Mornings in Two Pan Read online

  “Men were yelling, ‘Run!’ ‘Get outta there!’ Brick stood like a dead tree, about as white-eyed as the horse.” Hop shook his head. “I’ll never forget it.”

  “Did he make the fence?”

  “Nope.” Hop smoothed one palm over the other. “That horse mowed right over him then turned to stomp him again. Totty jumped in, waving a blanket, and rodeo-clowned the nag to a side chute while a couple of other hands dragged Brick outta the corral.

  “Broke his arm. I don’t remember what else. He was sure proud of his ‘bronc wounds.’ I guess he thought it made him equal somehow to the boys getting wounded overseas or the ones breaking horses. I kinda felt sorry for him. He wanted to fit in, but didn’t know how. He seemed to have a chink missing in his common sense. He suffered through some pretty mean jokes.”

  “You ever tell dad that story?”

  “Hell no!” He looked as though Jiggs had suggested jumping off a cliff. “Ox would knock a kid’s teeth down his throat if he said anything about a Woolsey. That was when we were younger. By the time we’d growed, we all had kin we didn’t want to claim.”

  “If Brick was such an idiot, how did he marry and have kids?”

  “I believe he kinda stumbled into a family. As I said, he was actually a tender-hearted guy. Violet Spinrad had a no-count jackass for a husband. I don’t even remember his name. He’d take off mining and drinking and only return long enough to make another kid. They had five children and somehow she kept them all going. You talk about poor. They were probably eating vinegar pie and warm-water soup most of the time.” Hop shook his head.

  “Then the diphtheria rode over the territory. It took her young’uns in three days—all but the oldest. A five-year-old, named Lowell. I remember because he was the bravest kid, I’d ever knowed. Hell, he had more grit than most men. It was a terrible disease. It would waylay the littlest kids first. They’d say they didn’t feel good in the morning and lay down. Gray, hairy fibers would grow through their noses and throats. Suffocate ’em. Nothin’ anybody could do but watch it happen. They’d be dead by suppertime.

  “Everybody was scared witless. My ma dusted the whole house with yellow sulfur and made us kids chew tobacco. She’d heard it helped. Maybe it did. It skipped over our ranch, but half the kids I knew were dead in a week. Some of the older folks, too.”

  Jiggs kept shaking his head, staring at the pine branches.

  “You know, there’s probably fifty kids buried in these hills.” Hop pointed around him then his hand dropped to his lap. The silence played out for a long moment before he started again. “I hate to say this, and nobody would admit it, but most folks thought it was a blessing for Violet. She was workin’ herself to death with all those kids. Now with just her and Lowell, she could go back to Mizzouri.

  “Trouble was, she wouldn’t leave. She’d settled a good piece of land. Said she’d lost too much to leave now. You know how those Spinrads are.” Jiggs gave a sympathetic nod.

  “Story goes that Brick married Violet to help her out. He was a soft touch like that.”

  “What about Violet’s husband?”

  Hop looked at the sky as though the history was written in the clouds. “I believe they found him dead at Opal’s Sporting Club. But who knows if that’s the truth? If something came up missing…socks, money, or a miner…everybody just said, ‘It disappeared at Opal’s.’”

  “That’s handy,” Jiggs said.

  “Yeah. It didn’t help Brick, though. Anybody needed money, he’d lend it to them. Bamboozler, prospector, teacher needing school books—didn’t matter who you were. He was too generous. Had to start selling land to pay his debts.”

  Jiggs lifted the side of his hat with his fingertips and scratched above his ear. “I suppose those were the homesteads Bruno Woolsey collected while he was rich. Are you trying to say my grandfather was a fool and my grandmother was a Spinrad? I heard yesterday my great-grandma was a saloon gal, I don’t know how much more family history I can take.”

  Hop slapped him on the back. “Well, havin’ a family of sinners and idiots is normal and human, but I can see why nobody would talk about havin’ Spinrad blood. Those Spinrads think God created Adam and Eve, then He made them. They pop up everywhere, and they’ll tell you they got there first. Buncha stiff-necked snobs. Truth is, my family and yours were here when this was nothing but sagebrush and bears rubbing themselves on pine trees. Used to be I could get on a horse and take off in any direction, never find a fence. Now, hell, the bears are almost gone. Axel Boley trapped and sold half of ’em to circuses. He’d kill a few, and sell the grease as a cure for…”

  Jiggs let Hop’s voice fade away. He’d heard the stories. What was new to him was his own family history. He wasn’t pioneer stock. He’d come from a bunch of flunkies who’d gotten lucky a few times.

