Tales of a Texas Boy

  TALES OF A TEXAS BOY

  BY

  MARVA DASEF

  Dedicated to my father, the real Eddie

  Copyright © Marva Dasef 2007-2013

  Texas Boy Publications

  Large Print ISBN: 978-1438235455

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-061514896

  Discover other books by Marva Dasef at smashwords.com

  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/mgdasef

  Visit the Author’s Website at:

  http://tinyurl.com/DasefAuthor

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Some of the stories were previously published in on-line and print publications:

  Rattlesnakes and Jackrabbits, first published in StoryStation, 2005.

  The Corn Patch Incident, first published in Writers Post Journal, 2006.

  The Cattle Drive, first published in Writers Post Journal, 2006.

  One Fine Dog, first published in Writers Post Journal, 2006.

  Mr. Young's Arkansas Cedar Float, first published in Writers Post Journal, 2006.

  The Bone Hunters, first published in Long Story Short, 2006.

  The Thief, first published in Antithesis Common, 2006.

  Acknowledgments

  FIRST AND FOREMOST, I’d like to thank my father for mustering up quite a few stories from his childhood. No mean feat for an octogenarian. I also need to thank him for overlooking the times I strayed from the absolute truth for literary license. For the most part, however, these stories have a seed, if not a full-grown fruit, of truth to them.

  I must also thank all of my friends who read every story and commented helpfully on them as I wrote them. These people include Jenny Loftus, Eileen McBride, Diane Swint, Will Riley, and Bryan Catherman. I also received excellent critiques from a few writing groups. To these many writers and readers, I owe grateful recognition.

  I wish to acknowledge with deep thanks The Handbook of Texas Online. This internet site proved a treasure trove of information on Texas, which I used frequently to make my stories as true to the real Texas as possible. If you need to know anything about Texas, you can visit them here:

  http://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/online

  Another valuable resource was the Portal to Texas History website. You can visit them here:

  http://texashistory.unt.edu/search/

  Last and not least, I thank my dear husband Jack for reading every word and encouraging me to continue to work on these stories.

  Marva Dasef

  Eugene, Oregon

  Dad Boles and Sophie

  During the 1930's in the rural region of West Texas, working was just about all people had time to do. However, even without television or access to movie houses, there was still some entertainment for the masses. The county fair became a yearly highlight for the farm families. Sometimes, the entertainment wasn’t inside the gate to the fair, but outside where a few folks who were just a bit different set up their own type of show.

  It was summer again and the carnival would be here in a week. That’s about the most exciting event of the year, except maybe the roundup and branding. I surely was looking forward to the cotton candy and riding the Ferris wheel. Beins I’m a kid, a carnival was pretty interesting, but I looked forward to it most ‘cause that’s when Dad Boles came to town.

  My Pa met up with Dad Boles during the war where they’d been in France with the cavalry. My Pa was the horse doctor and Dad Boles was the horseshoer, though he’d been a lot of different things in his life. They’d hit it off and Dad Boles took to coming to Hereford to spend time with Pa and to bring his bear to the carnival.

  I didn’t mention he owned a bear? Oh, he surely did! He’d raised Sophie from a cub. Truth be known I think he’d killed her ma, so he wasn’t exactly being overly nice by taking in a little bear cub. He also kept a pet bobcat named Bob.

  When they all drove up to the farm in his big Studebaker, they surely were a sight. Sophie sat up in the back seat just like she was a person. Bob rode in a cage as he wasn’t as easy-goin’ as Sophie.

  The rest of the Studebaker was loaded full of bobcat skins, which Dad Boles sold at the carnival. He’d set himself a place just outside the carnival entrance, so everybody had to walk by him on the way in. He laid the skins out around a heavy pole he’d pounded into the ground. He tied Sophie’s leash to the pole. She leaned up against it and sat up on her haunches. Her big head waved back and forth as she snuffed at the smell of the food sold by the carnies. Ever once in awhile, Dad Boles would toss her sumpin to eat. She seemed to be just fine with watchin’ the people go by.

