Tales of a Texas Boy

by Marva Dasef

“Oh, no special reason. I’d just like you to go check up on her. Her lights are still on and she’s usually not up this late.”

  “Sure, Pa.”

  I didn’t mind a little moonlight ride, so I hustled on out to the barn and saddled up Brownie. When I was all ready, I led him up to the house and Pa was waiting there with a kerosene lantern. I mounted up and Pa handed me up the light. Ma came out and gave me a bag.

  “Just tell her we thought she’d like some leftover cornbread,” she said, pointing to the bag. I thought it pretty strange to be deliverin’ cornbread at ten o’clock at night, but it wasn’t up to me to question.

  I started out across the prairie, going slow so Brownie could see his way and not step in a hole. Horses got real good vision at night, so you can always trust ‘em to find their own way.

  The moon shone down on the frost forming on the ground. Lookin’ across to Mrs. Garner’s, I thought it a beautiful sight. The frost and the big moon hangin’ close to the horizon looked like a postcard picture. I thought it was real pretty, though boys aren’t supposed to think of such things.

  When I got to her place I saw the only light was in the kitchen, so I went round the other side of the house to knock on the door. When I come up to the door, I looked through the glass and saw her down on the kitchen floor. I started to pound on the door, but she didn’t move and that got me worried.

  I tried the doorknob and it wasn’t locked so I went in. I don’t know why, but I thought I needed to be quiet so I went close to her and whispered “Mrs. Garner, are you alive?” Thinkin’ back, that was a pretty stupid thing to say, ‘cause I don’t think she would’ve been alayin’ there if she was alive.

  She didn’t move. I’d seen lots of dead animals in my time, and I was pretty sure she was dead, too. There’s something about a dead critter that’s different from one just asleep. All that come to my mind was they’re too still, like a rock or a piece of wood. Something leaves the body and it ain’t no more than a thing when it’s dead.

  I went back out and got up on Brownie. I left the lantern and cornbread on the porch so I could get back home quicker. I told Pa and he shook his head with a sad look in his eyes.

  “She was getting old,” he said. “She must’ve been close to seventy.” With that, he put on his heavy coat and got himself ready to walk back over to her place.

  “Do you want to ride Brownie, Pa?”

  “No, son, but thanks for offering. You go put up Brownie, then you and Sister ought to go on to bed.”

  “Yessir,” me and Dorothy said. She headed for the sleeping loft and me for the barn.

  When I did get to bed, I couldn’t get to sleep for a long time. I kept thinking of that poor old woman, all alone in her farmhouse and it made me sad. I decided I never wanted to be alone like that and die all by myself, out on the prairie with nobody by my side.

  The Bone Hunters

  Between 1870 and 1937, the bone business played a major role in the economy of Texas. In the nineteenth century, the bones were from the millions of buffalo slaughtered for their hides and then left to rot on the plains. Once the buffalo were depleted, cattle became the primary source of bones. During the Great Depression, hundreds of families overcame droughts, debts, and famine by picking up and selling bones. Bone buyers made a circuit of the farms, collecting tons of bones to be ground to meal, leached of calcium phosphate to fire the furnaces of bone china makers, and made into buttons for the garment factories.

  In 1929, at the age of nineteen, James Ridgley Whiteman discovered the existence of Clovis Man, at that time believed to be the earliest human being to live on the North American continent.

  “Hey, you drop that right now!” I yelled at my little sister when I saw her pickin’ up a cowpie. Cowpies was fine, if they were good and dry, but the one Dorothy picked up looked a mite green.

  “Girls, they don’t have no sense,” I muttered under my breath. I didn’t want her to hear me or she’d get all grumpy.

  I’d only let her come along ‘cause she kept beggin’ over and over until I had to say yes. She saw I was making money from the bones and she thought she’d like to make some, too. Only trouble was she kept gettin’ distracted. For awhile, all she’d do is pick wildflowers, and now cowpies, for gosh sakes.

  The pile of bones we’d collected was gettin’ pretty high behind the barn. I figured the bone buyer ought to be comin’ round again soon. It’d been near four weeks, and the man drove his route pretty regular. I reckoned I’d get close to two dollars for that pile.

