by Elmer Kelton
The west wind was whistling through the mesquites with a breath bitter and icy, and it was a long way from spring.
Charlie heard the rattle of Lupe’s blue pickup before it came around and the live-oak trees and into view, an empty horse-trailer bouncing behind it. For a moment he did not believe what he saw. He shouted involuntarily. He pushed to his feet and hopped to the edge of the road, a happy grin breaking across his cold-purpled face despite the pain in his leg.
Lupe braked the pickup to a fast stop and jumped out, his eyes wide with concern. “You hurt bad, Mister Charlie?”
Charlie was so glad to see him he pumped his hand. “Not now, but I was by way of givin’ up. You and this old pickup are the prettiest damn things I’ve seen all day.”
Lupe took Charlie’s arm around his shoulder and gave him support. “I got the heater goin’. Pretty soon now you get warm.”
Charlie hobbled the few steps with Lupe’s help and grabbed onto the door handle. He glanced at the trailer. Lupe said, “I brought Manuel and his horse. I let him out at the gate, and I told him, ‘You go see if you find Mister Charlie his brown horse, else he tear up a good saddle.’ ”
Lupe raised the pickup seat and lifted out a bundle wrapped in a gunny sack. It was a half-empty bottle of whiskey. “This,” he said, handing it to Charlie, “I keep here just for sometime like now.”
Charlie had long suspected it, but he had never seen Lupe with a bottle. What little Lupe had ever drunk had not been enough to impair him in his work. Under the circumstances Charlie had no inclination to reprimand him. Next chance he got he would buy Lupe another bottle. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of this for the cold days, a survival kit under the seat of his own pickup.
He slid in, careful not to bump the injured ankle against the door. The warmth of the noisy old heater brought one shivering spasm of chills to him, then he began warming. He took a long pull on the bottle and handed it back. “Lupe, you’re worth a million dollars. Only, don’t ever ask me for it.”
“Mister Charlie, you look like you catch the double pneumonia. We better get you to bed.”
“I’ll make it now. I ain’t nobody’s baby.”
“That’s what the trouble is: it is too long since you was a baby.”
Charlie grumbled, “You know what it is that makes a man get old? It’s people tellin’ him so all the time till he gets to believin’ it.” He thought of José. “That wetback kid ... he got in all right, did he?”
Lupe nodded and started the pickup moving. In low gear it sounded like a coffee grinder. He made a wide circle, heedlessly smashing down the winter-brittle brush, and bounced back into the road, heading toward the house. “Yep, Mister Charlie. Without that boy, I don’t know where to look for you.”
Charlie frowned. “He’s got an apology comin’ to him. I wouldn’t of given a plugged nickel for the chance that he would go in.”
“He’s one pretty sick boy. Rosa, she’s make him take a hot bath, then she’s move Candelario and Juan and Manuel out of their room and put that boy in it. He has the double pneumonia, I think.”
Lupe had had double pneumonia himself once, fifteen years ago. Now when someone came up with a runny nose, he immediately predicted double pneumonia. It was a thing he had personally come to grips with, and learned to respect.
“Did you call a doctor?”
Lupe shook his head. “This boy, he is a wetback. Maybe the doctor, he tells the chotas.”
“I’ll call Doc Fancher. He’s higher than a sycamore tree, but he minds his own business.”
“You think he would come out here for a wetback?”
“He’s a doctor. He reads symptoms, not pedigrees.”
Lupe drove Charlie up to the main house. Getting out first, he hurried around the pickup and gave Charlie help up the steps. Mary’s eyes showed anxiety for a moment, but she quickly covered it up. Holding the screen door open, she said with just a touch of sarcasm, “Fell off, did you?” She didn’t believe in giving a man sympathy; it went to his head.
“Throwed off. Throwed off, woman. There’s a difference.”
“Fell off. A man your age tryin’ to rope a coyote like some twelve-year-old button ... you should have fallen off.”
