Charley put his face in his hands. He had no idea what he’d do if he went back to Oklahoma. Ruby was married, and she and Dempsey were gone, living in Kansas. His brother Brad and his sister-in-law Bessie were there. Maybe Beulah would like to bunk with them for a while after she got out of the hospital, until she got better. But he wasn’t about to mention that thought to Lulu.
“You could get by robbin’ banks if you had a good partner,” Lulu said. “A partner who’s smart and could make a plan.”
“George Birdwell,” Charley said, remembering the cowboy from Oklahoma. “He’d make a good partner. We robbed the same bank at the same time, once.”
“Go find him, then,” Lulu said. “That car needs to sit in a garage for a few months. I’ll get you a different car.”
“So who’s Edward?” Charley asked, again.
“Aw, let up!” Lulu said—but she smiled when she said it.
22
When Bob Birdwell saw the car coming up the lane toward their stock pens, she grabbed the shotgun out of the pantry, and shooed the kids into the storm cellar. It was tornado weather, dark clouds boiling out of the southwest sky—the kids would have to go to the storm cellar pretty soon anyway, even if she didn’t have to shoot the fellow in the car.
“Ma, there’s black widow spiders in the storm cellar,” Little George complained. Little George never had been able to tolerate bugs of any kind.
“So what, you’re bigger than they are,” Bob told him. “Step on ’em and squish ’em.”
“Ma, they ain’t on the floor, they’re on the ceiling,” Little George pleaded. “I can’t squish ’em. What if one falls on my head and bites me?”
“You’ll die, then,” Laura Bell, his sister, said unsentimentally. Laura Bell was the spitting image of her mama, skinny as a twig, and just as cute. “Black widows are poison,” she added.
“I’m poison too, when younguns don’t mind,” Bob said. “If you ain’t down in that cellar in ten seconds, I’ll have Daddy get out the razor strop when he comes home.”
That threat rarely failed. The kids took off for the storm cellar carrying Baby Jessie, who was yelling her head off.
The car came around the stock pens, and stopped. Bob gave some thought to the possibility that it might be a cattle buyer, coming to see the eighteen yearlings that would soon be for sale. Maybe he got wind of the yearlings, and came out to make a bid.
The minute the tall fellow stepped out of the car, Bob recognized him: it was Pretty Boy Floyd. George had given her a full description. He had also told her repeatedly that Charley Floyd was a mighty good fellow, but Bob kept the shotgun cocked anyway. George Birdwell trusted everybody in the world, and it was sure to be his downfall someday, in Bob’s view. She herself trusted no one, except Baby Jessie, who was too young yet to lie. Little George, on the other hand, came out with a lie a minute, although he was not quite five.
One of the roan yearlings was sniffing at the headlight of the car, which Mr. Floyd—if that was him—didn’t appreciate.
“Git!” he yelled.
Bob walked out to the back gate, shotgun at the ready.
“That yearling don’t understand English,” she said. “He only understands stick. Whack him on the snoot, and he’ll quit slobberin’ on your car, mister.”
Charley saw a fair-skinned, freckled woman with light brown hair cut like a boy’s, pointing a shotgun at him. The woman was so skinny he could practically count her ribs through her dress. Though her dress was pretty, she wore big clodhopper shoes with the laces dangling loose. George had assured Charley that Bob, his wife, was the most beautiful woman in Oklahoma, which was a lie. Nonetheless, there was something about Bob Birdwell that appealed to Charley on sight.
“I don’t have a stick,” Charley pointed out.
“You should have come armed,” Bob said. “Yearlings in this part of the country don’t speak English.”
“If George was home, he might not demand you point that shotgun at me,” Charley said, a winning grin spread wide on his face. He had not moved any closer to the gate.
“George is seldom home, and even if he was, he don’t tell me where to point my shotgun,” Bob said. “I’ll point it at anybody I don’t trust. I don’t know you, so I don’t trust you.”
“I came to see George,” Charley informed her. “I’m Charley Floyd.” “That’s right, the fella who meddled on the Earlsboro job,” Bob said. “That’s reason enough to shoot you right there. I don’t like meddlin’ from strangers, and neither does George.”
