The Cowboy Way

by Elmer Kelton

  Talk about surprise, most of us stood there with our mouths open like we’d been hit in the head with the flat side of an ax. But not Will Peril. He must have sensed it coming on. He knew the old man better than anybody.

  “You’ve waited too long, Hardy,” he said. “Now it can’t be done.”

  “We couldn’t go across earlier,” spoke Hardy. “We’d have been cheatin’ Jimbo. No Buckelew ever started anything but what it got finished. We’re goin’ to finish this job for him.” Hardy shoved his left foot in the stirrup and started to swing into the saddle.

  Will Peril took three long strides toward him. “Listen to me, Hardy, I’m fixin’ to tell it to you straight. Jim rode off into somethin’ too big for him and knew it. He was playin’ the fool. You’ve got no call to take it up for him.”

  Hardy’s eyes blazed. If he had had a gun, I think he might have shot Will.

  “He was my boy. He was a Buckelew.” Hardy’s eyes left Will and settled on the rest of us. “How about it, you-all comin’?”

  We all just stood there.

  Hardy looked us over, one by one. We couldn’t meet his eyes. “Then stay here,” he said bitterly, pulling himself into the saddle. “I’ll do it alone!”

  Will Peril was close to him now. Will reached out and grabbed the reins. “Hardy, if you won’t stop, I’ll stop you!”

  “Let go, Will!”

  “Get down, Hardy!”

  They stared hard at each other, neither man giving ground. All of a sudden the old man swung down and waded into Will.

  Will wasn’t young, but he was younger than Hardy Buckelew. Most of us thought it would be over with in a hurry. It was, but not the way we expected. Hardy was like a wild man, something driving him as we had never seen him driven before. He took Will by storm. His fists pounded Will like mallets, the sound of them solid and hard, like the strike of an ax against a tree. Will tried, but he couldn’t stand up under that. Hardy beat him back, and back, and finally down.

  The old man stood over him, swaying as he tried for breath. His hands and face were bloody, his eyes afire. “How about it now?” he asked us again. “You comin’?” When we didn’t, he just turned and went back to his horse.

  You had to figure him crazy, the way he worked those cattle, getting them started, forcing the first of them off into the water. We stood around like snake-charmed rabbits, watching. We’d picked Will Peril up and dragged him under the wagonsheet, out of the rain. He sat on the muddy ground, shaking his head, his gaze following Hardy Buckelew.

  “You tried,” I told Will. “You can’t blame yourself for what he does now.”

  Will could see that Hardy was going to take at least a few of those cattle out into the water, with or without us. The trail boss stood up shakily.

  “You boys can do what you want to. I’ll not let him fight it alone!”

  We looked at Will, catching up his horse, then we looked at each other. In a minute we were all on horseback, following.

  It was the same as it had been the last time, the water running bankwide and strong. It was a hard fight, just to get those cattle out into the river. They were smarter than us, maybe—they didn’t want to go. I don’t really know how we did it, but we got it done. Old Hardy Buckelew took the point, and we strung them out.

  Time or two there, I saw the leaders begin to drift, and I thought it was over for Hardy the way it had been for Jim. But Hardy Buckelew was fighting, and Will Peril moved up there to help him.

  I can’t rightly say what the difference was that we made it this time, when we hadn’t the time before. Maybe it was the rest the cattle and horses had before they started across. Maybe they were tougher too, the way they had been driven. But mostly I think it was that determined old man up there ahead of us, hollering and swinging his rope and raising hell. He was crazy for going, and we were crazy for following him.

  But we made it.

  It was a cold and hungry bunch of water-soaked cowboys who threw the herd together on the north bank of the Red. We couldn’t get the chuckwagon across—didn’t even try—so we went without supper that night and slept without blankets.

  But I don’t think anybody really minded it much, once it was over. There was the knowledge that we had taken the Red’s challenge and made it across. Then too, there was the satisfaction we got out of seeing peace come into Hardy Buckelew’s face. We could tell by looking at him that he was one of us again, for the first time in a nearly a year.

  Next morning we floated the wagon over and had a chance to fill our bellies with beef and beans and hot coffee.

