Shaking the Nickel Bush by Ralph Moody Page B

“Uh-uh!” he told me, “I ain’t hungry. I et a big breakfast, and it’ll hold me over till suppertime. You go on down while I and Joe fix up them connecting-rod bearin’s. We’ll have to hump right along to get ’em finished ’fore closing time.”
    When Joe, the garage owner, went to his truck for his lunch pail, Lonnie slipped me what was left of our roll, and whispered, “Say, buddy, while you’re down that way why don’t you mosey ’round to the hockshops and see what you can find for outfits? Look, you don’t need to get me as good a one as you get for yourself. Just so’s it’s got good stirrups and a horn to snub a rope onto, that’s all I’ll need. And there’s no sense you botherin’ about chaps for me. My legs don’t skin up easy, and there’s no tellin’ we’ll be workin’ brush country anyways. Understand, buddy, I ain’t tryin’ to rush you none. Just figured it would be a shame—us having to hold up and hunt outfits tomorrow, after we’re all set and ready to roll. It don’t make no never-minds if you ain’t back before dark, ’cause you couldn’t do no good here noways. It takes a real mechanic to work on automobiles. Kind of like a watch. A man’s got to know what he’s about before he goes to fussin’ with ’em.”
    I had better luck than I expected on the license. Because a quarter of December was past and the 1919 plates had gone on sale, the clerk told me I’d only need to buy one for the new year. Even at that, I began finding out there were more costs to automobiles than just the buying price and gasoline, but I didn’t begrudge the expense. I was more proud to be the registered owner of an automobile than of the automobile itself. Before I went to hunt for outfits I took the ownership ticket to Mr. Larsen, so there would be no chance of my losing it.
    Mr. Larsen didn’t come right out and tell me we’d been stuck when I told him about the Ford and what we’d paid for it. But he asked me dozens of questions I didn’t know anything about—were there any shorts in the magneto, were the cylinder walls scored, and was I sure the crankshaft hadn’t been worn egg-shaped? When I said I’d never even heard of a magneto he hunched his shoulders and spread his hands, as much as to say, “Well, you’ve been caught for a sucker, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.” Then he said that if we were going to leave early next morning I’d better let him order the groceries the doctor had told me to take with us. I told him I’d appreciate his ordering the stuff, but I forgot to ask how much it would cost.
    To me an automobile was only a collection of dead iron parts, but a saddle was a living thing—almost a part of a cowhand himself. Each one is different in some way from any other, particularly after it has been used a year or two, and a man with a saddle that is wrong for him can be as out of luck as if he were trying to work cattle bareback. If it’s right, his behind will cuddle into the hollow of the cantle securely and, no matter how hard a bull hits the end of a line or a pony pitches, he’ll be topside when the fun is over. Then too, a saddle talks. On night herd it whispers at every step of the pony, just to let a cowhand know he’s not alone.
    I was thinking all these things as I left the restaurant and headed for the back streets where the pawnshops were—and the more I thought the faster I found myself walking. That’s what saved me from getting cheated on our outfits. It made me remember how Lonnie had clutched my roll and run back to the garage to buy Shiftless. Common sense told me that we could have bought that old heap for half the price if he hadn’t shown from the very start how much he wanted it. I made up my mind that I’d see every saddle in