Alvin Lawdermilk’s buckboard arrived a couple of hundred yards ahead of the others. Alvin stood up to wave before Julio Valdez reined the team to a nervous halt. The mules, young and of Spanish lineage, were as green as the pair Cotton had been breaking. As soon as a Lawdermilk mule team had the “bronc” worn off, they were for sale. Life was too short, Alvin contended, to let it be dull.
Hewey met the vehicle, grinning. “Git down, Alvin. I’m afraid you missed dinner.”
Alvin lifted a bottle from under the seat. “I brought dinner.”
Julio waited dutifully until his boss was through with the greetings, then spoke jovially to Hewey and Cotton. He climbed down with the reins in his hand and began unhitching the team. Cotton hurried to help him with the buckles, snaps, and straps. He shouted back at Lawdermilk, “When you goin’ to buy you an automobile, Alvin?”
“When windmills start pumpin’ gasoline. You can run a mule on grass and water, but then automobiles have got to be fed.” Alvin extended the bottle toward Hewey. Hewey was tempted, but it wouldn’t be seemly in front of Cotton. Besides, Tommy was coming yonder with the rest of the horsemen and wagons. “Sun’s too high, Alvin. Ask me again when we’ve raised the mill. Maybe we can bust a bottle against the tower, to christen it, like.”
“An empty bottle, Hewey.” Alvin climbed down from the wagon, and he was rock steady. Whatever little he might have drunk on the way hadn’t affected him.
Julio Valdez surveyed the standing pipe with the pride of vested interest. “The water is where I said. It is a strong well, I’ll bet.”
Cotton frowned. “I don’t know if the water is sweet.”
“It is sweet.”
Alvin Lawdermilk walked around the windmill, silently surveying and approving the work. “Good job. Cotton done it, I suppose.”
Hewey nodded. “A wrench and a saw don’t fit the shape of my hands.”
“Nothin’ fits your hands but a rope and a set of reins.” Alvin turned. “You interested in a job, Hewey?”
Hewey pondered a moment, looking off in the direction where the sheriff had gone. “I kind of doubt I’ll be stayin’ long.” He saw Cotton glance questioningly at him. Hewey lied, “I’m expectin’ word on a job out in the Big Bend country. Not no thirty-a-month cowpunchin’ job, but a foreman’s job.”
Alvin seemed to see through him, at least partway. Hewey had never wanted a foreman’s job in his life; too much responsibility went with it. “I’ve always got some broncs that need breakin’. That’s a job that fits your hands. You can come over to my place and stay, or you can bring them over here to Walter’s. Either way, you’ve got a job any time you want it.”
“Much obliged, Alvin. I’ll study on it.”
Cotton’s brow pinched. “Uncle Hewey, don’t you think you’re gettin’ to an age where you ought to quit ridin’ those rough broncs?”
Hewey smiled. “When a man has sittin’-down work, he’d better hang on to it.”
Tommy loped up ahead of the rest and slid his pony to a reckless cowboy stop. He wore his working clothes, though he had a church-clean look about him. He also had a boy’s eagerness. “Howdy, Uncle Hewey. Bet it didn’t take Cotton long to finish up with you to help him.”
Hewey didn’t look at the posthole diggers. “We each taken the jobs that fitted us best.”
Walter Calloway rode up on one of his working mules. His farmer overalls presented a picture Hewey could never quite adjust to. Walter dismounted in a businesslike manner and surveyed the prone mill with a critical eye, looking for flaws. He found none. “You done real good, son,” he told Cotton. He turned to Hewey. “Thanks for helpin’ him.”
Hewey shrugged. “I done my best.”
Storekeeper Pierson Phelps climbed carefully down from his wagon and exercised his cramped legs, then moved toward Hewey with both hands outstretched. His grin was broader than a double-tree. He was on the gray side of sixty. His heavy shoulders were bent from a lifetime of heavy lifting and carrying the weight of a mortgage, but his ample belly showed he had always taken home plenty of groceries out of stock. “I declare, Hewey Calloway, it’s good to see you again. How come you haven’t been to town to visit with us?”
Hewey took several steps to meet the old merchant halfway. “Didn’t get in till yesterday. Besides, I didn’t bring home much in the way of coin. Didn’t figure my welcome would be too good.”
“If payin’ customers were the only people who ever came, that little town would get awfully lonesome.”
For what it was worth, Pierson Phelps was the leading businessman in Upton City, not necessarily a great feat in view of the fact that there were so few. Last time Hewey had been to town he had counted eight, including the Mexican wood and water hauler.
Trailing quietly in Phelps’ bulky shadow was a sallow, bacon-thin little man named Schneider. He had materialized a few years ago from some unpronounceable place down in the German-speaking Texas hill country. He was considered something of an oddity, the only person of the Dutch persuasion in Upton City. He was known to read Shakespeare and Goethe and Zola—the last two some kind of foreign radicals—but he was nevertheless generally considered of a bit less than average intelligence because he spoke with an accent and sometimes got his words out of the customary order. He was regarded as beneath the community’s established social level, such as it was, because he ran a small saloon for Pierson Phelps. The taint somehow had never attached itself to Phelps, though he owned the place. He conducted it separately from his general store and was rarely seen to enter its door except at closing time, to count the day’s receipts. By then all decent women were well inside their own doors so that they never saw him; it was the women who established local social standards. Pierson never poured the whisky. Schneider did that, so it was Schneider who bore the stigma. He had long since resigned himself to the lofty, throat-cutting stares of the womenfolk.
“That horrid little Dutchman,” Eve always called him. Hewey doubted she even knew his name.
“Howdy, Dutch,” Hewey greeted him. “You bring any samples?”
“It is the Sabbath,” Schneider said firmly. He always sat on the back row of the church, alone, keeping his own counsel and making his own treaties with the Lord. It was whispered around town that he was actually a Lutheran, which was probably about as bad as being a Catholic. But perhaps the preacher could yet save him.