  At Few Lively’s fire, Hardy Buckelew looked at Will Peril and said: “From here on, Will, I’m turnin’ it back over to you. Run it the way you want to. I’m goin’ home.”

  Surprised, Will said, “Home? Why?”

  Hardy Buckelew smiled calmly. “You were right, Will, I’m too old for this foolishness. But I owed a debt for Jimbo. And I’d say that you and me—all the boys in the outfit—have paid it in full.”

  THE BURIAL OF LETTY STRAYHORN

  Greenleaf Strayhorn frowned as he rode beyond the dense liveoak motte and got his first clear look at Prosperity. The dry west wind, which had been blowing almost unbroken for a week, picked up dust from the silent streets and lifted it over the frame buildings to lose it against a cloudless blue sky. He turned toward the brown pack horse that trailed the young sorrel he was riding. His feeling of distaste deepened the wrinkles which had resulted from long years of labor in the sun.

  “Wasn’t much of a town when we left here, Letty, and I can’t see that it’s got any better. But you wanted to come back.”

  Prosperity had a courthouse square but no courthouse. Even after voting some of its horses and dogs, it had lost the county-seat election to rival Paradise Forks, a larger town which could rustle up more horses and dogs. Greenleaf hoped the dramshop was still operating. He had paused in Paradise Forks only long enough to buy a meal cooked by someone other than himself, and that had been yesterday. He was pleased to see the front door open. If the sign out front had been repainted during his twelve-year absence, he could not tell it.

  “‘Finest in liquors, wines and bitters,’” he read aloud. “‘Cold beer and billiards.’ Our kind of a place. Mine, anyway. You never was one for self-indulgence.”

  The sorrel’s ears poked forward distrustfully as a yellow dog sauntered out to inspect the procession. Greenleaf tightened his knee grip, for the young horse was still prone to regard with great suspicion such things as dogs, chickens and flying scraps of paper. It had pitched him off once already on this trip. Greenleaf was getting to an age when rodeoing was meant to be a spectator sport, not for personal participation. The dog quickly lost interest in rider and horses and angled off toward the liveoak motte to try and worry a rabbit or two.

  Greenleaf tied up the horses in front of the saloon, loosening the girth so his saddlehorse could breathe easier. He checked the pack on the brown horse and found it still snug. Seeing no others tied nearby, he knew the saloon was enjoying another in a long succession of slow days.

  He stepped up onto the board sidewalk, taking an extra-long stride to skip over a spot where two planks had been removed. Somebody had evidently fallen through in the relatively distant past. The rest of the boards were badly weathered, splintered and worn. It was only a matter of time until they, too, caused someone embarrassment, and probably skinned shins.

  The whole place looked like the tag end of a hot, dry summer. Whoever had named this town Prosperity was a terrible prophet or had a wicked sense of humor, he thought.

  A black cat lay curled in the shade near the front door. It opened one eye in response to Greenleaf’s approach, then closed the eye with minimum compromise to its rest.

  The bartender sat on a stool, his head upon his arms atop the bar. He stirred to the jingling of spurs and looked up sleepy-eyed.

  “Beer,” Greenleaf said. “A cold one if you’ve got it.”

  The man delivered it t
o him in a mug and gave him a squinting appraisal. “Ain’t your name Greenleaf Shoehorn?”

  “Strayhorn.”

  “A name like Greenleaf ain’t easily forgot. The rest of it…” He shrugged. “Didn’t you used to work on Old Man Hopkins’ place?”

  “And married his daughter Letty.”

  Memory made the bartender smile. “Anybody who ever met Letty would remember her. A mighty strong-willed woman. Where’s she at?”

  “Outside, on a horse.”

  The bartender frowned. “You’d leave her in the hot sun while you come in here for a cool drink?”

  He walked to the door. “All I see is two horses.”

  “She’s under the tarp on the packhorse, in a lard can. Her ashes, I mean.”

  The bartender’s face fell. “She’s dead?”

  “Took by a fever two weeks ago. Last thing she asked me was to bring her back here and bury her on the homeplace alongside her mama and papa. It was so far, the only way I could do it was to bring her ashes.”

  Soberly the bartender refilled the mug Greenleaf had drained.

