38

WELL, SO MUCH for that theory. It looked like sleeping on a problem wasn’t going to be good enough this time. He woke up with no solutions. What he did have when his eyes popped open was a gnawing hunger that rumbled and growled in his belly.

He’d kinda forgotten what being hungry feels like. It had been . . . what? He had to think back quite a piece . . . more than twenty years since the last time he was out of work and not knowing where that next meal was coming from. Most of that time had been right here in the basin, but he’d been employed steady before that, too.

For all those years there’d been a cook somewhere in the vicinity to serve up his grub, working out of a proper kitchen or off the tailgate of a wagon or sometimes out of a pack. But there’d never been any worries about finding a bite to eat.

And this time, of course, it was just a matter of connecting with the right outfit. He was sure of that. In the meantime he still had plenty enough money to buy his own meals.

It was just that up here there wasn’t any cook to turn to nor eatery to buy from and he hadn’t come away from Bonner with a poke of supplies to carry him like he would’ve if he had anticipated being here.

And, Lordy, he was sure enough hungry now. The late lunch Mr. Sipes gave him yesterday had been fine. But that was yesterday. This was now. And he was for dang sure hungry again.

He gathered up his things—not that there was so much to gather—and saddled Suzy’s horse.

Once they got down to the flat, Bonner was still a good many hours away and Jug’s gut was grumbling all the louder. The closest place where he could bum a meal would be the M Bar C but he wouldn’t be caught dead asking for a handout there. The next closest, of course, was the Circle G, which wouldn’t take him out of his way more than six or seven miles.

Jug wondered how Mr. Sipes was at making breakfasts.

 

“Whatever you’d like, just name it. I’ll cook it. You want a steak? I can cut you one. Flapjacks? Hoecake?”

“Hoecakes? Like with cornmeal and all?”

“You must be from Texas. Sure I can make you some hoecakes. Best you’ll ever taste and cane sweetenin’ to pour over them. How about a nice steak to go with that? You name it.”

“You didn’t act so accommodating yesterday,” Jug ventured.

“That was before you walloped that son of a bitch Poole. Damn, it made me feel good to see him lying there puking his guts out.”

Jug laughed. “He did that, did he?”

“I don’t think he could get up off the ground for ten minutes after you left outa here,” Sipes said, “and I enjoyed every one of those minutes, believe me.”

“Not popular here, is he?”

“Not hardly. Abe is a good man. Treats everybody decent. I just wish everybody treated him as good.”

“I know what you mean.” Jug thought maybe the Circle G would be a good place to hire on. That would have to wait until Abe got back from selling the beeves. But it was a thought. Sounded like he’d have an ally in the Circle G cookhouse if he wanted to wait that long.

In the meantime . . . “Hoecakes sound mighty good right now, Mr. Sipes,” he said. “And maybe some salt pork fried up nice an’ crisp to go along with them?”

“You’re a Southern boy, all right,” Sipes said. “Pour yourself some coffee and have a seat. I’ll have your hoecakes on the table in no time.”