodded.
“Here I thought it was me and me alone you came over to see.”
“Aw now Genny you know you can have me any time you desire. You’re at least one and a half ax handles wide and that’s a whole lot of woman, but I ain’t never found one I couldn’t handle yet.”
“Now, Tobin Walker! You know I was just kidding and you have to go and get smutty on me.”
“Aw now Geneva, you know you love it. And I’m not right sure, but I am pretty near sure, I would.”
She grabbed a broom out of a bunch of brand new ones and began to swat it in the air as she ran towards Tobin who fled as if for his life.
“Aw come on now, Honey, don’t be that way!” he yelled as he started back for the door.
“You get the hell out! And don’t you come back!” she yelled as she almost got him with the broom at the door.
“Love you, Darling!” Tobin yelled from the safety of the street.
“I know you do, Toby,” she said with her hand on her hip and her demeanor having changed almost completely. “But after all that you can see. Ain’t no Gypsy going to get the best of me.”
“No. I can sure tell that, Geneva. So I can.”
“Aw!” she snorted in disgust. “Go on get the hell out of here. I got work to do.”
“See you then Geneva, my sweetheart, my love and my—my—my what a woman,” Tobin said and laughed as Geneva turned in the doorway and swore at his quick retreat.
“Mr. Walker!” Peter yelled. “Where do you want the garden stuff?”
“What garden stuff, Peter?” he replied.
“Oh, potatoes and stuff like that. There ain’t really no room for it in the back, you want it on the seat, or the buckboard where your passengers would ordinarily put their feet? You ain’t got no one riding with you do you?”
Tobin knew he was trying to rub him with that sort of talk, but he played ignorant.
“No. I ain’t got no one yet. But then you don’t either do you Peter? And think on it you’ve been knocking around this town since before I ever knew it was here. How long’s it been Peter since we first met that day I rode herd on them cows of Boss Richters’? Well over five years aint’ it?”
“Must be,” Peter said as he loaded the potatoes in 100 pound sacks on the buckboard. “If you need someone to help you plow or plant this year, I sure would be grateful to you if you got me out of town. Not that I’m begging, mind you. I’m just asking, Mr. Walker. Just a asking, you know.”
“Yeah I do Peter, but the truth is I think I can handle her by myself. Now if you could cook…? Yeah, but I’ve ate your cooking and I’d rather plow hungry than eat that crap you try to pass off as food.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Walker. I’d be more than happy to cook for you and anyone else you preferred to have along with you.”
“No. No. Peter. I’m sure I can handle it. But if you see those Gypsies you might mention I need a cook. Okay Pete?”
“Gypsies! You’d hire a damn Gypsy before me?”
“Well,” he said and sighed painfully. “You just can’t cook, my man. Last time you cooked for me my two fattened hogs ate better than I did. Maybe you didn’t notice but they got most of mine plus their own.”
“Aw! I know I ain’t that bad of a cook, Mr. Walker.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well if I was don’t you think I would know it? Who do you suppose eats my cooking every day?”
Tobin was speechless.
“Me! That’s who. And if I was as bad a cook as you say I am I would have starved to death a long time ago.”
“Say now that you mention it Peter I’ve often wondered why that hadn’t occurred yet. That must be. But could it really be that I’ve been wrong about your cooking? If so I apologize. But just in case one of them Gypsies wants to make an attempt at an honest living send him my way, will you?”
“You bet I will. And you deserve every bit of it you get.”