Man of the Family (12 page)

I was still nervous when the starter opened the gate and Jim and I rode through. We'd just started around toward the quarter-mile post when I heard the call: “Match race at a quarter mile. Jim Boyd on Bowles' gray, and Freddie Jones on Batchlett's bay.” I looked back, and Mr. Batchlett was standing by the man with the megaphone.

We didn't win the race. The bay got a poor start, and the quarter mile wasn't long enough for us to catch up. The jug-headed gray was still a nose in front when we passed the finish pole—and I hadn't made up to Mr. Batchlett for hauling our hay.

There were match races all week. I rode in three or four of them every day—and the megaphone man always called me Freddie Jones. Sometimes I rode for Mr. Batchlett, but for quite a few others too. They paid me a dollar every time I rode, and, when I won, it was usually a five-dollar gold piece. At first, I thought that being Freddie Jones would be enough to cover me up, but it wasn't. In less than two days, almost everybody in town knew who Freddie Jones was.

Tuesday night, when I was milking Ducklegs, Grace came out to the barn. I pushed my head tight against Ducklegs' flank and kept milking as fast as I could open and close my fists. Grace stood right at the end of the tie-up—with her arms folded across her chest. “Well . . . Freddie Jones!” was all she said.

The milk sort of stuttered into the bucket for a second, and then my hands got shaking so I had to stop. I didn't lift my head right up; I had to think a little. And Grace didn't say another word except “Well?”

“Well,” I said, “you don't have to be so smart. You're not Mother. What business of yours is it anyway?” I tried to sound as if I didn't care, but the words didn't come out that way.

Grace stuck her nose up in the air and started toward the barn door. “All right,” she said; “if it's Mother's business I'll see she has a chance to handle it.”

Of course, I couldn't let her go. So I had to show her the money I had stashed away in a marble sack in the corner of the bran bin. “You know how much we'll need it next winter,” I told her, “and we might need it before winter if Mother isn't strong enough to cook when she gets up. It's all good honest money, but you know as well as I do that Mother would never let me earn it if she found out. I suppose you'll think you're doing something big if you tell her. Why can't you mind your own business, anyway?”

I was sorry the minute after I'd said it. I'd been looking down into the bran bin all the time I'd been talking, but when I looked up into Grace's face, there were tears in her eyes. “I'm not as mean an old skunk as you think I am,” she half cried. “If you'll keep your mouth shut around home, and if we don't have too many pesky old ladies coming to call on Mother, I'll see she doesn't find out till the fair's all over.”

I'd won quite a few races by the end of the week. There wasn't any racing the Saturday afternoon before Labor Day, and Mr. Batchlett had told all the men that I couldn't ride on Sunday. Before I went home, he came into the stable where I was currying the sorrel. He leaned against the stall door, and said, “Had a pretty good week, didn't ya?”

I just grinned and nodded my head.

“Get a good rest tomorrow,” he told me. “Monday's roundup day; that's the big one. I want you to ride the chestnut in the bareback quarter-mile, and the sorrel in the hundred-dollar race. We'll win 'em both.”

I was thinking, and I didn't say anything for a few minutes; I just kept on currying the sorrel. Then Mr. Batchlett asked, “What's the matter, Little Britches? What's bitin' ya, kid?”

“Well,” I said, “I think Fred Aultland's counting on me to ride his bay in the hundred-dollar race.”

“Hell!” Mr. Batchlett shouted. “Fred's the one we got to beat. I can't let ya do that.”

I just kept on currying. My throat hurt and I didn't want to talk. After a couple of minutes, he said, “Well?”

“Well, I think Hi and all the fellows out by our old ranch are counting on it too. Fred's been our friend for a long time. He was Father's best friend.”

I didn't look up, so I didn't know Mr. Batchlett had come into the stall till he rumpled up my hair. “You're all right,” he told me. “Some day you'll stick by me that-a-way. Understand though, I aim to win that race—but I won't put the Le Beau kid against ya. You'll ride for me in the bareback?”

My throat hurt worse than ever. I just said, “Sure. And I'll win if I can.” Then Mr. Batchlett rumpled my hair again and went out.

14

Grace and I Buy Ducklegs

I
HURRIED
home early, and got Grace to climb up into the hayloft with me. I wanted her to see how much hay there was and how good it smelled, but, mostly, I wanted a chance to talk to her alone. Before we climbed up the ladder, I dug my marble sack out of the corner of the bran bin. I was still worried for fear Carl Henry might talk Mother into trading Lady for Ducklegs.

We brushed the hay and chaff back to make a clean place on the loft floor where we could count the money. Grace always liked to do the counting, and that time I was kind of proud to have her. Grace's eyes bugged out, and she whispered, “Eighty-four dollars and sixty cents! You'd better get this right in the bank! With all this dry hay around, the barn could catch fire as quick as a wink, and then where'd you be?”