“Ma’am, it was pure accident,” Charley said. “We just walked into the same bank at the same time. It wouldn’t happen again in a hundred years.”
“Not if I shoot you, it won’t,” Bob said. “Maybe you’d be interested in buyin’ some of our yearlings.”
“Let me make a proposition,” Charley said, smiling. He was liking Bob Birdwell more and more. She was different, that was for sure. He couldn’t help but think that Ruby would like her, too.
“A what?” Bob asked.
“A suggestion,” Charley explained. “Shoot the yearlings, and I’ll buy you.”
“That’s a thought,” Bob said, cocking her head sideways—she liked the big boy’s style.
To his surprise, she pointed the shotgun up in the air, and fired both barrels. It was an old twelve-gauge, and the kick knocked her back a step or two.
“Them crows was out of range, if that’s what you’re shootin’ at,” Charley informed her. He pointed to a flock of crows a mile away, flapping along in front of the gathering storm.
“Oh, I wasn’t shootin’ at nothin’ in particular,” Bob told him. “I like to fire the gun once in a while, to scare off anything mean that might be lurkin’.
“I hope you ain’t mean, Mr. Floyd,” she added. “I can’t afford to waste no more shells today.”
“Call me Charley, ma’am,” Charley said.
The wind began to whoosh hard enough that it was rocking the flivver. The clouds rolling in were dark as pitch.
“It’s looking real stormy,” Charley said. “Would you and George have a cellar, by any chance?”
“Yep, the younguns are already in it,” Bob said.
“Hope it don’t blow my car away,” Charley said.
“I’d druther it wouldn’t blow the fence down, neither,” Bob said. “Our yearlings might wander off.”
In the storm cellar, Bob smoked a skinny little cigar—Charley remembered that George Birdwell had smoked a few just like it, on the trip east after the Earlsboro job.
The three children huddled next to their mother like little possums. When Charley tried to talk to them, they looked shy, and ducked their heads.
“Where is George?” Charley asked.
“Over in Altus, rodeoin’,” Bob said. “He’s riding broncs, I ’spect.”
“If I had a cute family like this waitin’ for me, I’d give up the broncs,” Charley confided.
“Yeah, but you ain’t George,” Bob said. “George is a rake and a ramblin’ man. He shows up every now and then, whenever he decides it’d be nice if I had another baby to keep me busy. Otherwise, he’s off and gone.”
The storm blew itself out in twenty minutes, and the clouds moved on toward Missouri. It had rained hard for a few minutes; Bob’s little possum children found a mud puddle, and began to splash in it.
“Are you a drinkin’ man?” Bob asked, as she stirred up some corn-bread.
“By happenstance, I have a bottle in the car,” Charley said. “I’d be glad to share it with you, if you’d like.”
“I’d like,” Bob said.
In fact, Charley had started boozing every night, from loneliness. It turned out that Bob Birdwell frequently did too, for the same reason. She fed Charley and the kids a big supper, and then the two of them drank until the bottle was empty.
“You used to could get good moonshine ’round here, but them days are past,” Bob said. “You lookin’ for George ’cause you aim to pull a
job?”
“I never got to know George real well, but I liked him,” Charley explained. “He invited me to visit, so here I am, taking him up on it, and he ain’t even home.”
“That man would rather rodeo than eat,” Bob said. “He’s broke ever’ rib he’s got and most of his other bones, too, but he won’t stop.
“You can bunk on the couch if you like,” she said, catching Charley in a yawn.
“Don’t you have a family?” she asked, as she was spreading Charley a quilt.
“I had one a while back,” Charley said. “I don’t have them now. My wife divorced me, took my little boy, and married again.”
“Aw, that’s a shame,” Bob said. “You don’t seem so hard to get along with.”
“It wasn’t that,” Charley said. “I was in the pen almost four years. Ruby couldn’t tough it out.”
Bob looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you the cheatin’ type, Charley?” she asked.
