Medicine Bundle

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “It seems I’m better at learning and doing things since I left home,” Silsby commented.

  “That’s the way of life sometimes,” Charlie observed. “When a feller gets away and out on his own, he just natural does a first rate job.”

  Silsby almost blushed with pleasure. “Y’all’re good fellers to work with. I learnt me plenty.”

  “Well, now!” Charlie said. “Kensaw’s waiting. Let’s give these irons another hour to cool.”

  “Wouldn’t they cool faster if you poured water over ’em?” Silsby asked.

  “It’d warp ’em,” Charlie explained. “No telling what kind of design they’d give you when you pressed them into a calf’s hide.”

  “We got other things to do right now anyhow,” Dennis said. “Such as breaking camp.”

  They set about rerolling their bedrolls and packing the gear. The next chore was to scour the pots and pans with gritty dirt before rinsing them off with water. By the time that was done, Charlie checked the irons. After a happy announcement they were cold, he slipped them into their leather pouch and tied it onto his saddle.

  Laughing and whooping, the quartet mounted up and headed west toward the delights offered in Kensaw.

  ~*~

  Silsby was disappointed in the town. He expected a place like Clarkville. Instead, Kensaw consisted of no more than a half dozen cheap frame buildings. Not a one had a sign that told what sort of business it contained. A couple of houses, one of which was a soddy that leaned to one side, were the only residences visible.

  The cowboys reined up in front of a long, narrow building. After pulling off their saddlebags, they went inside. Silsby followed, noting it was a store of sorts. A thin, bald man leaned on the counter and waved at them as they swaggered into his establishment. “Howdy, boys. Say, you look like you been working hard out there.”

  “We sure have, Joe,” Charlie said. He pointed to Silsby. “That’s Silsby McCracken, a new hand. Silsby, this is Joe Dantry.”

  “Howdy, Silsby, glad to know you,” Dantry said. He gave them a studied look and sniffed the air. “Not only do y’all look like you been working hard, you smell like it too. I reckon you boys will be wanting a bath, hey?”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said. “Even them whores at Pete’s want you to be clean.”

  “Well,” Joe said, “sort of clean anyhow.”

  Silsby looked at the merchandise on display behind the counter. “Do you have any spurs for sale, sir?”

  “I can dig some up,” Dantry said. “They ain’t new though.”

  “Wait a minute,” Charlie interrupted. “You can worry about spurs tomorrow, Silsby. We got other things to do right now.”

  “I’ll lay out towels and soap after I heat up some water,” Dantry said. “Go on back and wait.”

  Thoughts of a fun night ahead bucked up the cowboys’ spirits even more. When the tubs were filled and steaming, they stripped down and climbed in, laughing and splashing. As they bathed themselves, the three cowpokes shared a bottle of whiskey that Dantry fetched for them from the saloon next door. Silsby, busy scrubbing himself, turned down the offers of liquor. Charlie, Tommy and Dennis, glad to have that much more for themselves, began passing the bottle back and forth.

  The cowboys hollered good-natured wisecracks at each other about the battering they were going to give the whores that night. “Fat Dora’s gonna be begging for mercy when I start riding her,” Dennis crowed.

  “Shit!” Tommy yelled back. “She ain’t even gonna know you got that little prick of yours stuck in her. She’ll prob’ly give you your money back.”

  “She sure as hell will,” Dennis retorted, “on account of how much I pleasured her.”

  “Y’all shut up!” Charlie snapped, “and pass that whiskey bottle this-a-way.”

  Silsby, who knew about sex and procreation as well as any farm boy, recognized what his companions were joking about, but he couldn’t quite put their remarks into any context that he could understand. Husbands and wives shared a bed and when they wanted another baby the man fucked the woman. When they didn’t want no more kids, Silsby figured, they stopped fucking. He kept his thoughts to himself as they continued to soak away the range odors and dirt they’d brought with them.

  A half hour later, after changing into fresh, clean clothing, the four young men went outside to the horses and stuffed their soiled duds into the saddlebags. “We’re gonna be here ‘til the morning,” Charlie explained to Silsby. “We’ll leave the horses down to the livery barn and get them a good feed of oats.”