It was said of Schneider that no one was ever allowed to get drunk in his saloon if he had a family. Nor could a family man buy more than one bottle at a time if Schneider suspected he might empty them all in one place. Alvin Lawdermilk was a special case. He dealt directly with Pierson Phelps, wholesale.
In another wagon sat a homesteader whose name Hewey vaguely remembered as Neely, or maybe it was Needy. He was always coming over to borrow something. Needy was probably right, Hewey reflected. The farmer’s son was with him, a boy about Tommy’s age. Lester was his name. He looked like a Lester, Hewey thought. That rhymed with nester, appropriate all around.
A couple of C. C. Tarpley’s cowboys from the South Camp rounded out the group. They followed on horseback behind the wagons. C. C. might not take it kindly if he saw them here. He probably wouldn’t say anything; he would just cut their wages the next payday and plead hard times. Where possible, he favored a style of punishment that yielded a profit.
It stood to reason that some of these people had brought their womenfolks. They would be at the house with Eve, helping her fix a big supper.
Sure going to be hell on the chicken flock, feeding this bunch, Hewey thought. There’ll be an egg drouth here all summer.
The boys’ black dog trotted behind the last wagon, tongue out. He had probably started following this unaccustomed caravan with enthusiasm, but the enthusiasm was long since gone. He slowed to a painful walk, sought the shade of the nearest wagon and flopped down, panting. A jack rabbit could have walked up and kicked him on the nose for all he cared.
The howdying and shaking didn’t take long. Everybody seemed agreed that the sooner they finished the work the sooner they could start the pleasure.
Raising the tower was not difficult. Hewey was still confident that he and Cotton could have done it. In its way it was probably one of the easiest parts of the operation. Walter Calloway didn’t trust the bronc mules. He borrowed Pierson Phelps’ gentle team for the task. Hewey mounted Tommy’s horse. He and the two Tarpley cowboys each tied an anchor rope to the tower and rode off at angles, keeping their ropes taut so the tower could not tip to one side or the other as the team raised it. A cross brace was chained between the two tower legs that rested on the ground, and it was butted against the upright posts that Hewey had placed. This would keep the tower from sliding instead of coming up. As the Phelps team pulled and the mill gained slowly in angle and height, the lift became easier. The anchormen moved with the tower, keeping their ropes tight. In only a minute or so, the two forward legs set themselves on the ground.
Cotton and Walter, using steel crowbars, inched the tower one way and the other until a plumb bob showed it was centered squarely over the well and the pipe. “That’s it, Daddy,” Cotton said.
The ropes were firmly staked to guard against a sudden strong wind pushing the tower over. Cotton took it upon himself to be sure the tower was level. He prized and shimmed under each leg until the plumb bob and the spirit level showed the mill was in perfect alignment with the hole. The men set in to digging anchor post holes by each of the four legs. That took a while, and Hewey deferred to his blisters so long as there were plenty of other volunteers. When the holes were finished, Cotton tied an anchor post snugly against each tower leg with wire so it would not slip, then began drilling holes with an auger. He drove a heavy bolt through each hole as soon as he finished it. While Cotton went about drilling other holes, Hewey tightened a nut over each bolt, firmly securing the tower legs to the anchor posts.
Walter turned to Tommy. “You can fill in with dry sand now and tamp the holes real good.” Dry sand, properly pounded, would grip and hold tighter and longer than cement.
Hewey noticed that the nester boy Lester was adept at making the motions but contributing little muscle to the job. He would move as if to take hold but do it slowly so somebody else was always likely to get on it ahead of him and relieve him of the necessity. He looked eager enough that he got credit for trying without ever actually breaking a sweat. He grunted a lot.
Given any decent start, he probably had a future ahead of him in politics, Hewey thought.
By contrast, Cotton did his work so smoothly that it seemed to involve little stress. People like that seldom received much credit; they never grunted enough. They could not grasp the importance of showmanship.
After a while the anchor posts were well tamped and the tower was considered solid. Hewey helped lower the cylinder and the sucker-rods down the pipe a joint at a time. In a while the top sucker-rod and the red-rod were bolted together. This was the moment of supreme test. Cotton glanced at his father. Walter nodded. Cotton released the lever that held the wheel and the tail locked together. Freed, the tail swung out at a right angle and pulled the wheel into the soft south wind. For a moment the gears groaned as the big wooden fan strained off its lethargy and slowly began to turn. The sucker-rod began to stroke up and down. Hewey took off his hat and knelt with his ear against the pipe. In a minute he could hear the water working its way higher with each stroke. Then it began gushing out the end of the flow pipe.
It was muddy at first, clearing the accumulation which had silted into the bottom since the well had been drilled. In a little while the water cleared. Everybody stood around in silence, watching it gush with each stroke of the rod. They seemed fascinated by the sight. No matter how many times they had seen it, there was always a vague feeling of a miracle beheld in this dry land.
Cotton walked to the end of the pipe, cupped his hand and cautiously took a tentative sip. He blinked, as if only half believing, then took another drink, a larger one. “It’s sweet,” he said in surprise.
Julio smiled.
One by one, men and boys filed by to take a swallow or two. Presently Julio was the only one who had not. The little man’s teeth gleamed. “I do not have to drink the water. The witching rod has told me how it tastes.”
Walter signaled for Tommy to shut off the mill. “No use wastin’ the water and makin’ a loblolly. We’ve got to take time somehow to get over here with a team and fresno and scoop out a surface tank.”
Hewey heard himself volunteering before he had adequately considered the ramifications of the job. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
Cotton glanced worriedly at him. Hewey said, “It won’t take but a few days, button.”
He thought about it a little more. If a shovel or a set of posthole diggers didn’t fit his hands, the heavy iron handle of a mule-drawn fresno dirt-mover was no better. He already had blisters enough. But he never considered backing out, once the commitment was made.
Greasy, muddy, the men stood around admiring the results of the afternoon’s work with all the self-righteousness that comes from knowing a job has been properly attacked and competently mastered. The nester boy looked especially tired, especially self-righteous. Walter told his sons to start loading the tools into the family wagon. Lester Needy trailed along behind, picking up the lighter pieces. His father told him to be careful of his back; a growing boy shouldn’t overdo.
