“I don’t want any cowboys getting fresh with my girl,” Powderkeg said, winking at her.
“I think I can handle any excitement that might be coming my way,” Old Bertha said, knowing full well no excitement was coming her way.
“I think Powderkeg is hoping to run into that lady pilot I told you about,” Titan whispered to Fernando. “He made a terrible first impression.”
“Hard to imagine,” Fernando said dryly.
Reluctantly, Powderkeg left with the little band of Fat Chancers heading for home.
“Fernando,” Polly said. “Let’s have it.”
“Have what?”
“Why did you decide to stay?”
“For the waters,” Fernando said.
“You’ve been misinformed,” Titan said.
Polly and Powderkeg traded a confused look. Fernando and Titan exchanged a high five, as if they were part of the brotherhood of the traveling Casablanca quoters.
“But seriously,” Titan said, “I’d like to know too.”
“Last night, while trapped . . . while sitting in my room, I found a novel on the bedside table and started reading. It was the story of a gambler in the Old West who rode around Texas challenging cowboys to poker games on payday. Cowboys had money in their pockets and were bored out of their minds. Easy pickins’,” Fernando said. “So I started thinking. If this were the eighteen hundreds, why were they coming here? What would the townspeople have had going for themselves in Fat Chance, Texas?”
From the little Polly, Powderkeg, and Titan had learned about the history of Fat Chance, there didn’t seem to be much. The town’s claim to fame was that it had been destroyed by a tornado not once, but twice.
“Nothing?” Titan volunteered.
“That’s what it looks like, right? No hot springs, no gold, no coal,” Fernando said. “But something brought people to town. I don’t know what. I’m no historian.”
“Yeah,” Powderkeg said. “We’re a little low on historians now that Professor Johnson is gone.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Fernando said, “because we don’t need to know what brought people to town, we only need to know that they came. My challenge is to find something that will bring them back.”
“And you think barbecue is going to bring people to Fat Chance?” Polly asked.
“Exactly,” Fernando said. “Once I start cooking, just let that crappy road stop them from coming to Fat Chance.”
“You seem pretty confident,” Powderkeg said.
Oh, honey. You have no idea, thought Fernando.
Old Bertha was starting to get annoyed. Finally, she saw Pappy heading toward the Covered Volkswagen. He seemed to be leading a large, shaggy dog. She frowned. She’d never been much of an animal person, and Fat Chance had far too many already, as far as she was concerned. Fancy, the buzzard, pretty much kept to the forge. Buzzards seemed to have an instinct that they were not fit company for humans, thank the Lord. Old Bertha shivered to think what Fancy did to keep herself fed, but she’d learned long ago to just not think about things that made her uncomfortable. Thud was practically the town mascot. While Old Bertha didn’t love the fact that the dog was allowed in the café, she knew she was alone. In her dreams, the inhabitants of Fat Chance would one day make something of their town—and then the health department would swoop in and make things right. Dymphna had her menagerie of goats and chickens up on the Fat Farm, but Old Bertha never found reason to get up there, so she just ignored them. Pappy’s mule, Jerry Lee, could have been the poster boy for stubborn animals. She had once called Jerry Lee “obstinate” to Pappy’s face and had to endure a lecture on the intelligence of mules. But of course, Pappy was as stubborn as Jerry Lee.
Two peas in a pod.
In the early days of Fat Chance, Old Bertha learned more about mules than she’d ever wanted to know. She’d heard that mules were sexless, but to her horror, on her first trip to Spoonerville with the Fat Chance gang, she spied Jerry Lee mounting a female mule. One of the ranch hands saw her astonishment and let her know that sexlessness in the mule world was a common misconception among city people. The truth was, the animals were male and female, they were just sterile.
And rude.
As Pappy got closer, the animal at the end of the tether didn’t appear to be any breed of dog Old Bertha had ever seen. Of course, out here, that didn’t mean anything. There were lots of weird-looking mutts running around Spoonerville and the Rolling Fork. Even the ugliest dogs were elevated to the lofty rank of “cow dog.” Old Bertha squinted into the sun. Whatever this was coming at her, it was the strangest-looking dog she’d ever seen.
