DODGE CITY, KANSAS, 1870

During the early morning hours of a warm spring day in May, I needed to leave Boston as quickly as possible. I was rushed, but I had to catch the early departure of the Boston and Lowell railroad train going to Chicago, having been forewarned by my father, who knew the honest story, that he heard a rumor that trouble was coming my way quickly in the form of an involuntary shotgun wedding to my, then-new girlfriend, Mary Wilson. My father knew Mary’s father and didn’t like him for his crude and cruel ways. No wonder Mary wanted to marry quickly and get out of the house. But she went too far by deceiving her parents, telling them she was pregnant with my child. I was sure that she wasn’t pregnant, but if she was, the baby was not mine. I was intimate with some girlfriends, but my romance with Mary hadn’t progressed far enough for me to request sex, nor was it socially acceptable, especially in wealthy families. Of course, I wanted sex, but I restrained myself due to her parents' and relatives’ positions of wealth and influence in and around Boston. I didn’t want to be responsible for shaming them.

So, I emptied my account at the Boston Safety Fund Bank, that very day that I spoke to Art, who repeated Horace Greeley’s Go West young man…” My buddy, Art Hays, knew that I was curious about the western lands, so that’s what I would do, go West. Once, back in my hotel room, I changed out of my teacher’s dress-up clothes and into ones I wore when going hunting because of their tough material. I hurriedly packed my lone suitcase for the long trip, northwest to Chicago, then southwest to Kansas, and finally to Dodge City. I remember asking myself why I picked Dodge. I was fascinated by Western adventures that I had read about in The Boston Evening Traveler, in magazines, and in Ned Buntline’s Penny Dreadfuls as well as his dime novels about Western life with its famous heroes and villains. I knew they were somewhat true, mixed with much imaginative fiction, but I was strongly attracted to stories about the West. Maybe that’s why I picked Dodge as my destination. Being well-educated, I should have known better.

When I bought my train tickets at the Causeway Railroad Station, I asked the ticket agent how long it would take to get to Dodge. “Damn,” he said. “Mister, that’s a long way from here. Even at full speed, 60 mph, with a lot of stops to pick up passengers, it’ll take you a week just to reach Chicago, then you need to switch to the Santa Fe Railroad Train for about another two weeks to arrive in Dodge. I’d think twice about that trip unless it’s an emergency.” I bought the tickets, then thanked him

Twenty-one days to arrive by train to Dodge City. I hadn’t figured it to be that far away. I was in too much of a hurry to check the details of what I was doing and where I was going, plus the time factor. Of course, I quickly decided it would take a lot of time going north, then south before the train traveled true west reaching level prairie land.

Early the next morning, I was the first passenger on the train. Five more passengers arrived within ten minutes. I saw the ticket agent talk to the engineer, then the train pulled out of the station earlier than the scheduled departure. I assumed that we six passengers were all there were going got be, so the ticket agent informed the engineer that he could go early.

 During the train ride, especially the beginning part of my travel, I turned my mind to the incident that made me leave a good teaching job in Boston. Teaching the rich the children of the rich privately was rewarding, especially the pay, which was far better than in the public school. I started dating one family’s oldest daughter, who had finished her education and had recently had her twentieth birthday. I instructed kids from local rich families, and three of them, two boys and a girl, were her sister and brothers. The other students were mostly cases of misbehavior connected to their sense of entitlement. Luckily, the parents were concerned about a good education and reinforced my discipline and gentle punishments so there never were any serious misbehaviors that didn’t end swiftly.

Mary Wilson was twenty years old and, therefore, of marrying age and in a hurry for it. She wanted to get married quickly, but I thought it was too soon for either of us, even though I was in my mid-twenties. After about six months, she turned bitter and said she was pregnant by me, resulting in the family trying to force me to marry her. She was not pregnant, but she deceived her family with pitiable lies and a furious temper. Her father would probably send his bodyguards to bring me to him, so I left on the train the next morning. I had to leave my own well-to-do family with barely a proper goodbye with a note that my good friend Arthur Hays would deliver to my parents.

Another of my thoughts was, “What the hell am I going to do for three weeks, mostly sitting on my ass, on wooden seats that would be the enemy of my ass within the first week.” So, I studied the scenery of unknown Massachusetts, then southern New York, Ohio, Indiana, and onto Chicago where I would transfer to the Topeka-Santa Fe railroad going Southwest through Missouri, the Kansas border, and, finally, to Dodge, but not for another two hours wait for passengers to stretch, walk, eat, New passengers to arrive, and supplies loaded on the box cars.

I had gotten off at most short stops, to stretch, wipe off some of the dust, and, more importantly, get a few breaths of fresh air, away from the floating dust motes that saturated the train. At each of these plethora of stops, I checked to see if anyone looked suspicious, perhaps looking for me. When wealthy people are looking for you, their dollars have an extended reach. So far I hadn’t spotted any such person.

I forgot to mention another reason to get off the train at each stop. It was the smell of human flatulence, mingled with dust motes. Of course, I contributed to that mixture because there was no safe place to fart, so after a few hours, with the passenger train half-full, the stink began accumulating until it reached a stench level of annoyance and disgust. It was a funny sight. The women had perfumed cloth over their noses and mouths, while the men pretended they were hot and waved their hats in front of their faces. Fanny bubbles hung in the air like unseen, floating droplets of rain.

I arrived at the Chicago station in six days, with my ass hurting. This stop gave me a chance to take a walk to the outskirts of the city. Every step reminded me of how sore, stiff, and exhausted I felt after having done nothing but sit uncomfortably for days. The part of my body that hurt the most was my buttocks, but which one of them would have to be a split decision.

Art Hays, my good Boston friend, who worked as a “gopher” in the Pinkerton Boston office, had advised me to be extremely cautious because the Pinkerton Agency, new to Boston, had its headquarters in Chicago. Mary Wilson’s father may hire the Boston Pinkies, then try to apprehend me during the train’s couple of hours layover in Chicago. Art said, “The Pinkies are like horseflies. They keep coming, even after you swat them away continually.”

I wanted to buy some necessities and to find books to read when bored, which was most of the time. I bought Thomas Payne’s Age of Reason, with its fascinating doctrine of belief that the use and celebration of reason is the power by which humans understand the universe and improve their condition. I wasn’t allowed to use this brilliant book’s ideas when I was teaching. It was time for a rereading of the book. It seems that every time I read it, I find something new to think about, especially his religious ideas. I’ve thought about rereading it and now would be a good time. I also bought Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, a fascinating study of personality characteristics combined with the iron grip of obsession and cruelty. It’s another book that can be reread and find the subtleties one missed the first time. I hadn’t read Jane Austin’s book Pride and Prejudice, yet, nor Harriet Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, so I purchased both. Dickens’s David Copperfield was prominently displayed, as well as James Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans. I’ve always enjoyed the dark side of Edgar Poe’s writings, so I grabbed his The Fall of the House of Usher, a short book, that also included The Raven. I read The Raven aloud one time and it made a big difference because of the rhyme and rhythm of Poe's word selections. On the way to pay for these books, I came across Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, grabbed it, and placed it on my small pile. I bought more than I should have, but I asked myself, “Where, out West, would I be able to purchase any books at all?” Once paid for, I could see that not even half the books would fit into my suitcase. Luckily, The Charles Colcord Feed Company was next door, and the book owner of the bookstore had empty feed sacks lying around. All the books were placed in a Charles Colcord Cattle Feed sack. I walked outside, bag over my shoulder, feeling and looking like Santa Claus.

With both hands full, I proceeded to the train station. When I got near it, I stopped suddenly. I set the suitcase and sack down to focus on the well-dressed man wearing a Bowler hat who was talking to another man and clothed as a railroad employee. The well-dressed man looked official. He seemed to be showing something to the railroadman, Perhaps an ID. I suspected that he was a Pinkerton agent or a law enforcement official. The Bowler hat man, with a spring in his step, jumped to the first step and started to inspect all the seated people. Now I was sure I was being looked for. I saw him inspect all the passengers; I imagined his facial expression showing disappointment.

I grabbed my suitcase and book sack, reversed myself, and walked to the train station where I stayed out of sight. I crossed the railroad tracks, so I was now on the opposite side of the train as the entrance steps and paused to take a deep breath. My heart was beating like a drum from nervousness. Sweat brewed on my forehead as I secretly watched the Pinkie through the train windows where no one was seated. If I had been seen prowling like that, I would have been reported and been caught. I decided to look through the spaces between the train’s sections as well as underneath the train, between the Iron Horse wheels. It was nearly time for the train to leave and I was hopeful, but that hope was dashed when the Pinkie searched the passengers again.

The train started moving and my last vision of Pinkie was seeing him jump off the steps as the train rolled onward slowly, where I saw him with the ticket agent who was pointing toward the City. The train was rolling sluggishly as it began traveling. I kept up with it, still on the opposite side. After about a quarter mile, when it started to outpace me, I grabbed a rail where two cars hooked together and pulled myself up onto the platform next to the door. I wiped away the sweat and tried to slow my breathing. In five minutes the train was a couple of miles onward as I cooled off and felt safe enough to enter the passenger car.

I saw the ticket agent rechecking passenger tickets at the other end of the car and quickly seated myself. When he reached me, I gave him my ticket and he marked it while giving me a confused look. He said, “A Pinkerton agent was looking for you, mister. Sure, hope you ain’t wanted or notorious.”

“Oh, no!” I responded. “Did he say he had my money?”

“No, he didn’t say why he wanted to see you. He was calm so you can’t be too bad a fella.”

“I thought I was supposed to go the Pinkerton headquarters and pick up the money that was waiting for me. My dad said he sent it to Chicago, but I didn’t think it was to be delivered to me at the train station.”

“Not to worry, mister. It’ll be forwarded to you. You’re not the first person who's done it. I see it happen a lot. It’s in safe hands with the Pinkertons. They’re the serious sort who’s rigidly honest. Oh, I just remembered. The Pinkerton agent did have a bunch of paper, or what have you, something bulging in the inside pocket of his suit. Maybe it was your money. Anyway, good luck to you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that. And thanks for your help. Hey, you’ve given me important information that should be rewarded.” I reached for my wallet and gave him a sawbuck as a tip. His eyes glowed at the ten dollars, so I hoped he figured that I was, indeed, a rich man’s son and not think any further about me and the Pinkerton agent.

When the train was on the prairie, on the way to Dodge, I often peered through dust-covered train windows, I saw hundreds of dead, naked, and decaying buffalo that had been slaughtered, skinned, and then their entire bloody bodies left to rot in the sun. The skinners were a bloody mess with blood-saturated hair, hands, clothes, and bloody masks. The skinners were holding on to their slippery knives with cloth on the handles to lessen the slipperiness. I saw more than one whose feet slipped on the slick, thin pools of the blood-covered prairie vegetation. And what were they after? Not meat. The skinners only wanted the hide to sell. I’d never seen such a repulsive sight. They were killing the Indians’ main source of food and being paid for the fur. The thought caused me to have the initial feeling of gagging. The rancid smell penetrated the train windows so thickly that, at one point, the few other passengers on the iron horse squeezed their noses shut and turned their heads away from the windows.

The remainder of the trip to Dodge was mainly occupied by reading. I didn’t pay attention to most of it. It was my self-defense tool against the long spells of boredom I experienced on the trip from Boston to Dodge. I finished Austin’s Pride and Prejudice, then reread Hawthorn’s, The Scarlet Letter, which turned me sour with the thoughts of my ex-girlfriend.

Finally arriving in Dodge, I saw immediately that it wasn’t much of a town, but I could see new buildings being erected on both sides of Front Street. I remembered reading in our Boston Journal newspaper that Dodge would soon become a notorious wild west town. It wasn’t hard to believe that the town started as a buffalo hunting site, though I should have guessed from seeing hundreds of slaughtered buffalo. Dodge started with shabby tents filled with buffalo hides, followed by permanent tent residences and stores, followed by quickly built easy-to-build sod and adobe huts, and then came the, which were much better-built wooden homes and shops with clapboard, waterproof siding.

When I got off the train with my thinly, dust-covered suitcase, full of hurriedly packed clothing, and sack of books. I was lost and anxious. It was like being the new kid at school. I only had a few possessions and no friends. I was out of my comfort zone. Dodge was completely different from modern Boston. I was a bit alarmed by its vastly unfamiliar, rough, dusty, dirty settings, the sun-tortured wooden structures, the chipped painting, and the warped wood from the extreme lack of shade. The worst feeling, however, was being the focus of attention from everyone and seeing very few smiles.

Since my stomach had command of my actions, I looked for a restaurant. The only restaurant sign I saw said Jones’s Restaurant which was halfway down and across Front Street. Calling it a street was quite different than what I had been used to for years. It wasn’t so much a genuine street as it was an extra-wide dirt road through the center of Dodge. Later, I experienced the fact that cowboys came to town in hard-riding groups, leaving their tired, dirty horses tied to a hitching post. You could always tell which horses belonged to cattlemen because they were coated with a layer of dust or mud from the combination of profuse sweat or rain. Luckily for the horses, there were water troughs near each hitching post.

Later I saw that the dust-clouded street was also frequently jammed with horses, freight wagons that delivered large barrels of beer, buckboards bringing store supplies, and personal carriages that some citizens rode to town daily. Once a week, the Kansas Overland Stagecoach, with its bulk, created a dust cloud so large that doors and windows were closed, temporarily, until the dust settled over anything exposed to it. Cleaning the wooden structures was a waste of time, but the store owners were often seen cleaning windows because they were a showcase for their goods, especially new items. It looked as if the sunbaked street was fifty feet across, with stores, shops, livery and blacksmith barn, a saloon called the Long Branch, and hitching posts on both sides, but no boardwalks, though I saw the beginning of them being built by individual store owners so rain and mud wouldn’t be tracked into their places of business. I met only one other passenger who was going to Dodge. He’d been there before, wanting to build a church, but wasn’t successful. He wanted to try again. He informed me that on days when there was the most traffic, with the air saturated with floating dirt, quite often an unusually strong breeze would create one whirling dust devil after another with people needing to cover their eyes, noses, and mouths with hands or hats. I thought this must be a muddy swamp during and after a rainstorm. I crossed the street and walked down Front Street on the same side that the restaurant was on. The wide street ran between the shops with four feet of grass on each side, near the horse-hitching railings. The grass growth there reminded me of my elderly uncle, with his bald head showing no hair, except around the sides, up to the top of his ears, like a hair horseshoe around his head. Later I learned that there was a special, and eerie effect of the moonlight shining on the grass on both sides of the street. The grass shined with a silver hue with your eyes and legs wanting to walk between the silvery pathway.

 My stomach growled as I walked. I was attracting stares from everyone I passed, even from those across the street. Dressed in my expensive, Easterner hunting clothes I might as well have been a costumed foreigner from a different country. The giggles from women and children did not surprise me. I needed a change of clothes as soon as possible, but right now I wanted lunch.

I entered the restaurant with my dirty suitcase and clothes, then sat at the closest empty table, my actions surely showing my insecure feelings. The stares continued. I must have looked freakish to the diners. I thought, was it Halloween, and I was the only one in a costume? A lithe, young, and pretty waitress glided lightly to my table as if she were on a cloud. When she asked for my order, I looked at the chalkboard menu and ordered a steak, skillet potatoes, beans, and biscuits with gravy. When I asked for a glass of water, she advised me to get Adam’s Ale, which was a well-used term for beer, since the water had a bad taste and smell due to its sulfur content. I stared at her figure as she walked away, and to my shame, my eyes were misbehaving by sending ungentlemanly messages to my mind which sent a tumescent demand southward.

