Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Short Stories

“Sit up in the saddle son.”

Landry looked up at Pop with the sun in his eyes.
“This is going to be hard for you. But Pa beat it in to me and I’ll beat it in to you. It’s the story of our family, Lan.”
Pop rode off after a few head that had wandered off into the brush. Landry looked down at the reins in his hands. The herd was grazing there in the southeast pasture. They hadn’t the money to keep up the rights on the northern pasture. Sometimes he still snuck in at dusk, after supper, to throw rocks in the tank. The herd was thinner than last year. The season’d been dry and the feed lot wouldn’t give the good feed on account of the Perse outfit buying up the stock. But the southern pasture still had good grass and the river still had enough to get them through. That’s what Pop had said. He had to pee bad put Pop was still in the brush and he couldn’t get up on Jam’s horse without a leg up. Besides, Pop had said
“A man doesn’t leave his herd. We got a job here- and that job’ll be done.”
The sun was getting up in the afternoon and the cattle started down beneath the cottonwood trees. One of the sickly calves trailed behind the rest and Lan tried to help it along but it had come in to the world sick and would never catch up. Pop had had a mind to put him down but Lan had cried and begged him not to. Pop had beat him bad for that. But he hadn’t put him down. They needed every head they had he’d said and mother had always preached showing kindness to the sick. Lan and the calf were trailing the herd by a distance when Pop rode up behind him with the strays.
“What did I say about staying with the herd? A man’s gotta be dependable, Lan. You stay with the calf, I’m going to get these four down to the trees and come back for you.”
Lan watched Pop ride on ahead.
The calf swayed and fell. It turned and looked at Lan with a pleadingly barren look. The cottonwood trees blinked at them in the dirt breeze. Lan got his leg over the horse, stood on one of the stirrups before falling back, landing in a cloud of dust beside the calf. The dust stained his face in messy streaks of tears and child’s sweat. The calf bleats as he holds his breath, trying to stop the crying before pop gets back. He stands up, slaps his hat against his leg like Pop a hundred times before and takes his rope down from the saddle. Tying a tightening knot around the calf’s neck, Lan sits behind the prostrate youngster and leans back, pulling the rope tight with his boots pushing the calf’s head down. The weak calf struggles once, trying desperately to regain its footing but Lan tries again. The calf’s blinks slow. Pop slowly rides up to the pair. With tears muddying his streaked face Lan screams
“I’m putting him down, Pop!”
Pop gets down from his horse, removing the rifle from its scabbard, whispering
“It’s ok son, you’re hurting him.”
 Pop takes the rope from Lan’s hands and loosens the knot from the dying calf’s neck. Lan sits Indian style in the dirt as Pop shoots the calf, returns the rifle to its scabbard, mounts his house, and turns to mind the herd.

That old guitar was the only thing that gave her pleasure now. Her voice is gone, lost in the cracks of her Palmal's. The ashtray holds her life in it- old coins, tokens, lighters, picks, stubs. The memories overflow onto the coffee table, sticking to the spilled, dried whiskey.

Not lookin for a handout, not a handup either, just leave me be. I don't mind the company, just be quiet a while. I just want to sit under this willow tree with the candle flicker leaves and the strangling roots. I want to sit between them and grind my cigarette butts into forts in the dirt- outposts in the shade.


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