by Elmer Kelton
Danny lifted his feet and pulled them inside. Manuel slammed the door hard. “I’m glad you came here, Danny. I’m glad I saw you again because now I can heal up a sore that’s festered in me for years.” He pointed at Charlie. “You see that old man over yonder? There was a time once I’d have killed you—or tried to. That old man kept me from it. I hated him for it at the time. Now I’m glad he did. You weren’t worth it; you’re still not worth it.” He pointed at the road. “Now git, Danny! Travel before I change my mind and don’t let you go!”
A trickle of blood ran down Danny’s neck from the point of his chin where Manuel’s fist had caught him. Fear was in his eyes. He got the engine started and backed the car out with violent speed. He jammed on the brakes, cut the wheel sharply, then stepped down hard on the accelerator. The tires squealed, spraying dust and gravel as he skidded into a turn, almost hooking an end-brace of the cattleguard.
Manuel stood sucking his torn knuckles as he watched Danny go. He had always figured someone would kill Danny someday, but now he decided no one had to. Danny would do that himself in his own good time.
Manuel turned, finally, and saw that no one was shearing goats. To a man, everyone was staring at him. He saw half a dozen broad grins, white teeth gleaming like flashlights through the dust.
He walked over to Charlie Flagg and Teofilo. The two older men were both standing in front of the stuffed mohair bag.
He said, “Danny decided not to stay.”
A little later Charlie saw a long trail of dust on the town road again. His first thought was that Danny Ortiz had regained his nerve and was coming back for more trouble, but he knew that was unlikely. Danny didn’t have to have a house fall on him to get a clear message.
Sitting on the bag with Teofilo, Charlie said, “Never saw it fail. Get busy shearin’ and there’s always company comes to drag you away from your work.”
He pushed to his feet, his bad knee hurting from the effort. He studied Teofilo, who had not tried to get up this time. “You look like you could use a drink, amigo. Me and you, we’ll sneak up to the house directly and see if Mary hasn’t hidden all the bottles.”
“The doctor lets you drink, Mister Charlie?”
“He don’t let me do anything. I do what I damn please.”
Teofilo nodded as if to say You always did.
Charlie recognized Big Emmett Rodale’s old Chrysler, puttering along at a fat man’s speed. Unhurrying, Charlie made his way through a wooden gate and limped out to meet Big as he drove up to the outside fence of the shearing pens. He turned away a moment to keep from facing the dust that fogged over him from the automobile. He worked up some saliva and tried to spit out the grit that stuck to his tongue and teeth.
The car raised up on its springs as Big laboriously crawled out from behind the wheel. “Shearin’ goats, are you?” He had known that before he left town.
Charlie put on an exaggerated frown. “Ain’t you afraid you’ll be contaminated, gettin’ this close to a bunch of workin’ men? No tellin’ what you might catch.”
Big chewed his cold cigar and gave Charlie a long appraisal. “I doubt that you’ve done much work today. Your hands are as soft as a baby’s butt. Let a man loaf around a hospital a day or two and it spoils him.”
“I bet I done more work before breakfast than you’ll do in a week.”
Big came as near grinning as he allowed himself to any more. “It’s always a pleasure to come visit you, Charlie. You make a man feel like he’s welcome.”
“Somethin’ my ol’ granddaddy taught me—always be nice to everybody, whether you want to or not. You come to count your collateral?”
Big shook his head. “If you say they’re all here, Charlie, they’re all here. Just thought I’d see how they’re shearin’.”
“We ain’t weighed any fleeces, but it looks to me like a good clip.”
“Mohair market strong as it is, it’ll fetch you a fair price.”
“Not enough to pay me out.”
“Before you’re paid out you’ll be a lot older man.”
“If I live that long.”
Big’s eyes showed sharp concern. “You feelin’ all right?”
“I ain’t fixin’ to die if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not ready yet.”
“Nobody ever is.”
Charlie cast a quick glance at Teofilo, who had never moved from his seat on the mohair bag. “And we’re never ready to let them go.”
