Horseman, Pass By by Larry McMurtry

  “What you gonna do?” I said finally. “Just sit home?”

  “I get me a job someplace,” she said. “I’m gonna take a trip, de first thing. I spect I go see my sistah in Oklahoma City. Might just stay up dere an’ work.”

  Every day the Trailways Bus stopped in Thalia, and it had Oklahoma City on the sign in front of it. But to me it was just another of those unseen towns down the highway, a place where some roads ended and others began. I couldn’t imagine Halmea living there.

  I pulled up in front of the little unpainted house where her aunt lived, and helped her carry the few bags and boxes up to the porch. Her aunt was in the side yard, hoeing her garden; she was chopping the tomato plants along with the goat-heads and weeds. She was so blind and deaf she didn’t even notice us all the time we were moving the boxes.

  “Ain’t she a sight,” Halmea said. “She choppin’ dem pea vines like dey wus weeds.” She stood on the steps, and I stood below her in the brown, clean-swept yard, my hands empty. She kept fiddling with the belt on her blue-and-white dress.

  “You tell you grandpa I sholy sorry to leave,” she said. “Specially to leave so quick like. But I just needs to go. Help him out, he gettin’ old an’ feeble now. He your job all de time.” She seemed so blue and sad, and I knew she wished I’d go on home; but I was choked up and I hated to leave. “You get into town, why, come an see me,” she said. “You be welcome.”

  “When you leavin’?” I asked.

  “Leavin’ where?” she said.

  “To go to Oklahoma City.”

  “Oh lawdy,” she said, “I just said dat. I may not go anywhere. An’ den I may. I be here awhile.” She grinned a puffy grin at me and stepped up on the old board porch. “Go on to work,” she said. “Don’t be lazy.”

  “Well, I’ll see you,” I said. “You take it easy.”

  She nodded, and I got in and drove on to town, to the pool hall. I intended to put in the morning shooting, but the place was empty except for Dumb Billy. I didn’t feel like practicing, so I went on home.

  I didn’t figure Granddad would have anything to do, but my figuring was off. It turned out to be a good thing for me that the pool hall was empty. When I got to the ranch my horse was saddled and tied to the feed rack, and there was a note fluttering from the note pin on the lot gate. It didn’t take long to read:

  Lonnie—

  Come on to the West pasture. We got to round the cattle up again. Get you a big drink, it will be a miserable day.

  Your Granddad

  When I was mounted, I noticed the bulldozers. There were eight or ten of them, sitting out in the old grown-over field we never used. By the time I was a mile from the barn they had cranked up, and you could hear them all over the prairie. Huge clouds of dust began to roll out of the fields, and I knew they must be scraping out pits. Even so, I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe Granddad had given up, and I still didn’t believe it when I saw him.

  But whether he had or not, he was right about the day. We rounded them all up again, and worked till after dark to do it. Only this time, when we came in worn out and hungry, there wasn’t any Halmea to serve us steak and beans and cherry pie.

  CHAPTER 10

  The room was still dark when I felt Granddad’s hand on my shoulder. “Time to get up, son,” he said. I turned over, but I didn’t think I could possibly get up and work without a little more sleep. There wasn’t the least sign of morning in the yard; the moon hung somewhere over the house, still covering the pastures with dim milky light.

  I was asleep, but I got up anyway and staggered around dressing. When I got downstairs, Granddad was standing by the stove, frying eggs, and the men were just coming in the back door. Hank Hutch was with them, and he began to help Granddad with the cooking. The bawling that had gone on all night was sparser now, the old cows finally bedded down. I drank some milk and began to put away bacon and eggs. Granddad finally left the stove and ate, without saying a word. Hud was not there.

  Granddad was the first one through with breakfast, and the rest of us had to hurry our coffee and follow him out of the house. Dawn was still aways off, but a timid grayness was coming in the eastern sky. We caught our horses in the dark lots, and led them out to be saddled. Then I saw several sets of headlights coming across the pastures; the drivers were honking, trying to get the old cows to move out of the road.

  “Here they come,” Granddad said. “At least they’ll be on time.” He sighed heavily, fiddling with his flank girt. “I’d rather take a beatin’,” he said.

