COLLECTING “STRANGE” FRIENDS

Several of you have asked—some, incredulously—how it is I meet so many “strange,” even “weird” people from all over the world; folks like Van Zyl the giant, Shirpa the Commie-Killer, Moon, Boot, “Random,” my half-Asian half-English buddy and many others. First, I object to the word “weird.” “Strange” is OK, and admittedly accurate. It’s simple: Go to strange places, do strange things. Be a little strange. You’ll meet ’em. Sort ’em out and keep the good ones. But sometimes closer to home all you gotta do is stop and smell the… Ha! Thought I was gonna say “roses,” didn’t you? Nope.

The backbeat story is nothing special, but it came down to this: Big Bob (of Big Bob and Irma, our road’s-end neighbors) wound up coming home in a rented van with his left leg in a big cast, and staying at my place for a while to avoid all the stairs at his digs. His pride and joy, his baby, his beautifully, lovingly restored 1954 Studebaker Conestoga station wagon, remained stranded at a classic car show 200 miles away. Bob needed somebody sober and trustworthy to drive her home. But he got me. Coulda flat-bedded her, but he said she needed to be “turnt loose to run a little—carefully. Carefully!” he insisted, with a pointy-finger in my face. He needed a driver and I needed to see some higher, greener, hillier country, so…

What a sweet ride! I purred over a rise, dropping into a broad green valley. At the right side of the highway I spotted the quintessential Texan, an older fella, lean and rangy in a battered straw cowboy hat, faded checkered shirt under a worn denim vest, bowed legs in tall boots. He was pulling a 2-wheeled propane tank cart with a 3-foot wand, apparently returning now from having burned scattered weeds in the borrow ditch. He glanced up as I passed, then did a wide-eyed double-take as I went by. I presumed he was admiring the Studebaker. I passed a big hardpan turn-out in front of a cattle gate and holding pen. Looked like several cow patties had been torched there on the cleared ground. A big old ranch truck stood nearby.

I’d been rollin’ with windows down and the rank, kinda sickly smell of torched green weeds floated in. But as I passed those smoldering patties, a smell wafted through that instantly tickled my memories of—what? What? It was so striking that I braked, hung a U-turn and returned. Got out and sniffed. What the…? And it hit me: Central Asia, decades ago, with some nomads, caravan people. They made some of the tastiest flatbread ever, called naan, baking it over smoldering thoroughly dried camel dung. That was it! I glanced up.

Tex had abandoned the cart and put on speed. Before I could even hail him, he hustled to that truck and pulled the door open. Hoisting a Single-Action Army from his belt, he appeared to shove it in the truck, then a few seconds later, pull it back out and return it to his holster. Huh? Then he turned on me, crab-walkin’ kinda sideways and looking dead serious. I opened my mouth and he cut me off with a curt “Hup!” His hand rested on the butt of that six-shooter, not casually. I wondered what the heck I’d gotten into—and wisely chose not to pat the pistol under my shirt.

Security Screening, Texas Style

“Fust,” he drawled, “Y’best tell me how you’s come to be drivin’ attair Stoody-baker ‘n’ why ah cain’t git Big Bob—who owns it!—on the phone. Stan’ still an’ only work yer mouth.” I blurted my name and began to explain. He cut me off again. “Gon’ try Irma. Stay putt.” Fishing a tiny cell phone from his shirt pocket with his left hand—I noted something was wrong with it; it was slightly atrophied and the fingers didn’t curl right—he thumbed one number.

“Irma? Yup. S’Bill. Whar’s Bob, ‘n’ whar’s yer Stoody-baker? Got a feller here name a’ Connor… Oh.” He listened. “Yup. Gotta be him. Short pants, big feller. Holt on.” He turned to me, visibly relaxed. “They’s at yore place. Says Big Bob’s in yer easy-chair with ’is crook laig up on yer otto-man. Irma’s inyer kitchen with yer missus, fixin’ ta slide two berry cobblers in yer oven.” Minutes passed as he bobbed his head and murmured “Yup, yup,” a few times.

Then, “Hullo? Missus Connor? Mah honor, ma’am.” Bill told me, “Rest easy, boy,” and turned a few times, kickin’ pebbles and chuckling on the phone with Helena. He almost choked laughing and told her, “By dang I might do ’er, Missus! Might hafta shoot ’im though; he’s a big ’un. Say, I like you, gal! Wull, thankee! OK then, bye.” He folded the phone and pocketed it.

“Yore missus,” he chortled, “Says I orta take yer pants, so’s you’d drive straight home an’ not git distracted like some nine-year-olt. I tole her ah might hafta shoot ya once er twicet.” That reminded me of him pokin’ that hogleg into his truck and pulling it out again. I had to ask why.

“Oh, it weren’t the same gun,” he said. “Got two alike. Th’ one ah packed down the ditchline was loaded with four rounds ‘a’ snake-shot follered by one slug. Dang ditch is fulla rattlers sometimes. Switched it fer this ’un. Hit’s got four slug then one snake. Figgered if I had ta shoot ya, ah better throw ball. Snake’d git yore ’tenshun, but…” He drifted a bit, reminiscing. “Shot a feller with it rat cheer, (“right here,” in Texan) and another feller with slug a’fore that. Huh.” Of course I asked—I was hooked.

The Shooter’s Story Begins

“Holt up,” he drawled. “Hongry? Like a peanut-butter’n’ jelly sammich an’ some sweet tea? Shore ya do.” He opened a cooler in the truck bed, pulled out an old musette bag and waved me to a lone section of post-and-beam fence, set in front of the newer chain link fence. I noticed a worn-shiny spot on the top beam, just about the size of a narrow cowboy’s butt. He sat on it, moving his revolver to the front between his legs, draping the bag strap over his neck and letting the bag hang over his gun. He patted the beam next to him.

“Hit’ll take yore weight,” he said. “Osage orange, posts an’ rails both; last more’n a hunnert years.” He pulled out the sandwiches and a Mason jar of cold tea. Between chompin’ and chewing, he continued.

“Them fellers ah shot, ah’s settin’ here eatin’ jest like this, my Colt hangin’ here an’ mah grub-bag over it. Reckon the first ’un was fifty year ago, the second ‘bout twenny-five or so. Roont mah lunch both times. First feller pult up in this old jalopy, ’bout fallin’ apart. I ’spect he wanted ta steal mah truck. He got out an’ come ’round that ol’ car, but didn’t come right at me. He was maybe thirty, shabby an’ grubby like a ho-bo, but I knowed right off he was crazy! He quartered back an’ forth, his eyes goin’ over me, mebbe lookin’ for a gun—he couldn’t see it behind mah food-bag—and hissin’ and a-clickin’ his teeth at me! Ever hear of such a thang? Crazy!” Bill shook his head and sighed, then fell silent, shooting me a sideways glance as though making up his mind whether or not to go on.

“Shore you wanta hear this?” he asked. I assured him I did.

You want to hear it too? OK. Watch for Part 2. Connor OUT