  After I’d spent the dollar Pa gave me at the carnival, which took me only an hour, I’d go outside the gate and spend my time with Dad Boles. That was right near as entertaining as the two-headed calf in the tent show.

  A lot of folks stopped to look at the skins, too. Dad Boles didn’t make any pitch to ‘em. They’d ask how much, and he said fifty cents and that was that. No wheelin’ or dealin’. Most who wanted a skin thought it was a good price anyways.

  Now, it was an entirely different business when it came to Sophie. Every year it was the same. Farmers brought their dogs to the carnival, just ‘cause Sophie was there. They’d bet on whether their dogs could take Sophie or not. Now, you’d think with Sophie tied up and all, the dogs would have a good shot at her. But that’d be cruel and Dad Boles loved Sophie and wouldn’t see her come to any harm. Nor, did he want the dogs hurt. The bet was whether the dog could get to the bear and, if’n it did, it’d be pulled back real quick.

  Lots of folks brought their dogs to test Sophie, but also just to come watch the game. It surely was an interesting crowd of people. The farmers were there in the coveralls, the cowboys wearing their best hats. Even some town folk would stop by to take a look. I recall Mrs. Oakes come round. I tried not to laugh when I saw her ‘cause she liked to wear really big hats, all covered with fruit and flowers. It was particularly amusing as she also carried around her own little dog, which she named Mimi ‘cause it was a French dog. It weren’t any bigger than a squirrel so she tucked it up under her arm like a package.

  Those dogs were gettin’ bigger and meaner every year and I began to worry whether Sophie’d still be able to stop ‘em. The dog owners didn’t seem to care much whether their dogs or Sophie’d get hurt. That did bother me some as I naturally loved all animals. Beasts of the field, Pa called ‘em. I didn’t quite understand that ‘cause I didn’t see neither bear nor dog as being a field critter.

  I’d heard Dad Boles tell Pa how he’d trained Sophie to be gentle with the dogs. He’d also cut her claws back to nubs before the carnival. So, he’d made sure Sophie wouldn’t kill the dogs. He made sure the dogs wouldn’t harm Sophie by packin’ a Colt Peacemaker at his belt. He kept it in the holster, but I’d seen him whip it out as fast as any gunslinger. I figured if one of the dogs got close to Sophie, he’d shoot it. Never had to, at least as I observed.

  One year, a rancher brought along a special dog with the direct idea of beating Sophie. It were a big brute. Musta weighed a hundred-fifty at least. Pa told me he was a mastiff. He didn’t seem to be a mean dog as he was wagging his tail and generally seemed f
riendly. Still, that changed when he caught Sophie’s scent. Later, I found out the man trained the dog to fight using bearskins. He’d wrap the skin around his arm and hit the dog with a stick, so’s the dog connected the bear smell with the beating.

  The dog started pulling at his leash and growling. He didn’t pay no attention to anything else but that bear. The man could hardly hold the dog back whilst they laid the bet.

  The usual bet was fifty cents or so, and Dad Boles made quite a bit just from that. The man musta been confident his dog could take Sophie ‘cause he slapped down a hundred-dollar bill on the pile of bobcat skins.

  Dad Boles looked at the dog and looked at the hundred, considering. That was a lot of money, but he wasn’t too eager to shoot the dog as he thought he might have to do.

  He says, “All right, it’s a bet,” and pulled out his money bag and threw it down with the hundred. “There’s plenty enough there to cover.”

  The man grinned an evil grin. He surely did think his dog could get to Sophie, and he didn’t seem to realize Dad Boles would shoot the dog if’n he did get close to the bear.

  The rancher let go of the leash and the dog sprung forward so fast it’d knock your hat right off. He was snarling so mean at the same time, so’s your skin would crawl. I held my breath, just like everybody else standin’ there.

  Sophie looked at the dog heading her way, but only seemed mildly interested. The dog got to about three feet from her throat and she slapped her big paw out like it was on a spring. She hit the dog right in his chops and he went a’flying.

