April, 2010

Issue #7

Workin' for A Dollar
by Bud Hanks

Joe and Tom had wrangled together the last eighteen years for the McAllen––a spread that originally extended on both sides of the border in south Texas. Their section covered twenty thousand acres, small by some Texas standards.

The southern eight thousand acres––confiscated by Mexico during the days of Zapata––were never compensated. It had remained a sore point when anyone used the ranch to cross into the United States; so much so, hands for the first sixty years had had notches on their guns and staked-up crosses on the northern side of the Rio for all to see.

The never-ending migration of Brownies as Joe called them––heading north with all their possessions on their backs––never bothered him or Tom. They took a “no/never mind’” attitude, as long as the Brownies left the cattle alone. Only once, in the years they’d worked this section, did they have to add to the crosses––a coyote-mule seen burning Brownies alive.

El Uno Norte, as they called their section, bordered a long stretch of the Rio Grande and had seen good, bad, and ugly days––especially droughts and torrential floods.

“Floods. Now ain’t that a lark, Tom?” Joe said. “Would ya look at that muy pequeno crick?” They laughed, as they watched the Rio trickle by. “Them Brownies gonna have ta use planks to get across, else they’ll be mud-frogs.”

Tom agreed.

However, this year was a blessing year: The weather had been accommodating from the last freak snowflakes to the first burst of Mexican mint and heather. The ground hogs played peek-a-boo, and coyotes sang to the new calves.

It also was a transition year for the ranch: The waterway and rail shipping of cattle to market was being halted––trucks would take over.

Joe knew the Rio wasn’t viable to ship on, but he wasn’t sold on the idea of shipping by truck over train.

Hope that bald headed General they call a President can get us some rain, fix the cattle prices and the economy before it gets worse.

Joe, a wiry five-four, had weather-rimmed, black eyes and thick grey hair flowing from under his brown Stetson like billboard pictures of Buffalo Bill Cody. A runnin’ iron moustache, eight inches long, curled at the ends enough to straighten any brand. Comin’ and goin’ legs, from over seventy years in the saddle, left him with a crab walk, but he couldn’t bring himself to hitch-up to a rockin’ chair.

Tom, a rugged looking, tall Texan with rusty lookin’ brown hair, had a bulbous, tapered nose, easy-going hazeltine eyes, and the loquaciousness of a one-worded mute.

They both knew how to handle any emergency on the range and were as dependable as the keeper of your soul.

Roundup time approaching, they set to hauling, oiling, and reassembling the stored corral pipe and chutes.

Next came the branding pit. They always tried to keep a minimum of three ricks of oak and pine for two purposes: wood for the line shack, and the branding pit. They’d only run into resistance one time crossing the border and hauling wood. Consequently, a steer that’d seen enough living sacrificed himself.

The dipping pit was a natures-made cutout that the river only used in heavy rains or floods. And even if some of the dip ran into it (the Rio), no one could pollute the Grande more than it already was.

Spring would always have to go in the books as the busiest time of year to cowboy, winter the chappiest.

A couple weeks later, two sets of section hands met. Joe and Tom didn’t show. They hadn’t come to the pickup point with the packhorse to get monthly supplies––hands always enjoyed that time to exchange a few stories and play some cards. Brad and Jack––neighboring section hands––said they’d check.

When they didn’t find anyone at the line shack, Brad remembered, when he was Joe’s partner, there was a favorite spot Joe liked to watch the sun as it rose or set over the Rio and the valley beyond. Evening tugged on the landscape shade as they approached. Brad saw Tom first, standing at the end of the rise, then Joe in his bedroll.

They paused in their saddles; Brad crossed himself. The smile on Joe’s face told them all they needed to know.

“Reckon his heart gave out,” Brad said.

Tom nodded, staring at the Rio and distant valley.

“Don’t we have to notify someone?” Jack asked.

“Nope. Story is: Joe wandered onto the ranch when he was a real youngun. No one knows where he came from and nobody came a askin’. The ranch missus took a-liken to him and raised him up. Tried to give ‘im learnin’, but he just wanted to be a cowboy. He done told everyone that he wanted to die with his boots on, and ta bury him where ya find him. That’s what we’re gonna do.”

“Bury ‘em here?” Jack asked.

“Yep. On the end of the rise, so he’s got a great view.”

Jack rode to the line shack for a pick and shovels, while Brad built another fire and prepared for a late supper.

After eating, they sat around in the glow and told all the stories Joe loved to hear––figured it’d make him laugh and keep him company.

Jack started digging at sunrise, knowing it’d be the last one Joe would ever see. Tom was grieving and didn’t want to get up; they let him be. The hole dug deep enough, quicker than expected; the alluvial soil saved time.

“You gonna say something over him, aren’t ya?” Jack asked Brad.

“Yep. Joe’d been a cowboy for nigh-on seventy-four years. Had a sayin’ he lived by. ‘You’re not a cowboy for the money. It’s the love of workin’ cattle, God’s landscape, and a good horse to ride. I wouldn’t work for free, but in my lifetime I’ve been known to be a workin’ for a dollar.’”

“Let’s get him buried; warmin’ up,” Jack said.

“Let Tom do it; he’s his pawdner. Hey, Tom, do ya think you can help us get Joe moved to the grave?” Brad asked.

Tom carried Joe to the rise; stumbled a little. One ear tilted back, the crack of the Winchester let them ride together for eternity.

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