Malley's Misfits: Malley's Boys
About This Story:
This story is the first of four in a collection called Malley's Misfits, which include: Malley's Boys, Malley's Girl, Malley's Men, and Malley's Woman., inspired by The Young Riders (one can see the parallels between a couple of the characters), but not quite. It's not just "Young riders take up sheep ranching," but something completely different--and, I hope, closer to actual history. It's a Western, of course, set in the Texas Hill Country. The "Injuns" aren't bad guys, but a marginalized and suppressed population. Black cowboys--or rather, shepherds--feature prominently. And women--well, women are treated generally as they always were: no vote, low pay, and second-class. The major conflicts come from the cattlemen vs. the sheep men fighting over grazing land, protecting the sheep from natural predators (wolves, wild dogs, coyotes), the diseases and ailments of the period, and dealing with the weather. Medicine is somewhere in between quacks calling themselves "doctors" and actual medical science, though the doctors in my world tend toward the latter.
I wanted to make some of my shepherds Black, as Black or African American cowboys (or shepherds) were fairly common. I apologize if my use of the word "Negroes" is offensive, but as this story is set in 1882, it's more historically accurate for someone living in the period to say "Negroes" rather than "Blacks" or "African Americans," which were terms not in use then.
Most shepherds, especially in Texas, were historically Mexican, so I had to include at least one Mexican among my Misfits,. It's also historically accurate to note that the shearing was usually done by group of itinerate Mexicans, who travelled from ranch to ranch during the shearing season. These workers were known to be inveterate gamblers, but always paid their debts. I decided to make my Mexican shepherd more comfortable around sheep and his dog than people. Although "autism" wasn't a term that was around in the 1880's, Bart is essentially autistic. He's the best actual shepherd among the Misfits, but he doesn't quite fit in, even among his own people. For his particular peculiar quirks, I drew on those of my autistic son. Autism isn't the same as mental slowness, but rather affects social interaction. My own autistic son graduated regular high school cum laude, but has rather poor social skills. He plays piano very well, but has difficulty using a knife and doesn't hold a pencil the same way as most. He also has a bit of a speech impediment that no amount of speech therapy will correct. His speech is perfectly understandable, but he has his own way of doing things, and that's okay. He is a unique and intelligent person, just a little out of the ordinary. (His twin brother, on the other hand, is socially adept, musically talented, and far too independently minded for his own good.)
Malley' (small) sheep ranch is not run the way large sheep ranches in Texas (like the King ranch) were typically run. In the large ranches, shepherds typically lived with their flocks, camping with them at night and receiving supplies periodically from headquarters. But that doesn't make for very good storytelling, so I decided to make Malley's a much smaller business, with Malley's own particular way of doing things. That way there is more social interaction among my shepherds than was historically accurate.
And of course, I needed some good villains for my story, so the nearby cattlemen filled that role. There were always conflicts between cattlemen and sheep men, mainly over grazing land, with cattlemen complaining (incorrectly) that sheep cropped the grass too closely, thus ruining it for cattle. Unscrupulous methods used by cattlemen during the conflicts included killing off sheep by rim rocking, spreading salt peter (poisonous to sheep but not to cattle) over grazing land, and just plain shooting the sheep. Deadline crossing was a particularly risky business.
One important difference between cattle ranching and sheep ranching is, of course, that cattle are generally raised for meat, while sheep are generally raised for their wool. Malley is a sheep man for the simple reason that he doesn't like having his animals killed off. Then there are biblical references to shepherds that I thought would work well for this story ("The Lord is my shepherd.") At least one of the later stories in this cycle will rebel against the right-wing religious precepts of the day and the setting, but that doesn't yet occur in this particular story. For now, Malley is proud of his profession, and the fact that shepherds figure prominently in Biblical lore. And, of course, cattlemen don't.
Then of course there was the day-to-day work to be done on any ranch, and especially a sheep ranch--taking care of animals, washing wool and extracting lanolin from the wool kept and not sold, tending gardens, cooking and cleaning, doing laundry, keeping accounts, and so on.
Everything may not be entirely historically accurate, but I do try to keep enough realism that the story doesn't read like a fantasy. My apologies for the stuff I get wrong.
Log-Line:
John Christopher Parker--"Johnny" to his friends--has dreams of becoming a doctor, but no money, and now no home. All he has is his horse Two-Bits, the clothes on his back, his pa's pocket watch, book or two, and a medical bag filled with whatever he could take from his late mentor's office, ` Forced into the life of a drifter by the deaths of his parents and doctor mentor, his desperation leads him to accept a job as a "woolly wrangler" on a ranch owned by an unconventional geezer named Malley, who would rather make his money by selling wool than meat, and whose unconventional methods create a found family of Misfits.
This story is the first of four in a collection called Malley's Misfits, which include: Malley's Boys, Malley's Girl, Malley's Men, and Malley's Woman., inspired by The Young Riders (one can see the parallels between a couple of the characters), but not quite. It's not just "Young riders take up sheep ranching," but something completely different--and, I hope, closer to actual history. It's a Western, of course, set in the Texas Hill Country. The "Injuns" aren't bad guys, but a marginalized and suppressed population. Black cowboys--or rather, shepherds--feature prominently. And women--well, women are treated generally as they always were: no vote, low pay, and second-class. The major conflicts come from the cattlemen vs. the sheep men fighting over grazing land, protecting the sheep from natural predators (wolves, wild dogs, coyotes), the diseases and ailments of the period, and dealing with the weather. Medicine is somewhere in between quacks calling themselves "doctors" and actual medical science, though the doctors in my world tend toward the latter.
I wanted to make some of my shepherds Black, as Black or African American cowboys (or shepherds) were fairly common. I apologize if my use of the word "Negroes" is offensive, but as this story is set in 1882, it's more historically accurate for someone living in the period to say "Negroes" rather than "Blacks" or "African Americans," which were terms not in use then.
Most shepherds, especially in Texas, were historically Mexican, so I had to include at least one Mexican among my Misfits,. It's also historically accurate to note that the shearing was usually done by group of itinerate Mexicans, who travelled from ranch to ranch during the shearing season. These workers were known to be inveterate gamblers, but always paid their debts. I decided to make my Mexican shepherd more comfortable around sheep and his dog than people. Although "autism" wasn't a term that was around in the 1880's, Bart is essentially autistic. He's the best actual shepherd among the Misfits, but he doesn't quite fit in, even among his own people. For his particular peculiar quirks, I drew on those of my autistic son. Autism isn't the same as mental slowness, but rather affects social interaction. My own autistic son graduated regular high school cum laude, but has rather poor social skills. He plays piano very well, but has difficulty using a knife and doesn't hold a pencil the same way as most. He also has a bit of a speech impediment that no amount of speech therapy will correct. His speech is perfectly understandable, but he has his own way of doing things, and that's okay. He is a unique and intelligent person, just a little out of the ordinary. (His twin brother, on the other hand, is socially adept, musically talented, and far too independently minded for his own good.)
Malley' (small) sheep ranch is not run the way large sheep ranches in Texas (like the King ranch) were typically run. In the large ranches, shepherds typically lived with their flocks, camping with them at night and receiving supplies periodically from headquarters. But that doesn't make for very good storytelling, so I decided to make Malley's a much smaller business, with Malley's own particular way of doing things. That way there is more social interaction among my shepherds than was historically accurate.
And of course, I needed some good villains for my story, so the nearby cattlemen filled that role. There were always conflicts between cattlemen and sheep men, mainly over grazing land, with cattlemen complaining (incorrectly) that sheep cropped the grass too closely, thus ruining it for cattle. Unscrupulous methods used by cattlemen during the conflicts included killing off sheep by rim rocking, spreading salt peter (poisonous to sheep but not to cattle) over grazing land, and just plain shooting the sheep. Deadline crossing was a particularly risky business.
One important difference between cattle ranching and sheep ranching is, of course, that cattle are generally raised for meat, while sheep are generally raised for their wool. Malley is a sheep man for the simple reason that he doesn't like having his animals killed off. Then there are biblical references to shepherds that I thought would work well for this story ("The Lord is my shepherd.") At least one of the later stories in this cycle will rebel against the right-wing religious precepts of the day and the setting, but that doesn't yet occur in this particular story. For now, Malley is proud of his profession, and the fact that shepherds figure prominently in Biblical lore. And, of course, cattlemen don't.
Then of course there was the day-to-day work to be done on any ranch, and especially a sheep ranch--taking care of animals, washing wool and extracting lanolin from the wool kept and not sold, tending gardens, cooking and cleaning, doing laundry, keeping accounts, and so on.
Everything may not be entirely historically accurate, but I do try to keep enough realism that the story doesn't read like a fantasy. My apologies for the stuff I get wrong.
Log-Line:
John Christopher Parker--"Johnny" to his friends--has dreams of becoming a doctor, but no money, and now no home. All he has is his horse Two-Bits, the clothes on his back, his pa's pocket watch, book or two, and a medical bag filled with whatever he could take from his late mentor's office, ` Forced into the life of a drifter by the deaths of his parents and doctor mentor, his desperation leads him to accept a job as a "woolly wrangler" on a ranch owned by an unconventional geezer named Malley, who would rather make his money by selling wool than meat, and whose unconventional methods create a found family of Misfits.
-----
Prologue--"The Journals" (Present Day)
I sat on my plastic lounge chair with my shade umbrella overhead, my laptop computer sitting uselessly on my--well, lap--and my Coleman cooler full of water, sweet tea, cokes, sprites, and sandwiches (not just for myself, but to share with the three men currently working for me) at my side, watching the workers across the way. I was suffering from a severe case of writer's block, hoping for inspiration for the next project that would finish the cabin that was being built for me, So far, I had saved up enough money to buy the land--a cozy little five acre plot in the Texas Hill Country--and build a waterproof shell, but my little cabin needed insulation, a bathroom, and--what was sure to be seldom used except for a refrigerator and microwave--a kitchen, before it could become a home for this author, whose few needs did include some degree of comfort and sanitation., But the funds for those didn't exist yet--and they wouldn't exist unless I could come up with an ides for something to write about that would earn me enough moolah to finish my little cabin.
The site I had chosen for its construction had previously held some sort of building, but that had burned down at some point. All that was left was a decrepit foundation that had to be dug up, a pile of stones that had had once maybe been a fireplace, and a few rotted chunks of wood that had been left by salvagers. Just enough detritus to know that something had once stood there. But the view was nice, and it was close enough to the road that I could drive easily to the grocery store and that sort of thing. Isolated, but not too isolated. Perfect location for a struggling writer.
So now, three men--one operating the caterpillar excavator with its digging claw, the foreman on the ground directing things, plus the foreman's young young helper doing most of the shoveling, were hard at work doing the prep work for the foundation for my soon to be home-sweet-home. Given the movement of Texas soil, they had to get down to bedrock in order to prevent my future home from moving and cracking. It was springtime in Texas, perfect outdoor weather, hence my lounge-watching. Or napping.
I was just drifting off into a pleasant doze when a shrill whistle from the foreman roused me from my state of semi-consciousness. I opened my eyes to see him gesturing for the caterpillar claw to move away, and for the other ground man to join him. There was some discussion between the two men, and then they started attacking the hole with shovels. After a time, the foreman signaled to the caterpillar driver to dip his bucket into the hole. After some rummaging, the bucket lifted, carrying out of the hole something darkly metallic.
This was interesting.
I set my computer on top of my cooler and ambled over to take a look. The caterpillar driver climbed down from his machine to do the same.
"What is it?" I asked, peering at what appeared to be a large metal box.
"I think it's a safe," the youngest man said. "Look, there's a door, and what looks to have been a combination."
I frowned. It didn't look like any safe I had seen in the movies. It was too small, for one thing, and it didn't have any legs or the right shape.
"A wall safe," the foreman clarified.
"We should open it," the youngest man said.
"How? Call a lock smith?" This from the caterpillar guy.
"I don't think there's anything to pick," the foreman said. "Look how old and rusted it is."
"We could break it open," the caterpillar guy suggested.
"Is it worth saving?" I wondered aloud.
"I doubt it," the foreman said.
"It' still sealed, though," saidCaterpillar guy. "There might be something inside."
"Gold?" suggested the youngest man hopefully.
I grinned. "Let me remind you that as the property owner and the one paying for your services, this safe and its contents belong to me."
The foreman snorted. "If it was gold, it would have been cleaned out long ago." He looked at me. "Well, what do you want to do?"
We were all curious what could be inside.
"Break it open," I decided.
The three men looked at each other. Then the foreman nodded at the caterpillar guy. "You heard the lady. Break it open."
Caterpillar guy climbed back up into his machine. The rest of us moved back to give him room to work. "Further," said the foreman. "You never know what might come flying off."
So young guy and I stepped back a few more steps, and then caterpillar guy started bashing the safe a few times with his digging claw. Then he picked it up and dropped it.
The foreman waved him off, and grabbed his shovel. Young guy immediately joined him, and I went closer to look. Caterpillar guy climbed back down to have a look, too.
There was a small gap at the edge of the door that hadn't been there before. The foreman and young guy dug their shovels into the crack and tried to pry it open. Then the foreman went to his truck and returned with a crowbar.
With a groan, the door came open.
No gold.
The only things inside the safe were books, journals of some sort, just cheap tablets of paper, decrepit, and falling apart.
"Treasure map?" said young guy hopefully.
The foreman carefully extracted the journals and handed them to me.
I handed one out a random to each man. "Check and see if there are any treasure maps."
"Looks like an accounting record," said the foreman, who understood such things.
"Mostly just recipes," said caterpillar guy, paging through the book I had given him.
"Ugh1" said the young guy. "Whoever wrote this couldn't spell worth a damn. It's unreadable!"
I opened one of the remaining journals. The writing inside was faint, made in pencil, barely legible. But the words, difficult to make out. I flipped through some of the pages, then tried to read what was there.
"What's in yours?" Young guy wanted to know.
"Hard to make out," I said. "Looks like a diary."
The foreman collected the journals from the other men and handed them to me. "Well, they're all yours now."
I collected them carefully, trying not to disturb the time-worn pages, and carried them back to my lounge chair. "Help yourself to sandwiches and drinks from the cooler," I told the men.
As they took a break and chatted, I lay my sweater on the ground, set my computer on top of it, and arranged the journals on top of the computer. I made myself comfortable, picked up the journal I had been looking at before, and started deciphering the faint words, gearing myself for what was sure to be a meticulous task.
I frowned. The words weren't misspelled at all. Well, actually, some were, but only when in quotation marks, and they weren't misspelled so much as spelled in a way that gave a sense of the speaker's dialect. In fact, the writing was clear, concise, and--dare I say--eloquent.
A quick check confirmed that each journal was written by a different hand, and flipping through the accounting journal, I could see that it was written by multiple different hands. .
I picked up the one young guy had been looking at. Sure enough, the writing was sloppy, the grammar was bad, and the spelling was atrocious. It was a struggle to decipher even one sentence.
A name I recognized from the first one I had been looking at was common to both: "Malley." Although in the mis-spelled journal, it looked like "Maly."
I checked the other books, opening to a random page and. Sure enough, without having to go too far, "Malley's" name appeared in all, even the one containing mostly recipes, even the accounting book..
"Sheep" was also common theme, although they seemed to be referred to mostly as "woolies.." --or in the case of the horribly misspelled journal, "woolys."
I glanced through the accounting book. There were listings of wages being paid to various persons, some names appearing, some names disappearing--and occasional changes in handwriting. There was one curious entry about a "lost bet." and then, also curiously, one individual's wages seemed suddenly reduced to exactly half of what the others were receiving, then one single payment more than the others, and then back to the exact same wages again. Odd.
There were also periodically large payments to "Mexicans." I wondered what that was for.
The rest was a listing of expenses, normal stuff, like food--flour, sugar, tools, what-have-you--and payments for the purchase of animals like the occasional ram, a mule, and one especially large outlay for sheep, outlays for "sheep dip," and a bunch of other things..
Income seemed mostly derived from the sale of wool, although there was one large sum listed as "proceeds from the sale of sheep."
By the time I sussed much of this out, the men finished their little meals and returned to their work.
I picked up the journal I had first looked at. Aside from the faintness of the pencil, the writing was clear. This one was a diary, written by one "John Christopher Parker." And the entries were dated! I was looking at words that had been written starting in 1882. The writing style was easy to follow. And as I read through the entries, I became more and more engrossed.
It wasn't a treasure map. It wasn't treasure in the form of shiny yellow coins and priceless jewels, but it was treasure of another sort--especially to an author with writer's block who needed to find her next paycheck.
Gold!
I sat on my plastic lounge chair with my shade umbrella overhead, my laptop computer sitting uselessly on my--well, lap--and my Coleman cooler full of water, sweet tea, cokes, sprites, and sandwiches (not just for myself, but to share with the three men currently working for me) at my side, watching the workers across the way. I was suffering from a severe case of writer's block, hoping for inspiration for the next project that would finish the cabin that was being built for me, So far, I had saved up enough money to buy the land--a cozy little five acre plot in the Texas Hill Country--and build a waterproof shell, but my little cabin needed insulation, a bathroom, and--what was sure to be seldom used except for a refrigerator and microwave--a kitchen, before it could become a home for this author, whose few needs did include some degree of comfort and sanitation., But the funds for those didn't exist yet--and they wouldn't exist unless I could come up with an ides for something to write about that would earn me enough moolah to finish my little cabin.
