Rhizomania, Part 1
Doran’s new mulehide boots looked handsome, even as the leather was dusted with settling particles of Nebraska silt. As he climbed the clay path leading away from Shorty’s river-stone house, Doran looked down at his feet now and then. The brown mulehide leather over the insteps, stitched rough side out, contrasted with the smooth leather of the stovepipe tops. The squared-off toes, the mitred ends of the pull straps, and the leaf-pattern stitching were all good to look at. Stiff as they were, the new brown boots felt good, too. Shorty had beveled the edges of the inner strip that served as a back stay, so there was no rubbing at the backs of Doran’s heels. Shorty disapproved of men wearing “stockin’s” and since Doran had come to the homestead, his feet had come to know smooth boot leather very well. Now, as he climbed the path, he could tell from the firm flex of the insoles that Shorty had flattened a pair of forty-penny nails and inserted one in the left boot and one i