Big followed Charlie’s glance but not his thought; he knew little about Teofilo Garcia. Charlie let the matter drop. “There’s coffee in the camp or somethin’ stronger at the house.”
Big shook his head. “You got no business drinkin’ either one, the shape you’re in. It’s bad for the heart.”
“Everything that’s happened to me in this damn drouth has been bad for my heart. I don’t see where a little coffee’ ll add much to the damage.”
Big still declined. “No coffee, Charlie. Just want to talk a little. Let’s get into my car and out of this wind.”
Charlie noticed how the car sagged to the left when Big climbed in behind the wheel. Some loose mail on the front seat slid over under Big, and he had to raise his broad rump to retrieve it. Charlie saw that one envelope had a notation requesting that it not be folded, spindled, or mutilated. How about crushed? he thought.
He asked, “Any news in town?”
“Same old six and seven. Last barber we had left this week. If you need a haircut any more you’ll have to go all the way to Angelo.”
Charlie grimaced. “The big towns get bigger and the little ones die.”
Gravely Big nodded. “Rio Seco’s a shell now; that’s all it’ll ever be. The times, Charlie. Once the people leave, they won’t ever come back. The drouth has made it go faster here, but it’s happenin’ all over the country, even where they’ve got no drouth. It’s sort of a cannibalism ... the big ones eat up the little ones. The little rancher and the little farmer are through. They’ve either got to get bigger or get out. Same thing happens to the towns.”
Charlie took off his hat and ran his sleeve over his face, trying to wipe away some of the coating of dust. “There’ll come a day when folks’ll wish it hadn’t. They’ll wake up someday and wonder what in hell to do with all them people. They’ll wish they’d found someway to keep them in the country where they belonged.”
“But they’ll never come back here, Charlie. We’ve lived through a pretty good time, me and you. Now we’re watchin’ it die.”
“The land is still here. People may leave, but the land survives.”
“It’ll never support the families again that it used to. People in the cities, they want their food cheap. They don’t want to pay what it takes to support a man on the land any more. I remember when a dryland farmer used to raise a family pretty good here on a hundred acres. Now it takes four or five hundred and he barely gets by. People in the cities feel like they got a right to keep their own pay goin’ up, but they want food to stay down where it always was. When they’ve driven the last of the little producers to the wall and it all falls into the hands of some big food combine, then they’ll have somethin’ to cry about. Pretty soon there won’t be any little ones left except the ones that have an outside job. Or the ones too old to move away.”
Charlie flinched. “Like me, you mean?”
Big shrugged. “And like me. You think at my age I could get a place in a city bank? I’m stuck here, Charlie, same as you. It’s home for us, and we ain’t got many years left. One way or another we’ll ride it out. But what about the next generation?”
Charlie shook his head. He had no answer.
Big said, “The next generation is the main thing that brought me out here.” He swung his gaze to Charlie’s-face. “You ever hear anything from that boy of yours?”
“Tom? He called a few times while I was laid up; he talked to Mary. One of his old travelin’ partners, Shorty Dunn, keeps us posted on him every so often.”
“He must be doin’ all right.”
“Seems like. Except that wife of his, that Dolly ... She filed suit awhile back for divorce. Last I heard from Shorty she was runnin’ around with some steer wrestler.”
Big grunted. “Too bad.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Probably better for Tom in the long run. There always was a lot less to her than showed on the surface. I have a feelin’ that the poor ol’ boy she’s goin’ with had better enjoy wrestlin’ steers. Once the new wears off, that’s about all the wrestlin’ he’ll get to do.”
Big picked up the bundle of mail and sorted through it. “Thought you’d want to know, I heard from Tom.” He found an envelope and passed it to Charlie. Charlie knew the handwriting. Big said, “There’s a letter inside. Go ahead and read it.”
Charlie’s hands shook as he worried the letter out. He unfolded it and held it away from him as far as he could, but his eyes were blurry. He couldn’t make out the words. “My glasses are up at the house.”
Big took the letter, shaking his head. “Damn, but you are gettin’ old. Well, what it amounts to is that he says he’s been havin’ pretty good luck on the rodeo circuit, and he got some money ahead. He sent me a check. Said he’d do it again as soon as he could, and keep on doin’ it till he got his debt squared off.”