“I caught him, though. Damn horse ... when I can get to it I’m goin’ to sell him to a buyer for a soap factory, and I’m goin’ to buy me a whole case of that soap, and then I’m goin’ to ...” He ran out of steam. He didn’t know what he was going to do, except sit down as soon as he could. He demanded of Mary, “You been over to Rosa’s to see about that boy?”
“I went. He’s pretty sick.”
“We better call the doctor, then. Lupe, help me to the phone.”
Charlie leaned his shoulder against the wall and turned the crank. “Hello, Central?” he yelled. “Get me Doc Fancher.” A long pause. “Is Doc Fancher there? ... Sure, I want to talk to him. Why else would I of called? ... Well, tell him he can eat supper later. I ain’t had mine either.” Another long pause. “Doc, Charlie Flagg. We got a sick boy out here, and I want you to come to see after him ... No, I can’t bring him in ... Why? Because the Immigration would fine me so much I couldn’t pay your damned exorbitant fee, that’s why ... Yeah, he’s one of them, but if it hadn’t of been for him you’d probably have to treat me for the double pneumonia.” He started to hang up but added: “And while you’re out here I’ll let you look at my ankle. I got it sprained ... No, I won’t tell you how; that’s my business. You just get your lard butt out here!”
He hung up the receiver and gave the crank a short twist. “One thing I learned a long time ago about them city people ... you got to talk to them in language they understand.”
The doctor was a short, chunky man built something like banker Rodale, for comfort rather than speed. In a grave voice he could prescribe sugared water for a hypochondriac, then hint that it might be well if the patient settled all his bills quickly, “just in case.” There was a streak of mean in him. He rubbed Charlie’s swollen foot firmly while Charlie went three shades of white. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” said the doctor.
“I didn’t have to pay you to find that out,” Charlie answered tightly.
“But you will. You know I missed supper on account of your little cowboy stunt.”
Charlie glowered at him through half-closed eyes. “I been wonderin’ who the third one was. Now I know.”
“The third what?”
“That sign at the edge of town, the one that tells about the three old cranks. I figured me and Big Emmett was two. It’s bothered me a right smart tryin’ to decide who the third one was. Now I won’t have to worry about it any more.”
The doctor’s sensitive fingers explored the ankle while Charlie muttered under his breath and twisted one of Mary’s fancy doilies to the point of ruin. “I don’t suppose I could get you to come to town for an X ray?” Charlie shook his head, and the doctor said, “I didn’t think I could. I’m sure you didn’t do any lasting damage except to your pride, and you’ve got an excess of that anyway. You keep your weight off of that foot after I wrap it.”
“I got a ranch to run. I can’t stay off of this foot.”
Fancher said, “It’s always been a mystery to me why people will go to great expense to get a doctor’s advice, then ignore it.”
Charlie’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean, great expense?”
“You’ll know when you get my bill.”
The doctor stayed for supper; Mary wouldn’t have it any other way. Now that Charlie was over his chill he found he was ravenously hungry. “What about that Mexican boy, Doc?”
“I gave him a shot of penicillin and left some medicine with Mrs. Flores. Maybe she’ll give it to him and maybe she won’t. You know how Mexicans are. If he doesn’t come along, call me and I’ll be back.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Charlie frowned awhile in silence, busying himself eating his supper, even a few turnip greens. “I’d as soon you didn’t mention this to anybody. After what that
boy done for me, I’d hate to see the chotas pick him up.”
“I have a territorial agreement with the border patrol. I don’t look for wetbacks and they don’t practice medicine.”
Rosa Flores shushed her playing children. “Don’t you remember there’s a sick man in yonder?” She sniffed suspiciously at the bottle of pink medicine the doctor had left. Facing Lupe, she shook her head with disapproval. “It doesn’t smell as if it had any life in it.” She had switched to Spanish now, for this was a thing that did not concern the children. They understood Spanish perfectly, of course, but when Rosa spoke in Spanish to Lupe it was a sign that it was none of their business. They quieted down so they could hear better.
Lupe held the bottle under his nose, unimpressed. “What is it?”
