Chuckwagon cooks were expected to be contrary. It was part of their image, their defense mechanism against upstart young cowpunchers who might challenge their authority to rule their Dutch-oven kingdoms fifty or so feet in all directions from the chuckbox. Woe unto the thoughtless cowboy who rode his horse within that perimeter and kicked up dust in the “kitchen.”
The custom was so deeply ingrained that not even the owner of a ranch would easily violate this divine right of kings.
Even so, there were bounds, and Hewey Calloway was convinced that Doughbelly Jackson had stepped over the line. He considered Doughbelly a despot. Worse than that, Doughbelly was not even a very good cook. He never washed his hands until after he finished kneading dough for the biscuits, and he often failed to pick the rocks out of his beans before he cooked them. Some of the hands said they could live with that because the rocks were occasionally softer than Doughbelly’s beans anyway, and certainly softer than his biscuits.
What stuck worst in Hewey’s craw, though, was Doughbelly’s unnatural fondness for canned tomatoes. They went into just about everything he cooked except the coffee.
“If it wasn’t for them tomatoes, he couldn’t cook a lick,” Hewey complained to fellow puncher Grady Welch. “If ol’ C.C. Tarpley had to eat after Doughbelly for three or four days runnin’, he’d fire him.”
C.C. Tarpley’s West Texas ranch holdings were spread for a considerable distance on both sides of the Pecos River, from the sandhills to the greasewood hardlands. They were so large that he had to keep two wagons and two roundup crews on the range at one time. Grady pointed out, “He knows. That’s why he spends most all his time with the other wagon. Reason he hired Doughbelly is that he can get him for ten dollars a month cheaper than any other cook workin’ out of Midland. Old C.C. is frugal.”
Frugal did not seem a strong enough word. Hewey said, “Tight, is what I’d call it.”
Doughbelly was by all odds the worst belly-robber it had been Hewey’s misfortune to know, and Hewey had been punching cattle on one outfit or another since he was thirteen or fourteen. He had had his thirtieth birthday last February, though it was four or five days afterward that he first thought about it. It didn’t matter; Doughbelly wouldn’t have baked him a cake anyway. The lazy reprobate couldn’t even make a decent cobbler pie if he had a washtub full of dried apples. Not that Old C.C. was likely to buy any such apples in the first place. C.C. was, as Hewey said, tight.
Grady was limping, the result of being thrown twice from a jug-headed young bronc. He said, “You ought to feel a little sympathy for Doughbelly. He ain’t got a ridin’ job like us.”
“He gets paid more than we do.”
Grady rubbed a skinned hand across a dark bruise and lacerations on the left side of his face, a present from two cows that had knocked him down and trampled him. “But he don’t have near as much fun as us.”
“I just think he ought to earn his extra pay, that’s all.”
Grady warned, “Was I you, I’d be careful what I said where Doughbelly could hear me. Ringy as he is, he might throw his apron at you and tell you to do the cookin’ yourself.”
It wasn’t that Hewey couldn’t cook. He had done his share of line-camp batching, one place and another. He could throw together some pretty nice fixings, even if he said so himself. He just didn’t fancy wrestling pots and pans. It was not a job a man could do a-horseback. Hewey had hired on to cowboy.
He appreciated payday like any cowpuncher, though money was not his first consideration. He had once quit a forty-dollar-a-month job to take one that paid just thirty. The difference was that the lower-paying outfit had a cook who could make red beans taste like ambrosia. A paycheck might not last more than a few hours in town, or anyway a long night, but good chuck was to be enjoyed day after day.
Hewey was tempted to draw his time and put a lot of miles between him and Doughbelly Jackson, but he was bound to the Two C’s by an old cowboy ethic, an unwritten rule. It was that you don’t quit an outfit in the middle of the works and leave it short-handed. That would increase the burden of labor on friends like Grady Welch. He and Grady had known each other since they were shirttail buttons, working their way up from horse jingler to top hand. They had made a trip up the trail to Kansas together once, and they had shared the same cell in jail after a trail-end celebration that got a little too loud for the locals.
Grady was a good old boy, and it wouldn’t be fair to ride off and leave him to pick up the slack. Hewey had made up his mind to stick until the works were done or he died of tomato poisoning, whichever came first.
It was the canned tomatoes that caused Doughbelly’s first real blowup. Hewey found them mixed in the beans once too often and casually remarked that someday he was going to buy himself a couple of tomatoes and start riding, and he would keep riding until he reached a place where somebody asked him what to call that fruit he was carrying on his saddle.
