Nearby, Rod was fastening a large canvas tarpaulin around two five-foot yucca staves he’d planted in the ground very close to the chuckwagon’s right side.
When he had finished with that, he easily attached one end of the tarp to the side of the wagon—then he hooked it on around the two yucca staves and pulled it back to the wagon, where he tacked it to the same side again with a nail, using his knife handle as a hammer.
When he had finished the task, he called over to Kelly who sat near Charley and Henry Ellis by the campfire.
“Miss King,” Rod informed her, “your royal bath is waiting.”
Kelly smiled, excused herself, and stood up. Then she went over to the chuckwagon where Rod held the tarp open for her. She stepped inside.
“Oh,” she remembered, turning to the others as Rod was about to refasten the tarp, “no peeking.”
Rod kissed her on the cheek.
“Don’t you worry, Miss Kelly,” he promised, “I’ll keep ’em all at least fifty feet away.”
Kelly nuzzled his nose with her own, kissing him back.
“It’s not them I’m concerned about,” she told him. “It’s you.”
She kissed him again, then pulled the tarp closed.
Rod turned his back, chuckling.
While she was getting out of her dirty clothing, Charley called over, “You can clean up, too, Lightfoot, if ya want,” he said. “A man can get pretty darn filthy ridin’ drag.”
“Naw,” answered Rod. “I don’t want to smell any better than the rest of you guys. Besides, there’s probably a wild animal or two out there that would pick me out of the whole bunch of you if I was clean … because I’d have a different stink to me.”
“All right, I’m ready,” Kelly called out as she peeked over the top of the makeshift shower stall. She handed her dirty clothing to Roscoe. Of course, she was shielded from prying eyes by the tarpaulin Rod had erected for her.
“Ya ready, ma’am?” Roscoe asked her from the rear of the wagon where he was stashing her clothes.
“You bet, Roscoe,” said Kelly. “I’m just as dirty as my clothes are and can hardly wait another minute.”
Roscoe slipped on a pair of leather gloves. He picked up the pot, with its warm, soapy water, and carried it over to the tarp that screened the newswoman. He closed his eyes, looking away.
“Any time yer ready, ma’am,” he told her.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she said. “Go ahead.”
Roscoe raised the pot, easing the water out, pouring it over Kelly’s head.
“Ouch,” yelped the newswoman. “That’s hot.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” replied Roscoe, still looking away, “but it’s the only spare water I got right now.”
He continued to pour until the pot was empty. Then he returned to his chores at the tailgate.
“Where’d you get that bathwater, Roscoe,” Kelly asked him over the top of the canvas tarp. “It feels a little greasy to me.”
“Oh, that,” Roscoe answered. “That was the leftover dishwater, ma’am. I can’t afford ta waste the good stuff. That’s only fer drinkin’ water.”
“I thought so,” said Kelly. She had just begun to dry off. “Because I just found a pinto bean in my left ear.”
HENRY ELLIS PRITCHARD
by Kelly King
“I’m ten and a half years old and I’ve been riding horses nearly all of my life,” says Henry Ellis Pritchard, Charley Sunday’s grandson. “My grampa Charley put me in a saddle way before I could walk … and I actually went riding with him while I was still in diapers.”
You told me that you and your parents lived in Austin, I said. “We live up there in Austin now,” he admits, “but me and my parents were living on Grampa’s ranch in Juanita when I was born. When I was around two or three years old we moved up to Austin because of my dad’s work … his job has something to do with Mexican imports. So I’ve traveled to Mexico, too.
“In Austin I go to a private school and I don’t like it at all. I’d rather be down in Juanita with my grampa Charley. I’ve been visiting him every summer, ever since I can remember. Lately it’s been every two summers. I have never gotten tired of living on his ranch or gotten tired of his friends. His best friend is Roscoe, who lives on the ranch with my grampa Charley. He’s supposed to be my grampa’s ranch foreman but I think my grampa is really in love with Roscoe’s cooking … I am, too, when I’m staying there on the ranch. He makes the best strawberry flapjacks in the world. They’re really special. Roscoe also does the housekeeping and clothes washing. He lets me help him out when I’m there.”
