This is a full section of my story that I call "Gambling Debts." It's section 7 of 10, so there has been quite a bit of activity before this. Last night, I talked to Godiva via text for some time, and this section of my story was part of the conversation. She had a good idea about Sister's actions when she was caught by Langford with chaw in her mouth.
Her idea was that she could refuse to spit out the chaw, take the whuppin' then spit it out on his boots. That would suit her personality for sure. The only thing is that Sister is absolutely humiliated by the thought of anyone even knowing she got a licking--to have someone--or a dozen folks!--actually see it might kill her. And you can bet that Langford would whup her to a fare-thee-well if she did that--he'd probably take her britches down and whup her on the bare in front of all those cowboys. In that case, she'd rather just die.
I just wanted to post up that whole part of the story for Godiva because I am kinda proud of it. I become a regular visitor to the stables and the pastures near them. Queso and I rode every single day. Dewey worked with me as much as he worked with the horses—he was a patient teacher who talked a lot about the connection between a rider and a horse. Langford even reluctantly allowed me to ride some of the green broke horses, telling me he’d wear me out if I broke my neck doing something stupid.
“If I break my neck, I won’t feel nuthin’ anyhow” was my response.
Sometimes Johnny came along, riding his big black beast. We’d tear up the road along the edge of the home place. The folks often sent Stu along to make sure we didn’t die. His buckskin didn’t have the same fire that our monsters had, but he was no slouch. Stu joined in on the occasional mad races and put his foot down when we come up with really stupid ideas.
Langford relaxed some when we always come back in one piece, and we enjoyed the freedom that was give to us, so long as the chores was done and done well. Once in a while, Dewey come along on a particularly rough mount to work the kinks out or to practice cattle skills that the horses needed to know. Queso took to cattle work like a pig takes to mud.
Those, I think, was the happiest days of my life. We rode miles of fences, discovered all sorts of interesting places, took to carrying buckets to gather berries and mushrooms, herded random wandering critters back to where they belonged—some to our place and some to the neighbors. I doubt the fences were ever so well took care of before.
We helped the hands wherever they needed us, and I learned more cuss words than I knew existed. Also took a lot of good-humored teasing and returned it in kind. All the time in the saddle in the sun turned my skin as brown as a nut and bleached the brown right out of my hair.
Of course, I didn’t get let off one lick of school work or chores. The folks wouldn’t tolerate that. And they never let up on the task of civilizing me, which was exhausting. I don’t think I was born to be civilized. I might should have been born a Comanche. All that Dewey told me about them sounded mighty fine to me.
One day, I was put to work mucking out stalls in the stable. At the same time, a bunch of hands was making hay in the fields right close to the stable. When a ranch has as many horses and cattle as the Diamond L, producing and storing enough hay to get those critters through a long, cold winter is a never ending task in the growing season.
While I was forking dirty straw and manure out of individual horse stalls and dragging it in a wheelbarrow to the manure pit, a dozen of the hands was working in the hay fields with scythes and rakes. One group swung the scythes, cutting the hay down, and the other group come behind with rakes, pulling the sweet smelling grasses into long, shallow rows where it would lie in the sun and dry out. In a few days, the hands would be back to turn the rows over so the underside could also dry. It was important to let the crop dry completely so it wouldn’t mold when it was stored in the barns. Moldy hay ain’t a good thing.
When the hay was ready, a couple flat wagons would be brung to the hay fields so the hands could fork it onto them, drive them to the barns, and move it into the mows where it would rest until it was needed.
Haying was a hot, dirty, exhausting job. At the end of the day, everyone involved was sore and tired. At midmorning it was already hot, and all of the hands were sweating and swatting away the bugs that clung and bit and pestered a person in the heat. Most of the hands were young and full of piss and vinegar. They were no strangers to hard, hot work, and they were young enough to be frolicsome in spite of it. Most every one of those cowboys had a cheek full of chaw which led to spitting contests and foolishness that really didn’t interfere with their work. Their antics made the work seem easier. There was a lot of laughter and tomfoolery as they attempted to shoot streams of chew spit at various targets—birds, fence posts, each other’s backsides—whatever presented as a target. Hitting a bird in flight was an especially admired accomplishment. Poor birds.