The site I had chosen for its construction had previously held some sort of building, but that had burned down at some point. All that was left was a decrepit foundation that had to be dug up, a pile of stones that had had once maybe been a fireplace, and a few rotted chunks of wood that had been left by salvagers. Just enough detritus to know that something had once stood there. But the view was nice, and it was close enough to the road that I could drive easily to the grocery store and that sort of thing. Isolated, but not too isolated. Perfect location for a struggling writer.
So now, three men--one operating the caterpillar excavator with its digging claw, the foreman on the ground directing things, plus the foreman's young young helper doing most of the shoveling, were hard at work doing the prep work for the foundation for my soon to be home-sweet-home. Given the movement of Texas soil, they had to get down to bedrock in order to prevent my future home from moving and cracking. It was springtime in Texas, perfect outdoor weather, hence my lounge-watching. Or napping.
I was just drifting off into a pleasant doze when a shrill whistle from the foreman roused me from my state of semi-consciousness. I opened my eyes to see him gesturing for the caterpillar claw to move away, and for the other ground man to join him. There was some discussion between the two men, and then they started attacking the hole with shovels. After a time, the foreman signaled to the caterpillar driver to dip his bucket into the hole. After some rummaging, the bucket lifted, carrying out of the hole something darkly metallic.
This was interesting.
I set my computer on top of my cooler and ambled over to take a look. The caterpillar driver climbed down from his machine to do the same.
"What is it?" I asked, peering at what appeared to be a large metal box.
"I think it's a safe," the youngest man said. "Look, there's a door, and what looks to have been a combination."
I frowned. It didn't look like any safe I had seen in the movies. It was too small, for one thing, and it didn't have any legs or the right shape.
"A wall safe," the foreman clarified.
"We should open it," the youngest man said.
"How? Call a lock smith?" This from the caterpillar guy.
"I don't think there's anything to pick," the foreman said. "Look how old and rusted it is."
"We could break it open," the caterpillar guy suggested.
"Is it worth saving?" I wondered aloud.
"I doubt it," the foreman said.
"It' still sealed, though," saidCaterpillar guy. "There might be something inside."
"Gold?" suggested the youngest man hopefully.
I grinned. "Let me remind you that as the property owner and the one paying for your services, this safe and its contents belong to me."
The foreman snorted. "If it was gold, it would have been cleaned out long ago." He looked at me. "Well, what do you want to do?"
We were all curious what could be inside.
"Break it open," I decided.
The three men looked at each other. Then the foreman nodded at the caterpillar guy. "You heard the lady. Break it open."
Caterpillar guy climbed back up into his machine. The rest of us moved back to give him room to work. "Further," said the foreman. "You never know what might come flying off."
So young guy and I stepped back a few more steps, and then caterpillar guy started bashing the safe a few times with his digging claw. Then he picked it up and dropped it.
The foreman waved him off, and grabbed his shovel. Young guy immediately joined him, and I went closer to look. Caterpillar guy climbed back down to have a look, too.
There was a small gap at the edge of the door that hadn't been there before. The foreman and young guy dug their shovels into the crack and tried to pry it open. Then the foreman went to his truck and returned with a crowbar.
With a groan, the door came open.
No gold.
The only things inside the safe were books, journals of some sort, just cheap tablets of paper, decrepit, and falling apart.
"Treasure map?" said young guy hopefully.
The foreman carefully extracted the journals and handed them to me.
I handed one out a random to each man. "Check and see if there are any treasure maps."
"Looks like an accounting record," said the foreman, who understood such things.
"Mostly just recipes," said caterpillar guy, paging through the book I had given him.
"Ugh1" said the young guy. "Whoever wrote this couldn't spell worth a damn. It's unreadable!"
I opened one of the remaining journals. The writing inside was faint, made in pencil, barely legible. But the words, difficult to make out. I flipped through some of the pages, then tried to read what was there.
"What's in yours?" Young guy wanted to know.
"Hard to make out," I said. "Looks like a diary."
The foreman collected the journals from the other men and handed them to me. "Well, they're all yours now."
I collected them carefully, trying not to disturb the time-worn pages, and carried them back to my lounge chair. "Help yourself to sandwiches and drinks from the cooler," I told the men.
As they took a break and chatted, I lay my sweater on the ground, set my computer on top of it, and arranged the journals on top of the computer. I made myself comfortable, picked up the journal I had been looking at before, and started deciphering the faint words, gearing myself for what was sure to be a meticulous task.
I frowned. The words weren't misspelled at all. Well, actually, some were, but only when in quotation marks, and they weren't misspelled so much as spelled in a way that gave a sense of the speaker's dialect. In fact, the writing was clear, concise, and--dare I say--eloquent.
A quick check confirmed that each journal was written by a different hand, and flipping through the accounting journal, I could see that it was written by multiple different hands. .
I picked up the one young guy had been looking at. Sure enough, the writing was sloppy, the grammar was bad, and the spelling was atrocious. It was a struggle to decipher even one sentence.
A name I recognized from the first one I had been looking at was common to both: "Malley." Although in the mis-spelled journal, it looked like "Maly."
I checked the other books, opening to a random page and. Sure enough, without having to go too far, "Malley's" name appeared in all, even the one containing mostly recipes, even the accounting book..
"Sheep" was also common theme, although they seemed to be referred to mostly as "woolies.." --or in the case of the horribly misspelled journal, "woolys."
I glanced through the accounting book. There were listings of wages being paid to various persons, some names appearing, some names disappearing--and occasional changes in handwriting. There was one curious entry about a "lost bet." and then, also curiously, one individual's wages seemed suddenly reduced to exactly half of what the others were receiving, then one single payment more than the others, and then back to the exact same wages again. Odd.
There were also periodically large payments to "Mexicans." I wondered what that was for.
The rest was a listing of expenses, normal stuff, like food--flour, sugar, tools, what-have-you--and payments for the purchase of animals like the occasional ram, a mule, and one especially large outlay for sheep, outlays for "sheep dip," and a bunch of other things..
Income seemed mostly derived from the sale of wool, although there was one large sum listed as "proceeds from the sale of sheep."
By the time I sussed much of this out, the men finished their little meals and returned to their work.
I picked up the journal I had first looked at. Aside from the faintness of the pencil, the writing was clear. This one was a diary, written by one "John Christopher Parker." And the entries were dated! I was looking at words that had been written starting in 1882. The writing style was easy to follow. And as I read through the entries, I became more and more engrossed.
It wasn't a treasure map. It wasn't treasure in the form of shiny yellow coins and priceless jewels, but it was treasure of another sort--especially to an author with writer's block who needed to find her next paycheck.
Gold!
-----
Chapter One—“Misfitted”
Journal of John Christopher Parker
September 2, 1882.
Summer is just about over, and still no work aside from the occasional odd job. I knew I needed to find something before winter sets in, but the plain truth is, no one was hiring. But I have a job now, thank heavens! It doesn't pay well, but hopefully it will keep me fed, and Two-Bits, as well.
Two-Bits is my horse, and the only living thing on this planet I have left to love. She’s got the best heart of any animal I’ve ever come across. And for short distances, I’ve never seen any horse run faster. And she’s mine.
I got Two-Bits when a neighbor acquired her as a foul, and she got hung up on some barbed-wire. She was pretty badly hurt and stood a good chance of being put down, so the neighbor was willing to sell her for cheap. By the time I got her, some of the cuts were pretty badly infected. But my Pa saw how badly I wanted the animal, and handed over the money. We had to load her onto a wagon to get her home, and I wasn't sure she would make it through the night, but I cleaned up the cuts, put medicine on them, and bandaged them up. I went to Doc's office with the few pennies I had and begged him to sell me better medicine than the home brew that Mom made, and he promised to stop by soon and take a look. He did come by the next day and said it looked like I was doing real well, and gave me some advice on how often to clean the wounds and change the bandages. I followed that advice to the letter, Aside from a nasty scar on her right foreleg, Two-Bits eventually recovered, The neighbor was sorry he had let the animal go. My parents and Doc all said I did a fine job taking care of her, and I started to think about maybe someday becoming a doctor myself.
I named the filly Two-Bits for her breeding and as a sort of joke for how cheap she came. When she got bigger, I saddle-broke her. Maybe "broke" isn't the right word, because. she took to the saddle easily. Honestly, I'd never broken a horse before The. only ones I'd ever ridden were the two horses we kept to pull the wagon and the plow. So it was a good thing Two-Bits was amenable to my being on her back, because I'm not sure horse-breaking an unwilling animal is my forté.
But with Two-Bits, I ended up being the only one at school with a horse to ride. And then I had a way to accompany Doc on his trips when he drove hi little one-seat buggy.
The nerve of Doc dying like that! The nerve! It's what he said to me privately after one of his patients died. "The nerve of him dying like that1 The nerve!"
I miss him.
Doc was my mentor, and the only one who would give me a home after my parents died. Well, not the only one, as there were a number of places willing to take in a young, strong male able to work a farm--but the only one I wanted. Doc was about seventy years old. He brought me into this world, and my Ma before me.
My dream of becoming a doctor just like Doc died with him. I still have the letter of acceptance into the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine in my satchel. Doc had written me a glowing letter of recommendation--I had a copy of that, too. I had pointed out to him that I didn't have the money for tuition, but Doc had said that "There are ways of getting around that." By which I'm sure he meant to pay at least my first year's tuition out of his own pocket, and I could apply for scholarships as soon as my grades qualified me. He said it would be hard work, especially if I was going to be a scholarship student, but he was certain I could handle it.
And then he had the nerve to up and die.
The money Doc had been paying me as his assistant was enough to take care of Two-Bits and meet my own needs while I was living with him, and even save up a small amount, but what I had saved before Doc died has long since dried up. I've been grass-feeding Two-Bits as much as possible, but without much grain, she's getting on the skinny side. I'm getting on the skinny side, too, but I've been able to catch the occasional rabbit since being on my own, which helps. I've also been able to find some short-term jobs here and there, work in exchange for food and shelter for myself and Two-Bits. A couple of times, they even paid me a bit for my work. I expect maybe I could find a farmer somewhere who needs help with the harvest, but after that, my prospects looked pretty dim. I don't have any particular destination in mind, but Philadelphia is north--impossibly far north--and I guess for that reason, north has been my general compass heading, more or less. Slowly, though, because of taking on whatever work I could find, none of it permanent.
It would break my heart to have to sell Two-Bits, but I was thinking I might have to do it if I could find some kind-hearted soul I was sure would take good care of her.
Doc always said that the best medical school was the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. He said that Harvard m=Medical School wasn't too bad except that its faculty and graduates tended to be arrogant crusts who were more interested in charging top dollar than actually helping people. He also said that there was a school in Chicago that he heard about, but he didn't actually know anyone who went there, so he couldn't say anything other than that he heard from a friend of a friend or something like that, that it was "better than some." Doc himself went to Philadelphia for his training, and only came to Texas after the War. He built up a small practice not too far from San Marcos. He took me on after my parents died because he knew and liked my folks, and me, and because he knew what good care I had taken of my parents when they got sick, until I got sick, too. He knew even before then that I wanted to become a doctor just like him, and after school, I had often stopped by his office before I went home, to see if there were any small errands I could run for him, or watch him treat different patients--the ones who didn't mind my watching--or just to chat with him if he wasn't too busy and didn't mind my company. Then, after my folks died and he took me on, he introduced me to his patients--most of whom I already knew--as his "assistant," and he let me treat some of the more minor ailments while he watched. Then one day, a wagon ran over a dog and broke its leg. Doc talked me through using chloroform to anesthetize it and setting the bone, and I did the actual work myself. I already knew how to mix the plaster for the cast. When I was done, Doc said I did better than he expected, and after that is when we started to talk about my maybe going to medical school. Doc knew I didn't have much money. When my folks died, creditors came and took the farm and most of the animals--except for Two-Bits of course. Doc stood with me when they came for the animals, and backed me up when I wouldn't let them take her. I'm sure the farm was worth more than what was left on the mortgage, and I could have fought for the plow-horses and some of the other animals, too, but I didn't have the wherewithal to take care of them, and so I had to let them go. But there was no way I was going to let Two-Bits go.
I was lucky to have Doc as a friend and a mentor.
I was also lucky to come across Malley when I did, because I don't currently have a penny to my name, and although the pay is poor, he has at least assured me of food for myself and Two-Bits. I have already sent up a prayer of thanksgiving--not that I am particularly religious, but I like to think there is some sort of divine design to everything--and will do so every day for as long as I have food in my own belly and Two-Bits' belly.
I have been "Misfitted," as Malley puts it, and so I am required to keep this journal. Malley says it wouldn't be a good idea to go out "woolly wrangling" in the dark on my first "patrol," so he set me to doing barn chores, which are all done now, and I have plenty of time to write in this journal before it's time to turn in. Malley says all of his "Misfits" are required to keep a journal, and when they leave his employ, he gets to keep them. He gave me the tablet and pencil, and said I should start working on it tonight if I knew how to write, which I assured him I did.
It's a little strange to have a boss who requires journal writing, but there it is. Malley says he doesn't care what we write in them, and he won't read them until after we're gone. Truthfully, I wonder if he can read, but my fellow Misfits say it was the recommendation of the schoolmarm who comes by every now and again to have his boys keep a journal. The schoolmarm's name is Miss Myrtle, and the other boys say I will meet her eventually, assuming I stay on long enough. They don't seem altogether confident that I will. but I'm not afraid of hard work, and as long as Malley feeds me, I expect I'll stay on. I've got no place else to go.
It is something of a relief, actually, to write my thoughts down. I am sure that the other Misfits have stories that are much sadder than mine, but still, it's nice to be able to tell about Doc and my parents, even if no one is ever going to read it. Some of the boys keep their journals in lock-boxes. I guess they have secrets. I have no secrets, from either them or Malley, so I will just keep my journal under my mattress. I am afraid that if anyone is looking for something to use as gossip in here, they will be sadly disappointed. There is nothing about my life worth gossiping over, and anything anyone wants to know, I am just as happy to tell.
My new boss is one Mr. Malley O'Malley, which is about one of the oddest names I have ever come across. His spread is called "Day's End." He himself is quite a character. I would guess his age to be about 60. He is a scraggly codger, but there is something about him that reminds me of Doc. Maybe it's a layer of kindness hiding under the surface, which is rough and gruff. Rough and gruff isn't like Doc at all, so I'm not sure why, exactly, Malley reminds me of him.
Before today, it had been been some days since I've had a proper meal. The small provision of dried beans I had ran out yesterday, and I had no money to buy more. That's why I was glad to see a town up ahead, even though odds were it would be just like all the others. I've always had this streak of optimism running through me. A schoolmarm might call it my "fatal flaw," but a regular person would simply call it "stupidity." When my folks took sick, I kept thinking they would get better. When they didn’t, and I went to live with Doc, I thought I’d get to be a doctor, just like him. When he died, I thought I’d be okay as long as I had Two-Bits. But I was about to the point where I knew she’d be better off with someone else, and once I’d found that person, I’d have found the nearest tall cliff to jump off. Two-Bits means that much to me.
Pa would always remark how pleased he was to get her, how fine an animal she was. It was true. She wasn't all that much to look at, with her rough, thick dun coat and mismatched white markings, but she has a heart of gold.
I was always proud of the way she'd healed. That's started me thinking that I'd like to become a doctor someday. My folks always said that we could never afford college or medical school. I knew that they were right, but I was stubborn in my optimism. That's when I took to hanging around Doc's office after school.
It wasn't too long after that when he began showing me how to lance boils, tie bandages—all that sort of thing. In exchange for his putting up with me, I kept his books and the records of accounts up to date. Not that it really helped all that much, because most of his patients were farmers like my folks. Doc Wolfe lived a little better than most, but he would just as often as not call things square for a couple of jars of homemade preserves.
Then the epidemic came and my folks took sick and died. Creditors came and took the farm and most of what else was left. The part of me that wasn't grieving had been hoping that I could sell the house and the farm equipment, and I still might be able to afford college and medical school. But it seems there was a mortgage on the house and on all the equipment that I hadn't known about. Doc said not to worry, that there might be some way to manage tuition yet, and he took me as a sort of live-in assistant. But like I said, he was getting on in years.
I managed to keep Two-Bits out of the creditors' hands, and with what Doc paid me, I was just able to pay for livery fees and have a few pennies left over. Things were getting along all right, and I was learning a lot from Doc. In his spare time Doc showed me what he could, and if we came across a dead animal somewhere, we’d pick it up and take it out back of the house, cut it open, and he’d show me all the different parts inside. If I had any other time left over, he’d let me pour through his books. I once set the leg of a dog that had gotten run over by a wagon, and Doc told me that he couldn't have done better himself.
Eventually, I was able to stop crying myself to sleep over my folks, and the dream of becoming a doctor is what kept me going.
Then one morning, just after my seventeenth birthday, when I went to give Doc his breakfast, he just wouldn’t wake up. I guess he must have died in his sleep, because his eyes were closed.
It turns out that Doc had a nephew, who ended up being his heir. Doc's nephew gave me a couple months' wages and let me take out of the office whatever I could carry. I chose Doc's medical bag, stuffed with anything useful that would fit (plus a couple of jars that didn't), Doc's microscope, his favorite medical text, and of course the dissecting kit he gave me for a birthday present.
