Rhizomania, Part 4

Doran thought of Shorty’s rifle, tucked into the sheath on Ben’s saddle, and he couldn’t decide if it was good or bad that he and Shorty had to rely on a broken cavalry pistol jammed against his sweat-soaked lower back. The gun was snapped into its oiled-canvas case, too, because he had no holster.

Shorty rocked back and forth on his boot heels, the sandy ground gritting under the sturdy leather soles.  “Me and Doran didn’t come all the way down the road to talk about Teddy Roosevelt, Mr. Sayre.” He took the tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket, extracted a crumpled bit of wheatstraw paper and straightened it. “Your man Cesario called down to the Spanish Store and Cesario’s mama told my brother that there was inquiries about cattle. Wanting to know if they was on our side of the fence.” He dropped a pinch of tobacco into the center of the paper, smoothed it into a long dark line, then moistened the edge of the paper and rolled the cigarette into a tight cylinder.
 “Why you think I’m so ignorant?” Shorty inserted the cigarette into the corner of his mouth, scraped a match into flame, lit the cigarette, then casually flicked the burned remnant so that it made an arc between himself and Sayre before it dropped into a tuft of buffalograss.  “Everybody knows your mark — the anchor S with the hook on it — so where would we go to try and ship your cows to Chicago? Every railroad depot man along the Union Pacific line knows the Sayre mark.”

“Oh, you don’t want to sell my stock,” said Sayre, straightening his arms to brace himself against the railing.  His cigar, tucked into the fingers of his right hand, sent a bluish tendril into the air as he stared at Shorty fiercely. “That’s not what you’re about at all.  You cut the fence –“

Doran had spoken before he knew he had. “We cut the fence?”

Shorty put his hand on Doran’s shoulder to quiet him.  “Here.” He pulled the tobacco pouch and handed it, along with a match, to Doran. “Roll up something to keep your mouth closed with.”

As he waited for Sayre to add to his accusations, Shorty took a deep drag on his own cigarette. The two of them were perfect opposites: wiry Shorty, his olive skin burned very dark by the sun, his dark brown hair, in need of a cut, showing at the rim where the crown of his hat sat low on his brow. His denim shirt, mended at the left shoulder, had the sleeves rolled up tight but the shirt itself billowed around his thin body, with many tucks holding the fabric down inside his belt.

Sayre, hatless, had short-cropped red hair and creamy fair skin which the sun had populated with tiny freckles.  On the cool expanse of the front porch, he could stand comfortably without sweating in a white silk shirt, gold brocade vest, and gray-and-black striped trousers of a fine worsted wool.

Doran saw that Shorty wasn’t intimidated by the difference in circumstances between himself and the magnate, owner of this magnificent home and two large ranches north and south of the Platte River. He also knew that Shorty’s back, injured during his days with the volunteer infantry, must be roaring with burning sensations up and down the spine as he stood, rigid, resisting Sayre’s insults. But only Doran was close enough to see the deeply-etched lines which framed the sides of Shorty’s tightly-closed mouth. With every moment, they deepened.

Shorty waited, and Sayre, now pacing the porch, continued his attack, fiercely. “You cut the fence, and when my stock come on through, you give them poison in some hay or some alfalfa, or maybe you got a trough of water, or drove the cows to a pond, and you put something in there. Then you drove my cattle back through the fence and acted like you didn’t know a thing about it.” Sayre stopped pacing and pointed at Shorty.  “And now I have four dead cows and three more that’re dying, their bellies swollen up to where they can’t eat or drink.”

“That sounds like an awful complicated plan to get seven head of beef,” said Shorty. He dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground and ground it out with his boot. “Don’t you think?" He tapped his temple.  "What do you have over here, just on this ranch?  Seven, eight hundred head?  Plus some calves you had sent up from your other operation?”

“You’re after the Dexters,” said Sayre, slamming his large, freckled hands down on the railing, making the wood creak. “You know I’ve decided to sell off my Brown Swiss and Angus and start up an operation with this new Dexter breed. You and the rest of the ignoramuses around here don’t make the most of the opportunity you have, yet you blame me when I succeed and you fail.”  Sayre spat over the railing.  “Your inefficient operation wastes valuable water, while my flourishing enterprise suffers. And instead of attending to your own matters, you try to drive me out!”

Drive Sayre out? Doran turned and surveyed the huge ranch, with its many barns and outbuildings, all full to bursting with harvested crops and the latest machinery. In the distance, irrigated fields of corn, alfalfa, potatoes, and sugar beets filled acre after acre. And above it all, the huge white water tower lettered with the red components of Sayre’s name.  Here they were, two tired, hot, thirsty men standing without weapons or horses in the middle of Sayre’s compound, and Sayre accused them of trying to destroy him. Doran, following Shorty’s lead, said nothing and concentrated on his hand-rolled smoke.