While I wasn’t working with them, I was working near enough that we were able to see and speak to each other easily. I was just as sweaty and just as deviled by bugs and heat as they was. The wheelbarrow full of straw and manure that I trundled out to the big manure pile downwind of the barn became a prime target for spitting as I passed. I didn’t really care so long as none of it touched me.
When one daring fool shot a streamer at my feet, I pulled a nice, solid “horse apple” (which is a roundish chunk of horse shit dry enough to hold its shape) out of the wheel barrow and nailed him square in the chest. “Mess with me, and I will mess with you,” I warned. “I coulda put that thing right between your eyes.” I grinned my most evil grin and added, “Some of them are a lot juicier than that one.” I have spent my whole life in the company of young hooligans like these, and I learnt early how to hold my own.
While the young hand stared, gobsmacked, at the remains of the glob stuck to his shirt, the others hooted and catcalled him. I went on about my business, and no one spit any more chew juice at my feet. Whether they believed I was that skilled a pitcher of horse crap or not, they chose to respect the possibility. Nobody wants a face full of horse shit.
Naturally, him and his compaňeros had to retaliate some way, so they started tormenting me—all in good fun, of course—offering me a plug of tobaccy. Naturally, I responded, “I’d rather eat dirt than put that nasty stuff in my mouth.”
They took that as a challenge and began trying to figure out what it would take to tempt me. Finally, one of them bet me that I wouldn’t be able to keep a plug in my cheek till sundown—appealing to my pride and ego. When that didn’t work, a few of them had a quick conference then offered an enticing challenge. Each of them would bet two bits to my dime that I couldn’t do it. Well, shit. I didn’t have a dime to my name, but they didn’t know that. And there were a dozen of them. I felt pretty confident that I could last. It was already midmorning.
They grinned at me like wolves in a lamb pen when they saw me set the wheelbarrow down and consider it. What I was considering was what I could do with the $3 I knew I could win. One of my most annoying traits is obstinacy. I’d been scolded and lectured about that more times than I could count on all ten fingers and toes.
So there was a big ruckus when I spat in my palm and offered up my hand. That was a serious sign of commitment in our world. A signed contract didn’t carry more weight than that. I gotta say, it was pretty disgusting to shake the spitty hands of a dozen sweaty ranch hands, but I saw a stack of shiny quarters in my mind.
The next thing was all them boys pulling their chaw out of their pockets so I could take my pick. There was a pretty spirited debate about how big a plug I’d be expected to tuck into my cheek. It was decided that it should be about half a thumb length. I stood firm that it would be half the length of my own thumb—not one of their big old greasy thumbs.
I picked out the cleanest looking plug, and the young hand who went by Little Ed whittled off a chunk and handed it to me. They all whistled and hooted when I stuck it into my cheek. They gave me some basic instructions on how to spit properly—between the front teeth was the most recommended—and we all went back to work.
What the hell was I thinking?
I’ve asked myself that a dozen times since then.
The first thing I noticed was that it caused my mouth to flood with spit. It took me some time to learn to spit properly. To begin with, a lot of spit ended up running down my chin and onto my shirt. The second thing I noticed was a buzz that started up in my head, making me feel dizzy. It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t what I’d call pleasant neither.
I tried to avoid swallowing any of the juices in my mouth because it made my stomach feel queasy. And I begun to think that maybe this would be harder than I thought it would be.
But I dug down deep and kept working. Every time I passed them, I had to show them that the plug was still firmly tucked in my cheek.
For obvious reasons, I did not go up to the house for the noon meal. No one at the house thought much of it as it wasn’t uncommon for me to just eat with the hands when I was working in that general area.