I thought maybe I could find work with another doctor, so I took my money and books and test letter and microscope and dissecting kit, and left the town of Northwood for good. Looking back, I realize that the intelligent thing would have been to stay and work on one of the farms. It wouldn't have gotten me into medical school, but meals would have been regular, and I would have had a place to sleep. But I didn't know better.
That was a little over a year ago. Medical school is still in the back of my mind somewhere, but it's amazing how quickly you can forget about things like that when your stomach is empty. I celebrated my eighteenth birthday by raiding a restaurant garbage pile. Last winter I was lucky. There was a young couple just starting out, and they agreed to feed me and Two-Bits for the winter, and let both of us sleep in the drafty collection of boards they called a "barn" in exchange for my labor. But I couldn't count on being so lucky again this year. I could find odd work now and again, but I was hoping for something more permanent.
My wanderings took me into the Texas Hill Country, not far from the area they call “The Devil’s Backbone,” and I found myself in a fair to middlin’ size town. The wooden sign tacked to a tree said that the town's name was "Brimstone." I asked, and found that there was a doctor, and then I asked directions to his house. I went there straightway and saw that his name was "Lyons," and I took it as maybe a good omen, since Doc's last name had been "Wolfe." "Wolfe" and "Lyons" (Doc's last name) were both animal names. But Doc Wolfe was in no more need of an assistant than any of the other doctors I have visited over the course of the last year, most of whom were really just faith healers. Not many--that is to say, any--real ones like Doc. So then I made the other usual inquiries, and got the usual answers. No, there was no work hereabouts that anyone knew of. No, nothing on the farms outside of town, either. Sorry.
Then I passed a man with a badge walking the other way and stopped him. He was the town sheriff, Thompson by name. I asked the sheriff if there was any place nearby where an honest man might find work.
He looked at me a little dubiously, though whether it was for the "honest" or the "man" part, I couldn't tell. Probably both. I looked like something from the bottom of the barrel, I know, and I am barely old enough to pretend to shave. But I tried to look my most earnest, and even remembered at the last second to take my hat off.
The sheriff sighed. "I s'pose you got no folks, have you, son?" he asked.
"No, sir," I replied.
"I see. Well, if you're desperate, there's a sheep rancher named O'Malley as takes boys in from time to time."
"Where do I find this O'Malley?" I asked.
The sheriff jerked a thumb behind himself further along the road I was going. "Just saw him go into the dry-goods store."
I thanked the sheriff and started for the store, when he called out "Son?"
I turned to see what he wanted.
"You gotta be really desperate to work for O'Malley. They call his boys 'Misfits,' and a sorrier bunch you never saw. And sheep-ranchin' is dangerous work around these parts. The cattlemen blame every bad piece o' luck on the shepherds, an' they like to settle the score every once in a while. You know what I mean?"
"I'm really desperate," I told the man.
Sheriff Thompson took his hat off and scratched his head. “Only reason he might even consider you is he lost one of his boys couple months ago from being shot at by cattlemen.”
“Killed?” I asked.
“No. Run off. Most of them Misfits run off eventually. Only a few of ‘em is regular.”
“A few plus one,” I said. “I need the work.”
"Suit yourself," he shrugged.
I made my way to the dry goods store as fast as Two-Bits’ legs would carry me, threw the reins over the hitching rail, and ran inside the store.
A man behind the counter looked up as I ran in. "Help ya?" he asked.
"I heard there's a sheep rancher who's hiring," I said breathlessly.
"Hey, O'Malley!" the shop-keeper shouted. "There's a kid here lookin' for ya!"
A head popped up from behind a shelf full of canned goods. It was a rough, weathered, sixty-something face possessed of long, gray, thinning hair and a scraggly gray beard. He wore heavy work pants held up underneath his bulging pot-belly by a pair of suspenders over a shirt that was grimy and sweaty. But if he had work... "Yeah?" he said.
I immediately took off my hat and approached him. Scraggly or not, this man might keep me from starving. "Mr. O'Malley?"
"Yeah?"
"I understand that you might have work."
"Got all the help ah need, son."
I moved around the counters between us. "Are you sure? The sheriff said you were short-handed. I'm a hard worker, and I'm good with animals."
O'Malley interrupted me. His manner of speech is difficult to describe, but I will try. "Son," he said, "It ain’t a matter of being short-handed or not. Ah got me four hands, an' only three horses. Poor animals is already overworked, even mah ol’ mule has to work harder 'n he should."
"I got my own horse," I told him.
O'Malley looked me over with sudden interest. "Ya look strong enough," he commented.
I nodded. "And I'm a good man to have around if someone gets sick or hurt."
"Done any sheep-ranchin'?" he asked.
I didn't want to admit to my inexperience up-front, but I didn't want to lie, either. What I ended up saying was, "I was raised on a farm. We didn't have sheep, but we had just about every other kind of animal."
I saw by his expression that he was not impressed. "Family?" he asked.
"Dead," I replied. "Yellow fever."
"Let's see this horse o' yers," he said.
I took him outside to show him. He looked Two-Bits over carefully, found the scar from the barbed wire and passed it over without comment. He checked her hooves and her teeth—it was if he was planning to buy her, except that I wasn't selling. Yet.
Finally, he turned to me. "Could use a brushin' down," was all he said. Then, "Wot's 'er name?"
"Two-Bits."
He raised his eyebrows. "Quarter horse, huh?"
I smiled. He got the joke. Most people assumed I’d named her “Two-Bits” for her worth, which was actually considerably more than her name implied.
Then he said, "You got any problems working with Negroes or Mexicans?"
"No, sir. I don't speak much Spanish, but I learn things pretty quick."
"You got a name?"
"John Parker. Most folks call me 'Johnny.'"
"Well, Mr. Johnny Parker, ah guess yer man new Misfit. Tie yer horse t' th' back o' that wagon over there while ah settle mah bill. Yer hired."
And so the interview was over.
And so I was Misfitted.
The ride back to Malley's ranch took place mostly in silence, except for the steady clip-clops of the mule pulling the wagon and Two-Bits following behind. Finally, I spoke up. "Uh, Mr. O'Malley?"
"Ain't 'Mister' nothin'," my new boss informed me with a sidewise glance. "Just 'Malley.' Or if ya like last names better, ya kin call me O 'Malley."
"Malley O'Malley?" I asked. I have never heard of a name quite like that before and wanted to make sure I had it right.
He shrugged. "Ah ain't got but one name, an' 'at's 'Malley.' When folks start pesterin' me 'bout a last name, ah tell 'em 'O'Malley' just t' keep 'em off mah back. Malley's mah name, an' ah like it just fine. Just th' way it's written on mah birth certificate. Ah got one, ya know." The last was said with a trace of pride.
"One?" I asked, not sure what he meant.
"A birth sar-ti-fi-cate. Ain't everyone who kin claim t' have 'un, but ah do."
"Oh..." Then I remembered what I was going to ask. "Uh, Malley?"
"Yeah?"
"Malley, just exactly what will I be doin'?"
"We-ell," he drawled, "lots o' stuff. Mostly ye’d be wranglin’ woolies. Got five thousand head o' sheep, more or less, 'at needs lookin' after. Got fences t' fix, 'at sort o' thing, too. Twice a year, we clip the woolies an' haul the wool t' market. Lambin' season's in the spring. An' ever'body takes turns on patrol. There's five boys now, countin' you, but one's the cook an' stays mostly at the ranch. Otherwise, ah like to keep two on patrol after dark if ah can. Except for Bart, who don't need no other company except his dog."
"Patrol?"
"Yeah, you know. Like night-hawkin''."
"What does that entail?”
Malley looked at me. "Son, you are ignert, ain't you. Patrol is sort o' like guard-duty, ya might say. Keepin’ the flocks together an’ protectin' th' woolies against critters an' wot ever else might get to ‘em. Day time ain't so bad 'cause them Wilson's got their own work t' do, but come night they sometimes git it in their heads 'at they want t' bother mah woolies. But they’s always cy-otes (this he said in two syllables, like 'ky-oats-") an’ bob-cats lookin’ to make a quick meal outta mah stock. Sheep-herdin’ is lonely work, but ya said ya needed the job. Got mah own way of doin’ it, so it ain’t quite so bad as it could be." A sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he looked at me sideways again. "Ya got a gun?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"We'll have to get ya one, then. Ya know how t' shoot?"
I nodded. Pa had taught me. He had said I had a good eye, even though I didn't always hit everything I aimed at. But just now, I thought I'd better keep my misses to myself.
"Good," he said. "Yer gonna need that out here, 'specially when yer on patrol. Now, Amos an' Abe, they got the best aim, so ah try t' separate 'em on patrol, so there's mostly at least one good shot out. But them two is ornarier 'n Satan hisself when they's with each other, so th' other reason ah keep 'em separated is so they don't kill each other."
"Why do they want to kill each other?" I asked.
Malley grinned. "'Cuz they got th' same folks."
"Huh?"
"They's brothers ."
"I thought brothers were supposed to like each other," I said.
Malley looked at me. "Ah'll bet you was a only child," he said. "But anyways, just so's ya know, Abe's th' sane one, an' Amos's th' one that's sick in th' head."
Sick in the head? My new job was beginning to sound like it might have its draw-backs.
Malley nodded to himself, not seeing my expression. "Got a suspicious nature, that 'un. Amos gets hisself inta more fights because of it than anyone I ever seen—an' I seen a bunch in my time. Ah ain't never seen 'im do any real harm, though, but ya might do well t' keep clear of 'im. 'Course, sometimes ah cain't really blame 'im fer bein' so touchy, considerin' how low th' pay is..."
That struck a responsive chord. "Uh, exactly how low is the pay?" I asked.
Malley grinned. "Ah was wonderin' when ya'd git aroun' to askin’ that. Six dollars a month, with a day off ever' now an' then, plus yer meals, plus a bed in th' bunkhouse."
I sighed. I wasn't going to get to medical school this way. But six dollars a month was better than nothing, especially since it included meals. I did have another concern, though. "Plus feed for my horse?" I asked.
Malley nodded. "Plus feed fer yer horse. As long as she's workin' for it, though. Don't cotton to no candy-ass horse-flesh that don't earn her own keep. Ah got t' tell ya, son, it was yer horse 'at got ya this job, an' ah don' mean jus' cause ya got one."
"How's that?"
"Well, ah figger ya kin always tell th' quality of a man by th' way he takes care o' his horse. Ah kin tell she likes ya by th' way she looked up an' rubbed herself against ya when we went outside. So if yer horse loves ya, ah figger ya cain't be awl bad, whether ya got th' skills fer sheep ranchin' or not."
I looked at him in surprise. In all my previous jobs, no one had ever hired me based on whether or not my horse took a fancy to me.
Then I glanced back at Two-Bits, and she looked up at me expectantly. I smiled at her and then turned my attention back to Malley.
"Let's see," Malley was musing to himself. "Ah tol' ya 'bout Abe an' Amos. But ah don' think ah tol' ya 'bout Eddie an' Bart, yet."
"Who're they?"
"Well, Bart's th' only one 'at's bin raised to sheep-herdin'. He's a Mex, an' he don't talk much, but if ya don't bother him, he don't bother you. He knows more about flocktendin' than any o' the others, an' he's got more control over the woolies 'n Abe or Amos or Eddie put t'gether. It's all on account o' his dog, ya see. Got the best damn sheep-dog ya ever laid eyes on." Malley chuckled. "All ah need t' do is get me a few more curs like his, an' ah won't need t' hire id-yits like you."
This was the first time anyone had ever called me an idiot. I assume it was because I had accepted the job. "And Eddie?"
"Eddie's this Frenchie boy. Comes from Lou'siana or Canada, one, ah cain't remember which. His real name is 'Ed-yen' or somethin' like 'at, but nobody kin pr'nounce it right, so we awl jus' call 'im 'Eddie.' He don' speak English too good, but he's purdy handy when it comes t' fixin' things. He’s also the cook." Malley smacked his lips. “Which reminds me. If you want this job, you gotta swear not to tell no one outside of mah outfit about Eddie.”
“Uh, okay,” I said. “Why?”
"’Cause Eddie’s the best kept secret of the ranch. He’s a damn good cook, an’ th’ only reason ah can keep anyone workin’ for me. Worth his weight in gold. Some o' that French blood ah guess. Anyways, he does all o' th' cookin', 'cept on his days off when ah do th' cookin'."
I had to suppress a smile. Based on Malley's appearance, it wasn't hard to guess that the meals were pretty filling. But I was pleased to hear that, for the most part, the food was good. The idea of a meal made my stomach grumble.
Malley looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. "When's the last time you et?" he asked. 'Et' meaning 'ate.'
"Yesterday mornin'," I admitted. I had come across a farm and had liberated some milk from the cow in the barn before liberating a few vegetables from the garden. I am mostly honest, but there is a gray area when it comes to starving.
"Well git yerself an apple from 'at sack back there," Malley jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the bed of the wagon behind him.
I didn't need to be told twice. I climbed back to the bed, opened the sack, and pulled out the biggest one I could get my hands on before closing the sack and climbing back on the buck-board again. I rubbed the apple on my dirty shirt and took a huge bite out of it. It was crisp, and tart, and tasted wonderful—heaven. I closed my eyes and savored the flavor.
"It's got a worm in it," Malley said.
I opened my eyes, and sure enough, there was the tail end of a little green fellow wiggling around in the remaining part of my apple. But I didn't care. The apple still tasted wonderful. I prepared to take another bite, hopefully not to include my little green dinner companion. I'd eaten more than my share of wormy apples in the past year and a half, and I was hungry.
"It's got a worm in it," Malley repeated in disgust. "Throw 'at 'un away, an' git yerself another."
I looked at him in surprise. He couldn't mean it... But when I saw that he did, I climbed back over the buckboard to the sack, took out another apple, and inspected it for worm-holes. When I saw that there weren't any, I closed the sack again, and began making my way to the back of the wagon, where Two-Bits was trailing along without complaint. I bit out the section with the worm and spit it onto the road. Two-Bits trotted closer, whiffed at the unexpected treat, then bit off half of what was left of the apple in a single bite. She chewed it greedily, and part of it fell on the road, but of course we couldn't go back to retrieve it. Then I fed her the other half, wiped my sticky hands on my pants, and climbed back up to the front of the wagon to eat my own treat.
Malley just shook his head and waited for me to finish my apple. I ate most of it, then put the core in my pocket to give to Two-Bits later.
Malley pointed off to the right, where there was a spread of fences and a few buildings. "There's th' ranch. 'Day's End,' ah call it."
“Why?”
Malley looked at me. “Ya know, you is the first person ever to ask me. ‘Day’s End’ cuz at the end of the day, there ain’t no better place to be.”
It wasn't especially big or fancy. There was a small ranch house next to what looked to be a bunkhouse, and a couple of other buildings, including a large barn, an outhouse, and some more ramshackle buildings, including a large lean-to and several smaller ones in some of the pens. There was smoke coming from the stove-pipe of the bunkhouse, and it looked, if not overly comfortable, at least tolerable. It wasn’t an extremely wealth set-up, nor was it threadbare operation, which I was expecting, given the attitude towards Malley in town.
We pulled up in front of the barn, and I untied Two-Bits while Malley unhitched the mule. Then I followed Malley inside the barn, which contained stalls for horses and other animals, a large tack room, a large feed room, and a hay loft. There were several horses in one pen, some rams and goats in another, and a solitary mule in
Malley pointed to a bare, empty stall. "Ya kin put yer horse in there, fer th' time bein'. Fresh straw back 'ere," he pointed to one end of the barn, "buckets back 'ere," he pointed to the other end of the barn, "an' water at th' pump outside. You'll find some brushes next t' th' buckets. Yer horse’ll git fed with th' others later. When yer done seein' to 'er, ya kin earn yer keep by unloadin' th' wagon. Dinner is when both han's is down."
By that, I figured he meant at six-thirty. I nodded, and Malley left. I fed Two-Bits the apple core, then went to fetch the straw for her stall and gave her a forkful of hay to munch on until she was grained. After seeing that Two-Bits was comfortable, I went back out to the buckboard, unloaded animal supplies, and took them to the barn.
It felt good to be working again.
When I finished with the sacks of feed, I started hauling the flour and sugar and other supplies into the bunkhouse.
There was a boy sitting at the table peeling potatoes. It had to be Eddie, of course. He stood up when he saw me, and I could see that he was a lanky fellow, with hair lighter than mine—sort of light brown, not quite yellow enough to be blond. His hair was thin and straight and hung down from his head in a long curtain that flopped around afterwards whenever he moved his head. My own hair had always been thick and wavy and tended to stay in its same unruly pattern no matter how hard I tried to comb it straight. Eddie wore wire-rimmed glasses and an apron over his work clothes. He looked at me with a question in his eyes.
"Hi," I said. "You must be Eddie."
Eddie hesitated, then said, "Mahl-lee-geeve-you-zhob?"
It took me a second to realize he was asking if Malley had given me a job. "Uh, yeah," I said. I swung one of my sacks to the floor and held out my hand. "Johnny Parker."
"Zhah-nee?" he asked, trying to pronounce my name. It sounded pretty good, except for the 'J.' I smiled and nodded, and he pointed to himself. and said something like "I am Et-yen-Dew-Lane" but I had no idea what he was saying until I remembered that Malley had told me his real name was 'Ed-yen, or somethin' like 'at.'
I stuck out my hand toward Eddie, and he shook it. "Et-yen," I tried to say.
He made a noise of disgust, and then said, "Eddie." I figured he meant for me to call him 'Eddie' because I had messed up the pronunciation.
