We’re just funnin’ with him, Curt.”
“Go fetch a bottle or I’ll be funnin’ with your ugly face.” Curt said.
Kevin cut his eyes at me.
“Lucky for you, we make our own ‘shine’, best corn likker you ever swallered.”
He headed for the barn.
Now, I don’t have much use for whiskey. On this occasion, I recognized these men were serious about their drinking. These were men who couldn’t trust a man who wouldn’t take a drink. I figured I could take a drink of their homemade and be on my way.
I was wrong.
I remember the way Dusty looked at me as I tried to climb up into the saddle an hour or two later. He’s much smarter than me, he remembered the way back to the Rocking M. I don’t even remember getting back.
I woke up in a small pile of hay, on the floor of the barn. Dusty was still saddled. I’d managed to get his bridle off and left it hanging on the saddle horn. He looked at me like I’d let him down—which I had.
I found the sunrise a bit too bright, and every movement caused me pain. I felt nearly sick to death as I unsaddled Dusty and turned him out into his corral.
In the house, I splashed some water into the sink, washed up as best I could, then I fell onto my bed and slept for three or four hours.
I woke up hungry, just before mid-day. I’d intended to ride out to the Flying W, but with the day half gone, I decided to spend the afternoon digging post holes for the fence line. It would do me good to sweat out the poisons.
I vowed never to drink whiskey again.
***
I hate barbed wire. I hate the fences. I miss the days when I could ride from Texas all the way to the frozen north, or west to the Pacific Ocean. As I was growing up with the Romani, we traveled far and wide, seldom bothered by fences. But, those days were gone now, and the Rocking M would have to be fenced.
Dusty and I trotted out to the place where the fence had been started, but never finished. As we approached I saw three young men were hard at work putting in fence posts. I recognized them as being Ace Johnson’s boys from the Rafter J. I lifted my hat to set them at ease. Those boys had their rifles near to hand. They’d taken a wagon load of fence posts and dropped them off in a long continuous line that disappeared over a nearby hill.
“Howdy, Mr. Tucker. Pa sent us over to get a jump start on this fence.” One of the young men said, as I rode up.
“Looks to me like you’ve been at it for a spell, I sure do appreciate it.”
I stepped off Dusty, took the neck rope out of my saddle bags, and after taking off his bridle I tied him to one of the standing posts with a clove hitch. As I was doing these things the youngster spoke up again.
“Yes sir, we’ve been working since sun-up.”
“You’re Toby, aren’t you? I remember you from yesterday.”
“Yes sir. That’s my brother Fred over yonder, and Terry’s just beyond him.”
“Pleasure,” I said. “Toby, I think it’s my turn to dig some holes. How’re you keeping a straight line?”
“…Mostly dead reckoning. We take a look at a landmark and basically work a straight line toward it. We got us a length of string that’ll stretch out to about fifty feet. We take care to look both forward and back to keep the line as straight as possible. The way we’ve laid out the posts we’re pretty near true already. As we get closer, we pick another feature to work toward.
We’ve been setting about three posts an hour, but I reckon we’ve slowed down some here lately. This ground through here is mostly rock. We’ve had to skip several posts in some places. After we stretch the wire, we’ll put in some posts with rocks piled around the base wherever we can’t put a post in the ground. It ain’t pretty, but it’ll hold cattle.”
“How far is it to the corner of your fence?”
“I figure it’s near half a mile. It’ll feel like ten miles, though.”
I nodded my understanding.
“Well then, let’s get to it.”
18.
At the
“Go fetch a bottle or I’ll be funnin’ with your ugly face.” Curt said.
Kevin cut his eyes at me.
“Lucky for you, we make our own ‘shine’, best corn likker you ever swallered.”
He headed for the barn.
Now, I don’t have much use for whiskey. On this occasion, I recognized these men were serious about their drinking. These were men who couldn’t trust a man who wouldn’t take a drink. I figured I could take a drink of their homemade and be on my way.
I was wrong.
I remember the way Dusty looked at me as I tried to climb up into the saddle an hour or two later. He’s much smarter than me, he remembered the way back to the Rocking M. I don’t even remember getting back.
I woke up in a small pile of hay, on the floor of the barn. Dusty was still saddled. I’d managed to get his bridle off and left it hanging on the saddle horn. He looked at me like I’d let him down—which I had.
I found the sunrise a bit too bright, and every movement caused me pain. I felt nearly sick to death as I unsaddled Dusty and turned him out into his corral.
In the house, I splashed some water into the sink, washed up as best I could, then I fell onto my bed and slept for three or four hours.
I woke up hungry, just before mid-day. I’d intended to ride out to the Flying W, but with the day half gone, I decided to spend the afternoon digging post holes for the fence line. It would do me good to sweat out the poisons.
I vowed never to drink whiskey again.
***
I hate barbed wire. I hate the fences. I miss the days when I could ride from Texas all the way to the frozen north, or west to the Pacific Ocean. As I was growing up with the Romani, we traveled far and wide, seldom bothered by fences. But, those days were gone now, and the Rocking M would have to be fenced.
Dusty and I trotted out to the place where the fence had been started, but never finished. As we approached I saw three young men were hard at work putting in fence posts. I recognized them as being Ace Johnson’s boys from the Rafter J. I lifted my hat to set them at ease. Those boys had their rifles near to hand. They’d taken a wagon load of fence posts and dropped them off in a long continuous line that disappeared over a nearby hill.
“Howdy, Mr. Tucker. Pa sent us over to get a jump start on this fence.” One of the young men said, as I rode up.
“Looks to me like you’ve been at it for a spell, I sure do appreciate it.”
I stepped off Dusty, took the neck rope out of my saddle bags, and after taking off his bridle I tied him to one of the standing posts with a clove hitch. As I was doing these things the youngster spoke up again.
“Yes sir, we’ve been working since sun-up.”
“You’re Toby, aren’t you? I remember you from yesterday.”
“Yes sir. That’s my brother Fred over yonder, and Terry’s just beyond him.”
“Pleasure,” I said. “Toby, I think it’s my turn to dig some holes. How’re you keeping a straight line?”
“…Mostly dead reckoning. We take a look at a landmark and basically work a straight line toward it. We got us a length of string that’ll stretch out to about fifty feet. We take care to look both forward and back to keep the line as straight as possible. The way we’ve laid out the posts we’re pretty near true already. As we get closer, we pick another feature to work toward.
We’ve been setting about three posts an hour, but I reckon we’ve slowed down some here lately. This ground through here is mostly rock. We’ve had to skip several posts in some places. After we stretch the wire, we’ll put in some posts with rocks piled around the base wherever we can’t put a post in the ground. It ain’t pretty, but it’ll hold cattle.”
“How far is it to the corner of your fence?”
“I figure it’s near half a mile. It’ll feel like ten miles, though.”
I nodded my understanding.
“Well then, let’s get to it.”
18.
At the
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