I didn’t want to be overtly unmannerly, so I did not ask for her name, nor did I give her my name. I stared out the window until she came back with my food. I looked down at the plate with wide eyes, seeing the biggest piece of meat that I had ever been served. It nearly hid the plate from view. The mountain of potatoes, the pond of gravy, and the pile of beans had to be served on separate, smaller plates. To my complete embarrassment, she also left me a wet cloth. She had noticed the layer of dust on my clothes, but especially on my face and hands. She smiled at my discomfort, but it was somewhat friendly. This time I did not watch her walk away. I began drooling and hoped that it was from the look and smell of the food. Soon she brought a mug of Wiedmann’s Fine Beer and said, “I hope you’re hungry, sir.” Then she vanished again for the kitchen. I saw an older man and woman in the kitchen through a hole in the wall, like a window, which separated the kitchen from the dining area. Since the waitress and the older woman had similar features, I assumed she was the mother, which brought on the assumption that the man was the father. I thought, They must be the ‘Jones’ family. That was the last time I looked up from my plate until I had finished eating all the food. I must have looked as if I was starving as I shoveled the food into my mouth.

The food server was back in about thirty minutes to clear my table. I had drunk all the Wiedmann beer, which most cowboys called Adam’s Ale. It didn’t have the quality taste of a variety of beers back in Boston, plus it was at room temperature since there was no way to keep it cold except in the winter months. She picked up the plates and stood there staring at me with a brazen smile, then said, “When’s the last time yuh ate, Mister?” The question must have been figurative because she didn’t allow me to answer as she asked “Coffee?”

“That would be nice, ma’am, and maybe some apple pie with cheese?”

“We are out of cheese, so how about apple pie with calf slobber then?”

“Yuck. Calf slobber?”

“Cowboy’s name for meringue.”

In a teasing mood, I said, “You know that apple pie without cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze? No pie for me, then.”

She stood straight, with her fists resting at her waist, coupled with a serious expression, and said, “No, I don’t know that, and you aren’t gonna teach me either. And my name’s Clara, not ma’am. So, how’d you like them to whistle berries?”

“Whistle berries? I didn’t have any berries.”

She stuttered, with a giggle before she said, “To a cowboy, ‘whistle berries’ are the beans,” Clara said as she grinned while pinching her nose closed and waving the other hand in front of her to create a breeze.

“Be right back with your coffee,” she whispered as if it was a secret. She then walked toward the kitchen while humming what sounded like The Yellow Rose of Texas. I was taken by her good looks, not beautiful, but young, sweet, hopeful, happy, and appealing. I mumbled to myself, “You’re no handsome bargain, yourself, Tom.”

Wow, I thought. She’s a bright sprite of a gal. “Well, I suppose I have a lot to learn. Are they your parents?” I asked, pointing to the kitchen.

“Yep. My mom, Ida, and my dad, Frank. We moved here about two years ago, after Dad got tired of being abused as a wrangler, and sometimes cowboys’ cook, at a rich guy’s ranch. During his youth, he was a rodeo bronco and bull rider, and then as he got older he became a rodeo manager. That’s how he got the name ‘Buck.’ Then, after he married Mom, he was offered the job of being the ranch cook's assistant. He had to learn fast because, as he says, sometimes, ‘He didn’t know shit about cooking for rich people.’ Mom wanted him to take the job because it was safe and it would be added income, especially in a couple of years when he might be the head ranch hand cook, perhaps take over as chief cook and have his assistant. So that’s how dad got to be a cook, and why he opened this restaurant. Now it’s more profitable than any of his previous jobs. Plus, he’s his boss, except when mom’s in the kitchen.” She laughed. “You think you might tell me who you are?”

That caught me off guard and it embarrassed me. “Oh, sure. Sorry about that. My name’s Tom Hawken from Boston.

“Tom, allow me to give you some advice. Dressed as you are, you stand out as an Easterner. You’ll be considered to be a dandy, perhaps even as cowardly. The West is full of hard candy, so taffy doesn’t last long. You probably should avoid the Long Branch until you get a change of clothes and people get used to seeing you. Chalkley Beeson, referred to as ‘Chalk’, the owner of the Long Branch, which is sometimes referred to as The House of the Widow Makers. Also, home, in my opinion, of the worst wobblin’ jawed storytellers there ever was. They will make a bold and exciting story out of watching an ant cross a table. They mostly are not-so-nice fellows in a not-so-nice place. You wouldn’t get one stride into the Long Branch before some hussies have you in her arms or someone calling you a sissy.”

“Sure, I get it. I’ll buy clothes more suitable for Western life.”

“Dodge is growing fast. There’s plenty of work if you want it.”

“Work is a problem for me. You see, sweet Clara, I have a severe allergy to that kind of awful stuff, though I don’t mind at all watching other people work. I find that to be more interesting and amusing. Plus, it’s very relaxing. Seeing you work so hard relaxes me.” I thought I was being clever at capturing her attention.

I continued, “I’m not sure about staying. Should be here for at least a week, possibly two, perhaps longer if I see a future here.”

“Until you make up your mind, when you get hungry, this is the place to go. Food’s the best in town. That’s guaranteed. Ask anyone.”

“How many restaurants are here?” I asked curiously.

“Just ours, so far,” she said with laughter, “but the town is growing so Mom, Dad, and I expect we’ll get some competition soon, There’s a new restaurant, being built right now. It will be, like ours, appealing to those who don’t consider John Barleycorn and liquor as food items. The CiyCouncil is hiring another doctor, and a lawyer sent a letter to them wanting to open an office here.”

“Nice to know where the best restaurant and the best food is.” I gave her my best smile. The humor, plus the best food in town, and the appeal of Clara made this place a certainty for me to return to. If I stayed, I’d have to make a whole new life, after running away from an unjustified shotgun wedding and away from my teaching job. An aggressive and deceitful girlfriend makes for a dangerous life, especially when her brothers are brutes, and suspected members of a notorious Boston gang.

“Good advice,” I stated, laconically. “Oh, are the Long Branch and this place the only places where I can get a beer?”

“Are you serious? The town ought to have been named Ale City. You sure are a confused tenderfoot. Other places in town sell beer, but you’d have to find that out for yourself because it changes so frequently. I do know that the billiards hall, at the end of the street, sells beer, if they aren’t closed already. They realized that customers can’t play billiards very well when they’re in their liquor. Jacob told me that after a few beers, most customers’ eyes bounced around like pebbles in a shaken tin can. Plus, unthought of were the weapons that the balls and sticks became. Those billiard sticks make fine cudgels, the bringers of many headaches. The balls are worse when thrown. If the place is still open, it won’t be for long.”

“Cudgel is my dad’s word. Comes from Ireland, I think. Dad keeps an ax handle in the kitchen to use on any troublemakers. He calls it a cudgel.”

 I was about to make a joke about the Irish, but personal diplomacy was needed here, and silence is very diplomatic.

Now Clara pointed and remarked, “You see that building that’s nearly finished?” She stretched her arm and pointed out the window. “That’s going to be another saloon, but, for now, the Long Branch is the only saloon. You don’t need to be a saloon to serve beer. My dad says we may have to move because the main growth of Dodge is going to be saloons and cemeteries and the cattle business. Rumor also has it that two more saloons will be coming later this year and more next year. More saloons mean much more trouble for Dodge. Every year a couple more saloons will open their doors for guaranteed business. Hard to believe that regular citizens will be moving away and that’ll make for a slow restaurant business. Also, rumor is that many town saloons are starting to provide food, so the cowboys won’t have to leave the saloon to get fed. Wichita or Leavenworth are places that Dad is seriously thinking about, especially Leavenworth which is a growing town built around the presence of Federal Troops at Fort Leavenworth. Both those towns are much tamer and safer than Dodge will be in a few years. Dad says the name ‘Dodge’ is good because this town will be extremely ‘dodgy’ soon. Tom, come with me, please.”

I followed her outside. She pointed down the street at the new saloon being built. I thought she was right. I could imagine all kinds of trouble coming when cattle drovers, road agents, prospectors, gunslingers, gamblers, and soiled doves establish themselves permanently or semi-permanently in Dodge. The coming danger wasn’t far off. It could be only a couple of years away. Coffin building and grave digging would be a good starter business.

“Look, Tom. If your eyes are sharp, you can just see a portion of the Long Branch’s sign, sticking out toward the street. The place always has a rough, rude, violent, trouble-making crowd of rowdies. It’s the most dangerous place to go to for a beer, especially for a tenderfoot like you. No offense intended.” She turned to look at me with smiling, teasing eyes.

“None taken. At least not right now. I’ll get my revenge eventually.” Clara’s response was a mischievous smile.

I noticed that a team of old guys were enjoying an after-lunch coffee but Looking at us with curious expressions. Then the one with a red mustache spoke, “If yer heah fer the cattle business, yuh come at the wrong place. Yuh needs ta head northeast ta Ab’lene which be more than a hund’red miles from heah. Train yuh come on goes there. It’s about a three-hour trip, or mebbe a two or three-day ride on a horse. It be a cattle town.”

“No,” I said with too much disinterest. “I’m not interested in cattle, except for dinner steaks.”

Clara interrupted. “Boys don’t get your dander up. You haven’t even been introduced. Let me,” offered Clara. “Tom, the guy with the red mustache and thinning white hair, which used to be red, is called Rooster.” Rooster had a habit of squinting and blinking more than usual. Perhaps the constant sunshine and dust on cattle drives had something to do with it. Clara cleared her throat and continued, “ And the bald one is called Shine ‘cause his bald head shines in the sun. See that crow feather in his hatband? It’s not a black crow feather, it’s a black comb. Shine is a jokester. As Shine produced a mischievous smile, I saw him suck air through the space of a missing tooth. There was no way I could prevent myself from smiling at both of them.

Then Shine entered the conversation, saying, “Dagnabit, yuh see, young man, there be strong rumors that Ab’lene not goin’ ta be Kansas big Cowtown no more. Soon train gonna git all the cattle heah, in Dodge, not Ab’lene that be couple hun’red miles northeast of heah. Goin’ ta Ab’lene fer ta pick up cattle not be cattle place no more. Where cattle comes, there be a need fer cattlemen ta have saloons, stores, and such. Ab’lene was just fer pickin’ up cows, droppin’ off food supplies an’ alcohol for cattlemen. Nothin’ fer cowboys ta do there but make trouble, wit’ fights, shootin’ and stabbing.’ Ab’lene not much but a tent town which not be interesting for drovers that be a pushin’ cattle fer weeks or months while eatin’ dust and constant eatin’ beef, Plus no Adam’s Ale. An’ Ab’lene not be real town anyway at all if yuh asks me. It be a cow-dee-poo, or whatever yuh be callin’ that kine-a-place.”

Rooster added, “ More saloons comin’ mighty fas’ ta Dodge. Mebbe all Dodge new saloons be servin’ food ta keeps the drovers in ‘em. Not be good for Jones’s Eatery. An’ Ab’lene not be real town anyway at all if yuh asks me.”

Clara and I knew that he meant to say ‘depot.’ As they talked, I looked at their weathered faces. They were both in their early to late sixties. My quick look at them revealed prominent, narrow, but deep furrows plowed there by the weather and most other parts of their faces. The age- and work-related wrinkles dominated their appearances. Maybe they were younger than I thought, but they looked old like crinkled, brown parchment paper left forgotten in the sun. I also saw Clara looked saddened by the possibility of saloons serving food, not as in a restaurant, but on a table for hungry cowboys to saunter over there and grab something to eat, instead of leaving to find something to eat.

Shine continued, “Not be anyone there but critters people. Not much growth as we be havin’ here. The railroad wants ta pick up critters heah as we be growin’ fast. And be on the main track an’ not a spur off the main track adding extra miles to get the cattle.”

Rooster spoke. “An’ Tom, Ab’lene gots trouble wid Texas Longhorn critters. They gots a tick on ‘um that makes bad fevers ta other critters. Now Longhorns be driven farther north ta go aroun’ Abilene.”

They both looked at me with curious grins. Shine poked in his opinion in saying, “You be no cattleman, that fer sure. Tall, skinny, strong lookin', but yuh gots no sun likes a cattleman an’ yuh gotcha clean britches, so ya never on cattle drives or ‘round critters. What in tarnation yuh be in Dodge fer?”

“Don’t be rude, guys. Tom has become a friend to me. Give him a chance and he’ll be your friend, too,” Clara stated with an admonishing tone for the old-timers.

“I was a teacher in Boston,” I replied. I taught high school at the Boston Academy, and then I suddenly needed a change, so I came out west. Dodge is where the train got me, and I’ve decided to stay awhile.”

“Still, yuh be like seein’ a big white dot on a bigger black wall. Not hard ta spot yuh while yuh be dressed like a eastern city-slicker. Around heah folks sees a man in eastern clothes, they think he be a yella-bellied coward, or a stupid dandy, or a sissy.” He was used to speaking his mind, but he saw my face turn red and said, “Hold on now, Sonny. I didn’t call you a yella-bellied coward. I say that be what other folks, mostly rough-living cowpokes mebbe say. That Long Branch crowd will prod yuh inta a fight, so stays clear of it. My partner an’ me be easy goin’ fellas an’ if yuh be friends wit’ Clara an’ her folks, then we be yer friends, too, but one more piece of advice. There be two theory a how ta argue with wimmins. You takes me word fer it, son. Both are no good.”

I said, “Thanks for the good advice. I appreciate your friendship. Please call me Tom. I also got some good advice from Mr. Jacobs. Shine, you’ll like this one ‘cause it’s funny. Mr. Jacobs said, ‘Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction.’” Laughter filled the room.

Clara added, “Well they both have good advice to offer. You know, when a cowboy is too old to set a bad example, he starts giving good advice from his experiences.”

Clara changed the subject, saying, “Tom, remember, when you buy clothes, get tough, long-lasting clothes with no bright colors, and get cowboy boots. You’ll need to buy a six-shooter outfit and learn how to use it competently. You need a folding knife or a sheath knife. Barlow knives are popular. My dad has one. They fold and fit easily in a pocket. “I’ll want two of those single-blade Barlow knives—one for me and one for a friend, Art, in Boston.

He continued, “ For a good used gun, see Ben ‘Benny’ Jacobs at Jacob’s Livery and Blacksmithing. Sometimes the cowboys run out of money and pay their debt to Ben by giving him their gun outfits which aren’t needed on a cattle drive. You’ll get those guns much cheaper from Ben than buying a new outfit at the Saddle and Leathergoods Shop. You can decide to buy a horse and saddle too, or just wait a while for them. And for goodness sake, don’t wear your gun low on your thigh or some gun slick, who fancies himself being a gunslinger, will get the idea that you’re a ‘fast-draw’ gunslinger, and he’ll challenge you. Then see Mr. Henry Zimmermann at the General Outfitting Store that’s across the street. Henry won’t make a straight line crooked. You can trust him. Tell him that I sent you and he’ll take good care of you. Also, tell him you don’t want new clothes, that you only want second-hand clothing, especially the tough Levi jeans, plus you will want a pale brown and blue denim shirt and a vest. Few men’s pants have pockets, so vest pockets are useful for small items. If they do have the new Levi’ with pockets, get those. You can carry the knife inside one of your boots or in a belt sheath. A wool-lined vest is a good idea, too, especially for cool weather. You won’t need a coat, not yet anyway, but when you do, get one with a vertical cut on the side where your gun is. You’ll need more than one article of clothing, of course. The clothing will feel scratchy for a while, but wearing all-new clothes and new boots will make you stand out. You don’t want to attract unwanted attention and trouble. You may need gloves, a bandana, spurs, and rope, but you can buy those as needed. And, before you ask, I won’t go with you. That will attract unwanted attention and teasing.”

She paused and inhaled deeply to catch her breath. Her chest puffed out and I did my best not to stare, so I looked directly into her eyes and asked, “What if I want a beer at the Long Branch?”