"Eddie," I said. Then I pointed to the groceries. "Where do you want the supplies?"
Eddie looked at me with furrowed eyes. I realized that he didn't understand what I was saying, so I pointed to the groceries again. "Supplies," I said. I looked around the bunkhouse, then back to Eddie and shrugged. "Where?"
Eddie’s expression changed to comprehension. “Ah.” He went to the door, opened it, and pointed to a small building about thirty or forty feet from the bunkhouse. “Zair.” Then he took out a watch, looked at it, and an expression of panic crossed his face. He pointed to the door, then to me. "Go!" he said. "Go! Go! You go!"
I grabbed the supplies I came in with and went. The building turned out to be a small summer kitchen, and I unloaded the rest of the food supplies.
When I was done, I knocked at the door to the ranch house, a two-story structure made of wood boards and a roof of cypress shingles, all built on pilings to take advantage of whatever cooling breeze might blow under the house. But there was no answer, and I didn't see Malley anywhere, so I decided to have a look around to familiarize myself with the new place, starting with the bunkhouse. The bunkhouse was of similar construction to the ranch house, except smaller and no second floor. There was a well some twenty-five yards south of the house. The barn was of a rough construction with thin rough logs, mostly mesquite, and a thatched roof. I’d already been inside, but I hadn’t really studied it. There was a corncrib and a storehouse with sacks of food of some sort, probably meat, hanging from the top beam. The ropes holding them had round plates of tin with a hole in the center for the rope to pass through and a knot to keep each plate in place, to keep rats and mice from sliding down to get to the contents of the sacks. Just outside the storehouse was a wire drying-line with freshly salted meat hanging high out of reach of animals. There was a large garden with a variety of vegetables growing in it. I also saw a chicken coop, a huge three-sided shed, and a maze of fencing around the shed that formed pens of various sizes leading to and from the shed, all mainly mesquite construction, but sturdy enough. There were a couple of two-wheeled wagons stored in the shed, which one would have to move some of the fencing to take out. A couple of the pens held a few odd sheep that looked like they might have seen some better days. These, I gathered, were sick sheep brought in from the main flock for special care. Besides the sheep, the livestock included a mule, a pair of oxen—the same pair that had pulled the wagon I had arrived on—hogs, a respectable number of chickens, and a pair of ornery rams that had their own quarters in the barn. There was also evidence in the form of cow-patties of a couple of cows who lived in the barn but weren’t there at the moment. The cows were probably feeding in pasture away from the main ranch. The amount and lay-out of the fencing was a mystery. I tried to make sense of it, but couldn’t. There was also a fire-ring that saw regular use.
The place looked to be mostly self-sufficient, with some supplies occasionally brought in from town, like the salt, apples, flour, oats, and other supplies such as I had unloaded.
I hd nothing else to do, so I went to look at the sheep up close. They were docile enough, didn't give me any trouble as I looked them over, checked their mouths and hooves and skin. No sign of hoof-rot, but there was something going on with their skin, some sort of parasite or something.
My exploration, as it turned out, was a mistake because Malley had to come and fetch me for supper. There hadn't been any dinner bell, and by pa's watch there was something like an hour yet before the time Malley gave me for dinner, so I didn't know anything was wrong until I saw Malley come looking for me. He didn't seem happy about it, either. "Wot in the Hell are ya doin'?," he said. He took out his pocket watch and opened it up to show me. It said six thirty-three, "Supper starts when both hands is down," he said.
"Yes, sir," I said, figuring I should be apologetic. I knew pa's watch was fairly accurate, so Malley's had to be off, but I made a note to reset pa''s to an hour ahead. You don't argue with the boss on your first day.
“All the Misfits is waitin' ta meet ya, an’ ah don’t like the woolies bein’ left alone, so yer lollygaggin’ around out here—well, that horse won’t trot.”
“Yes, sir,” I said again. “Sorry."
Malley led me back to the bunkhouse, where three other boys were already sitting at the table, and Eddie was working at the stove. I didn't really have time to look at the new faces properly, except to note that two of them were Negroes, about my own age as far as I could tell, and one of them was a younger Mexican boy, because Malley pointed to the washbasin and said, "Hands an' face.".
I washed my hands, and after a second's thought, took the water outside to throw it on the ground, just to make sure no one used the dirty water after me, not after I had been touching the sick sheep. Then I poured the last of the clean water from the pitcher into the basin, washed my hands again, and my face. Then I dumped that water, as well.
"You're strange," someone at the table commented.
"I was handling the sick sheep," I said, toweling off. "No need to risk spreading any infection."
I caught Malley looking at me, studying me. "What do you reckon is wrong with 'em?"
"Looks like some sort of skin infection. Parasite would be my guess. I can check that later, if you like.”
"Check, how?" Malley asked.
"Look at a sample under magnification. I have a microscope."
"A what?" one of the Misfits asked.
"A micro--a thing that lets me see stuff up close."
"No need," Malley said. "It's scabies, Yer gonna help me treat 'em in the morning. I'll show you the work 'at gets done around here tomorrow, before you go on Patrol the day after. Yer horse looks like she could use a day's rest."
"Yes, sir." A day's rest for Two-Bits would be very welcome.
Eddie set a large bowl of mashed spuds and another with cooked carrots on the table, returned a moment later with a couple of large pots of coffee, and then turned to me and asked me something. I thought he was talking in French and I shook my head uncomprehendingly. He pointed to the plate he was holding, which was laden with thick, juicy slabs of meat, and repeated what he had said before. This time I caught it. "Hled?" he said. "Peenk? Brown?"
"He wants to know what color ya like your meat—red, pink or brown." Malley translated.
"Uh, a little pink, thanks." My mouth was watering so that I hardly thought I could stand waiting much longer. "Is that really steak I smell?"
The others at the table grinned.
"Smells good, don't it?" Malley asked.
Eddie disappeared out the door. I took an unoccupied place at the dinner table, leaving the head for Malley. The smells from the summer kitchen made my mouth water and my stomach rumble. I could smell meat, and I'd have bet money, if I had any, that it was steak, too. With only that apple to eat all day, I was starving, and I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into a real meal.
To try and take my mind off the food, I studied my companions.
The boy across from me was obviously Bart, the "Mex." His dark complexion, brown eyes, and black hair were typical of his kind, but he was younger than I had expected. With Malley's saying that Bart knew more about sheep ranching than any of the others, I expected him to be older than I was. Instead, he was only about thirteen or fourteen. His eyes didn't seem to focus on anyone. He occasionally glanced up from the table, but immediately went back down again. I'm pretty sure he saw me looking at him. I smiled, but there was no answering smile. He just looked down at the table and said nothing.
The two other boys at the table, the Negroes, sat at diagonal corners from each other, about as far apart as you could get and still be sitting at the same table. The one on my side looked closest to my own age, maybe seventeen or so. He had dark brown hair, and smooth, regular features and dark coffee-colored eyes. The one on the other side might have been a little older. He was stocky, with brown eyes and heavy eyebrows set on a brow that jutted out from his nose in a way that made him look like he didn't quite fit when he was put together. He reminded me of a buffalo. They were both scowling at each other, or at me, it was hard to tell. By process of elimination, these two had to be Abe and Amos, but I didn't know which was which.
Malley sat down at the head of the table. Then he took a breath. "Boys," he said, "we got us a new Misfit. Name's, uh—"
"Johnny Parker," I supplied.
Nobody seemed to want to return the favor of giving a name, so I made a guess, and stuck my hand out towards the dark-haired brother, the ugly buffalo. I figured it would be a good idea to make a friendly gesture towards the "sick" one—just in case. "You must be Amos," I said.
The other brother, the nice-looking one, spoke up. "Don't insult me."
"Uh, so you're Amos," I corrected. So it was the good-looking one who was 'sick in the head.' Somehow, I had assumed that it would be the other way around.
"Remember that." There was a threat in his voice that implied if I mixed up the names again, I'd regret it.
"And I'm Abe." The buffalo stuck his hand out, and I shook it. Amos didn't seem to want to shake hands. Abe was an ugly cuss, but he was more friendly than his brother.
That left only one Misft. "And you're Bart, I assume?"
Bart didn't look at me, but he made a grunt that I assumed was assent. He didn't seem to want to shake hands, either.
I sat back down, hoping that this uncomfortable feeling would go away.
Amos looked at Malley but jerked his head towards me. "How do we know he ain't from Wilson's?" he said.
Abe sighed. "We gonna go through this every time Malley hires a new hand?"
Amos looked back at his brother. "Well, he could be," he insisted. Then he looked back at Malley. "Well?"
Malley fixed Amos with a stern look. "Ah do the hirin' aroun' here, not you. When ah want yer opinion, ah'll ask fer it. Understan'?"
Amos muttered something that might have been a "yessir," and I wondered who the "Wilson's" were. Malley had mentioned them on the way to Day's End, but he hadn't explained much about them.
Then Abe leaned over towards me. "Don't mind him," he said, indicating Amos with a tilt of his head. "Our ma, well, she had a hard time of it when he was born. Sometimes when a kid stays in for too long, he don't get enough air, an'—"
"Abraham!" Malley said, threateningly.
Abe grinned and leaned back in his seat.
Eddie returned to the bunkhouse with a plate piled high with slabs of meat. He chose a piece of and put it on my plate then went around the table and put pieces of meat on each plate. Finally, he served Malley, and then his own empty plate last. Malley’s slab of meat was the largest.
It all looked--and smelled--mouth wateringly divine.
When Eddie finished serving and sat down, Malley looked at Abe and said, "Yer turn."
Everyone else was bowing his head, so I looked down, too. It seemed kind of strange, saying grace in a place like this, but I was in no position to argue.
"Thanks fer th' grub," Abe said. “Amen.”
Short as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malley. And then the hog’s holiday began. Amos made a grab for the spuds while Eddie reached for the carrots. The food wasn't so much passed as snatched out of the hands of the one holding it by the one who wanted it, even though it looked like there should have been plenty to go around. But the plates were piled high—much higher than one would think they needed to be, and by the time I could get the spuds, there wasn't much left, but I did manage to grab a spoonful of carrots before Amos grabbed the rest from me, which in that moment I thought was fine because carrots aren't normally my favorite food.
I would very soon learn how wrong I was..
But apparently, this was one of Malley's rules. The food-fight couldn't start until Eddie was seated and grace was given.
There did seem to be some special consideration for Bart, however. The food wasn't grabbed from him, but he was given the opportunity to finish serving himself from the spuds and carrots and put the spoons back before the bowls of vegetable as and plate of biscuits were snatched up. Otherwise, it seemed to be every man for himself as far as the non-meats were concerned.
After everyone had gotten their food and most had begun to eat Abe reached over and cut Bart's meat into bites.
Interesting.
Malley caught me looking. "Bart don't use knives too well," he explained.
I wondered if Bart was mentally slow or something. But Malley had said before that Bart and his dog were the only true shepherds among his Misfits.
Bart began eating slowly and methodically, not looking up from his plate.
I started in on my spuds. Creamy, smooth, and delicious. I wished I'd been able to grab more of them.
Then I took a bite of the carrots.
Oh, my God! The carrots! They were sweet and buttery and absolutely the best tasting carrots I had ever eaten. I made a moan of pleasure.
"Like the food?" Malley asked knowingly.
"Yessir. Best damn carrots I ever had!" I turned to Eddie. "What did you put in 'em?"
Eddie grinned. He understood my question perfectly, although his thick accent made deciphering the reply a little difficult. "But-air. Sug-air, Maple see-rup. And--" he paused dramatically "--a see-cret."
A secret, huh? I took another bite and chewed it thoughtfully, trying to figure out the secret. Suddenly I had it. "Ginger!" I said. "You put ginger in them!"
Eddie laughed delightedly, apparently happy that I had figured it out and apparently not minding that I had revealed his 'secret.' "Zhin-zhair! But yes! It makes ze taste more special, yes?"
"Oh, yeah!" I agreed. I took another bite and saved the rest to finish my meal with. I always liked to save a bit of my favorite for last.
Then I cut my steak. But as I sank my knife into the meat, red juices flowed out, and I realized that the steak was closer to rare than cooked.
Eddie must have noticed my hesitation. "Eeez wrong?" he asked.
"Ain't your meat okay?" Malley asked.
"Uh," I said. If I lied now, I'd be doomed to eating rare meat as long as I was here. On the other hand, beggars couldn't be choosers, and I was definitely a beggar.
"Eez no good?" Eddie said. He seemed hurt.
"No, no," I said. "I'm sure it's fine. It's just…a little more rare than I'm used to."
"Ya said ya liked it a little pink." Malley reminded me.
"Actually, I meant a little pink the other way, more on the cooked side, but this is fine."
Eddie immediately stood up and reached for my plate. "I feex," he said.
Abe started laughing around the food in his mouth and shook his head at me. "I wouldn't," he warned. He gave his head a toss in the direction of Eddie's plate, where lay a slab of meat as black as midnight. Apparently Eddie the cook either liked his meat extra well-done, or he kept any cooking mistakes for himself rather than serve it to another.
Or maybe Eddie had been deliberately provoking. That thought occurred to me when Eddie lifted his plate, speared his steak, and motioned that he would trade with me, if I wanted. But there was a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips. So I had my choice of nearly raw or burnt to a crisp. If Eddie was being deliberately provoking, I decided I wasn't going to take the bait. Furthermore, I was the new man, so to speak, and it was probably better not to make any trouble if I could help it. "Uh, thanks, but it's fine, really." I said. I shook my head at Eddie and his offer, and forked a large bite into my mouth. As long as it wasn't too contaminated with anything, it should be fine.
"He'll fix it, if ya want him to," Malley said. "Or trade."
I smiled at Eddie. "It's fine." I began cutting the meat, to show that I meant it. Eddie sat back down, but with a doubtful expression. He began cutting into his own meat, and that's when I knew he had deliberately misunderstood what I meant by "a little pink."
Even though the meat was underdone for my normal preference, it nevertheless still tasted wonderful, and I smiled to show my appreciation. "Perfectly seasoned," I said, after searching for something positive to say.
Eddie sat down, and began cutting his own meat. It looked a little tough, but he ate it.
The rest of dinner was finished without further speech, although it was still pretty noisy with the sounds of cutting and eating. All of us were too busy stuffing our mouths to talk, except for Bart, who ate slowly but methodically. I finished every last bite of the steak, leaving only the bone on my plate, and polished off a couple cups of black coffee. Finally I finished up the last bit of the carrots I had saved for last.
Then something strange happened. Bart reached across the table and picked up the bone from my otherwise empty plate. I watched him drop his hand with the bone below the level of the table, then come up empty again. A second later, I heard a crunching sound, and curiosity prompted me to duck my head down to see.
Under the table, at Bart's feet, was a dog. It was mostly black, with brown and white markings. It must have been a mongrel, but it had intelligent eyes, and it looked back at me for a second, then turned its attention back to its bone. All through dinner, it had stayed at Bart's feet with absolute obedience, not making a sound.
I poked my head back up. "What's your dog's name?" I asked Bart. I hoped he spoke English, since I didn't know much Spanish.
Bart didn't answer, didn't even look at me.
"Uh..." I searched my memory for what little Spanish I knew. I was better with German because my grandparents had been German immigrants, but I did know a few Spanish words. "El nombre?"
Bart glanced up to see where I was pointing, down through the table. His eyes lowered again, and after a few seconds, he mumbled, "Perro Pastor." They were the first words I had ever heard him speak.
"That's Spanish for 'Sheep Dog,'" Abe told me. "He speaks English good enough, but he don't always answer right away. Just give him a few seconds."
Malley elaborated. "Perro means ‘dog’ and Pastor is like a preacher, a church ‘pastor,’ a shepherd that watches over his flock. I’m a pastor, too. Not the church kind, but Ah’ve got mah woolies, an’ you all is mah flock, too." He said this with quite a bit of pride, by which I knew that keeing sheep was something akin to a religious profession for Malley. Well, I wasn't overly religious myself, but as long as Malley's “religion” included feeding his workers regular meals, I didn’t mind it so much.
“The Lord is mah shepherd,” Malley added, quoting the 23rd Psalm. “So sheep ranching and shepherding is about the most noble profession there is.”
I tried to think of something to appease Malley and “So Perro Pastor, here, is about the most noble dog there is,” I said. I bent down to look under the table again, and started to extend a hand toward Pastor to rub his ears, but Bart moved his leg between me and his dog protectively.
I sighed and sat back up at the table. Friendly lot, my co-workers.
To change the subject, I looked at my plate with a happy sigh. "That was good," I commented.
Eddie smiled. Apparently he could understand at least enough English to know when he was being complimented.
Eddie stood up, and I assumed that meant the meal was over and it was time to clear the table. I started to stand up, too, and picked up my plate, but Malley looked at me and said, "Don't ya want yer dessert?"
I stared at him. Dessert? Despite the lack of talkativeness among my co-workers, I suddenly thought I must have died and gone to heaven.
Eddie came back, holding a warm apple pie, which he set on the table and cut into six semi-equal pieces. He put the first wedge on Malley's plate—it fell apart a little, being the first piece—then took a wedge for himself and passed the plate along. Apparently the food-fight rules didn't extend to dessert, and each worker took the piece that was next on the dish without fussing.
I ate my pie slowly, savoring every bite and trying to make it last as long as I could. Malley seemed to be watching me with amused eyes, but I didn't care. "Good, huh?" he asked.