Alvin Lawdermilk, gloriously greasy and muddy, brought a bottle from under the seat of his buckboard. Its original contents had already been considerably depleted. “Here’s to a good day’s work,” he said and passed the bottle around. All the men drank except Schneider. Nobody in Upton City could remember ever seeing him drink anything but coffee. When the bottle had made the round, Alvin took a swig from it. A little whisky remained in the bottom. Alvin said, “Every windmill has got to have a name. Walter, name this one and we’ll christen it proper.”
Walter shook his head. “I hadn’t even thought about it.”
Alvin turned to Hewey. “Then I’ll name it in honor of the prodigal brother, come home to help eat the unfatted calf. From now on, this is Hewey’s Mill.”
Hewey protested. “Cotton done all the work. It ought by rights to be named after him.”
But nobody seemed to hear him, least of all Cotton, who frowned darkly and went on with loading up the tools. Alvin smashed the bottle against a corner post, a remnant of whisky running down the clinging shreds of cedar bark.
Alvin said, “Bet you never had anything named after you before.”
Hewey wondered at Alvin’s extravagance with good whisky. “Once. A horse. We never did manage to get him broke proper.”
“People can see a windmill a long ways farther than they can see a horse. Every time they look at this one they’ll think of you.”
Hewey looked up at the rejuvenated wheel, a motley mixture of old wood and new. “I wish it was painted, then.”
Cotton fetched a shovel back out of the wagon, dug a little hole against the corner post and raked the broken glass into it, then covered it up. It would be like some nosy calf to find that glass before the sun went down. Cotton gave Hewey a quick, exasperated glance as if he counted him responsible for Alvin’s exuberance.
The crew trailed out south toward the house. Alvin motioned for Hewey to come up beside him in the buckboard. Julio climbed into Cotton’s wagon, which seemed to suit Cotton better than riding with his uncle. The black dog got under Cotton’s wagon and trotted along just fast enough to keep himself in the moving shade.
Alvin wanted Hewey to tell him about some of the wonders he had encountered in his travels. Hewey accommodated him, loose-herding the truth a little but not so much that he wouldn’t get away with it. Tommy rode alongside, listening eagerly.
Behind their wagon was that of the nester. The boy Lester, rested up from his work, was playing incessantly on a jew’s-harp, the only noise Hewey hated more than the clatter of a gasoline engine. The sixth time Lester cut loose on “Hello My Honey,” Hewey was ready to go back and finger-thump him over his left ear. But civility ruled, and he stifled his baser nature.
As they neared the house and the tall chinaberry trees, a reddish dog came trotting out toward them, barking a challenge but looking behind him every few seconds to see if help was coming. Tommy’s dog took up the challenge and moved out from under Cotton’s wagon into the sunshine. Both dogs took care not to carry the contest too close to each other.
The red dog was on the small side, a fact which failed to arouse overconfidence in Tommy’s.
Tommy said without enthusiasm, “He belongs to our teacher. I don’t know why she had to come over here. We see enough of her on other days without havin’ to listen to her on Sunday too.”
Hewey smiled. “She’s not much of a teacher, I suppose.”
Tommy shrugged. “She knows a lot. But she ought to, at her age.”
“She got a name?”
“Miss Renfro. Miss Spring Renfro.”
“Spring? That’s an odd name.”
“Summer would probably fit her better. Late summer.”
Hewey smiled. He doubted that Tommy was a dependable judge of a woman’s age. If she was over twenty-five though, she probably wasn’t much to look at. In this country, where men outnumbered women like the Indians had outnumbered Custer, spinsterhood was a difficult state for a woman to hang on to unless she had a face that would stop a runaway horse in mid-stride. Even the plain schoolteachers tended to get married off with only a modest effort on their part, and the pretty ones seldom made it through the first school year.
Hewey had never had much truck with schoolteachers, plain or pretty. They always made him nervously aware of how much he had never learned, of how slowly he read and how painstakingly he wrote, when occasion demanded that he write anything at all. He never could understand why teachers should seem so superior. He’d never seen a man teacher yet who could ride a bronc more than two good jumps.
Any schoolkid could learn to read a book, but good bronc riders were few and thin on the ground.
It took several minutes for the men to unsaddle the horses, unhitch the teams and turn all the stock into a pen for a bait of oats. Tommy said to Lester, “Let’s me and you run to the house and see if we can freeze the ice cream.”
Lester displayed no enthusiasm. “Turnin’ a freezer always makes my arm tired.”
“But the ones who freeze it get to lick the dash. Come on.”
Lester followed, but he stayed a couple of steps behind all the way to the house. Walter started toward the house at a slower pace, followed by Pierson Phelps, the Dutchman and the farmer Needy, the two Tarpley cowboys and Julio Valdez. Hewey was about to follow, but Alvin grabbed his arm. “The womenfolks can wait on us a few minutes.”
He went to his buckboard, rummaged around and came up with a bottle. He glanced toward the house and evidently decided he could be seen. He stuck it inside his shirt and headed for the little shed out beside the windmill. Safely behind it, he brought the bottle back out from its hiding place. Hewey could see that the cork had never been removed.
Alvin said expansively, “I love the womenfolks, God bless them. But there are times when their talk can drive me to distraction without a little drop of kindness to smooth off the edges.” He pulled the cork out and extended the bottle toward Hewey.
Hewey reasoned that he would be standing within smelling distance of Eve in a few minutes. “I believe I’ll pass.”
Alvin took a long swallow, paused to lick his lips and enjoy the flavor, then tipped the bottle again. “I’ll swear, Hewey, that batch must of been blessed by the breath of an angel. You’ve got to try it.” He shoved the bottle into Hewey’s hand.
Hewey was sorely tempted, but he had made up his mind. He tried to push the bottle back at Alvin.
A woman’s voice cut like rusty barbed wire. “Mr. Lawdermilk!”