“Now I’m going to be reasonable with you, though nothing in the world compels me excepting a regard for the reputation I’ve worked hard to keep unsoiled,” said Sayre. He spoke quietly but the oak and granite edifice behind him provided a natural amphitheater, letting his words travel down from the porch clearly. “I won’t have my accountant prepare the demand until we’ve seen whether I lose all seven animals.  The Angus and two of the Dexters are gone but the Brown Swiss are larger so they may pull through this.”

Shorty spoke to Doran, rather than to Sayre. “He don’t have to tell me about the Brown Swiss cows.  I went to the Brown Swiss Show at the St. Louis Fair.  They paraded that champion cow Florine that was bred as a milk-giver, and in three months’ time they got almost six thousand pounds of milk off that thousand-pound cow.  So I know about your Brown Swiss dairy cows.”

“I imagine that you recognize the value of the Brown Swiss, Angus, and Dexter cattle,” said Sayre, pretending that Shorty had spoken directly to him.  He moved to the porch steps and descended slowly, his substantial belly rippling and bouncing as he moved down tread by tread. The oak steps did not give an inch.  Sayre continued to speak as he brought his body closer and closer to the spot where his visitors held their ground. The heat of the afternoon sun brought out droplets from Sayre’s hairline, and perspiration ran down his freckled neck, dampening the collar of the silk shirt. “We get something over five dollars per hundredweight on the beef animals, six-and-a-half for the dairy cattle, and the Dexters fetch a very good price for us, starting at eight dollars the hundredweight for the full-grown animals and nine-and-quarter for the calves. Even the smallest Dexter we had weighed nine hundred pounds, so that is considerable money right there.  Doctor Morton had to stop his regular duties and forego routine care of our other stock so that he could attend to these sick and dying cows.  That disruption has brought many costs already.”

Sayre was now only an arm's length from Shorty, and his great height and girth made him seem even closer.  Sayre’s blue eyes, which seemed to come forward from his pale, freckled continent of a face, looked down upon the brim of Shorty’s Stetson.  Doran feared that the big man might spit again.  Then there would be fisticuffs, and no way around that.  Uneasily, Doran noted that Sayre wore a side piece, with the butt forward in quick-draw position.  Judging from the curved grip, hammerless design, and the size of the holster, Sayre’s gun was a “lemon squeezer,” a Smith ahnd Wesson .32. Not a powerful gun, but deadly at close range.  Was this why Sayre had chosen to come so close? He’d stepped forward to the point that a mixed aroma of Johnnie Walker, Virginia gold-flake tobacco, lilac-scented Vegetol, and sweat now filled Doran’s nostrils.

Or was it the intimacy of discussing money which drew the large cattleman so close? Now that Sayre was calculating the costs of his damage claim, his manner was more reasonable and relaxed, his voice holding the warmth of a man describing a record harvest, an infant son, or a beautiful horse.

“I will specify that no interest or accounting fees will be included in the demand, strictly the cost of the livestock and of course the repair of the fence.”

At Sayre’s mention of the damaged fence, Doran felt the heat of rage warm his entire body, and just for a moment, he wished desperately that he’d had the skill to repair the Colt cavalry gun which pushed heavily at the back of his belt. Then he could answer Sayre’s outrageous charges without fear that Shorty might fall to Sayre’s Smith & Wesson. Though Doran had never carried a weapon until the day before, he had his faith in his own ability to outdraw Sayre didn’t surprise him, somehow. A man knows what he is really capable of, if a situation gets out of control.  Doran knew if the Colt had been repaired and in a proper holster, he could have pulled the cavalry gun before Sayre could make his move, even with Sayre’s gun in its cross-draw set-up. Doran knew he could have forced Sayre to open the chamber of the .32 and spill the cartridges on the ground.

But the gun tucked behind Doran’s back wouldn’t shoot and he’d never get it out of the oiled-canvas carrier before Sayre drew. If he tried to challenge the big man, he and Shorty would be humiliated at best.  Even if fear of the law restrained Sayre’s wild imaginings, Doran would injure himself with his own gun.  The bent axle pin meant the chambers would not line up with the barrel. If the charge at the end of a single cartridge was touched off, the Colt would explode in Doran’s hand.

Shorty, unfazed by Sayre’s closeness, rubbed his whiskered chin with the rough pad of his thumb, then turned to his ranch hand. Doran saw that despite the heat, Shorty’s oversized denim work shirt was dry, not wet in patches as Sayre’s silk shirt was. “All right then, Doran, I believe Mr. Sayre’s delivered his message to us. Go on over to the barn and bring back the horses and we’ll let the gentleman get back to his business.”