Pappy arrived at her side.
“This is Elvis.” He beamed, patting the animal’s neck. “Elvis, meet Old . . . I mean, Bertha.”
“What is it?”
“A mule,” Pappy said. “A miniature mule! Isn’t he a beauty?”
“He’s awfully small.”
“I know.” Pappy stared down at Elvis. “That’s why he’s called a miniature.”
“Is he yours?” Old Bertha prayed that not another beast was headed to Fat Chance.
“No,” Pappy said. “He’s yours.”
“What am I gonna do with a miniature mule?”
“I thought he could keep you company down at the Creakside.”
“I have company down at the Creakside,” Old Bertha said. “In case you forgot, Polly, Powderkeg, and now Fernando are all paying guests! I have a full house.”
Pappy loaded Elvis into the only available space in the Covered Volkswagen, the space between the two front seats.
“You have a full house of people,” Pappy said. “That is not the same as having a miniature mule.”
Old Bertha got in on the passenger’s side. She hugged the door but could still feel the mule’s breath on her arm.
“You got me there,” she said.
Dymphna gently caressed the horse’s muzzle. She winced as she felt a gentle tug ripple up the horse’s spine.
“You are such a good horse,” she murmured to Rosie as Tino lightly coaxed the barbed wire out of her tail. “Such a brave girl.”
“Almost there, Dymphna,” she heard Tino say. “How is she doing?”
“I was just telling her what a good horse she is.”
“You’re both doing great,” Tino said. “Just keep her still a few minutes longer.”
Dymphna continued to soothe Rosie, who seemed to understand that they were there to help. Dymphna thought back to breakfast, when Titan told the story of releasing that longhorn from a tree’s branches. That poor bull was lucky that a human being was around to rescue him. And, while Rosie was lucky too, Dymphna couldn’t help but feel the farmer should have taken better care of her barbed wire. Animals were such a responsibility; you had to be accountable to them!
But then Dymphna chastised herself immediately. She’d met Rosie’s owner, Meriwether, who was an elderly widow. Perhaps the farm was getting to be too much for her. The people Dymphna had met in Texas in this last year were proud, and she knew better than to judge this woman’s choices. People like Meriwether, who held their ground, were an inspiration to Dymphna, who sometimes felt overwhelmed by her little farm back in Fat Chance.
Dymphna looked around the barn. It was definitely in need of some repair, but it was clean and well cared for. As she stroked the horse’s neck, she felt that Rosie was calming her down as much as she was calming Rosie.
She could suddenly feel the tension leave the horse and she knew without being told that Tino had completed his mission. She peeked around Rosie to see Tino holding up a tangle of barbed wire. Rosie had lost some hair from her tail, but that seemed to be the extent of the damage. As soon as the procedure was complete, Meriwether tiptoed into the stall.
“Is Rosie going to be all right?” Meriwether asked Tino in a shaky voice.
“She’ll be fine,” Tino said, as they made their way to the truck. He tossed the barbed wire into the truck bed. “But I think you ne
ed some help around here, Meriwether. This could have been a lot worse.”
Meriwether hung her head, as if being scolded by the school principal.
“I’m sure you could find a ranch hand from the Rolling Fork who needs a little extra cash,” Tino said. “Put a sign up at the Spoonerville store where everyone can see it.”
“Or maybe one of the guys from Fat Chance would want to help out,” Dymphna said, well aware that everyone in Fat Chance was always looking for a way to make a few dollars.
“That would be wonderful.” Meriwether brightened. “Everybody around these parts has heard of your little community. Do you think one of the men would like to come over and help a few times a week?”
“I can’t actually speak for any of them, but I’ll bet one of them would!” Dymphna said.
“Wonderful!” Meriwether said.
“Sounds good,” Tino added.
“Just don’t send Pappy,” Meriwether said, her voice suddenly sounding much stronger—and full of venom.
