Read an Excerpt
Can't Hobble the Elephant
By FRANK DUTCH Abbott Press
Copyright © 2013 Francis J Dutch
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-1227-6
CHAPTER 1
Trail's End: Watered-Down Liquor and Liquored-Up Women
The massive bartender roared in anger. "Hijo de tu puta madre." The loud, irate curse was instantly followed by his heavily accented and somewhat flawed English translation: "You stinking son of a mother bitch."
The noxious brute was absolutely enraged when he failed to crush the cowboy's head with his assault. The dastardly strike at the unsuspecting wrangler was swift and powerful, a blow certainly meant for murder. However, it missed the targeted kill-spot. The heavy wooden club landed just above the brim on the right side of the rider's faded brown Stetson instead.
Instantly, blood soaked through the hat's sun-bleached felt fabric and trickled down the cowboy's scrawny neck. The bartender missed only because the victim, just an instant before the bludgeon zoomed through the air, had turned and taken two small steps away from the bar. That unexpected, sudden movement was the ill-fated cowboy's attempt at a polite salute to the tavern owner in gratitude for the free whiskey he'd just poured.
"Hijo de tu puta madre," he said once more, the words erupting from his massive distorted mouth, followed again by his faulty translation: "You stinking son of a mother bitch."
A second strike aimed at the victim's head missed completely. The deadly weapon crashed against the warped wooden bar and resounded with a deafening thud that echoed loudly through the large, dimly lit room.
The vicious bartender's second attack had been unnecessary. His innocent prey had already been traumatized into a stupor by the first powerful blow.
The bloodied, defenseless cowboy staggered farther away from the bar. His tremulous steps took him in the direction of a brashly dressed woman. Even through his concussion-produced confusion, the cowboy could see she was smiling and had one arm extended, seemingly beckoning him to safety.
The gaudy female was holding something bright in her right hand, perhaps another free whisky drink. In his disoriented state, Isaac Price felt he'd made it out of harm's way. After all, she was a woman, and she was smiling.
* * *
Several weeks earlier, on the night before the cattle drive was to start, some of the younger drivers settled down in a far corner of the bunkhouse for some chatter and a confidence-building snort or two. Shorty Wills, a ripe, boozy old cowboy who now only did odd jobs around the ranch, joined the youthful group. Shorty knew he would find absolutely no welcome among the veteran riders.
The aged souse waited patiently for a lull in the banter to take the speaker's stage. With a nasty grin on his gnarled, repulsive face, he began. "Now, you young fellows, let me tell you a few things about the life of a real wrangler."
After a couple of extremely detailed smutty stories about his past romantic adventures with the most beautiful and repulsively flexible women, the aged boozer proclaimed, "Now I wants to tell you about the pleasure of riding herd."
The old rider stood up and looked each member of his young audience in the face in turn, flexing his pathetically thin torso as if preparing for some challenging athletic exploit, and began. "Without a doubt, the happiest time in my life was spending eleven to twelve hours a day, for weeks on end, sitting in a saddle while driving cattle on the Chisholm Trail."
With another ridiculous muscular flex and a broad, nauseating smile, Shorty said, "It made me what I am today."
The young drivers winced in unison as they stared at the boozy cowboy. Was this miserable wretch who stood grinning toothlessly before them the result of spending all that time in the blasted saddle? As if rehearsed, they all responded simultaneously, saying, "Shit."
Ignoring the critical rejoinder, and with the floor still his, Shorty, his grimy hat over his heart and his dirty right hand thrust into the air, swore. "One summer night on the trail, I done heard a pack of desert coyotes singing. But listen up, you fellows. They wasn't just singing; these coyotes was howling and yelping in absolute perfect harmony. You'll never guess the song them desert dogs was a-singing."
After a short, theatrical moment of silence, Shorty answered his own question, 'Camp town Races.' Yes indeed, they was a'singing 'Camp town Races.'"
The young men, who had smiled and giggled and elbowed their closest companion at Shorty's smutty stories, looked at one another in astonishment. They suddenly realized that his comments about his romantic interludes, the brush wolves' symphony, and the pure ecstasy of herding cattle were all enormous helpings of some alcohol-induced mental deficiency. As one of the youthful wranglers said, "Old Shorty has got to be the biggest bullshitter in the whole damn state of Texas."
A coyote in recital aside, the matter-of-fact truth is that a cattle drive—in most cases—is a long, arduous time in close contact with noisy, foul-smelling, four-legged fart factories. Besides the rank odor, the cantankerous, nasty cattle just don't give one damn about where the wranglers want them to go. In fact, it seems the livestock always want to go that way when the drive is headed this way.
