show our guests around while I whip up something to eat.”
“Oh, please, Lottie,” Old Red said, “you don’t have to—”
“Now, now, Brother—one mustn’t be an ingrate. And anyway, I’ve got a reputation to live up to, thanks to you.” I swept my hat off and held it over my heart in a gesture of beseeching solicitude. “I’m mighty partial to biscuits and gravy, ma’am.”
“I aim to please,” Lottie said, and she gave me another wink.
Yes, she was a friend of my brother’s. Yes, I’d treat her like a lady. But at such a moment as that, it was hard not to look on her in light of her former profession—and think she’d probably been a “good earner” for Ragsdale and Bock.
Once our ponies were unsaddled and watered and turned loose in the corral, Bob took us on a walking tour of what he called the Lucky Two Ranch. It was a small operation—fifty acres and five times as many goats—but Bob took obvious pride in it. It’s the rare cowhand who doesn’t dream of running his own outfit one day, and Bob had pulled it off, in a modest sort of way.
“So,” Gustav said as we took in the sight (and smell) of Bob’s grazing herd. “Goats?”
Bob chortled and shrugged. “Why not? Actually, they’re a better fit for the Hill Country than cattle, and you know the bottom ain’t finished droppin’ out of the beef market—not now that you can get your head everywhere but the moon by rail. You said it yourself all them years ago, Gus. The days of the big cattlemen are through. The ones that can’t accept it, they’re just clingin’ to something dead and gone.”
“That’s easy to do,” Old Red said dolefully. Then for once he seemed to recognize what a soggy-wet blanket he was, and he put a look on his face that aimed for chipper inquisitiveness…and only missed by half a mile. “So what breeds we lookin’ at here? Angoras, mostly?”
“That’s right,” Bob said, and he launched into a lecture on the fascinating ancestry of the Mexican/American short-haired Angora goat.
My brother managed to work in questions here and there—about breeding and feeding and mohair and the like—but it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. Eventually, my stomach got to rumbling so loud Bob made a crack about a thunderstorm rolling in, and I made my escape with an excuse about hurrying up the grub.
Gus the mutt followed me back to the Harrises’ little homestead, and as we reached the barnyard, he raced ahead into the house to announce my arrival. Lottie was telling him to shut up when I walked in.
“Sorry about all the barkin’ and growlin’,” she said to me. “He’ll get used to you sooner or later.”
“Oh, that’s alright, ma’am. It’s nothin’ new to me.”
Lottie smiled, the grin crinkling her skin with wrinkles even as it flushed up a youthful glow.
“I tell ya,” she said, “I love Gloomy Gus to pieces, but it’d take a saint to put up with that man’s cussedness night and day.”
“Just call me St. Otto.”
I walked over to the dining room table (the “dining room” being, well, the table) and started setting out the cutlery and plates stacked there.
After a final “Hush!” for Gus, Lottie got to stirring a musky-scented stew simmering atop the potbelly stove in the corner.
I didn’t bother asking what kind of meat was in it.
“So how have things been for your brother, anyway?” Lottie asked.
Mangy Gus curled up by her feet, black eyes fixed on me.
“Oh, we’ve had our share of bad breaks the last five years, but we ain’t licked yet. In fact, I would say things was finally lookin’ up if only Gustav wasn’t so down. No matter how things go for us, he’s still a Gloomy Gus.”
“I’m sorry it’s not a cheerier picture than that.” Lottie kept poking at the stew with her spoon, though surely it was stirred up plenty. “I’ve thought about Gus a lot since he left. I always hoped he’d find himself some kinda happiness somewhere.”
“We’re
“Oh, please, Lottie,” Old Red said, “you don’t have to—”
“Now, now, Brother—one mustn’t be an ingrate. And anyway, I’ve got a reputation to live up to, thanks to you.” I swept my hat off and held it over my heart in a gesture of beseeching solicitude. “I’m mighty partial to biscuits and gravy, ma’am.”
“I aim to please,” Lottie said, and she gave me another wink.
Yes, she was a friend of my brother’s. Yes, I’d treat her like a lady. But at such a moment as that, it was hard not to look on her in light of her former profession—and think she’d probably been a “good earner” for Ragsdale and Bock.
Once our ponies were unsaddled and watered and turned loose in the corral, Bob took us on a walking tour of what he called the Lucky Two Ranch. It was a small operation—fifty acres and five times as many goats—but Bob took obvious pride in it. It’s the rare cowhand who doesn’t dream of running his own outfit one day, and Bob had pulled it off, in a modest sort of way.
“So,” Gustav said as we took in the sight (and smell) of Bob’s grazing herd. “Goats?”
Bob chortled and shrugged. “Why not? Actually, they’re a better fit for the Hill Country than cattle, and you know the bottom ain’t finished droppin’ out of the beef market—not now that you can get your head everywhere but the moon by rail. You said it yourself all them years ago, Gus. The days of the big cattlemen are through. The ones that can’t accept it, they’re just clingin’ to something dead and gone.”
“That’s easy to do,” Old Red said dolefully. Then for once he seemed to recognize what a soggy-wet blanket he was, and he put a look on his face that aimed for chipper inquisitiveness…and only missed by half a mile. “So what breeds we lookin’ at here? Angoras, mostly?”
“That’s right,” Bob said, and he launched into a lecture on the fascinating ancestry of the Mexican/American short-haired Angora goat.
My brother managed to work in questions here and there—about breeding and feeding and mohair and the like—but it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. Eventually, my stomach got to rumbling so loud Bob made a crack about a thunderstorm rolling in, and I made my escape with an excuse about hurrying up the grub.
Gus the mutt followed me back to the Harrises’ little homestead, and as we reached the barnyard, he raced ahead into the house to announce my arrival. Lottie was telling him to shut up when I walked in.
“Sorry about all the barkin’ and growlin’,” she said to me. “He’ll get used to you sooner or later.”
“Oh, that’s alright, ma’am. It’s nothin’ new to me.”
Lottie smiled, the grin crinkling her skin with wrinkles even as it flushed up a youthful glow.
“I tell ya,” she said, “I love Gloomy Gus to pieces, but it’d take a saint to put up with that man’s cussedness night and day.”
“Just call me St. Otto.”
I walked over to the dining room table (the “dining room” being, well, the table) and started setting out the cutlery and plates stacked there.
After a final “Hush!” for Gus, Lottie got to stirring a musky-scented stew simmering atop the potbelly stove in the corner.
I didn’t bother asking what kind of meat was in it.
“So how have things been for your brother, anyway?” Lottie asked.
Mangy Gus curled up by her feet, black eyes fixed on me.
“Oh, we’ve had our share of bad breaks the last five years, but we ain’t licked yet. In fact, I would say things was finally lookin’ up if only Gustav wasn’t so down. No matter how things go for us, he’s still a Gloomy Gus.”
“I’m sorry it’s not a cheerier picture than that.” Lottie kept poking at the stew with her spoon, though surely it was stirred up plenty. “I’ve thought about Gus a lot since he left. I always hoped he’d find himself some kinda happiness somewhere.”
“We’re
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