I asked Henry Ellis if he feels any different about living on a West Texas ranch now that he’s no longer a little boy. “When I turned ten,” he answered, “my parents asked me if I’d like to change where I go on vacation in the summer. I think they think a boy my age should be interested in other things … you know, sports, city stuff, and history. To be honest, I hate living in the city. Even though Austin still has a lot of vacant lots and parks to play in, I prefer the wide-open spaces out here in West Texas. Besides, my grampa and his friends have taught me more about Texas history than I’ve ever learned in school. Some of my friends still tease me about my loving the country like I do … but if they were really my friends I don’t think they’d want to hurt my feelings like that.
“It’s hard for me to find any friends my own age in Juanita because I’m only there in the summer and school’s out in the summer. There are a few kids my age I know from Grampa’s church, but they all work full time on their fathers’ ranches every day and they never have any time to play … especially with an outsider like me.
“I’m really not that close to anyone. I mean, I love my parents, and all that, but how can you be friends with your parents? My grampa Charley’s different … maybe it’s because he’s really old, and I’ve heard when you get really old you start acting like a kid all over again. I think that’s the main reason we get along so good. It’s the same with Roscoe … and Feather … and all of Grampa Charley’s really good friends.”
What about Rod? And me? I asked. We’re not that old, and you still like us, don’t you? “You two are different,” he said. “You don’t tell me what to do like my teachers, and most other adults your age, think they have to do all the time. You and Rod are kind a’ like Buster … you’re quiet and don’t always think you have to come up with something you think I should be doing. To tell the truth,” he went on, “I kind a’ like being left on my own once in a while … to do my own thinking … most days. Now I really like old Buster. I’ve known that dog for as long as I can remember. Grampa Charley tells me Buster’s around my own age … maybe a little older. Him and me have always gotten along. He even saved my life once or twice. I know he’s saved Grampa Charley’s life before. Sometimes Grampa Charley lets Buster sleep with me. But that’s only when my mom and dad aren’t around. They look at dogs differently than Grampa Charley and me. To them, Buster’s just a dog … to me and my grampa, dogs are furry people.
“Grampa Charley’s also taught me to show animals the same respect I’ve been taught to show to people.
“I had a horse … he was really a pony … my grampa used to let me ride him when I visited him on his ranch. My mom, who is also Grampa Charley’s daughter … she had the horse before I did, so he was really old. His name was Pinto Tom. He was a pinto, of course, a big one, about twelve and a half hands high. I could still ride him two years ago when I visited my Grampa. Pinto Tom died last winter. I grew an inch or so since I last rode him two summers ago … and I was looking forward to riding him again this summer, if I hadn’t grown too big for him. Oh, well,” he says nonchalantly, “everythings gotta die. That’s what Grampa Charley says.”
I watched him as he sauntered away, Buster the dog at his side, and I think to myself that this boy … this young man … really has a lot more knowlege about life than any of those other pupils who attend that private school of his in Austin �
� the one Henry Ellis hates so much to attend.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The next morning, before sunup, when most of the outfit was gathered around the campfire’s glowing embers eating breakfast and trying to warm up, Roscoe asked Henry Ellis if he would run down to the nearby creek and bring back a bucket of water for washing dishes.
The boy was more than happy to do any chore he was asked to do, especially if it was his uncle Roscoe who needed the assistance.
With the moonlight fading, Henry Ellis grabbed the bucket, whistled for Buster to follow, then disappeared into a small stand of trees, racing down a steep incline to the creek at the bottom.
Balancing himself on the smooth rocks with water flowing all around him, the ten-year-old dipped the bucket into some deeper water—then he turned and made his way back to the bank using the same stony path he had taken to get there.
Upon reaching the pebbly edge of the creek, he noticed that old Buster was acting as if he wanted to play.
