Medicine Bundle

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “I’d be pleased.”

  They settled down and silently sipped the root beer for a few minutes. The music started up and they watched the celebrants move out onto the dance area. “Good band,” Silsby remarked.

  “Yes,” Mildred said. “You was a cowboy for Mr. Harknell, wasn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Silsby said. “Did you know him?”

  “Yeah. Him and my pa spoke sometimes.”

  “When he got closed down, I went up to Montana with Charlie Ainsley.”

  “Where’s Montana? Up in Kansas somewheres?”

  Silsby shook his head. “It’s way, way up north. High in the mountains. They got winters you wouldn’t believe. One of the fellers working with us went crazy.”

  “Crazy?”

  “Yeah,” Silsby said, trying to sound nonchalant. “We was out on the high range all by our lonesome living in a shack.”

  “Why in the world did you do that?”

  “It’s a line shack where we watch the cattle during the snow season to make sure they don’t starve or freeze,” Silsby said. “Anyhow, we was in this shack and this feller went plumb out of his head. Me and Charlie was afraid he would kill us, so we tied him up ever’ night.”

  “That musta been awful!”

  “A man does what he’s got to,” Silsby said. “We stood it a year, then come back here. We’re thinking of heading to Texas.”

  “What’re y’all gonna do in Texas?”

  “We want to start us up the biggest cattle ranch ever,” Silsby said. “As soon as we get the money, we’re gonna do it.”

  “How’re y’all gonna get the money?”

  Silsby assumed a mysterious expression and smiled. “Oh, we got ways and plans and things.”

  “I’ll bet you do!” Mildred exclaimed. She lowered her voice. “Are y’all robbing banks and trains?”

  “I won’t say we are and I won’t say we ain’t,” Silsby said. “But when a feller is bound and determined he wants the biggest dang spread in Texas, he’d just better be ready to do what it takes to get it.”

  “Silsby McCracken!” Mildred said. “You are about the wildest feller I’ve ever knowed in my whole life!”

  “I have my fun,” Silsby said. “Say, do you want another root beer? Then we can dance some more.”

  “I’d be pleased.”

  When Silsby got up to attend to the errand, Mildred glanced over and could see some of her girlfriends with her older sister Stella, regarding her with open curiosity. She knew they couldn’t wait to get her alone.

  After another serving of refreshments, Silsby and Mildred spent the rest of the evening in each other’s company. They danced almost every dance until Charlie Ainsley walked up to them between songs. “Something’s come up, Silsby,” he said. “We got to go.”

  “What for?”

  “Business.”

  Silsby could see that Mildred was impressed. He said, “Well, I reckon we’d best get to it then.” He turned to the girl. “Me and Charlie and the boys has got to go. But we’ll be back next Saturday. Is they a dance somewheres?”

  “The next’un’s over to the Turner farm,” Mildred said. “Are you gonna be there?”

  “Will you be there?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then I’ll see you,” Silsby said. He nodded a good-bye, then walked off with Charlie to join Dennis and Tommy waiting for them with the horses just outside the lantern light.

  As the four cowboys rode off into the darkness, Mildred’s sister Stella and best friend Mary Lemmons came up and sat down beside her. Stella, frowning, demanded, “Now, Missy, you just tell me what’s going on!”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  Mary was impatient. “You know what she means! Tell us what you been talking about with Silsby McCracken.”

  “We just been talking.”

  Stella’s frown increased. “Silsby McCracken is a bad’un, Mildred. He’s as wild as wild can be and his type ain’t good for no nice girl.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Mildred asked. “He ain’t my beau.”

  Mary giggled. “You two’ve been sitting here staring into each other’s eyes.”

  “We ain’t!”

  Stella stood up. “If you start keeping comp’ny with the likes of Silsby McCracken, I’m gonna tell Pa. He’ll see to it that you don’t come to none of these dances for a good long spell.”

  “You just tell him anything you want.”

  “Mind my words, Missy!” Stella said. She treated Mildred to a final glare before walking off.