  The dog landed with a thud and he lay there stunned for a few seconds. Everybody held still waitin’ to see if’n Sophie’d finally killed a dog.

  All a sudden, the dog jumped up on all fours and proceeded to run just as fast as his legs would carry him, yiping for all he was worth the whole time.

  Dad Boles grinned at the man, whose mouth was hanging open. Dad scooped up the hundred along with his moneybag and put both away in his coat.

  “Better go find yer dog,” he said as he threw a hot dog to Sophie. She snapped it up in midair, looking a mite proud of herself.

  Whilst everybody was distracted lookin’ to see if the big dog was hurt or not, Mrs. Oakes’ little dog Mimi jumped down out of her arms and tore on up to Sophie barkin’ for all she was worth. Everybody gasped and held their breath, thinkin’ Sophie would just take one bite and that little dog wouldn’t be no more. By then, Mimi’d grabbed hold of Sophie’s paw and was worrying it sumpin fierce. Sophie just looks down all calm. Then gentle as can be, she gave the little dog a light tap with one toe of one paw. Mrs. Oakes ran right up to Sophie and grabbed up Mimi. She rushed away crying “oh, my poor little baby!”

  Dad Boles looked relieved that Sophie showed such good sense. He turned to the crowd and said, “good thing nobody bet on that dog.”

  Rattlesnakes and Jackrabbits

  Domestic livestock weren’t the only animals that the farmers and ranchers had to deal with. The wildlife of the region didn’t hide out in the bushes all the time. Sometimes they were pretty much in your face. Rattlesnakes came to the farms to catch the rats and mice that populated granaries. Rabbits also took a liking to the easy pickings. Both animals, rattlesnakes and jackrabbits, ended up being a nuisance that the local farmers and ranchers had to control.

  Texans like to brag everything is bigger in Texas. That might be a little exaggeration, but with two things I think it’s pretty much the truth. In Texas, rattlesnakes and jackrabbits come in three sizes: big, bigger, and biggest. I’m also of a mind there are more of each of these critters per square mile than fleas on a stray dog.

  You couldn’t walk across the farmyard without spottin’ at least one rattler. Pa was kept plenty busy just keepin’ the rattlers away from the house. The snakes liked to stay around the granary where they’d find plenty of rats to eat. While we appreciated their service, getting rid of the rats, it was dangerous havin them around the farmyard. I was old enough to watch out for the snakes, but the little kids wouldn’t be fast enough to avoid them. Pa had no choice but to kill the snakes when we’d find one.

  Pa told me once a hair rope would keep out a rattler, so I wondered why we didn’t just put a real long rope ‘round the yard. Pa said it only works when you’re camping out. That puzzled me some. I asked him why it worked only then and he tol’ me the rope circle had to be small, just enough to surround you when you’re sleepin’. I could see how that might be true, so I asked him why it worked at all. He said, “Eddie, it’s because the rattlers are superstitious.”

  We didn’t see the jackrabbits as often, but we knew when they’d come in the middle of the night ‘cause we’d see the holes they’d gnaw in the granary walls. The better the crop, the more jackrabbits there’d be. I guessed the one would beget t’other. Around these parts, we called them deer rabbits as they appeared to be as big as deer. Of course, that was also just a joke, but if you see a jackrabbit’s ears sticking up behind a mesquite bush, you’d swear it was bigger’n the seven or eight pounds they’d usually weigh.

  Because the local farmers and ranchers saw ‘em both as a big problem, on occasion they’d get together and go hunting. This mostly happened in the spring or fall when the rattlers were birthing. The reason was if they found a rattler’s den, they could kill upwards of a hundred babies at one time. In the meantime, the men could also be looking for jackrabbits.

  Up to fifteen, twenty men would fire up their trucks and head out with their .22s and a bunch of boxes to collect up the jackrabbits. The jackrabbits were tough, but could still make a passable stew, so no sense in letting ‘em go to waste.