Regrettably, the two-legged members on the drive don't bring much comfort to the undertaking. As the days go by, the riders become more and more trail-ripe, ornery, and bad-tempered. Furthermore, they get to smelling even worse than the longhorns. Almost to a man, they become royal pains in one another's already saddle-sore posteriors. Besides, unlike the cattle, the cowboys never miss an opportunity to tell each other just where to go, and it's not north or south.
This particular drive was more difficult than most. It was a virtual Hades on horseback. Every hand got a good taste of the endless tortures awaiting lost souls in the nether region. It was almost enough to turn the riders to religion—almost.
It seemed that every flea, greenhead fly, and fire ant in Texas traveled along with the cattle and joyfully satiated their blood lust on the suffering cowboys. Now, when you combine the infernal insect bites and the all-over, everywhere dust with 1,500 of the most ill-tempered, obstinate longhorns ever assembled, you can understand why the cattle drive from San Angelo was so bone-tiring difficult and seemed so frustratingly long.
The men from the New Jerusalem ranch were predictably ready for some recreation at trail's end. The riders were mighty thirsty for something with more kick than Amos Pennwoody's coffee, and they were, above all, hungry for the pleasures of the feminine variety. The watered-down liquor and the liquored-up women of Sugar Tap, Texas, would do just fine.
Some of the older riders, however, secretly wished for a long, long time in a comfortable, soft chair before going through the required bound-for-hell rituals. Obviously, they wouldn't admit to that for fear they might lose the respect of the crew.
The young, hot-blooded wranglers, conversely, were eager to lose any and all of their social and ethical principles. However, none of the cowboys, young or old, ever expected to lose good old Isaac Price.
CHAPTER 2
Watch Your Step in Sugar Tap
The experienced hands knew Sugar Tap was one authentically corrupt, coldhearted town. They emphatically cautioned the young riders, saying, "Don't let the charming name fool you for one little minute! Sugar Tap is a real putrid cesspool."
The settlement—town is really too generous a description—was just a collection of enormous, fetid stockyards bordered by thirty or so shoddy, weathered buildings and anchored by a depot of the Missouri-Kansas-Texas railroad. There was no question about it; even at its very best, Sugar Tap was downright repellant.
Nevertheless, after the cattle drive through Lucifer's living room, almost any place other than one covered with dust and infested by ravenous insects was an improvement. Leastways, that was what the New Jerusalem cowboys assumed.
Almost all of the local Sugar Tap inhabitants were of questionable morality, or at least ethically neutral. And as for the general aroma, well, it was said that a deep breath could singe the hair in your nose and leave pus-oozing blisters in your lungs.
Except for the exaggerated claims on the effects of the town's peculiar fragrance, the plain truth was that just about the only nice thing concerning the whole dreadful place was the syrupy name. Nearly everything else was either loathsome or illicit, and sometimes both. In most cases it was as hazardous as a scattering of loose rocks on a steep mountain trail. A stranger had better watch his step in Sugar Tap, Texas.
The only business in town that didn't directly involve livestock or trade in alcohol, gambling, and the services of fancy women was Homer Ballard's general store. In the late afternoon, when the store closed for the day, Sugar Tap said good-bye to what little bit of civility existed and said a colossal, raucous hello to debauchery and all his nasty brothers and shameful sisters.
Not long after the general store closed each day, the few semi decent town folk were all warily hunkered down behind bolted doors and shuttered windows. It was time for them to start fervently praying for at least a somewhat peaceful night. Unfortunately, their heavenward petitions were seldom answered.
On the other hand, around the time the general store closed, most of the other Sugar Tap inhabitants were enjoying their pleasures in whatever place catered to their specific appetites. Those cravings usually covered breaking all Ten Commandments and probably every acknowledged law in the country in every possible perverse combination.
On that particular day, it seemed that virtually everyone, decent or depraved; who had somewhere to go was already there. And except for a witless, scruffy dog twirling endlessly round and round trying to chew his own tail, there was only one other lone figure to be seen. A tall, slender young man was walking hastily across the narrow dirt lane toward a fateful encounter.
Upon arriving at his destination, the lean cowboy paused cautiously before the ominous doorway. His slender thumb quickly traced a sign of the cross over the thin leather strap securing the polished holster to his leg. Then, slowly, he pushed against the saloon's grimy swinging door, halted again, and peered anxiously into the depths of corruption—the Broken Nose Rose saloon.
The foul den, appearing ominously before him, emitted a mute warning to the trim, young wrangler. Suddenly, Josh O'Donnell felt that damp, foreboding chill across his back and the minuscule twitch of his trigger finger that he had experienced so many times before. Those warning signs hinted that something terribly dangerous could be waiting for him in that eerie, wretched place.
Danger aside, the Broken Nose was the last place left to look. If Josh couldn't find Isaac in there, the crew would have to ride back to camp without him. The young cowboy wasn't about to allow that to happen without making this final search. "I ain't leaving town without Isaac."