Hewey knew he was in trouble even before he turned and gazed into the reproachful eyes of Cora Lawdermilk. But she wasn’t there alone. Beside her stood Eve Calloway, whose own eyes were like Indian flint. Beyond Eve was a woman Hewey had never seen before, and behind them all stood a man wearing a dust-tinted black suit with frayed cuffs and a top button gone. He was Brother Averill, the Baptist preacher who hammered at the gates of hell every Sunday morning from ten to eleven, and occasionally longer when the spirit was really upon him.
Alvin was the first to get hold of his wits. “Why, howdy, Cora. Hewey was just offerin’ me a drink to celebrate his homecomin’, and I was tellin’ him it wouldn’t be proper on the Sabbath afternoon.”
Hewey would cheerfully have stomped Alvin with a pair of hobnailed boots, if he had owned any. Cora Lawdermilk swung those narrowed eyes on Hewey and skewered him with them. “Mr. Calloway.” It was her habit to use the word Mister to her husband and other close acquaintances only when she was sorely provoked. Hewey was acutely aware that he still held the guilty bottle in his unguilty hand. He tried to swing it behind him, out of sight, but this was a futile gesture. Right now that bottle seemed bigger than a horse. He would have hurled it across the fence, but that would have called more attention to it.
Eve didn’t speak; she only stared at him, her face reddened beneath the cover of her big slat bonnet.
Brother Averill said, “Perhaps Brother Hewey forgot this was the Sabbath.”
The third woman’s face was impassive, but Hewey thought he saw laughter in her eyes, struggling to escape imprisonment.
She wouldn’t think it was so damn funny if Eve was her sister-in-law, Hewey thought, resentment touching him a little. He glanced back at Alvin Lawdermilk. On that face was the innocence of a child picking wild flowers in a field, a soul untainted even by original sin.
“By George, preacher, you’re right,” Hewey said, “it is the Sabbath.” He held the bottle out at arm’s length and turned it upside down. Alvin’s innocence turned to pain as he watched the long stream of golden elixir soak quickly into the sand. But he stood in silence and bore the sacrifice like a soldier.
Cora Lawdermilk said, “In the future, Mr. Calloway, I hope you will remember not only the Sabbath but also my husband’s weakness.”
“I’ll sure try to.”
When the bottle was empty, Hewey tossed it into the sand beside the shed.
Cora took her husband’s arm and led him away.
Brother Averill said, “You have done the proper thing, Hewey.”
Hewey watched the departing Alvin. “I’m sure I did, preacher.”
The minister looked a moment at the stiff-shouldered Eve and spoke to the other woman. “Shall we go back to the house, Miss Renfro?”
Miss Renfro still had that laugh in her eyes, though her face never changed expression. After she turned away Hewey couldn’t remember what color the eyes had been; all he had seen was the laugh in them.
Eve’s hands were on her hips. This was May, but her eyes said October. “You’re runnin’ true to form, Hewey. Just home one day, and you’ve already embarrassed me in front of Brother Averill and the boys’ teacher, not to mention Cora Lawdermilk.”
“I expect Cora has seen a whisky bottle a time or two before.”
“Not on this place. I trust this will be the last time such a thing ever happens.”
“I never had a drop, Eve. You can smell my breath if you’ve a mind to.”
She shook her head. “Not for a ten-dollar gold piece.” She set off toward the house, trailing after the others. Hewey slumped, flexing his hands, glancing once at the bottle lying by the shed, wishing he had taken a drink out of it since he had endured all the blame for it anyway.
Seemed like sometimes he had two left feet.
Cotton came out of the corral. Hewey hadn’t realized the boy was still out there, putting up the windmill tools. He wondered how much Cotton had heard or seen. Cotton said nothing. He walked to the shed, picked up the empty bottle and carried it to a trash barrel behind the yard fence.
There was nothing left to be said except hell. Hewey said that and followed after the others.
* * *
As was the custom, the men stayed outside, sitting in chairs or on the ground beneath the great rustling chinaberry trees. The women were in the house. Hewey could hear and smell the chicken frying. On the front step sat Tommy, turning the handle of a wooden ice-cream freezer. A wet burlap bag was stuffed around the top to hold in the cold and extend the useful life of the expensive salt-packed ice, thoughtfully brought from town by Pierson Phelps. The boy Lester cranked slowly on a second freezer. Tommy had to remind him two or three times not to stop because the dash would freeze up.
The boys’ black dog and the teacher’s red one still stalked one another with wary patience, neither allowing the other to get quite close enough for a bona fide acquaintanceship to begin. They traded a certain amount of tentative and shallow growling. They reminded Hewey of his own relationship with Eve.
He wanted to think of something else, so when Pierson Phelps began drawing him out on the details of his recent adventures, Hewey obliged. He told of working his way up through the Indian Territory, and of Homer Ganss’ horse race. He told of his attempt to break into the big and easy money of show business by trying to get on as a bronc rider with the 101 Ranch Wild West Show.
“They put me on for a tryout. I’m tellin’ you, boys, these broncs we’ve got down in this country are rockin’ horses against them outlaws they gather up for that show. By the third day I had eaten so much dirt that I must of gained fifteen–twenty pounds. One of them throwed me for a belly buster that emptied all the air out of me plumb down to my toes. I drug myself up against a fence post and sat there tryin’ to get some wind back into my lungs when old Zack Miller himself walked up. He says, ‘If you can’t handle them rough ones, then you oughtn’t to’ve hired out.’ Says, ‘The main trouble with you is that you’ve done et too many birthday cakes.’
“I says to him, I says, ‘Where I’ve spent most of my birthdays, there wasn’t nobody around to bake me a cake.’ But I reckon we was both agreed that I wasn’t no show-time cowboy. It would’ve been easy money; I was told they paid some of them boys as much as seventy-eighty dollars a month, and they didn’t have to ride but five or six broncs a day.
