Cooksin

by Rick Alan Rice

  "No, Eastern Colorado. I grew up out around Yuma," he said. "I ain't been out there in a long time, though. I got no people there anymore."

  Jake steered the Dodge through the Longmont business district, listening with interest to Tory's conversation with Py. He was hearing something in her voice that he'd not heard in a woman before. "What about your folks?" she asked. "Do you have parents who could help you?" "They're both gone," Py said, doing so in a way that made it understood that the condition was permanent. "Oh, I'm sorry," Tory said. "I understand how that is."

  Py didn't know what to do with that. "How long have you been around here?" she asked. "A little less than a year now," Py said. "I came up here on the railroad and got a job in harvest. Then I went with Mr. Walker and I been with him ever since, until yesterday."

  "You'll get something else, Py," Jake said reassuringly. Then he went right back to being a spectator, attentive to his driving.

  "I'm sure Jake's right," Tory told Py. "But first things first. Jake and me are on our way out to my place, about seven miles out north. I live there with my Dad. Jake's been staying with us and we've got plenty of room for you." Tory paused for a moment in consideration for Py's dignity. "That is, if you would like to stay with us," she said cautiously.

  Py looked at Jake, who glanced at him in a way that said the idea set well with him and that Py should accept the offer. "Yes, ma'am! I sure would!" Py said, brightened by the prospect. "I can't tell ya how much I'd appreciate it." "Well, good then," Tory said. "It's a done deal." Jake punched the gas and picked up speed as they reached the edge of town, where the blacktop stopped and the dirt roads began.

  "So tell me, Py?" Tory asked. "How old are you? If you don't mind me asking, that is."

  "Nineteen, ma'am," Py said.

  Tory grinned deliciously. "Why you're just a puppy!" she said in a way that sounded like lip-licking, which made Py blush red.

  Jake came to his rescue. "Py may be young, but don't under-estimate him – he's a stallion!" This only added to Py's fire.

  "Well, tell me about yourself," Tory said. "Your name, for instance. I don't think I've ever known anybody called Py."

  Py grinned his goofy grin. "I never known nobody else with it either. I think my Mother just made it up." "I heard of it," Jake said. "I can't think where, but I heard the name before." Py seemed to appreciate hearing that. "My Mother did baking for a cafe they had there in town and she used to tell me that she named me Py because pies was the best thing she did." "I like that," Tory said. "She used to tell me that when I was a kid. He added, reverentially, "She spelled it 'P- Y' though to make it sound more European.

  She died when I was nine."

  "What about your Dad?" Tory asked.

  "Oh, he always hired out for farm work. He got the pneumonia and died a couple years back." Py paused for a moment. "No, let me see. I'm nineteen now...and I was fourteen... That's five years now, I guess. That's when I first got on the railroad.

  Worked off and on all over Colorado, even up around Glenwood Springs." Py leaned forward so he could speak directly to Jake. "They got some big spreads up there, Jake. They hire all kinds of men." "I've been there," Jake said, maintaining his focus on the road. "So, eventually I guess you ended up in Longmont," Tory summarized. "That's right, ma'am," Py said.

  There was a moment of silence as the three of them buffeted in the front seat and as the car plowed down the road at a point where it descended into a deep canyon, carved through by a now-trickling stream that turned torrential with the spring thaw. The old weather-grayed boards of the tiny bridge at the bottom of the ravine banged loudly as Jake barreled the Dodge across and started the ascent. Jake seemed to know only one way to drive. It gave one the impression that he thought destinations floated and that a person had to move fast if flight plans were going to be of any value at all.

  As the three of them rode the wild Dodge, Tory reaching and lightly touching the dashboard, readying for the worst, Py got up enough courage to ask a leading question. "So have you always lived here?" he asked Tory. "Pretty much," she said. "I graduated from Longmont High. My Mom had a sister out in Sacramento, California, so after high school I went out there for a while. I went to business school and worked in the Bay Area for a few years as a secretary, but that wasn't for me. Then I just sort of drifted. Los Angeles, Seattle. Py looked at her, impressed. "Then I came back here when my Mom died. That was..." Tory thought for a moment. "It sounds like it was about the same time you lost your Dad. About five years ago. I came back to be with mine. I went back out to San Francisco after her funeral, but I couldn't stop thinking about my Father. So about six months ago I came back for good."

