Telegraph Days by Larry McMurtry Page B

“I’ll catch up with you as soon as I kill that rabbit.
    â€œMind your own business,” he added, for emphasis.
    We were, at the time, on one of the flattest plains in Kansas, a state noted for its flat plains.
    â€œWhat if you get lost?” I inquired.
    â€œYou’re a girl,” he said. “I expect you’ll be the one to get lost.”
    Actually it had occurred to me that despite all the tracks, we both might get lost. I had brought Father’s old compass to answer that risk.
    â€œAll right, Jackson,” I told him. “I see no point in arguing with a brick.”
    â€œA rabbit that fat will make a mighty good eating,” Jackson said, and that brought an end to conversation for the night.

6
    I WOKE WITH the dawn—a mighty big dawn on that great grassy plain. Being a believer in a hearty breakfast I made coffee and fried up a sizable portion of Mrs. Karoo’s bacon. There was also a cold spud or two.
    Jackson was still sulking. He accepted some coffee but turned up his nose at the bacon.
    â€œI intend to kill what I eat,” he said. I noticed that he had reloaded his pistol.
    â€œHow many bullets does that cartridge belt hold?” I inquired.
    â€œFifty,” Jackson said.
    â€œThe fact that you earn fifteen dollars a month doesn’t make you rich,” I reminded him.
    â€œGo to hell,” Jackson said.
    Most sisters have heard such sentiments from their brothers at one time or another. I paid it no mind. In fact I was looking forward to being an author. I could hardly wait to see my scribblings in print. If my brother chose to be mulish, that was his lookout.
    I had hardly traveled a mile before I heard the crack of Jackson’s pistol. Evidently he had closed with the jackrabbits. He shot five or six more times and then I ceased to hear the gunshots. Of course, I liked teasing my brother—what sister wouldn’t?—but I did fully expect him to show up with a few jackrabbits, eventually. They aren’t large targets, but then the human heart isn’t a large target either, and Jackson had punctured six of them.
    But I rode all day, under the burning sun, alone. If Irish Roy or any outlaw had popped out of a gully he would have had me. My only weapon was a small hatchet, useful for cutting firewood. I had supposedI would have the protection of the well-known Deputy Jackson Courtright, savior of Rita Blanca—but at the moment, the deputy was missing.
    It was five in the afternoon when I spotted a dot on the horizon. In that part of Kansas dots stay on the horizon for a long time; it was almost an hour later when the dot turned into my brother. He caught up with me but made no greeting. There were no dead jackrabbits hanging from his saddle strings, but his ammunition belt, which had been full, was now half full at best.
    There’s a time to tease and a time to hold off teasing, and I had the feeling that this was a time to hold off. The hero of Rita Blanca was clearly not shooting his best.
    â€œI’m glad you made it back,” I told him. “I don’t like camping alone.”
    â€œYou could have sent the dern book with me,” Jackson said. “That way you wouldn’t have had to camp at all.”
    â€œIt’s my book, Jackson—I guess I have the right to supervise the printing.”
    â€œBeau Wheless thought that book up,” Jackson said, in a tone that I didn’t really appreciate. I felt like slapping him, to tell the truth, but before matters went that far I spotted a yearling steer grazing about one hundred yards away. The steer appeared to be slightly crippled. Spotting a lone steer was nothing unusual in that part of the country—cripples were often dropping out of the herds. Normally the cowboys would butcher such an animal, but this one had escaped, which was lucky for us. My thoughts quickly turned to beefsteak.
    â€œI was wondering what we were going to do for