  “Where are we gonna camp out?” Silsby asked.

  “On the floor of Pete Baker’s saloon,” Charlie replied, laughing.

  Silsby, still not exactly sure of the upcoming activities, followed after his older friends.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pete Baker’s saloon in Kensaw was an ineptly-built frame structure that seemed more like a gigantic wooden crate than a building. During construction, Pete hired a couple of out-of-work muleskinners to help him out with the project. The saloonkeeper and his temporary employees nipped regularly from bottles of rye whiskey to keep up the energy and enthusiasm necessary for the job. Consequently, by the time the trio was putting on the roof they were staggering and reeling so badly they were barely able to use their tools.

  When one of the hired men fell from the roof and broke his arm, the victim thought it hilarious as did his work mates. The task paused long enough for a crude splint to be applied to the injured limb, and after a few more fortifying gulps of liquor the ill-organized project continued.

  The final chore of the construction was to chink the spaces between the boards with mud. The thoroughly intoxicated crew took care of this task by scooping up handfuls of the goo, and throwing it at the building in a haphazard manner.

  The results of this inefficient method were corrected that following winter when the persistent buffeting of frigid winds coming in through the cracks almost froze the drinkers inside. Late the next afternoon while it was still light, the patrons gathered together while still sober enough to rectify the construction deficiency. They took buckets of boiling water, sloshing them on the ground to soften up the frozen dirt in the saloon yard. As soon as the earth had turned to mud, it was pushed and pounded into the openings between the slats by hand. The warmth of the slimy goop felt good to the impromptu crew in the winter temperature.

  With that done, everyone trooped inside to get drunk in relative comfort that evening. Pete was so grateful for the donated labor that the first round was on the house.

  ~*~

  Daylight was fading to dusk when Charlie Ainsley, Silsby McCracken, Dennis Nettles, and Tommy Chatsworth marched into Pete Baker’s saloon. Everyone — with the exception of Silsby — was slightly drunk from the bottle consumed during the baths. But all were fresh-scrubbed and ready for some cowboy recreation.

  The place was empty except for Pete who was playing a solitary game of rotation at the bar’s pool table. Charlie waved to him. “Pete! They’s four thirsty fellers here!”

  Pete Baker was short and squat with a badly-trimmed moustache drooping limply under a bulbous nose. A deep scar ran across his forehead, and he claimed he got it when a Sioux warrior attempted to scalp him while he was scouting for General Custer. Nobody believed the story, but it was interesting enough to be repeated as if it were true. Consequently, Pete had a dubious reputation as an Indian fighter. In truth, he was much more a saloon brawler, and always wore an Adams dragoon revolver strapped to his side along with an old sock filled with sand. This latter instrument was useful in dealing rapidly and efficiently with unruly customers.

  Pete took time to sink a seven-ball before laying down the cue and looking over at his customers. “The other Rocking H boys was in here night before last. They said as how y’all was out doing some branding.” He walked over to a bar that was no more than a couple of two-by-twelve planks lay across three empty whiskey barrels.

  Charlie nudged Silsby. “Pete, th
is here is a new hand by the name of Silsby McCracken.”

  “Howdy,” Pete said.

  “Howdy,” Silsby replied.

  “He’s ready for his first drink in Kensaw,” Charlie said.

  Pete studied Silsby’s youthful features. “It looks like this might be his first drink anywhere.”

  “Aw, no!” Charlie said. He nudged Silsby again. “You’ve had whiskey before, ain’t you?”

  “Only a couple of times,” Silsby said. He shrugged and assumed what he hoped would be a nonchalant expression. “Cain’t say that I really cared that much for it. That’s how come I didn’t want nothing from that bottle y’all had at the store.”

  “You just never gave likker a chance before,” Charlie said. “You got to have more’n just a drink now and again.”

  “I ain’t gonna charge for this first’un,” Pete said. Then he quickly added, “For Silsby, not you jaspers.” He poured them each a generous shot. “You experienced drunks is got to pay for yours.”