“Switch to sassafras at the Billiard place. It’s water with flavor. Then wait until the new Alhambra saloon is completed and go there, but, like I said, other places sell beer. Wagon loads of beer come to town with twenty beer kegs in each wagon. Next year, the rumor is, that another saloon, probably three, will be built to match the town's growth. Just remember, do not go into the Long Branch. That’s only asking to be gun-play and getting shot or getting into a fight with knuckles and knives. That will get you a nice plot at Boot Hill because there are no rules. Anything goes, especially broken beer glasses used as weapons.”

Her father, Buck, yelled from the kitchen. “George Hoover’s Cigarette, Cigars and Liquor Store, is where most men buy the makings to roll their cigarettes.

 I don’t smoke, but I stopped at Hoover’s one day to check out the brands of liquor. I prefer whiskey to beer when I want liquor, but I’m not a heavy drinker. I remember the day I went into Hoover’s Store. I had nothing important to do, so went for a look-see. I saw many cowboys, too lazy to roll their cigarettes, buy small, thin, and cheap cigars called ‘stogies.’ I didn’t smoke but thought it might add to my wanna-be cowboy image. Talking to the owner, I learned that those cigars are called stogies because they were popular with the drivers of Conestoga wagons, where rolling your cigarettes was never convenient. But after I smelled the smoke from them I decided not to smoke dried turds called stogies.

Cigars and cigarettes were popular, and George did well, but he did even better when he added a beer keg to his store. Smart man, George. He gave one free but small glass of beer per customer. That way the cowboy don’t have to stop drinking when they come to his store. When we were alone, George informed me that he used a cheap beer called Wiedmann’s beer from Wisconsin, which costs about twenty cents a glass, But if I wanted a quality Anheuser Busch beer, from St. Louis, Missouri, I’d have to pay twenty-five cents a glass, but the only place that sold it is at the Long Branch. But quality didn’t seem to matter to the cowboys who were coming in from the dusty trail. Cheap beer was good enough for them. Few customers asked for the Busch beer. There were even card games without using money. Glasses of beer were used for betting. Numbered cardboard chips were used to bet with, kind of like, “I’ll see your two glasses bet and raise you one more glass.” Money was worthless on the trail, but beer was like gold to them. I walked out the door and I smelled like the stogies. Clara would love that. Manure after-shave, what a romantic delight.

When I departed George’s store, I was thinking about buying used clothing, so I didn’t want to delay it. In an hour I had purchased what Clara suggested to help me fit in with the style of the cowboys and some citizens. I brought my arm full of clothes to my room and changed into my secondhand clothing, which did, indeed, scratch as if the clothing was made from burlap bag material.

                                                *

The days passed slowly. One lazy, dull day I got curious about the Long Branch. I moseyed down the opposite side of the dirt street until I was opposite the saloon. It was dark inside, especially with the batwing doors blocking the debauchery that usually goes on in there at night. The batwing doors also allow fresh air to circulate into the densely packed cigarette and cigar smoke room. It looked so dark inside that I had the image of one candle in a cave form in my mind. Luckily, the noise level was nothing like it is after dark when evil matches the darkness of drunk men’s minds.

Buck had told me that one of his friends described the inside of the Long Branch as a mass of disgusting smells. There was the combination of cigarettes, cigars, and chewing tobacco spit on the floor, combined with the smell of putrid body odors, and sweat, plus the smell of beer and whisky mixed with vomit, all brewing in the saturated lumps of sawdust or straw that’s supposed to absorb it. From the outside, however, it looked to be the best structure in town. It’s false front, which hid the actual roof, was painted a pleasant forest green, while the natural wood shingles over the porch area looked almost new. The two poles holding up that porch roof were also the same color green. The Long Branch stood in stark contrast to the cheap white paint used on all the other buildings, except for the China Doll Brothel which was dull red. At that moment, a glimmer of sunshine reflected off something round and dusty lying in the dirt street. It looked like a brass coin. I picked it up and placed it in my palm, spitting on it, then wiping the dust away so I could see the face of the coin.

As I said, the interior of the Long Branch was dark, but I noticed a lone man standing in the shadow of batwing doors. It looked like a cowboy staring at me while chugging a beer. At first, I thought his face was twisted in anger, but it wasn’t simply anger, it was hatred. I wouldn’t have noticed him except for the brightly burning end of his cigarette and his beer glass’s reflected sunlight. But when he cast the cigarette aside and set the glass down, his shape melted into the blackness of evil intent.

Evil in darkness made me think: “Tyger Tyger, burning bright, in dark forests of the night . . . ” my brain whispered to me, the beginning of William Blake’s poem about good and evil. Refocusing on the man, my next thought was that he had to have had several beers by now, even though it was only midday. He tauntingly removed his belt knife from its scabbard, then took a plug of tobacco out of a vest pocket. He began making a drama out of his actions, especially when he slowly, and easily sliced off a small section, then placed that piece of tobacco between his gum and cheek, then added a wet, brown smile. I supposed that all his falsely casual actions were to taunt, frustrate, and anger me.

Surprising me, he stumbled into the street screaming at me like a wounded critter. He glared heatedly at me with the black eyes of the devil himself. “Yuh bastard.” He screamed. “That be my coin. I knowed I musta drop it. Yuh cain’t claim it. It be me gold key ta that door ‘tween a lady’s legs.” Unbalanced, he rushed me, head down like a bull with his arms spread wide. I side-stepped him, sticking my foot out to trip him. He slurred a curse as he fell to kiss the dust. My laughter incensed him as his red, embarrassed face became a show of fierceness. He sprang up to his feet, staggered, then spit at me. He fumbled to draw his knife, even looking at it as if he wasn’t sure he was holding it. He steadied himself, then walked toward me waving his knife threateningly. When he got close and slashed horizontally at my neck I let his swiping action continue to the end as he swiped empty air. Before he could return the knife to his right side, I stepped inside to the shoulder of his extended arm, and buried my fist violently into his soft belly, jackknifing him. He fell to his knees and vomited all his beer while dropping his knife. He tried to stand but collapsed sideways with his nose buried in the dust once again. Each breath that he exhaled stirred up a tuft of dust. I walked away and when I looked back, men from the Long Branch were picking him up. One guy picked the knife out of the dirt by the tip of the blade due to the handle being covered with yellowish vomit. That man yelled, “Stranger, my friend mistook you for a guy who betrayed him. That be why he attacked yuh. We be ‘splainin’ it to him. He lucky he didn’t get a lot worse punishment from yuh.”

I was glad that I got a room at the hotel the first day. It was where both peace and quiet resided and, right now, that’s what I needed most, so I quickly returned to my room for peace, and quiet to read, though my reading was interrupted by my thought that perhaps Dodge was too risky for me to stay here. I had made an enemy, maybe more than one, in a short time. Pessimistically I uttered Blake’s, “Tyger Tyger.”

                                                *

The following day I slept late, read for a while, then had lunch with Clara. The restaurant was nearly empty, and everyone had been served, so Buck and Ida joined us when they delivered our lunch plates.

Buck smiled, then said. “Heard there was some action in the street outside the Long Branch yeste’day afternoon.”

There was a pause, with an awkward quietness. “Yeah. A drunk cowboy named Sawyer thought I stole a coin of his that he dropped in the street before he entered the Long Branch. He was drunk and held a knife. I punched him in the gut, doubled him over, then he fell onto the dirt. I left him lying in the street. Nothing serious.” That was a lie.

Lunch was excellent, as usual. It was good to have a conversation with Clara’s folks who were usually too busy to join us to eat and talk. Usually, all we said to each other was, “Hello, good morning” or “Good to see yuh.”

                                                *

As time passed, Clara and I had such a good time teasing each other and flirting that she reached across the table to hold my hand with both of hers. Her moist eyes stared into mine. “Tom, I love you.”

Unexpectedly, I said to her, “It is a truth universally known that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” I didn’t mention that I had no ‘fortune.’

“What?” Clara uttered, bewildered by the quote. That doesn’t sound like you talking. Those words sound strange coming outta your mouth.”

With an intimate smile I responded, “Sorry, Clara, those words come from a famous novel written by a British author by the name of Jane Austen in 1813. She used those words in her famous book, “Pride and Prejudice.” We were both quiet. Only our eyes made statements.

“I don’t know stuff like that, Tom. It embarrasses me.” She paused, then blurted, “You mean a famous woman writer? Only heard of men writing books. What’s it about?”

“It’s about a woman who misjudges a man, thinking him to be prideful and cruel, when he is caring and considerate. The hidden message of the book is, ‘Don’t make overly quick judgments about people.’ I never read it before because it’s a romantic maze of confusion and conflict concerning romance and a person being overly prideful and prejudiced. I almost stopped reading it on the train, but I persisted, determined to finish it.”

“Umm. I see. I would like to read that book. It sounds interesting. Can I borrow it?”

“ Of course. I’ll loan it to you.” I made a dramatic pause, locked my eyes on her eyes, and said, “So, Miss Clara, when shall we get married?” I teased her further, saying, “I need a smart, and pretty woman like you, to share my life. Right now your eyes sparkle invitingly to match the shine of your inviting lips.” I flashed her my widely stretched grin; the corners of my mouth pointing to my ears.

“Oh, so you can talk blarney, easily. Flatterers need to be watched carefully. But do come back to our restaurant. Mom and Dad like you, even though I keep telling them that you’re a rat looking for a bite of free cheese. I didn’t mention the squeeze. You’ll come back here?”

“Of course, I’ll be back,” I responded with the loss of my exaggerated grin, replacing it with a more natural smile. Clara was smart, pretty, and curvy which brought about another, sudden tumescent stir in my southern parts. I needed to stay seated to conceal it, so I told her a joke. “Clara, here’s a weird joke. If a cowboy rides into Dodge on Friday and three days later, he leaves on Friday, how did he do it?”

“He didn’t do it. That’s impossible.” Hand on waist, she looked at me boldly, a challenge.

“It’s not impossible if his horse is named ‘Friday.’”

“Ok, ok, but you didn’t tell me it was a trick question, so I would have more time to think about it. Even after you told me the trick answer, I still didn’t think it was funny because I thought you were making fun of me.”

“Heck, I told that one to Art and we both laughed our asses off.”

“Go back to your room in the Dodge House. Come back here to eat and maybe even tell a joke that is funny. You’re lucky that the Dodge House and The Long Branch are far enough away from each other that the saloon's loudness and the noisy, drunk, street hoodlums shouldn’t bother you.

“What’s your lawman done about that? Wait a second. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any Marshall’s sign or office.”

“That’s right,” Clara added. “We have no lawman. The City Council heard about a young fella named Earp and tried to contact him when he was a lawman in Missouri. Never heard from him, though. The same results for inquiries to Bat Masterson and Bass Reeves, though that ‘hanging judge Parker’ let us know that Reeves was too valuable to send to Dodge as the marshal because Reeves was the law in a whole, lawless Indian Territory, not simply to one small town. He was not polite about it. So, there’s still no lawman in town. Streets’re not safe at night. The closer you get to the Long Branch the danger increases. Drunk cowboys often wander the dark street, drinking from a bottle of whiskey or a bottle of Mexican tequila.

“At night, windows have been broken and bullet holes in buildings are frequently found. Once a horse was accidentally shot by drunken cattlemen who were staggering outside the saloon, shooting stray bullets, supposedly into the air, while walking up and down Front Street slurring and forgetting the words to songs like, “The Old Chisholm Trail, Old Dan Tucker, O Bury Me.” They’re the kind of men who wear ten-gallon hats on pint-sized heads. Streets are normally empty after dark, though one night, while out for a walk, I heard a harmonica playing the rustic tune of Red River Valley. It was played well, so I knew it wasn’t coming from a drunken cowboy. I didn’t see who was blowing the tune. From what I’m told, the harmonica is the favorite musical instrument played when driving cattle long distances because it’s cheap, easy to buy, relaxing to cowboys, and helps settle the cattle.

………………………………………………………………………….

NOTE:  A “10 galón” Mexican sombrero was a cowboy hat with an extra wide brim that offered shade for the head and shoulders. The crown is tall enough to hold ten skinny hatbands, called ‘galons’ in Spanish. American cowboys adopted the wide-brimmed sombrero for protection from the sun. American cowboys confused the Spanish word ‘galon’ for the English word ‘gallon’ and started referring to their own sombrero-inspired hats as “10-gallon hats, especially if their hat had a high crown.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I asked Clara, “ What’s that place next to the Long Branch? The one with the Chinese characters on its sign and window. Looks like they sell dolls, I teased. How can they make any money selling dolls in a town that’s mostly full of violent men? That’s Strange.”

“That’s the China Doll Brothel, stupid. You are too naïve about Western life and towns. You might want to stay away from that place, too. A visit there will give you a disease, and when you exit, your clothes and any hair on your body with be covered with lice. Don’t come near me if you ever visit that place.”

I smiled mischievously at Clara whose face flushed with embarrassment.

“What’s that overblown smile about?” she asked.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the quarter-sized brass object I had found in the dirt near the Long Branch. Clara’s countenance changed immediately, drastically, and angrily. She suddenly grabbed the coin out of my hand. “You went there?” she accused me with fire in her eyes, coupled with a distasteful grimace. Her hands covered her face, but I knew she was crying. She let her hands fall exposing her face. I was startled by the redness of her skin and half expected it to smolder. What have I done were words like bullets bouncing off my inner skull.

“Wait a second, Clara. I found that coin in the street the other day while on a walk to look at the Long Branch, from the opposite side of the street. I didn’t enter the China Doll. I was using this coin as a teasing joke. I’m sorry that it was an awful joke.” I swore at myself silently.

She fell into me, her tears soaking into my shirt, then burning my chest with their heat. Again, I chastised myself with choice, and offensive names and ordered myself to get rid of the brass coin as soon as possible. I was being so stupid for a well-educated man. Out west, I’ve been learning, intelligence, can make you a disliked foreigner. I was not being smart.

In my room alone that night, I examined the coin. It was a cheaply made brass coin that a cowboy could purchase in the Long Branch if he didn’t want to use it immediately. Cowboys often bought them before they spent all their money but still wanted to finish the night with a bang. At the top edge of the coin’s face, it said, The China Doll. The bottom edge said, Dodge City. Centered at the top, under the name of the place was engraved ‘10c Lookie,’ then under that was ‘25c Feelie,’ under that, it said ‘50c Dooie, and lastly, it read ‘$3 All nightie.” 

The next morning, I thought about buying used clothing. In an hour I had purchased what Clara suggested to help me so I could fit in with the style of the cowboys and some citizens. I brought my arm full of clothes to my hotel room and changed my clothing, then I left the room and walked to Jacobs’ livery stables to talk with Mr. Jacobs.

He was grooming a horse when I moseyed into the barn-like structure. The first thing I could smell was the overpowering odor of horse manure and the sight of thousands of flies feasting on it. I noticed that the livery was built with wood from torn-down structures from previous years. It appeared not to have been shielded from the harsh effect of the wind, dust, and sun for years. Warping was obvious as well as the gaps between the siding. That siding was clustered with hundreds of tiny, projecting slivers of worn wood that looked like thousands of miniature porcupine quills. The wood was dark from weathering, and black mold grew in some places. I looked at my hands, then at Mr. Jacobs’ hands. He wore gloves. Smart.

I approached the man, saying, “Mr. Jacobs, my name is Tom Hawken. I’m new in town. Clara, from the restaurant, suggested that I come here for a six-gun setup and look over your horses. Horses don’t need to be young but be in good enough condition to be reliable. A warning look is better for both things.”

“Well, howdy to yuh, stranger. So, you know Clara, huh? She a hell of a good woman. The whole family is too good for this town. Clara’s smart, energetic, helpful, and with a mind of her own. Some man will be lucky to get her. If only I was forty years younger. Follow me, son,” he mumbled as he walked to a stall in the back of the barn, a stall not intended for any horse. Jacobs used it as a tiny store. Hanging on the top sideboard of the stall were various holster belts, pistols, rifles, and an ugly-looking saddle that was scarred and stained, with some superficially ripped leather. It was draped over the top board of the opposite stall wall, one stirrup hanging down as if expecting a boot to fill it.