CHAPTER 11
As the Volkswagen lurched toward the turnout above Fat Chance, Old Bertha pretended she was riveted by the view out the passenger window, scenery that she saw every week on the trip back and forth to Spoonerville. She didn’t want to turn around and have to acknowledge Elvis, who was still breathing down her neck and occasionally nibbling her sweater.
What the hell am I going to do with a miniature mule? she thought.
“These mules are as easy as dogs to have around the place,” Pappy said, as if reading her mind.
Old Bertha turned to face him and was met with Elvis’s velvety muzzle.
“Awww,” Pappy said, scratching the mule’s back. “He wants a kiss.”
“I hardly know this dang mule. He’s not getting a kiss,” Old Bertha said. “I don’t know what you were thinking, Pappy. I don’t know anything about mules.”
“I can help you take care of him. He really only needs a fenced yard and some hay.”
“I doubt that,” Old Bertha said. “Has he had his shots?”
“Yep.”
“What about his hooves? Are they trimmed?”
“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about mules,” Pappy said.
“Titan has bored us all to tears with talk about hooves. I know more than I want to know.”
“His hooves are trimmed. And don’t worry about that. When the time comes, I’ll just trim him up when I do Jerry Lee’s.”
“Can I just ask you why you bought him for me in the first place?”
“I know a bunch of guys who rescue miniatures,” Pappy said. “Horses, mules, donkeys, pigs. People in the cities don’t know what they’re getting themselves into, and when the animal is full grown, even if it’s small, it’s bigger than people had in mind. Then people just want to get rid of it.”
“Somebody wanted to get rid of Elvis?” Old Bertha involuntarily reached out and patted the mule on the head. “That’s terrible.”
“It is,” Pappy agreed. “He’s from Memphis—which probably goes without saying. Anyway, when the guys heard they had a mule named Elvis, they contacted me. They thought I might like him for a companion for Jerry Lee.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
“But Jerry Lee already has a companion—me,” Pappy said. “And I’ve got Jerry Lee. It got me thinking. You don’t have a companion. It just seemed to fit.”
Old Bertha stared at Elvis. He stared back with his liquid brown eyes. He had a tuft of white hair that shot straight up between long ears that almost touched the ceiling of the VW. He prodded her with his muzzle.
When you get to be my age, she thought, I guess you don’t get to be too fussy when it comes to companionship.
“Crap!” Pappy suddenly shouted, as he pulled the VW off the road.
“What’s wrong?” Old Bertha asked as Elvis fell onto her lap.
“There’s smoke coming out the back,” Pappy said. “The damn fan belt must have broke.”
“We’re at least three miles from the turnout.”
“I know.”
Old Bertha eyed Elvis. “Can I ride him?” she asked, as she helped the miniature mule out of the bus.
“No!” Pappy said. “He has a hundred-pound weight limit. Maybe he could support someone . . . uh . . . maybe Polly or Dymphna. But definitely not you.”
Old Bertha bristled. “What exactly does that mean?”
Pappy opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
“Never mind,” she continued. “It’s getting near dark. What are we going to do?”
“Maybe we’ll have to sleep in the van,” Pappy said with a leer.
“It’s full of supplies, in case you forgot!”
“We can move everything outside.”
“Maybe somebody will come along and we can flag them down,” Old Bertha said.
“Maybe,” Pappy said. “Let’s get Elvis out there as a decoy—maybe some Good Samaritan will take pity on the poor guy. Then we’ll jump out of the bushes and say we’re with him. It’s an old hitchhiking trick.”
“I know. Cutthroat and I used to do that. I was the decoy. When someone would stop, Cutthroat’d be in the car before the driver knew what was up. Of course, that was years ago.”
“Cutthroat Clarence hitchhiking?” Pappy said. “Hard to picture.”
“It was way back in the fifties, when I was working for him in his hardware store,” Old Bertha said. “He was always broke, so his car was always breaking down. I thought it was because he was putting every penny into the business, but after he died, I found out he was saving for my engagement ring.”
“Cutthroat as romantic fool,” Pappy said. “Equally hard to picture.”