The sky was beginning to grow lighter so the boy set the bucket aside and picked up a stick. He tossed it a few yards down the creek bank beside the water’s flow.
Buster was more than likely feeling younger this day than usual. He did his best, bounding after the thrown object. He fetched the stick and walked back at a good clip to where the boy was standing. He dropped the stick at Henry Ellis’s feet.
The boy and the dog repeated the game several more times until Buster began to show signs of fatigue.
Noticing that the dog was looking tired, Henry Ellis said, “All right, Buster, that ought to be enough for now. Let’s get back to camp.”
As tired as he was, Buster picked up the stick one more time and circled Henry Ellis twice, trying to interest him in resuming the diversion.
Suddenly Buster dropped the stick, his ears perked as he stared at something in the tall grass. The dog barked, then stopped.
Henry Ellis called to him, “What’s the matter, Buster, do you hear a rabbit over there?”
The boy took a few steps in Buster’s direction. The dog let out another bark.
Henry Ellis continued walking toward the high grass. His intentions were to flush the rabbit out into the open.
“What’s the matter, Buster? You can’t be afraid of a little bunny,” teased the boy.
Buster started barking anxiously even though by then it was all for nothing.
Henry Ellis had reached the tall grass. As he took his first step into the thicker ground cover he heard the snake’s rattle for the first time.
There was not an instant to turn. The rattler struck, piercing the boy’s right leg with both sharp fangs.
Buster was on the reptile in a split second, snatching the creature by its neck, then shaking it until there was no life left.
The old dog dropped the snake’s limp body, then turned back to Henry Ellis who was now sitting on the ground with tears rolling down both cheeks. His hands were squeezing the flesh above the rattler’s wound while a stream of blood ran down his calf.
“Go get Grampa Charley, Buster,” he said. “Go get Grampa … NOW!”
The dog appeared to understand what Henry Ellis was asking him to do. He walked over to the dead snake and picked it up in his teeth. After that he moved on up the hill as best as he could manage.
Feather was the first to see the dog stumble into camp with the lifeless body of the snake dangling from his teeth.
“Oh, my God,” he said softly to himself. He yelled over to Charley, “Boss! … Buster just came back with a dead rattler in his mouth. There ain’t no sign of yer grandson … and they both left together.”
Charley got to his feet and ran as fast as he could to where Feather was standing. It was an awkward situation as Charley tried to pry the dog’s mouth open and Roscoe approached from the chuckwagon with a six-inch butcher knife at the same time.
“Drop the snake, Buster,” said Charley. “Drop it now.”
Buster dropped the snake.
Charley found an old tree branch and used it to pick up the snake’s body and toss it aside.
“Did I hear someone say Buster left camp with Henry Ellis?” asked Charley.
“I sent the boy fer some water,” said Roscoe. “Buster followed along with ’im.”
“Well, there’s no sign of my grandson in this camp right now … and that’s a fact.”
Feather and Roscoe exchanged glances.
Charley shook his head in disgust.
“C’mon, Buster,” he called out to the dog. “Take me to Henry Ellis … take me to my grandson.”
He made his way through the trees and down the slope with the dog directly in front of him. Both Feather and Roscoe decided they’d better follow.
Henry Ellis hadn’t moved an inch since he’d sent Buster back to the camp. He sat in the same position, only now he had his belt tightened around his leg, keeping pressure on the artery above the wound.
Buster reached him first, planting big wet licks wherever he could find an inch of exposed skin. Charley was next, almost falling as his boots hit level ground.
He saw his grandson and immediately went to the boy’s side. He wiped Henry Ellis’s damp forehead with his bandanna, then kissed him on the top of his head.
“You can thank Buster for helping us find you,” he told the boy.
Feather and Roscoe came into view, stumbling down the slope going just a little too fast. Both of them put on their brakes sooner than they should have and their spurs got tangled, spilling them both onto the ground beside Charley and Henry Ellis.
By the time the two could get to their feet, Charley had tied his bandanna above Henry Ellis’s belt as a secondary precaution. He was preparing to suck out the snake’s venom.