  Me and my sister Dorothy were spending the summer of 1930 with a cousin of our Pa’s down in Bailey County, just a stone’s throw, well, about ten miles, southeast of Clovis, New Mexico.

  The family, name of Porter, ran a small ranch where they raised some cattle. I thought it’d be a grand adventure, since I always wished I could be a cowboy. So, when Pa said we’d be visiting the Porters, I was pretty happy, but the Porter herd counted only five head of cows, and them being milk cows to boot. Of course, the reason we was here was not too good neither. My littlest sister, Mary Ada, took sick and Ma had too much to handle with that. So, me and Sister was sent off to stay with our cousins for awhile.

  Still, me and Sister were tryin’ to make the best of it. When I learned we could make some money collectin’ bones, the two of us spent just about every day riding our horses out on the plains. We’d made up a travois just like the Indians used. I cut two saplings, after askin’ of course, and trimmed all the small twigs off, then tied them together with some rope about a third of the way from one end. I tied it loose, so the saplings could be spread apart at the long end. Then, I spread an old blanket across and strapped it down to each sapling. It was meant to cross over the horse’s back at the short end, with the long ends draggin’ behind. When it was all ready it looked kind of like a flat teepee laid over the horse with the small end up over the withers. With a travois, we could load up a lot more bones than if we tried to carry them atop the horse. Sister could sit between the saplings where they started to spread, so we could still travel pretty fast.

  We headed generally west, crisscrossing up to five miles north and south of the dirt road headin’ into Clovis. We looked in draws, in particular, cause cows tended to take their dyin’ steps to get as close to water as they could. Unfortunate for the cows, cause most often the draw was dry and the poor cow just died of thirst. Bad for the cow, but good for two kids lookin’ to make their fortune collectin’ bones.

  We’d been pickin’ for awhile and had pretty much cleared out everything to be found almost into New Mexico. One morning, we folded up the travois and carried it along, making fast tracks over the New Mexico border. I wasn’t exactly sure when we crossed the state line, since there was no sign or anything, but I could make a pretty good guess at it.

  Now that we were in fresh bone pickin’ territory, I rigged up the travois again and started searching for the draws most likely to have cow bones in 'em.

  We’d been at this for a couple of hours, when I spotted a man drivin’ a Model T right out in the middle of the plains. There weren’t no road, so he was goin’ along pretty slow and I could see him bouncin’ around quite a bit. I thought this was pretty interestin’, so we stopped and waited for the man to drive our way. Dorothy and me waved to get the man’s attention and, soon enough, the Model T pulled right up to us. We held the horses tight since that car was plenty noisy. The man turned off the ignition, the car coughed a couple of times before it died.

  “Howdy,” I said and tipped my hat like Ma taught me. Sister just raised her hand in a little wave.

  “Howdy, back at ya,’” the man answered. He wasn’t dressed like a town man, but not like a cowboy neither. He wore tan-colored clothes that looked like they were made for workin’. His hat was almost, but not quite a cowboy hat. I thought I’d seen that kind of hat before. The man was only twenty or so, but he looked kind of rough like he spent a lot of time out in the sun. His clothes were dusty and wrinkled, but
not like a bum. Besides, a bum wouldn’t have a car, now would he?

  “I’m Ridge Whiteman,” the man said thumbin’ his chest.

  “I’m Eddie and that’s my little sister, Dorothy,” I said. Now that introductions were done, maybe we could find out what the man was doin’ way out here, but he beat me to it.

  “What are you kids up to?”

  “We’re huntin’ bones,” I answered.

  “Oh? I hunt bones, too. What do you do with the bones you find?”

  “We sell ‘em to the bone buyer. What do you do with your bones?”

  “I hope they’ll be put in a museum,” the man replied.

  I took a squint at the few bones in our travois. “What bones are you findin’?”

  “Mammoth bones.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Mammoths were those big, hairy elephants runnin’ around these parts about a million years ago.

  The man laughed, too. “Eddie,” he said, “ I’m serious. Just last year I found some and, the most exciting thing is that I found some arrowheads stuck in them.”