  Wispy clouds stretched across the sky. The air at three thousand feet was cool and tinged with the scent of grass that would dry out in a month or so. Hop was rattling on about catching mountain goats. Jiggs had heard that story before, too.

  He interrupted. “I can’t believe I’ve lived here all this time and never heard any of this.”

  Hop looked at him. “Why would you? Who do you think you are?”

  “I thought I was…from a pioneer family. Now I find out…Spinrads? For the love of Saint Pete.”

  “Oh get off your high horse. You’re still a pup. If you last long enough to be an old fart like me…well, you don’t have a clue yet of what goes on around here,” Hop rasped. “You don’t even know your own story, and you’re fretting over one skull.”

  Don’t Ask A Man His History

  HOP HELD UP a hand. “I need to catch my breath. Air is thinner up here.”

  “Sure. sure.” Jiggs leaned back on his boulder. “I’m thinking out loud here. I’m pretty sure the skull isn’t Bruno Woolsey’s. I hear he’s buried in Flora, and his wife, my soiled-dove great grandma, is probably in a cemetery back east. That leaves the rest of my kin. I’m wondering what happened between Dad and Brick. Why’s he hate him so much?”

  Hop gave his head a single shake. “That’s something Ox should tell you.”

  “Do you know?”

  “You know the rules. Don’t ask a man his history.” Hop glanced sideways at Jiggs. “And never interfere with what ain’t botherin’ you.” They sat for a while, listening to the water ripple down the hill. A couple of pine cones thudded to the ground, bouncing in the grass. “Forget what you dug up,” Hop said quietly.

  “I wish I could. It’s not only about the skull anymore. Now it’s turned into...good grief. I don’t know what it is.”

  “Your history’s always been there. You just didn’t know about it. That don’t change a thing, ’cept maybe take you down a peg.”

  “This is a little town. I can’t believe nobody’s told me anything.”

  “Since you wanted my advice and you’re obviously not gonna take it, I’ll say this once. Then we move on.” He paused, looking at a lilac bush twenty feet away.

  “Only a few old timers know history, and they don’t give a damn. They got their own stories. The handful of us that’s left are concentrating on drawin’ our next breath. Nobody gives a shit if your gran-mama was Queen of England or queen of Opal’s. Now c’mon.”

  He pushed off the boulder and walked to the bush. “This needs to be dug out again,” he said as he kicked at the sides of a seep collecting a pool of clear water. He leaned over and smelled a purple bloom. “My grandma brought this over the Oregon Trail.”

  “Yes sir, you’ve told me,” Jiggs said, hoping to the cut the story short. He’d heard a wheeze in Hop’s voice.

  “Years ago, I told you, I wanted to be buried over there.” Hop pointed to a spot between the lilac and a pine tree. “I want you to make sure it happens. You do that?”

  “Shouldn’t you be telling Frank? He’ll be the one in charge of the arrangements.”

  “I’m tellin’ you. My son doesn’t care about this pl
ace.”

  “He still building bridges in California?”

  “Something like that,” Hop mumbled, then quickly drew his hand to his mouth to cover a cough. “Damn.” His voice was hoarse. “Been talking too much. I’m dry.”

  “I didn’t bring water. Got oxygen.”

  “No.” Hop pointed at the boulder in the shade, and Jiggs stayed next to him as he walked to it. “Don’t get old,” Hop said, leaning against the rock. “Go.” He shooed his hand. “Mark my spot.”

  Jiggs found a branch, holding it vertical like a surveyor’s pole. Hop waved him right and left. “There.” Hop called. Jiggs tried to jam it into the ground. The hardpan was like stone. “I’ll build a tripod. Rest there. You doin’ okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” The old man nodded.

  Jiggs hurriedly gathered fallen branches. They’d pushed their outing too long already.

  “Every time my great-gram went somewhere,” Hop called, “she took a cutting from that bush.”