Sayre’s reaction was to laugh.  “Well, I believe I’ve been dismissed. Little squirt rides up into my ranch and takes charge. He isn’t large, but he’s all nerve.”  His large belly shook with laughter as he turned and moved back toward the porch of his stately home.

Doran began walking toward the barn, not sure whether the horses would be stabled there, and whether Shorty’s Winchester would be in the saddle sheath or in the hands of Ames Junior or Carter. 

Doran imitated Shorty’s confident manner, squaring his shoulders and lifting his head as his mulehide boots hit the dusty path to the barn. Behind him, he heard the engine of the Ford motorcar rumble and die away, then rumble into life again. Doran refused to look back.

Just as he reached the dark opening of the barn’s entrance, there was a scuffling sound from the sandy ground near the front of Sayre’s home, and Doran whirled, ready to rush at Sayre. But the large red-haired man had not gone for his gun. Instead, he had spun around to face Shorty again, and he was stamping his well-shod feet like a child, his face screwed up so that his fleshy cheeks obscured his flashing blue eyes.  “I know what you’re up to!” the big man screamed. “You think you can go behind my back and scheme with all these local fools and liars” — he swept his hand in a wide arc, taking in most of the horizon — “but I have plans of my own, and you’ll be made aware of those, sure enough. Sure enough you will!” He stomped up the oak stair treads, across the huge porch, and slammed the massive door behind him.

To Doran’s surprise, Ames Junior emerged from the dark interior of the barn, leading Ben, who had been rubbed down and watered, judging from his gleaming coat and wet muzzle. Shorty’s .44-.40 rifle was still securely housed in the scabbard at Ben’s withers.  Carter followed, with Redboy, whose coat shone red in the sun.

Silently, Ames Junior and Carter, leading the horses, accompanied Doran to the spot where Shorty stood surveying the house, his arms still crossed.  Shorty said nothing, but before he took Ben’s reins from Carter, he stopped and picked up his cigarette end and dropped it into his shirt pocket. Doran took Redboy’s reins from Ames Junior and mounted, then waited for Shorty to turn Ben’s nose toward the ornate iron gates with the ornate anchor S worked into the grilles. Neither Carter nor Ames Junior looked at Doran. As he and Shorty rode along the dusty track which led to the front gate, they passed the livery building filled with Sayre’s array of vehicles.  Doran saw that the hood cover of the Model N Ford was now closed and that a sweating man labored over the front crank as a second man sat in the open driver’s seat. The man in front turned the crank rapidly, but the car only gave short bursts of engine purr before dying out.

Shorty turned Ben west along the county road, and Doran nudged Redboy up so that he could ride parallel.  “Say, Shorty, you ain’t going to pay Sayre, are you?”

“I’m not sure what I’d best do,” said Shorty. “I have to mull it over in my mind for a while.”

“But his men cut the fence!” said Doran, then lowered his voice. Redboy had reacted to his shout by taking a couple of nervous steps to the side.  “Settle down, Redboy, settle.” Doran leaned toward Shorty again.  “We never even saw any sick cows.  And we don’t have any poison on our place.  Sayre’s crazy. How could we put out poison and not kill our own stock with it?”

“Sayre’s not right in his mind,” said Shorty, “but that don’t mean we can let it drop. You can bet them new mulehide boots that he won’t let it drop.”

“But he can’t prove we cut the fence and took his cattle, because we never did that,” said Doran, feeling that his words were useless.

“He’ll get his men to say we poisoned his animals,” said Shorty, “and that will be just all right with those fellas. Because then they’ll get in good with Sayre, and it’ll cover up whatever they did that killed them cows. Left some kind of rat-poison laying around, maybe, or let their cattle eat larkspur, or some such.” Shorty looked at the open prairie beyond the brush-lined road and considered. “You know John Sayre’s got stockin’s on under his fine, fine Italian boots. Tender feet, like a lady.”

As they rode past the rutted, narrow roadway which led to Shorty’s homestead, Doran gazed with regret at the rough-shingled roof of the roof of the stone house, which threw off the glare of the early afternoon sun, very hot for September, like a huge mirror. He was tired and he was hungry — the corncakes and sausage of his morning meal were a distant memory. He wasn’t sure what he and Shorty were doing now, but it surely involved more tiresome riding.  The heat made his wool shirt and denim pants cling uncomfortably to his sweating skin, and his injured shoulder was jarred whenever Redboy jolted under his body.

Doran could see that if he kept on the subject of Sayre much longer, he might take the brunt of the anger Shorty had managed to hold in for so long.  The older man usually seemed more impatient than he really was, but he’d just been through the hailstorm of Sayre’s slights and accusations.  Doran moved to a new subject.  “That was interesting, about that Brown Swiss cow. I didn’t know you went to the St. Louis Fair. I knew you took Winnie to Chicago in ’92.”