"Mr. O'Malley, that's the best meal I've had in a long time," I replied.
"Ah told ya before to can th' 'Mister.'" But Malley leaned back in his chair and grinned. "Ah do enjoy a good steak every now an' then," he said to everyone in general. "Tell ya th' truth, it ain't always a bad thing when they kill one o' mah woolies."
"Huh?" I had no idea what he was talking about.
Abe looked at me with a grin that matched Malley's. "Malley's Rule," he stated, as if that was supposed to make everything make sense.
Amos nodded, seemingly in agreement with his brother for the first time since the meal began. "For every four woolies Wilson's kill, we kill one o' their cows.”
“It’s a fair number,” Malley said. “One woolie’s worth two to four dollars, an’ one cow’s worth ten--or twenty if it gets to a rail yard..”
I stared at him for a moment, realizing the implication of what he was saying, and then I very nearly choked as steak, pie, carrots, spuds, and coffee all vied to see which could climb back up out of my stomach the fastest. The main course for my dinner had been rustled!
"You all right?" Malley asked politely.
So that was my introduction to my new job.
Journal of John Christopher Parker
September 2, 1882.
Summer is just about over, and still no work aside from the occasional odd job. I knew I needed to find something before winter sets in, but the plain truth is, no one was hiring. But I have a job now, thank heavens! It doesn't pay well, but hopefully it will keep me fed, and Two-Bits, as well.
Two-Bits is my horse, and the only living thing on this planet I have left to love. She’s got the best heart of any animal I’ve ever come across. And for short distances, I’ve never seen any horse run faster. And she’s mine.
I got Two-Bits when a neighbor acquired her as a foul, and she got hung up on some barbed-wire. She was pretty badly hurt and stood a good chance of being put down, so the neighbor was willing to sell her for cheap. By the time I got her, some of the cuts were pretty badly infected. But my Pa saw how badly I wanted the animal, and handed over the money. We had to load her onto a wagon to get her home, and I wasn't sure she would make it through the night, but I cleaned up the cuts, put medicine on them, and bandaged them up. I went to Doc's office with the few pennies I had and begged him to sell me better medicine than the home brew that Mom made, and he promised to stop by soon and take a look. He did come by the next day and said it looked like I was doing real well, and gave me some advice on how often to clean the wounds and change the bandages. I followed that advice to the letter, Aside from a nasty scar on her right foreleg, Two-Bits eventually recovered, The neighbor was sorry he had let the animal go. My parents and Doc all said I did a fine job taking care of her, and I started to think about maybe someday becoming a doctor myself.
I named the filly Two-Bits for her breeding and as a sort of joke for how cheap she came. When she got bigger, I saddle-broke her. Maybe "broke" isn't the right word, because. she took to the saddle easily. Honestly, I'd never broken a horse before The. only ones I'd ever ridden were the two horses we kept to pull the wagon and the plow. So it was a good thing Two-Bits was amenable to my being on her back, because I'm not sure horse-breaking an unwilling animal is my forté.
But with Two-Bits, I ended up being the only one at school with a horse to ride. And then I had a way to accompany Doc on his trips when he drove hi little one-seat buggy.
The nerve of Doc dying like that! The nerve! It's what he said to me privately after one of his patients died. "The nerve of him dying like that1 The nerve!"
I miss him.
Doc was my mentor, and the only one who would give me a home after my parents died. Well, not the only one, as there were a number of places willing to take in a young, strong male able to work a farm--but the only one I wanted. Doc was about seventy years old. He brought me into this world, and my Ma before me.
My dream of becoming a doctor just like Doc died with him. I still have the letter of acceptance into the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine in my satchel. Doc had written me a glowing letter of recommendation--I had a copy of that, too. I had pointed out to him that I didn't have the money for tuition, but Doc had said that "There are ways of getting around that." By which I'm sure he meant to pay at least my first year's tuition out of his own pocket, and I could apply for scholarships as soon as my grades qualified me. He said it would be hard work, especially if I was going to be a scholarship student, but he was certain I could handle it.
And then he had the nerve to up and die.
The money Doc had been paying me as his assistant was enough to take care of Two-Bits and meet my own needs while I was living with him, and even save up a small amount, but what I had saved before Doc died has long since dried up. I've been grass-feeding Two-Bits as much as possible, but without much grain, she's getting on the skinny side. I'm getting on the skinny side, too, but I've been able to catch the occasional rabbit since being on my own, which helps. I've also been able to find some short-term jobs here and there, work in exchange for food and shelter for myself and Two-Bits. A couple of times, they even paid me a bit for my work. I expect maybe I could find a farmer somewhere who needs help with the harvest, but after that, my prospects looked pretty dim. I don't have any particular destination in mind, but Philadelphia is north--impossibly far north--and I guess for that reason, north has been my general compass heading, more or less. Slowly, though, because of taking on whatever work I could find, none of it permanent.
It would break my heart to have to sell Two-Bits, but I was thinking I might have to do it if I could find some kind-hearted soul I was sure would take good care of her.
Doc always said that the best medical school was the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. He said that Harvard m=Medical School wasn't too bad except that its faculty and graduates tended to be arrogant crusts who were more interested in charging top dollar than actually helping people. He also said that there was a school in Chicago that he heard about, but he didn't actually know anyone who went there, so he couldn't say anything other than that he heard from a friend of a friend or something like that, that it was "better than some." Doc himself went to Philadelphia for his training, and only came to Texas after the War. He built up a small practice not too far from San Marcos. He took me on after my parents died because he knew and liked my folks, and me, and because he knew what good care I had taken of my parents when they got sick, until I got sick, too. He knew even before then that I wanted to become a doctor just like him, and after school, I had often stopped by his office before I went home, to see if there were any small errands I could run for him, or watch him treat different patients--the ones who didn't mind my watching--or just to chat with him if he wasn't too busy and didn't mind my company. Then, after my folks died and he took me on, he introduced me to his patients--most of whom I already knew--as his "assistant," and he let me treat some of the more minor ailments while he watched. Then one day, a wagon ran over a dog and broke its leg. Doc talked me through using chloroform to anesthetize it and setting the bone, and I did the actual work myself. I already knew how to mix the plaster for the cast. When I was done, Doc said I did better than he expected, and after that is when we started to talk about my maybe going to medical school. Doc knew I didn't have much money. When my folks died, creditors came and took the farm and most of the animals--except for Two-Bits of course. Doc stood with me when they came for the animals, and backed me up when I wouldn't let them take her. I'm sure the farm was worth more than what was left on the mortgage, and I could have fought for the plow-horses and some of the other animals, too, but I didn't have the wherewithal to take care of them, and so I had to let them go. But there was no way I was going to let Two-Bits go.
I was lucky to have Doc as a friend and a mentor.
I was also lucky to come across Malley when I did, because I don't currently have a penny to my name, and although the pay is poor, he has at least assured me of food for myself and Two-Bits. I have already sent up a prayer of thanksgiving--not that I am particularly religious, but I like to think there is some sort of divine design to everything--and will do so every day for as long as I have food in my own belly and Two-Bits' belly.
I have been "Misfitted," as Malley puts it, and so I am required to keep this journal. Malley says it wouldn't be a good idea to go out "woolly wrangling" in the dark on my first "patrol," so he set me to doing barn chores, which are all done now, and I have plenty of time to write in this journal before it's time to turn in. Malley says all of his "Misfits" are required to keep a journal, and when they leave his employ, he gets to keep them. He gave me the tablet and pencil, and said I should start working on it tonight if I knew how to write, which I assured him I did.
It's a little strange to have a boss who requires journal writing, but there it is. Malley says he doesn't care what we write in them, and he won't read them until after we're gone. Truthfully, I wonder if he can read, but my fellow Misfits say it was the recommendation of the schoolmarm who comes by every now and again to have his boys keep a journal. The schoolmarm's name is Miss Myrtle, and the other boys say I will meet her eventually, assuming I stay on long enough. They don't seem altogether confident that I will. but I'm not afraid of hard work, and as long as Malley feeds me, I expect I'll stay on. I've got no place else to go.
It is something of a relief, actually, to write my thoughts down. I am sure that the other Misfits have stories that are much sadder than mine, but still, it's nice to be able to tell about Doc and my parents, even if no one is ever going to read it. Some of the boys keep their journals in lock-boxes. I guess they have secrets. I have no secrets, from either them or Malley, so I will just keep my journal under my mattress. I am afraid that if anyone is looking for something to use as gossip in here, they will be sadly disappointed. There is nothing about my life worth gossiping over, and anything anyone wants to know, I am just as happy to tell.
My new boss is one Mr. Malley O'Malley, which is about one of the oddest names I have ever come across. His spread is called "Day's End." He himself is quite a character. I would guess his age to be about 60. He is a scraggly codger, but there is something about him that reminds me of Doc. Maybe it's a layer of kindness hiding under the surface, which is rough and gruff. Rough and gruff isn't like Doc at all, so I'm not sure why, exactly, Malley reminds me of him.
Before today, it had been been some days since I've had a proper meal. The small provision of dried beans I had ran out yesterday, and I had no money to buy more. That's why I was glad to see a town up ahead, even though odds were it would be just like all the others. I've always had this streak of optimism running through me. A schoolmarm might call it my "fatal flaw," but a regular person would simply call it "stupidity." When my folks took sick, I kept thinking they would get better. When they didn’t, and I went to live with Doc, I thought I’d get to be a doctor, just like him. When he died, I thought I’d be okay as long as I had Two-Bits. But I was about to the point where I knew she’d be better off with someone else, and once I’d found that person, I’d have found the nearest tall cliff to jump off. Two-Bits means that much to me.
Pa would always remark how pleased he was to get her, how fine an animal she was. It was true. She wasn't all that much to look at, with her rough, thick dun coat and mismatched white markings, but she has a heart of gold.
I was always proud of the way she'd healed. That's started me thinking that I'd like to become a doctor someday. My folks always said that we could never afford college or medical school. I knew that they were right, but I was stubborn in my optimism. That's when I took to hanging around Doc's office after school.
It wasn't too long after that when he began showing me how to lance boils, tie bandages—all that sort of thing. In exchange for his putting up with me, I kept his books and the records of accounts up to date. Not that it really helped all that much, because most of his patients were farmers like my folks. Doc Wolfe lived a little better than most, but he would just as often as not call things square for a couple of jars of homemade preserves.
Then the epidemic came and my folks took sick and died. Creditors came and took the farm and most of what else was left. The part of me that wasn't grieving had been hoping that I could sell the house and the farm equipment, and I still might be able to afford college and medical school. But it seems there was a mortgage on the house and on all the equipment that I hadn't known about. Doc said not to worry, that there might be some way to manage tuition yet, and he took me as a sort of live-in assistant. But like I said, he was getting on in years.
I managed to keep Two-Bits out of the creditors' hands, and with what Doc paid me, I was just able to pay for livery fees and have a few pennies left over. Things were getting along all right, and I was learning a lot from Doc. In his spare time Doc showed me what he could, and if we came across a dead animal somewhere, we’d pick it up and take it out back of the house, cut it open, and he’d show me all the different parts inside. If I had any other time left over, he’d let me pour through his books. I once set the leg of a dog that had gotten run over by a wagon, and Doc told me that he couldn't have done better himself.
Eventually, I was able to stop crying myself to sleep over my folks, and the dream of becoming a doctor is what kept me going.
Then one morning, just after my seventeenth birthday, when I went to give Doc his breakfast, he just wouldn’t wake up. I guess he must have died in his sleep, because his eyes were closed.
It turns out that Doc had a nephew, who ended up being his heir. Doc's nephew gave me a couple months' wages and let me take out of the office whatever I could carry. I chose Doc's medical bag, stuffed with anything useful that would fit (plus a couple of jars that didn't), Doc's microscope, his favorite medical text, and of course the dissecting kit he gave me for a birthday present.
I thought maybe I could find work with another doctor, so I took my money and books and test letter and microscope and dissecting kit, and left the town of Northwood for good. Looking back, I realize that the intelligent thing would have been to stay and work on one of the farms. It wouldn't have gotten me into medical school, but meals would have been regular, and I would have had a place to sleep. But I didn't know better.
That was a little over a year ago. Medical school is still in the back of my mind somewhere, but it's amazing how quickly you can forget about things like that when your stomach is empty. I celebrated my eighteenth birthday by raiding a restaurant garbage pile. Last winter I was lucky. There was a young couple just starting out, and they agreed to feed me and Two-Bits for the winter, and let both of us sleep in the drafty collection of boards they called a "barn" in exchange for my labor. But I couldn't count on being so lucky again this year. I could find odd work now and again, but I was hoping for something more permanent.
My wanderings took me into the Texas Hill Country, not far from the area they call “The Devil’s Backbone,” and I found myself in a fair to middlin’ size town. The wooden sign tacked to a tree said that the town's name was "Brimstone." I asked, and found that there was a doctor, and then I asked directions to his house. I went there straightway and saw that his name was "Lyons," and I took it as maybe a good omen, since Doc's last name had been "Wolfe." "Wolfe" and "Lyons" (Doc's last name) were both animal names. But Doc Wolfe was in no more need of an assistant than any of the other doctors I have visited over the course of the last year, most of whom were really just faith healers. Not many--that is to say, any--real ones like Doc. So then I made the other usual inquiries, and got the usual answers. No, there was no work hereabouts that anyone knew of. No, nothing on the farms outside of town, either. Sorry.
Then I passed a man with a badge walking the other way and stopped him. He was the town sheriff, Thompson by name. I asked the sheriff if there was any place nearby where an honest man might find work.
He looked at me a little dubiously, though whether it was for the "honest" or the "man" part, I couldn't tell. Probably both. I looked like something from the bottom of the barrel, I know, and I am barely old enough to pretend to shave. But I tried to look my most earnest, and even remembered at the last second to take my hat off.
The sheriff sighed. "I s'pose you got no folks, have you, son?" he asked.
"No, sir," I replied.
"I see. Well, if you're desperate, there's a sheep rancher named O'Malley as takes boys in from time to time."
"Where do I find this O'Malley?" I asked.
The sheriff jerked a thumb behind himself further along the road I was going. "Just saw him go into the dry-goods store."
I thanked the sheriff and started for the store, when he called out "Son?"
I turned to see what he wanted.
"You gotta be really desperate to work for O'Malley. They call his boys 'Misfits,' and a sorrier bunch you never saw. And sheep-ranchin' is dangerous work around these parts. The cattlemen blame every bad piece o' luck on the shepherds, an' they like to settle the score every once in a while. You know what I mean?"
"I'm really desperate," I told the man.
Sheriff Thompson took his hat off and scratched his head. “Only reason he might even consider you is he lost one of his boys couple months ago from being shot at by cattlemen.”
“Killed?” I asked.
“No. Run off. Most of them Misfits run off eventually. Only a few of ‘em is regular.”
“A few plus one,” I said. “I need the work.”
"Suit yourself," he shrugged.
I made my way to the dry goods store as fast as Two-Bits’ legs would carry me, threw the reins over the hitching rail, and ran inside the store.
A man behind the counter looked up as I ran in. "Help ya?" he asked.
"I heard there's a sheep rancher who's hiring," I said breathlessly.
"Hey, O'Malley!" the shop-keeper shouted. "There's a kid here lookin' for ya!"
A head popped up from behind a shelf full of canned goods. It was a rough, weathered, sixty-something face possessed of long, gray, thinning hair and a scraggly gray beard. He wore heavy work pants held up underneath his bulging pot-belly by a pair of suspenders over a shirt that was grimy and sweaty. But if he had work... "Yeah?" he said.
I immediately took off my hat and approached him. Scraggly or not, this man might keep me from starving. "Mr. O'Malley?"
"Yeah?"
"I understand that you might have work."
"Got all the help ah need, son."
I moved around the counters between us. "Are you sure? The sheriff said you were short-handed. I'm a hard worker, and I'm good with animals."
O'Malley interrupted me. His manner of speech is difficult to describe, but I will try. "Son," he said, "It ain’t a matter of being short-handed or not. Ah got me four hands, an' only three horses. Poor animals is already overworked, even mah ol’ mule has to work harder 'n he should."
"I got my own horse," I told him.
O'Malley looked me over with sudden interest. "Ya look strong enough," he commented.
I nodded. "And I'm a good man to have around if someone gets sick or hurt."
"Done any sheep-ranchin'?" he asked.
I didn't want to admit to my inexperience up-front, but I didn't want to lie, either. What I ended up saying was, "I was raised on a farm. We didn't have sheep, but we had just about every other kind of animal."
I saw by his expression that he was not impressed. "Family?" he asked.
"Dead," I replied. "Yellow fever."
"Let's see this horse o' yers," he said.
I took him outside to show him. He looked Two-Bits over carefully, found the scar from the barbed wire and passed it over without comment. He checked her hooves and her teeth—it was if he was planning to buy her, except that I wasn't selling. Yet.
Finally, he turned to me. "Could use a brushin' down," was all he said. Then, "Wot's 'er name?"
"Two-Bits."
He raised his eyebrows. "Quarter horse, huh?"
I smiled. He got the joke. Most people assumed I’d named her “Two-Bits” for her worth, which was actually considerably more than her name implied.
Then he said, "You got any problems working with Negroes or Mexicans?"
"No, sir. I don't speak much Spanish, but I learn things pretty quick."
"You got a name?"
"John Parker. Most folks call me 'Johnny.'"