  There was nothing to do but mount up and start the cattle toward the pits. It was just light enough then that I could see the brush, and make out the cattle, where they stood in bunches in the early mist. I went on the very outside of the pasture, right next to the fence, and shoved the cattle down to the inside men. The horse pasture was only a section, and it didn’t take very long to go around it. The line of men inside shouted and yelled, to keep the cattle moving, and the cows moved off in strings toward the big tank. Behind me the rim of the plain was reddening, the sun creeping close to the surface. I topped a little ridge, the highest ground in the pasture, and saw the whole drive spread out below me. The first red streamers of light were dusty and brilliant on the green mesquite. Banks of mist rose from the dewy grass and hung gray around the bellies of the moving cattle. Hank was next to me; Jesse next to him; then Lonzo, popping the reins of his bridle against his chaps; Cecil Goad and his boys farther away; and Granddad, small and farthest of all, sitting on the other side of the tank watching his herd come down to water. I could hear Cecil yelling at the cattle: “Commence agoing.” When we got to the tank the cows and calves walked into the shallows, splashing the clean gold sheet of the tank. They were already slinging slobber over their shoulders at the flies. Less than a mile away the pits were waiting. It was like a picture: me, the men, the fresh leafy range, the Bannon herd trailing into water, Granddad watching. I rode on to the tank and let my horse splash in among the cows. Granddad sat above me on the dam, his hands folded on the saddle horn, his horse standing quiet. The sun flashed on Stranger’s bright coat, and showed Granddad burning clear. Then he waved at Hank and Jesse, and I whirled to the drive. Horses and cattle stirred the water to foam. We left the tank, and in no time were almost to the pits. Granddad dropped out of the drive when we went past the barn. I figured he went after the two longhorns and the old bull. He had shut them up the night before. But he came back with just the two milk cows. With all the help we had the cattle were easy to handle. Then the pits were in front of us, gaping in the old rocky field, each pit with one end sloped and one end steep. The cattle paid them little mind; they went right on down the sloped ends, curious to see what they’d find at the bottom.

  I was stationed at the slope end of the next to last pit west. I was supposed to keep anything from coming back up. Cecil Goad’s boy held the pit next to mine. The cattle were standing quietly in the bottom, the calves sucking, the cows licking themselves and their calves. Then one of the state men came up behind me and stepped to the edge of the pit. He had a clip-action rifle in his hand; a thirty-ought-six.

  “Hi, son,” he said. “I hope this won’t shy your horse.”

  “It may,” I said. “I never shot off him atall.”

  He was a short, gray-headed man, as nice as his job would let him be. “Ride off a little piece when I start shootin’,” he said. “Won’t nothin’ come outa this pit.” He spread a rag on the ground and laid several extra clips on it, glancing ever minute or so at the cattle. “Fine bunch a cows,” he said.

  Then the first shot sounded behind us, and my horse jumped and reared. The man dropped on one knee and began shooting, and the hungry young heifers fell. In a second I couldn’t hear anything for the sound and the bawling; all I could do was fight my snorting horse as close to the pit mouth as possible. The guns went off constantly, and the horse was crazy with scare. Finally he hung his head and stood quivering, every muscle tight. Dust rose fr
om the pits so thick it was a miracle the gunners could see to shoot. The cattle below bunched tight together, bellering and milling in a welter of dust and blood. Nothing did them any good. The man with the gun was deadly. The second one clip emptied he had another one in and was leveling the gun. The biggest old cows fell like they had been sledge-hammered; they kicked a time or two, belched blood into the dust, lay still. Not one in my pit got up. A calf dashed toward us and the man swung the gun and knocked it back on the body of a horned cow, its hind legs jerking. The old cows rolled their eyes and spun around and around. Not for a minute did the dust or noise settle. Finally the last animal in the pit stood facing us, a big heifer. She was half hemmed in by the sprawled carcasses. She took one step toward us, head up, and the man fired, slamming her backward like a telephone pole had bashed her between the eyes. She lay on her side, one foreleg high in the air. The man took out his clip and went quickly to another pit, to help. I was as tight as my horse; I was sick of the heat, and of the dust smells and gunpowder and thin manure. I tried to spit the putrid taste out of my mouth, and couldn’t. The flies were already buzzing around the hot carcasses, the shit bugs swarming on the green puddles. The Goad boy was vomiting all over a young mesquite bush, but I didn’t feel sick that way; I just felt suffocated by the dust and sound, like my throat was filling up with sand. I saw Granddad, sitting on Stranger at the head pit. He pointed and some gunner sent another bullet into some straining animal. The noise began to scatter, just a finishing shot or two. Granddad was sitting still, his hands on the saddle horn. For a second all I could hear was the scraping bolts, as the gunners cleared their magazines. Then it was silent and hot.