“That’s where I’ll spend the rest of my days, where nobody knows what a tomato is,” he said.
For some reason Hewey couldn’t quite understand, Doughbelly seemed to take umbrage at that remark. He ranted at length about ignorant cowboys who didn’t know fine cuisine when they tasted it. He proceeded to burn both the biscuits and the beans for the next three days. Another thing Hewey didn’t quite understand was that the rest of the cowboys seemed to blame him instead of Doughbelly.
Even Grady Welch, good compadre that he was, stayed a little cool toward Hewey until Doughbelly got back into a fair-to-middling humor.
After three days of culinary torture, those tomatoes didn’t taste so bad to the rest of the hands. For Hewey, though, they had not improved a bit.
Like most outfits, the Two C’s had two wagons for each camp. The chuckwagon was the most important, for it had the chuckbox from which the cook operated, and it carried most of the foodstuffs like the flour and coffee, lard and sugar, and whatever canned goods the ranch owner would consent to pay for. The second, known as the hoodlum wagon, carried cowboy bedrolls, the branding irons and other necessities. It also had a dried cowhide, known as a cooney, slung beneath its bed for collection of good dry firewood wherever it might be found along the way between camps.
Like most of the cowhands, cow boss Matthew Mullins was a little down on Hewey for getting the cook upset and causing three days’ meals to be spoiled. So when it came time to move camp to the Red Mill pasture, he singled Hewey out for the least desirable job the outfit offered: helping Doughbelly load up, then driving the hoodlum wagon. Hewey bristled a little, though on reflection he decided it had been worth it all to dig Doughbelly in his well-padded ribs about those cussed tomatoes.
The rest of the hands left camp, driving the remuda in front of them. Doughbelly retired to his blankets, spread in the thin shade of a large and aged mesquite tree, to take himself a little siesta before he and Hewey hitched the teams. A little peeved at being left with all the dirty work, Hewey loaded the utensils and pitched the cowboys’ bedrolls up into the hoodlum wagon. He could hear Doughbelly still snoring. He decided to steal a few minutes’ shut-eye himself beneath one of the wagons.
The cowhide cooney sagged low beneath the hoodlum wagon, so Hewey crawled under the chuckwagon. His lingering resentment would not let him sleep. He lay staring up at the bottom of the wagon bed. Dry weather had shrunk the boards enough that there was a little space between them. He could see the rims of several cans.
Gradually it dawned on him that those cans held the tomatoes he had come to hate so much. And with that realization came a notion so deliciously wicked that he began laughing to himself. He took a jackknife from his pocket and opened the largest blade, testing the point of it on his thumb.
Hewey did not have much in the way of worldly possessions, but he took care of what he had. He had always been particular about keeping his knife sharp as a razor. A man never knew when he might find something that needed cutting. He poked the blade between the boards, made contact with the bottom of a can, then drove the knife upward.
The can resisted, and Hewey was afraid if he pushed any harder he might break the blade. He climbed out from beneath the wagon and quietly opened the chuckbox. From a drawer he extracted Doughbelly’s heavy butcher knife and carried it back underneath. He slipped it between the boards, then pushed hard.
The sound of rending metal was loud, and he feared it might be enough to awaken Doughbelly. He paused to listen. He still heard the cook’s snoring. He began moving around beneath the wagon, avoiding the streaming tomato juice as he punched can after can. When one stream turned out to be molasses, he decided he had finished the tomatoes, at least all he could reach. He wiped the blade on dry grass, then on his trousers, and put the knife back into the chuckbox.
Whistling a happy church tune he had learned at a brush-arbor camp meeting, he went about harnessing the two teams.
Doughbelly rolled his bedding, grousing all the while about some people being too joyful for their own good. Concerned that the cook might notice the leaking tomatoes and the molasses, Hewey hitched the team to the wagon for him while Doughbelly went off behind the bushes and took care of other business. He had both wagons ready to go when the cook came back.
He had to fight himself to keep from grinning like a cat stealing cream. Doughbelly stared suspiciously at him before climbing up onto the seat of the chuckwagon. “Don’t you lag behind and make me have to wait for you to open the gates.”
Opening gates for the wagon cook was almost as lowly a job as chopping wood and helping him wash the cookware, but today Hewey did not mind. “I’ll stick close behind you.”
For a while, following in the chuckwagon’s tracks, Hewey could see thin lines of glistening wetness where the tomato juice and molasses strung along in the grass. The lines stopped when the cans had emptied.
Hewey rejoiced, and sang all the church songs he could remember.
As he walked past the chuckwagon to open a wire gate for Doughbelly, the cook commented, “I never knowed you was a religious sort.”