  “Just where was this?” I was suspicious that the man was just making fun of me.

  “Blackwater Draw. It’s just a couple of miles that way,” the man replied pointing toward the west.

  “Look, I can see maybe you’re not believing me,” he continued, “so I’d like to prove it. You two just stake out your horses here. We’ll take a quick drive over and I’ll show you.”

  This was an offer that got my attention. I looked at Sister and she shrugged. Whatever I wanted, she was tellin’ me.

  “Well, if it’s only a couple of miles, we can just ride over,” I said eying the beat up Model T. Much as we loved to go with Pa and Ma in the truck, this car didn’t look none too safe to me.

  “Suit yourself. I don’t drive too fast out here anyway, so it won’t be hard to keep up.” The man hopped out and gave the crank a couple of turns, carefully pulling down so it wouldn’t kick back, and the motor started right up. He jumped fast to get back into the car, let off the handbrake, and eased out the clutch.

  While Mr. Whiteman was starting the car, me and Sister took the travois off her horse and stuck the poles into a couple of prairie dog holes so they’d stand up. It’d be easier to find when we came back this way. I boosted Sister up on her horse, then jumped up on my own and we took out after the Model T.

  Moving along at an easy lope, we soon caught up with Mr. Whiteman and just rode alongside the car as it bounced over the sage-scattered flat lands. It wasn’t too long before we came up to the edge of a deep draw and Mr. Whiteman pulled right up to the rim where he stopped and let the Model T die again.

  We got down off the horses, and dropped the reins to ground tie them. The horses knew what was expected and immediately started nosing around for any grass to graze on. They wouldn’t go far with the reins on the ground.

  “Come along down here,” Mr. Whiteman started down a goat trail leading down the rocky side of the draw. As we scooted and slipped down the trail, I could see the walls were layered rock. This was pretty normal for a draw. As the water washed down them, the walls were dug away and you could see where layers of dirt formed up and turned to rock over the years—thousands of years. I did recall a lesson at school on the geology of Texas and learned about some of this.

  Soon, we reached the bottom and Mr. Whiteman led us a few dozen feet along the wall. Some of the rock wall was chipped away and pieces were laying on the floor of the draw.

  “Here,” Mr. Whiteman pointed and I was amazed to see the shape of a leg bone, but it was bigger’n any bone I’d ever seen. I figured he wasn’t puttin’ me on since a real mammoth bone was right in front of my own two eyes. I looked at Sister, but she was busy picking wildflowers again and didn’t pay any mind.

  The man pulled a small hammer from his belt and started tapping around the mammoth bone.

  “Look, here,” he pointed and, sure enough, I could make out an arrow head. Little chips were knocked off along the edge to make it sharp.

  “That’s called fluting,” he explained when he saw me runnin’ my finger along the chipped edge of the arrowhead.

  “This is really sumthin’,” I said quietly. I hardly knew what to say, I was so flabbergasted I actually got to touch real mammoth bones.

  “These bones, and that arrowhead, are thousands of years old. I found them last year and I sent pictures and some of the material to a professor at the Smithsonian. He thought what I sent was good enough they’ll come out soon for a real archeology dig.” Mr. Whiteman stood back up straight and looked mighty proud of himself.

  I thought he should be proud. It was really special to find mammoth bones, but the fact that an arrowhead was stuck into the bone was even better. Mr. Whiteman explained how scientists found mammoth remains before so they knew they’d ranged around here about eleven thousand years before. What was never been found before was proof that humans were here at the same time as the mammoths.

  “It’s not for sure yet. I’ll have to wait for the Smithsonian dig to make sure, but I’m thinking I’ve got really good proof.”

  “Yessir,” I looked up at the young man with some respect. I was only a kid, but even I could figure out this was pretty exciting stuff. Maybe I’d like to be an archeologist instead of a cowboy. After all, archeologists got to collect bigger bones.

  Finally, we climbed back up the goat path. Me and Sister mounted up and waved goodbye as we rode back to where we’d left the travois. When I decided we’d go bone hunting, I never expected to find mammoth bones. But now I’d seen ‘em, so I could truthfully say we hunted for a mammoth and caught up with one in Blackwater Draw.