  “Save your breath. I’ll be done in a minute,” Jiggs yelled back.

  “If she went to somebody’s house, she always took a gift,” Hop continued. “That’s how you did it in those days.”

  Jiggs worked faster, leaning limbs against each other, teepee style, as though building a fire. The old fart was as hardheaded as Ox. He’d keep talking until he fell over.

  “Nobody had much back then.” Hop pushed away from the boulder and rasped a low whistle. Eagle raised his head and walked toward Hop, stopping once to grab another bite of grass. Curly Dogs followed. “Granny would root a cutting. Get it started and gift it.”

  “We’ve got a lilac.” Jiggs glanced up to see Hop fussing with the saddles. “It’s a big old thing. Had it as long as I can remember.”

  “All the lilacs ’round here came from that bush.” Hop continued checking cinches.

  “There,” Jiggs said, standing back to admire his work. He’d done a makeshift job. Most likely, deer, cows, or the wind would knock it over.

  “What a pile of crap.” Hop squinted at it. “I was screwin’ with ya. Just make sure Frank plants me somewhere out here. And if you churn up one of my kin, don’t go callin’ the crime team.”

  Jiggs hesitated, unsure if he should help Hop mount. He knew the old cowboy would hate it. If it were his dad, Ox would have a heart attack from trying to beat Jiggs if he boosted him into the saddle. He stood close, pretending to check Curly Dogs’ back hoof.

  With a grunt, Hop mounted. “C’mon. Catch up,” he said as Eagle walked off.

  Jiggs and Curly Dogs trailed behind on the weedy wagon track. He was relieved they weren’t sliding down the same slope they’d come up. The old man no longer sat as straight in the saddle. His body swayed side to side a bit. If he had a heart attack here, at least they could get a wagon in to haul him out.

  A feeling of urgency pushed at Jiggs. He hated this, even though it was the same as every other foray into backwoods. There was always the threat of snake bite. A limb from a widowmaker could fall on them. Lightning strikes were common. Cougars stalked humans. The horse could stumble and roll over—or step in a hole. A thousand ways to die. And yet, a weak heart felt like a ticking time bomb.

  Jiggs nudged Curly Dogs to ride beside Eagle. “You doin’ okay?”

  Hop nodded.

  “I saw something I thought I’d never see,” Jiggs said. “I was walking through the forest up at Blank Map, and in front of me a line of wild turkeys crossed the trail. I’d heard the Forest Service had introduced wild turkeys years ago.”

  Hop nodded again. Eagle plodded along at a steady, slow pace.

  “I expected the turkeys to chatter a warning and take off, but instead they ran up the trail in front of me—toward a snake.” Without turning his head, Jiggs saw Hop lean forward slightly. A readjustment in the saddle. That’s all it was, he told himself. He continued telling his good story. A safe tale. Kinda humorous, mostly interesting. Far from the subject of a man not being what he once was. He was pretty sure both of them knew why he was filling the silence.

  “So…the first turkey hen grabbed a rattlesnake about a foot long.” Jiggs’ hand waggled side to side. “She started flapping her head back and forth, drumming that snake on the ground. Bang. Bang. Bang. That’s when the second turkey attacked her.

  “The first bird jumped straight up the air and dropped the snake. The second turkey grabbed the rattler, and she pounded that snake’s head in the dirt, too. When the poor rattler was finally dead, she threw him down, and they all they started pecking like a lunch buffet. Didn’t eat all of him, though. Strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Hop laughed as he re-seated himself in the saddle. The horses ambled along the weedy ruts. That was all Jiggs had in the way of funny stories. He began talking about Starvation Creek disappearing into the old lava bed.

  Next to him, Hop stretched and resettled again. If the old guy hadn’t been riding much, he was going to ache for several days. Obviously, the need to locate his gravesite must’ve been important if he was willing to suffer for it. Jiggs wondered if his dad was sore from sneaking out of the barn on Blue yesterday. Ox was probably rubbing his legs with horse liniment, but he’d never say anything.

  As they rounded the bend in the road, Dooley hopped up from where he was sitting in the shade. “Tell Dooley that turkey story,” Hop said as soon as they stopped.

