Crossing Texas
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The ShootistChapter 7: "Crossing Texas" free porn video
Mr. Rogers asked me to hang around until the end of the month, and I was agreeable to that. When I was ready to leave, he paid me my $500 in monthly wages and my $500 bonus. Jesse Maddox had died two days before, so Mr. Rogers felt that he and his wife were safe enough. When I left, that 217 white face Hereford herd was still on Bar 59 property, but I figured that it was none of my business.
I heard about a year later that Mr. Rogers had sold out to an Englishman only three weeks after I had left and had moved to El Paso. I also heard that Jake Holbein had quit as foreman and left the ranch when Mr. Rogers did. There was some talk about Jake and five cowpokes showing up about a month later at the railhead with a small herd of white face Herefords that he sold. I did not know whether to believe that rumor or not, so I forgot about it.
Well, here I was out of a job, but not hurting for money. The first thing I did after leaving the Bar 59 was to go back to that first whorehouse I had visited in El Paso and negotiate a week's stay there. It cost me $10, but it was worth it for a number of reasons. The main one was that, even as young and healthy as I was, a full week of a free run at a whorehouse was more than my body could stand. That was a stiff and heady lesson for a 15 year old boy to learn, but well worth the effort!
There was nothing to keep me in El Paso once I had worn myself out at that there whorehouse, but I had no immediate prospects for another job. I figured what The Twin Oaks Kid needed to do was to run up a reputation. To do that, I really needed to move back where there were more people so I could get noticed. With that in mind, I decided to head east toward Fort Worth and Dallas. I might even go as far as the Gulf. I had always wanted to see that much water as soon as I heard about it. Galveston might have something to offer.
There were few towns of any size between El Paso and Central Texas, so I figured to save myself some trouble by taking the stagecoach through that empty part of Texas. Hell, it would take me something like five or six weeks on horseback to cover the same distance that a stagecoach would cover in less than a week. Of course, that was before I knew just how a long trip on a stagecoach could shake up a man's innards. I had worked for a stage line for the better part of a year, but I had never taken a long trip in one. Man, was I in for a surprise!
In blissful ignorance, I bought a ticket from El Paso to the end of this line. There I would be able to connect with another stage company to continue my journey. No women were riding with us, so I was assured of a pleasant ride. With no women, we could smoke cigars and chew tobacco, cuss and fart to our heart's content. We might even play some poker if we were so inclined.
I settled in next to the window on the driver's side and figured that I had a reasonably soft and comfortable seat for this leg of my journey. I had taken off my spurs so that I could prop my feet up on the opposite seat. There was only one other passenger, and he looked reasonable, so I was looking forward to a right joyful trip.
That delusion was shaken out of my head as soon as we cleared El Paso. The driver was intent on getting the maximum speed that he could manage from his six mules, and it seemed like we fairly flew over the ground. We had to be going over 15 miles per hour, and I hoped that driver knew what he was doing.
We cleared the town and the bouncing started. When we went around that first curve in the road, the coach leaned over enough that I thought that we were going to tip over. The angle was enough that the man sitting beside me nearly wound up in my lap, and he swallowed his chaw of tobacco. I do not indulge in it, myself, but I never had any reason to fault a man if he wanted to chew. However, the shock of swallowing that mess of tobacco in his mouth made him vomit all over the floor of the coach. Thank God, he missed me, but it sure raised a stink whenever we slowed down as we went uphill.
A couple of miles farther on, he started to put another plug of tobacco in his mouth, but I stopped him. I emphasized my point by putting my hand on one of my guns. He took the hint, and everything went as well as could be expected after that.
After a couple of miles of bouncing and swinging side to side, I started to feel kind of crazy in my stomach department. My head started to swim around, and I had to strain not to throw up what I had eaten for breakfast. Dammit, if I would of had any choice in the matter, I would of had the driver stop and put me out of the coach. As it was, I abandoned the coach at the first relay station and swore that I would never ride in one again.
I lost the money that I had invested in my ticket, but I did not care by then. It turned out that the relay station master was familiar with this kind of sickness that I was suffering from and had a little business of his own going on the side. He kept a few horses and tack around to sell to passengers who were not able to take the stagecoach's riding conditions. I bought a horse and tack, and paid about three times what they were worth, but I was so glad to get out of that torture machine that I did not care. I was just grateful to be back on a horse again!
Ah! Life was worth living, again! Being back on a horse was so much better than being trapped inside that damned stagecoach that I vowed never to go anywhere again without my horse. Of course, I had not yet tried a train.
The problem I had with the horse riding was those damned fall winds! Enough dust and sand was kicked up that I had to wrap a bandana around the horse's face to keep the sand out of his eyes. He was not happy with that, but it was better than the alternative. I had the same problem, and there were times when I had to stop to try to find shelter from the sand. It was one of these times when I met Jonas Hopkins.
Mr. Hopkins was trying to find shelter under his overturned buckboard when I first saw the accident. The wind had blown so hard in a surprise gust that his buckboard had been flipped over, and he had been dumped onto the ground. His frightened horse had broken loose from the wagon and run away, God only knew where!
In the process of the fall, Mr. Hopkins suffered a sprained ankle and was in considerable pain when I found him. We were stuck under that buckboard for almost three hours before the wind calmed down enough for me and my horse to get the wagon turned back over on its wheels and the wagon bed reloaded with the few packages Mr. Hopkins was bringing home from town.
I loaded him into the wagon and used my rope to fashion a way for my horse to pull the buckboard while I rode the horse. The setup was uncomfortable for all concerned, but we managed to get to the Lazy H ranch house before we all gave up in disgust. I would have ridden on toward the next town, but Mrs. Hopkins offered me supper, and there was no way I could refuse such a generous offer.
Mr. Hopkins was 53 years old, ancient by my standards, and Mrs. Hopkins was not far behind him, though she would not say exactly how much. Anyway, the meal was excellent and I spent the night in the bunkhouse along with the four ranch hands what worked for the Lazy H.
The next morning I ate a wonderful breakfast and was getting ready to leave when a hand I had not met came bursting in with news of rustlers. Every one of the men, including Mr. Hopkins with his sprained ankle, saddled up to chase the rustlers. Courtesy demanded that I join in the chase, so I dropped my small pack of possibles and joined in the defense of the ranch.
Pansy
- 02.04.2020
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