  The cowboys picked up their glasses and tipped back their heads to down the whiskey in quick swallows. Silsby followed their example. His eyes watered as the burning liquid went down his throat. For one frantic moment he felt it start back up, but his stomach settled itself. “This ain’t bad a’tall,” Silsby said hoarsely.

  “We call it Panther Piss,” Dennis said with a grin.

  “This first round is on me,” Charlie said, laying some money down on the bar.

  “Ain’t you generous?” Tommy said. “You don’t have to pay for Silsby’s drink.”

  “A smart man makes the right move at the right time,” Charlie said triumphantly. “That’s why I’m a foreman and y’all are working for me.”

  Dennis snorted. “Yeah? Well anybody drawing a foreman’s pay ought to buy all night.”

  Pete interjected, “Why don’t y’all chip in on a jug so’s I don’t have to stand here and pour?”

  “We’ll do that,” Charlie said.

  The cowboys, Silsby included, contributed two bits each. When the money was slid across the bar to Pete, he produced a clay container of rye whiskey.

  “Where’s the girls?” Tommy asked, looking around.

  “They’ll be in later,” Pete said. “They figgered they needed a rest after the other boys off’n the Rocking H damn near poked ’em to death.”

  “Well, they’ ain’t gonna rest tonight,” Charlie said. “They’s four randy cowboys here.” He treated Silsby to another nudge. “You feel the need for a poke, don’t you?”

  Silsby, nursing a second whiskey, felt a stab of embarrassment. “I’m saving my money for spurs. And a gun. A holster too. A feller really needs them things, so I reckon I’ll wait.”

  “Suit yourself,” Charlie said.

  “A cowboy has to dally a saloon gal on payday,” Dennis said. “It’s like a law.”

  “I reckon I’m a real law-abiding citizen then,” Tommy said with a loud guffaw.

  “Well, I really got to get that stuff I need,” Silsby said defensively. “If’n I don’t, I won’t be ready for the drive up to Wichita.” He quickly downed the drink and sputtered.

  “Slow down a little now,” Charlie advised him. “We’ll make ourselves feel good, then go over to the cafe for something to eat.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said. “Then we’ll come back and really start having fun.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” Silsby said.

  Pete left them and went back to finish his solitary pool game. The cowboys, pacing their drinking now, settled into a murmur of conversation. The collective mood was one of happy anticipation. They would soon be indulging in all the sex and liquor they wanted for the next few hours.

  These were young men without young women, living in an isolated bucolic environment where they endured long periods of deprivation. Most of their work was done out on the open range where no diversions or physical comforts broke the long stretches of the dangerous, difficult toil. When they had a rare opportunity to enjoy themselves, they blew their pay in hollering, drunken, brawling, whoring binges. Those who had been in the life several years, knew those brief times of debauchery had to be drawn out as long as possible.

  Charlie poured the last drink from the jug. “Let’s get something in our bellies before this whiskey boils our brains.”

  Pete looked over at them while cueing up a shot. “Brains? Ha!”

  “Hey!” Charlie called over good naturedly. “The Rocking H is made up of thinking cowboys.”

  “Thinking or stinking?” Pete retorted.

  “Thinking!” Charlie insisted.

  “I’m thinking about poking Fat Dora and Fanny both,” Tommy said with an evil grin.

  “Yeah,” Pete said. “That’s about all the thinking y’all do.”

  “Anyhow,” Charlie said, getting back to his original statement. “I say we get something to eat.”

  “Good idee,” Dennis said. “We’ll last longer that-a-way.”

  “C’mon then,” Charlie commanded.

  Silsby felt a little dizzy when he stepped out of the saloon to go with his pards toward a small cafe a short distance away. He stumbled a couple of times as they made their way across the uneven ground. Once, when the youngster almost fell flat on his face, Charlie had to grab him as the other two cowboys laughed at the sight.

  “Silsby’s drunk!” Dennis crowed.

  “Then we’d best get him fed,” Charlie counseled.

  The cafe in Kensaw was a smaller version of the saloon. The front door had been knocked off during a brawl and the owner, an outgoing fellow called Arky Bob, saw no sense in replacing it until winter. The interior was a single fly-infested room with a cook stove and a couple of tables. An unmatched assortment of stools and chairs were available for the clients to use while dining on the establishment’s rudimentary and unhygienic cuisine.

