held their hands out for food.”
“Creeks,” the mister said. “Or Cherokee. Indians from down south. They’re moving to the Territory. They mighthave come all the way from Florida. It’s no wonder they’re starving. …I don’t know how they got this far.” He fell back against the flour barrel and was soon snoring again.
None of it made much sense to Bass. He didn’t know what Florida was, or a territory, but he knew better than to start asking questions when the mister was coming off a bad drunk. And any drunk where he was talking about rattlesnake heads in the whiskey was definitely a bad one.
Besides, the mules sensed that they were getting closer to home. The wagon pulled away from the Indians, and it was a beautiful morning. The green candy still tasted sweet and Bass had saved a red and orange and green to show Mammy when he got home, and he had stories on top of stories to tell her of amazing things he had seen in Paris.
He slapped the reins. “Come on, mules, pick it up. We want to get in before dark.”
The mules pretended to speed up, but then settled back into their normal rhythm, hooves clopping in the dust, and Bass sighed.
They would get there when they got there.
5
FALL 1840
Running
Some things had changed.
Bass was sixteen now, pushing seventeen. He was as big as he would be when he became a full-grown man, except that his neck and shoulders had not quite filled. He stood six feet, two inches tall and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. He could lift more than his weight and throw it in the wagon, and once when a mule had acted up, Bass had grabbed it by the halter, twisted its head and thrown it on the ground.
And if he wasn’t quite a man yet in body and mind and knowledge, he had a man’s duties.
The mister had battled the jug for three years and had finally surrendered. He would awaken and have coffee, with a little whiskey in it, walk down and look at the corrals without speaking, then go back into his house anddrink the day away. Now and then a trip to town for whiskey and supplies.
Bass ran the ranch. He gathered cattle, took care of the stock, shoed horses, doctored sick animals. Mammy cooked and took care of the mister and guided Bass when he needed guidance.
If the mister had been sober, he wouldn’t have allowed these things. But as he let go, Bass moved in and began. Like tending the horses’ hooves; they started getting too long and cracked and poorly shaped, so Bass took the hoof rasp and fixed them up, evened the bottoms, cleaned the frogs with a hoof pick. Soon the mister left those jobs to Bass entirely.
Or riding after cattle. One day, Bass was rummaging around in a junk pile in the back of the granary and he found an old Mexican
vaquero
saddle with cracked leather and an open seat.
He took the saddle to the quarters and started to repair it. He was surprised when shade covered him and he looked up to see Flowers staring down at him.
“What?” Bass said.
As usual, Flowers didn’t speak, but he took the saddle and walked back to where he sat to work.
Three days later he gave Bass what appeared to be a new saddle, oiled, with new stirrup straps and a low-style wrapped Mexican horn. Bass thanked him but Flowers said nothing, just returned to patching a harness.
That day, Bass had put the saddle on one of the mules and ridden him down to the mesquite bottoms, then come back and put the saddle on the Roman nose and ridden him down the same way. When he returned the mister was watching him, standing in the door to his house. But hesaid nothing, and Bass had been riding ever since, checking cattle, doctoring sick ones, branding the mavericks he caught.
He did not ride the bay, though he wanted to, because he thought of it as the mister’s private horse. But he came to like the Roman nose. The horse was smaller, and jerkgaited, but he was tough and quick, could turn on a dime and was willing to try anything.
One morning, Bass realized he hadn’t even seen
“Creeks,” the mister said. “Or Cherokee. Indians from down south. They’re moving to the Territory. They mighthave come all the way from Florida. It’s no wonder they’re starving. …I don’t know how they got this far.” He fell back against the flour barrel and was soon snoring again.
None of it made much sense to Bass. He didn’t know what Florida was, or a territory, but he knew better than to start asking questions when the mister was coming off a bad drunk. And any drunk where he was talking about rattlesnake heads in the whiskey was definitely a bad one.
Besides, the mules sensed that they were getting closer to home. The wagon pulled away from the Indians, and it was a beautiful morning. The green candy still tasted sweet and Bass had saved a red and orange and green to show Mammy when he got home, and he had stories on top of stories to tell her of amazing things he had seen in Paris.
He slapped the reins. “Come on, mules, pick it up. We want to get in before dark.”
The mules pretended to speed up, but then settled back into their normal rhythm, hooves clopping in the dust, and Bass sighed.
They would get there when they got there.
5
FALL 1840
Running
Some things had changed.
Bass was sixteen now, pushing seventeen. He was as big as he would be when he became a full-grown man, except that his neck and shoulders had not quite filled. He stood six feet, two inches tall and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. He could lift more than his weight and throw it in the wagon, and once when a mule had acted up, Bass had grabbed it by the halter, twisted its head and thrown it on the ground.
And if he wasn’t quite a man yet in body and mind and knowledge, he had a man’s duties.
The mister had battled the jug for three years and had finally surrendered. He would awaken and have coffee, with a little whiskey in it, walk down and look at the corrals without speaking, then go back into his house anddrink the day away. Now and then a trip to town for whiskey and supplies.
Bass ran the ranch. He gathered cattle, took care of the stock, shoed horses, doctored sick animals. Mammy cooked and took care of the mister and guided Bass when he needed guidance.
If the mister had been sober, he wouldn’t have allowed these things. But as he let go, Bass moved in and began. Like tending the horses’ hooves; they started getting too long and cracked and poorly shaped, so Bass took the hoof rasp and fixed them up, evened the bottoms, cleaned the frogs with a hoof pick. Soon the mister left those jobs to Bass entirely.
Or riding after cattle. One day, Bass was rummaging around in a junk pile in the back of the granary and he found an old Mexican
vaquero
saddle with cracked leather and an open seat.
He took the saddle to the quarters and started to repair it. He was surprised when shade covered him and he looked up to see Flowers staring down at him.
“What?” Bass said.
As usual, Flowers didn’t speak, but he took the saddle and walked back to where he sat to work.
Three days later he gave Bass what appeared to be a new saddle, oiled, with new stirrup straps and a low-style wrapped Mexican horn. Bass thanked him but Flowers said nothing, just returned to patching a harness.
That day, Bass had put the saddle on one of the mules and ridden him down to the mesquite bottoms, then come back and put the saddle on the Roman nose and ridden him down the same way. When he returned the mister was watching him, standing in the door to his house. But hesaid nothing, and Bass had been riding ever since, checking cattle, doctoring sick ones, branding the mavericks he caught.
He did not ride the bay, though he wanted to, because he thought of it as the mister’s private horse. But he came to like the Roman nose. The horse was smaller, and jerkgaited, but he was tough and quick, could turn on a dime and was willing to try anything.
One morning, Bass realized he hadn’t even seen
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