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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Learning Gentle Ways
By Bob Burnett
It took me the better part of a day to drive that cow and calf to town. The old brindle cow was rank and wild and wanted no part of me, but would not stray far from her calf. Mostly I drove the calf and kept a sharp eye on the cow, for she would stick a horn in my horse if she could.
When I first saw the reworked brand on that calf, I felt the old familiar call to battle well up inside of me, the rage narrowing my mind to the single purpose of causing serious bodily harm to whoever crossed me. The old me, the man I was trying not to be, said it was time for a gun and a rope. The new me, the man I wanted to be, said it was time to give the matter to the law. The new me won out, but it was a close thing for a little bit.
I held a tight rein on my temper and brought the pair to town, doing what I knew to be right, never mind that it felt like a coward's way. I'd always been one to stomp my own snakes and turning to the law was hard indeed. By the time we hit Front Street and moved down to Riley's Livery Stable, sunset had come and gone and I had mostly settled the matter in my mind. Mostly.
"Jim," I hollered at the hostler. "Open a gate."
Old Jim gawked at me, him not being able to see much past the end of his nose, and then hobbled over to open the gate to a holding pen. I chased the calf in and the cow followed.
I circled the pen, rode out, closed and latched the gate, then stepped down from my sorrel gelding. Handing the reins to Jim, I said, "Give him a bait of oats and rub him down. Then put him in a near pasture for the night. I'll not need him 'til morning. Leave my gear in the tack room. I reckon I'll bed down in the loft tonight."
"Shore thing, Mister Peabody."
"Appreciate it, Jim. Keep an eye out that nobody messes with that cow and calf."
I tossed my hat on a post, splashed water from the horse trough on my face, and wiped down with my kerchief. I combed my hair back with my fingers and set my Stetson back on square. That would do for now.
The town was mostly quiet in the early evening, except for the rinky-tink piano noise coming through the bat wing doors at the Nugget Saloon where a half dozen horses stood hip-shot at the hitch rail. Somebody was loading supplies in a buckboard at Walker's Emporium. Those two places and Mary's Café showed the only lights on Front Street.
I headed toward the café instead of the saloon. I'd not spent much time in drinking places since I'd decided to change my ways. Whiskey and gentle ways did not go together for me. Time was I would wrap myself around a bottle of who-shot-john and it brought me all sorts of grief. Not to mention the grief it brought to folks who happened across my path.
Been a few years since I’d let that wild streak in me run free. I thought it was fun when I was a kid, let her rip and devil take the hindmost, but I'd had about all of that kind of fun a body could stand.
I went directly to the café.
A bell jingled over the door when I went in the café. Two men, drummers from the look of their clothes, sat at a table on the far side, hunched over pie and coffee. Mary sat at the end of the long counter, turning to see who had come in the door. She let out a squeal like a pig caught under a gate and come running at me with a smile that lit up her whole face.
"Bill Peabody," she says. "I ain't seen you in a coon's age."
"I'll swear, woman, you get purtier every year. I'm some surprised you're still here. Would a thought some knight on a white horse would a carted you off by now."
"Why, you know there ain't nobody for me but you!"
We both laughed and walked arm in arm back to the end of the counter. I set me down on the stool next to hers. Truth to tell, Mary was the reason I decided to change my ways and for the most part I have gentled out. The last time I asked her to marry me she said she would think about it, which was much better than what she’d said the three times I asked her before that. The first time I asked her she said she’d marry me the day the devil opened an ice cream parlor in Hell.
"So how ya been, Bill?"
"Happy as a gopher in soft dirt. You?"
"I'm good."
"How 'bout you rustle me up some grub? I ain't had nothin' to eat since before daylight and my belly is startin’ to wonder if my throat has been cut."
She laughed, poured me a cup of coffee, and headed back to the kitchen. I could hear her back there banging pots and pans around. Mary fixed me up a platter of steak, eggs, fried spuds, and sourdough bread slathered with butter. She set with me, sipping her coffee and chatting, while I demolished my supper.