I begun to get used to the buzz in my head, but one of the hands made quite a show of pointing out that I had turned “a little green around the gills.” I told him he needed glasses and spit in his general direction. I had no talent for it and ended up with half of it running down my chin which made them all howl with laughter.
But the sun was starting to move toward the horizon. I grinned and pointed that out. I shouldn’ta never done that. It was tempting fate.
I worked steady, putting down the bedding straw as I finished each stall, filling the water buckets with fresh water, and hauling one wheelbarrow of soiled straw and manure after another out to the pit.
On my last trip, the hands did not send anyone over to see if the chew was still riding in my cheek. I saw why immediately. Langford was over there checking their progress and passing the time of day. I wiped the drool off my chin and rubbed my dirty hands over the stains on my shirt, hoping they’d be camouflaged by the dirt.
I toted the wheelbarrow to the pile and dumped it. Prayed sincerely that he’d just turn and go back up to the house or that the sun would speed up a touch. Of course, none of them things happened. He came sauntering down to check the stalls. The idiots all stopped working and watched him come my way.
His brow furrowed as he looked at me. “What’s wrong with your face?” he asked.
I tilted my head like I didn’t understand what he meant. But I saw the understanding come over his face, and he frowned. “Do you want to explain what you’ve got stuffed in your cheek?” he growled.
I chewed my bottom lip. “Not particularly,” I mumbled.
“Spit it out,” he ordered.
I looked at the sun—so close. So close to the horizon. “I can’t.” I could hear the whine in my voice.
A stormy expression took over his face, and those dark blue eyes snapped. “What do you mean, you can’t?” he thundered.
“I’ll lose the bet,” I explained weakly.
“Bet? You’re gambling too?” he demanded.
“Just for fun.”
“Is money involved in this ‘just for fun’ gambling?”
“Not much money.”
“You have two choices,” he said. His hands went to his belt and started to unbuckle it. “You can spit out that wad of chew or you can get your backside tanned right now in front of all these boneheads. You have about three seconds to decide.”
Well. I spat the wet wad of nastiness on the ground and looked sadly at the sun. Almost touching the horizon. But not. I hunched my shoulders and screwed up my face, waiting for the tongue lashing to start.
He shook his finger in my face, struggling to find the words he needed. “You lost the bet,” he growled.
I nodded.
“Just how much did you lose?”
“A dime,” I offered, my voice barely audible.
“Just a dime?”
“A piece,” I confessed.
“Girl—” he turned to glare at the cowboys who all got busy looking at their feet. He shook his head and seemed to struggle to control himself. “Do you even own 12 dimes?”
I flushed red and looked toward the cowboys and whispered, “Not even one.”
He roared in frustration. “So you are a welsher too.”
“But, I was winning!” I cried. “I woulda won. If you had come just a few minutes later….”
“Stop!”
I braced myself for the slap I was sure was gonna come, but it didn’t.
He dug into his pocket and come up with some silver. He grabbed my hand and slapped it into my palm. “You march up there and cover your bets,” he hissed. “And you make sure you apologize to those boys for making a bet you knew you couldn’t cover. Then you march yourself over to the river and cut me a decent switch. We’ll finish this conversation at the house.”
“But you said if I spit it out…”
“Do you really want to back talk me right now?” he asked in the most deadly voice I have ever heard.
“No, sir,” I muttered. And I marched myself up to give Little Ed the money and humbly begged their pardon for betting money I didn’t have. And bought myself just a little more trouble by adding, “But I would have won. You know I would have.”
“Shut your mouth and git!” Langford yelled.
And that’s what I did. As I scuttled away, I heard him lecturing the cowboys about leading a child astray and how he better see that money going into the collection plate at church on Sunday instead of being wasted on chaw and foolishness. And he ended his spiel by ordering them to finish the last of the stall cleaning as “that little knot head is about to become too indisposed to finish it herself.”
Indisposed. Sure to turn up on a word list. Almost certain to mean unable to sit.