“I reckon I wasn’t cut out for that kind of business anyway. When I do a job of work, I like to know there’s somethin’ real goin’ to come of it. If I break a bronc, it’s so somebody can use him in cow work. If I break a mule, it’s so somebody can hitch him to a wagon and get some use out of him. But in them shows you just ride for an audience, and when you’re through there’s nothin’ been built, nothin’ real been gained. It’s sort of like for nothin’.” He added as an afterthought, “Except the money, of course.”
The farmer Needy said, “You talk as if you don’t think money is important.” It was a concept he obviously disapproved.
“I’ve never met anybody, hardly, who thought he had enough of it. Not even old C. C. Tarpley. Since there’s no way you can ever get enough of it anyway, I don’t see where a man ought to kill himself runnin’ after a hopeless cause. There’s too many other things in life to pleasure you.”
Brother Averill put in, “There are a great many things in this life more important than pleasure.”
“If it don’t pleasure you, then it ain’t worth your time,” Hewey demurred.
“Pleasure is for the next life. This life was meant to be lived in trial and suffering, to prepare us for the glory of the next.”
Hewey said, “I’ve known a lot of folks who kept puttin’ off enjoyin’ themselves, figurin’ they’d get around to it one of these days. Then one mornin’ they woke up and found out they was old. It was too late then.”
“Not if they had lived a Christian life. The real joy awaits us all in the next world.”
“I don’t see no harm in practicin’ up for it a little while we’re here.”
In a little while Eve came out onto the step, where the two boys had finished freezing the ice cream, and announced that supper was ready. “You men can come on in and fill your plates. Then you can come back outside where it’s cooler.”
Tommy asked her about her promise that he and Lester could clean the dash, but she told him they would have to wait; she didn’t want them spoiling their supper.
Eve asked Brother Averill if he would lead them in the blessing. Hewey stood up nervously, forgetting to remove his hat until he saw the other men doing it. It had always seemed to him that the Lord must be awfully busy, and it must be an imposition to Him to have to sop His work three times a day and listen to people all over the world telling Him “Thank you.” Surely He knew everybody was grateful without His having to hear them say it so often.
Brother Averill launched into a lengthy blessing in which he named everybody here except Julio Valdez. Hewey didn’t know if he had forgotten the Mexican, couldn’t say his name or simply considered the poor soul lost on account of his race. Hewey began to feel he was going to get a crick in his neck from holding his head down so long, and he thought the prayer might run on for ten more minutes. The breeze brought a strong whiff of fried chicken which tantalized Hewey almost to the point of sin. It might have reached the preacher, too, for he suddenly brought the long prayer to a snappy conclusion. “And now, Lord, we Thy unworthy servants humbly ask Thy blessings on this food which we are a-fixin’ to partake of, amen.”
Walter motioned for Brother Averill to lead the way into the house, a courtesy which the minister graciously accepted. His strictures against labor on the Sabbath did not extend to the frying of chicken.
Hewey hung back. So did Julio, accustomed to being last, and Alvin Lawdermilk, who had been casting uneasy glances at Hewey ever since they had seated themselves beneath the trees. At length Alvin seemed to lose an inner battle. He came up to Hewey with his head down. “Hewey, I kind of left you hangin’ on the fence out yonder while ago. I hope you won’t take it ill of me.”
Hewey shrugged. His momentary resentment had evaporated long ago. “Who knows? If I was a married man I might of done the same.”
Alvin said, “It ain’t I was afraid of her. It’s just that I like a peaceful house. You come over and break some horses and mules for me awhile, Hewey. You’ll find out that Cora ain’t a bad woman atall. It’s just that it’s a little easier to lie to her than it is to explain some things. You’ll learn what I mean if you ever get married.”
Hewey shook his head. “I don’t reckon I’ll ever get married, then, because I’ve never told a lie in all my life.”
Brother Averill returned carrying a plate loaded with chicken, red beans and biscuits. One by one the other men came out. Alvin said, “We better go in, Hewey. The womenfolks won’t eat till we’re all fed.”
Not until Alvin and Hewey went into the house did Julio trust himself to follow, the last of the men to go. Eve was standing at the plain old wooden table forking pieces of chicken onto everybody’s plate. Hewey expected her to give him a couple of necks and a back, but she gave him drumsticks. Her eyes weren’t warm, exactly, but the frost was gone. Cora was too busy fussing over her husband’s welfare to pay any attention to Hewey, which was just as well.
Miss Renfro stood at the bread pan. She said, “You look like a big biscuit-eater to me, Mr. Calloway. How many do you want, five or six?”
They were big biscuits. Hewey said, “Five’s enough. I don’t want to look like a hog.”
She smiled. It was the first time he had really looked at her. She wasn’t a pretty woman; he supposed many people would consider her plain, and somewhat skinny at that. But the smile was pleasant. While she wore it, in the dim light of the kitchen, she would almost pass for pretty. And he would bet she wasn’t too far over thirty. Well, not forty, anyway.
He poured the coffee for himself. While he was at it he poured one for Julio too. Hewey noticed that Eve had given Julio mostly chicken wings, but he was glad to see that Miss Renfro hadn’t shorted him on biscuits. Julio did like biscuits, especially when he had plenty of syrup to sop them in. Hewey reached up into a cabinet and brought down a bucket of molasses. “Here’s the lick, Hooley. Move them biscuits over and I’ll pour some on your plate.”
He took one of his drumsticks and exchanged it for one of Julio’s wings. “Always was a little partial to the wing,” he said.
After everyone had eaten, Eve let Tommy and Lester carry the freezers into the house. Soon they were back, each carrying a freezer dash standing in a bowl. They seated themselves on the step and eagerly went to work spooning off the ice cream that clung to the paddles.
Down at the chinaberry grove, two sets of freight wagons had pulled up for the night. Presently the teamsters came up leading their mule teams to water them at the house windmill. Eve shouted at Walter, “You tell Blue Hannigan for them not to go fixin’ anything to eat. We’ve got a-plenty left right here.”
Walter walked out and invited the freighters to eat with the rest of the crowd, an invitation they accepted without hesitation or false show of reluctance.