  "That's nice – having people, I mean," Py said. Tory smiled. "Yeah, it is," she said.

  CHAPTER 4 – A New World

  Jake pulled the car into the yard around the Parker house, passing by a dilapidated shed and a windrow of tall pines. A few chickens took briefly to the air to avoid the Dodge and a couple pigs grunted their complaints as they too were distracted from their morning's foraging. Py looked around at the Parker homestead, taking note of the way everything appeared weathered and gray. A picket fence surrounding the farmhouse was in massive disrepair, with slats hanging loose or, in some cases, missing altogether.

  Tumbleweeds piled high against the broken rails of an old corral. A windmill, rusted and sagging, complained in strained metallic tones as it reacted listlessly to a mild and uneven breeze, barely generating enough juice to pull water from the aquifer.

  "Well, this is home," Tory said, with a cheerfulness that seemed misplaced.

  Jake brought the car to a stop outside the picket fence. "Come on in, Py. I'll show you your room."

  The interior of the house bore a striking resemblance to the deterioration outside. Paint chipped off the walls and trim in places. The furniture was faded and threadbare and the rugs were in similar condition. Among the despair, however, there was evidence of a woman's touch. Lace curtains covered the windows, and among the dulled appointments were occasional splashes of color, mostly in the form of modest virtu: tiny boxes, vases, ceramics and decanters. And everything was clean, or as clean as it could

  be given the old house's propensity for dispensing light clouds of dust each time the walls were jarred by heavy footsteps or the opening of a door. "Here it is," Tory said, showing Py the bedroom just off the living area. "Why don't you put your things in here."

  As Py walked into the little room he was struck by its accommodating nature.

  There were hand-crafted furniture pieces, simple but nice, that gave the impression they had crossed an ocean. The walls held pictures in oval frames, the curtains were flounced, and the warped and water-stained hardwood floor was mostly covered by a heavy-weave circular rug. It was all in earthy colors, except for a dainty cut-glass chandelier that hung from the center of the ten foot ceiling. It looked every bit of an old woman's snug room. "This is great," Py said, gently placing his suitcase on the bed. He pushed on the mattress and listened to the squeak of the bedsprings beneath. "It sags a little in the middle," Tory warned, "but it isn't too bad. It was my Grandmother's bed. I've always slept real well on it." She walked over to a window, pulled up the shade and pushed up the bottom pane. "Maybe we can air it out a little for you." "This'll be fine," Py said appreciatively. "This'll just be great."

  Tory smiled. "Come on. I'll take you out back and introduce you to my dad."

  Tory, Jake and Py walked through the kitchen and out through the old screen door that opened to the backyard. Large elms shaded the area, blocking the sun and depriving the grass of needed light, causing the lawn to grow in uneven patches. Here again the surrounding picket was weathered and sagging, missing altogether at the far back where Py could see a little utility shed, and a decrepit old hay wagon with flat tires. There were a couple round corn cribs with conical tops about fifty yards from the back of the house and next to those, lying beneath an ancient elm, was a battered aluminum water tank.<
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  "Dad's out in the tank," Tory said, matter of fact. She noticed Py’s questioning look. "He comes out here every day to cool off. It's kind of like his swimming pool," she explained.

  Tory's father called out a greeting as the trio approached. "Hey honey! I was wondering where you were this morning. Who you got there?"

  "Hi Dad," Tory said, as she reached the tank. She bent over and kissed her father on the head. "I've got someone I want you to meet." She turned around and smiled at Py. "This is Py Mulvane. He's a friend of Jake's. Py, this is my father, Pete Parker."

  Old Pete, sitting in the tank, water up to his chest, reached out to shake Py’s hand. He was wearing his union suit, which was now soaking wet and hanging loose from the weight of the water. "Pete Parker," he said, smiling broadly. "Glad to meet ya." He nodded at Jake. "Jake – how you doin' this morning?"

  "Doin' fine," Jake said, smiling back.

  "Daddy, Py is going to be staying with us for a while," Tory said. "He needs a place real bad, and he could help out with chores. I thought we could put him up in Grandma's room. That's okay, isn't it?"