  Mary grabbed Mildred’s arm. “Now you can tell me what you and Silsby McCracken has been talking about.”

  “He just wanted to know if I’d be at the dance over to the Turner’s farm next Saturday.”

  “He’s sweet on you, ain’t he?”

  “I think so,” Mildred said. She suddenly smiled and sighed. “Mary, ain’t he the most handsomest boy? And such nice blue eyes too!”

  “You’d best be careful, Mildred!”

  “Maybe so,” Mildred said. “But he’s the boy I’m gonna marry.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  After what seemed endless and countless days, the spring planting that had gone from sun-to-sun was mercifully finished. The seedlings now lay under the dark prairie soil, completely at the mercy of the elements. Sunlight and moisture that came and went with nature’s fickle whims would determine the fate of the year’s crops. The farmers now had to keep watch over the young plants to protect them from encroaching weeds, hungry birds and scavenging rodents. This was the time of year the near helpless sodbusters became particularly religious, putting their most fervent hopes and trust in the Almighty as they prayed for an abundant harvest.

  ~*~

  The fieldwork had been short that day, and the afternoon sun was still high in the warm, cloud-streaked sky when Grant Hollings brought the mule back to the barn. After pushing and pummeling the animal into its stall, he walked across the farmyard, stopping by the well to pump out a bucketful of the clear, delicious water. A deep drink followed by a vigorous splashing on his face refreshed his energy somewhat. He walked into the house and found it empty.

  His mood darkened in one instant. He’d hoped for something to eat, and was angry to discover that Rebecca was not at home. Grant knew his wife must have taken Sammy over to her parents for another visit. He’d hoped since she was now expecting another child, the walks to the McCracken place would be curtailed. His anger eased after a few moments as he realized he should have told her in the morning he would be finishing up earlier than usual.

  Grant went to the cupboard and knelt down to fetch his whiskey bottle before remembering he’d finished it off a couple of evenings before. He decided to take advantage of the afternoon’s freedom by going into Medicine Bundle for a few hours of conversation and imbibing at the El Dorado Saloon.

  He went outside, returning to the well for a superficial wash with soap and water. With the brief grooming taken care of, he returned to the barn to saddle the horse he had recently purchased. With that done, he headed out of the farmyard, turning down the road toward town.

  The ride was pleasant in the warm spring sunlight, and he slipped into a thoughtful mood. He really couldn’t complain no matter how much he hated farming. Last year had been quite profitable under Luther’s management. Not only had they been able to salt a few hundred dollars away, he was able to indulge himself by buying the spirited gelding and some good horse furniture. He had missed riding since leaving the army, and a pounding gallop around the countryside was pure enjoyment after weeks of plowing and planting.

  A half-hour later he cantered down Medicine Bundle’s Main Street until reigning up in front of the saloon. Grant dismounted and went inside, needing a strong, relaxing jolt of whiskey. Only two other people stood at the bar when he walked up for service. The bartender, knowing his wants, poured a glass of bourbon and set it down in front of him. “You’re starting early today, ain’t you, Gr
ant?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, taking a sip of the liquor. “I finished my work and the wife was off visiting her folks, so I decided to come into town for a holiday.” He took another drink. “Well, a short holiday anyway.”

  “I cain’t blame you none for that,” the bartender said. “I could sure as hell use one myself.” He pointed toward a table at the back of the room. “The free lunch is still out. Help yourself.”

  “Say!” Grant said. “I’m hungry all right. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  He went to the table and made himself a roast beef sandwich, augmenting it with a large pickle. He took the impromptu meal back to the bar and ordered a fresh glass of bourbon. He ate and sipped slowly, passing the time in small talk with the bartender as the afternoon began to drift by.