Tommy was chagrined. Hewey heard him tell the nester boy, “That big one’s Blue Hannigan. He eats like one of his mules. We better get all the ice cream we want before he starts, because he sure won’t leave us any.”
About that time Hewey’s horse, Biscuit, came up to the corrals from the horse pasture where he was confined. Hewey walked out to look at him, to try to see if the lameness had improved any. Biscuit stood outside the closed gate, shut off from the feed and from the horses and mules that had put in the day at work. Hewey opened the gate and let him in. He found the troughs empty, so he poured some oats for Biscuit, confident that the horse wouldn’t let the others steal any of it.
As Hewey turned toward the house, he saw the schoolteacher walking toward him. She was a tall woman and thin, her plain gray dress almost sweeping the ground. In her hand she held a coffee cup with a spoon sticking out of it. “You’re about to miss the ice cream, Mr. Calloway. We ran out of bowls. I hope the cup will do.”
“You didn’t have to bring it all the way out here to me, but I’m much obliged.”
“No trouble. I didn’t want to see you miss out.”
She handed him the cup. Awkwardly he wondered if courtesy didn’t indicate that he ought to give her the first bite, but there was only one spoon. Most people were a little squeamish about things like that, and he figured that as a schoolteacher she surely would be.
“I sure thank you, Miss…” He stammered, for somehow her name had slipped away from him.
“Renfro. Spring Renfro. I am the boys’ teacher.”
“Thank you, Miss Renfro.” He knew he shouldn’t ask, but he did it anyway. “How’d you come to have a name like Spring?”
“I was born in April. My mother said it had been a long winter, and she was glad to see Spring.”
He looked at the sparkle in her eyes and decided the name fitted her. He said, “I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Hewey Calloway.”
She smiled, and again her plainness disappeared. “I want you to rest assured, Mr. Calloway, that I know where the bottle came from. I have come across many of Alvin Lawdermilk’s hiding places.”
The country schoolhouse stood at the Lawdermilk ranch headquarters. Other teachers had stayed at the same place in years past. Cora Lawdermilk, who had lost one child in infancy and had never been able to have another, seemed to enjoy the company. It was also good to have someone extra around to help see after her semi-invalid old mother, whose legs were slow but whose sharp tongue was swift.
“Good folks, the Lawdermilks,” he said. “Good place they’ve got.” It was an empty statement, but she flustered him a little, like schoolteachers usually did. He didn’t want to say much because he knew his grammar bespoke more of the barn than of the schoolhouse.
“I hope the ice cream is good,” she said.
He nodded. “Fine. Just fine.” He sensed that she was giving him an opportunity to initiate a conversation, and he was doing a damn poor job of it. He asked, “You come from back east, I suppose?”
“Not very far east. Just East Texas.”
“We was born in East Texas, too, me and Walter. Been a long time since we left. You was probably no more than a little girl.” It struck him too late that he was making a judgment about her age, a judgment one didn’t make about strange women, or even those he knew well.
She seemed to take no offense. “It has been a while since I was a little girl.”
“Yes’m,” he agreed.
He didn’t know what else to say, and the sound of a vehicle approaching from beyond the barn saved him from the necessity of saying anything. He stepped out to the side, where he could see better. It was unusual for company to come from that direction, that of the French place, where he had spent the better part of the day helping put up the windmill. Hewey squinted. He made out that this was a buggy, drawn by a pair of grays.
Spring Renfro said, “That will be Mr. C. C. Tarpley.” Her voice took on a tinge of distaste. “And I suppose the gentleman with him will be Mr. Frank Gervin.”
“We all call him ‘Fat,’” Hewey said. He noted her displeasure. “There’s some who wouldn’t call him a gentleman.”
“Including myself.” She started in a brisk walk back toward the house, seeming not to want to be outside when the buggy arrived. Hewey walked slower, eating the ice cream and watching her. For an old maid schoolteacher she seemed to have a right smart of judgment. The fact that she didn’t like Fat Gervin was proof of that. His smooth manners around the womenfolk were reported to have fooled some of them, awhile.
All the men were standing up by the time C. C. Tarpley brought the buggy to a stop, a testament to the respect—if not liking—which people felt for the rapacious old cowman. They hadn’t stood up for Fat Gervin’s sake, Hewey reflected.
Walter stepped forward and extended his hand. “Howdy, Mr. Tarpley. Git down; git down.”
Back in the days when Walter had been working for him it had always been “C. C.” not “Mr. Tarpley.” That, Hewey decided, was the difference between simply working for a man and borrowing money from him.
“Just passin’, Walter,” Tarpley said. “Heard you-all was puttin’ up a windmill on the French place. Came by and found you’d already finished.”
“Had plenty of help,” Walter said, waving his hand toward the other visitors. Hewey noted that the two Tarpley cowboys had somehow melted out of sight, probably behind the house. It wouldn’t do them any good. Hewey would bet a dollar to a plugged nickle that the sharp-eyed old man had already spotted their horses in the corral. He wasn’t one to miss anything.
Eve Calloway opened the screen door and moved out onto the step. “Mr. Tarpley, we’ve still got plenty left to eat. You and Mr. Gervin get down and come on in.”
Fat Gervin looked hopefully at his father-in-law. Tarpley said, “Eve, we sure do appreciate the invitation, but we ain’t hardly got the time.” About then he spotted the ice-cream freezers by the step. “You still got some ice cream too?”
Eve assured him they did. Tommy’s face fell; he had counted on getting to clean out the last of it.
C. C. said, “Then I reckon we’ll just take time.” His decision was clearly popular with his son-in-law, who could sometimes move with surprising swiftness for a man of his bulk. The buggy seat seemed to rise three inches on its springs when Gervin stepped down.
Hewey frowned as he watched Fat. He had never been able to trust a man who had slick hands and wore a coat in the summertime.