“It was ’93, the Chicago Fair,” said Shorty, warming to this favorite subject. “Supposed to be in ’92 but we couldn’t get it built. They kept addin’ and addin’, puttin’ in lagoons and canals and electric buildings.”  Shorty rode in silence for a moment, remembering.  “Chicago had a real good fair. The one they had in St. Louis, it was all right, but that Chicago Fair was just all-day enjoyment, every day. I had my workman’s ticket-book, and then old Tom Gates hurt his shoulder — no, not his shoulder, his breastbone.  Busted his breastbone right in the middle here” — Shorty used a callused finger to draw a line down his shirt front — “and he couldn’t use his tickets so he let me and Pete Tabber share them out between us. So me and Winnie went almost every day, even if it rained or blew or anything, we went around the White City to see something new. I never did go one time that I didn’t see something new.  Saw elephants, all different ones too. St. Louis had an elephant that was made of almonds, a lot of almond nuts stuck together and Winnie liked it all right, but for my money, I’d rather look at a real elephant any day.”

They’d ridden past the homestead, and Doran wasn’t sure what Shorty had in mind. They could be riding over to the tiny house, half sod and half brick, where Evie and Soldier had a few acres, some chickens, and a hog pen.  But it seemed more likely that they were going a bit farther down the road, to the combination grocery, feed store, repair shop, and brickyard belonging to the Lujan family. Its proper name was Lujan’s Market, but Doran had never heard it called anything but the Spanish Store.

Yes, he was right. They had come to the edge of the splintered, unpainted fence which surrounded the sprawling Spanish Store.  The pair of weathered buildings, with their rusted tin roofs and unsteady porches, sagged together companionably.  Between them, a rough breezeway had been constructed, connecting the two structures. A ramshackle arrangement of telephone wires, connected to the small systems within the county, ran along the fence line on both sides of the storefront, then traveled at steep angles to rough poles nailed here and there along the roofline.

“All they need are a couple of swings up there,” said Shorty, leaning back in Ben’s saddle to survey the complex network of wires looped this way and that, “and they’ll be ready for the man on the flying trapeze.”

Though the two main buildings of the Spanish Store each had a log rail traversing its front, neither Doran or Shorty chose to tie up his horse to it. Redboy or Ben, with a few hard yanks, might pull the whole structure down.  Instead, the two men tied up at a small stand of cottonwood saplings. The cottonwoods had been dug from a creek bed by the youngest Lujan boy, Jorge. It had taken two days for Jorge to haul the muddy saplings uphill and bury the roots in the spot near the store entrance for his mother Hortencia, who missed the lush green landscape of Cuernavaca.

“I don’t know if there’s any Lujans here or not,” said Shorty, examining the store’s dark doorways. He and Doran walked around to the back of the main buildings, where an open-air kiln squatted in the center of a small brickyard. The brickyard was a disorderly maze, overflowing with bricks lined up on wooden boards laid in every direction around the kiln.  Some of the bricks were raw wet ones and some were baked hard, and all were of yellow clay.  Behind the brickyard was a wide pit where quicklime was made from broken chunks of limestone. The shallow bowl dug into the sod was lined in whitish powder, with many burned-black patches.  At one end was a clay dome covered with a layer of hardened mud.  This was pierced with holes here and there, as though a giant pie-maker had poked it with a huge fork.  Doran glimpsed, through the burned-black mud casing, layers of brush wood between shallow rows of broken-up limestone, ready to be concerted to powdered lime. Outside the dome and around the lip of the pit lay many limestone chunks, shovels with white-coated blades, and dented buckets.

Next to the lime pit was was a doorless wooden shack that served as both a blacksmithing and wheelwright shop. Outside the shack, a long-spoked wagon wheel leaned against wall planks grayed by many seasons of prairie rain, wind, and snow.  Shorty stuck his head inside the work shop, and emerged again, shrugging. “Must be in the drygoods part,” he said. “Let’s go around front.”

The left side of the twin building was the grocery and drygoods department, while the right half was filled with hardware, used machinery, and a makeshift repair shop.

Remembering Maybelle’s reaction when he’d brought the Colt into her home during his birthday visit, Doran stopped in the front yard of the Spanish Store.  He reached behind his back, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, and transferred the gun, in its oiled-canvas case into the large right pocket of his dusty coat.  He tried to button the pocket flap, and found only a bit of trailing thread where the button had been.  Doran remembered, suddenly, the sound of the metal button pinging against a fence post as he’d jerked the coat pocket open during the axe-handle attack of the night before.

Click here to go to Part 5.