The drummers paid for their pie and coffee, left an extra dime on the table for Mary, and left the café. When we were alone Mary asked, "So what brings you to town besides a decent meal and a visit with old friends?"
"One of my cows has a calf with a different brand.”
“You sure it’s her calf?’
“Yep. Me and the cow is both sure it’s her calf. My Bar P got worked into a Rocking R, and a sloppy job it was at that. I don't recall ever seeing a Rocking R around here."
"Oh, lord," she said. "That's a new outfit over to the west of town. Came in driving a herd a couple of months ago. Owner is a man name of Larson. Seems to have plenty of money. Heard he bought the Smith ranch over on Sand Creek."
"Well, I'm shore glad I've gentled out. Made me a mite irritated when I saw that reworked brand. Time was I might have got bad tempered about it, but I just brought them to town for Sheriff Bixby to look at."
"Maybe that ain't the best idea you ever had, Bill. This Larson seems to have Bixby in his pocket. Bixby acts like Larson is some sort of royalty.”
“That’s interesting. I reckon I’ll know more about how the stick floats after I see what Bixby does about that rebranded calf.”
“I reckon you will.”
“Larson might reconsider his ways if I asked him real nice to stay off my ranch.”
“I’ve seen how you ask real nice, Bill Peabody. You figger to ask real nice before or after you start shooting folks? I’ve told you before, Bill, I can’t see no future with a man what is likely to be brought home draped over his saddle. I just won’t have it!”
“Now you know I’ve give up my rough ways, Mary. I ain’t whupped nobody in over a year and ain’t shot nobody in pert near two years. Mary, I’ve changed my ways and I'll not start down that trail again. I’ll let Bixby take care of it.”
“And if he don’t?”
“Mayhap we’ll need to vote him out of office and elect us a new sheriff what ain't beholdin' to nobody.”
“You mean that?”
“You bet. All things legal and peaceable,” I said, and I meant every word of it. Yes, siree, nothing was going to change my gentle ways. Mary would see that I’m a changed man.
I bedded down in the loft to stay close to the rebranded calf. Next morning I walked over to the Sheriff’s office and found Bixby sitting at his desk, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. I told him I had a misbranded calf and we walked back to the livery so he could check for himself. I waited at the rail while he checked the calf.
“I believe you’re wrong about that calf,” he said. I waited. Bixby looked down, then away from me as he continued. “Yes, I believe the cow adopted an orphan calf. What I think happened was that she had lost her calf and something had happened to one of Larson’s cows that had a calf, and your cow adopted the orphan calf.” He would not meet my eyes. I waited. He finally looked at me.
I just stood and looked at him, not speaking. Finally, he said, “Well, you can think what you want, but that is my ruling. This matter is closed.”
I turned and headed into the livery. To my back he said, “You start any trouble over this and I’ll throw you in jail, Peabody.”
I turned to look at him. His face was red and a bead of sweat broke on his forehead and ran down his nose. I thought he had a look of guilty fear about him, and he no doubt had some memories of me using my guns and fists to make a point or settle a dispute. Back before I gave up on my wicked ways I might have done something rash, never mind that he wore a badge. Dishonest folks seem to bring out the worst in me, particular them that’s supposed to uphold the law. This was about what I had expected, but Bixby was beginning to rile me some.
“Whatever Larson is paying you, Bixby,” I said, “it ain’t enough. I done the right thing, bringin' the matter to the law, but I see which way the wind blows. You ain’t a fool nor a tenderfoot. That calf’s got an old brand with fresh scabs on the leg of the R and the rocker under it. Changed my Bar P to a Rockin’ R. Sloppy job at that. You won't take care of it, Bixby, so I'll do it myself. Best thing you can do for yourself now is stay out of my way. When I finish with them what done this, you and me is gonna have a talk about a new job for you someplace far from here. You’re all done here.”
