by Brian Gore
A Pair of Second Chances
B.K. Gore
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are the product of the imagination of a fevered brain. They are used fictitiously and are not to be taken or construed as reality. Any resemblance to actual events, incidents, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is tee totally, coincidental.
Published by B.K. Gore
Copyright 2011 B.K. Gore
License Notes
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
A Pair of Second Chances
Chapter 1
The rough, staccato, snoring rattled through the dilapidated, one room cabin, at times choking to a halt for so long a time, you’d get the idea he’d died in his sleep.
The cowboy was sprawled across the bunk on his back. His left foot, toe poking through a hole in his dirty sock, lay atop the tattered blanket rumpled up at the foot of the bunk. His right foot, still holding its boot, sat on the floor. An empty whiskey bottle lay discarded on its side, inches from the fingertips of the hand it had fallen out of. The cowboy's arm, dangled off the bunk from the drunken body that carried it around. His grizzled face sported three days of scraggly beard.
The grubby, not young, cowboy was still laying abed, mumbling drunkenly, as the rising sun sent its first beams through the pane of glass in the window… a pane as grubby as the rest of the cabin.
“Shoot! God Damn it! SHOOT!” His sudden shout, cut off the mumbling and lifted the old fella off his sheets. With a snorting, choking gasp, the man woke with a start, his eyes staring, panic stricken wide, at the ceiling…
For a second he held his breath, until recognition of his surroundings crawled through the drunken fog in his brain. He closed his eyes… and slowly his body, arched away from the dirty sheets, relaxed, the held breath, slowly sliding out of his lungs… ending with a shudder… and almost… the hint of a sob.
Rolling over on his side the cowboy pushed himself upright on his bunk with his right hand. The room reeled around him as he rubbed his face with his left and leaned over to pick up the empty bottle for a ‘morning eye-opener’.
“Shit! Empty.” as he tossed the bottle aside to roll across the floor of the small room, and stop at the log wall.
After pulling back on the one boot he’d managed to dislodge, and gaining a firm grip on the corner of the footboard of the rusty, old, iron bed, he hauled himself to unsteady feet and shuffled across the room to the woodstove in the corner…
Opening the iron door he threw in a couple chunks of stove wood, on top of a few crumpled pages from a month old Billings Gazette, and lit it with a small bic lighter from his pocket.
He cranked the handle on the old fashioned pump bolted down beside the sink that was set into a log slab, varnished to serve as a kitchen counter. After he'd pumped water into the battered, blackened, once-enameled, coffee pot… and thrown in a handful of coffee, he banged it back onto the equally battered woodstove.
While the water heated, he rustled through one of the produce boxes, nailed to the wall for cabinets, and found a pint Old Crow bottle with one swallow left… which quickly disappeared.
The amber elixir caused an involuntary smacking of his lips, and brought a faint smile to his weathered face. Eye-opener now complete, he set about frying up some bacon and eggs on the battered old woodstove.
As the food sizzled in the pan he reached over and flicked the switch on the little, battery powered CD player his daughter had given him, the last time she tried to talk him into leaving the rawhide remnants of his ranch. Soon, the soothing voices of David Carradine and Tom Selleck, singing Cowboy Lullaby, from his favorite Monte Walsh soundtrack CD, were serenading him, amidst the aroma of frying bacon, stale whiskey, and dirty socks…
His faint smile widened into a grin… He was home… and all was right with the world.
After the breakfast dishes were scraped and cleaned, as much as anything in that cabin ever got cleaned, the cowboy clapped his stained, once silver belly felt hat on his head to walk out to the small, ramshackle barn to do morning chores…
Only a couple saddle horses were kept on his ‘home’ place. The rest, something better than two dozen head, mostly mares, not counting their colts, were left out on grass. Made little sense to him to feed ‘em; “Not when there’s a whole mountain of grass they’ll never get to. Hell, I’ll never get to puttin’ a saddle on most of ‘em anyway” he’d say with a grin, to anyone that asked.
With the two horses he kept up close fed, he climbed into the battered green Ford pickup, fired up the near ancient motor, and rolled out of the yard, headed for town.
“Booze, Bolts, Beans an’ Bankers A.H.!” he called out the window, to the big, non-descript, faintly shepherd looking mutt lying on the porch of the cabin. “I’ll be back when I get here. Anybody tries to steal any of these treasures… you help ‘em load up!”
The engine coughed when he mashed down on the accelerator, spewed a cloud of blue smoke and spun the tires. With rocks and gravel flying, the man fishtailed that old truck down the ranch road, five miles to the graded county road. It was another four miles east, to hwy 78.
