Annie Proulx - That Old Ace in the Hole

“I spose you want a be a cattleboy,” drawled the multicolored beard whose name was Carrol Day, a curiously feminine name, thought Martin, not yet acquainted with the bearded Marions, Fannys and Abbys of Texas who, saddled by their unthinking mothers with dainty names, built savagely masculine frames of character.

“I believe I’m too old to be a boy again of any kind.”

“Age don’t matter. Some a the pertest cowboys is pushin seventy summers. Lookit old Whitey here,” nodding at the tall man who was wrapping rawhide around the helve and head of an axe. “He’s most eighty and he’s more cowboy than any ten ordinaries.”

“He’s a cowboy ?”

“Hell yes. Been up the trail to Montana what, twenty times?”

“Twenty-two. And that was enough. It’s too cold up there. Snows all summer. You git paid there’s no place to spend your money. Just turn around and come back to Texas.”

“What about Miles City? What about Cheyenne? What about Denver? I understand you paid them towns a visit on your return journeys many a time.”

“My money was gettin too heavy. Anyway, Martin here don’t want a be no cowboy or no storekeeper. I’n see he’s got bigger ideas in mind.”

“I was thinking about the stock-driving business.”

Both men began to scream with laughter. Carrol got down on the dirt floor and rolled, moaning, “Oh my sweet cabbage patch, ‘the stock-drivin business.’”

“You idiot,” said Klattner. “Make it in the stock-drivin business, you got to know cows like you know your own tweedle-dee. You got to have cowboyed, got to know the markets and men. You have to sweet-talk crazy farmers and handle Indans. We just got burned alive, me and Whitey, in the stock-drivin business. Stampedes, Indan troubles, blueburnin Kansas farmers – ”

“Indians?”

“Hell, they’re no bother,” said Carrol. “Just give em one a your cows and they leave you alone. A course after fifty donations you’re down fifty cows.”

“They can be trouble,” said the other. “There’s Quanah Parker. And others. There was that clock salesman – ”

He didn’t want to hear about the clock salesman again.

“I could run a store,” whispered Martin Fronk, giving up his plans to become a rancher or cattle drover. The waterholes were too chancy.

The next day he felt distinctly better, packed his suitcase and asked his hosts if they could spare one of their horses so he could get to Woolybucket.

“You buyin or borrowin?”

“I’m agreeable to purchase one of your steeds. Preferably one that is docile and of gentle disposition.”

“That one died last year. But we can let you have that sorrel gelding for twenty dollars. He’s got two names: You Son of a Bitch and Grasshopper. He don’t like grass a wave in the breeze and when it does so he hops. You purchase old Grasshopper and we’ll draw your wagon in next week. See if you can’t git that store away from Doc Mugg and do right by the town.”

The other added his advice. “And, if you do, lay in plenty coffee. And keep your supply wagon outn reach a them damn red sloughs. Look like dry riverbed places along the Canadian but you break through to the mud, stickier than boiled molasses mixed with glue, and eight hunderd foot deep. It’s happened.”

You Son of a Bitch disliked waving grass, birds, distant riders, prairie dogs, clouds, saddles and, as Martin Fronk came into the outskirts of Woolybucket, black-and-white dogs. One of the last named sent him into paroxysms of bucking until Martin departed the saddle. The horse stood trembling, facing the barking dog. Martin picked up a few stones and threw them accurately and hard at the dog, which ran yipping to a ragged tent. The side of the tent was painted with letters: GEN’L STOR DF MUGG MD PROP.

He went inside the tent. There was an ungodly welter of stuff, from unfurled yard goods to bullwhips.

“Got any coffee?” he asked the shambling wreck entangled in a bolt of blue daisy cotton. Was that a banjo on the cold stove?

“June. Didn’t send it yet. Come back in June, sir.”

He left, wondering if he’d seen the fabled Dr. Mugg, thinking he could run that store with his head in a bag and hobbles on his ankles.

Bob Dollar thought LaVon’s Busted Star Ranch, a little north of the Canadian River, a beautiful place. For the first time in his life he saw what extraordinary personal privacy a ranch family enjoyed. If he really were looking for a site to develop luxury homes this would be it. La Von told him the ranch had been mixed-grass grazing land – bluestem, buffalo grass, gramma, wheat grass and Indian grass – when the first settlers came into the country in the late nineteenth century. Moises Harshberger, her peripatetic grandfather, arrived in the panhandle as a young man in 1879, a year after her husband’s ancestor Fronk had taken over Mugg’s store.

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