  “Sorry about Letty. Everybody liked her. Everybody except Luther Quinton. He hated all the Hopkinses, and everybody that neighbored them.”

  “It always makes it easier when you hate the people you set out to rob. Less troublin’ on the conscience.”

  “He still owns the old Hopkins place. He may not take it kindly, you buryin’ Letty there. Asked him yet?”

  “Wasn’t figurin’ on askin’ him. Just figured on doin’ it.”

  The bartender’s attention was drawn to the front window. “If you was thinkin’ about askin’ him, this’d be the time. That’s him comin’ yonder.”

  Greenleaf carried his beer to the door, where he watched as the black cat raised up from its nap, stretched itself luxuriously, and meandered out into the windy street, crossing Quinton’s path. Quinton stopped abruptly, turning back and taking a path that led him far around the cat. It stopped in the middle of the deserted street to lick itself.

  The bartender remarked, “Superstitious, Luther is. Won’t buy anything by the dozen because he’s afraid they may throw in an extra one on him. They say he won’t even keep a mirror in his house because he’s afraid he might break it.”

  “He probably just doesn’t like to look at himself. I never liked lookin’ at him either.” Quinton had long legs and a short neck. He had always reminded Greenleaf of a frog.

  Quinton came to the door, looking back to be sure the cat had not moved. He demanded of the bartender, “How many more lives has that tomcat got? I’ve been hopin’ a wagon might run over him in the street.”

  “She ain’t a tomcat, and there ain’t enough traffic. She’s liable to live for twenty years.”

  “I’d haul her off and dump her, but I know she’d come back.”

  Quinton’s attention shifted to Greenleaf, and his eyes narrowed with recognition. “Speakin’ of comin’ back…” He pointed a thick, hairy finger. “Ain’t you the hired hand that married the Hopkins girl?”

  “Letty. Yep, I’m the one.”

  “There’s no accountin’ for some people’s judgment. Wonder she ain’t killed and scalped you before now. Has Indian blood in her, don’t she?”

  “Her mama was half Choctaw.”

  “Probably some kind of a medicine woman. That Letty laid a curse on me the day I took over the Hopkins place. Cow market went to hell. Calf crop dropped to half. Rain quit and the springs dried up. I had nothin’ but bad luck for over a year.”

  “Only a year? She must not’ve put her whole heart into it.”

  Dread was in Quinton’s eyes. “She back to cause me more misery?”

  “She died.”

  Relief washed over Quinton’s round, furrowed face like sunshine breaking through a dark cloud. He was not one to smile easily, but he ventured dangerously near. “I’m mighty sorry to hear it.” He gulped down a glass of whiskey in one long swallow. “Mighty sorry.”

  Greenleaf grunted. “I can see that.” He turned to the bartender. “Old Brother Ratliff still doin’ the preachin’?”

  The bartender nodded. “You’ll find him at the parsonage over by the church. My sympathies about Letty.”

  Greenleaf thanked him and walked out. He had not expected this to be a pleasant homecoming, and running into Luther Quinton had helped it live down to his expectations. Untying the two horses, he looked a moment at the pack on the second animal, and a catch came in his throat. He had worked his way through the darkest of his grief, but a lingering sadness still shadowed him. He wanted to fulfill his promise to Letty, then put this place behind him for once and all. His and Letty’s leavetaking from here had created a residue of memories bitter to the taste.

  Not all the fault had been Quinton’s. Letty’s father should have known he was dealing himself a busted flush when he tried farming on land where the average rainfall was only about fifteen inches a year, and half of that tended to come in one night if it came at all.

  Letty’s stubborn nature was a natural heritage from both sides of her family. She had tried to keep on farming even though her father had accomplished four crop failures in a row. He had died of a seizure in the middle of a diatribe against the bank for letting him borrow himself so deeply into the hole and refusing to let him dig the hole any deeper.

  All Quinton had done, really, was to buy the notes from the frustrated banker and foreclose on Letty. Quinton had acquired several other properties the same way. He was not a hawk that kills its prey but rather a buzzard which feeds on whatever has died a natural death.