While C. C. and Fat were in the house, the two Tarpley cowboys quickly said their good-byes and beat a hasty retreat to the barn. They rode off in a northerly direction where they could not be seen, though the camp where they lived was in the opposite direction. They would get there; it would just take longer this way.
The crowd had fallen silent. It was odd, Hewey thought, how deadening an effect one rich old man could have on a conversation. Fat Gervin, between bites, set up a one-sided dialogue that was more lecture than conversation, all about the state of the nation’s economy and the alarming growth of the national debt and such as that. Hewey surmised that he had been spending a lot of time in Tarpley’s bank lately and reading banker publications. Five years ago Fat couldn’t have counted a herd of cattle, much less figure up the national debt.
Tommy’s worst fears materialized. Eve scraped the very last of the ice cream out for C. C. and Fat. The old rancher sat in the chair Walter had vacated for him and ate with gusto while Fat continued a long discourse on the struggle between management and labor.
C. C. said, “In my day I’ve seen a lot of changes come over this country, and I’ve been opposed to almost every one of them. But one thing I was never opposed to was ice cream. This is bully stuff, Eve, bully stuff.”
“Glad you like it, Mr. Tarpley. We’d freeze some more, but there isn’t enough ice. Mr. Phelps was kind enough to bring us what he had.”
C. C. looked toward the storekeeper. “I’m told there are people who are actually buyin’ ice to put in their drinkin’ water, Pierson. Is that true?” He didn’t give the storekeeper time to answer. “A dangerous thing, gettin’ people accustomed to luxury like that. One luxury leads to another, and pretty soon they’ll get to thinkin’ they ought to have ice water every Sunday, and maybe even durin’ the week. Get people spoiled to luxury and pretty soon it’s not a luxury anymore, it’s a necessity. It’s a terrible waste of this country’s resources. There ought to be a law passed right now to stop it.” He paused. “But there ought to never be any law against ice cream.”
Eve picked up the bowl when Tarpley was through with it, and she waited for Gervin to finish his.
C. C. Tarpley stood up. Fat, always watching him for his cues, did likewise. Old Tarpley looked around a little, taking in the house, the barn, the fences and general improvements. “You’ve done a right smart with this place, Walter.”
“We’ve done the best we could.”
The old man frowned. “That windmill you put up today … I looked through the bank records, and I couldn’t find where you had borrowed any money from us to pay for it.”
“It wasn’t a new mill, Mr. Tarpley.”
“It still cost money, even for an old one. You got to drill the hole, and I could tell there was some new lumber and fixin’s went into the mill. Just about everything you’ve got is mortgaged to our bank. I was just kind of curious where you got the money, Walter.”
Hewey frowned at the implication.
Walter said, “My boy Cotton helped Old Man Maxey drill the well. In return for the old man’s time and the use of his machinery, my boy’s goin’ to give him three weeks’ labor when school is out. I haven’t mortgaged my boy’s labor.”
Tarpley grunted, partially satisfied. “But there’s still the mill. How’d you pay for the mill?”
“It was a damaged one that had fallen over, south of Midland. It didn’t cost me much. Back when it was still too early to plant, I throwed my team and wagon in with Blue’s freightin’ outfit haulin’ lumber from the railroad in Midland. Four loads earned me enough to buy the windmill and the lumber it taken to patch it up.”
That seemed to set C. C.’s mind at ease, but it simply launched Fat Gervin on another harangue. As an understudy to the old man he was trying hard to acquire C. C.’s inborn meanness with a dollar. He said, “You know, Walter, our bank has got a mortgage on that wagon and team. What if somethin’ had happened to them while you was workin’ on that job? And what about the unusual wear and tear? When a man is borrowin’ he owes it to the institution to take good care of his collateral and see that it ain’t in no way impaired or demeaned.”
Tarpley nodded in surprised silence, noting with some pleasure that his hard-taught lessons might be starting to take root.
Fat got started on how great and indispensable an institution the bank had been in the development of the nation, and how everybody owed it to his country as a patriotic duty to stand four-square with the bank at all times.
Occasionally, when Hewey was in a mood of philosophical generosity, he would rationalize Fat’s shortcomings and tell himself Fat wasn’t altogether to blame. Maybe Hewey and a lot of others like him were at fault too. Cowboys could be merciless in hoorawing the misfit, the inept, the unwilling. He would tell himself that they probably drove Fat inward with their ridicule, making him sullen and mean. But Hewey’s spasms of nobility usually dissipated quickly, and he would recover his standing conviction that sons of bitches are born, not made.
He had heard enough about banks in the last ten minutes to satisfy whatever curiosity might arise in him for the next three or four years. He moved away from the crowd, looking toward the barn and thinking he probably ought to go run Biscuit back into the horse pasture.
He noticed the teacher’s red dog making his way from one bush, one weed, to another, pausing briefly at certain ones to raise a leg and leave his signature. The boys’ black dog followed at a respectful distance, sniffing at each such imprint and endorsing it.
Hewey looked over his shoulder toward Fat. The devil began to jab sinfully but deliciously at him. Fat’s back was turned, and his jaw was still operating at a hearty pace. Hewey looked toward the house to make sure none of the women were outside to witness his surrender to temptation. They wouldn’t understand. No properly modest woman knew much about male bodily functions, be they animal or human.
He fished a jackknife from his pocket and walked to a tall green weed upon which the red dog’s greeting still clung in amber droplets. Carefully he bent over, holding the top of the weed with his left hand while he gingerly sliced through the base, taking pains not to shake it enough to dislodge the drops. Walking as if he were stepping on eggs, he carried it up behind Fat Gervin.
Most of the men were watching Hewey in quiet fascination, but they did not give him away.
He bent and shook the weed, managing to splatter a goodly amount of the dog’s scent on the lower part of Fat’s left trouser leg, at about ankle level. Fat was so busy talking that he never noticed. He might have wondered why Alvin Lawdermilk so suddenly turned around and covered his face, or why the dour Dutchman, Schneider, smiled, but he never let it interfere with the point he was making that most of the progress in this country resulted from the selfless generosity of a noble bank.