He fished his penknife out of the front pocket of his trousers.
“Here, take this,” Feather told the boy. He put a .45-Colt bullet between the boy’s teeth. “Bite on it as hard as you can. Your grampa has to make a couple a’ cuts on yer wounds with his pocketknife. After that, he’ll get out all that poison you got in there.”
“Here,” said Roscoe, holding out the butcher knife to Charley, “this one’s cleaner than that old thing a’ yours … and sharper.”
Charley repocketed his folding knife, then took the larger knife from Roscoe.
Henry Ellis flinched as Charley spit out his chaw of tobacco.
Charley leaned in and made the two incisions as Henry Ellis grimaced.
Charley immediately put his mouth over the snakebite and began sucking, then spitting, sucking, then spitting—over and over, until he felt he had removed what venom was left inside that hadn’t already entered the boy’s bloodstream.
“All right, you two,” he told Roscoe and Feather, “pick him up and let’s get him back to camp. My grandson needs a doctor as soon as we can find one … So get moving.”
The sun was just rimming the distant horizon as Charley burst into the camp shouting, “Anyone know where the nearest town is? … I gotta find a doctor for Henry Ellis.”
About that time Rod was riding his horse into camp after a long second shift as nighthawk. He heard Charley’s request and saw Roscoe and Feather carrying the boy out of the trees. He spurred his mount over to where they were.
“There’s a little town less than three miles that way,” said Rod as he dismounted beside Charley and the boy, who was now resting on his grampa’s bedroll with Charley’s saddle blanket as a pillow. “I’ve never been there,” he continued, “I just saw it on a map once.”
By then, Kelly had joined them, moving in beside Henry Ellis. She comforted him as best she could.
“Someone get the boy a blanket,” she called out to those who’d started to gather around. One of the Colorado cowboys brought her a wool Army issue.
She wrapped it around the child who was now beginning to show signs of fever.
Charley turned to Roscoe. “Make some space for him in the chuckwagon, will you? Then we’ll head for that town.”
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bsp; He turned to Feather and the Colorado cowboy. “You two go harness the team. Roscoe, get up in that seat so you’re ready to drive the boy.”
The lazy town of Dundee, Texas, was just waking up as the chuckwagon, being driven by Roscoe, rolled down the single-sided Main Street. Feather and Holliday rode on either side of the wagon staying abreast of the team.
When asked, a lone storekeeper sweeping the boardwalk in front of his establishment pointed out the doctor’s office for Roscoe.
Charley and Rod were already there. Both had dismounted and tied off their horses. They were standing in front of the doctor’s office front porch waiting for Roscoe and the chuckwagon.
When they saw Roscoe, Holliday, and Feather with Kelly in the seat coming down the street in the wagon they both started yelling and waving their arms for them to stop.
Roscoe saw the two men and he turned the team. In moments the chuckwagon had pulled up in front of Charley and Rod.
By then the doctor had joined them on the porch. He was still in his nightshirt. He fumbled with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, slipping them on over his nose and ears.
The doctor was well over fifty, with a bushy mustache and stubble-covered cheeks. His hair was mussed from a night of hard sleep.
He held out a hand to Charley. “Dr. Ambrose Stone. I’m the doctor here in Dundee.”
They shook hands.
“My grandson’s in the back of that wagon, Doc,” said Charley. “His name is Henry Ellis. He’s ten years old, and he’s been snakebit. We can bring him inside for you if you’d like. Just show us the way.”
“Put him on the table in the examination room. I’ll do my washin’ up and meet you in there in a minute or so,” the doctor said.
The inside of the office was made up of two adjoining rooms. The larger side room, which was the examination room, was divided from the main office by some white, sterile-looking, floor-length curtains.
Henry Ellis was placed on a leather-covered table located in the center of the side room. Charley, Kelly, Roscoe, Rod, Holliday, and Feather surrounded the boy, all trying to make him as comfortable as possible.
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