Panhandle by Brett Cogburn Page B

without hitting a fence. Now, with each passing year, the trail moved farther and farther west—first the Chisolm, and then the Western. Kansas was already full of both real and imaginary fences. In all but the western half you couldn’t drive stock anywhere without some farmer getting shotgun mad because your cows walked over the single plowed furrow that served to fence in his crops. It wouldn’t be long until a man on horseback would spend half his time opening gates.
    â€œTo hell with bobwire!” I said a little louder.
    â€œCan’t say as I like it, but it’s a living.”
    â€œThat ain’t living.”
    There wasn’t a thing he could say to that. He kept making a show of having to look up at me, and I knew what was coming, or at least where the conversation was headed. I stood six foot three in my sock feet.
    I wish I could say I was handsome, but that isn’t true. My nose was way too big, and my black, curly hair was a mop that defied taming. I was a tall, thin, big-jointed man, never seeming to find a shirt with the sleeves long enough. When I was a boy my Mama had always told me I was all feet and hands. I might not win any beauty contests, but I’d grown into those feet and hands enough to give anybody that didn’t like my looks a good licking.
    â€œYou ever get light-headed up there?” he asked.
    â€œIf I pissed on you would you believe it was raining?”
    â€œEasy, I was just funning you. My name’s Whiskey Pete.”
    â€œNate Reynolds.”
    â€œGlad to know you. Have one on me.” He offered me the bottle as a peace offering.
    â€œNo thanks, you could burn a lantern with that. Why don’t you drink the good stuff?” I jabbed at the small, very small, selection of imports behind the bar.
    â€œNot enough to it. That city stuff is sneaky. You drink it and the next morning you’re all sick and pained. I’ll drink honest, trader whiskey.”
    â€œHonest how?”
    â€œIt’s up-front. It pains you just to drink it.” He slapped the bar and brayed like a mule at his own wit. His laughter rose above the noise of the room, and his knees buckled. I dodged back as he laughed himself into a stagger.
    I grabbed him by the shoulder and straightened him. “Who’s hiring now?”
    â€œThey’re fixing to start the general roundup south of the Canadian this week. Find O.J. Wiren. He’s range boss for the Lazy F. He’s somewhere in town, and I heard he’s needing hands.”
    â€œThanks, I’ve got other places to be.”
    Billy was still missing, but I found Andy standing at the back door of the place. His attention was on something outside. I walked up and peered over his shoulder into the dark.
    â€œWhat are you looking at?” I couldn’t see a darned thing.
    â€œIt’s a bear.”
    â€œYou’re shitting me. Let me see.” I shoved him out of my way.
    It was pitch black behind the saloon. All I could make out was what looked like a dog cowered up in a trash pile a few feet outside the door. “Damned dog is what it is.”
    No sooner than I had said it something growled and came at me out of the dark—something as big as a bear. I like to have knocked the doorframe loose getting back inside. I traveled all the way to the middle of the room before I stopped to look back. The place roared with laughter.
    â€œHeeeeere, puppy, puppy!” Andy mocked.
    â€œFound ol’ Littlebit, did you?” someone roared.
    I didn’t like being attacked out of the dark, but I regained my courage at the sight of Andy standing calmly before the door.
    â€œWhat the hell was that?”
    â€œI told you it’s a bear.” Andy stepped aside and permitted me another view out the door.
    Closing cautiously, I peered out. Sure enough there was a small black bear standing at the end of a chain. He didn’t look so scary when I could see what he