  Pete was wearing a week-old growth of whiskers that seemed to reach to meet his long, straggling eyebrows. The bushiness seemed to have captured his sparkling blue eyes, crooked-toothed smile and round, reddish cheeks. For a moment he looked at Py, studying him as might an inquisitive otter.

  "You do any carpentry?" he asked. "A little," Py said.

  "I guess you can paint?" Pete asked, as if anyone could, and Py shook his head, signaling he was able.

  "You know anything about cattle?" "A little," Py said.

  "He's a good hand, Pete," Jake interjected. "He'll give you a good day's work." Pete grinned. "I'll take you on recommendation."

  "Thank you, sir," Py said sincerely. "You sure got a nice place here."

  "Thanks," Pete said, standing up in the tank, water cascading from his bagging suit. "Not much left of it now, but its home. Been a lot better since Victoria come back from out west."

  "Are you getting out, Dad?" Tory asked. "Hold on a second and I'll get you a towel to dry off with," and she hurried back to the house. "Thanks, honey," Pete hollered, stepping out onto dry land. He pushed his long, straggly gray hair back off his forehead then looked up at the noon day sun. "Whew! It's gonna be blisterin' today," he said to Jake. "Did you two get us some grub? I'm hungry as a newborn on a teat."

  "We sure did," Jake said. "Victoria did the shopping. I'm not sure what it is, but she got a pretty good sack of somethin'."

  "Good," Pete said. "And she got you all set up with a room?" he asked Py, who said, "Yes sir, she sure did." "Well let's go in and get some vittles."

  * * * * *

  "You want another egg, Dad? There's a little more bacon, too," Tory said, to which Pete replied, "No thanks, honey. I'm well satisfied." "How about you, Py?" Tory asked. "Did you get enough?"

  "No thank you, ma'am. I'm fine," Py said. "Thank you, it was great." Py seemed overwhelmed by the generosity. "I don't know how I'll ever pay you back for takin' me in like this, and feeding me."

  Tory patted him on the shoulder. "We're glad to be able to help you out," she said. "I'm sure you'd do the same for us."

  "Hell, Py, gettin' a hand like you for the price of a breakfast- why that's a bargain!" Jake said. "Seems to me that you're doin' us the favor." He looked at Tory and winked. "Wouldn't you say, Victoria?" "Yes I would," she said, returning Jake's smile. "I'd say so," she said, smiling.

  Pete was still in his underwear, mostly dried by now by the heat coming off the stove and through the back door. He wiped his face and tossed the napkin onto his empty plate, then turned his attention to Py. "So Tory tells me you been working for Frank Walker," he said.

  Py nodded and glanced over at Jake. "Yes sir, that's where I met up with Jake.

  We was workin' hay for him."

  "It didn't work out too well," Jake said. "Old man Walker is trying to hold Py responsible for an accident." He then went on to detail Walker's threat to press charges against Py for what happened to Walt.

  Pete listened with interest, glancing occasionally at Py to see how he was taking Jake's recounting of events. After he'd heard the entire story he shook his head. "Frank Walker's gotten to be a bitter man," he said. "He wasn't always that way. He was a war hero, you know. He come back from the first big one with a bunch of medals. Hell, I think he even got one from the President his self – Wilson I believe it was. He parlayed that into quite a career, became a big man around here. Hell, I've known him for fifty years and he's always been all puffed up about himself, but it's only been in the last few years that he got mean – since his son died." Py looked surprised. "I didn't know he had a son," he said. "Oh yeah, a boy named Frank Junior. He was a nice kid, too, more like his mother than his old man. Frank's wife's been dead for years. Anyway, Frank always pushed that boy real hard. Pushed him into the army. Of course, the war took all the young ones anyway, so he probably would've ended up there one way or another.

  But, you know, Frank wanted him to be an officer, so he pushed him to go to West Point, got a Senator to sponsor him and the whole bit. Frank Junior didn't want to go – he weren't no soldier. Not really. He got himself killed over in France and old Frank took it real hard. I doubt he'd admit it, but I think he blames himself. He's got a chip on his shoulder and acts like he hates everybody, including me."

  "You had trouble with Frank Walker?" Py asked.

  "Anybody who’s got something Frank Walker wants has trouble with him," Pete said.