“Sulfa-something, the doctor said. Supposed to help break the fever. But the way to break a fever is to burn it out; everybody knows that. Bring me the bottle of whiskey you keep hidden under the seat of the pickup.”
Lupe blinked. “Shame, woman, to accuse me so.”
“I do not accuse you; I simply know it is there. Bring it.
Lupe shrugged and wondered why, of all the women in the world, it befell his lot to marry one so crafty. She was a good wife in most of the marriage arts, but a man did not always want a wife to know so much. It seemed to him sometimes that Charlie Flagg had the same kind of trouble. Why they, of all men? He walked out to fetch the whiskey.
On the butane stove Rosa was brewing a strong cup of tea. When its color was dark enough to suit her, she poured a healthy portion into the cup, considered, and added a little more. She held the bottle up to the light, noting that it was not far from empty.
“It has been a long winter,” Lupe shrugged, turning away to roll a brown-paper cigarette and avoiding her prying eyes.
In the boys’ room, seventeen-year-old Anita Flores stood by the wall, staring in curiosity at the young man who lay on the bed, his face and beard dark against the white pillowcase and sheet. Sweat glistened on his forehead.
Anita looked up as her mother came in with the tea. “I don’t think he’s really asleep,” she whispered. “His eyes are closed, but he is restless and keeps turning.”
“All right, you go on about your business.” Rosa shook the boy’s shoulder. “Can you raise up?”
He opened his eyes and blinked, his gaze finally fastening on her. “I think so,” he said, and pushed up on his elbow.
“Drink this.” Rosa held the cup to his lips. He took a long swallow and coughed violently. Rosa held the cup until he became settled again, then once more put it to his lips. “Drink it all now. It will do you much good.” She watched the boy struggle to force it down. “Men,” she said loudly enough that Lupe could hear her in the other room. “When it is for fun they will drink like a fish. But when it is for their own good they fight it.”
The cup empty, José Rivera sank back onto the pillow. Anita Flores stepped up with a damp cloth and touched it carefully to his brow, pity in her dark eyes. “Mama, is the doctor sure he’s going to be all right?”
“Nothing is ever sure except debt and death. But he should be all right when he sweats the fever away. We’ll put on more blankets.”
“He’s very young, isn’t he?”
Rosa’s brow furrowed. She took the damp cloth from her daughter. “And he is a mojado, too, remember that.” She pointed to the door. “You go make down pallets on the living-room floor so the boys can get to sleep.”
Anita stood with her hands behind her back and stared at the boy. “I wonder what he will look like with all those whiskers shaved away?”
“He will still look like a mojado. Go on, do what I tell you.”
The girl stopped at the door and looked back. “I’ll bet he is handsome.”
If there was anything good to be said for a duster, it was that once the storm was over the land seemed reborn. Perhaps it was only the contrast, but the sand-scoured air smelled clean, with almost a rain-washed freshness, when the dust had settled. One welcomed the calming of the wind as a soldier welcomes the stilling of the guns.
Crutch under his arm, Charlie hobbled onto the screened front porch. The winter sharpness was gone today; the sun’s warmth was gentle and kind to a man’s nagging rheumatism. He called to Mary, “Sure is a pretty day. Makes me want to go back to work.”
She came out to look critically at him, and across the still yard. “Well, you’re not going to. It won’t break Lupe’s back to struggle along without you another day or two. There’s no school today, and he’s got Manuel to help him.”
Charlie grumbled. “What if I didn’t have Lupe? I’d have to work.”
“The point is, you do have him. If you feel like you have to work, you can help me pick the rocks out of some beans.”
He let his voice go sour. “And hold your knittin’ for you, I suppose?” He turned and moved past her, back into the house, swinging along and cursing this unwieldy, galling, devilish crutch. He had hated crutches since the time he had broken his left leg. The doctor had told him later he would not have so much of a limp today if he had not put the crutches away too soon. Charlie found his closet door ajar and used the end of the crutch to push it wide open. Leaning his shoulder against the jamb, he began poking through the clothes. The crutch slid to the floor with a bang.
Mary demanded, “What’re you looking for? I’ll get it for you if you’ll stop tearing everything up.”