As we walked, he mumbled, his sandpaper voice scoured my ears. “I gotta gentled horse in mid-life, ‘A twelve-years-old female, that is for sale. Most buyers want a younger horse, but this one would be terrific fer a tenderfoot, like you, assuming you are generally unaware of horse flesh. She’s a sound chestnut mare, a Mustang. Won’t outrun most other horses but she’s healthy and not ornery.” He pulled an apple out of his heavy leather apron and handed it to me. Don’t use yer fingers. Yuh might get ‘em bit. You open yer hand wide, set the apple in the center of yer open palm, then hold it low, like this.” He demonstrated. “She’ll take it easily.” On the way he said, “I gots ‘er ‘cause the owner was shot dead in the Long Branch before he could pay his bill. His widow refused to pay, nor did she wan’ the horse. A damn good deal fer me. The widow didn’t know how to ride and didn’t even like horses except an old one she always used for her carriage to go to town. She didn’t want to waste money caring fer the critter. I think the woman’s husband might ‘ave mistreated it on occasion because it be sometimes barn-sour. I will give yuh mighty fair price if yuh buy ‘er.”

“Barn sour? What’s that?”

“Oh, it mean a horse thet don’t wanna leave the barn. If she’s a problem like thet, I make it right fer yuh. I think if yuh gits ta know ‘er an’ ‘er you, she be no problem thet way ‘cause barn sour often be from abuse. Be kin’ ta ‘er and she be kin’ ta you.”

His five horses were corralled behind the stables. I’d been told that the horse I was to look at was chestnut-colored, so it was easy to find her. Four of the five horses were energetic, frisky, and playful. The Mustang, however, stood by the fence, relaxing with one hind leg slightly lifted off the ground. I’d seen many horses at the hitching posts do the same thing. Ben went into the fenced area, looped a rope around her neck, and brought her to me as I stood outside the fence. The horse looked at me, knickered, cantered its head, and then blew a gush of warm air out her nose as she bowed her head. I held the apple in my palm, fingers together. She took it immediately. The horse canted its head to me, then stepped closer to nudge my arm, as if to say, “Another one, please.” I decided that she was the one for me. I stoked her withers as she turned her head and nudged my shoulder again. Mr. Jacobs laughed at how the horse liked me and me her.

“Mr. Jacobs, this might seem trivial, but I felt breath coming out of her nose, but no breath from her mouth. Doesn’t she have to stop chewing and swallowing to breathe?”

“Ahh, yes, a tenderfoot question. When yuh buys a horse yuh should check it all over, the hooves, ears, eyes, and red eyes are a warning sign. Check legs for joint swelling, look for body scars, and injuries, plus see it run and trot. What is usually not mentioned but needs to be done is ta check those extra-large nostrils all horses possess. They are large for a good reason. That’s their only means of breathing. Horses can’t breathe through their mouths, just through their nostrils. Always check the nostrils for irritation, disease, or infection. A constant runny nose will be a warning for you that something’s wrong.”

Shit, I said to myself. Tenderfoot indeed. “So, what’s that good price you’re talking about?”

“Well, I got the horse to pay a debt of fifteen dollars, so I’ll sell it to yuh for a double sawbuck. What say you?”

Just twenty dollars? I smiled at him and said, “ A great deal, Mr. Jacobs. I accept.”

“Just Ben will do,” Ben chuckled. “ I’ll be makin’ money, too, because you will be paying me ta keep her here, ta groom her an’ ta feed her for five dollars a week. Still a good deal for both of us, right?”

“I agree. It’s a darn good deal, Ben.”

“But the deal, so far, ain’t the best part, son. Guess what saddle fits ‘er perfect?”

“Really?’ I said in disbelief. “That saddle you have fits this horse. My lucky day.”

“It does fit. The same widow comes ta me a week later. Said she be movin’ East ta live wid’ ‘er daughter. She wanna ta know if I wanna buy the saddle. Almost didn’t buy it, but it price was too good ta say no.”

“Geez, Ben. That’s generous. But I’ll take it, for sure. Now I only need a gun, holster, and belt.”

“Normally, with a tenderfoot, I advise not ta be quick ta buy a gun, but in Dodge, there be not many people heah without one. Hell, even that old widow carries a two-shot derringer. As yuh saw in my stable stall, I've a few holsters. I gots a good one be for yuh. Come see.” Once inside the stall Ben said, cheerfully, “Look see this 1851 Navy Colt. Still in good condition an’ shoots good, too. It’s a percussion cap and ball model. I’ll show you sometime how to load it. Hell, son, I use it to shoot rats, possums, an’ coons that pester my horses. Yuh can git bullets from Zimmerman’s outfitter and dry goods store.” Ben had three holsters that accepted the Colt. I bought the one that fit my waist best and held the gun tightly. Then Ben removed the gun from the holster and showed me the basics, especially how to load it.

“You bes’ take it outta town on yer critter ta practice. Don’t try ta wear it low on yuh thigh or gun slicks’ll think yer a wanna-be, fast-draw, gun-slinging troublemaker looking to challenge someone or more like it be some drunk fool will challenge yuh. If yuh wish ta stay above the snakes, be careful. Gunplay starts mighty fas’ ‘round heah when cattlemen come ta town. Cattle drive be a rough life fer months sometime. They comes ta town right quick ta ‘ave lots a fun, most it be gambling, but they wants wimmin.”

“I’ll start practicing with my gun tomorrow, after breakfast.”

“I be here long ‘afore yuh comes. If yuh don’t see me, give a yell. I won’t be far away. I gots no family, so I lives here. Gots me a little room in back wid wood stove, a table, a chair an’ a bed.”

See you tomorrow, Mr. Jacob, and I do appreciate what you’ve done for me. Didn’t expect such kind treatment, being a stranger in town.”

No Mr. needed. Call me Ben. An’ Yuh can thank Clara fer that, son.” He looked down at my feet. “Hey, Tom. Yuh needs boots. That I can also help yuh with, also. Don’t have any but can tell you where ta go.” He pointed down and across the street. “Yuh see Mueller’s Saddles an’ Boots Shop? They ‘ave used an’ repaired boots that the owners never came to get ‘cause mebbe they are dead, mebbe ran outta money. Let’s hope the ones yuh buy are not Boot Hill boots,” he said with teasing laughter. “An’ if yuh do git cowboy boots, make sure yuh git them high-heeled boots.”

“Now that you mentioned the large heels on cowboy boots, I was wondering why they have those high heels. Can you explain that? In eastern cities, it’s only the women who wear high-heeled shoes, but that’s rare except at a rich person’s party. I asked that same question at the saddle shop and the owner, his helper, and the customers laughed at me.”

Ben explained. “Well, city-slicker, there be a damn good reason an’ it not to help a man look taller. It is not rare ta be told that someone, on a horse, got dragged to death or seriously injured because their regular type a shoe or boot slipped through their stirrup and got stuck there. That makes ‘em lose their balance an’ slide off their saddle with one foot stuck in the stirrup ‘cause their shoe slips through it. Their fall spooks the startled horse, it panics, then, in fear, it gallops away from what it thinks is a danger to ‘im. So, the rider gits dragged ta death or seriously hurt when their body drags over anything that’s on the ground. High heels on cowboy boots stop yer foot from sliding through the stirrup. The high-heeled boot catches on the stirrup an’ the boot is not allowed ta slip through it. The high heels be a necessary, lifesaving part of a cowboy’s boots.

                                                *

After I’d been in town for a couple of weeks, Clara walked with me to see the Boot Hill Cemetery. I could see it was not a pleasant place for any respectable person to be buried and a dismal place to visit. Mostly the worst of humanity lay there. Chances were great, that if you died with your boots on, you had been a vile person who led a criminal life, a murderer, a robber, a card cheat, or had committed other crimes that were too many to mention. It’s thought that this type of person didn’t deserve a fine funeral, being dressed up in fine clothes for their eternal resting place with no boots on, like a respectable, law-abiding citizen. Those Boot Hill villains mostly died drunk while choking on their vomit or got knifed, strangled, brutally beaten, killed in a gunfight, or some other violent way, such as hemp fever, which is the cowboy way of saying they got hanged for a crime. So, they were buried the same day as their death, and usually in the clothes and boots they were wearing when they died. I learned that, normally, there’s no grave marker unless a friend or family member made one, so most graves had no marker and were only seen as small mounds of dirt that washed away or were overgrown in a few years. Care was not taken to make the grave deep for these brazen scoundrels, which made it easy for wolves, rats, and gophers to come in the night, dig the topsoil off the grave, and feast on human carrion. One grave marker I remember said, “Here lies Lester Moore, full of four slugs from a .44. No Les, no Moore.” The epitaph was carved into a weather-beaten, splintered, and decaying board that was not stuck in the ground, rather, the base of it was supported by large stones. What I found most ironic about Boot Hill was that there was a decrepit wooden fence around that plot off-ground that was littered mostly with Buffalo Grass, Mesquite, and Prickly Pear cactus. A little laughter is involved, too. The back of the fence is up against a dead, but still standing, tree, looking as worn, gray, fragile, and decayed as most of the grave markers. All of its branches are hanging over the opposite side of the fence, away from the cemetery plot, except the largest branch which jutted out over the cemetery as if it were patiently waiting, over the years, to provide a good place to hang someone.

                                                *

I saw Clara frequently over the next few weeks, so it seemed that June came upon me suddenly. I often ate lunch at the Jones restaurant, after my morning target practice, but I always had dinner there. After I was finished with lunch, I usually stayed seated with a cup of Joe. Rooster and Shine were there a lot and sometimes they’d harmonize a cowboy poem that they said was A Cowboy’s Life that said: The bawl of a steer, to a cowboy’s ear, is music of sweetest strain, and the yelping notes, of the gray coyotes, to him are a glad refrain.

This restaurant had the best coffee in town due to it being made with Arbuckle’s Course Coffee Grounds, plus a couple of eggshells to reduce any bitterness. It cost Buck more to buy, but the cost was offset by plenty of customers who wanted quality coffee and a snack, or with dessert or after any meal. At coffee time, Clara would often bring me a sweet pastry to eat, called bear-sign because it looked a little like the paw of a baby bear. At this time we had unhurried time to talk. During dinnertime we normally couldn’t talk because she was too busy, sometimes so busy that her mom had to assist her in serving the customers.

As the days passed, I got more serious about practicing with my Navy revolver. It seemed like a thrilling hobby, at first, but when I came to my senses I realized that guns, in Dodge, were not for sport; they were for killing, which had quite a different feeling from my experiences with deer hunting.

When I first started practicing, I would take a break when I was tired or when I had to reload. I usually ground-reined my horse, so she could move around and eat. One day she walked up to me as I was sitting on a lightning-struck, fallen tree. She nudged me as if she wanted attention. We had gotten to know each other and accepted each other. I said, “I wish I had you with me in Boston, so I named her Boston, so instead of being in Boston, Boston was with me, though later I shortened her name to Boss.

Nearly every morning for a couple of weeks I went out of town a mile or two for my gun practice. The spot had a shallow, clear creek running by it. A copse of trees, some on the banks of the creek, offered shade and coolness. The reflection of the trees in the rippling water was mesmerizing. Added to that hypnotic effect was the soft sound of slow-moving water over sunken rocks. Usually, after practice, I sat under a tree with smooth bark against my back and my bare feet stretched out into the cool, crystal-clear water. At these ideal relaxing times, I would think about Clara and whether or not we had a future. It was still Ben’s favorite word for me, tenderfoot. A nickname for a man out of his element.

 The first few days my shooting accuracy was awful, tenderfoot

awful, but I stuck with it. A week later I could come close to what I was aiming at. Another two weeks and I could hit whatever I aimed at. Not long after that I surprised myself by shooting things I didn’t aim at in the normal way, down the barrel of the gun. What I did was draw my gun, not fast, but aim it straight out, parallel to the ground then shoot by instinct. Surprisingly, I mostly hit or came close to the target. That was a strange feeling, and I didn’t know how it worked, except that my eyes, hands, and brain worked together in secret. I wondered, Did gunslingers have that skill? I’d have to hide it. If that knowledge got out, it would be dangerous for me. I had gotten much better with my accuracy and did not attempt to draw the gun fast. In Boston, I was only familiar with long guns, rifles, and shotguns because I had gone deer hunting with my dad and uncles. At those times, I thought that being a teacher and living in a safe neighborhood, I wouldn’t need a handgun. But now, in Dodge, those who were without a gun were undressed.

Over time, my accuracy with the revolver improved remarkably, at least I thought it did. That’s when I tried to draw my revolver a little faster but lost too much accuracy, so I never did attempt any fast draws. However, I could sense that my draw was smoother, making it a bit faster. Gradually I had a feeling that I could aim the revolver more quickly. It was a feeling, not clear to me but a feeling that I might possess an instinctual feel for where the bullet would go. The feeling was shrouded with uncertainty. I didn’t mention it because, if I couldn’t explain it to myself, I’d look like a fool trying to explain it to others. Also, I didn’t want others to know because I did not want to be challenged.

The day that I felt that I had practiced enough was when I came upon a rattlesnake. I put myself in a target practice frame of mind, then drew my revolver, and shot its head off. I acted childishly vain as I yelled and whooped it up crazily, plus gave myself an imaginary pat on the back. I gently held Boss’s jaw on each side and comically asked her why she wasn’t dancing for me, then I hugged her head and stroked her sleek neck. One day on the way back to town, I realized that I was missing what I’d seen on so many other horses, a rifle. When I got back in town I went to Jacob and bought the older 1861 Springfield rifle. Ben gave me the rifle sheath to attach to Boss. I practiced with it, but other than adjusting the sights, I had no problem. I was still accurate with a rifle. It seemed to be a skill that was natural for me, unlike the pistol. I mentioned the purchase of the rifle to Clara. Her opinion was that I was pushing too hard for my transformation from city boy to cowboy. She may have been right, but that didn’t stop me.

One day after a slow lunchtime business, Clara was able to eat with me. After our introductory chatter, Clara paused, then stared at me. It was easy to tell that she wanted to ask a serious question or talk seriously, so we ended our previous jocular chatter and teasing.

She said, “Dad wants to talk to you. He’s usually so busy in the kitchen that he doesn’t have the time to do it. He wants to offer you a temporary job because Mom’s not feeling well, the heat I think. It’s nothing serious, but she needs a few days’ rest. We sure could use the help, especially at our crowded dinnertime. The job will be helping me serve dinner to the customers, not in the hot kitchen. What do you think?”

I reached across the table and gently caressed her hands. As I smiled at her, the color of her face turned pink. She blushed easily. The feel and sight of her hands was like holding two fragile and lovely roses in full bloom. Gentleness was needed. I maintained eye contact with her. Even though she must be tired, her eyes still radiated sparkles of friendliness. Maybe there was a deeper meaning. I wasn’t sure about that. Her rounded chin blended in with the gentle curve of her oval face. “I’ve got nothing better to do than to read a book in my room, and I do need the money. The savings I brought from Boston are going faster than I thought. So, sure, I can help during dinnertime. I did notice your mom at last night’s dinner, and she looked pallid.”

“Tom, sometimes you use words that I’ve never heard of, so, to me the meanings are unclear. The other day you used the unfamiliar word ‘wan.’ I suppose that ‘wan’ means sick, right? And another day you said our talking was ‘jocose’ chatter. That means funny talking, Right? And just now you said the word ‘pallid.’ Is that another word for sick or pale?”

