Reavis Z. Wortham: The View From My Hill

Reavis Z. Wortham, Contributing Editor

Directions

Lost cowboys discover in Texas even shortcuts take the long way around.

Sonny Bonner and Rank Pickles pulled their truck over on the dusty shoulder of the county road to ask directions from a local rancher who was repairing a gap in his five-strand barbed wire fence. Behind him a pair of legs stuck out from underneath a hay bailer that looked as if had been hammered out during Lincoln’s presidency.

“Howdy,” Sonny said from behind the wheel.

The older man at the fence nodded his head and peered warily from under a sweatstained hat brim. This necessitated a glance at Rank in the shotgun seat, who smiled and tried to pretend he wasn’t lost.

“You boys lost?”

“Not completely,” Sonny answered and tilted his hat back. “We know we’re in Texas; we’re just not sure which parts we’ve already seen.”

“Where you going?”

“We’re heading up to Caprock for the rodeo.”

“That why y’all are pulling a horse trailer?” He was quick.

Sonny and Rank exchanged glances. “Yessir. We plan to give team roping a shot. I heard we need to cut off somewhere near here and hit Farm Road 339.”

“You could, but I’d recommend you boys take County Road 4923 out by Pecan Bend.”

“Why?”

“Ain’t no bridge over 339. It washed out a couple of months ago during that flash flood that drowned Clara’s jersey cow Nellie. Washed her plumb up to Doak Meeker’s place and lodged her halfway up the dead pecan tree in his front yard. Looked like she was sitting on a limb like a kid swinging his legs. Had to use a chainsaw to get her out.”

Sonny winced. “They used a chainsaw on the cow?”

“Naw, they cut the dead tree down, but the weight of the cow caused the tree to twist, and it fell into the barn. Tore off half the barn door and limbs were everywhere.”

“Tree limbs?”

“Of course. You think I’m talking about cow limbs? Anyway, since there ain’t hardly no traffic out there, no one’s gotten around to fixing the bridge.”

“Good point. So how do we get to Pecan Bend from here?”

He tilted his hat back on a long forehead and toed the dirt.

“Let’s see.” He thought a moment and his eyes brightened. “All right. First you go down this here road a piece until you come to a curve that goes past that quarter section or so Willie Ray just bought.”

Rank dutifully wrote the instructions on the palm of his hand with a cracked Bic pen.

“After you make that bend, you’ll come to a dirt road leadin’ off to the right past Frank Parker’s old pole barn. Take that road over the wooden plank bridge and through some snaky looking country. That’s where Fred runs the Double Shovel ranch. He might be hiring, and you boys look like you could use the work if you don’t place in the money tonight. When you get there turn left at the second or third dirt road where Gene Decker got skinned up when his horse got a rope under his tail and stuck his front foot in Gene’s pocket.”

“Right,” Sonny said, trying to seem like a good listener.

“No, left. Can’t you hear? Go a good long piece and you’ll come to a hill and go over it.”

“Not around it?” Sonny asked. The rancher stared at him. “The road goes over the hill. You can do whatever you want once you get there. On the other side is the Double R and it looks like pretty good cow country, we’ve always had good grass around here. You’ll know the place ‘cause Brad Grant keeps that ugly Roman-nosed, cold-jawed bag of bones in the front pasture by the road. I hate that horse. He affects my sensibilities.

“Anyway, take the next dirt road off to the left and you’ll see a hogback ridge to your right. Keep it on that side.”

“We getting close to Bent’s Fork now?” Sonny asked, gently urging him to go on and not caring. He’d been lost after he said howdy.

“Oh, sure, after that you’ll pass a good size stock tank that’s full of big bass and then you can see the land fall off toward the river.”

“What’s going on Dad?” asked the young man who appeared to give up on the hay bailer. Sonny though it was because they couldn’t build up a good head of steam on it. The sweaty youngster stood and joined his dad.

“Well son, I’m just giving these boys instructions to Bent’s Fork.”

“Oh, that’s easy. Go back down this road the way you came to the highway, turn north to mile marker 243, turn right beside the Mobil station and you’ll hit town a mile and a half later.”

“Maybe we should have stopped in town to get something to drink,” Rank said with a weak grin.

“It’s easy to get back to Daddy D’s,” said Dad. “Just turn around here and go down this road a piece until you come to Blackie Moore’s windmill and then you go on over the hill, past the bluff, and when you see that big old hog run take a dog leg to the left and you’re there.

“Right.”

“No, left. Dang boy, if you clean your ears out, life would be a little easier on you.”

“Think I’ll straddle a bull tonight, too,” Rank said to Sonny as they pulled out. “He might help clear my head.”

Reavis Z. Wortham is the New York Times bestselling author of seventeen novels to date. A retired educator, he now writes full time, with The Rock Hole named a Top 12 Mystery of 2011 by Kirkus Reviews and Dark Places listed among True West Magazine’s Top 12 Modern Westerns. Wortham’s The Texas Job won the Will Rogers Medallion Award Gold Medal in the Western Modern Fiction category. His latest work, the Western Horror novel Comancheria, hits shelves in October. Reavis lives with his wife in Texas.