“I don't know if I'd be much worse off than I am now,” I said. “If I put it in the bank, Mother'll have to know about it. And, if she knows about it, I'll have to tell her where I got it. And then? You know what she thinks about match races. She'd probably say I could never ride a horse again. She might even make me take Lady back to Carl Henry's.”

Grace always liked to act the way Mother did. She pinched her upper lip a few times, and said, “Hmmm, hmmm, let . . . me . . . think.”

I didn't let her think very long, though. I'd already done that. “You know, I was kind of wondering this way, Grace: With Mother well again, we'll be starting the cookery route pretty soon. We've got enough hay now for all winter, and more than half enough coal. Maybe we don't need the real money as much as we need other things. I was thinking maybe I could buy Ducklegs from Carl Henry. That way, Mother could just think he was keeping on lending her to us, but we'd never have to give her back. Then, we could pay the bill at Mr. Shellabarger's store, and whatever money's left could be from working for Mr. Batchlett. You see, that wouldn't really be a lie, because I made it by doing jobs that he got for me.”

Grace said, “Hmmm . . . hmmm,” a few more times, then she told me, “Well, it sounds like a lie to me, but I guess it isn't a
black
lie. Anyway, I don't know how you could buy Ducklegs from Carl Henry without Mother knowing about it. Boys can't just be going around buying cows without their mothers knowing about it. And you wouldn't know what a cow's worth, either.”

“I would, too,” I said. “I know what we paid for Holstein and Brindle. Anybody knows that cows are worth anywhere from twenty to fifty dollars—and we know Ducklegs is a good one. And, besides, Mr. Batchlett knows all about cows. I'd ask him what she was worth before I talked to Carl.”

Grace was fussing with my five-dollar gold pieces, making a little cylinder with them in the palm of her hand. She banged them down on the floor, and said, “Well, if you want to know what I think: I think you're getting too thick with Mr. Batchlett. Mother thinks so, too. She doesn't even want you to work for him, and I'll bet she'd skin him alive if she knew anything about this match-race business. What's the matter with Hi? Why don't you get him to tell you how much Ducklegs is worth?”

That was all I needed. I knew Grace wanted me to buy Ducklegs. So I told her I'd talk to both Hi and Mr. Batchlett before I did anything, and I wouldn't work for Mr. Batchlett any more till Mother had a chance to talk to him and said I could. Grace was still trying to act stuffy when she went to the house.

I thought it would be best for Mother to talk to Mr. Batchlett while she was still happy about his men having helped me with the hay, so I put my saddle on Lady and went down to the fairgrounds again. Mr. Batchlett was talking to some men near the cattle barn. I waited till he came over and asked, “What did ya do, change your mind about ridin' for Fred?”

“No, I wanted to talk to you about some other business,” I said. “My mother doesn't know I rode in the races and made a lot of money. She's kind of old-fashioned, I guess. If she found out about it, I probably couldn't ride any more; and if I put the money in the bank, she'll want to know where it came from. You know, I told you Carl Henry lent us a cow. I was thinking that, if I bought her, Mother'd never have to know. What I need is for you to look at the cow and tell me how much I ought to pay Carl for her.”

I never saw Mr. Batchlett when he didn't have a saddled horse standing around. The one he had that day was as clever as a collie dog. When Mr. Batchlett whistled, the bay came around the corner of the barn, holding his head way to one side to keep the trailing reins out from under his feet. All the way over to our house we talked about gentle-breaking horses, and how much better they always were than busted ones.

Ducklegs was picketed near the river. I could have taken Mr. Batchlett right down there to look at her, but I didn't want to. The only excuse I could have found to bring him back to the house would have been to ask him if he'd like to see our new baby, and I didn't think he'd be interested in babies. So, first, I showed him how much hay we had in the loft, and next, how much coal we had saved up for the winter. Then I told him to wait just a minute and I'd bring Ducklegs.

When I got back, Mother and Mr. Batchlett were talking together by the kitchen door. She was standing on the top step with Elizabeth in her arms, and Mr. Batchlett was standing down on the well platform with his hat in his hand. He was turning it around and around by the brim. I didn't see them till I'd led Ducklegs past the corner of the barn, and I felt as if I'd been caught trying to steal something.

When I came out from putting Ducklegs in the tie-up, Mr. Batchlett had gone part way up the steps. He had his head over close to Elizabeth, and looked as if he were talking to her. Then he stepped down and said, loud enough for me to hear, “The little fella tells me your cow's dryin' up a bit; he wanted me to take a look at her. Sure glad I met you. That's a mighty pretty baby.” He made a sort of little bow, put his hat on, and came out to the barn.