“Damn! So sorry. Yes. Pallid means a paleness due to sickness or exhaustion. Clara, I’ve had a higher education than most Westerners and I’ve been around well-educated people all my life, people who use those words and are found in most books I read. I don’t try to be a snob by using those words,” I paused, “They just come to me as I speak.”

“Yes, I heard you tell a couple of customers what your job was as a teacher in Boston. But Tom, people in the West have little education, so they tend to use simple words and a lot of slang phrases. People will think you’re acting superior to them, that you are better than they are because you come from Boston and were well-educated. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I do think you will be better accepted if you use the simple words of the West. People here don’t have much education and your vocabulary will make you sound out of place. Being out of place is the opposite of what you want, to fit in. You are trying to fit into life in Dodge City. I hope you bought a good horse because there’s this old saying, ‘Speak your mind as long as you ride a fast horse.’”

“Oh, damn. I hadn’t given that much thought. Thanks for pointing it out to me. It’s good advice.” I was still holding her hand but now I was rubbing the top of it, gently stroking it. She pulled her hand away, laughed, and said, “That tickles. Now I know you’re teasing me. Do you do that to all the girls?”

“No, just the ones I like.” She blushed a deeper color of red. “Clara, I meant to ask you if there’s a schoolhouse here. I haven’t seen one. If so, has the city council hired a teacher?”

“No, and no,” she replied as her red blush vanished. “If the restaurant job is temporary, and I think it will be, then when Mom returns, you should ask the city council. Ben is one of the members. Ask them about building a school. Heck, the city council members are now able to build boardwalks along all the stores on both sides. Maybe they would approve the building of a school, though I doubt it. But using an unused building for a school is much cheaper.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that. Thanks.”

A week later, Ida returned and looked healthy. I hugged her and wished her well, though I was glad she was back to work.

The next day I sought out Ben, who was a member of the city council. As I entered the livery and blacksmith barn, the three men were talking about using Ben’s blacksmith forge to make signs for the city. They stopped when they saw me. Ben introduced me to the two others. The other two members deferred to Ben, so I assumed that he was one of the oldest citizens in Dodge perhaps from when it was mainly concerned with buffalo hides and buffalo bones collecting. They wanted to discuss my proposal in private, so I left.

The next day, I entered Jacob’s Livery while he was forging a new horseshoe. The shoe’s ret-hot color caused me to stare. Before I had a chance to say anything, Jacob said, “I been wondering when yuh’d be back ta talk ‘bout somethin’ different than yer horse an’ all the cowboy stuff you bought from me.”

“Why’s that, Ben?”

“Simple, Tom. You tol’ me yuh were a teacher in Boston. Dodge has no schoolhouse an’ no teacher. I figgered yuh’d be curious, mabbe even be wantin’ a teaching job.”

“You’re a smart one, Ben.”

“Well, Tom, occasionally there are a few folks who have come to council meetings and inquired about a school fer their kids. There’s between five and ten kids. There may be a whole lot more next year. I been hearing that the railroad be changin’ from Abilene ta here fer the cattle transport eastward. Also, there be eastern folks comin’ in droves fer jobs in mining, the cattle business, buffalo hunting fer pelts and buffalo bones, an’ even prospectors hoping ta strike it rich. The city won’t be reco’nizable in five or ten years if that happens.”

“Then having no schoolhouse would be a problem. What about that?” I asked.

“No money ta build a school, but here be an empty billiards game shop at the far end of the street. Went out a business couple day ago.”

“The empty billiards place could be used fer a classroom., It be far away from everythin,’ especially the saloon. If yer still serious, I’ll talk it over with the council. We know the city be growing fast, ‘specially since we became the 34th state a few years back. Now more families be coming, not just single men wandering the prairie. And with families, yuh have kids, an’ they needs schoolin. I’ll get back ta yuh on that.”

“Much appreciated, Ben, but I must add one thing. If they OK the idea I want a fair part-time wage. I won’t teach for a pittance, nor will I be unreasonable, unless the fee offered to me is ridiculous.”

“Understood, Tom. That be what negotiations are for. You’ll know what ta teach and how to teach it, but I ‘spect they mostly be needin’ the basics of readin,’ writin,’ and arithmetic.”

“Well, I don’t know nothin’ about learning the kids, but I’ll check with the other council members. We only meet every two weeks.”

I’ve been seeing Clara for a couple of months. I thought of her constantly but was still wary since I’d had a bad experience with my last girlfriend in Boston.

Clara demonstrated a fondness for me, though our ages were five years apart; nineteen and twenty-four, respectively. Our relationship was gradually growing more serious and one peaceful, starlit night we broached the subject of marriage. It delighted her, but to my surprise, I felt as if there was ice in my shoes. A surprising fear grasped my throat, my heart pounded away as if trying to escape the jail of my rib cage. I was so confused, felt dizzy, and couldn’t say a word, until, unexpectedly, Clara put her hands around my neck (I thought of a noose), and pulled my head downward so she could kiss me. The kiss melted the ice as my heart slowed to a trot. My sudden discomfort evaporated; it was the oddest feeling I’ve had in my life. It was like hating someone, then suddenly seeing them as your best friend. Was this feeling a trap of emotions over reason? I held her closely, looking into her eyes. She closed her eyes and we kissed again, both of us glad that it was nighttime, and we wouldn’t be seen as we walked a short distance out of Dodge. When our lips met I kept my eyes open, so I could gaze at her face. The sight of her thrilled me, but it wasn’t the sight of her that captured me. It was the sweet, alluring smell of lavender that awakened my nose as my nostrils flared with joy. When the kiss ended, she squeezed her body close to mine. Her breasts gave my chest a welcoming, warm feeling that grew into an unquenchable passion. I was hoping that she wouldn’t notice the sudden tumescence against which she was pressed. I blushed, and she smiled. I didn’t want our passion to end, but I had to end it fast because my manhood was rising to attention as a good soldier would, responding naturally to my instinctual desires.

I did, however, know that I loved her. It was an unbalancing feeling because previously, with other women, love had been a stranger. My feelings about Clara were deep and true. I found myself daydreaming and Clara had to tap my shoulder to get my attention. She pointed at the few twinkling stars that had begun to slowly show and brighten against the darkening sky. I started seeing her face outlined by stars, like in a constellation. Wow! Should I be proud or embarrassed?

As the days progressed, even our talks became poetically romantic. Clara told me I was in her blood, and she couldn’t live without me. I thought words like that were overly romantic and extremely exaggerated, but I said nothing. I knew what she meant. Then I remembered what I had thought about her face outlined with stars to make a constellation and I told myself, “See, wise guy. You were just overly romantic and exaggerated to the extreme.” I immediately swore at myself, silently and couldn’t help sniggering.

She playfully punched my shoulder saying, “What? Why are you holding back a laugh? Don’t you feel the same way?” I stopped suppressing my laughter and said, “Sure, I love you, but all those mushy words are strange to me, even when they occur to me. I’m giggling at the both of us. I was thinking that I saw your face in the night sky as a constellation.”

“You damn men,” she blurted, but with a smile. We kissed and then all was well. Mushy, but well. I felt as if we were two twelve-year-old kids having their first love and first kiss. I didn’t giggle this time.

                                                *

The next day, after lunch, I helped Clara clean up the restaurant. I started to sweep the floor, until she yelled, “No, Tom. You’ll just fill the room with floating dust that’ll settle on all the tables and chairs. Let me show you.” She grabbed a mop, wet it in a bucket, squeezed most of the water out of it and then spread the remaining thin layer of water lightly over the floor. She grabbed the broom from me and started sweeping. The dust stayed on the floor and clumped into little wet balls which she swept out the door and into the fringe of grass that grew on both sides of Front Street. “See? No dust,” she said with twinkles in her eyes coupled with a triumphant smile. Lesson learned. Later, at the end of dinnertime and our clean-up jobs, we walked out of Dodge as the sun was about to fall into its western bed.

Another day after lunch and clean-up duties, I rented a carriage from Ben so Clara and I could take a slow, relaxing ride out of town. It hadn’t rained in a long time. The sky was partly cloudy, but sunny, like white blotches on blue paint. I noticed that Clara was deep in thought, so I waited silently. Then she said, “Tom, you want to live in or close to Dodge, right?” At first, I was tongue-tied. She slid across the carriage seat until our hips and shoulders touched, then looked at me, not saying anything, patiently waiting for my response. I felt confused, not knowing how to answer. All I could think of was ‘maybe, maybe not.’

“Geez, Clara, that would depend on the circumstances and situations I’m in, so I can’t say I’ll positively stay. We haven’t known each other for long. Who knows what’ll happen tomorrow or a year from now? Right now, I like being here, in Dodge, especially with you. I think like you do about Dodge not being a place to live with a family. Also, I told you what happened to me in Boston, so I can’t help being hesitant. I’ll always wonder if someone will come after me from Boston until a good amount of time has gone by to let that unfortunate incident blow over.

She placed her warm hand on my knee and looked at me. I could tell by the feel of her trembling hand that my next response was extremely important to her. I slowed the horse to a walking pace, then said, “At present, I’m here as long as you’re here, especially if we become engaged. Wha-da-ya say about an engagement and no hurry for a wedding?”

“I accept, but Tom, I can’t leave Dodge right now unless my parents relocate. My parents depend on me. Hiring food servers would subtract greatly from their profits. If Mom and Dad were to move and do well with their new restaurant, they may be able to expand the business, then they could hire servers for the restaurant. Then I wouldn’t feel obligated to continue working, though I’d like to stay close, maybe only working part-time. Right now, the business is growing fast because Dodge is growing fast. Both Mom and Dad are happy with the restaurant, so far. You should also know that they are happy with our relationship. They like you but they think I’m moving too fast and pressuring you.” She placed her arm across my shoulders affectionately. So, what I’m saying is that I can’t leave them. That means, if we were to marry, our beginning married life would have to be in or near Dodge unless Dad moves the restaurant to a quieter, more civilized little city like Leavenworth. I sound awful, don’t I? I’m being self-centered and acting like your boss, and making demands, but I can’t help it. I’m their only child and I can’t abandon them.”

“So, then, am I correct in my understanding that you wouldn’t mind marrying me, but you have conditions that I must obey? Is that what you are saying? In addition, and most importantly, we must stay close to your parents. I doubt that we can live in Dodge once the railroad picks up the cattle here instead of Abilene. It won’t be safe around here once Dodge becomes the grandest of Kansas’s cattle towns.”

Through her tears, she snuffled and stated, “Yes. I feel awful, but I can’t leave Mom and Dad without me to help them at the restaurant until they can pay servers. If we got married, I’m sure Dad would start paying me for my efforts since I wouldn’t be relying on them for my food, clothes, and shelter anymore. Of course, you’d need a regular job. I know it won’t be easy for us. We’d have to postpone having children, too.”

“Yes, and I’ll need to find a room for bed and breakfast. I can’t afford to stay in that hotel. I keep getting the image of a smiling face and a hand reaching into my pocket.”

Suddenly, something took control of my body, an all-encompassing dread. My legs wanted to run away. My heartbeat thumped so hard I thought it would crack a rib. Clara’s eyes were still moist with tears, she snuggled into me, her sadness tightening her grip on my stiff arm. I could feel the tension and anxiety spreading through my body. Was I ready for such complications in my young life, even though I loved Clara?

I turned the carriage around and proceeded slowly, while we both contemplated our situation. Our focus was broken when the carriage ride became so bumpy that we must have looked like curious prairie dogs popping up and down out of the ground. I felt dazed and shocked. Clara didn’t see or feel me reach into my farthest vest pocket to grab her present. My brain was speaking to my hand, trying to stop it. I touched the object while in the state of confused thinking, and second thoughts, but my hand continued its path. The object wasn’t wrapped, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t the most appropriate time to do this either, but I still didn’t care. I brought out my hand and presented her with an inexpensive engagement ring. I held it in front of her but kept my eyes on the road. The ring was in front of her, but she could not see clearly while she was wiping her guilt and sadness tears away. When her vision cleared and she saw the ring, her tears stopped sprinkling and started a rainstorm of happiness. I felt numb and dumb.

I continued with a sense of hope and desire that we could work out the complexities of our relationship. “I think the solution, my dearest, Clara, is that we become engaged, but the ‘when’ about the wedding, should not be an issue.” At one point I thought she would faint the way she was gulping air, so I grabbed her and squeezed her shoulder closer to mine. She was profusely raining wetness onto my shoulder with her hot tears. Clara stared at the ring in a daze, like a child fingering a fascinating marble. I said, “Clara? Put the ring where it belongs.” In slow motion, she did that while I kept the reins in one hand and my other arm around her shoulders.

 She pulled my one free hand to her cheek and caressed it lovingly. “Oh, my dear Tom,” she gurgled and sprayed the tear-wetness off her lips as she talked.

“Let’s go back to Dodge to surprise Mom and Dad,” Clara said, excitedly.

“I think they must already be suspicious. I mean, they’ve seen our occasional platonic kisses and close hugs at the restaurant. Heck, they live in rooms over the restaurant with a view of Front Street. They can see us walking hand in hand. I think they know more than you think.”

“There you go again with the high-falutin words. Come back down to earth, professor. Tell me, sir, what does platonic mean?”

“Sorry, Dear. It means to be affectionate, but not expecting sex.”

“Oh! Geez! Sorry I asked,” she responded with surprise and embarrassment. She didn’t think I saw her face change to a mischievous grin accompanied by a rush of a blush.

I smiled at her as she hugged my upper arm and leaned her head onto my shoulder. I could smell her hair and wondered how she always kept it fresh smelling with nearly every man smoking in the restaurant eating area, especially at dinnertime when quite often the area was fog-like with a thick cloud of smoke. I thought, She takes pride in her work and her hygiene. After thinking the word ‘pride’ I asked her, “By the way. Have you finished the book Pride and Prejudice?”

“No. I’m about halfway through. She’s like you with those high-falutin words. I’m looking forward to talking to you about it.”

“Good. Let me know when.” We looked at each other with smiles.

But this happy moment of peace and pleasure didn’t last long due to my unnoticed increase in speed over the washboard dirt road. The bumpy road’s effect on the carriage forced Clara’s head to bounce against my bouncing shoulders until she had to lean away. But we were both still feeling the excitement of our decision to get engaged. I, once again, wondered if I was doing the right thing. Instead of just being responsible for myself, I’d have to be responsible for her and any kids that we had. I knew that I loved this woman and wanted to be with her. That thought brought on the final belief that, yes, we would get married.

Our excitement suddenly dwindled as our return trip coincided with a rough-looking group of cattlemen who were riding fast toward Dodge. The front of their hat brims folded upward against the wind. They were part of a cattle drive that was headed for Abilene, but they wanted a much-needed saloon and an entertainment break. When they saw that we might be in their path, the leader, probably the ramrod of the cattlemen, yanked back on his horse’s reins causing his horse to stop so suddenly that it looked as if it was sitting on its butt. When things settled down, I also stopped to let them go ahead of my slow carriage. By then they all slowed their galloping to a trot, then to a walk, one man coming close to us. I could hear the distinct sound of creaking leather saddles and the jingle of metal spurs. They all approached us, but the ramrod came closer than the other four drovers.

“Hello,” the lead cattleman said, apparently the boss. He removed his hat and rubbed the sweat off his forehead. He had a reddish, bulbous nose lined with capillaries. I could see the shade ring on his forehead where the brim of his hat protected his upper forehead from the sun, but not his lower forehead and face.

 “Jest got in late yestiday afternoon. We needs a break from are long cattle drive ta clear this layer a dust on are faces an’ in our pie holes. Gotta git shed of these spurs, which we shoulda left at camp. Put ‘em in are saddle bags, I guess. We needs a bath, an’ a shave, too. I will do that. Can’t speak fer the others, but I be doing that before I visit the Long Branch to drink an’ find other forms of entertainment.” He paused, then said, “Pardon me miss. Done lost my manners.”