I caught up my sorrel and saddled up. Before I mounted, I took my old Colt and holster out of my saddle bags, checked the loads, and belted up. I hardly ever wore a handgun now, but it seemed like a good idea this morning. I also checked the Winchester in my saddle scabbard.
The gelding was a mite feisty but I held him in until we cleared the last building on the west side of town, then I gave him his head and he wanted to run. He moved right along for a half mile or so, then settled into the mile-eating trot that was his best gait.
Five hundred yards out from Larson’s Rocking R ranch buildings, I slowed him to a walk. Horses were in the near corral, but nobody was in sight. A curtain stirred at an upstairs window. No doubt a gun was waiting up there for me.
I stopped twenty feet from the house and sat with both hands resting on the pommel, my horse turned a bit to the left so my right side, and my holstered Colt, was toward the house.
The first thing I noticed about the man that came out the door was that he was not wearing a gun. He wore black pants tucked into polished boots, a white shirt with a string tie, and a black vest with a gold watch chain strung from one pocket to the other. He was clean-shaved except for a drooping light brown mustache, the same color as his hair which had been cut recent. His nose was a mite big for his face and separated two of the palest light blue eyes I ever saw, set back under a ridge of bone covered with wooly eyebrows that almost met over his nose. When he hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets, I could see that those hands had never done a lick of hard work. They were whitish, and looked to be soft. Those might be a gambler's hands or a bookkeeper's hands, but sure not a cattleman's hands.
He stepped to the edge of the long porch and four men came out the door one after the other, spreading out with two on each side of him. All wore six-guns like they were comfortable with them. Three were strangers, but I knew the fourth man.
"My name's Peabody. I own the Bar P." I spoke loud enough for the hidden gunman to hear.
"Yes. Your reputation precedes you. One of the boys told me your name when you rode in. Won't you step down? Come in and have some coffee."
"I reckon not. I don't socialize with scoundrels. Now you stand very still, Larson. You even twitch and I'll figure you're givin' a signal to that hombre by the upstairs window. You twitch and I'll kill you where you stand. Now you call out and tell him to join you there on the porch. If he steps out with a gun in his hand I'll kill you both before you can take another breath."
"Now see here, I'm not even wearing a gun!"
"Makes no difference to me. I'll kill you just the same."
“Then what? One gun against five? You wouldn't live one minute if you shot me, Peabody! My men would blow you right off that horse!"
"I reckon. But you'd be dead before me."
He stood rock-still and looked at me for about as long as it would take to make a slow count to ten, and I suppose he didn't like what he saw. I sat slouched in the saddle, relaxed, with my hands resting on the pommel. I held his eyes and could tell he did not like his position, not one little bit.
Standing stock still, he yelled, "Jim. Come down here and join us on the porch." After a bit a grizzled old man came out the door with his Colt holstered.
I looked at the men on the porch. It pained to me to see a boy who had ridden for me, a good hand, standing with this riffraff .
“Did I wrong you in some way, Joe Bob? Did I cheat you?” I said, looking at him. “Did I do something to make you turn on me this way?"
He looked down at his boots, shaking his head. "Larson was payin' a hundred a month, Mister Peabody. I hired on for the money."
"That's fightin' wages. You know it. You ready to pull down on me?"
"No, Sir. I’d shore like to ride out of here."
"Go ahead."
He stepped off the porch and started toward the barn.
"Joe Bob."
"Yeah?" He turned.
"I hear California is nice. Chicago and New York is big cities with lots of opportunities for a young man. Think about those places while you decide where you plan to live. You betrayed me, Joe Bob. I won't stand for that. I'll let you ride out of here, but you best ride fast and far. If I ever see you again, I'll kill you."
He put his head down and walked off toward the barn without saying a word.
"I don't know the rest of you," I said, looking up and down the line of four remaining men that stood with Larson. "Are you willing to die for a coward who won't even wear a gun? You work for wages while he takes all the money. You gamble your lives and he believes he is safe because he will not arm himself. Well, it don't work that way, boys."