Charley was embarrassed by the question. Bob Birdwell was an odd one. All evening, he had been wanting to ask her why she didn’t tie her shoelaces, but he never quite got the question out.
“Cheatin’ type?” Charley asked, pretending ignorance.
“I mean, do you run with whores?” Bob asked. “Nothin’ personal. I just wondered.”
“Well, I ain’t a preacher, I’ll put it that way,” Charley replied.
“George runs with whores,” Bob said, shaking her head. “I can’t break him of it.”
She looked sad when she said it—Charley didn’t know what to say.
Then she went to put her children to bed. Charley took off his shoes and lay back on the quilt. The last thing he remembered, he was thinking about Ruby’s long legs. He didn’t wake up till he heard Bob Birdwell’s coffeepot perking, early the next morning.
Bob had tiptoed in and put a blanket over him, in the night.
23
Charley got a big surprise when he walked into the little Altus hospital. Whizbang Red was sitting in the waiting room, crying, and she looked older.
“Hello,” Charley said cautiously—he was glad to see her, but he wasn’t sure she would remember him.
“Charley?” she asked, evidently not sure it was him.
For a few seconds, neither of them could think of what to say next.
“Here, sit down, pardon my manners,” Whizbang said. “My boyfriend got hurt in the rodeo—I ain’t myself.”
“Your boyfriend?” Charley said, trying not to let disappointment creep into his voice. It seemed his bad luck with women was becoming a pattern. “Your boyfriend ain’t George Birdwell, is it?” Charley asked.
Just as he said it, a frantic-looking couple burst through the door—the man, a leather-skinned roughneck, was carrying a little girl, who looked terrified.
“Where’s the doc, Sissy’s got an eraser stuck up her nose!” the woman said, frantic.
Whizbang pointed to the swinging door, and the couple kept right on going.
“I hate hospitals,” Whizbang said. “All you see is bunged-up folks.”
“Is George Birdwell your boyfriend?” Charley asked, again. He figured Whizbang had lost track of the question, as a result of the interruption.
Whizbang nodded—she was feeling tearful again.
“He’s in there right now. I’d be with him, but the doc chased me out.”
“What happened?” Charley asked.
“A bronc pitched him into the fence,” Whizbang said. “He broke his collarbone, and one of his ears kinda got knocked loose.
“I wish he’d give up the rodeo, but I don’t have much sway over him,” she added.
“I doubt anyone has much sway over George,” Charley said. He was trying to cheer Whizbang up.
“If anybody does, it sure ain’t me,” Whizbang admitted. “I didn’t know you and George was friends.”
“I barely know him, but I like him,” Charley said. “He invited me to visit, so here I am.”
George strolled through the swinging door just as he said it. Except for his bandages, he looked like he’d stepped right out of a bandbox. He had a fresh bandana around his neck, and his Stetson was perfectly creased. His boots were even shined.
“Why, Charley boy, howdy-do,” Birdwell said. He grabbed Charley’s hand with his good one, and shook it vigorously.
“Honey, is your ear okay?” Whizbang asked. “I can’t see it for all them bandages.”
“I think they sewed it back on pretty straight,” George said. “Red, this is Charley. Charley, Red.”
“We introduced ourselves,” Charley said. He thought it unnecessary to refer to their former association.
“Let’s sashay on out of here,” Birdwell suggested. “I’ve inhaled about as much of this antiseptic as I can tolerate.”
George and Red were installed in a small room at the hotel in downtown Altus. The lobby and the hallways were full of saddles and chaps, and the whole place smelled of saddle soap and ointment. Three moody-looking cowboys were sitting in the small lobby, smoking. All three of them looked as if they’d just been in a fight.
“This palace is where the rich rodeo hands stay,” George informed him, once they were in the dusty little room.
“The mattress on that bed ain’t no thicker than a steak,” he added.
“If this is for rich cowboys, where do the poor ones stay?” Charley asked. “It smells like something died in here.”
“Dern, I didn’t realize he was so finicky, Red,” George observed, with a grin. “You know the way to kill that smell?”
“I have no idea how to kill it, Mr. Birdwell,” Charley replied, holding his nose.
