Panhandle by Brett Cogburn Page A

only succeeded in scattering a few people, and knocking askew one porch post.
    Despite our wild entrance, not a soul seemed to give us due attention, because we were nothing out of the ordinary. It was early spring, and apparently, the boys were gathering for one last celebration before spring works. At least thirty cowponies were tied up and down the street, standing three-legged beneath their saddles. There was a passel of soldiers, freighters, and drunks from all corners of cattle country parading the streets and bars of Mobeetie. They all had one thing in common. They came to have a good time. Mobeetie was wild in those days. She was wild and hard to curry below the knees, and we loved her that way.
    As I slipped the cinch on Dunny, I noticed Long Tom hadn’t dismounted. He still sat clutching his sack of whiskey. Looking at him reminded me of the old story of Jack clutching the goose that laid golden eggs while he climbed down the beanstalk. Long Tom was ragged and forlorn looking, a huge slumping figure oversized for the Texas pony he rode.
    â€œHide your whiskey, hitch up your britches, and come on,” I said.
    He eyed me for a long moment, his eyes in the lamplight showing white and large. He pondered me like an owl eyeing a field mouse below him. Slowly, he turned his horse away and headed down the muddy street. The weary step of his horse matched the slouch in Long Tom’s back. It was as if both were affected by some age-old weariness, or burdened by some mysterious affliction.
    â€œWhere are you headed?” I asked.
    â€œYou’ve got a lot to learn, Tennessee,” he called back softly over his shoulder.
    â€œI’m from Kentucky.”
    â€œI know you.” His voice was a whisper in the darkness.
    Long Tom disappeared into the night. Billy and Andy had already disappeared into the saloon. I wondered where Long Tom thought he was going, but I figured he was headed for Ring Town, the joint for colored folks north of town. Maybe he knew somebody there.
    I shuffled my way into the saloon, hesitating inside the doors to let my eyes adjust to the dim, smoky light. The bar was lined from one end to the other with boys in from the range. Everyone else was gathered in groups here and there, and I spied Andy talking to someone at the back. Billy was nowhere to be seen.
    I made my way to the bar, sidling myself between two men like a cow shoving its way to the feed trough. I gathered up a beer, and turned my back to the bar to take in the room. The beer was lukewarm at best, but it was wet and tasted good enough to suit me.
    â€œBy damn, that’s whiskey by any man’s standard!” the man to my right cried.
    He was a drawn-up little fellow hidden beneath the slouching brim of a large hat. He wore suspenders, and farmer boots with mule ear tugs. He looked like a freighter or such.
    He turned up his glass again and finished the remains of his whiskey. When it had traveled the length of his throat and settled in his gizzard, he shivered like a wet pup.
    â€œThat’s just awful enough to do the trick.” He winked at me.
    â€œSeems like a painful way to go,” I said.
    He eyed me craftily, making an exaggerated motion of having to look up at me.
    â€œBeats the hell out of stringing wire.”
    â€œWire, huh?”
    â€œI’ve been stringing bobwire for Goodnight. If it’s left up to him he’ll fence off all hell and creation.” He made a wide sweep of his arm.
    â€œTo hell with wire.” I almost spat my distaste.
    The T Anchor and the JA had already fenced small pastures, and I’d heard the Panhandle Stock Association was fixing to start a drift fence on the north bank of the Canadian River that would run for two hundred miles. I didn’t know it then, but open range was rapidly becoming a thing of the past.
    On my way to Wichita years before, a few of the older hands told about how a man could drive cattle from the Gulf Coast to Canada