  “Where’s the oxygen? Did you need it?” Dooley asked. Jiggs twisted in his saddle to unstrap the bundle, but it was gone.

  Hop gave them a sly grin. “The damn thing musta disappeared at Opal’s Sporting Parlor.”

  “You gotta stop ditching them. Home health services said they weren’t gonna replace anymore. Someday you’re gonna need it and you won’t have it, you old buzzard.” Dooley held Eagle’s reins as Hop stepped down with a grunt.

  “Quit your fussin’. You need to hear this story. Tell him, Jiggs.” The old rancher sat in the camp chair.

  “Is that why you had me running around in the pasture building stick forts? So you could dump your tank?” Jiggs stepped off Curly Dogs.

  Hop smiled. “You know what to do when it’s time.”

  Jiggs reached out his hand. “I’ll help your son get you to the lilac bush.”

  Hop shook it. “Appreciate it.”

  Jiggs turned to Dooley, “I saw something I’d never seen before…”

  He told the turkey story again. He added more gestures, and turkey sounds, taking them far from the niggling thought that one day, each of them might need an oxygen bottle.

  *

  Ox was bent over his partially finished bench, drilling holes in the seat for back braces.

  “That’s looking good,” Jiggs said walking across the gravel drive. “Maybe you could make another one to put on Main Street. Grubbs Mercantile is the only place to sit.”

  “I’m glad you finally showed up.” Ox held up an empty coffee can. “I swear I had some eight-penny nails, but they’re gone. If you’re gonna use something up, replace it. I can’t get the truck started to go to town. I been banging around here, making do.”

  “What’s wrong with your truck?”

  “Hell if I know.” Ox looked at the vehicle like it had betrayed him. “Won’t even turn over.”

  “Typical Chevy.” Jiggs said, walking toward the ’79, its hood up, engine cavity exposed. “Battery dead?”

  “I know enough to check a battery. It was me that taught you to work on engines, remember? There’s nothing you can think of that I haven’t tried.”

  Jiggs was prepared for this. He knew he’d have to take a load of insults to pull this off. He’d considered sneaking into his dad’s house and hiding his keys. Ox would think he’d misplaced them but would never admit it. It would keep him from driving for a few days. Help him simmer down about Old Man Tower.

  Then again, it was doubtful such a ploy would stymy him. He’d simply jam a screwdriver into the ignition to turn the switch.

  On Jiggs’ early morning fo
ray, he’d cut the main power wire going into the Chevy’s fuse box. If Ox found it, there’d be the devil to pay, but Jiggs doubted his dad could kink up enough to get under the dash to look.

  It was a crappy thing to do. He should’ve felt worse, but he didn’t. Guilt was a small price to pay for the peace of mind he’d had today. Ox wasn’t a man to make puffed up threats. He’d consider it his duty to drive to Two Pan and give Old Man Tower a lesson in keeping his mouth shut.

  Ox leaned over the engine, checking the distributor cap. “I switched this battery with the tractor battery. Everything works fine. Both of them are charged. The fuses look good. It’s like the thing went kerflooey for no reason.”

  “You want me to tow you to Slat’s?”

  “Hell no. That grease monkey knows less about an engine than you do.”

  Jiggs kept his head down and his smile to himself. Ox would rather walk than pay someone for mechanic work.

  “New starter?”

  “Maybe.” Ox scowled at his faded-blue vehicle.

  “How about dinner at the Bar and Grill? We’ll stop by Grubbs and order your part. Then drop off a check at the feed store. Tracy says we owe for last month.”

  “Like hell we do. I paid that in person.” Ox put his drill into his wooden tool box.

  Jiggs closed the Chevy’s hood. “If your truck is on the fritz, when’d you drop it off? ’Cause she told me yesterday.”

  “I pay my bills on time. Always have. She doesn’t know where she put it. She’s always yakking like a chickadee when I go in. Wears me out to hear her go at it. One more damn thing I have to sort out. No water in the creek. No nails. Broken down truck…” He was still mumbling and cussing as he toted the tool box to the garage.

  Jiggs smiled and shook his head. He shouldn’t be enjoying this. Like a hot wind, Ox would change directions and blow over him soon, but for the moment, it was good to let the disloyal truck take the heat.