I could still taste the molasses and tobacco from the plug; it was making me feel queasy. I stopped at the well to get a dipper of water and rinse the dregs of chaw out of my mouth. Even after rinsing with three dippers full, I could still taste it. I don’t know what those cowboys seen in it. I drank a fourth dipper, and the cold well water hit my belly like a chunk of ice and came up again in a rush. I gagged a while. My stomach cramped, and I puked up the brown tobacco juice I had swallowed. I drank a little more water, hoping that would settle the cramps.
I rinsed the sticky residue off my chin, and started back to where the willows lined the river. I thought about Queso in his paddock and considered going on a bareback ride into the woods. Just disappearing for a few days.
Then the humiliating image of being dragged back kicking and squealing in front of everybody rose in my mind. Yeah. Not interested in that. Or worse yet, having to come slinking back after being gone for a few days. Not interested in that either.
I told myself to stop being a baby and get on with it. So, I broke a switch off the first tree I come to and headed to the house. Funny. The thought of the actual whuppin’ didn’t bother me as much as the dread of getting my ass chewed first. And then the embarrassment of having everyone knowing afterwards.
I went in the side door and washed my face and hands. I slunk up the stairway to change into a clean shirt. One that wasn’t stiff with tobacco juice and filth. I wadded up the filthy shirt and stuffed it in a corner. Later, I’d wash it myself. I didn’t need mamacita questioning the tobacco juice saturating it. Dealing with the wrath of Langford was enough. I wondered how long I was going to have to wait before he showed up.
I pulled out one of the tablets and settled on the chair at Jessie’s little table. I could work on my arithmetic. Or read the next story in the McGuffey’s. Or go through this week’s list of words. Or, maybe, I could start a letter to Dusty. I had sent him a pretty long letter just before I got Queso. Since then, I had been way too busy riding every chance I got.
I had not received a reply from him yet. I wondered what he thought of the story about the Bishop and the mice. I almost grinned thinking how he would embellish that story and make it even more grisly and dramatic than it was.
So I started a fresh letter.
Dear Dusty:
I expect you are powerful busy since I have not heard from you. Don’t forget that you promised you would write to me if I writ to you. What did you think of that story about the murdering low-down skunk of a bishop and the millions of mice that et him alive? I have been wondering if the mice et him from the feet up or if they all just jumped on him and chawed him down from every direction. I don’t know which would be worst. Either way it would be a grim way to meet your end.
I can’t talk about that story around here as Mrs. L. thinks it is a inappropriate story and has promised to take a stick to me if I dare to mention one word of it to Cactus Bill. And that little varmint would enjoy that story so much. It’s a shame.
A few weeks back, I got me a horse. He is a little pinto pony which is just as purty as a field of sweet grass. There is a buster working here who may know as much about horses as you do. Maybe you have met him somewhere. He says his name is Dwight Christopher Sawyer. That is quite a mouthful, ain’t it? He goes by Dewey, and I don’t blame him because it took me a long time to learn to spell that long ass name. Had to copy it over and over to get it right.
I can’t wait for you to see my horse. He is a beauty and so smart. Johnny named him—said that a mouse should get the cheese sometimes. Except he said it in Spanish. Cheese is Queso in Spanish, and that was the perfect name for him. He is near as fast as Johnny’s black which is a lot bigger than my little Queso. Mr. L. give him to me for my very own. I cried that day, I was so happy.
I have been working very hard and keeping terrible busy too. Mr. L. lets me work with Dewey and the green broke horses sometimes. Mrs. L. is sure I will break my dang neck, but so far my head is still attached to my body. Dewey says I have a talent for horses and that is good to know since I ain’t got much talent for anything else.
Stu keeps telling the folks that I am smart, but I don’t know where he gets that idea. I did some thing really dumb today and am writing this letter while waiting for Mr. L. to whup me for it. I guess I got it coming. I took a dare that turnt into a bet and I should have won, and I would have won but for bad luck. I wish I could get some of them lucky freckles of yourn to jump over on to me because I got no luck whatsomeever.