  Ma Yote and Her Cubs

  Besides rattlesnakes and jackrabbits, the farmers and ranchers considered coyotes to be vermin. If the prairie wolves made the mistake of entering the world of people, they would be killed whether or not they’d actually done any harm.

  I LIKED TO catch horny toads on occasion and keep them in a glass cannin’ jar, which Ma lets me do so long as I clean up good afterwards. I’d scoop up some sand and dirt into the jar and a couple of good sized rocks for them to sit on. I laid the jar sideways so’s they could stretch out to rest. I learned what kinds of bugs they liked by feedin' 'em lots of different kinds. If they started to look peaked, I’d let ‘em go, elsewise I’d keep ‘em for a week or so. If you’re a city slicker, then I’ll tell you that a horny toad ain’t a toad at all. It’s a flat, fat lizard with a rough hide and a ruff of spikes ‘round its neck like a lace collar, which some ladies, but not Ma, wore to dress up.

  Bein’s it was a fine day, I took a walk to the sandstone canyon that runs near our farm. In the summer, it gave up a good stock of lizards and horny toads. I always hoped to find a horny toad, but there be plenty of other interestin’ lizards, too. The schoolhouse has a big book of critters by some scientist. I’ll admit that the man knew his stuff, even if he lived back east. I’d look up what I found in his book so I’d know next time if I spotted the same kind again.

  Anyways, the canyon starts out on one end real shallow and gets deeper as it runs west. It ends up runnin’ into a bluff that turns it into a box canyon. Through spring, it had water in the deep end, but by high summer it was all dried out. I’d walk down it from the shallow end, keepin’ my eyes peeled on the walls where the critters lived. This particular day was frustratin’ ‘cause I didn’t see a single thing until I got near the end.

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Three of the cutest little coyote cubs you’d hope to meet were rompin’ around near the end of the canyon. I looked every which way for their mama, but didn’t see her. I suspected she might be out lookin’ for dinner.

  The cubs looked my way, but didn’t spook. They just looked interested for a bit, then they went back to bitin’ each other’s tails. I had to grin at the squeaky lil’ growls they let out as they played at huntin’.

  I sat down partly hid by a big boulder no more’n twenty feet from ‘em just to w
atch. I commenced to thinkin’ that I might catch one of the cubs and raise him up like a dog. Coyotes looked like dogs, but I’d never heard of anyone who brought one home. I decided I’d try to tame one of the cubs, but I’d wait until their ma weaned them. They’d still be small enough for me to wrangle, but not so big as to be dangerous.

  Somethin’ moved atop the canyon wall and caught my eye. Mama Coyote hung her head over the edge and bared her teeth. Even from twenty feet up I could hear the growling. I stood up slow and commenced to backin’ away. She jumped down and I nearly fell on my backside. I don’t know to this day how she done it, but that coyote found footholds to scramble down that rock wall what looked like a lizard might not get a grip.

  She hit the bottom lickety-split, so I backed up a mite faster. Not too fast, or I knew she’d come after me. Lucky for me, she weren’t inclined to do that, so I turned around and took off. I kept alookin’ over my shoulder, but she stayed with her cubs, sniffin’ them to make sure they were alright. In that way, she reminded me of my own ma. She can sound mean enough to shake you right outta yer boots, but I know it’s generally for my own good.

  I went home and found Pa in the barn pitchin’ hay. I told him about the cubs, and my plan to make one of them a pet. He kiboshed that idea plenty quick.

  “Eddie, I’m surprised at you. I thought I taught you better.”

  I hung my head, ‘cause I know he did tell me to leave wild animals alone. But I forgot. “Yessir, Pa.” I thought a second. “But can I go watch ‘em? I promise I won’t bother ‘em none.”

  Pa leaned on the pitchfork handle, holding it ‘tween his hands. “You can do that, but I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t want you to bother yourself none,” I said back real quick. I figured I could watch the cubs for an hour or two each day, dependin’ on the presence of their ma.

  “That’s okay. I’ll go just the once to look the situation over. I’ll take the rifle in case. I won’t even go down the canyon with you.”