When Mr. Batchlett looked a cow over, he looked her all over. After he was through feeling of her teeth, and even looking in her ears, he said, “Litttle Britches, I reckon you got more cow here than you got any use for. You sure she ain't purebred?”

I told him I knew Carl had some purebreds, but I didn't think he'd be lending one of them out.

Mr. Batchlett stood back a few feet, and looked Ducklegs over from the tip of her tail to the points of her crumpled horns. “By doggies, if she ain't, she's dang close to it,” he said. “Don't know what to tell ya, Little Britches; don't know what to tell ya. If she's commonbred, she's worth every dime of fifty dollars. If she's registered, you ain't got money enough to buy her—and you ain't got no business ownin' her. She's a dang fine cow. Does that help you any?”

As soon as Mr. Batchlett was gone, I hurried right into the house. I wanted Mother to like him, and from what Grace had said, I knew some old lady had been saying bad things about him.

I didn't have to wait very long when I came in. Mother was humming. It was the first time I'd heard her hum since Elizabeth was born. I was pretty sure what it meant, but I didn't want to come right out and ask her, so I took the water bucket out to the well and filled it. As I sat it back on the sink shelf, Mother said, “Son, I'm awfully glad you brought Mr. Batchlett home with you. I've heard some of the gossip about him, but he's a fine man—just as tender inside as a woman. Son, I'm not going to worry about you while you're with him.”

At breakfast the next morning, I asked Mother if I could take Lady and ride out to our old neighborhood. I told her I hadn't seen but one or two of the kids from out that way since we moved to Littleton, and I wanted to drop around and see Hi and Carl Henry before the roundup.

Mother always sat at one end of the table, and I sat at the other—in Father's chair with the arms. Mother had a forkful of fried potatoes halfway up to her mouth when I started to speak, but she put it down, and smiled at me as though I'd done something to make her real happy. “Why, of course you may go, Son. My, I should have thought of it sooner. For the past two or three weeks I've known there was something bothering you. You've looked so drawn and worried, but it never occurred to me that you might be getting lonesome for the boys in the old neighborhood. You run right along just as soon as breakfast is over. It will do you a world of good.”

I didn't dare to look at Grace. I was feeling sneaky enough anyway, so I finished my breakfast as quick as I could and went out to saddle Lady. Grace came out while I was doing it. That was the first time I'd had a chance to tell her what Mr. Batchlett had said about Ducklegs. When I was through, she whispered back, “All the time you're gone I'll be saying a prayer that she isn't purebred, but don't you take more than fifty dollars with you. That's all we can afford to pay for a cow, and that way you can't be tempted.”

It seemed to me that Grace and I were sort of partners on the money in the marble bag. And I wanted her to have part of the fun of spending it, so I said, “All right, you fish me out the ten five-dollar gold pieces; then you could go down and pay up Mr. Shellabarger's bill next Tuesday. There'd still be a little left over.”

I could see by Grace's face how much she wanted to do it, but she pinched the smile out of her lips, and said, “Well, I'm going to be pretty busy then, but I'll try and find time for it.”

Grace tied the gold pieces up in the corner of her handkerchief, and stuffed them down into the little rule pocket on the leg of my overalls so I couldn't lose them. As I rode down the lane, Mother waved to me from the kitchen door, and called, “Say hello for me to any of the ladies you see, and tell them to come by and see our new baby when they're in town.”

I didn't ride Lady fast that morning, because it was hot, but I did ride her far. I wanted to see Hi first, and he wasn't at Cooper's home ranch, so I had to go up to the moutain pasture. The hands were eating at the chuck wagon when I got there, and I was as hungry as a wolf. After we had eaten, Hi and I jogged around the herd for half an hour. He wanted to show me how the spring calves were doing, and I wanted to talk to him about Ducklegs—and my not wanting Mother to know about the races. When I had finished, Hi looked over and said, “So happens I'm ridin' in to the Fort this afternoon; mind if I trail along as far as Carl's place with you? 'Pears to me fifty dollars is a right smart o' money for a milk cow, but Batch, he knows 'em a heap better'n I do. Beefs my line.”

I was never sure about Ducklegs. Hi started talking about cold watermelon just about as soon as we got to Carl's place. And then, when I was right in the middle of a big piece of it—icy cold from the well—Hi and Carl drifted off to the barns. Carl wouldn't tell me whether she was purebred or not. All he'd say was that there wouldn't be any papers with her, but—if I'd let him take care of her breeding, and sell him her calves for twenty dollars apiece—we could buy her for fifty dollars. And all he'd say about telling Mother was that he'd never lie to her about it, but he'd be careful never to get in a spot where there was any call to.