One of the Long Branch’s only rules was for the cowboys to remove their spurs so the wooden plank floor wouldn’t get gouged up. Also, spurs were sometimes used as weapons that caused ugly, bloody pools of blood on the floor, which involved extra work to clean when customers were stepping in it, then tracking it all over other parts of the floor.

I smiled at the ramrod. “What can I do for you and your men?” During the pause, I noticed a thick layer of powdery dust had settled on all of them, horses too. My brain wandered to the city stores, with their outdoor windows covered so thickly with dust that the customers could hardly see through them. Grass, trees, shrubs, and flower beds were also covered with dust. Every time someone walked on the road, or a wagon traveled down the street, puffs of dust would rise. Watching cowboys walking down the street often made me laugh. The puffs of dust floating off the heel of their boots, looked to me as if their bootheels were farting.

Later I told Cara my humorous thought and she gave me a disgusting look. Not as funny to her as it was for me, but at least I learned that Clara didn’t like toilet humor. Shit! There goes half my jokes. Cruel. Very cruel. Suddenly, I realized that the ramrod had been talking as I was daydreaming, so I pretended that I had been paying attention.

Then I heard, “An’ wid a lady on are laps,” one of the other three stated.

Another one said, “That sure be ace high fer me.

“Dodge is just a mile or so down the road. Welcome,” I said. Then, “Did you use the Goodnight-Loving trail from Northern Texas or the Western Tail from West Texas?”

“We took the Western Trail, ‘cause the Goodnight trail had a larger herd of critters already on it an’ were goin’ slow. We didn’t want ta be behind ‘em an’ eat their dust fer hun’reds a mile, so we go fer an extra couple a day’s ride ta git on the Western Trail where we can drive are critters faster. Them drovers on Goodnight Trail prob’ly be heah in couple a of days or so. They be in no hurry like we be.”

Clara shifted even closer to me. Our thighs pressed more tightly. She had both of her hands clinging so tightly to my arm that she was pinching me. I ignored it. Then I felt her arms stiffen as her knee trembled.

“Yee Haw!” shouted the ramrod. We be lookin’ ta gettin’ the cowboy bible outta the box, shuffling an’ playing a five-card stud poker game an’ the Keno an’ Monte table games, too. On the trail, I thought of a system ta win at Keno. Gotta try it at the Long Branch. The next place we gotta go be Hoover’s liquor store if it still thar. I hope it still be thar. We be needin’ ta have lots a Adam’s Ale an’ likker in are wagon fer the long ride home, after we leave Abilene. By God, likker be holy water fer cattlemen. Jest the sound a the names make me drool. Hope thar be Old Overholt, an’ Old Granddad; Old Bushmills, too. We not been back heah fer couple a years. I’m the ramrod a these rowdies. Name’s Butch. Behin’ me hem’s Carson, Luke, and Clyde. Clyde be the Black man.” Clyde smiled and nodded politely. His teeth were whiter than the stores that had fresh white paint. Quite unusual for a drover.

“We been gettin’ lots a darkies,” Butch elaborated. “They be on most cattle drives now. Clyde be a good worker. Now the darkies be ‘bout one outta four cattlemen. Almos’ fergot, that guy hangin’ back there, hidden behin’ his low-brimmed hat. He be are bad boy. Name’s Sawyer. Most times he be needin’ a collar and a leash.”

Sawyer aimed a mischievous, tight-lipped scowl at Butch, then us, maybe he considered it to be a smile. There was no mistaking the fact that he was a dangerous troublemaker. He had those darkest brown eyes that, from afar, looked ominously black. His sneer was no better. Butch whispered to me, “Sawyer be a man who can’t keep his wolf on a leash. For peace in camp, I gotta git shed a him when we deliver the critters.”

I looked at all the men and noticed that none of them were wearing a six-gun rig around their waists, except for Sawyer. They all had holsters, no belts, that carried their six-shooters hanging from each saddle horn. Butch noticed me looking at his holster. He drawled, “Reg’lar gun setup bein’ roun’ are waists is irritatin’ when we be in are saddles all day. Pommel guns be better. When we come to a town, Sawyer wears his six-gun rig; fancies himself a gunslinger, an’ wears it low an’ he don’t wear no glove on his right han’ like a real gunslinger. Fer our city stops, I always worry will git killed by a real gunslinger. We needed an extra hand on this drive, so he got hired. I owed his dad a favor. Good fer his dad. Bad fer us.”

It was necessary to listen carefully to the cattlemen. They pronounced their words as if they were misspelled or shortened and often slaughtered grammar. They added unknown cowboy words and phrases that left me confused. The West was full of people with limited education. Most of them could not read or write.

My eyes refocused on Sawyer as he stared at Clara while licking his lips and with no attempt to hide his lustful meaning. He broke his stare at Clara and looked defiantly at me. We locked eyes. I didn’t like it, but I was the one who looked away first. It bothered me that he stared me down because, in this staring game of intimidation, the one who looked away first is said to be the weak one. I had a lot to learn.”

“I’m Tom Hawken and this is Clara Jones. Her mom and dad own a restaurant with the best grub you’ll ever have. The Long Branch Saloon is the only one at present, but there’s another saloon being built right now and more will come quickly. You’ll pass the nearly complete structure of the saloon being built when entering Front Street. The Long Branch is still at the opposite end of Front Street.”

“Any advice fer me? It be a while since we been back heah?” stated Butch.

“Just the regular stuff, like the last time you were here, I suppose. I’m new in town, but I have seen signs by and near the Long Branch reminding cattlemen about no cattle critters in town, and mannerly behavior towards citizens and shopkeepers, although it’s different for inside the saloon, where boisterous and angry behavior is overlooked if it stays inside the saloon. Plus, no celebration or random shootings in the street.”

A loud, arrogant shout from Sawyer plowed its way through our conversation. “Yuh still gots no lawman in town?” The sneering challenge in a stentorian tone of voice announced that he thought he was the baddest cowboy in the group and wanted it to be known. A genuine and classic bully.

“No lawman, yet. The city council is attempting to hire one because of the coming fast growth of Dodge, once the railroad begins picking up the cattle here in Dodge for transport east, instead of having to go a hundred more miles or so to Abilene. Next time you come, Dodge will be the end of the line for you and your cattle.”

“Still no stinkin’ lawman. Yee-haw!” Sawyer bellowed. “Damn good ta know. Hey, Butch! Two good likkers yuh fergit be Wild Turkey an’ Buff’lo Trace,” interjected Sawyer, with a smile that showed yellowish, stained teeth, some decayed, and one missing front tooth. Western saloons were full of men like Sawyer. Their health, nor the health of others, was of no concern to them once they reached town.

Doc Martin told me that Chalk Beeson, didn’t care about health matters. Gunfights were accepted as routine entertainment. Also, a more subtle hazard to life was unseen. In the Long Branch, and most other western saloons, they used communal, disease-carrying towels that hung along the length of the bar. Slipping and falling on the floor was caused by beer, spit, and chewing tobacco accumulating on it even though spittoons were normally located near the bar and around the room. Doc Martin talked to Chalk Beeson about new information saying that diseases traveled easily in saloons, such as typhus, malaria, smallpox, and especially consumption which Doc called tuberculosis.

“Sawyer, knock off yer tough guy talk. Yuh sound like a jackass braying fer attention. Remem’er a couple a day’s back, when yuh be sick in yer guts? Yuh had a bad time with the back-door trots? Now yuh gots the front-door trots. Yuh needs a privy fer both yer trots? An’ a big mouth don’t make no big man. Save it fer impressing the ladies in the Long Branch.”

 “Boss. Askin’ Sawyer ta do that be like askin’ a horse ta fight a pack a wolves. He can’t be but his natural self,” Clyde sniggered, followed by laughter from the other cowhands. Sawyer snarled at them but thought it best to say nothing. He’d get even with Clyde when he’s drunk. He started thinking of what to do, then smiled with ideas forming already.

Butch leaned toward Tom and Clara, whispering, “Sawyer most like a

barkin’ dog an’ when a dog be barkin,’ he don’t bite . . . well unless he be well into the bottle. Good ta meet yuh, Tom an’ Miss Clara.” When Butch said ‘Miss Clara,’ he touched the brim of his hat as if he were going to take it off. It had become a shortcut custom that took the place of taking off your hat when talking to a woman. “Adios, for now. Might see yuh in town,” he added with a smile. Then he nudged the ribs of his horse with his knees and trotted down the road, his men following, all but Sawyer who lagged behind. He looked at Clara and smiled, saying, “Gots damn tired a usin’ Mullein leaves, Thimbleberry leaves and Wooly Lamb’s Ear leaves on the prairie. Good ta be in a place ta use the outhouse.” He heeled his horse by brutally ramming his spurs into its hind quarters so that the horse bled and bucked before it followed the other men. Our shared contempt for him doubled as Clara became nauseous at the sight of the horse’s blood.

“Sawyer is scary bad. A terrible person. What did you think?”

“Tiger, Tiger burning bright, in the dark forests of the night.”

 “What the hell, Tom?”

“It’s from a famous poem by William Blake, where he puts into poetry the combat between good and evil. Sawyer is the evil side of men. In the poem, the lamb is the light, a symbol of goodness, while the Tyger, crouching in the dark, is a symbol of evil. By the end of the poem, Blake questions why his good, all-knowing, all-good, and all-powerful God would create evil and allow it to freely roam the earth, making evil, God’s creation, thus making God, not an all-good deity, as well as awanting evil to exist since He is all-powerful and all-knowing.”

“Jesus, Tom! That stuff is too high-brow for me. Maybe you don’t belong out here. Maybe you belong back east, teaching, though I am glad you’re here.”

“Sorry,” drawled Tom. “Now tell me. What the hell was that about those leaves Sawyer was so delighted to mention?”

“On a long cattle drive you need something to wipe your arse with. Those broad plant leaves will do the job. He seemed to think that being disgusting and repulsive would make him attractive. The Long Branch is a moral outhouse. It’s like a hotel for beasts like Sawyer. They are quick to argue and delighted to fight. Many of them are walking sticks of dynamite just waiting for someone to light their fuse.”

“You think we can be married there? Drinks are on the outhouse?”

Clara’s face turned red; her mouth twisted into a snarl, and then she relaxed after she saw me laughing at her. She slugged me on the shoulder and said, “I’m still trying to get used to your devilish sense of humor.”

                                                *

One late afternoon I unintentionally witnessed a knife fight in the street,

in front of the Long Branch. Two angry men agreed to have a hood placed over their heads and then to be restrained by other men. They were both right-handed, so their left hands were tied to each other. Their right hands were free, so they were given a short knife with a blade only one inch long so that no vital organs could be stabbed. The other purpose of the short blades was to make the cuts shallow, not deadly, but bloody and entertaining for the other drunk spectators from the saloon. The two men couldn’t get away from each other with their non-dominant hands tied together and a rule was agreed to so that the hands that were tied together could not be cut. Once their hoods were lifted, they could slash or stab at any other parts of their opponent's body until one of them apologized or fell to the ground due to unconsciousness from blood loss or they were dead. The winner was the one still standing, or the one who accepted his opponent's apology. The rumor was that most times the winner was standing over his opponent while his blood was dripping from dozens of shallow cuts while he was standing dazed and on wobbly legs. That made the fight last longer for the cheering saloon savages. Later I heard from Rooster and Shine that a knife fight like that is called a Helena Duel because it supposedly originated in Helena, Texas.

                                                *

I felt strange and somewhat uncomfortable in my secondhand clothes. The two pairs of rough denim pants, and two plain shirts, one of them denim but the other was a chambray shirt which scratched with every movement I made. Socks and underwear were no problem. I got a good-fitting, wide-brimmed, felt sombrero at the A.B. Webster’s store. They had the new 1865 Stetson hat that is called The Boss of the Plains, which, in cowboy fashion, was quickly shortened to The Boss, not to be confused with my horse called Boss. The Boss hat had a ten-gallon look to it, its crown being high and waterproof. It was made for the toughness of life in the West and was said to last a lifetime. But that’s why the store didn’t sell many of them. In Dodge, a lifetime was a brief time, so why waste money on that kind of expensive hat? I was nearly broke, so I certainly couldn’t buy it. More popular cowboy hats or Mexican sombreros made of felt, or straw were much cheaper, and their poor quality made them expendable without any worries or sorrow because a lost or damaged hat could easily be replaced. So, I bought a cheap, wide-brim sombrero made of felt. The problem for me was that I never wore hats in Boston, even in freezing, windy weather. Hats irritated my forehead, but I had to get used to the hat or my head would fry in the sun.

Clara had more to say about cowboy hats. She informed me of a silly superstition concerning hats. She chuckled while saying, “Never place your hat on a bed. It’s considered a curse resulting in injury or death to whoever sleeps in that bed. Also, never touch another man’s hat, or his good luck vanishes and the hat fills with bad spirits. I know it’s stupid but most of these cowboy superstitions are taken seriously. If they see your hat on your bed, they’ll avoid you due to their fear of the curse that gives you bad luck.”

I should have been choosier when I bought boots, though. The ones I bought and am wearing weren’t broken-in well enough, though, at first they seemed fine. Clara said they would take some getting used to. I hoped that would be before I became lame.

My heavy gun belt, and holster (filled with a well-used, but in good condition, Colt model 1851 Navy edition), were the worst feeling of all my newly bought things. They were always riding tightly and rubbing on my right hip, so their weight tended to make me feel unbalanced and made me walk as if I were drunk. The skin around my right hip was chafing. Jacob tried to hide his laughter when, one day I staggered into his livery. He did think I was drunk, on the first appraisal. Now it’s a continuous personal joke between us. I suppose that I no longer looked like a white dot on a black background but had turned into a large white spot on a small black background.

Buck, Clara’s dad, had advised me to wear my pistol high on my waist so no one would think I wanted to be known as a fast-draw gunslinger and then challenge me. Then Clara put some fear into me about drunk, boisterous cowboys doing and saying things they normally wouldn’t do or say if they were sober. She said people could hear the constant shouting of Yee-Haw as those constantly screamed words traveled down Front Street as a strong echo. She added that one death a night was the average for the Long Branch or the area close to it. Bushwhackers often waited in the dark to buffalo someone with the hard handles of their guns or the threat of being shot, as they came out of the Long Branch and drunkenly walked into the darkness with no lights on except at the Long Branch.

                                                *

I had my first introductory class yesterday. This morning, my five, chickabiddy students, (I learned that kindly cowboy word from Clara) ages nine to eleven, all of them relatively new to Dodge, were full of questions about cattlemen, their noisy nights at the Long Branch, and the shooting coming from the street outside the saloon. Sometimes a student would come to school looking sleepy and I knew the hullabaloo from the Long Branch had prevented a good night’s sleep for them, even though the saloon was halfway down the street. I think sound travels farther at night. They looked nervous, too, having only been used to an older, woman teacher.

“Howdy kids. My name is Mr. Hawken. Let’s do some learning to get you prepared to become the next president of The United States.”

Laughter echoed around the room. I saw much nervousness drain from their faces as they smiled. The smiles acted on me like sunshine on a flower.

“Mr. Hawken,” eleven-year-old James asked, “will you show us your gun and the bullets?”

“No James, I will not do that in school. I promised all your parents that I would not wear my gun in school because guns are dangerous. I can tell you that my gun is an older model Colt, single-action revolver, so all that’s needed to shoot it is to be loaded, pull the hammer back, then pull the trigger. It holds six .36 caliber bullets and . . .”

An excited ten-year-old Alan interrupted, asking, “Mr. Hawken. I was with my dad when he bought a six-shooter last year. The guy at the store kept asking if he wanted a single-action or a double-action gun. What does double action mean?”