  A big part of this expedition included moonshine. The hunters would head out in the early afternoon and start drinking right off. By dusk, most of ‘em couldn’t hit much of anything, but was havin’ a lotta fun anyways. The hardest part of the trip was avoidin’ being shot by somebody else. Mostly, though, these men knew what they was doing even when they could hardly see straight. I was glad Pa wasn’t a drinker as I’d see how stupid the men would act. I guess that would be one more reason why I respected my Pa.

  When I turned twelve, Pa let me go along on a hunt. Course, I didn’t drink no moonshine, but I already had my own .22 rifle and was getting to be a fair shot. My Pa doesn’t kill animals for sport and neither do I, but we had a farm to run and both the rattlers and the jackrabbits were causin’ enough problems that we had to do it.

  I’ll admit, I did enjoy goin’ out with the men. It was fun to be bouncing around in the back of Pa’s Model A truck scanning the prairie for either of the offending beasts. If’n anybody spotted sumpin, we’d stop and get out of the cars and the trucks and start hunting on foot. We’d all go in different directions so as to cover the most ground.

  We’d found a den of rattlesnake babies. There must of been a hundred or more, none of ‘em over six inches long. They were small, but plenty feisty as they coiled up and shook their little one-button rattles just like the big ones. I turned aside as I didn’t want to watch. It’s one thing shootin’ at sumpin from afar, but the men were stomping on the little snakes to kill ‘em. It turned my stomach, so I went off in another direction.

  I was going along pretty slow, so I wouldn’t step in a snake hole when I heard the squeal of a rabbit in pain. A lot of folks don’t realize rabbits make a sound like that. It’d send shivers up your spine. I went quick toward the sound and found a bullsnake at least six-foot long if he were an inch. He was all coiled around a baby cottontail and his mouth was gaped open holdin’ onto the rabbit. The poor little rabbit was half down its gullet, but the snake made the mistake of tryin’ ta swallow it from the rear instead of the head. The cottontail was strugglin’ and screamin’ so much the snake looked downright annoyed.

  Now, we don’t hunt bullsnakes, as they’re the natural enemy of rattlesnakes. And, we don’t hunt cottontails, as they weren’t big enough to do much harm. We pretty much left them both alone. The sound of the little rab
bit’s screaming just ‘bout broke my heart. I run up to them and stepped down on the snake’s neck just back of the lump that was the rabbit’s rear end. That stopped the swallowing, but now I wasn’t sure what to do. I laid down my .22, grabbed the cottontail by the ears and commenced pullin’. A bullsnake’s teeth point backwards, so the rabbit was pretty much stuck in the snake’s mouth.

  I was tuggin’ and the rabbit’s cryin’ and the snake’s whippin’ round trying to get my foot off’n his neck. No progress was being made by any of the three of us.

  My Pa heard the rabbit, too, and he came running over and saw the fix I’d got myself into. He started to laugh some, but when he looked me in the eyes, he stopped right quick. He started pryin’ the snake’s mouth open trying to unhook the teeth from the rabbit. I let up pullin’ to allow Pa to work the rabbit loose.

  Soon enough, we’d got the rabbit out of the snake’s mouth and Pa set the little guy down easy. I reached down and grabbed the bullsnake by the neck where I’d been standing and flung him as far as I could. He hit the ground slithering and was gone in a second. Pa and me took a look at the cottontail, which looked somewhat bedraggled. He was laying there pantin’ and started tryin’ to pull hisself with his front legs. It looked like he’d got a broke back and I thought we’d have to put him out of his misery.

  Pa picked up his .22 and started to draw a bead on the cottontail’s head when it looked up at him with those big ol’ eyes. He stayed his hand. “Maybe he’s just stunned,” he said.

  While we stood there watchin’ the rabbit, a couple of the men came up to see what we’d found. Pa told them about the bullsnake and they thought it a pretty good joke I’d try to save a rabbit from a snake.