From there, he drove 15 miles into the town of Columbus, Montana. Not a big place, but it still contained every thing he needed. The first stop was at the liquor store. First building on the south as he entered town, he picked up a couple of pints of Old Crow and three fifths of Johnny Walker. Of course, when he got back to the truck an obligatory ‘test’ was required to make sure the liquor was indeed the stuff advertised on the label. Two strong pulls verified its authenticity. Yes sir! Gen-yoo-ine, unadulterated, high grade, bust head! The pints of Old Crow, he accepted at face value. Next on his routine, came the grocery store for a sack of dry beans, flour, eggs, sugar, coffee, bacon, four large steaks and a couple sacks of ice.
“Ben? Don’t you have any cows left on that rat hole of a ranch? Why in hell is a cowman buyin’ beef?” the middle aged cashier wanted to know.
“Sure Emma… I got cows… and a few steers too… but since the power company cut the juice to the place… It’s kind of hard to keep a freezer runnin’.” Ben Jensen grinned back at her. “I can’t eat it fast enough to keep i
t from spoilin’… Maybe you should come on out… we can ‘work up an appetite’… and then you can help me eat one of those cows?” he teased the cashier.
“Yeah, right, I’m sure my husband wouldn’t mind me takin’ up with a fine western gentleman like yourself! And why would they turn off the power to such a respectable gentleman like you anyway?” Emma asked as she totaled up his groceries on her register.
“Well girl… the man said something about; they don’t get paid and the power gets shut off… I told him they had oughta give the fella who thought up that idea a raise. I’d like a deal like that myself. He looked kind of confused and wanted to know, what the hell I was talkin’ about! So I told him… Well sir! I work all year, and then get to pay the bank for the privilege!”
Emma allowed with a hearty laugh, as how she and hers had “Been there, done that… and that’s why we both work in town now.” and sent Ben on his way with a more solemn; “Ben? You take care of yourself, you hear?”
“Sure thing Emma… as soon as I leave another pound of flesh over to the bank… seems like they’re wantin’ to get paid again!” he called back to her as he went out the door.
That old green truck smoked and belched its way, halfway down the block to the next stop at the NAPA parts house.
Jensen hollered as he pushed through the glass door; “Abernathy! You rusty Ol’ pervert! Get off your old lady an’ get out here to help a man damn you!”
Bob Abernathy and Carol his wife, blushing and pushing at her hair with her hands came out of the office, behind the counter.
“Benjamin Jensen! You’re awful!” she blushed.
“Ha Ha! Caught you again, didn’t I?” Ben laughed. “Six kids ain’t enough for you two? What are you tryin’ to do, double the population of Montana all by yourselves?”
“Hell no” Bob retorted. “I don’t have to pay overtime to family. I figure to staff this whole store, and maybe one up in Billings with my home bred line of Abernathy Drones” he continued with a laugh. “What are you needing today Ben?”
“I’ll tell you Bob, that ol’ wore out Ford is near done in… and I ain’t got the dinero to rebuild the motor just now… ‘sides… that would triple the value of the truck! You got anything that a fella could just dump in the damn thing to help seal up the rings, so I could maybe squeeze a few more miles out of her?”
“I do… its… just… over… here…” Abernathy replied as he stretched to reach for a can, up on a high shelf that tested his altitude challenged frame.
“You know Bob” Ben teased; “Maybe you an’ Carol should look into artificial insemination.”
“Huh? What the hell are you talkin’ about? A.I.? For what? I’ve never had any sort of a problem” the NAPA man sputtered.
“Well, I was just thinkin’, seeing you had to stretch so hard to reach that can… If you went for A.I.; You could get semen from some ol’ bull that was, say, six foot tall or so… and breed them Drones of yours to be able to reach the shelves!” Ben explained.
“Aw you crazy bastard! You had me goin’!” Abernathy turned and called back into the office; “Carol! Come back out here an’ listen to what this rancher thinks about our ‘Breeding Program’ ”
“I will not! I heard it all from right here! You tell that pervert to go play with his cows!” Carol called to them both from her desk in the office.
Ben laid his payment on the counter, noted that he’d have to add a few bills to the ‘roll’ in his wallet, to make it visible, made his ‘adios ‘till next times’ and stepped back outside.
Just outside the door, he stood for a few moments, looking across the street at the Cattlemen’s bank. His gaze moved to the toes of his boots, and back to the Bank. With a deep breath, and a resigned sigh, Ben dropped the can of ‘miracle engine restorer elixir’ in the bed of his rattle trap truck, parked at the curb, as he passed, and walked slowly across the street, into the quiet confines of the bank lobby.
Just inside the door he hesitated, reticent to walk into what he knew was coming. He watched the two tellers waiting on customers at their windows for a few seconds, screwing up his will, to endure whatever his ordeal would be. Linus McClaren, the Bank President had been his Banker for thirty years. They were more than Banker and customer, they were friends. Hell, they hunted together. That meant little these days. Used to be that Linus made a decision and that was the way it was… now-a-days… a board of directors had the final say. Linus still had some power, but it was shrinking.