“Sing a glad song and the angels sing with you.”
Hewey knew there would sooner or later be hell to pay, but he had never been inclined to worry much about future consequences if what he did felt right at the time.
He helped Doughbelly set up camp, unhitching the teams, pitching the bedrolls to the ground, digging a fire pit and chopping up dry mesquite. Doughbelly mostly stood around with ham-sized hands on his hips and giving unnecessary directions. The cowboys came straggling in after putting the remuda in a large fenced trap for the night. They were to brand calves here tomorrow, then move camp again in the afternoon. Hewey had never been able to keep a secret from Grady Welch. They had spent so much time working together that Grady seemed able to read his mind. He gave Hewey a quizzical look and said, “You been up to somethin’.”
Hewey put on the most innocent air he could muster. “I’m ashamed of you. Never saw anybody with such a suspicious mind.”
“If you’ve done somethin’ to cause us three more days of burned biscuits, the boys’ll run you plumb out of camp.”
The camp was thirty miles from Upton City, and even that was not much of a town.
“All I done was dull ol’ Cookie’s butcher knife a little.”
Doughbelly started fixing supper. Hewey tried to watch him from the corner of his eye without being obvious. He held his breath while the cook reached over the sideboards and lifted out a can.
Doughbelly’s mouth dropped open. He gave the can a shake and exclaimed, “That thievin’ grocery store has swindled the company.”
He flung the can aside and fetched another, with the same result. This time he felt wetness on his hand and turned the can over. His eyes widened as he saw the hole punched in the bottom. “How in Billy Hell…”
He whipped his gaze to Hewey. He seemed to sense instantly that Hewey Calloway was the agent of his distress. He drew back his arm and hurled the can at Hewey’s head. Hewey ducked, then turned and began to pull away as Doughbelly picked up a chunk of firewood and ran at him.
“Damn you, Hewey, I don’t know how you done it, but I know you done it.”
The other cowboys moved quickly out of the way as Hewey broke into a run through bear grass and sand. The soft-bellied cook heaved along in his wake, waving the heavy stick of firewood and shouting words that would cause every church in Midland to bar him for life.
Cow boss Matthew Mullins rode up in time to see the cook stumble in a patch of shinnery and flop on his stomach. Like Doughbelly, he instantly blamed Hewey for whatever had gone wrong. “Hewey Calloway, what shenanigan have you run this time?”
Any show of innocence would be lost on Mullins. Hewey did not even try. “I just saved us from havin’ to eat all them canned tomatoes.”
“You probably kept us from eatin” anything. It’ll be a week before he cooks chuck fit to put in our mouths.”
“He ain’t cooked anything yet that was fit to eat.”
Mullins motioned for Hewey to remain where he was, a fit distance from the chuckwagon, while the boss went over to try to soothe the cook’s wounded dignity. Watching from afar, Hewey could not hear the words, but he could see the violent motions Doughbelly was making with his hands, and he imagined he could even see the red that flushed the cook’s face.
By the slump in Mullins’s shoulders, Hewey discerned that the pleadings had come to naught. Doughbelly stalked over to the chuckwagon and dragged his bedroll through the sand, far away from those belonging to the rest of the crew. His angry voice would have carried a quarter mile.
“By God,” he declared, “I quit!”
Mullins trailed after him, pleading. If he had been a dog, his tail would have been between his legs. “But you can’t quit in the middle of the works. There’s supper to be fixed and hands to be fed.”
Doughbelly dropped his bedroll fifty feet from the wagon and plopped his broad butt down upon it. “They can feed theirselves or do without. I quit!”
Hewey had roped many a runaway cow and dragged her back into the roundup, bawling and fighting her head. He knew the signs of a sull when he saw them, and he saw them now in Doughbelly.
Mullins stared at the cook for a minute, but it was obvious he had run out of argument. He turned and approached Hewey with a firm stride that said it was a good thing he did not have a rope in his hand. His voice crackled. “Hewey, you’ve raised hell and shoved a chunk under it.”
Hewey felt a little like laughing, but he knew better than to show it. “I didn’t do nothin’, and anyway the old scudder had it comin’.”
“You know he’ll sit out there and sulk like a baby. He won’t cook a lick of supper.”
“I’ve heard a lot worse news than that.”
“You ain’t heard the worst yet. Since he won’t cook, you’re goin’ to.”
“I ain’t paid to cook.”
“You’ll cook or you’ll start out walkin’. It’s thirty miles to Upton City and farther than that to Midland. Which’ll it be?”