“Alan, I need to answer James’s question first. I was going to add that my gun is rather old, about fifteen years old, but is perfectly accurate for such an old gun. The United States Navy ordered this type of gun for their officers. That’s why it’s called the Colt, 1851 Navy model in .36 caliber. Mr. Jacobs, the owner of the Livery and Blacksmith business, sold it to me. It became popular with thousands of men,

especially during the civil war.”

“Now for Alan’s question. Double-action means there are two ways to shoot the gun. I told you how to shoot it the single-action way. Now double action means that you can still cock the gun’s hammer to shoot it like a single-action gun, but double action means there’s another way to shoot the gun. This second way of shooting it is the pull the trigger as far back as it will go. This trigger-pulling action will also cock the gun for you.”

Right away another hand went up and before I could stop the question, my youngest student, nine-year-old Bobby, blurted, “So why do yuh have a single-action gun and not a double-action one?”

“Good question, Bobby. I got it at the advice of Mr. Jacobs at the livery. I bought it from him. He told me that using double-action makes the trigger harder to pull and that a causes a man to squeeze the handle harder. But pulling a stiff trigger and tightly gripping the gun handle usually moves the gun barrel, so its accuracy suffers. Single action, I cock the hammer with my thumb as I’m pulling it out of the holster, so when I aim it, I’ll have a light trigger pull and not much movement of the gun barrel which gives me better accuracy. Now, let me tell you, I don’t know much about six-shooters. What I told you was told to me by Mr. Jacobs. Also, I can’t draw fast and be accurate; not yet anyway. I do practice because when I came to Dodge, I only knew how to shoot a rifle for deer hunting.”

The two quiet female twins, Carrol and Jane are both ten-years-old. It was remarkable how they sat quietly, ankles crossed, with their hands clasped together and resting in their laps. They caught my eye. Intuitively, I concluded that they would be excellent students.

“Please look at my painted black rectangle on the wall (I saw the strange looks when I said the word rectangle). “I have written some easy, some harder, and some hardest sentences. On your slate boards, start with the first one. I’ve written five sentences on my black rectangle. These sentences are arranged with the shortest and easiest on top. They get harder as they go downward. I’m going to ask each of you to start at the top sentence and read each sentence downward so I can see what level you are at and help you get better. If you can’t read at all, please tell me. I won’t stick my tongue out at you and call you a silly monkey because you can’t read or can’t read well. And I don’t want any teasing laughter from the other students. Remember, there is always someone better than you at reading. “ Before I finished the sentence the class laughed about the monkey joke.

“Just try your best to read as many as you can. If you can’t read the whole sentence but you recognize some words, let me know. You will probably not be able to read all the sentences. Don’t worry or feel bad about it. Tomorrow I will do the same thing with easier sentences than today at the top and harder sentences than today at the bottom, but there may be more sentences to read. Sometimes kids get so nervous that they can’t read, and yet, they do know how to read, a little, at least. Please, like I said, no teasing or bullying. Mistakes do not get punished in any way. They show the kind of help you need. Laughter and giggles only show my disappointment with your behavior. If it helps, think about the time you made a mistake, and your friends laughed at or teased you. Now, I’ll be honest, I may give you a dirty look for misbehavior.”  I pointed and said, “You see that bucket of dirt on my desk? Well, I’ll rub in on my face and you’ll get the dirtiest look you ever had.”

They broke out into boisterous laughter, not holding back at all, and with eyes big, mouths open, then they turned to look at each other. The laughter continued for a bit, and I didn’t try to stop them. I smiled at them.

In a half hour, we were finished. Carol and her twin sister Jane quickly read through the two easy sentences; then stammered a bit with the two harder ones but were able to read enough of them so the sentences made sense. However, they squirmed and struggled with the hardest sentences. Both had concentrated so hard that, probably unconsciously, the tips of their tongues stuck out slightly from their mouths, a tiny bit passed their front teeth as if a curious, pink worm lived inside their mouths and wanted to see what was going on. I had the impression that these girls would eventually be able to read better than I can. The boys didn’t do as well, two of them made it through an easy sentence, but Bobby only knew a couple of words in each of the easier sentences. He’d get my extra attention and since he looked the most handsome of the three boys, he’d also get extra attention from Carol and Jane.

 I did not call attention to the girls’ superior reading skills, nor did I compliment them more than once. I had the feeling that they would excel and need much more of an academic challenge than the boys, which was no surprise; it was typical. It was a pleasant thought for me that I had only five students, that they acted happy, were not afraid of me, seemed well behaved and smiled a lot.

When today’s short, introductory lesson was complete, I dismissed the students. It was still early morning and the dismissal surprised them, excitedly. They scurried out the door as if they were mice smelling the nearness of cheese. The girls were holding hands as they skipped toward home. The boys I allowed to play for thirty minutes. They were playing mumbly-peg with their jackknives. I had to ask them to teach me how to play the game. After they did that, I told them to go home knowing they were needed at home to help their fathers with farm work.

Later that week the girls’ mom and dad (Sharon and Eric Broder) came for a visit. I learned that the mother had had a good education and had been a teacher wherever she and Eric had moved. The thought sprang to life that she may be a better teacher for children than I am. Also, kids were used to female teachers and were more at ease with them. I’d have to keep that in mind if the time came with I needed to have a replacement. I learned that Mrs. Broder not only taught her children at home but also taught neighboring children as well until she could no longer teach other children and accomplish her duties as a wife and mother.

At first, I was afraid that their visit had something to do with my being a man, but that was never brought up for discussion as I had expected. They wanted to tell me that the girls were happy to come to school because I was sometimes funny and didn’t use punishment or sternness with them, though the father had been hesitant because he grew up where punishment was a motivator.

With the students and one set of parents gone, I retrieved my gun belt and put it on before I walked out of the building and locked the door. It was a bright, unusually cool morning with hardly a cloud in the sky. I walked casually down the street toward the restaurant, excited to see Clara, as well as have a delicious breakfast.

Before breakfast, however, I needed to visit the livery stables to check on Boss. Somehow, as I approached, I could hear Boss nicker, and as I approached his stall, he neighed as he canted his head toward me. I found that Ben had fed Boss and had spread fresh straw on the floor of Boss’s stall as well as providing water. I could see the brush marks on Boss and was pleased with how well Ben was taking care of my horse.

“Ben, I want you to know I’m obliged for the excellent care you’re giving my horse. I don’t ride him as much as I’d like, but we’ve gotten to know each other quite well on our rides out of town where I practice shooting. It’s a fine horse. He’s no longer gun-shy after hearing me practice every day. You’re right. He may never win a race, but I like him, and he knows it.”

Ben smiled and waved at me then continued with the other horses who were whinnying or blowing gushes of air through their nostrils to gain wanted attention. I wasn’t paying Jacob for the Boss’s care daily. I planned to pay weekly soon because Jacob offered to give me a discounted rate that was less than paying daily for a week. That made me realize that I was staying in town for a while.

I exited the barn, pulling up my gun belt, and then making it tighter. The belt rubbed against my already tender and chafed skin, but it kept sliding down my butt. Jacob noticed my discomfort and yelled before I had gotten far, “Yuh getting a rash from yer gun belt rubbing on your skin?”

I turned to face him. “Yeah, I’m not used to that, nor the weight.” I knew it wasn’t a rash, just irritated skin, but I said nothing. I knew what he meant. No use acting like a snobby teacher explaining the difference which would probably embarrass him. He’d been good to me, and I wanted to be good to him.

He used his bent index finger to get me to come back to him. “Follow me,” he said. “Here it is. This is bottle of Sloan’s Horse Liniment. It relieves sore muscles in horses, but it’s the slipperiness, like oil, which will reduce the rubbing on your skin. It will also help the healing, so Doc tells me.

I stared at the bottle. “But it’s for horses, right? It’s not meant for people, right?” I asked, with a palms up uncertain mannerism.”

“Tom, yer not gonna drink the stuff, jest rub a little on yer rash. Pull up yer shirt, lad. Now stick yer finger in the bottle. Just get the tip of yer finger wet, then rub it lightly on the rash. That stuff relaxes muscles and reduces joint swelling, and pain from scratches, cuts, and rashes. Works ’specially on the dumber or tenderfoot cowboys who poop outdoors an’ don’t remove their spurs before they squat. Now, listen, it just ain’t me making up a story here. Old Doc Martin, he’s the one that tol’ me about it. He uses it, too, for his patients, and fer himself. That’s how much he trusts this stuff. Cattlemen also use it. Use it on cattle an’ men,

I dipped my index finger inside the bottle, got the tip of it wet, then I spread the liquid on my irritated, raw skin. Right away it felt better, like ice on a sunburn. I looked at Jacob with an amazed expression, then added, “Well I’ll be damned. It works!” Jacob and I laughed together, and he patted my back. After we shook hands, I headed for the restaurant with the imagined smell of eggs and bacon in my nose, and the pretty image of Clara decorating my mind.

That picture instantly vanished as I walked through the door of the restaurant and saw Sawyer, his dirty, stained hat on the table, finishing his coffee and smiling sarcastically at me. His hair was a bird’s nest after a windstorm. His face, hands, and clothes were dirty. The corners of his eyes near his nose were filled with a dirty yellow, puss-colored material.

To add to my aggravation, he spit a stream of tobacco juice into his coffee cup. Instead of wiping the drip off his lower lip, he allowed it to trickle down his chin, where it took up residence.

“A hell-of-a sage-hen gal yuh gots heah,” he immediately shouted at me, then got up and approached me. We were now standing within spittle distance of each other, and he showered me with, “Young, purty, and plump in all the right places. A course, I don’t needs ta tell yuh that. Yuh gits ta see it every day. Lucky yuh be. Yuh been pokin’ it, right?”

So far I was calm but irritated in a way that Sloan’s Horse Liniment wouldn’t help. A horseshoe violently denting his head is what was needed. “When I said ‘mannerly,’ Sawyer, did you not know what that word meant?”

“Sure, Tommy Boy. I reckon I knowed what it mean. Guy in Long Branch say a purty, young lassie work heah. Came ta see fer meself. I sure do likes ta look see the dessert. Only thing better is tastin’ it.”

“Well, you should have cleaned yourself up first. Coming in here looking ugly, dirty, and foul-mouthed won’t get you the kind of attention you want, especially when you’re dirty, smelling of cattle, and unwashed bearded, unwashed, greasy hair and a scabbed face that would only get you attention from the soiled doves at the saloon or the China Doll. The lingering smell of sweat from bug-infested cattle would be offensive to anyone who’s near you. Guess you haven’t noticed the disgusting looks that you’re getting from the customers.” Sawyer looked around the room and caught a glance at the disgusted faces just a second before all their heads looked down at their plates of food. I was more wary of him now as I saw him move his hand closer to the handle of his gun.

“Yuh jest made ‘nother big mistake,” he said with a grin that hid malicious intentions. “I won’t fergit the insult, Nancy boy. There be no lawman hereabouts ta hold yer han’ sissy boy. We be seein’ each other ag’in. I may bring me a gen-u-wine gelding knife ta show yuh.” He laughed heartily as he leaned toward me, and my nose rebelled against the putrid smell of his breath.

 His face told the story of last night’s Long Branch fandango. His hangover, and red eyes, one of them surrounded by the colors yellow and black, meant he was in one or more fights, plus his cut lips were further evidence that he may have come out second best. But now he was acting boldly, looking mean, short-tempered, and dangerous.

That’s when I realized that my target practice wasn’t any indication of how I would respond in a gunfight. I was scared but tried not to show it, hiding it behind the thin mask of my fragile smile.”

“Best yuh min’ yer own bidness, Nancy boy”—he had always emphasized the word ‘boy’ before. Now he emphasized the word ‘Nancy’—“an’ yuh not be meddlin’ in mine. Yuh say yer last name be Hawken? Well then it now be ‘Tommy Hawk.’ Sounds like a Injun weapon. Yuh part Injun, Nancy, boy? Can’t be much a man if yuh part Injun. Mebbe yuh be a dandy, city boy, tenderfoot, and wannabe cowboy ta come west ta learn how ta be a man. Yuh gots ta work lots harder.” Then his face distorted with laughter while his eyes flashed a fiery threat, and his index finger tapped a threatening beat on his holster. I now moved my hand slowly closer to my gun, my thumb grazing against the hammer.

I knew better than to answer him. I also knew better than to show him my back. I slowly backed up one step to get a broader view of his body movements, especially his gun hand. The movement of my leg stepping backward sent a chair skidding away.

Sawyer sat down, pounded on the table as he looked toward the kitchen, and screamed, “Where be me god-damned food? Get it out here, now.” Standing near a window, with the sun’s rays shining through, I could see the spray of his spittle. I stood there looking down at him. It was as if he had dismissed me and wanted to focus on food.

Clara rushed out of the kitchen loaded with the food that Sawyer had ordered: Steak, several eggs, and potatoes were on the tray. She was so nervous and scared that she was spilling the water from the glass as she was setting it on the table. She placed the food in front of Sawyer and quickly started to leave but was thwarted as Sawyer’s large hand darted out and grabbed her wrist.

“Yer sure a purty little thing, ain’t-cha?”

“Sir. Please let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”

“Aww, come on. Sit wid me. Keep me company. I be all alone.”

When he didn’t release her, Clara slapped him. The imprint of her hand on his cheek turned red on his pale face. Soon it would swell. He stood so quickly that he knocked over his chair with the back of his knees. He slapped Clara so fast and hard that she staggered backward, falling onto a nearby table, the screeching of the table’s legs and the chair legs were like needles in my ears, plus the sound of her head hitting the corner of the table sent a shiver up my spine. Then I saw blood trickling down one side of her forehead. I was there in a few steps. I saw Sawyer make pugilist's fists, so I buffaloed him with a solid strike to his head with the handle of my gun. Jacob had mentioned it as being the favorite trick of Wyatt Earp. Sawyer’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor, knocking over a side table and chair. From a glance at him, lying on the floor, I realized that he was smaller than he had appeared while sitting in the saddle.

Frank and Ida were there next and were helping Clara rise from the floor as I stood over Sawyer with the handle of my gun raised high, ready to strike again, but he was dazed and groggy and hadn’t attempted to stand up yet. Concern and rage erupted in Frank’s eyes, and he had such a tight grip on his axe handle that his knuckles looked like snow-capped mountains. Ida was crying with her hands pressing her cheeks. As Sawyer struggled to rise, Frank yelled, “Take your food and git outta my restaurant. Yer no longer welcome here. You’re trouble, and when trouble comes to visit me, I don’t offer it a place to sit. Get out! Go eat with the other savages at the Long Branch.”

Sawyer rose slowly and was stunned. His red-faced, sneering, chapped lips and drool had given him a clownish appearance. He growled, “Whatcha gonna do ole man, call a lawman?” His eyes bulge out with anger, and it was then I noticed his dung-brown eyes which was appropriate for a man who was full of shit. He then drew his arm back to hit Frank, but I beat him to the punch, my knuckles crashing against his jaw. He fell to the floor again, but this time he stayed there, unconscious. I had knocked him down, twice, and I felt good about it as I flexed my fingers.

Just then Butch and his other cattlemen came through the doorway, wanting a good breakfast of eggs and bacon that wasn’t available at the Long Branch. They had been halfway here when they heard Sawyer shouting from down the street, so they came running.

"Aww, shit! What happened heah?” Butch asked while staring down at Sawyer’s inert body and the upended tables and chairs.

He looked up at me, but it was Frank who responded as he waved his axe handle, with angry gestures toward Sawyer. Then he looked at Butch and explained, “He attacked my daughter because she wouldn’t sit with him for breakfast. She slapped ‘im for grabbing her wrist and hurting her, and he still would let go of ‘er. He slapped her savagely, knocking her over and hitting her head on the overturned table. Tom came quickly and buffaloed him. Your man fell, got up, and was about to punch me, but Tom punched him first, knocking ‘im back to the floor again, unconscious.”