That had been the extent of the prank insofar as Hewey had envisioned it. In his own quiet way he had made a statement about Fat Gervin without Fat even knowing about it.
Hewey hadn’t considered the black dog. That innocent animal, which had followed Hewey’s strange motions with curiosity, sniffed at Fat Gervin’s trousers, found there an invitation, hoisted his leg and saluted.
First startled, then enraged, Fat let out an oath that would have blistered the ears of the womenfolk if they had been outside to hear. He fetched the black dog a savage kick that sent the bewildered animal flying. As the dog ran off howling in surprise and pain, Fat tried in vain to shake the shame from his trousers.
Alvin Lawdermilk was doubled over, slapping his knee uncontrollably and gasping for breath. Pierson Phelps had choked on his pipe. Teamster Blue Hannigan got up and walked over to the house, leaning against it with his back turned, his shoulders bouncing. The Mexican laughed aloud, which added to Fat Gervin’s rage.
Turning, Fat saw Hewey standing behind him, trying for Alvin Lawdermilk’s saintly expression of infant innocence. Fat seemed to sense that Hewey might be in some way the author of his embarrassment. The suspicion deepened, and he clenched his fists. His eyes strained from their sockets.
Hewey blinked in bland curiosity as if he had missed the whole thing.
Old C. C. had missed it, his back turned. He stared now in consternation. “What’s goin’ on here, Fat?” He looked down. “Spilled your coffee on you again, hunh? I swear, boy, sometimes you’re left-handed on both sides.” He noticed then the angry way Fat was staring at Hewey, trying to confirm his suspicions. C. C. seemed to sense that it was time they left.
“Folks,” he said, making no attempt to hide his puzzlement, “we enjoyed the supper and the company, but tomorrow’s another workin’ day. We got to be at the bank on time in the mornin’.” He paused, studying his son-in-law but not fathoming the reason for Fat’s anger. “Some of you folks might not’ve heard. I’ve decided to spend a lot more time with my cattle and a lot less with the bankin’ end of the business. I’ve turned the responsibility of the bank over to Fat”—he corrected himself—“to Frank here. If you folks have business with the bank, he’ll be the one you want to go and see. I’ll be at the ranch.” He started toward the buggy, then stopped to look back for his son-in-law. “You comin’, ain’t you, boy?”
Fat hadn’t been a boy in twenty years, but he mumbled, “Yes sir.” He tore his eyes away from Hewey and followed the old man. He tried to hold his trouser leg away from his boot while he climbed into the buggy. He never looked back as they rode away.
Alvin Lawdermilk couldn’t restrain himself. He broke into another fit of hilarity, wilder than the first. Soon he was lying on the ground, beating the packed earth with his fist. His laughter was contagious. It swept the other men and continued until some of them were bent over in pain.
Hewey, laughing with them, noticed that Walter seemed not to be sharing their mirth. He was watching the buggy disappear down the winding trail toward town, his face solemn.
Cora Lawdermilk came out presently and stared at her husband. “You men! There’s not an ounce of shame in a carload of you. You’ve been tellin’ those shady stories again, I can tell. And in the presence of the minister. Shame on all of you.”
Hewey had noticed that the minister had laughed as hard as any of them, except of course Alvin. If laughter could ever be fatal, there was no hope for Alvin Lawdermilk.
The minister had gained Hewey’s respect.
Cora said, “Alvin, dark’s comin’. Time we started for home.”
The rest decided their holiday was over too. Pierson Phelps pumped Hewey’s hand. “Hewey, you come by the store first time you get a chance to go to town. Drummer left me a sample of cigars he wanted me to try. I’d like to see what you think of them.”
The Dutchman said, “You come in sometime, Hewey. For you I will save back a bottle of the best we have. No cost. A gift for the thing you did to that Fat Gervin.” They pulled away.
Julio Valdez hitched the Lawdermilk team and brought the buckboard around. Alvin climbed into the seat and let Cora struggle up by herself. The schoolteacher called for her dog, which jumped into the back of the vehicle; it was smarter than the boys’ dog. She turned to Hewey, glanced around to see that no one else would hear and said quietly, “I was looking out the window a while ago, Mr. Calloway. I saw what happened to Frank Gervin.”
Hewey reddened. “You wasn’t meant to see that, ma’am.” He floundered, trying to think of something to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t go to offend you.”
“Offend me? I was tickled to death. In all my life I never saw a more befitting gesture.” She gave him her slender hand. “Would you assist me, please?”
He gave her a lift up into the buckboard seat beside Cora and Alvin. Julio took his place on the back, his short legs hanging over. The dog moved up beside him and licked his hand, knowing no prejudice.
Tommy stood beside Hewey, helping him watch the Lawdermilk group disappear into the dusk.
Hewey said, “Button, you boys have got yourselves a real teacher. I’ll bet you learn somethin’ every day.”
Soon the last of the visitors had gone. The teamsters had returned to their camp beneath the chinaberries. Eve called the boys to take the scraps down to the hog pen. Hewey took a seat in a rawhide-bottomed chair and stared at the trail where everybody had gone. He got to chuckling again, remembering Fat Gervin.
Walter seemed to read his thoughts. He pulled up another chair and sat awhile in moody silence. Finally he ventured, “Looks like to me you pleased everybody but Fat.”
Hewey nodded. “Looks like. I hope he didn’t hurt the boys’ dog.”
“I don’t reckon. But he could sure hurt us.”
Hewey’s grin faded. “How?”
“You heard C. C. say he’s all but turned the bank over to him. When we bought the French place we taken out a note, puttin’ up this farm for security. Big part of it is due this fall. The way the late rains delayed plantin’, we could find ourselves hubbin’ up against the due date before we’ve got the money. I might’ve been able to reason with old C. C. But now I’ll have to talk to Fat Gervin instead.”
Hewey frowned. “I didn’t know nothin’ about that. It was just that he was blowin’ so hard…”
“You never was one to fret much about consequences. I just hope Fat doesn’t find out for sure what happened to him here.”