Ben was about to turn back toward the office where he knew the axe was likely to fall today, when the booming voice of Linus McClaren filled the lobby. “Ben! Come on in! Thank you for coming in to talk to me. He ushered the rancher into his office and closed the door.
“How are you Ben? We’ve had a good summer. Plenty of rain. Grass doing OK up on your range Ben?”
“Cut the crap Linus. You don’t send me a… letter… asking me to come and talk to you… ‘less there’s some sort of problem. Hell, in thirty years of doin’ business with you, I don’t remember, a letter from you, ever. Cut to the chase old friend. What’s goin’ on?” Ben asked him, short and blunt.
“Ahem… yes… uh… Ben… You know… uh…”
Ben cut him off; “Quit all the damn stutterin’ Linus… spill it. I’m a big boy… Ain’t worn short pants in as long as… either of us… can remember… so talk.”
“Ben. I tried. I did everything I could.” He paused for a long time. The look on his face told the story. He had to tell his old friend, things he would have given just about anything, to not have to say.
“Ben, the Board decided… they refused to extend your loan. Not at least without full payment this year. They won’t allow you to make a partial. They won’t extend any more financing on your place…. Ben … there were words… uh… they’re concerned about your… uh… there are a couple members who think you drink too much Ben.”
“I drink what I want, Linus. It ain’t none of their damn business.” Ben snapped back.
“Ben, they see it as a, concern. They feel it is a factor in the… uh… the management, of your ranch. They believe it impairs your operation and it makes them nervous… Damn Ben!... Look at yourself! You came to town and didn’t even shave! Jesus Ben! What in hell are you doin’ to yourself? She’s been gone three years man. You have to let it go! You’ve got to move on, or you’ll lose that ranch… and I won’t be able to help you.” The Bank President spoke in almost a pleading tone.
“Yeah, well, I’ll think about that Linus… I’ll think about it.” Ben replied as he rose and reached for the door. “How long have I got?”
“I can hold ‘em off till the first part of October, but you need to find Seventy-five grand or they'll foreclose on you Ben… They’ll do it… and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it.”
“October huh? Well that gives me what, six weeks to make more than I’ve managed in the last two seasons… That shouldn’t be too hard! Guess I better get at it” and Ben Jensen turned from the banker and started out the door.
“Ben” Linus called softly.
“Yeah Linus, what now?”
“Uh Ben, Bill Peabody said you haven’t been to see him… in a while… are you OK?”
“I don’t appreciate that son-of-a-bitch quack talkin’ ‘bout me behind my back!” snapped Ben.
“He didn’t Ben… I asked him… we’re all worried about you Ben… you’re drinkin’ way too much… you’ve got that… uh… look Ben, everybody knows what you did… what you went through… how you’ve fought through it… and we all saw what losing Ellen did to you… We’re here Ben… I swear we are… but, we can’t help you friend, unless you… accept the help. We can’t force you to take care of your self God Damn it!”
“Yup. That’s just what I was thinkin’ I needed. A God Damn nurse maid.” Ben turned toward the door but turned back; “Linus how long have we been doin’ business?”
“Must be thirty years Ben… I made you your first loan, to buy o
ut your Father on that ranch, the summer you came home from the army… long time.”
“Yeah, long time… and in all that time Linus, through all the… dark times… Has this bank ever lost a nickel with me?... one, stinkin’ nickel, Linus?”
The Cowboy and the Banker locked eyes for a few seconds… No words necessary… and then the Cowboy, stomped out of the Bank.
Back in the sunlight on the sidewalk he cursed all the “God Damn busy bodies won’t leave a man be!” and strode across the street, back to his worn out old truck, parked in front of the NAPA store.
The bowlegged cowboy climbed onto the seat, put his hands on the wheel and just stared through the windshield. The face of Ellen, his wife, floated across the glass, her hand extended to him…
He clamped his eyes shut, trying to shut out the vision… close out the pain… and all that did was open up the space for the sounds of screaming, dying men. The Cowboys head sagged, his forehead pressing against the steering wheel… a low moan, almost a sob, escaping his chest… “God please… please… “he softly pleaded… until the darkness faded from his eyes… his heart stopped pounding in his chest… and the pain receded… until the next time.
Ben sat there, in his truck, leaning on the steering wheel for several more minutes, allowing calm to return… then slowly, he pushed up straight, taking a deep breath and looking around to see if any of the local busybodies had observed his… spell… knowing if they had, the word would run from one end of the town to the other before he was half way back to his ranch. “God Damn townies… Didn’t they have anything better to do than ride his ass?”
The truck started, one more time in a cloud of blue smoke. “Shit! Forgot the damn treatment.” He cursed. Leaving the engine running, he climbed back out, retrieved the can of “Engine Restorer” from the bed and raised the hood to pour the goo into the smoking motor. It only took a few seconds to empty the small can. With a toss he flipped the now empty can into the bed, climbed back into the cab and proceeded to smoke and rattle out of town… heading back to the peace and respite of his ranch.