Butch, placed a hand on my back and guided me a few feet away, then asked, “Tom, how’d yuh see it?”

“The same as Frank told it. Sawyer seemed out of control and filled with rage. It appeared to me that he couldn’t be stopped unless I put him down where he is now.” We both looked a Sawyer’s still body.

Butch shook his head in disgust and disappointment. “I been warning ‘im many times, but almos’ every town we come ta, something like this happens. Trouble follows ‘im like a rabid dog. He be like a rattlesnake at a church social. Tom, we be leavin’ fer are camp early tomorra morning. Got the other half a my men who be itchin’ ta get ta town. We come in ta scout it out, plus have some fun, but now we need ta leave an’ tell the others what they needs ta know ‘bout how ta act in town. I will be shut of Sawyer once we git ta Ab’lene and drop off the entire herd. I took him on as a favor ta his dad who be my frien.’ His dad couldna control ‘im an’ hoped his crooked rope would he be made straight on a long cattle drive. Yuh can see that it didna work.”

Butch and his men picked up Sawyer and carried him like a rolled-up rug to their room at the Dodge House and leave early tomorrow morning.

                                                *

The next morning, at about six, I rose earlier than usual to chalk the reading lesson on the school wall’s black rectangle, with three distinct levels of ability. Then I added individual two, and three-letter words on it for my non-reader, Bobby. I’d return after breakfast to think of a game we could play indoors or outdoors, one unrelated to reading. It had become a habit of mine to put on my gun, holster, and belt almost without thinking. When I returned to the school room, I’d place my gun belt on the shelf over the one window where I had built a shelf for that specific purpose. I had access to it, but the children couldn’t reach it. I’d put it on after the students departed.

As usual, the next thing I wanted was breakfast and Clara, so I started walking down the rutted, fifty-feet wide dirt road called Front Street. I saw five people exit the Dodge House which ruined my pleasant morning. It was Butch and his four cattlemen. They were slowly walking toward me, headed for Ben’s livery as I was walking in the opposite direction going to the restaurant. I couldn’t help calling myself ‘stupid,’ then ‘damn stupid,’ then ‘idiot’ when I recalled Butch saying that he and his men would be leaving town early after their overnight stay to let Sawyer recover.

As we met, Butch acknowledged me with a tip of his head and I returned the greeting the same way, trying not to look at Sawyer. I almost lost my balance when I looked at Butch. We hadn’t had rain in a while, so the wagon tracks in the mud had hardened into small hills and valleys that were made in the mud which had dried as hard as bricks.

I was about twenty feet past those cattlemen when Sawyer turned and bellowed, “If it ain’t Tommy Hawk, the town’s Nancy boy an’ wanna-be cowboy an; a sissy teacha. Hey, teach, where yer dress be? Ain’t teachas be wimmin?” Sawyer stepped away from the group and faced me. Butch, realizing that he hadn’t taken Sawyer’s gun away from him, grabbed his arm and said, “Stop being a fool, or yuh can be are night rider fer a week. Just you an’ the critters, all night.”

Sawyer, looking like he had a thunderous hangover, violently pulled away from Butch’s. Sawyer’s friends called out to him to come back and not cause trouble. Sawyer ignored them, too. Sawyer’s face was flushed, and his eyes were sprinkled with tiny lines of red capillaries. His breathing was fast, his body looked highly agitated, and his posture looked aggressive and volatile. He looked like a walking stick of dynamite and wanted me to light his fuse.

Sawyer’s hand was close to his gun, his thumb and forefinger twitching. He said, in a hoarse voice, “Yuh know, Tommy Hawk, yuh shouldna ever wear a gun ‘less yuh can use it. I wonder if yuh can use it good, city boy. I reco’nize the way yuhs lookin’ at me. You afeared a me, sissy boy?”

This situation was a monster of bad timing and bad luck, and all my fault. I didn’t like it to the degree that I felt frozen and stiff. All I could do was remain silent, wondering if this confrontation could have easily been avoided if I hadn’t worn my gun this morning, but it certainly could have been avoided if I’d remembered Butch’s telling me about leaving early this morning. I wondered how many deaths had hung on simple, mental forgetfulness like I just experienced.

A voice in my head rang like a hammer hitting an anvil. It made me flinch, and then blink rapidly. The roaring noise, like cattle stampeding, turned out to be Sawyer screaming incoherently,

Clara, who had been helping her parents prepare breakfast, yelled angrily at Sawyer, “You’re a danger to everyone around you!” in a voice that rang out loudly, with spittle being ejaculated in fine misty droplets as she stood at the open restaurant doorway.

“Yuh dirty bitch! Shut yer damn mouth! Do yuh reckon yuh be too good fer the likes a me? Is that how yuh reckon?”

“No!” Clara screamed. “You simply are not a nice person for a nice woman to be around. It wasn’t that I was too good for you, it was that you were too bad for me. How many women have rejected you and still you don’t change your repulsive behaviors? It’s you! You’re the problem! No one else, but you! Why is it that you can’t see that?” Clara screamed with straining neck muscles and a flushed face.

“Plen’y a wimmins likes ta be wid me fer the kissin’ an’ huggin’ an’ bouncin’ in bed.” Sawyer smiled, perhaps thinking he was clever.

I turned and asked Clara, in a deep stentorian voice, to return to the kitchen in case there was any shooting. With my peripheral vision, I saw her turn swiftly and walk away, making an angry growling sound. Now I didn’t have to worry about her.

Butch and his men knew that once Sawyer had reached this point in his rage, anybody who interfered would be in grave danger. The cattlemen moved away as Sawyer challenged me with his right hand nearly upon the handle of his gun. I saw his fingers flexing, anticipating his draw. I forced myself not to look him in the eyes. I needed to focus on his shoulder, arm, and hand to indicate when he would draw. But even so, I wasn’t confident in my ability with a gun, to be accurate under the influence of stress and fear. I was scared and could feel an internal tremble but there was nothing I could do except react to whatever action he started, but indications pointed toward a gun duel. I decided not to back down and hoped that he was bluffing. I stood still, directly facing him, my two feet a shoulder’s width apart, and pointing at him. I waited with my right wrist near my gun which was too far up on my hip. I could feel it against my upper forearm, whereas Sawyer’s wrist was near his gun. I faltered by looking at his eyes and saw both confidence and rage that a hangover coupled with hate and probably a pounding headache can force on an already out-of-control and demented personality.

I was the tenderfoot easterner, who, at present, wished to settle things with Sawyer with a fistfight, not with deadly gunplay. Growing up in Boston to a wealthy family placed me in many a fistfight. I was comfortable and confident with my fists, but not my gun. With a gun, I was soft on courage and confidence, so Sawyer was putting me to a deadly test.

I felt as if there was a fire burning my face, my forehead beaded with sweat that felt as if it were about to blister. I imagined the hiss of steam and felt the growing fear it had created in me. This was different from calmly shooting at and consistently hitting an immobile target. This was flesh and blood; kill or be killed and I knew I was now at a great disadvantage.

Also, I had a feeling of severe discomfort and awkwardness in one leg because I felt that I was off balance, not from the weight of the gun belt, but from a feeling that one leg was longer than the other. I did not bend my head downward but rolled my eyes downward to get a glimpse of the road that lay between us. What I saw was wagon wheel ruts made of dried and hardened mud. I was standing with one foot at the bottom of a rut, while my other foot stood on the top of another rut. Knowing this, with its serious disadvantage, I found it difficult to correct my footing because I didn’t want to move, which is also a disadvantage to accuracy.

“Hopes yuh not too scairt ta draw yer gun ‘cause on my count a three, we draw, Tommy Boy.” He paused, then dramatically added, “And may the best man win, which is me,” she shouted, his voice brimming with sarcasm. (Being a teacher, I knew that he should have said ‘the better man’ when comparing two things.) but this thought was crazy. Why am I thinking like this? This situation is life-threatening and here I was thinking of the rules of grammar. I flinched as Sawyer’s voice assaulted me.

“Let’s prove ta Clara who be the best man. Ok, Nancy boy?”

I knew that my gun was too high on my waist to draw it quickly out of its stiff holster. I bent my arm upward bringing it so my fingers were level with the gun handle which made my elbow jut away from my back. It was an awkward position. I reminded myself to cock the gun during my draw or cock it as I leveled it and pointed at Sawyer. My arm trembled, my fingers felt stiff, and my wrist bones felt as if they were glued together. I didn’t hear Sawyer say ‘one.’ I did hear him say ‘two’ and saw him draw his gun before the count of ‘three.’ His yellow-stained toothy smile indicated that he saw victory already. I had to gain my balance first, so I stepped forward with my right foot, bringing it out of the rut and placing it a half-step directly in front of my left foot, so now both feet were level. Doing this forced my right shoulder and waist to turn sideways, with my drawn gun in line with my shoulders, making a straight line from my left shoulder, across my back to my right shoulder which was in a straight line down my right arm, my hand and my gun being aimed at Sawyer. I saw Sawyer’s broad chest, while he must have only seen me from a side view of my body. I felt the pressure of my gun’s hammer, but my thumb slipped off it as a bee buzzed by my ear and distracted me. But it wasn’t a bee. It was Sawyer’s first bullet. Sawyer’s next bullet hit my right leg calf. I stumbled then recovered. I felt the bullet’s power, but numbness blocked the pain. I cocked the hammer, again, then placed the front sight of the barrel on his chest as I had done hundreds of times to the objects I had shot during my practice sessions. But my hand trembled, unlike when I was shooting an object that couldn’t shoot back. As I steadied my aim, I felt a stinging sensation across my chest. I flinched but returned to my aim at Sawyer who was now screaming like a madman, “Who be the best man, sissy boy? Ha! You can’t even git ‘nough strength and courage ta shoot yer . . .” With the hammer of my gun cocked, I shot before Sawyer could complete his sentence.

I was supposed to squeeze the trigger, but I was desperately trying to keep my aim on Sawyer’s upper torso. I didn’t hear my shot, but I did feel that I feel that I had pulled the trigger. Sawyer didn’t finish his sentence, but suddenly stepped backward, his head canted left and downward as he looked at the ragged bullet hole and the spreading, irregularly shaped circle of crimson that was staining the chest of his shirt and slowly growing larger. His upper left vest pocket is where I, luckily, deposited my bullet. It was surreal seeing his blood spray from the open part of his pocket. I froze and stared at it, stupidly asking myself, “Did I just do that?”

The look in his eyes will never be flushed from my memory, that incredible, open-mouthed, and disbelieving stare he gave me. I cocked the hammer once more but didn’t need to shoot as Sawyer’s knees began slowly bending while he still looked disbelievingly at the rapidly growing circle of blood on his shirt. He fired one last shot into the dirt, then dropped his gun into the dirt as his body collapsed forward onto his chest and face. I heard a pitiful, wet, gurgling moan, his final release of air. I was unsteady, but I saw his legs spasm as I also fell forward to the dirt. It was a startling and once-in-a-lifetime view for me, my cheek pressed into the hard ground, my eyes inches from the dirt ruts, and unable to move my body.

 I was half-conscious and trembling, but I could hear and see legs rushing toward me and some away from me. I knew Clara would come soon, but the first voice I heard was from Butch, the ramrod boss of the cattlemen. “Sawyer has a mean as a badger twin brother who is already an outlaw. He may come for you.” His voice seemed far away. Then I heard Clara and felt her warm hand touching me. Her voice, also strange, sounded as if it was coming as an echo from the back of a long, narrow cave opening. She looked blurry to me as she kneeled and opened my shirt. I felt her warm hand, then passed out as all my vision and brain images turned black, and filled with a blackness that was filled with thousands of twinkling points of light. I thought I heard random voices and words like ‘no sheriff,’ ‘self-defense,’ and ‘Doc.’ I felt more tired than I’d ever felt before, but I felt no pain as drifted like smoke into that welcoming blackness. I felt myself drift away into an unknown land filled with purple sage and snow-topped mountains, with clear blue skies and clear blue water.

When I woke up, it was the next morning. I found myself in bed in Doc Martin’s office. I was bare-chested and pale. I felt something scratchy wrapped around my chest which felt painfully sore. Then I could feel the pain in my calf. There was a bandage around my calf, too. Doc Martin was suddenly standing over me with something in his hand, which ended up in my mouth. “Keep it there and don’t bite it,” he ordered. “You have a fever.”

I heard the door open and close, then saw Clara standing next to Doc. “How’s he doin’?” she asked.

“He’ll live, though the healing will take a while.”

“Is he feverish?”

The thermometer was pulled out of my mouth.

“Temperature of 103F. Not too bad. It’s routine for gunshot injuries. In a couple of weeks, he’ll be fine. Then he addressed me. “Well, Tom, you’re an incredibly lucky man. No bullet to take out of both wounds. You were shot in the chest, but it’s an unusual wound. Not deep, but it’ll be painful as it’s healing. That bullet, since you were standing sideways, traveled in a straight line through the surface of your whole chest, leaving a shallow groove. Umm, however, that straight groove went through both nipples, so, umm, Tom, your nipples were shot off, but you don’t need them, so why fuss over it?” Then Doc couldn’t help himself, so he smiled, accompanied by a glance at Clara, followed by both of us giggling.

“Glad I’m not a woman, then,” I added. “Those things are important for the babies, and ahh . . .” I paused mid-sentence, grinned, flashed a bright, mischievous smile at Clara, and finished by adding the phrase, “and other stuff.”

“Tom. You hush your mouth,” Clara interjected without seriousness.

“Certainly, dear,” I responded, then looked at Doc. He laughed once again, but I only smiled. Laughing would be too painful.

“Men!” Clara said with a fake growl.

“Tom,” Doc began, “ you’ll have a delightful story to tell, especially if you show them the long, horizontal scar and the missing nipples. You can make the story even better if you add a few false, but interesting thoughts.” Doc turned his face away from Clara to conceal his mischievous laugh.

“You mean like, for instance, there was a bullet that struck me in the calf

of my right leg, passed through the skin, hit a rock, ricocheted upward, then bounced off the steel rim of a wagon wheel, and passed through the surface skin of my chest and shot off both my nipples? Like that kind a funny and entertaining story?”

“Yea. That’s it, Tom. You’ve got the hang of it now. You sure know how to milk a joke.”

 Suddenly the door opened and slammed closed as Clara quickly exited Doc’s office. Doc and I broke into boisterous laughter despite the pain it caused me.

“Milk a joke,” Doc? You aren’t so bad yourself.

“I have a sense of humor, too, you know. Now Tom, you only need to stay overnight. I’ll be here, too. Leave tomorrow, but don’t strain those chest muscles and have limited walking to let the calf wound heal faster. “And one other thing, Tom,” Doc added. “I hope you know that you would be dead if you hadn’t been standing sideways. That bullet would have hit you square in the side, possibly a killing shot to your heart and lung.”

“Yeah, but we don’t need to mention that to Clara. I know I was lucky. Sawyer stood facing me, so I had a full chest view of him, while I was sideways with a much slimmer view of only my right side.”

“You don’t need to keep it a secret from Clara. She’s too smart not to have come to that conclusion already. You two getting married?”

“Yep, and I’m going to ask Jacob to be my best man at the wedding ceremony if he’s not feeling pony that day.”

“Feeling pony?” Doc’s tone of voice indicates surprise. “Is that a sickness I haven’t heard of yet?”

“Perhaps. If Jacob can’t speak that's what I mean. So, if Jacob is ‘feeling pony,’ for a stable man, it would mean that he’s feeling a little ‘hoarse’ that day.”

“Shhhiit! Excuse me,” Doc said, “I feel a bit nauseous.”

I thought, My friend, Art Hays, used to say that to me a lot. Sure do miss my Boston friend.

                                                The End