  Jesse was on his horse, at the third pit; he was talking to Hank Hutch. I rode by him on my way to the barn, and heard him talking in a watery voice, but what he said got away from me. Hank loped up beside me before I got to the barn, and we rode in together.

  “Didn’t take long,” I said.

  He was the quietest I’d ever seen him. “Don’t take very long to kill things,” he said. “Not like it takes to grow.”

  The rest of the men rode up behind us. They tied their horses and we all walked over to the water trough to drink. The two old steers and the old bull stood in the little feed pen, lazily pulling oat straw out of the hayrack. Mr. Burris and his driver walked up while we were drinking the cold water, and I offered him a cup. He drank and handed the cup to Thompson. In a minute Granddad tied Stranger and came over.

  “Well, I was agonna keep them three,” he said, pointing to the old cattle. “But I guess it wouldn’t do much good; they’d just get lonesome. Three head ain’t much of a herd.”

  “And they ain’t none a them cows,” he added, pulling off his gloves.

  “They make good animals to have around,” Hank said. “They remind you of the time when the government didn’t have to run a man’s business for him.”

  Granddad shook his head. “Hell,” he said. “If the time’s come when I got to spend my time lookin’ back, why, I’d just as soon go under. I ain’t never got much kick outa my recollections. Maybe I’ll learn, I don’t know.”

  “Goddamn,” Thompson said. “We missed three. You-all stay here, I’ll take care of ’em.” He started toward his car.

  “Where do you think you’re agoin’, Mister,” Granddad said. Thompson stopped and looked at him, unsure.

  “To finish this job,” he said. “Somebody needs to.”

  “You just come back here,” Granddad said. “I’ll kill them three myself, seein as I raised ’em. Get me the rifle, son,” he said to me.

  But Thompson fidgeted. He didn’t quite have the nerve to go on after his gun, but he wanted to awful bad. “There ain’t no guarantee you’d do it,” he said.

  “I just said I would,” Granddad said.

  “Shit,” Thompson said, turning toward his car.

  He had his hand on the door when Mr. Burris came awake. “You get in that car,” he said. “We’re going down and see about burning these carcasses, and then we’re leaving. Mr. Bannon can take care of the rest of this without us bothering him.”

  I stepped to the pickup and got the thirty-thirty we kept behind the seat, to use on coyotes. There were shells in it, but I got a box out of the glove compartment, just in case. Thompson got in the Chevy and said no more, but Mr. Burris still stood by the water trough, looking uncomfortable. He was twisting one of the leather buttons on his jacket. We could all feel him straining for something to say.

  “Now you go on, Mr. Burris,” Granddad said quietly. “I know this here ain’t your doin’s. I imagine you got enough worries without takin’ on any a mine. I’ll last over this here. You just see about the burnin’, and then get that feller there off my ranch.”

  “Well, all I can say is I’m sorry,” Mr. Burris said. “I’m sure sorry.”

  “So’m I,” Granddad said. “Things are just put together wrong. There’s so much shit in the world a man’s gonna get in it sooner or later, whether he’s careful or not. But you go ahead, we ain’t mad at you.” He held out his hand, and he and Mr. Burris shook.

  “Well, I’ll be back to see you about the payments,” Mr. Burris said. He got in and they drove off, dust hanging over the car.

  “He ain’t such a bad feller,” Granddad said. “Just got a shitter of a job.” He came over and took the gun from me. Then he went to the feed pen, Jesse and Hank and me following. The two old outlaws stood across the lot from us, as far away as they could get, the bright morning sun flashing on their horns. The old cherry-backed bull still stood by the hayrack, his eyes shut, chewing the yellow oat straw slowly. Tiny sprigs of hay clung to his white dewlap.