"Well, Mr. Johnny Parker, ah guess yer man new Misfit. Tie yer horse t' th' back o' that wagon over there while ah settle mah bill. Yer hired."
And so the interview was over.
And so I was Misfitted.
The ride back to Malley's ranch took place mostly in silence, except for the steady clip-clops of the mule pulling the wagon and Two-Bits following behind. Finally, I spoke up. "Uh, Mr. O'Malley?"
"Ain't 'Mister' nothin'," my new boss informed me with a sidewise glance. "Just 'Malley.' Or if ya like last names better, ya kin call me O 'Malley."
"Malley O'Malley?" I asked. I have never heard of a name quite like that before and wanted to make sure I had it right.
He shrugged. "Ah ain't got but one name, an' 'at's 'Malley.' When folks start pesterin' me 'bout a last name, ah tell 'em 'O'Malley' just t' keep 'em off mah back. Malley's mah name, an' ah like it just fine. Just th' way it's written on mah birth certificate. Ah got one, ya know." The last was said with a trace of pride.
"One?" I asked, not sure what he meant.
"A birth sar-ti-fi-cate. Ain't everyone who kin claim t' have 'un, but ah do."
"Oh..." Then I remembered what I was going to ask. "Uh, Malley?"
"Yeah?"
"Malley, just exactly what will I be doin'?"
"We-ell," he drawled, "lots o' stuff. Mostly ye’d be wranglin’ woolies. Got five thousand head o' sheep, more or less, 'at needs lookin' after. Got fences t' fix, 'at sort o' thing, too. Twice a year, we clip the woolies an' haul the wool t' market. Lambin' season's in the spring. An' ever'body takes turns on patrol. There's five boys now, countin' you, but one's the cook an' stays mostly at the ranch. Otherwise, ah like to keep two on patrol after dark if ah can. Except for Bart, who don't need no other company except his dog."
"Patrol?"
"Yeah, you know. Like night-hawkin''."
"What does that entail?”
Malley looked at me. "Son, you are ignert, ain't you. Patrol is sort o' like guard-duty, ya might say. Keepin’ the flocks together an’ protectin' th' woolies against critters an' wot ever else might get to ‘em. Day time ain't so bad 'cause them Wilson's got their own work t' do, but come night they sometimes git it in their heads 'at they want t' bother mah woolies. But they’s always cy-otes (this he said in two syllables, like 'ky-oats-") an’ bob-cats lookin’ to make a quick meal outta mah stock. Sheep-herdin’ is lonely work, but ya said ya needed the job. Got mah own way of doin’ it, so it ain’t quite so bad as it could be." A sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he looked at me sideways again. "Ya got a gun?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"We'll have to get ya one, then. Ya know how t' shoot?"
I nodded. Pa had taught me. He had said I had a good eye, even though I didn't always hit everything I aimed at. But just now, I thought I'd better keep my misses to myself.
"Good," he said. "Yer gonna need that out here, 'specially when yer on patrol. Now, Amos an' Abe, they got the best aim, so ah try t' separate 'em on patrol, so there's mostly at least one good shot out. But them two is ornarier 'n Satan hisself when they's with each other, so th' other reason ah keep 'em separated is so they don't kill each other."
"Why do they want to kill each other?" I asked.
Malley grinned. "'Cuz they got th' same folks."
"Huh?"
"They's brothers ."
"I thought brothers were supposed to like each other," I said.
Malley looked at me. "Ah'll bet you was a only child," he said. "But anyways, just so's ya know, Abe's th' sane one, an' Amos's th' one that's sick in th' head."
Sick in the head? My new job was beginning to sound like it might have its draw-backs.
Malley nodded to himself, not seeing my expression. "Got a suspicious nature, that 'un. Amos gets hisself inta more fights because of it than anyone I ever seen—an' I seen a bunch in my time. Ah ain't never seen 'im do any real harm, though, but ya might do well t' keep clear of 'im. 'Course, sometimes ah cain't really blame 'im fer bein' so touchy, considerin' how low th' pay is..."
That struck a responsive chord. "Uh, exactly how low is the pay?" I asked.
Malley grinned. "Ah was wonderin' when ya'd git aroun' to askin’ that. Six dollars a month, with a day off ever' now an' then, plus yer meals, plus a bed in th' bunkhouse."
I sighed. I wasn't going to get to medical school this way. But six dollars a month was better than nothing, especially since it included meals. I did have another concern, though. "Plus feed for my horse?" I asked.
Malley nodded. "Plus feed fer yer horse. As long as she's workin' for it, though. Don't cotton to no candy-ass horse-flesh that don't earn her own keep. Ah got t' tell ya, son, it was yer horse 'at got ya this job, an' ah don' mean jus' cause ya got one."
"How's that?"
"Well, ah figger ya kin always tell th' quality of a man by th' way he takes care o' his horse. Ah kin tell she likes ya by th' way she looked up an' rubbed herself against ya when we went outside. So if yer horse loves ya, ah figger ya cain't be awl bad, whether ya got th' skills fer sheep ranchin' or not."
I looked at him in surprise. In all my previous jobs, no one had ever hired me based on whether or not my horse took a fancy to me.
Then I glanced back at Two-Bits, and she looked up at me expectantly. I smiled at her and then turned my attention back to Malley.
"Let's see," Malley was musing to himself. "Ah tol' ya 'bout Abe an' Amos. But ah don' think ah tol' ya 'bout Eddie an' Bart, yet."
"Who're they?"
"Well, Bart's th' only one 'at's bin raised to sheep-herdin'. He's a Mex, an' he don't talk much, but if ya don't bother him, he don't bother you. He knows more about flocktendin' than any o' the others, an' he's got more control over the woolies 'n Abe or Amos or Eddie put t'gether. It's all on account o' his dog, ya see. Got the best damn sheep-dog ya ever laid eyes on." Malley chuckled. "All ah need t' do is get me a few more curs like his, an' ah won't need t' hire id-yits like you."
This was the first time anyone had ever called me an idiot. I assume it was because I had accepted the job. "And Eddie?"
"Eddie's this Frenchie boy. Comes from Lou'siana or Canada, one, ah cain't remember which. His real name is 'Ed-yen' or somethin' like 'at, but nobody kin pr'nounce it right, so we awl jus' call 'im 'Eddie.' He don' speak English too good, but he's purdy handy when it comes t' fixin' things. He’s also the cook." Malley smacked his lips. “Which reminds me. If you want this job, you gotta swear not to tell no one outside of mah outfit about Eddie.”
“Uh, okay,” I said. “Why?”
"’Cause Eddie’s the best kept secret of the ranch. He’s a damn good cook, an’ th’ only reason ah can keep anyone workin’ for me. Worth his weight in gold. Some o' that French blood ah guess. Anyways, he does all o' th' cookin', 'cept on his days off when ah do th' cookin'."
I had to suppress a smile. Based on Malley's appearance, it wasn't hard to guess that the meals were pretty filling. But I was pleased to hear that, for the most part, the food was good. The idea of a meal made my stomach grumble.
Malley looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. "When's the last time you et?" he asked. 'Et' meaning 'ate.'
"Yesterday mornin'," I admitted. I had come across a farm and had liberated some milk from the cow in the barn before liberating a few vegetables from the garden. I am mostly honest, but there is a gray area when it comes to starving.
"Well git yerself an apple from 'at sack back there," Malley jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the bed of the wagon behind him.
I didn't need to be told twice. I climbed back to the bed, opened the sack, and pulled out the biggest one I could get my hands on before closing the sack and climbing back on the buck-board again. I rubbed the apple on my dirty shirt and took a huge bite out of it. It was crisp, and tart, and tasted wonderful—heaven. I closed my eyes and savored the flavor.
"It's got a worm in it," Malley said.
I opened my eyes, and sure enough, there was the tail end of a little green fellow wiggling around in the remaining part of my apple. But I didn't care. The apple still tasted wonderful. I prepared to take another bite, hopefully not to include my little green dinner companion. I'd eaten more than my share of wormy apples in the past year and a half, and I was hungry.
"It's got a worm in it," Malley repeated in disgust. "Throw 'at 'un away, an' git yerself another."
I looked at him in surprise. He couldn't mean it... But when I saw that he did, I climbed back over the buckboard to the sack, took out another apple, and inspected it for worm-holes. When I saw that there weren't any, I closed the sack again, and began making my way to the back of the wagon, where Two-Bits was trailing along without complaint. I bit out the section with the worm and spit it onto the road. Two-Bits trotted closer, whiffed at the unexpected treat, then bit off half of what was left of the apple in a single bite. She chewed it greedily, and part of it fell on the road, but of course we couldn't go back to retrieve it. Then I fed her the other half, wiped my sticky hands on my pants, and climbed back up to the front of the wagon to eat my own treat.
Malley just shook his head and waited for me to finish my apple. I ate most of it, then put the core in my pocket to give to Two-Bits later.
Malley pointed off to the right, where there was a spread of fences and a few buildings. "There's th' ranch. 'Day's End,' ah call it."
“Why?”
Malley looked at me. “Ya know, you is the first person ever to ask me. ‘Day’s End’ cuz at the end of the day, there ain’t no better place to be.”
It wasn't especially big or fancy. There was a small ranch house next to what looked to be a bunkhouse, and a couple of other buildings, including a large barn, an outhouse, and some more ramshackle buildings, including a large lean-to and several smaller ones in some of the pens. There was smoke coming from the stove-pipe of the bunkhouse, and it looked, if not overly comfortable, at least tolerable. It wasn’t an extremely wealth set-up, nor was it threadbare operation, which I was expecting, given the attitude towards Malley in town.
We pulled up in front of the barn, and I untied Two-Bits while Malley unhitched the mule. Then I followed Malley inside the barn, which contained stalls for horses and other animals, a large tack room, a large feed room, and a hay loft. There were several horses in one pen, some rams and goats in another, and a solitary mule in
Malley pointed to a bare, empty stall. "Ya kin put yer horse in there, fer th' time bein'. Fresh straw back 'ere," he pointed to one end of the barn, "buckets back 'ere," he pointed to the other end of the barn, "an' water at th' pump outside. You'll find some brushes next t' th' buckets. Yer horse’ll git fed with th' others later. When yer done seein' to 'er, ya kin earn yer keep by unloadin' th' wagon. Dinner is when both han's is down."
By that, I figured he meant at six-thirty. I nodded, and Malley left. I fed Two-Bits the apple core, then went to fetch the straw for her stall and gave her a forkful of hay to munch on until she was grained. After seeing that Two-Bits was comfortable, I went back out to the buckboard, unloaded animal supplies, and took them to the barn.
It felt good to be working again.
When I finished with the sacks of feed, I started hauling the flour and sugar and other supplies into the bunkhouse.
There was a boy sitting at the table peeling potatoes. It had to be Eddie, of course. He stood up when he saw me, and I could see that he was a lanky fellow, with hair lighter than mine—sort of light brown, not quite yellow enough to be blond. His hair was thin and straight and hung down from his head in a long curtain that flopped around afterwards whenever he moved his head. My own hair had always been thick and wavy and tended to stay in its same unruly pattern no matter how hard I tried to comb it straight. Eddie wore wire-rimmed glasses and an apron over his work clothes. He looked at me with a question in his eyes.
"Hi," I said. "You must be Eddie."
Eddie hesitated, then said, "Mahl-lee-geeve-you-zhob?"
It took me a second to realize he was asking if Malley had given me a job. "Uh, yeah," I said. I swung one of my sacks to the floor and held out my hand. "Johnny Parker."
"Zhah-nee?" he asked, trying to pronounce my name. It sounded pretty good, except for the 'J.' I smiled and nodded, and he pointed to himself. and said something like "I am Et-yen-Dew-Lane" but I had no idea what he was saying until I remembered that Malley had told me his real name was 'Ed-yen, or somethin' like 'at.'
I stuck out my hand toward Eddie, and he shook it. "Et-yen," I tried to say.
He made a noise of disgust, and then said, "Eddie." I figured he meant for me to call him 'Eddie' because I had messed up the pronunciation.
"Eddie," I said. Then I pointed to the groceries. "Where do you want the supplies?"
Eddie looked at me with furrowed eyes. I realized that he didn't understand what I was saying, so I pointed to the groceries again. "Supplies," I said. I looked around the bunkhouse, then back to Eddie and shrugged. "Where?"
Eddie’s expression changed to comprehension. “Ah.” He went to the door, opened it, and pointed to a small building about thirty or forty feet from the bunkhouse. “Zair.” Then he took out a watch, looked at it, and an expression of panic crossed his face. He pointed to the door, then to me. "Go!" he said. "Go! Go! You go!"
I grabbed the supplies I came in with and went. The building turned out to be a small summer kitchen, and I unloaded the rest of the food supplies.
When I was done, I knocked at the door to the ranch house, a two-story structure made of wood boards and a roof of cypress shingles, all built on pilings to take advantage of whatever cooling breeze might blow under the house. But there was no answer, and I didn't see Malley anywhere, so I decided to have a look around to familiarize myself with the new place, starting with the bunkhouse. The bunkhouse was of similar construction to the ranch house, except smaller and no second floor. There was a well some twenty-five yards south of the house. The barn was of a rough construction with thin rough logs, mostly mesquite, and a thatched roof. I’d already been inside, but I hadn’t really studied it. There was a corncrib and a storehouse with sacks of food of some sort, probably meat, hanging from the top beam. The ropes holding them had round plates of tin with a hole in the center for the rope to pass through and a knot to keep each plate in place, to keep rats and mice from sliding down to get to the contents of the sacks. Just outside the storehouse was a wire drying-line with freshly salted meat hanging high out of reach of animals. There was a large garden with a variety of vegetables growing in it. I also saw a chicken coop, a huge three-sided shed, and a maze of fencing around the shed that formed pens of various sizes leading to and from the shed, all mainly mesquite construction, but sturdy enough. There were a couple of two-wheeled wagons stored in the shed, which one would have to move some of the fencing to take out. A couple of the pens held a few odd sheep that looked like they might have seen some better days. These, I gathered, were sick sheep brought in from the main flock for special care. Besides the sheep, the livestock included a mule, a pair of oxen—the same pair that had pulled the wagon I had arrived on—hogs, a respectable number of chickens, and a pair of ornery rams that had their own quarters in the barn. There was also evidence in the form of cow-patties of a couple of cows who lived in the barn but weren’t there at the moment. The cows were probably feeding in pasture away from the main ranch. The amount and lay-out of the fencing was a mystery. I tried to make sense of it, but couldn’t. There was also a fire-ring that saw regular use.
The place looked to be mostly self-sufficient, with some supplies occasionally brought in from town, like the salt, apples, flour, oats, and other supplies such as I had unloaded.
I hd nothing else to do, so I went to look at the sheep up close. They were docile enough, didn't give me any trouble as I looked them over, checked their mouths and hooves and skin. No sign of hoof-rot, but there was something going on with their skin, some sort of parasite or something.
My exploration, as it turned out, was a mistake because Malley had to come and fetch me for supper. There hadn't been any dinner bell, and by pa's watch there was something like an hour yet before the time Malley gave me for dinner, so I didn't know anything was wrong until I saw Malley come looking for me. He didn't seem happy about it, either. "Wot in the Hell are ya doin'?," he said. He took out his pocket watch and opened it up to show me. It said six thirty-three, "Supper starts when both hands is down," he said.
"Yes, sir," I said, figuring I should be apologetic. I knew pa's watch was fairly accurate, so Malley's had to be off, but I made a note to reset pa''s to an hour ahead. You don't argue with the boss on your first day.
“All the Misfits is waitin' ta meet ya, an’ ah don’t like the woolies bein’ left alone, so yer lollygaggin’ around out here—well, that horse won’t trot.”
“Yes, sir,” I said again. “Sorry."
Malley led me back to the bunkhouse, where three other boys were already sitting at the table, and Eddie was working at the stove. I didn't really have time to look at the new faces properly, except to note that two of them were Negroes, about my own age as far as I could tell, and one of them was a younger Mexican boy, because Malley pointed to the washbasin and said, "Hands an' face.".
I washed my hands, and after a second's thought, took the water outside to throw it on the ground, just to make sure no one used the dirty water after me, not after I had been touching the sick sheep. Then I poured the last of the clean water from the pitcher into the basin, washed my hands again, and my face. Then I dumped that water, as well.
"You're strange," someone at the table commented.
"I was handling the sick sheep," I said, toweling off. "No need to risk spreading any infection."
I caught Malley looking at me, studying me. "What do you reckon is wrong with 'em?"
"Looks like some sort of skin infection. Parasite would be my guess. I can check that later, if you like.”
"Check, how?" Malley asked.
"Look at a sample under magnification. I have a microscope."
"A what?" one of the Misfits asked.
"A micro--a thing that lets me see stuff up close."
"No need," Malley said. "It's scabies, Yer gonna help me treat 'em in the morning. I'll show you the work 'at gets done around here tomorrow, before you go on Patrol the day after. Yer horse looks like she could use a day's rest."
"Yes, sir." A day's rest for Two-Bits would be very welcome.
Eddie set a large bowl of mashed spuds and another with cooked carrots on the table, returned a moment later with a couple of large pots of coffee, and then turned to me and asked me something. I thought he was talking in French and I shook my head uncomprehendingly. He pointed to the plate he was holding, which was laden with thick, juicy slabs of meat, and repeated what he had said before. This time I caught it. "Hled?" he said. "Peenk? Brown?"
"He wants to know what color ya like your meat—red, pink or brown." Malley translated.