  Greenleaf had not considered Brother Ratliff an old man when he had lived here, but like the town, the minister had aged a lot in a dozen years. Greenleaf had to knock on the door a third time before it swung inward and a tall, slightly stooped gentleman peered down at him, cocking his head a little to one side to present his best ear. From Ratliff’s gaunt appearance, Greenleaf judged that the Sunday offering plate had been coming back but little heavier than it went out.

  “May I be of service to you, friend?”

  “I’m Greenleaf Strayhorn. You may not remember, but you tied the knot for me and Letty Hopkins a long time ago.”

  The minister smiled broadly and made a gesture that invited him into the spare little house. “I do remember. Quite a beautiful bride, she was. Have you brought her with you?”

  “In a manner of speakin’, yes sir. I was wonderin’ if you’d be kind enough to say some fittin’ words over her so I can put her ashes in the ground?”

  The minister’s smile died. “The Lord calls all of us home eventually, but it would seem He has called her much too early. I hope she had a good life to compensate for its shortness.”

  “We did tolerable well. Got us a nice little ranch up north, though we wasn’t blessed with kids. She just never could shake loose from her old family homeplace. The memory of it was always there, itchin’ like a wool shirt. She wanted me to bring her back.”

  “It’s a sad thing to preach a funeral, but part of my calling is to comfort the bereaved and commend the soul to a better land. When would you want me to perform the service?”

  “Right now, if that’s not too soon.”

  The minister put on his black coat and walked with Greenleaf to the church next door. “Would you mind pulling the bell rope for me, son? The devil has afflicted my shoulder with rheumatism.”

  Afterward, Greenleaf unwrapped the pack and fetched the lard can containing all that was left in the world of Letty Strayhorn. He placed it in front of the altar. A dozen or so citizens came, curious about the reason for the bell to ring in the middle of the week. Among them was the bartender, who knew. He had removed his apron and put on a coat, though the church was oppressively warm. Its doors and windows had been kept shut because the wind would have brought in too much dust.

  The sermon was brief, for Brother Ratliff did not know all that much to say about Letty’s past, just that she had been a hard-working, God
-fearing woman who held strong opinions about right and wrong and did not easily abide compromise.

  At the end of the closing prayer he said, “Now, if any of you would like to accompany the deceased to her final resting place, you are welcome to go with us to the old Hopkins farm.”

  A loud voice boomed from the rear of the church. “No you ain’t! The place is mine, and that woman ain’t fixin’ to be buried in any ground that belongs to me!”

  The minister was first surprised, then dismayed. “Brother Quinton, surely you would not deny that good soul the right to be buried amongst her own.”

  “Good soul? A witch, I’d call her. A medicine woman, somethin’ from the Indian blood in her.”

  “She has passed on to another life. She can do you no harm now.”

  “I’m takin’ no chances. You want her buried, bury her here in town. You ain’t bringin’ her out to my place.”

  Apologetically the minister looked back to Greenleaf. “I am sorry, Brother Strayhorn. I may argue with Brother Quinton’s logic, but I cannot argue with his legal rights.”

  Greenleaf stood up and studied Quinton’s physical stature. He decided he could probably whip the man, if it came to a contest. But he would no doubt end up in jail, and he still would not be able to carry out Letty’s final wish.

  “She’s goin’ to be disappointed,” he said.

  The town cemetery was a depressing place, the site picked for convenience rather than for beauty. His sleeves rolled up, Greenleaf worked with a pair of posthole diggers that belonged to the minister. Brother Ratliff, looking too frail to help in this kind of labor, sat on a marble gravestone and watched as the hole approached three feet in depth. The length of the handles would limit Greenleaf’s digging. The bartender had come to the cemetery but had left after a few minutes to reopen the saloon lest he miss out on any thirsty customers. Or perhaps he had feared he might be called upon to lend a hand with the diggers.

  Ratliff said, “It matters not where the body lies.”

  “So the old song says,” Greenleaf responded, turning into the wind. Though its breath was warm, it felt cool against his sweaty face and passing through his partially soaked shirt. “But I feel like I’m breakin’ a promise. I never got to do everything I wanted to for Letty while she was livin’, but at least I never broke a promise to her.”