  “They’ll never grow stock like them old fieries agin,” Hank said. Granddad stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding the gun.

  “I never will,” he said. “Lord, but I’ve chased them two steers many a mile.” His voice was even. “I don’t know if I can kill ’em,” he said. “But I guess I can. Goddamnit. I’ll just do it right here and you fellers can tie onto ’em an’ drag ’em down about the hill somewhere to burn ’em. You-all go to the pump and draw me three five-gallon cans a gas, so we can burn ’em quick. I’ll handle this end of the operation.”

  The other men were sitting around the corner of the barn, not saying much. We didn’t speak to them as we went by.

  “I don’t think he’ll kill those cattle,” I said to Jesse. “He’s had ’em too long.” We found some cans in the smokehouse and went to the pump, all of us listening for the shots.

  “Yes, he will,” Hank said. “He’ll do it for sure.”

  Then, with two cans full and the third filling, we heard the first sharp shot, and its echo bouncing back off Idiot Ridge. All the bloody smells of the morning came back on me, and I got the weak trembles. I imagined the old steer in the lots, knocked to his side, the old horns closer and closer to the dust. And Granddad, as old as the steer, sighting down the bright barrel. I sat down by one of the gas cans, on the short dusty grass.

  “I told you he would,” Hank said.

  Jesse watched the gas pump and didn’t say anything. Then the second shot came, and there was only one to wait for.

  “Just the bull left,” Hank said. “Piss on it, we might as well go back.”

  Old Domino left then, still standing at the hayrack eating the yellow hay. Then I saw that Jesse and Hank were gone, and I got up to follow. Hank had taken my can.

  We got to the water trough and two shots came; came fast as the gun could lever, and their echoes bouncing off the ridge as one. The four of them were in the lot, Granddad squatting by the fallen bull, his hands clasped between his knees, his old felt hat pulled down. The rifle leaned against the hayrack.

  “Took two shots,” Hank said. “Them old bulls is hard to kill.”

  I trailed one hand in the water, wetting my shirt sleeve. I thought he might as well be dead with them, herd and herdsman together, in the dust with his cattle and Grandmother and his
old foreman Jericho Green. Then Granddad came out of the lots, the gun in his hand. The steers and the bull lay where we all could see them, the flies free at last to crawl on their unmoving heads. All of us stood by the fence: Jesse and Hank, Lonzo, Cecil and Clement, Silas and John. “Burn the sonsabitches,” Granddad said. He handed me the thirty-thirty, and turned to the neighbors. “Much obliged, you fellers,” he said. “Until you’re better paid.” Then he walked to the house.

  CHAPTER 11

  I went into town that night, hoping the second rodeo performance would be better than the first. I asked Granddad if he wanted to go with me, but he just shook his head. He hadn’t said two words to anybody since the killing. Right after supper both he and Granny went to bed. The killing seemed to take as much starch out of Granny as it did out of the rest of us—or maybe what did it with her was having to cook for a change. She drove into Thalia to hire somebody, but she hadn’t found a girl that suited her.

  When I got to the rodeo arena a long line of people were filing by the ticket office. As I walked through the hundreds of parked cars I saw the cowboys beginning their night. They stood in groups by the open turtlebacks, drinking cans of cold beer. The girls stood with them, shaking their combed heads and peeping at themselves in the rear-view mirrors. The contestants who were really in rodeo for the money were squatting on the ground checking their rigging; but most of the boys were just there for beer and excitement. I saw Irene talking to a bunch of girls, and thought maybe I’d hunt her up later on in the night. I wanted to get the ranch completely off my mind.

  I already had my ticket, so I walked in and headed for the bucking chutes. I knew most of the boys would be there, sizing up the bulls and talking. Riding a bull was the kind of thing you did to prove you didn’t give a shit. Going past the Sno-Cone stand I ran into Hermy. We stood there a minute watching a couple of drunk cowboys try to date the pretty black-haired woman who was making the hot dogs. Hermy hit me on the shoulder.