Sheriff.
“Howdy.” The man in khaki pants, knee high boots and Stetson, never left the barroom porch.
“I don’t see how you can keep us out,” said Luke.
The Sheriff leaned back against the post and again put the knife blade to his fingernails.
“All’s I got to do is call my boys. Of course, if you scatter, it’ll take us a little longer to round you up. But I wouldn’t.” The Sheriff brushed the parings from his vest, leaned forward and pushed the blade down a patent leather boot top to scratch his calf. The uncut nails on his red hands were longer than the manicured.
“But this here is a wedding!”
“Don’t matter. I don’t care if the whole pack aims to rut. You the man?”
“No, sir. I ain’t the one. That’s sure.”
The Sheriff raised his head and slowly scanned the wagons, looked at the quiet and waiting eyes of the women who stared back. In a low voice he muttered to the boy who stepped closer and listened with his back to the train. Then louder: “But that don’t make much difference. This town’s got a law. My men would be here in fifteen minutes, if I called.”
Luke heard the knocking of the horses. He smelled molasses and rubber gum, gun grease and a handful of browned leaves loose in a hot pants pocket. And suddenly he jumped onto the porch, two short steps loud on the swaydown boards.
“Well, now!” The Sheriff squinted.
Luke whispered in his ear. He spoke softly, using all his breath, against wax and smile, his own forehead near thick temples, hisboy’s chin low to the bulging collar. He broke out as he felt the air fall from his throat, not caring that he was unable to see the other’s eyes. The pistol butt pressed upwards against his thin stomach. The head bent slightly forward, looking for a damp match dropped in the dust. Luke spoke into it with haste, perhaps asking how many cartridges the gun would hold. The ear was yellow since the squat man, in jest when drunk, bragged and fixed into it the moist end of a smoking cigarette. Luke shut his eyes.
“All right,” the Sheriff gently stopped him, “let them by.”
The Clare geyser churned and climbed suddenly higher as they rolled.
Ma married, by bonfire light and to the music of a borrowed and portable celesta, in a roped-off lot behind the church which, at the last moment, she refused to enter. At some time, after food was found, and away from the crowd of women, Luke spread out his neckerchief and said to the Sheriff, “This here pie’s for Maverick. She ain’t never seen a wedding.”
Throughout the night, Luke’s first in town, and until the middle of the morning when the trip home was attempted, Ma sat alone by the stretched, flat, feverish body of her husband’s mother. Ma’s chair faced the open window—it was a short jump from the strange and empty room to the ground—and at her feet lay the satchel, tightly closed, and the old woman who cried out, in the racking of her shoulders and occasional thump of her hand against the floor, for sleep. Ma sat straight and listened for the sound of returning footsteps. Now and then she leaned down to dry the darkening forehead or touch the plaited hair already wild.
“You did come. And I’ve married me a torment. I deserve to sit here on a folding chair, not even able to ease you off to sleep. I nagged you the whole day. And all’s I got is a bare finger which, had aring been set on it—and you was right to keep it back—would have been yours, since he had none to give. It wasn’t mine to take. Nor was he. I guess it ain’t just me he’s shown he’s got no feeling for. And I can’t make it up to you. Since he’s left us both.”
r ounding the corner of the Buckhouse—first four-sided, wooden shanty built among the tents, first building to turn a red false front and open hinged door on the dry grass and shapeless hills—Luke Lampson slowed his walk and stopped among the travelers still outside.
The Buckhouse had almost been a town itself and
“Howdy.” The man in khaki pants, knee high boots and Stetson, never left the barroom porch.
“I don’t see how you can keep us out,” said Luke.
The Sheriff leaned back against the post and again put the knife blade to his fingernails.
“All’s I got to do is call my boys. Of course, if you scatter, it’ll take us a little longer to round you up. But I wouldn’t.” The Sheriff brushed the parings from his vest, leaned forward and pushed the blade down a patent leather boot top to scratch his calf. The uncut nails on his red hands were longer than the manicured.
“But this here is a wedding!”
“Don’t matter. I don’t care if the whole pack aims to rut. You the man?”
“No, sir. I ain’t the one. That’s sure.”
The Sheriff raised his head and slowly scanned the wagons, looked at the quiet and waiting eyes of the women who stared back. In a low voice he muttered to the boy who stepped closer and listened with his back to the train. Then louder: “But that don’t make much difference. This town’s got a law. My men would be here in fifteen minutes, if I called.”
Luke heard the knocking of the horses. He smelled molasses and rubber gum, gun grease and a handful of browned leaves loose in a hot pants pocket. And suddenly he jumped onto the porch, two short steps loud on the swaydown boards.
“Well, now!” The Sheriff squinted.
Luke whispered in his ear. He spoke softly, using all his breath, against wax and smile, his own forehead near thick temples, hisboy’s chin low to the bulging collar. He broke out as he felt the air fall from his throat, not caring that he was unable to see the other’s eyes. The pistol butt pressed upwards against his thin stomach. The head bent slightly forward, looking for a damp match dropped in the dust. Luke spoke into it with haste, perhaps asking how many cartridges the gun would hold. The ear was yellow since the squat man, in jest when drunk, bragged and fixed into it the moist end of a smoking cigarette. Luke shut his eyes.
“All right,” the Sheriff gently stopped him, “let them by.”
The Clare geyser churned and climbed suddenly higher as they rolled.
Ma married, by bonfire light and to the music of a borrowed and portable celesta, in a roped-off lot behind the church which, at the last moment, she refused to enter. At some time, after food was found, and away from the crowd of women, Luke spread out his neckerchief and said to the Sheriff, “This here pie’s for Maverick. She ain’t never seen a wedding.”
Throughout the night, Luke’s first in town, and until the middle of the morning when the trip home was attempted, Ma sat alone by the stretched, flat, feverish body of her husband’s mother. Ma’s chair faced the open window—it was a short jump from the strange and empty room to the ground—and at her feet lay the satchel, tightly closed, and the old woman who cried out, in the racking of her shoulders and occasional thump of her hand against the floor, for sleep. Ma sat straight and listened for the sound of returning footsteps. Now and then she leaned down to dry the darkening forehead or touch the plaited hair already wild.
“You did come. And I’ve married me a torment. I deserve to sit here on a folding chair, not even able to ease you off to sleep. I nagged you the whole day. And all’s I got is a bare finger which, had aring been set on it—and you was right to keep it back—would have been yours, since he had none to give. It wasn’t mine to take. Nor was he. I guess it ain’t just me he’s shown he’s got no feeling for. And I can’t make it up to you. Since he’s left us both.”
r ounding the corner of the Buckhouse—first four-sided, wooden shanty built among the tents, first building to turn a red false front and open hinged door on the dry grass and shapeless hills—Luke Lampson slowed his walk and stopped among the travelers still outside.
The Buckhouse had almost been a town itself and
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