"Uh, a little pink, thanks." My mouth was watering so that I hardly thought I could stand waiting much longer. "Is that really steak I smell?"
The others at the table grinned.
"Smells good, don't it?" Malley asked.
Eddie disappeared out the door. I took an unoccupied place at the dinner table, leaving the head for Malley. The smells from the summer kitchen made my mouth water and my stomach rumble. I could smell meat, and I'd have bet money, if I had any, that it was steak, too. With only that apple to eat all day, I was starving, and I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into a real meal.
To try and take my mind off the food, I studied my companions.
The boy across from me was obviously Bart, the "Mex." His dark complexion, brown eyes, and black hair were typical of his kind, but he was younger than I had expected. With Malley's saying that Bart knew more about sheep ranching than any of the others, I expected him to be older than I was. Instead, he was only about thirteen or fourteen. His eyes didn't seem to focus on anyone. He occasionally glanced up from the table, but immediately went back down again. I'm pretty sure he saw me looking at him. I smiled, but there was no answering smile. He just looked down at the table and said nothing.
The two other boys at the table, the Negroes, sat at diagonal corners from each other, about as far apart as you could get and still be sitting at the same table. The one on my side looked closest to my own age, maybe seventeen or so. He had dark brown hair, and smooth, regular features and dark coffee-colored eyes. The one on the other side might have been a little older. He was stocky, with brown eyes and heavy eyebrows set on a brow that jutted out from his nose in a way that made him look like he didn't quite fit when he was put together. He reminded me of a buffalo. They were both scowling at each other, or at me, it was hard to tell. By process of elimination, these two had to be Abe and Amos, but I didn't know which was which.
Malley sat down at the head of the table. Then he took a breath. "Boys," he said, "we got us a new Misfit. Name's, uh—"
"Johnny Parker," I supplied.
Nobody seemed to want to return the favor of giving a name, so I made a guess, and stuck my hand out towards the dark-haired brother, the ugly buffalo. I figured it would be a good idea to make a friendly gesture towards the "sick" one—just in case. "You must be Amos," I said.
The other brother, the nice-looking one, spoke up. "Don't insult me."
"Uh, so you're Amos," I corrected. So it was the good-looking one who was 'sick in the head.' Somehow, I had assumed that it would be the other way around.
"Remember that." There was a threat in his voice that implied if I mixed up the names again, I'd regret it.
"And I'm Abe." The buffalo stuck his hand out, and I shook it. Amos didn't seem to want to shake hands. Abe was an ugly cuss, but he was more friendly than his brother.
That left only one Misft. "And you're Bart, I assume?"
Bart didn't look at me, but he made a grunt that I assumed was assent. He didn't seem to want to shake hands, either.
I sat back down, hoping that this uncomfortable feeling would go away.
Amos looked at Malley but jerked his head towards me. "How do we know he ain't from Wilson's?" he said.
Abe sighed. "We gonna go through this every time Malley hires a new hand?"
Amos looked back at his brother. "Well, he could be," he insisted. Then he looked back at Malley. "Well?"
Malley fixed Amos with a stern look. "Ah do the hirin' aroun' here, not you. When ah want yer opinion, ah'll ask fer it. Understan'?"
Amos muttered something that might have been a "yessir," and I wondered who the "Wilson's" were. Malley had mentioned them on the way to Day's End, but he hadn't explained much about them.
Then Abe leaned over towards me. "Don't mind him," he said, indicating Amos with a tilt of his head. "Our ma, well, she had a hard time of it when he was born. Sometimes when a kid stays in for too long, he don't get enough air, an'—"
"Abraham!" Malley said, threateningly.
Abe grinned and leaned back in his seat.
Eddie returned to the bunkhouse with a plate piled high with slabs of meat. He chose a piece of and put it on my plate then went around the table and put pieces of meat on each plate. Finally, he served Malley, and then his own empty plate last. Malley’s slab of meat was the largest.
It all looked--and smelled--mouth wateringly divine.
When Eddie finished serving and sat down, Malley looked at Abe and said, "Yer turn."
Everyone else was bowing his head, so I looked down, too. It seemed kind of strange, saying grace in a place like this, but I was in no position to argue.
"Thanks fer th' grub," Abe said. “Amen.”
Short as it was, it seemed to satisfy Malley. And then the hog’s holiday began. Amos made a grab for the spuds while Eddie reached for the carrots. The food wasn't so much passed as snatched out of the hands of the one holding it by the one who wanted it, even though it looked like there should have been plenty to go around. But the plates were piled high—much higher than one would think they needed to be, and by the time I could get the spuds, there wasn't much left, but I did manage to grab a spoonful of carrots before Amos grabbed the rest from me, which in that moment I thought was fine because carrots aren't normally my favorite food.
I would very soon learn how wrong I was..
But apparently, this was one of Malley's rules. The food-fight couldn't start until Eddie was seated and grace was given.
There did seem to be some special consideration for Bart, however. The food wasn't grabbed from him, but he was given the opportunity to finish serving himself from the spuds and carrots and put the spoons back before the bowls of vegetable as and plate of biscuits were snatched up. Otherwise, it seemed to be every man for himself as far as the non-meats were concerned.
After everyone had gotten their food and most had begun to eat Abe reached over and cut Bart's meat into bites.
Interesting.
Malley caught me looking. "Bart don't use knives too well," he explained.
I wondered if Bart was mentally slow or something. But Malley had said before that Bart and his dog were the only true shepherds among his Misfits.
Bart began eating slowly and methodically, not looking up from his plate.
I started in on my spuds. Creamy, smooth, and delicious. I wished I'd been able to grab more of them.
Then I took a bite of the carrots.
Oh, my God! The carrots! They were sweet and buttery and absolutely the best tasting carrots I had ever eaten. I made a moan of pleasure.
"Like the food?" Malley asked knowingly.
"Yessir. Best damn carrots I ever had!" I turned to Eddie. "What did you put in 'em?"
Eddie grinned. He understood my question perfectly, although his thick accent made deciphering the reply a little difficult. "But-air. Sug-air, Maple see-rup. And--" he paused dramatically "--a see-cret."
A secret, huh? I took another bite and chewed it thoughtfully, trying to figure out the secret. Suddenly I had it. "Ginger!" I said. "You put ginger in them!"
Eddie laughed delightedly, apparently happy that I had figured it out and apparently not minding that I had revealed his 'secret.' "Zhin-zhair! But yes! It makes ze taste more special, yes?"
"Oh, yeah!" I agreed. I took another bite and saved the rest to finish my meal with. I always liked to save a bit of my favorite for last.
Then I cut my steak. But as I sank my knife into the meat, red juices flowed out, and I realized that the steak was closer to rare than cooked.
Eddie must have noticed my hesitation. "Eeez wrong?" he asked.
"Ain't your meat okay?" Malley asked.
"Uh," I said. If I lied now, I'd be doomed to eating rare meat as long as I was here. On the other hand, beggars couldn't be choosers, and I was definitely a beggar.
"Eez no good?" Eddie said. He seemed hurt.
"No, no," I said. "I'm sure it's fine. It's just…a little more rare than I'm used to."
"Ya said ya liked it a little pink." Malley reminded me.
"Actually, I meant a little pink the other way, more on the cooked side, but this is fine."
Eddie immediately stood up and reached for my plate. "I feex," he said.
Abe started laughing around the food in his mouth and shook his head at me. "I wouldn't," he warned. He gave his head a toss in the direction of Eddie's plate, where lay a slab of meat as black as midnight. Apparently Eddie the cook either liked his meat extra well-done, or he kept any cooking mistakes for himself rather than serve it to another.
Or maybe Eddie had been deliberately provoking. That thought occurred to me when Eddie lifted his plate, speared his steak, and motioned that he would trade with me, if I wanted. But there was a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips. So I had my choice of nearly raw or burnt to a crisp. If Eddie was being deliberately provoking, I decided I wasn't going to take the bait. Furthermore, I was the new man, so to speak, and it was probably better not to make any trouble if I could help it. "Uh, thanks, but it's fine, really." I said. I shook my head at Eddie and his offer, and forked a large bite into my mouth. As long as it wasn't too contaminated with anything, it should be fine.
"He'll fix it, if ya want him to," Malley said. "Or trade."
I smiled at Eddie. "It's fine." I began cutting the meat, to show that I meant it. Eddie sat back down, but with a doubtful expression. He began cutting into his own meat, and that's when I knew he had deliberately misunderstood what I meant by "a little pink."
Even though the meat was underdone for my normal preference, it nevertheless still tasted wonderful, and I smiled to show my appreciation. "Perfectly seasoned," I said, after searching for something positive to say.
Eddie sat down, and began cutting his own meat. It looked a little tough, but he ate it.
The rest of dinner was finished without further speech, although it was still pretty noisy with the sounds of cutting and eating. All of us were too busy stuffing our mouths to talk, except for Bart, who ate slowly but methodically. I finished every last bite of the steak, leaving only the bone on my plate, and polished off a couple cups of black coffee. Finally I finished up the last bit of the carrots I had saved for last.
Then something strange happened. Bart reached across the table and picked up the bone from my otherwise empty plate. I watched him drop his hand with the bone below the level of the table, then come up empty again. A second later, I heard a crunching sound, and curiosity prompted me to duck my head down to see.
Under the table, at Bart's feet, was a dog. It was mostly black, with brown and white markings. It must have been a mongrel, but it had intelligent eyes, and it looked back at me for a second, then turned its attention back to its bone. All through dinner, it had stayed at Bart's feet with absolute obedience, not making a sound.
I poked my head back up. "What's your dog's name?" I asked Bart. I hoped he spoke English, since I didn't know much Spanish.
Bart didn't answer, didn't even look at me.
"Uh..." I searched my memory for what little Spanish I knew. I was better with German because my grandparents had been German immigrants, but I did know a few Spanish words. "El nombre?"
Bart glanced up to see where I was pointing, down through the table. His eyes lowered again, and after a few seconds, he mumbled, "Perro Pastor." They were the first words I had ever heard him speak.
"That's Spanish for 'Sheep Dog,'" Abe told me. "He speaks English good enough, but he don't always answer right away. Just give him a few seconds."
Malley elaborated. "Perro means ‘dog’ and Pastor is like a preacher, a church ‘pastor,’ a shepherd that watches over his flock. I’m a pastor, too. Not the church kind, but Ah’ve got mah woolies, an’ you all is mah flock, too." He said this with quite a bit of pride, by which I knew that keeing sheep was something akin to a religious profession for Malley. Well, I wasn't overly religious myself, but as long as Malley's “religion” included feeding his workers regular meals, I didn’t mind it so much.
“The Lord is mah shepherd,” Malley added, quoting the 23rd Psalm. “So sheep ranching and shepherding is about the most noble profession there is.”
I tried to think of something to appease Malley and “So Perro Pastor, here, is about the most noble dog there is,” I said. I bent down to look under the table again, and started to extend a hand toward Pastor to rub his ears, but Bart moved his leg between me and his dog protectively.
I sighed and sat back up at the table. Friendly lot, my co-workers.
To change the subject, I looked at my plate with a happy sigh. "That was good," I commented.
Eddie smiled. Apparently he could understand at least enough English to know when he was being complimented.
Eddie stood up, and I assumed that meant the meal was over and it was time to clear the table. I started to stand up, too, and picked up my plate, but Malley looked at me and said, "Don't ya want yer dessert?"
I stared at him. Dessert? Despite the lack of talkativeness among my co-workers, I suddenly thought I must have died and gone to heaven.
Eddie came back, holding a warm apple pie, which he set on the table and cut into six semi-equal pieces. He put the first wedge on Malley's plate—it fell apart a little, being the first piece—then took a wedge for himself and passed the plate along. Apparently the food-fight rules didn't extend to dessert, and each worker took the piece that was next on the dish without fussing.
I ate my pie slowly, savoring every bite and trying to make it last as long as I could. Malley seemed to be watching me with amused eyes, but I didn't care. "Good, huh?" he asked.
"Mr. O'Malley, that's the best meal I've had in a long time," I replied.
"Ah told ya before to can th' 'Mister.'" But Malley leaned back in his chair and grinned. "Ah do enjoy a good steak every now an' then," he said to everyone in general. "Tell ya th' truth, it ain't always a bad thing when they kill one o' mah woolies."
"Huh?" I had no idea what he was talking about.
Abe looked at me with a grin that matched Malley's. "Malley's Rule," he stated, as if that was supposed to make everything make sense.
Amos nodded, seemingly in agreement with his brother for the first time since the meal began. "For every four woolies Wilson's kill, we kill one o' their cows.”
“It’s a fair number,” Malley said. “One woolie’s worth two to four dollars, an’ one cow’s worth ten--or twenty if it gets to a rail yard..”
I stared at him for a moment, realizing the implication of what he was saying, and then I very nearly choked as steak, pie, carrots, spuds, and coffee all vied to see which could climb back up out of my stomach the fastest. The main course for my dinner had been rustled!
"You all right?" Malley asked politely.
So that was my introduction to my new job.
-----
Chapter Two--Day's End
September 3, 1882
Two-Bits may have had the day off, but I sure didn't.
I had a good night's sleep on an actual bunkhouse bed--a nice change from the hard ground--and then was told to take care of the animals in the barn. There was a list of which animals got how much grain and and how much hay and so on, which made things a bit easier. After feeding and watering the barn animals and the chickens, there was a wonderful breakfast of eggs, bacon, and coffee,
Then the real work began.
First, I rubbed down the wooden furniture inside Malley's house with a jar of raw lanolin. His furniture was sturdy hand-made stuff that looked well cared-for. A bed in the parlor for guests, a spinning wheel in the parlor, with all its moving parts that the lanolin lubricated, a couple of tables, and Malley's bed upstairs. The lanolin was dirty brownish-green glop, not like the refined yellow stuff that Ma had occasionally bought at dear cost or that Doc had kept on hand, but it smelled pretty nice anyway. Then I used the same stuff to rub down some tarps that needed waterproofing. Then I used it on the leather tack in the barn, which all looked to be in good shape already, without any dryness or cracks. Malley told me to use it on my old saddle, as well, and by the time I was done, it looked almost new again! He said I should brush off my shoes and use the lanolin on my shoes, too, and even those old things looked like they had been brought back to life!
Next I chopped wood and mended a fence until Malley called me over. Eddie was setting up a fire outside with a big metal tub or cauldron over it, and I had to fetch water for the cauldron by the bucketful until it was filled, while Eddie strung some lines for hanging clothes. Laundry time, it seemed. Then Malley ordered me to go to the sheep pen with him while Eddie tended to the fire.
In the sheep pen, there was a stool and a stump serving as a table, onto which Malley had placed a bowl containing some vile concoction of tar, sulphur, ground tobacco leaves, and I don't know what else. I had to chase the sheep down, one by one, carry it over to the stool, part the wool until I found a place where the parasites had damaged the skin, and spread the concoction over the sores and surrounding areas. By the time I was done, I was just as smelly and dirty as the sheep. Not that I was any too clean before all that.
While I had been tending to the sheep, Eddie had been carrying buckets of water from the cauldron on the fire to a space behind the bunkhouse, where a large washtub had been set up, and refilling the cauldron with cold water from the pump.
Exactly what was behind the bunkhouse became clear when Malley came out of the house carrying some clothes and disappeared behind the bunkhouse, only to come-back out a short time later with wet hair and carrying his dirty clothes, which he dumped into the cauldron/tub over the fire, which Eddie had dumped some soap into. Malley then went to the bunkhouse door and rapped on it before disappearing into his house. Abe emerged from the bunkhouse and likewise disappeared behind it and then reappeared with wet hair, clean clothes on his body, and dirty clothes in his arms that he dumped into the laundry wash tub. Eddie handed me his stick with instructions to "Sweesh," disappeared momentarily into the bunkhouse to get his own clean clothes, and took his turn in the people tub behind the bunkhouse.
As I "sweeshed" the stick around the laundry tub, I wondered how far down in the pecking order I was. But because Amos and Bart were out tending to the sheep where they were grazing, it turned out that I was next after Eddie.
Malley brought out from the house a shirt and pair of pants and pair of knitted wool socks and handed them to me. The shirt and pants were a loan, he told me, just until my own clothes were washed and dried, but I could keep the socks.
The socks are wonderful. I never felt such soft things in my life. No holes, and they look freshly knitted. Home-made, not store-bought.So while the pay may be poor, there re some fringe benefits to my new job. My saddle and shoes were refreshed by the lanolin, I was being well-fed, and my body and clothes were about to get a much-needed wash.
Eddie, meanwhile, had added soap to the hot water over the fire, and had been using a long thick stick that had been whittled clean to swish dirty clothes around in the soapy water, and then left them into the tub of rinse water. There was a hand-crank wringer attached to the rinse tub. There was no sign of a washboard. Evidently, the swishing alone was satisfactory enough to get the worst of the dirt out.
But swishing alone would not be enough to get the encrusted dirt off my own skin. And with the sulphur/tar concoction all over my skin, I was pretty sure I smelled even worse than before. Even though the water was only lukewarm by the time I climbed into the tub, I was never so glad for a bath in my entire life. I scrubbed myself all over, including my hair, as quickly as I dared while still doing a thorough job of it. Much as I would have enjoyed a good long soak, I didn't dare. Not on my first day on the job.
Later, I resolved, I would get my toothbrush that was buried in my medical bag, and give them a good scrubbing, too. And dig out whatever dirt might still be left under my nails after my bath.