“Lookin’ for the cane I used to have in this closet. I’ve had me a gutful of that crutch.”
“Just the same, you’ll stay on it. You know what Doc Fancher said.”
“That quack? What does he know?”
She bent and picked up the crutch. “Enough that people pay him for his advice. When was the last time anybody paid you for yours?” She pushed the crutch at him. “Here!”
Charlie muttered, but he took it. Mary firmly closed the closet door, punctuating the end of an argument that had not properly even started.
He said, “Anybody was to drop in, they’d get the idea you think I’m a ten-year-old boy.”
She nodded stiffly. “Yes, they might.”
Charlie turned away on the crutch. Anybody ever marries one of them squareheaded Dutch women, he’d better figure on catching hell. He bumped across the living-room floor and picked up his grease-spotted hat.
She said, “I told you, Charlie, I don’t think you ought to go out.”
“I heard you.” He put the hat on his head and pulled it down firmly. He slipped his khaki jacket on and had a hand on the doorknob when he turned to ask, “You been over and talked to Rosa this mornin’?”
“I was there.”
“How’s the patient?”
“He was up and around the house all day yesterday, working on leather for the boys. While ago I saw him go to the barn.”
“Good. I need to talk to him. Soon’s he looks fit to travel, I’ll slip him a little money and help him be on his way.”
Mary frowned. “Charlie ... ?” Her voice was softer. “Do you have to? I mean, with that game ankle you could use some help. Lupe and Rosa are kind of taken with this boy.”
“He’s a wetback. Border patrol ever hears about him, they’ll grab him up. Best favor we can do him is to send him north. Once he gets above San Angelo he’s got a chance.”
“It seems a shame. But I reckon you’ll do what you think is best.”
I always do, he thought, once I get out of this house. “I don’t make the laws. I wisht sometimes I could.”
He started across the yard, cursing the clumsy crutch. A little black dog that Candelario had brought home from school came trotting out from the barn to meet him. It wagged its tail so hard it seemed to lift up its hind quarters in the effort. Charlie had seen Arkansas-type oak-motte hogs that appeared to be all head; this dog seemed all tail. “Ándele, perro,” Charlie growled. “Git out of the way.” But the dog stayed with him, its tail striking his crutch. As a sheepman, Charlie’s first impulse w
as to dislike the dog; any dog was a potential sheep killer if it ever got the taste of blood. But this nondescript black pup had attached itself to Charlie with a blind affection that hadn’t been asked for. Charlie was stuck with it, like it or not. “Bueno, bueno, don’t knock the crutch out from under me!” The dog ran ahead, then wheeled back and barked happily, tail jerking its whole body. “Silly mutt,” Charlie said, “I can’t run with you.”
Candelario popped his head out the barn door, then disappeared back inside. Charlie heard him say, “Está bueno. Es el patrón.” (“It’s all right. It’s the boss.”)
Candelario and José sat spraddle-legged on the wooden floor of the saddle shed, long leather straps spread out before them. José was using a set of leather-stamping tools Tom Flagg had once begged for until Charlie bought them. Tom had soon wearied of leather work, as he wearied of almost anything he could not do on horseback.
“Qué tál?” Charlie said. “Como está?”
“Okay,” the young man grinned self-consciously. “Much okay.” He reverted to Spanish. “Candelario is teaching me English.”
Candelario pointed happily, “José is making something pretty out of my old bridle. Just looky there, Mister Charlie.”
José was putting a flower design on a plain leather headstall Charlie had bought once for Candelario. It was as neat a job as Charlie had ever seen in a professional saddle shop. “That is good. How did you learn?”
“One must learn something if one is not to be a cowboy all his life. But I found a saddlemaker can become hungry too, when no one can buy a saddle. I went back to being a cowboy.”
“Bad luck.”
“No /e importa,” José shrugged. “My father was a cowboy. A man is what his father was. If his father was poor, he will be poor. It has always been so. He has little chance to get away unless he can become a politician and steal. I have not the head for politics.”