Thirty miles, carrying saddle and bedroll … For a cowboy, used to saddling a horse rather than walk a hundred yards, that was worse than being sentenced to sixty days in jail. He looked at Doughbelly. “Maybe if I went and apologized to him…” He did not finish, because he had rather walk than apologize for doing what every man in the outfit would like to have done.
Mullins said, “You’re either cookin’ or walkin’.”
Hewey swallowed. “Damn, but this is a hard outfit to work for.” But he turned toward the chuckwagon. “I’ve never cooked for anybody except myself, hardly.”
“Nothin’ to it. You just fix what you’d fix for yourself and multiply it by twelve. And it had better be fit to eat.”
“At least there won’t be no tomatoes in it.”
Hewey had always taken pride in two distinctions: He had never picked cotton, and he had never herded sheep. He had not considered the possibility that he might someday cook at a wagon or he might have added that as a third item on the list. Now he would never be able to.
He grumbled to himself as he sliced the beef and made biscuit dough and set the coffeepot over the fire. He glared at the distant form of Doughbelly Jackson squatted on his bedroll, his back turned toward the wagon. He figured hunger would probably put the old scoundrel in a better frame of mind when supper was ready, and he would come back into camp as if nothing had happened. But he had not reckoned on how obstinate a wagon cook could be when he got a sure-enough case of the rings.
At last Hewey hollered, “Chuck,” and the cowboys filed by the chuckbox for their utensils, then visited the pots and Dutch ovens. He fully expected to hear some complaints when they bit into his biscuits, but nobody had any adverse comments. They were probably all afraid the cooking chore might fall on them if they said anything.
Grady Welch tore a high-rise biscuit in two and took a healthy bite. His eyes registered momentary surprise. “Kind of salty,” he said, then quickly added, “and that’s just the way I like them.”
Hewey looked toward Doughbelly. He still sat where he had been for more than an hour, his back turned. Matthew Mullins edged up to Hewey. “Seein’ as you’re the one caused all this, maybe you ought to take him somethin’ to eat.”
“The only thing wrong with him is his head. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with his legs.”
“At least take him a cup of coffee.”
Hewey thought a little about that thirty-mile walk and poured steaming black coffee into a tin cup. Each leg felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds as he made his reluctant way out to the bedroll where Doughbelly had chosen to make his stand, sitting down. He extended the cup toward the cook. “Here. Boss said you’d ought to take some nourishment.” To his surprise, Doughbelly accepted the cup. He stared up at Hewey, his eyes smoldering like barbecue coals, then tossed the coffee out into the grass. He pitched the cup at Hewey. “Go to hell!”
“I feel like I’m already halfway there.” Hewey’s foot itched. He was sorely tempted to place it where it might do the most good, but he managed to put down his baser instincts. He picked up the cup. “Then sit here and pout. You’re missin’ a damned good supper.”
Hewey knew it wasn’t all that good, but he guessed Doughbelly would sober up if he thought somebody else might have taken his place and be doing a better job.
That turned out to be another bad guess. Doughbelly never came to supper. At dark he rolled out his bedding and turned in. Hewey sat in lantern light and picked rocks out of the beans he would slow-cook through the night.
Mullins came up and lifted Doughbelly’s alarm clock from the chuckbox. “You’d better put this by your bed tonight. If he don’t get up at four o’clock in the mornin’, it’ll be your place to crawl out and fix breakfast.”
Hewey felt that he could probably throw the clock fifty feet and strike Doughbelly squarely on the head. He took pleasure in the fantasy but said only, “If I have to.”
As Mullins walked away, Grady sidled up. “He’s bound to get hungry and come in.”
Hewey glumly shook his head. “He could live off of his own lard for two weeks.”
Hewey lay half awake a long time, then drifted off into a dream in which he fought his way out from a huge vat of clinging biscuit dough, only to fall into an even bigger can of tomatoes. The ringing of the alarm saved him from drowning in the juice. He arose and pulled on his trousers and boots, then punched up the banked coals and coaxed the fire back into full life. He kept watching for Doughbelly to come into camp, but the cook remained far beyond the firelight.
After a time Hewey shook the kid horse jingler out of a deep sleep and sent him off to bring in the remuda so the cowboys could catch out their mounts after breakfast. He entertained a wild notion of intercepting the horses and turning them in such a way that they would run over the cook’s bed, but he had to dismiss the idea. The laws against murder made no special dispensation for wagon cooks.