  Town ordinances kept the El Dorado Saloon from featuring gambling such as roulette, faro, chuck-a-luck or other house-sponsored games of chance. However, the local law had nothing against private poker games. The only money the saloon made from the card playing came from the drinks ordered by the participants. A few of the locals were devoted to checkers, making the atmosphere of the place similar to a gentleman’s social club. An absence of saloon gals was also evident in the establishment, though a painting of a female circus trapeze artist attired in bodice and tights hung over the bar. All this decorum was augmented by a policy of intolerance toward rowdy customers. A boisterous drunkard knew that if he wanted to raise hell, it was best to do his celebrating over in Kensaw.

  As the day wound down, the regulars began showing up. Most were businessmen, but now and then a farmer came in for a few snorts, conversation, and maybe a card or checker game. Grant stuck to his post at the bar where he could greet friends and exchange a few words about local goings-on.

  After a few hours, the lanterns were lit as dusk settled over the town. Grant wasn’t drunk, but he could feel the pleasant effects of the alcohol he’d been steadily sipping. He went over to fix himself another sandwich. He circulated a bit around the barroom as he ate, watching a couple of checker players battle it out over a scarred, battered board. When he swallowed the last bite of the sandwich, he went back to the bar for another bourbon.

  Grant returned to his slow drinking and casual conversation with other saloon regulars. Later, the sound of several horses could be heard coming to a stop outside. The deep voices of the riders exchanging comments grew louder until the batwing door flew open and a half dozen soldiers came in.

  The sergeant-in-charge said, “Now have a few beers, boys, and behave yourselves. If they’s any trouble, this’ll be the last time I’ll allow you to make saloon call while you’re under my command.”

  “Don’t worry, Sarge,” one young trooper assured him as they bellied up to the bar.

  Grant looked closely at them, figuring they were from Fort Sill or Fort Supply. He gazed at the familiar blue wool uniforms with a genuine fondness. The smells of the government-issue wool material mixed in with male sweat and the smoke of cook fires were poignant reminders of his own soldiering days. Grant felt like a raw rube standing there in his heavy boots and farmer clothing. He called over to the bartender, “A round on me for the Army.”

  The sergeant turned and smiled. “We thank the gentleman.”

  Grant glanced at the insignia on the man’s hat. “The Third Cavalry! Hell, I was in the Third back in the eighties in Arizona.”

  “Was you now?” the sergeant said. “You must’ve been one of the boys that went up agin the Apaches.”

  “Yeah,” Grant said. “The Mexicans too. I was with the patrol when Captain Crawford was killed over at Amargo Basin. I don’t suppose you ever heard of that action.”

  “Oh, sure!” the sergeant said. “They’s some old soljers in the reg’ment that’ve talked about it.”

  “I suppose a few of those fellows would still be serving,” Grant remarked. He was anxious to talk about his army days. “Anyhow, some Mexican irregulars jumped us for some reason while we were tailing Apaches. They used to do that a lot because they resented us Gringos in that part of the country. We gave it back to them though. Their commander and five men were killed.”

  “I even know one of the fellers that was in that partic’lar fight,” the sergeant said. “O’Leary is his name. He’s our regimental sergeant major.”

  “Bill O’Leary?”

  “Yeah,” the sergeant said. “I guess you knew him, huh?”

  “He was a corporal at the time,” Grant said. “I haven’t seen him for years. I went to Fort Gibson in the Indian Territory after that.”

  “Fort Gibson? Excuse me, was you an officer?”

  “Not in the Third,” Grant explained. “I took the examinations for a commission.”

  “I thought so if you went to a brunette outfit.”

  “Yeah,” Grant said. “Sometimes I wish I had stayed a sergeant. Being an officer didn’t pan out the way I’d hoped. I resigned my commission and got into farming.”

  The sergeant smiled and laid a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “A feller that gets his lieutenant’s rank through the examinations don’t always go far in the Army, does he?”

  “No, he certainly doesn’t,” Grant said. He signaled to the bartender. “Keep those soldiers in beer and put it on my account.”

  A loud, collective expression of gratitude was given by the cavalrymen. When their sergeant explained that Grant had served in their regiment, the young soldiers raised their mugs in salute.