  Tory, who had been listening to the conversation while standing at the kitchen sink, doing dishes, turned around and looked at Py. "Dad's land runs right alongside Frank Walker's – and for the last few years Walker's been trying to buy it."

  "Best grazing land in the county," Pete said proudly. "Six quarters of grass, green and pretty. Water on it, too. Nice, gentle canyons with trees for shelter."

  "That's your pasture land? South of Walker Ranch?" Py asked.

  "You bet," Pete said. "All the way south to the county road and back north to eleven, and from here over one mile west."

  "To the field road, you mean?" There was a field road between dividing the properties that Py had traveled many times over the past year. "I didn't realize that was your land there," he said.

  "It sure is," Pete said. "It's all we got left of the ranch we used to have, but it's prime. I'll be dead in the ground before Frank Walker gets a hold of it." Pete leaned back in his chair and looked confidently about. "I don't expect that to happen anytime soon, 'cause I got somethin' to keep the flies away."

  Py looked puzzled. "What do ya mean?"

  "Let me get a pair of pants on and I'll show ya what I mean," Pete said.

  CHAPTER 5 – Cooksin

  At one time Pete Parker had as much good grazing land as anybody in Weld County. Crop land, too, though that was now gone, sold for cash money, which was needed to keep up with expenses. Most of the land Pete had owned was acquired through marriage, inherited from his wife's family, which had been farming and running cattle in this area for seventy years. The depression hit hard, though. The Parker family had to sell whole sections during the thirties, until finally all that was left was one large tract of land that consisted of six quarters lined up in a row across three miles. Each shared a section with property owned by Frank Walker, whose empire had grown steadily since he returned to Colorado following the first world war.

  Pete's wife had always been the brains of the family and when she died in 1942 the Parker farming and ranching operation went into a precipitous decline. Tory's return had in part been a rescue mission, for she had inherited her mother's business acumen and spirit and she seemed to be the only chance for a turnabout in the family's fortunes. By the time she arrived there was little seed money in the bank with which to start anything new. All there was to be done was the arranging and scheduling of liquidations. Her father was even behind on his taxes, so Tory's job had been to sell off just e
nough land to stabilize his finances. It was, to her mind, a book balancing act, convinced as she was that land ownership would save them in the end. She believed the inflating economy would help them pay down their outstanding balance. At least on paper they wouldn't look so poor, and they'd be able to float loans and refinance.

  Pete was un-resigned to fate, though his plans to circumvent failed to match his optimism. Just before Tory's return he had taken most of the profits from his last land sale and "invested" them in a single entity. "Here it is," Pete said grandly as he and the others reached the large fenced pen to the north side of the barn. "Here's the Pete Parker plan for financial recovery, the cornerstone to a new empire."

  Py walked up to the tall wooden fence, stepping up on the bottom rail so he could see over the top. He wrapped his arms around the uppermost cross beam, clinging to the side of the sturdy fence, the best enclosure he'd seen on the property. Its formidable size seemed to imply a special purpose, conferring great value upon whatever it was that Pete was incarcerating within its perimeter. This was the one object in the farmyard that had clearly received recent attention.

  "There it is," Pete said. "One ton of the best investment property in the country."

  Py steadied himself on the fence and looked over. His eyes widened. "Holy molasses," he drawled. "What is it?"

  Pete grinned his crooked grin, his blue eyes flashing mischievously. "Crawl on over and we'll get a look up close."

  Py looked at him suspiciously. "Is it safe?" he asked.

  Pete glanced at Jake and laughed. "He ain't spoiled no one yet – but he sure as hell could!"

  It was the biggest domestic animal Py had ever seen in his life, and one of the most beautiful. "I've never seen a bull looked anything like this one," he said, as he stepped cautiously through the lot, picking his way past the muddy spots and the heaping piles of manure, staying just a little back of Pete. "Is it an albino?"

  "It's a Charolais," Pete said. It was a breed unknown to Py, just as it had been unknown to Jake until a couple days earlier, when Pete had introduced the beast to him. The big Charolais bull had become Pete's proudest possession and showing him off to visitors was his favorite thing to do. "They come from France, originally, but the last few years they been cross-breeding 'em over in the U.K., trying to come up with bigger beef animals." Pete smiled at Py like a proud father. "Pretty, ain't he?" "He sure is," Py said.