Charlie’s mouth was dry, and he ran the tip of his tongue along his lips. He looked out the side window at the goats in the shearing pen. He said nothing.
Big said, “All them lessons you taught him, they took better than you thought they did. He didn’t stand hitched like you, but he hasn’t turned his back on an obligation, either.”
Charlie tried to speak, but nothing came. He swallowed and tried again. “He mention anything about comin’ home?”
“No, just said he’d send more money as he could.” Big looked at Charlie, then put a heavy hand on the rancher’s shoulder. “Goes to show that a man shouldn’t lose faith in his young just because they dance to a different music. They’ll do the right thing in the end, most of them, if they’ve been brought up the proper way.”
Charlie nodded. “I reckon.” He sat looking out the window, blinking. Damn dust was sure working on his eyes. Finally he asked, “Big, you remember Bess Winfield, the girl that used to work in the coffee shop? The one Tom went with?”
“I remember.”
“You have any idea where she went to?”
“No, Charlie, I don’t. Why?”
“Nothin’. Just a thought, was all.”
“If Tom wants to, he’ll find her. Some things you got to leave the young ones to work out for themselves.”
“I reckon.”
“Don’t worry about him, Charlie. You raised a good boy.”
Charlie looked toward Manuel Flores, driving some hair-goats into the shearing pen. “I raised two good boys, Big.” He studied Manuel a minute, an inspiration suddenly taking shape. He turned to stare at Big. The banker squirmed uncomfortably under Charlie’s speculative gaze.
“You got a crazy look in your eye, Charlie.”
“Not crazy atall. I was just rememberin’ somethin’ I’ve heard you say. You see that boy yonder?”
“Manuel?”
“Manuel. He’s a good solid kid, Big. And smart? A’s and B’s ... that’s all he’s ever made in school.”
“All right, so he’s smart. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I’ve heard you complain that Rio Seco is in bad need of a veterinarian. Ain’t that right?”
“Well, we do. But I still don’t see...”
“Does it need one bad enough for your bank to put a long-range investment into gettin’ him?”
Big squirmed. “I don’t know... maybe...”
“That boy yonder has wanted to be a vet ever since he was fourteen-fifteen years old. He’s got a natural aptitude in that direction like no boy you ever saw. Rio Seco may lose most of its people, but somebody’ll operate the land and have livestock on it. And where there’s livestock there’ll always be need for a vet. This town can have one of its own raisin’, Big. All you got to do is back him.”
“I don’t know, Charlie...”
“He’ll work to help put himself through; you don’t have to carry the whole load. All he needs is a chance.”
“But dammit, Charlie, he’s a Mexican.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes, so long as he’s good.”
“There’d be some people that wouldn’t want to do business with a Mexican.”
“Times are changin ’, Big. Most people are just goin’ to ask if he’s a good vet. If he is, they’ll use him. As for them others they can do without, like they’re doin’ now. He’ll be a good vet, you can bet your money on that.”
“That’s what you’re askin’ me to do, seems like, is bet my money.” Big frowned. “I’ll have to study on this some. You’re askin’ me to put a lot of faith in a Mexican boy.”
“You’ve always said you had faith in my judgment. Well, my judgment says you ought to back Manuel as far as he needs to go.” ,
Big grumbled to himself. Charlie started to go on with the argument, but Big raised his hands. “Don’t badger me; I got to think on it.”
“Think on it all you want to, but I don’t aim to let you rest till you say you’ll do it.”
“I was just thinkin’ what the sign would look like in front of his office. If it said Dr. Bill Brown or Dr. Jim Jones, that’d kind of fit. But Dr. Manuel Flores?”
“In a town with a name like Rio Seco, it’ll fit.”
Chapter Twenty
THE SMELL OF RAIN BROUGHT CHARLIE SUDDENLY awake. Rubbing one eye, he raised up to look at the luminous face of the alarm clock beside his bed. A shade past five in the morning. He heard the pat-pat of water striking the window. He swung up, his bare feet hitting the rug-covered floor.