The cowboys saddled up, a couple of broncs pitching, working off the friskiness brought on by the fresh morning air. Grady Welch had to grab the saddle horn to stay aboard. Pride gave way to practicality; he was still aching from the last time when he didn’t claw leather. Hewey had to stand beside the chuckbox and watch the cowboys ride out from camp without him. He felt low enough to walk beneath the wagon without bending over.
Doughbelly rolled his blankets, then sat there just as he had done yesterday, shoulders hunched and back turned. Hewey went out to a pile of well-dried wood a Two C’s swamper had cut last winter for this campsite. He began chopping it into short lengths for the cookfire.
He heard the rattle of a lid and turned in time to see Doughbelly at the Dutch ovens, filling a plate. Hewey hurled a chunk of wood at him. Doughbelly retreated to his bedroll and sat there eating. Angrily Hewey dumped the leftover breakfast onto the ground and raked it into the sand with a pot hook to be sure Doughbelly could not come back for a second helping. He hid a couple of biscuits for the kid horse jingler, who would come in hungry about midmorning.
Hewey was resigned to cooking the noon meal, for Doughbelly showed no sign that he was ready to come to terms. He peeled spuds and ground fresh coffee and sliced steaks from half a beef that had been wrapped in a tarp and hung up in the nearby windmill tower to keep it from the flies and larger varmints.
From afar he glumly watched horsemen bring the cattle into the pens, cut the calves off from their mothers, and start branding them. He belonged out there with the rest of the hands, not here confined to a few feet on either side of the chuckbox. He had been in jails where he felt freer.
Doughbelly still sat where he had been since suppertime, ignoring everything that went on around him.
The hands came in for dinner, then went back to complete the branding. Finished, they brought the irons and put them in the hoodlum wagon. Mullins told Hewey, “The boys’ll drive the horses to the next camp so the jingler will be free to drive the hoodlum wagon for you.”
By that Hewey knew he was still stuck with the cooking job. He jerked his head toward Doughbelly. “What about him?”
Mullins shrugged. “He’s your problem.” He mounted a dun horse and rode off.
The kid helped Hewey finish loading the two wagons and hitch the teams. Hewey checked to be sure he had secured the chuckbox lid so it would not drop if a wheel hit a bad bump.
At last Doughbelly stood up. He stretched himself, taking his time, then picked up his bedroll and carried it to the hoodlum wagon. He pitched it up on top of the other hands’ bedding.
An old spiritual tune ran though Hewey’s mind, and he began to sing. “Just a closer walk with Thee…” He climbed up on the hoodlum wagon, past the surprised kid, and threw Doughbelly’s bedroll back onto the ground.
Doughbelly sputtered. “Hey, what’re you doin’?”
Hewey pointed in the direction of Upton City. “It ain’t but thirty miles. It you step lively you might make it by tomorrow night.”
He returned to the chuckwagon and took his place on the seat, then flipped the reins. The team surged against the harness. He sang, “As I walk, let me walk close to Thee.”
Doughbelly trotted alongside, his pudgy face red, his eyes wide in alarm. “You can’t just leave me here.”
“You ain’t workin’ for this outfit. You quit yesterday.”
“Hewey…” Doughbelly’s voice trailed off. He trotted back to where his bedroll lay. He lifted it up onto his shoulder and came running. Hewey was surprised to see that a man with that big a belly on him could run so fast. He had never seen the cook move like that before.
Hewey put the team into a long trot, one that Doughbelly could not match. The kid followed Hewey’s cue and set the hoodlum wagon to moving too fast for the cook to catch.
Hewey had to give the man credit; he tried. Doughbelly pushed himself hard, but he could not help falling back. At last he stumbled, and the bed came undone, tarp and blankets rolling out upon the grass. Doughbelly sank to the ground, a picture of hopelessness.
Hewey let the team go a little farther, then hauled up on the lines. He signaled the kid to circle around him and go on. Then he sat and waited. Doughbelly gathered his blankets in a haphazard manner, picking up the rope that had held them but not taking time to tie it. He came on, puffing like a T&P locomotive. By the time he finally reached the wagon he was so winded he could hardly speak. Sweat cut muddy trails through the dust on his ruddy face. “Please, Hewey, ain’t you goin’ to let me throw my beddin’ up there?”
Hewey gave him the most solemn expression. “If you ain’t cookin’, you ain’t ridin’.”
“I’m cookin’.”
“What about them damned tomatoes?”
“Never really liked them much myself.”
Hewey moved over to the left side of the wagon seat and held out the reins. “Long’s you’re workin’ for this outfit again, you’d just as well do the drivin’. I’m goin’ to sit back and take my rest.”
Supper that night was the best meal Hewey had eaten since Christmas.