I looked steady at each man in the line for a brief moment. "Larson stole from me and he will die here today. The only question is how many of you will die with him. He don't have a choice. He's still standin' there but he's dead as a beaver hat. When he dies your fightin' wages are gone, too."
Larson was shaking like he had a touch of the ague. His hands gripped his vest and he had a spreading stain on the front of his black pants where he'd peed himself.
"Look at him, boys. Is this cowardly snake somebody you would die for? He make you proud to ride for the brand, Jim?” I directed the questions to the grizzled old man that had been upstairs since Larson had called him by name and his was the only name I knew.
Jim spit a stream of brown tobacco juice toward Larson's boot. "I hear California is right nice this time of year," he said. "By your leave, I reckon I'll light a shuck. Always did want to see that ocean."
I nodded and Jim started toward the barn, but Larson surprised me by lifting Jim's pistol from his holster. Slow he was, and he gripped the big Colt with both hands. I waited until he had the pistol cocked and was bringing it up before I drew and shot him in his left eye. Blood and brains splattered on the house and Larson went down like a puppet with the strings cut.
That was a mighty poor shootin', in my book. I aimed to hit him between the eyes and my shot was off at least an inch. At twenty feet a body should be able to hit what he aims at. Mayhap I needed practice, but I had rarely touched a hand gun lately. I figure a gentle way of life don't require guns and such.
I swiveled my Colt to cover the others. They all stood like statues. The play was over before they had time to do anything and now they faced a cocked Colt. "Anybody else?" I walked the sorrel up near the porch and they all raised their hands real slow.
"Holy Mother of God," one of 'em said, so soft it was almost a prayer.
"You gonna let us ride out of here like Jim an' Joe Bob?" another one asked.
"Do what you want. I have no quarrel with you. I'll ask that you take Larson's body into town. I reckon if you check his pockets and dig around in the house you can come up with enough cash money to bury him proper. You rode for the brand. You owe him a decent buryin'. Mayhap you can find enough cash to settle up for what was due to you. I expect you to tell folks that this was a fair shootin', that Larson drawed on me and I gave him his chance."
"Well shore do that. You gonna bring rustlin' charges against any of us?"
"Boys, I found one misbranded calf. My Bar P had been worked over into a Rockin' R and a mighty sloppy job it was, at that. Since Larson was the one that tried to shoot me over it, I figure Larson is the one that done it. If there was any rustlin' done, I don't know about it."
None of these boys looked like gun slicks off the owl hoot trail, just tough cow pokes that started down the wrong path for the big wages.
"Is it all right for me to pick up my Colt?" Jim asked. I nodded and he picked up the unfired six-shooter from where the dead hand of Larson dropped it.
“This here is a fork in the trail, boys,” I said. “It is for you to decide which fork to take. If you was to find some misbranded stock and push it back to the rightful owners, look them in the eye and tell them how many you brought back, your honesty will be something they speak of for years. Texans have a long memory for that sort of thing.”
Jim stepped over and stuck out his hand. I shook it firm and one by one the others did the same. Nobody said a word. I reckon they had some thinkin’ to do.
“Might could be,” I says, turnin’ my horse, “if no heirs show up to claim ownership, you boys might end up ownin’ this place. One of you might even decide to run for Sheriff since that office will be vacant as soon as I get back to town. Something to think about.” I turned my back and rode out.
Yes, siree. I done things legal and peaceable, just like I’d told Mary I would do. Well, I was mostly peaceable. More peaceable than I would been a couple of years ago. Not countin’ that one snake what had to be stomped. I was glad the snake had showed a fang. I was set to kill him anyhow, but folks like it better when the other feller has a gun. And givin’ them ole boys a come to Jesus talk was a sight easier than buryin’ them. Yes, siree. These gentle ways could grow on a man.
I was feelin’ so good about the new me on my way back to town that I decided to talk to Mary again about becoming my wife. Mary is a special gal and now that I’m all gentled out I had me an idea that she just might marry me.
Yes, siree. That sweet Mary deserves a gentle husband.
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