The rest of the New Jerusalem crew was still poking around double-checking other places, and Josh felt uneasy about waiting any longer. He decided to make this search on his own.
The Broken Nose Rose was far and away the worst of the four notorious Sugar Tap saloons. The ill-famed Broken Nose was asylum for the most despoiled, muck-ugly women and the most dreadfully unscrupulous men in town. That was saying a good deal, since Sugar Tap was a place where the fancy women were usually more perilous than pleasing and loathsome men were in more than abundant supply.
Josh had been forewarned and knew the Broken Nose could be risky, maybe even fateful, for any outsider entering alone.
"Have your pleasures anywhere but that blasted, rotten Broken Nose. And don't be paying heed to that free drink offer. You'll end up paying more than you want to for everything you get in that god-awful place." That was ranch boss Wayne Dunphy's urgent caution as he handed his impatient New Jerusalem riders their hard-earned pay.
Wayne Dunphy had grown a little overweight and a tad bit slower in his fifty-two years. Nonetheless, he was still as strong as a pair of prime packhorses, and quick enough to do what needed to be done and then some. Relentless prairie wind and blistering sun had battered, baked, and furrowed his once splendidly smooth face. Nevertheless, in defiance of his age and the damaging effects of the West Texas climate, the big man's large head was still richly covered with thick, straight black hair. Surprisingly, in contrast to the rich, dark mane, his broad, flat face was garlanded with luxuriant, curly white sideburns, from just above his noticeably large ears down to his strong, square chin line.
Ranch boss Wayne Dunphy was as hard as a winter stay in a high-country line shack and about as decent a man as you could find in all of Texas. When Dunphy spoke, most reasonable men listened.
"Stay out of the Broken Nose."
CHAPTER 3
Searching For Isaac
In sharp contrast to the impressive ranch boss, sad-eyed Isaac Price, Josh O'Donnell's missing friend, was smallish, homely, and unimposing. And while Isaac wasn't exactly a hard-core liar, he did sorely love to inflate the truth, especially about his adventures in the late war.
The undersized wrangler was a downright amusing man to listen to and without a doubt the most picturesque prevaricator that Josh had ever known. Still, Isaac's tendency to verbal adornment often made it difficult to know just when he was really telling the truth. Over time, however, Josh discovered the secret of detecting Isaac's fact from falsehood. Oddly, the more cuss words the old wrangler incorporated into any story, the more likely it was that the tale was approaching honesty. It seems that Isaac just couldn't restrain his curses and lie at the same time.
To make a point, Isaac's stories about his involuntary seven-month stay on Pea Patch Island and the notorious Yankee prison Fort Delaware were absolutely jam-packed with the most venomous swear words imaginable, plus a string or two of the utterly unimaginable. Josh personally knew something about Fort Delaware, and while he had never been a prisoner there, he understood it was a place completely deserving Isaac's rancorous expletives.
Josh thought it was downright inspirational to hear Isaac's yarns, especially on the rare occasion when he used his full inventory of coarseness. Still, even with all of his fiery oratory, the windy old man was as harmless as an adolescent bull just starting to feel his vigor—all snort and hoof stomping but no horns.
Isaac was saving to buy his own place—an undertaking he'd been working on diligently since right after the war ended for him in January 1864. Moreover, outside of his truth stretching and the doubtful honor of being the world's most proficient and horrid smelling ass-bugler, Isaac had only one truly bad habit, and that was toting his life savings with him wherever he went.
Josh and his fellow riders had repeatedly warned Isaac of his folly. "Some mean polecat is gonna sneak up alongside your nasty, little head with a big, ugly rock and steal all the filthy Yankee money you is carrying around."
Isaac heard that message—emphasized with various levels of intensity, descriptive obscenities, and weapon selection—over and over again. But the obstinate old cowboy insisted on being close to his treasured hoard.
Josh had frequently mimicked his old friend's unhurried, mellow Georgia accent and his nightly lament. "I just needs to hitch my horse to my own post. That ain't too much for an old, washed-out cowboy to ask, is it?"
After that beseeching pronouncement, Isaac, in a confused, mumbling chant, with enormous difficulty, would dutifully count his hard-earned nest egg. The last number was always a loud, clear burst of relief for the undersized wrangler's struggle with his mathematical challenge and also anyone within hearing distance of the incessant, mumbling clatter.
Several of the ranch hands would even count along with Isaac's faltering mental calisthenics just to keep him on track. This past month the last figure was 246 dollars, a mighty sum for a simple, rag-sack ranch hand.
There was one other trivial thing concerning Isaac Price, and that was his considerably frugal disposition. When questioned about Isaac's tightfisted nature, Wayne Dunphy would say, "That cheap-ass Isaac can squeeze a silver coin into a mile-long shiny thread."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Can't Hobble the Elephant by FRANK DUTCH. Copyright © 2013 Francis J Dutch. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press.
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