So it has not been a great day. I learnt I have no talent for spitting tobacco juice either. Most of it ended up on my chin or down the front of my shirt which is now pretty much destroyed. I also ended up puking because some of it got swallowed by accident. My belly still hurts a little, but I will forget all about that by the time Mr. L. gets done with me.
In case you are wondering, some of the hands didn’t think I could suck on a plug of tobaccy till sunset, and I knew I could. And I would have except Mr. L come upon us unexpected and made me spit it out just as the sun was about to kiss the horizon. I got no luck at all.
I expect he will be here soon, so I will end this letter with my very best wishes to you. I miss you very much, and Cactus Bill asks about you most every day.
Your friend,
Sister
I tore the pages out of the tablet and folded them up. I’d have to ask Langford for a envelope. I felt much better after writing the letter. It was like having a actual chat with Dusty and him helping me stop being fearful.
It’s just a whuppin’ and I been whupped before.
I had to keep my mind busy, so I got busy on the arithmetic. Got a few problems done before Langford come up.
“There you are,” he said. “I thought maybe you had holed up somewhere to think things over again.”
“No, sir,” I said. “I remember what you said last time about not running from you and facing up to consequences.” I pointed to the bed where the switch was laying. “I done what you told me.”
He nodded and picked it up.
I stood up and wiped my hands on my pants. “You didn’t say where to wait, so I waited here.”
He nodded again and sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
“Can I ask for a favor before?”
He raised an eye brow. “You think I am in the mood to do you any favors right now?”
I sighed. “Probably not. But it ain’t a very big one.”
“No promises, but you can ask.”
“I writ a letter to Dusty while I was waiting. Could you put it in an envelope for me and send it off to the Bar B? Like last time?”
“That, I think I can do.” He held his hand out for the letter, and I passed it to him. He tucked it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll get it in the mail this week.”
“Thanks.” I straightened my spine and took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
He tapped the switch against the floor a couple of times, looking very serious. “Tell me something, Sister,” he said. “Do you think at all when you get yourself into these situations? Or do you just plunge in without a thought?”
I thought about this for a moment, not sure how to respond. “I guess I don’t think far enough. I don’t not think.”
“Did those hands bully you into this bet? Shame you? Force it on you?”
I was surprised by this question. “What? No. They teased me—but no different than Stu or Johnny tease. Or Dusty. Like brothers teasing. They all had their cheeks stuffed full of chew and deviled me about trying it. I told them I’d rather eat dirt.” I rolled my eyes. “Do you really think anyone could force that sh…stuff into my mouth? I’d bite their hands off.”
His gaze was stern. “Little Ed told me they’d all bullied you till you gave in.”
“They surely did not,” I declared. “They said they didn’t think I could keep a plug in my mouth till sunset. Then they put their money where their mouths was, and I was pretty dang sure I could win. And I would have.” I thought about it a bit and continued, “Those numbskulls. They made that shit up because they felt guilty. They heard you tell me to cut a switch, and it made them feel bad.” I narrowed my eyes. “I suppose they thought I’d fall into a faint at the thought of a whuppin’. Idiots.”
“First off, if I hear that vulgar language again, I am going to have Mother bring up a bar of soap.” He tapped the switch against his palm thoughtfully. “I did not think any of those boys would act like that. Your story sounds more like the truth. Which means that Little Ed lied to me, and every last one of them went along with it.” He scowled. “Those boys and I are going to have a little discussion tomorrow. I won’t have my men lying to me—even if they are trying to be noble.”
“Aww…” I said. “Don’t be too hard on them. I am real put out with them for telling you that—but it’s kinda sweet too.”
He scowled. “If they were even a couple years younger, I would line them up and thrash every last one of them. Then send them home to their mommas until they grew a little more sense. As it is, there will be consequences for them too.”
I swallowed hard. We were getting to the consequences part now. I just wanted to be done with this.