“The way to kill it is to get drunk—call me Bird, please,” Birdwell said. “That’s what all my friends call me.”
“A better way to kill it is to leave Altus,” Red said. “Why do we have to stay, George? Why can’t we head on back to Seminole?”
“Leave?” George asked. “Why would I leave when I still might win the bronc riding?”
“Honey, you broke your collarbone,” Red reminded him. “You can’t be riding no bronc with a broken collarbone.”
“Go wash your face, you got tear tracks,” George said. Red headed in the direction of the little sink over in the corner of the room.
“Hungry, Charley?” Bird asked.
“I could eat,” Charley admitted.
The next thing he knew, they were sawing at tough Oklahoma beefsteaks in a joint called the Dew Drop Inn. The place was filled with cowboys and whores.
“This steak is so raw, I can hear it mooin’,” Charley complained.
“The rodeo’s in town, bud,” George said. “They don’t have time to do no well-done cookin’.”
“Where’d you two meet up?” Charley asked, meaning Birdwell and Red.
“Waurika,” Whizbang said. “Some bulls were draggin’ me in. Bird walked up and pretended he was my husband, and I’ve been in love with him ever since.”
“I can see why,” Charley said. “‘Course, I’d defend you, too, if I seen some bulls slappin’ you around.”
He thought it best not to refer to his visit with Bob. For all he knew, George hadn’t even told Whizbang he was married. Whizbang Red looked sad every time she let her eyes linger on George Birdwell. Maybe she already knew her dream was a hopeless one.
Charley felt sorry for Red. He thought she was in the same boat with him. He wasn’t going to get over Ruby, and Red wasn’t going to get over George.
As for George Birdwell, the notion of getting over someone didn’t apply—he had no intention of doing without anybody. A little fiddle band struck up “Red River Valley,” and Bird immediately yanked Red out of her chair, and headed for the dance floor.
“I can’t stand dawdlin’ over food, when I can be kicking up my heels,” Bird said.
Charley sat and watched, wishing Ruby was there. Ruby loved to dance. So did Beulah, for that matter. He wondered if Bob Birdwell was much of a dancer. She would have to tie her
shoes if she got on a dance floor; if she didn’t step on her own shoelaces, somebody else would.
Birdwell insisted that Charley take a turn on the dance floor with Red. He was glad to, although his own stepping was a little rusty. But the place was so full of cowboys and whores, he couldn’t dance two steps in a straight line if he’d wanted to.
While they were dancing, Charley got blue. The blue spells were coming more and more often now, and he would just sort of lose his energy when they hit. He’d be driving down the road, and all of a sudden get so blue he would have to pull over. Sometimes, even putting his foot on the brake took more energy than he had.
Red was no moron; Charley’s mood got so heavy, he could hardly pick up his feet.
“What’s wrong, hon?” Red asked. “You look like you ain’t got a friend in the world.”
“Do you ever get the feelin’ that you’ve made one too many mistakes?” Charley asked her.
“Had it all my life,” Whizbang replied. “So far, it ain’t stopped me from makin’ more, though.”
“Meaning George?” Charley asked.
“George is just George,” Red said, glancing across the crowded dance floor to catch a glimpse of the man she loved.
“I can’t help lovin’ him, Charley,” she added. “I can’t help lovin’ him, though I know he won’t be true.”
Charley was relieved when the number ended.
“Ever rodeo, Charley?” Birdwell asked, when Charley brought Red back to her seat.
“Rode the milk cow once, that’s the extent of it,” Charley told him.
“You oughta try it sometime,” Bird said, with a grin. “If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll break your collarbone, too.”
24
“We could rob that nice little bank over in Enid, and drive off smooth,” Birdwell told Charley.
“How do you know we could drive off smooth?” Charley asked. They were back in the dusty hotel room with the bad smell. Whizbang was sound asleep—when she was awake, she looked older; but when she slept, she had the look of a little girl.
“‘Cause I know the sheriff over in Enid,” Birdwell informed him. “He visits his girlfriend regular, and his girlfriend lives six miles out of town.”
Pretty Boy Floyd Page 18