  Arky Bob made extra money raising hogs and chickens in pens out back of his establishment, and he could offer homegrown meat and eggs to his customers. When the Rocking H cowboys walked in they found the place empty. Tommy called out loudly. “Hey! Arky Bob!”

  A voice answered from outside, yelling back, “Hold your damn horses!”

  Moments later a lanky fellow in shirtsleeves walked in. He showed them a near toothless grin. “Do I got me some hungry cowboys here?” he asked. Then cackling, he said, “Y’all don’t seem to be too drunk yet.”

  “We ain’t,” Charlie said, sitting down. “How about serving us up some grub so’s we can get back and finish the job?”

  “Who’s he?” Arky Bob asked, looking at Silsby.

  “That there is our new hand Silsby McCracken,” Dennis said.

  “Howdy, Silsby, I’m Arky Bob.”

  “Howdy, Silsby Bob. I’m Arky,” the boy replied. Then, realizing what he had said, laughed and banged his hands on the table.

  “I think Silsby is already drunk even if the rest of y’all ain’t,” Arky Bob observed.

  “Could be,” Charlie said. “What’s to eat?”

  “I got fried chicken or smoked ham,” Arky Bob said. “And there’s gravy and taters to go with either of ’em.” The cowboys gave their orders for two fried chicken dishes and two of smoked ham. “Just a minute,” Arky Bob said. “I just remembered I got a chicken I kilt yesterday and want to use up. Forget the smoked ham. Ever’body gets the same. Fried chicken. It’s either that or nothing a’tall.”

  “Why’nt you say that in the first place?” Tommy growled.

  “I want smoked ham,” Dennis complained.

  “Shut up,” Charlie said.

  Arky Bob said, “That’s gonna be fifteen cents each. Cash U.S. Yankee money, if you please. In advance.”

  “What for?” Silsby asked.

  “For the grub.”

  “I ain’t had no grub,” Silsby complained.

  “That’s right,” Arky Bob said. “I’ve had fellers eat and just get up and stagger out of here without paying. I got tired of chasing ’em down and getting in fights with ’em.
Sometimes with fists. Sometimes with knifes.” He glared at Silsby. “But I always won.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So I don’t do no cooking ‘til I get my money.”

  After the bill was settled, Arky Bob went to work with the flies buzzing around his head. He fried hunks of the chicken that had been killed the day before. As it sizzled in the skillet, he mixed up a thick, lumpy gravy, and produced some cold boiled potatoes.

  When the preparation was complete, he piled the food on the four plates, asking, “Y’all gonna eat with your knives or should I get some of my forks and spoons?”

  “We’ll use our knives,” Charlie said. “Your forks always look like they was used to scrape out mule asses.”

  “These plates ain’t much better,” Tommy observed.

  “I warsh all my stuff when I get a chance,” Arky Bob said.

  “Yeah,” Dennis said. “And you get a chance about ever’ two or three years, huh?”

  In spite of the less than sanitary conditions of the plates, the cowboys dug in. The chicken was overdone on the outside and undercooked on the inside from Arky Bob’s stove being too hot. The diners took no notice as they mashed up the potatoes and poured hot gravy over the spuds to heat them up. The greasy repast was noisily and lustily consumed.

  “Have you learnt this lesson yet?” Charlie asked Silsby.

  “What lesson?”

  “Ain’t you been paying attention?” Charlie asked testily. “Now listen. You got to learn to eat before you really start drinking. It keeps you from getting drunk so fast.”

  Dennis added, “Sometimes, if it’s gonna be a long night, it’s a good idee to stop drinking for a while and take on another load of grub even if you’ve eaten earlier.”

  “That does help,” Tommy agreed. “Then you can go back and drink even more.”

  Silsby, sobering up a bit as the thick, hot food got into his stomach, merely nodded as he continued to eat. He looked outside at the hogs and chickens, the stench from their pens wafting into the interior of the cafe. Arky Bob had gone out and was scattering feed around his flock of noisy fowls while the pigs grunted impatiently for their own food.