Rain!
He had left a window partially open for fresh air, and the north wind came to him sharply cold.
The goats! Alarm hit him like an electric shock. It had been just two days since Teofilo’s crew had shorn the goats. Now they stood out in the pasture, their bodies naked to the wind and rain. Barefoot and in his long underwear, Charlie padded through the house to the front porch for a look at the weather. The sky was still dark. He couldn’t see much, but he could hear the increasing tempo of raindrops spattering against the roof and across the yard. He stepped close to the porch’s edge and felt rain strike him in the face. It was cold rain, almost sleet.
“Mary,” he shouted, “I got to do somethin’ about them goats!”
Mary came hurrying, throwing a housecoat over her shoulders. “What does it look like out here, Charlie?”
“Too dark to see much, but you can smell it. This one could be an old-timey chip-floater. I got to get them goats up to shelter.”
“Not you, Charlie; it’s too much risk. I’ll go wake up Manuel. Then we’ll do it, he and I.”
“I’m not stayin’ here, woman. Them’s my goats.”
“Our goats,” she corrected him.
Charlie dressed quickly. He was still buttoning his coat as he started running down the front steps and out toward the barn. Manuel was only a few steps behind him, fumbling with a slicker.
“Mister Charlie,” Manuel protested, “you go back to the house. That doctor would throw a fit ...”
“That doctor ain’t in the goat business!” Charlie pointed at a corral. “You go saddle the night horse. I’ll get the pickup out. We got to move the goats up here and put them in the sheds.”
Charlie prayed that the motor would turn over and start the first time he tried it. It didn’t. But the second time it began to turn sluggishly. He cursed with vigor, and it caught. He backed the pickup out, giving it plenty of gas to be sure the cold engine didn’t die.
On a sudden thought he stopped by the gas pump and filled a five-gallon can with gasoline. Worst come to worst, it might help if he built a fire. And if this rain kept coming on the way it had started, nothing
less than gasoline would start a fire on wet wood.
By the time they had loaded Wander into the trailer and headed out into the pasture where the goats were, Charlie could see a little. Daylight was coming. The rain was still not falling hard, but he started the windshield wipers. They were so old and had been used so little that the rubber was hard and brittle. They left streaks of mud that Charlie could hardly see through. He cursed and stopped while Manuel jumped out and wiped the windshield down the best he could with an empty gunnysack, partially clearing it of an old accumulation of dust that was now brown mud. Charlie followed the dim tracks of a feeding road, worn into the sod by day-in-and-day-out usage for much of the last seven years.
“Wind’s out of the north,” he observed. “We ought to find them toward the north side someplace.”
They saw the first of the goats, and Charlie braked the pickup to a stop. Hurriedly he got out and shuffled back to unfasten the boomer and chain that held the wooden gate of the home-built trailer.
“Don’t run, Mister Charlie,” Manuel advised him worriedly. “Take it easy.”
“I’m all right,” Charlie shouted. “Let’s save these goats.”
Manuel backed the horse out. Charlie unhooked the trailer and gave it a push with his shoulder. He knew he shouldn’t strain himself, but he didn’t want the trailer in his way while he drove across the pasture. “Push them hard, Manuel. Don’t ever let them stop. I’ll see how much I can do with the pickup.”
“Mister Charlie,” Manuel worried, “you watch yourself now.”
“I said I’ll be all right. You just worry about them goats!”
It would have been better, he thought, to have brought two horses. But it would have taken time to bring up a second one from the pasture, perhaps as long as it would take now to gather the goats.
The first he saw were older muttons, some of the ones he intended to sell as soon as they had grown enough hair to be marketable; nobody liked to buy goats straight out of the shearing pen because of the cold-rain hazard. The goats seemed to stand in an uncertain sort of battle formation, scattered a few feet apart, facing the wind. Charlie honked the horn to start them moving. They milled aimlessly at first, and he knew it was going to be hard to get them going south when the wind was out of the north. He kept honking the horn, and he could hear Manuel moving along behind him on the horse, shouting at others.