“Well, don’t strain your imagination too far,” Old Bertha said, suddenly sounding bitter. “He took the money for the ring, sold the hardware store, and bought a restaurant, leaving me without a job.”
“And with a broken heart?” Pappy asked.
“Now who’s being a romantic fool?” Old Bertha snapped. “Anyway, I can always be a decoy if you need it.”
“Thanks,” Pappy said. “But I think we’ll have better luck with Elvis.”
The little band that had walked back from Spoonerville stood in front of Cleo’s Café. Dymphna had returned from her trip with Tino to Meriwether’s farm. He’d left her at the turnout above Fat Chance, and as she walked home, she thought about the time they had spent together. She had mixed feelings about their . . . what would she call it? Helping a veterinarian take snarled barbed wire out of a horse’s tail probably wasn’t exactly a date—but this was Texas, so who knew? And Tino had asked if he could see her again.
While she was happy to help Powderkeg and Titan distribute the supplies from Jerry Lee’s pack, Dymphna couldn’t wait to see Pappy and find out exactly what Meriwether had against him.
“Looks like you bought out the whole store,” Titan said, handing four loaves of bread to Fernando.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Fernando said. “Wait until Dodge gets that list ordered. We’re going to put Fat Chance on the map. We’ll be known for miles around for barbecue and plats d’accompagnement.”
“Plats du what?” Titan asked.
“Side dishes,” Dymphna said.
“You really think that’s going to happen?” Polly asked.
“I’m going to make it happen.” Fernando grabbed three jars of hot sauce from Powderkeg. “So, listen, Powderkeg. I’m going to need a new sign. ‘Cleo’s Café’ just doesn’t sing.”
The inhabitants of Fat Chance just stared at him. Fernando was going to change Cleo’s sign? Powderkeg furrowed his brow; he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to take down Cleo’s sign, which he had designed and executed with particular care.
“You want a sign that sings?” Powderkeg asked.
“I think he means something that will grab people’s attention,” Dymphna said.
“Like what?” Powderkeg asked.
“I don’t know,” Fernan
do said. “I was leaning toward ‘Cowboy Up.’”
“Do you even know what that expression means?” Dymphna asked.
Fernando shook his head.
“That means getting back up after a disaster,” Polly said. “I think you should keep thinking.”
“Oh!” Fernando said. “It was the only saying I could think of that had the word ‘cowboy’ in it. What about ‘Cow Chips?’ Maybe have a little chipmunk on the sign?”
“Not sure that would have the crowd stampeding either,” Powderkeg said.
“Stampede?” Titan offered.
“I don’t want any negative connotations,” Fernando said.
“It’s not as negative as ‘Cow Chips,’” Powderkeg said.
“What message are you trying to get across?” Polly asked. “In the simplest terms.”
“I want to get the word out that this will be a great place for cowboys to find amazing food.”
“Then how about . . .” Dymphna took a deep breath. “ ‘Cowboy Food’?”
Fernando stared at her, blinking. “It’s perfect! It’s genius,” he said, and threw his arms around her in a big hug. “I love, love, love it!”
“If breakfast this morning is any indication, I’m sure the cowboys will be tripping all over themselves getting here,” Titan said.
The little group continued to distribute the supplies they’d brought back from Spoonerville. Jerry Lee let out a whinny that ended in a sad-sounding hee-haw.
Titan patted the mule. “What’s up, Jerry Lee? You miss your Pappy?”
“Hey,” Powderkeg said. “Where are Pappy and Old Bertha? They should have been back long ago.”
“I hope that stupid old bus didn’t break down again,” Polly said.
“Speak of the devil,” Dymphna said, pointing up the trail. “And who is that with them?”
“Is that Mikie?” Titan asked.
“Are you blind?” Polly asked. “That’s a woman.”
Titan and Powderkeg exchanged a look.
“Her name is Mikie,” Powderkeg said. “But I wouldn’t mention it if I were you.”
“They’re walking some kind of animal,” Dymphna said, spotting the small brown and white creature being led down the uneven trail.
Slim Pickings in Fat Chance, Texas Page 8