  “Where are you fellows posted?” Grant asked.

  “Out at Fort Supply,” the sergeant said. “We been dealing with folks trying to stop trains and force the railroad companies to make their particular towns reg’lar depots.”

  “When they opened up this country, everyone went crazy,” Grant said. “That’s how I ended up here. I was patrolling the Medicine Bundle Grasslands. As a matter of fact, I even met my wife here. Her father settled on a place close by. After I left the Army, I bought the farm next to his.”

  “I could never leave the service,” the sergeant said. “I got so much into the Army and the Army has got so much into me, I couldn’t take a discharge now.”

  “Believe me. I understand.”

  The sergeant went on, “I joined up ’cause I was having a hell of a time making it on the outside. Now I’m glad I had to. I been in ten years now, and I’ll stick out another twenty for my pension. I love this man’s army. I’ll tell you that straight out. I’d miss it too much to leave.”

  “I miss it now and then,” Grant said. Then he snorted a sardonic laugh. “Hell! I miss it all the time.”

  The sergeant raised his beer mug. “To the United States Army!”

  “The United States Army!”

  “I thought about the examinations too,” the sergeant said. “But, y’know, I ain’t got the polish or manners to be an officer. And I ain’t got a hell of a lot of schooling. Anyhow, I like the rough-and-tumble barracks life.”

  “Yeah,” Grant said. “It’s a real man’s world.”

  One of the young soldiers interjected, “Tell us what it was like in Arizona when the Apaches was raising hell. That was before our time.”

  Grant began relating incidents and experiences. Before long he was in the midst of the soldiers as the bartender continued to shove mugs of beer at them. He exchanged old jokes, barracks room stories, and tales of fighting Indians and Mexicans with the troopers. The evening eased into one of good fellowship. By the time the soldiers had to leave to return to their bivouac, Grant was so drunk he had to hang on to the bar.

  “Are you sure you want another, Grant?” the bartender asked.

  “I guess not,” Grant replied in a slurred voice. He felt wonderful. It was almost like he was a trooper again out on the town for a good time. “I think I’ll just go back to the barracks.” He laughed. “I mean home. I’m going home. I don’t go back to barracks anymore.” He belched and saluted. “But sometimes I wish I did.” He belched again. “G’night.”

  �
��Good night,” the bartender said.

  “Left, face!” Grant said, executing the movement. “For’d, harch!”

  He staggered across the saloon to the batwing doors, pushing against them. The flimsy portals gave way and he stumbled forward, colliding with one of the posts on the overhang above the boardwalk. It took him a moment to recover, then he found his way to his horse. After a couple of deep breaths, he struggled his way up into the saddle and allowed the animal to find its own way down the street that led out of town.

  Grant and his mount continued on their way down the country road. After a bit of time passed, Grant’s face suddenly collided with a wall of dirt. He shook his head in dismay and tried to orient himself. Then he realized he had fallen off his horse. He grabbed the saddle horn and worked for several moments before he could pull himself back into the seat. Breathing hard, he once again allowed the gelding to continue on its way home.

  Some more time passed and Grant felt himself slipping to the side. He tried to hang on, but there was nothing to grasp. He continued to fall, unable to do anything about it, and once more he lay in the road. “You godamn horse!” Grant snarled. “You bucked me off, you son of a bitch! You godamn civilian horse!” He struggled to his feet. “An army horse wouldn’t have done ‘at. An army horse is a well-trained, obedient, spirited aminal.” He chuckled. “I mean animal. A spirited animal!”

  He clutched at the saddle once more. The horse began walking as Grant tried to pull himself aboard. He never managed to mount up again, and fifteen minutes later, he and the gelding entered the farmyard as he continued to struggle to get a foot into the stirrup.

  “Grant!”

  Rebecca’s voice came from the house. He looked over at the door and could see her standing in the lantern light. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he said. “Just as soon’s I mount my horse.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked, walking out to him.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he informed her. “I have been there and I have returned from there. Matter of fact here I am.”