“Don’t ever lie to me, Sister,” he said. “It is the one thing I hate more than anything else. Even if you think you have a good reason for it.”
“Mostly, I don’t lie. Too hard to keep track of lies once you start,” I said. “I don’t recall telling any lies to either of you folks.” I paused and confessed, “Sometimes I don’t tell the entire truth. But I don’t make up a lie.”
“I have noticed that you don’t always tell the whole truth,” he scowled, “but I don’t recall ever catching you in a complete lie. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir.” My mouth was getting dry, and I really wanted to be done with this business so I could lick my wounds and move on.
“Time to get at it,” he said. “Why do I have to punish you today?”
I really hate this part. He calls it “accepting responsibility.” I call it putting your neck in your own noose. “I know ya’ll think chewing tobacco is a filthy, nasty habit—and I took it on a dare. I didn’t really think about that part when I done it, but I shoulda knowed that you would take it poor. And I also know that your missus is death against gambling—any kind of gambling—and we did make a bet with money—not much money, but still.”
“Young lady, do not minimize what you did. Just give me the facts.”
I faltered for a moment, then added, “And I guess I did some back-talking and arguing too…is that all?”
“You are still missing something pretty significant.”
What could that be? I ran my mind back over the day. Then it struck me. “Oh! Yeah. I forgot. I bet money I didn’t have. I was so sure I would win that it never crossed my mind that it mattered that I didn’t have a dime to my name.”
“I think that about covers it,” he said. “It goes without saying that I am very disappointed in you today. You’ve been doing so well in your studies. You’ve worked as hard and done as well as the older boys with your chores, and the garden is a thing of beauty.” He sighed. “So when I came across you with a wad of chewing tobacco as big as an apple in your mouth, well. You are very lucky I didn’t tan you right in front of those boys.”
“It was only half the size of my thumb,” I interrupted. “I made sure they used MY thumb to measure and not one of their big old giant thumbs.”
He used that calm, cold voice to remind me not to back talk or interrupt, and I held back on reminding him that exaggeration is actually kind of a lie too.
“All right, let’s get this thing done,” he said, suddenly business like. Once again, I was over his knees, listening to the switch cut the air on its way to my backside. It hurt, and it went on a while, I suppose because there was a big ball of wickedness he felt he had to whup out of me. And I personally think that he wanted to squeeze some howls out of me since he couldn’t do it last time. Couldn’t do it this time neither.
At least he didn’t take my britches down.
When it was over, I swiped my sleeve across my eyes and nose and took a couple deep breaths. I told him I was sorry I disappointed him, and he told me he expected better from me. I told him I’d try, and he told me, “Don’t just try. Do it.”
Then he muttered, “You are a stubborn little creature. It’s a good thing you weren’t born a horse or you’d end up at the glue factory.”
“If I was born a horse,” I said, “I’d be so fast and wild that no one would ever catch me.”
And he give me a good hard pop on the bottom with his hand and told me that it was not a wise time to run my sassy mouth.
Even though it was pretty early, he told me there’d be no supper for me tonight and I should go to bed. Also that I stunk of chew and should arrange to take a bath tomorrow.
I was a little sad because I didn’t get no lunch neither, but I been hungry before. and it never killed me. Also, the chew and the whuppin’ sorta took away my appetite.
I thought about going back to the arithmetic. It was still pretty early and I wasn’t that tired. But he specifically told me to go to bed, and I sure didn’t need another dose of the switch. So, I put on my nightgown, rubbed my stinging rump a little, and crawled into bed.
I hoped there’d be pancakes tomorrow.
I hoped the consequences Langford planned for the cowboys wouldn’t be too harsh.
I hoped I could squeeze in some riding time tomorrow.
I hoped I’d hear from Dusty soon.
I hoped I wouldn’t dream about millions of mice crawling all over me.
I probably hoped a bunch of other stuff, but I fell asleep and don’t remember what else I hoped.
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