When I was done washing myself, I used the drier of the two towels that had been set out to wipe the water off, and put on the borrowed clothes--which were too big for me, but fortunately Malley had included a length of rope with them when he handed them to me, so I used that to tie the pants up at the waist. I rolled up the hems of the pants, shoved my feet in their new soft wool socks back into my shoes, and went back out to the fire and laundry.
Eddie was pulling out some of the wet soapy clothes out of the hot tub using his stick, and transferring them to the rinse tub. When he was done with all the clothes already in the washing cauldron, he nodded to me to dump my dirty clothes in, and he then dunked them in the soapy water using the stick began swishing them in the hot sudsy water. I ran to the bunkhouse and grabbed my only other clothes--another old shirt and even more worn-out pair of pants and the only other pair of socks I owned--which had holes in them--and ran back outside with them hopefully.
Eddie nodded for me to dump them into the tub, too, and began swishing them around with the other clothes. After a while, he used his stick to lift them out of the hot sudsy water and transfer them into the rinse tub. He swished what was in that tub around with his stick, then began lifting them out one by one and cranking them through the wringer. I helped him by draping the clean wet clothes over the lines he had strung up earlier.
By then it was time for Eddie to start working on dinner, so I was left to feed the animals again. Emptying all the tubs would wait until Amos and Bart returned the fields or wherever the sheep were, and had their chance to bathe and get their clothes washed. I was tired and hungry again by the time they returned to find their animals' stalls in fresh shape with their feed bins ready. I gave Two-Bits a kiss on the nose. "Tomorrow," I whispered to her, "we become 'woolly wranglers.'"
Dinner was something of a repeat of yesterday's rustled-steak, but with beans and cornbread instead of those scrumptious carrots. My meat was cooked just the way I wanted, and by this time I'd gotten used to the idea of rustled beef, so I was able to enjoy the mea fullyl as it deserved. And dessert, again, too! This time, a peach cobbler, made with peaches that had been canned earlier in the summer.
Oh, yes, there were definitely some advantages to the new job!
Later, after Amos and Bart had had their baths, we all helped to empty the tubs away from the buildings, and Abe and Malley went out on "night patrol."
September 3, 1882
Two-Bits may have had the day off, but I sure didn't.
I had a good night's sleep on an actual bunkhouse bed--a nice change from the hard ground--and then was told to take care of the animals in the barn. There was a list of which animals got how much grain and and how much hay and so on, which made things a bit easier. After feeding and watering the barn animals and the chickens, there was a wonderful breakfast of eggs, bacon, and coffee,
Then the real work began.
First, I rubbed down the wooden furniture inside Malley's house with a jar of raw lanolin. His furniture was sturdy hand-made stuff that looked well cared-for. A bed in the parlor for guests, a spinning wheel in the parlor, with all its moving parts that the lanolin lubricated, a couple of tables, and Malley's bed upstairs. The lanolin was dirty brownish-green glop, not like the refined yellow stuff that Ma had occasionally bought at dear cost or that Doc had kept on hand, but it smelled pretty nice anyway. Then I used the same stuff to rub down some tarps that needed waterproofing. Then I used it on the leather tack in the barn, which all looked to be in good shape already, without any dryness or cracks. Malley told me to use it on my old saddle, as well, and by the time I was done, it looked almost new again! He said I should brush off my shoes and use the lanolin on my shoes, too, and even those old things looked like they had been brought back to life!
Next I chopped wood and mended a fence until Malley called me over. Eddie was setting up a fire outside with a big metal tub or cauldron over it, and I had to fetch water for the cauldron by the bucketful until it was filled, while Eddie strung some lines for hanging clothes. Laundry time, it seemed. Then Malley ordered me to go to the sheep pen with him while Eddie tended to the fire.
In the sheep pen, there was a stool and a stump serving as a table, onto which Malley had placed a bowl containing some vile concoction of tar, sulphur, ground tobacco leaves, and I don't know what else. I had to chase the sheep down, one by one, carry it over to the stool, part the wool until I found a place where the parasites had damaged the skin, and spread the concoction over the sores and surrounding areas. By the time I was done, I was just as smelly and dirty as the sheep. Not that I was any too clean before all that.
While I had been tending to the sheep, Eddie had been carrying buckets of water from the cauldron on the fire to a space behind the bunkhouse, where a large washtub had been set up, and refilling the cauldron with cold water from the pump.
Exactly what was behind the bunkhouse became clear when Malley came out of the house carrying some clothes and disappeared behind the bunkhouse, only to come-back out a short time later with wet hair and carrying his dirty clothes, which he dumped into the cauldron/tub over the fire, which Eddie had dumped some soap into. Malley then went to the bunkhouse door and rapped on it before disappearing into his house. Abe emerged from the bunkhouse and likewise disappeared behind it and then reappeared with wet hair, clean clothes on his body, and dirty clothes in his arms that he dumped into the laundry wash tub. Eddie handed me his stick with instructions to "Sweesh," disappeared momentarily into the bunkhouse to get his own clean clothes, and took his turn in the people tub behind the bunkhouse.
As I "sweeshed" the stick around the laundry tub, I wondered how far down in the pecking order I was. But because Amos and Bart were out tending to the sheep where they were grazing, it turned out that I was next after Eddie.
Malley brought out from the house a shirt and pair of pants and pair of knitted wool socks and handed them to me. The shirt and pants were a loan, he told me, just until my own clothes were washed and dried, but I could keep the socks.
The socks are wonderful. I never felt such soft things in my life. No holes, and they look freshly knitted. Home-made, not store-bought.So while the pay may be poor, there re some fringe benefits to my new job. My saddle and shoes were refreshed by the lanolin, I was being well-fed, and my body and clothes were about to get a much-needed wash.
Eddie, meanwhile, had added soap to the hot water over the fire, and had been using a long thick stick that had been whittled clean to swish dirty clothes around in the soapy water, and then left them into the tub of rinse water. There was a hand-crank wringer attached to the rinse tub. There was no sign of a washboard. Evidently, the swishing alone was satisfactory enough to get the worst of the dirt out.
But swishing alone would not be enough to get the encrusted dirt off my own skin. And with the sulphur/tar concoction all over my skin, I was pretty sure I smelled even worse than before. Even though the water was only lukewarm by the time I climbed into the tub, I was never so glad for a bath in my entire life. I scrubbed myself all over, including my hair, as quickly as I dared while still doing a thorough job of it. Much as I would have enjoyed a good long soak, I didn't dare. Not on my first day on the job.
Later, I resolved, I would get my toothbrush that was buried in my medical bag, and give them a good scrubbing, too. And dig out whatever dirt might still be left under my nails after my bath.
When I was done washing myself, I used the drier of the two towels that had been set out to wipe the water off, and put on the borrowed clothes--which were too big for me, but fortunately Malley had included a length of rope with them when he handed them to me, so I used that to tie the pants up at the waist. I rolled up the hems of the pants, shoved my feet in their new soft wool socks back into my shoes, and went back out to the fire and laundry.
Eddie was pulling out some of the wet soapy clothes out of the hot tub using his stick, and transferring them to the rinse tub. When he was done with all the clothes already in the washing cauldron, he nodded to me to dump my dirty clothes in, and he then dunked them in the soapy water using the stick began swishing them in the hot sudsy water. I ran to the bunkhouse and grabbed my only other clothes--another old shirt and even more worn-out pair of pants and the only other pair of socks I owned--which had holes in them--and ran back outside with them hopefully.
Eddie nodded for me to dump them into the tub, too, and began swishing them around with the other clothes. After a while, he used his stick to lift them out of the hot sudsy water and transfer them into the rinse tub. He swished what was in that tub around with his stick, then began lifting them out one by one and cranking them through the wringer. I helped him by draping the clean wet clothes over the lines he had strung up earlier.
By then it was time for Eddie to start working on dinner, so I was left to feed the animals again. Emptying all the tubs would wait until Amos and Bart returned the fields or wherever the sheep were, and had their chance to bathe and get their clothes washed. I was tired and hungry again by the time they returned to find their animals' stalls in fresh shape with their feed bins ready. I gave Two-Bits a kiss on the nose. "Tomorrow," I whispered to her, "we become 'woolly wranglers.'"
Dinner was something of a repeat of yesterday's rustled-steak, but with beans and cornbread instead of those scrumptious carrots. My meat was cooked just the way I wanted, and by this time I'd gotten used to the idea of rustled beef, so I was able to enjoy the mea fullyl as it deserved. And dessert, again, too! This time, a peach cobbler, made with peaches that had been canned earlier in the summer.
Oh, yes, there were definitely some advantages to the new job!
Later, after Amos and Bart had had their baths, we all helped to empty the tubs away from the buildings, and Abe and Malley went out on "night patrol."
-----
Chapter Three--"Patrol"
September 4, 1882
Malley sent Two-Bits and me out on "patrol" with Abe.
I like Abe. He is a Negro and ugly as sin, but he is really a pretty nice guy. He showed me the ropes--the lay of the land and looking after the woolies. The main predators to watch out for are wolves, coyotes, wild dogs, and the Wilson crew. The Wilson's are the neighboring cattlemen, and they hate sheep. They apparently think that sheep ruin the grazing land, even though Malley's sheep generally range the rougher lands, the more hillier parts of the hill country. They just harass the Misfits and woollies on general principle, not for any real reason. The most problematic times dealing with the Wilson's are deadline crossings, but they had been known to kill the odd wooly out of spite. When that happened, the Misfits made sure that a stray steer or two never found its way back to its herd. The sheriff was aware of the conflict between the two groups, but until he had any real "proof" of misdoing, he felt like he couldn't do much.
Apparently, it was after a particularly nasty period of harassment that Johnny's predecessor, a Misfit named "Joe" had decided that his interests were better served elsewhere. Apparently the Wilson's had caught Joe alone, and had given him a beating. Malley wasn't angry at Joe's leaving. He gave Joe an extra month's pay and wished him well, but it left Malley somewhat short-handed--a problem that would hopefully be solved with Johnny's arrival.
Malley did things a lot differently than most sheep outfits. In most outfits, the shepherds stayed with the flock, camping with them and living with them. But Malley's outfit was small, and his grazing lands were in Hill Country. So Malley brought his shepherds in for meals and rotated them, so that whoever was out at night was always fresh and alert. Sometimes, if there was heavy rains and for the time afterwards when flash floods might be a danger, the shepherds had standing orders to return to home-base until the flood danger was past. The woolies were on their own, in such cases, but most of the predators had better sense than to be out in such conditions. Bart had been caught out once when the creek had risen to the point where it was dangerous to cross, but Malley made sure that the patrols always had a couple days worth of food and a couple of waterproof tarps. Bart and his dog had kept the sheep away from the dangerous areas, and Malley hadn't lost a single animal.
"Why does Malley call it 'Patrol'?" I asked.
"I think he was in the army," Abe answered.
"Which side?"
"He doesn't say, but it may have been the Union."
After that, we got to talking about the War. I told Abe about my parents' experience with a small group of "impressment agents" who showed up at our farm in search of food and supplies. My folks were worried that they would take Pa, too, but Pa--who was German-born but spoke fluent English--pretended not to. understand anything they said, and only spoke in German when they were there. My Ma said nothing, but coughed with great frequency, as if she was sick. I was really small then, and Ma had warned me when they first arrived to say absolutely nothing. They took what food we didn't have hidden away, but they didn't take Pa, maybe because they thought someone who apparently didn't speak English was totally useless, and they left Ma alone. I didn't understand why Ma had been coughing until much later, when Pa explained that no one would want to rape a sick woman on the chance that they might become sick, too. We lost some animals, too, but on the whole, we got off easier than some. Pa wasn't sure that they were genuine impression agents, but might have been thugs who were just impersonating impression agents.
Doc had been in the War, as an army doctor, for the Union, but he didn't talk much about it, except to say that he had had his fill of amputating arms and legs and watching soldiers of all ages die, including some who were younger than me. A 'damn waste,' he called it.
Abe had some War stories, too. His parents had been slaves in Virginia. His Pa had been considered an "uppity" slave, so he had been whipped and sold to another owner before the War. After a few years, Abe's Pa was conscripted by the Confederate army, not to fight, but to do grueling work for a unit that was sent to Gettysburg. He took advantage of the chaos of the battle to escape behind Union lines. When the War was over and slavery was officially abolished, Abe's Pa returned to the plantation where he had been enslaved to look for his Ma, only to find that Abe and his Ma had been sold to another plantation in North Carolina, where his Ma was to be a "breeder." It took some time for Abe's Pa to find her, but find her he eventually did. Abe was still with her, having been too young yet for much manual labor, but by that time, she had given birth another child that wasn't his Pa's. That child was Amos.
September 4, 1882
Malley sent Two-Bits and me out on "patrol" with Abe.
I like Abe. He is a Negro and ugly as sin, but he is really a pretty nice guy. He showed me the ropes--the lay of the land and looking after the woolies. The main predators to watch out for are wolves, coyotes, wild dogs, and the Wilson crew. The Wilson's are the neighboring cattlemen, and they hate sheep. They apparently think that sheep ruin the grazing land, even though Malley's sheep generally range the rougher lands, the more hillier parts of the hill country. They just harass the Misfits and woollies on general principle, not for any real reason. The most problematic times dealing with the Wilson's are deadline crossings, but they had been known to kill the odd wooly out of spite. When that happened, the Misfits made sure that a stray steer or two never found its way back to its herd. The sheriff was aware of the conflict between the two groups, but until he had any real "proof" of misdoing, he felt like he couldn't do much.
Apparently, it was after a particularly nasty period of harassment that Johnny's predecessor, a Misfit named "Joe" had decided that his interests were better served elsewhere. Apparently the Wilson's had caught Joe alone, and had given him a beating. Malley wasn't angry at Joe's leaving. He gave Joe an extra month's pay and wished him well, but it left Malley somewhat short-handed--a problem that would hopefully be solved with Johnny's arrival.
Malley did things a lot differently than most sheep outfits. In most outfits, the shepherds stayed with the flock, camping with them and living with them. But Malley's outfit was small, and his grazing lands were in Hill Country. So Malley brought his shepherds in for meals and rotated them, so that whoever was out at night was always fresh and alert. Sometimes, if there was heavy rains and for the time afterwards when flash floods might be a danger, the shepherds had standing orders to return to home-base until the flood danger was past. The woolies were on their own, in such cases, but most of the predators had better sense than to be out in such conditions. Bart had been caught out once when the creek had risen to the point where it was dangerous to cross, but Malley made sure that the patrols always had a couple days worth of food and a couple of waterproof tarps. Bart and his dog had kept the sheep away from the dangerous areas, and Malley hadn't lost a single animal.
"Why does Malley call it 'Patrol'?" I asked.
"I think he was in the army," Abe answered.
"Which side?"
"He doesn't say, but it may have been the Union."
After that, we got to talking about the War. I told Abe about my parents' experience with a small group of "impressment agents" who showed up at our farm in search of food and supplies. My folks were worried that they would take Pa, too, but Pa--who was German-born but spoke fluent English--pretended not to. understand anything they said, and only spoke in German when they were there. My Ma said nothing, but coughed with great frequency, as if she was sick. I was really small then, and Ma had warned me when they first arrived to say absolutely nothing. They took what food we didn't have hidden away, but they didn't take Pa, maybe because they thought someone who apparently didn't speak English was totally useless, and they left Ma alone. I didn't understand why Ma had been coughing until much later, when Pa explained that no one would want to rape a sick woman on the chance that they might become sick, too. We lost some animals, too, but on the whole, we got off easier than some. Pa wasn't sure that they were genuine impression agents, but might have been thugs who were just impersonating impression agents.
Doc had been in the War, as an army doctor, for the Union, but he didn't talk much about it, except to say that he had had his fill of amputating arms and legs and watching soldiers of all ages die, including some who were younger than me. A 'damn waste,' he called it.
Abe had some War stories, too. His parents had been slaves in Virginia. His Pa had been considered an "uppity" slave, so he had been whipped and sold to another owner before the War. After a few years, Abe's Pa was conscripted by the Confederate army, not to fight, but to do grueling work for a unit that was sent to Gettysburg. He took advantage of the chaos of the battle to escape behind Union lines. When the War was over and slavery was officially abolished, Abe's Pa returned to the plantation where he had been enslaved to look for his Ma, only to find that Abe and his Ma had been sold to another plantation in North Carolina, where his Ma was to be a "breeder." It took some time for Abe's Pa to find her, but find her he eventually did. Abe was still with her, having been too young yet for much manual labor, but by that time, she had given birth another child that wasn't his Pa's. That child was Amos.
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Chapter Four--"Title"
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Chapter Five--"Title"
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Chapter Six--"Title"
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Chapter Seven--"Title"
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Chapter Eight--"Title"
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Chapter Nine--"Title"
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Chapter Ten--"Title"
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Chapter Eleven--"Title"
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Chapter Twelve--"Title"
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Chapter Thirteen--"Title"
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Chapter Fourteen--"Title"
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Chapter Fourteen --"Title"
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Chapter Fourteen=="Title"
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Chapter Fifteen--"Title"
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Chapter Sixteen--"Title"
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Chapter Seventeen--"Title"
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Chapter Eighteen--"Title"
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Chapter Nineteen--"Title"
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Chapter Twenty--"Title"
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Chapter Twenty-One--"Title"
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Chapter Twenty-Two--"Title"
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