Jeff said, “That must have been a long time ago.”
“Yes, I guess it was. I was about the age you are now, I guess, when my family started down from Missouri to settle in Texas. Not much more than squatters we were, if the truth were told. My ma was set on getting the family a piece of land and living on it. She never did get the land, though, that she had wanted so much.”
“Why not?” Jeff wanted to know.
Nathan Blaine turned his head slowly and gazed to the north. “Osages,” he said. “White trash had them stirred up and they were raiding settler wagons coming through the Territory.”
“Your ma was killed?”
“And two brothers. Me and my pa were the only ones to get to Texas, finally. Not that it did us much good.”
“Why not?”
Nathan looked at his son. “Never mind. It's not important now.”
Man and boy, they sat their horses proudly and gazed thoughtfully into the distance.
“Would you like to ride a piece down the fence?” Nathan asked.
And Jeff said, “I don't care,” meaning that he was itching to.
They touched their horses and rode along the stretched barbed wire. Beyond was a stand of cottonwood marching green and proud across the prairie, following the banks of the narrow stream called Crowder's Creek.
The sun was still an hour away from the western edge of the world, and they rode all the way to Crowder's Creek before pulling up. “There used to be yellow cats down there,” Nathan said, gazing down at the ripply ribbon of water.
“There aren't any more,” Jeff complained. “The squatters built fish dams upcreek and cleaned them out. Were you in Plainsville when the hands from the big outfits used to come in to trade?”
“Yes. The town was different then.”
“I remember,” Jeff said, nodding, and Nathan Blaine smiled that thin smile of his.
Suddenly Jeff's pa threw himself out of the saddle and walked a little way toward the stream. Staring out past the creek, he said, “I guess I wouldn't be much surprised if you didn't like me. I sure haven't been much of a pa to you, and that's the gospel.”
Jeff was surprised that the talk had taken this kind of turn. He would have preferred to keep it impersonal. Now he felt uncomfortable, as though he had done something wrong, and he didn't know exactly what kind of reaction was expected of him.
“I never said I didn't like you.”
He thought he saw his pa stand just a little straighter. “Well, you've got a right to, and I don't deny it. I guess I can't rightly explain just why I ran off from you when you was just a tyke. I've thought about it at times— but I don't know.”
He was still looking across the creek, as though he spotted something interesting on the other side. But he went on in the same quiet, thoughtful voice.
“Once several years ago I was down south with the Mexicans, and right out of the clear it dawned on me that I'd had enough chasing, and what I really wanted was to come back to Plainsville and see my boy. That very night I got packed and rode clear up from Chihuahua. Then, when I got about an hour's ride from town, I turned around and went back again. I don't know just why I did it.”
Jeff said nothing, for he knew that his father expected no answer. This was the first time a grown person had ever talked to him like an adult. It was flattering in a way, and he was proud to be talked to as an equal; but still it was confusing.
Then Nathan Blaine turned away from the creek and looked at his son. “Well, I'm glad you don't hate me, anyway. That's about all I can rightly expect.” Suddenly he smiled, and walked over and stroked the bay's neck. “That's enough talk about me for a spell. Jeff, why don't you tell me about yourself?”
He didn't ask, “Have you been a good boy?” or “Do you have a girl?” or “Do you like your teacher?” Jeff hated those questions, and they were the ones adults always asked.
Not Nathan Blaine. He had come right out and asked, “Tell me about yourself.” Man to man.
It gave the boy a warm feeling to be taken in and treated as though he had some sense, even though he was only twelve.
“Well,” he said importantly, “I'm pretty good at figures at the academy. Uncle Wirt says I'll be taking over the tin shop books before long, if I keep it up.”
“I see. What else are you good at, Jeff?”
“I'm a pretty good tin worker; Uncle Wirt teaches me a lot of things about it. I made a bucket for Aunt Beulah that she says is the best she ever saw, and I can roll and rivet stovepipe as good as anybody.”
Nathan Blaine continued to stroke the bay's neck, but he no longer looked up at his son. “Your uncle taught you all that?”
“Sure,” Jeff said. “He taught me to braid rawhide lariats, and make slingshots and willow whistles—a lot of things. He's been pretty good to me, I guess.”
There was a sagging to Nathan Blaine's face, and suddenly he stopped stroking the bay and clinched his fist as though he were about to hit someone. “So your uncle taught you a lot of things, did he?”
Jeff didn't like the look on his pa's face. He wasn't smiling now. He looked grim and almost angry.
