Rancher Artie: Part Two

“Ya really think I could do my father proud, Ginny?”

Artie were settin’ on the young school teacher’s desk as she tidied up the school room.

“Ya shot ain’t bad,” she said with a smile.

“I dun’t think I’d win, o’ course; if I git even ter the second round I’d be might pleased.”

“I’ll come watch with yer parents,” she promised. “Just git off my desk so I can put these things away.”

He grinned and hustled off.

Ray Crawfish had set up some targets in a field, and had one of his hands draw up lists fer the competition order. Artie checked and double checked fer his name ta be sure he knew what time he had ter be ready. His parents sat on the grass with Ginny and waved. He tried ter smile, but he were nervous; he’d never set hisself up against anutter in compertition like this. He hurried back to his sack to git out his pistol and make sure it were in readiness. There was his handkerchief… extrar bullets… an apple… Panicked, he emptied the sack upside down, but there warn’t no pistol inside.

He was supposed ter shoot in near thirty minutes. It was a fair piece ter town and back, too. “I don’t have no other idear,” he muttered to hisseln. “Best make it quick.”

He flung hisself on the horse and set his spurs. Through the fields and along a dirt road into the dusty town. Once at the boarding house, he stopped only ter wind the halter ‘round the hitchin’ post before he charged into the buildin’. It were real quiet inside, since all the folks thereabouts was at the shootin’ contest. Up the rickety stairs that shook with evera step, and into the little room. In a moment o’ horror, he discovered the pistol were not in his box where it ought ter o’ been. He hesitated, befer tearin’ open his father Vin’s box. There were a nice pistol in there; it warn’t his’n, but he didn’t think his father would’a minded, seein’ the siteration. Back down ther stairs, onto his harse, and flyin’ down tha road ter the contest.

He’d never did as nice as he did that day; his shots were perfect with that pistol, which didn’t shoot ter the left as his other’n did. It fit real nice in his hand, with it’s gold-engraved handle, and he wondered how in the sam hill his father had sich a nice thing.

But he warn’t niver as shocked as when he done won the contest. That was a field-shaker and no mistake.

“The winner is Artie—” Ray Crawfish stopped and stared at the gun in Artie’s hand. “Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Where’d you get that there pistol?” he asked.

Artie reddened. “It ain’t mine. It’s my pa’s.”

“Where’s ya pa?”

Vin stood up. “There be a problem, Mr. Crawfish?”

“Sure not!” Ray said enthusiastically. “Kin ya tell me where ya got that pistol?”

“It was giv’n ter me,” Vin said shortly. He looked at Arthur. “Kin we have a piece a’ talk alone, Mr. Crawfish?”

Ray nodded and drew him off.

“It’s like this,” Vin said quietly. “He ain’t no son o’ ours. He were a young’un, not a year old, when his ma brought him to us. She couldn’t take care of him no more. She said that pistol were his pa’s. I ain’t told the boy any of this. Wherever his pa and ma be, they ain’t done him no good turn and he don’t need to get mixed up with them none.”

“On the contrare,” Ray said with a grin, “his pa jist done him one real good turn.”

Rancher Artie: Part One

Note: The following will be much more amusing if read in a hick accent. This will also induce some cringing and may be highly annoying. Read at your own risk.

Head Rancher Uriah “Lizard-sticking” Kingsly didn’t have a son. Leastways there was no young’uns about his place (making exception of the time Lucy Grace’s girl set a spell). Though no folks thereabouts believe him much, he told Ray, his head of ranch security and right hand man, that he was sure he did have a young’un somewhere. “And if it be, then he’ll have hisself the best pistol I ever done own. I called it “Acero”, which means steel, and I never missed a shot when I used it, ner lost a fight, neither. It had a shiny white handle which jist fit perfect in my hand, and a steel barrel with gold flurishes and my name engraved in it. My old friend Merle, an Indian, gifted it ter me. When we was in love, I gave it ter Nora Mae, and if I knowed her a bit, she’d ‘ve given it ter ar son.”

But when Uriah died — it was sudden like, he warn’t above forty years old —no young’un had showed hisself. Now Rancher Kingsly had quit a bit’er property thereabouts, and piles o’ gold besides. His name might’er bin prophetic-like, fer he was jist about the king of the ranchers. So his havin’ no son made a piece o’ talk fer the town folks to chew on. They were started ter hear that Uriah didn’t make Clay, his sister’s boy, his successer, but Ray Crawfish. Ray told the blunt farmers, when asked, that Uriah gave hm the persition in trust. One day soon Uriah’s boy would show hisseln, and he’d take over tuh ranch.

Will, that got folks’ tongues waggin fer a spell. It also started the biziest years of Ray Crawfish’s life. Folks of all descriptions said they was Uriah’s young’uns. Uriah’s ranch was so expansive, even folks from out er state cem ter see Ray. But each one was terned away, fer not one had a gold-engrave pistol. Ray never told nobuddy what he was lookin’ fer, but palightly insisted they go back home. Eventually even folks as was needin’ the money real bad got it through ter their brain batter that they was tryin fer nuttin, as things settled down real quiet like.

But this didn’t satisfy Ray. He always insisted he was holdin’ the persition in trust. He told his cowboys, “You know I cen’t handle a herse tuh way I used ter, but whin I stay at home from tuh cattle drives, I’m jist about et up with worry about you boys and my cows. If I warn’t duty-bound to watch over this ranch fer Uriah’s he-ir, then I would be fixing to retire. Mebbe try sumtin peaceful like raising beans.”

“Ray, even Uriah knowed he didn’t have no young’uns,” they said. “It was jist his way of leaving ya the ranch. Being direct warn’t his way. The idear of a son were jist wishful thinkin.”

Ray stayed firm. He would not pass the ranch ter Clay, or ter any of the ranch hands. Instead, he finally compromized by announcing a contest. It had been siven years since Uriah’s death, and he had not once even heared about the pistol. A shootin’ contest oughta bring it out, though. He still didn’t tell no one his real reasons fer the contest; he simply announced he would select an he-ir from the winners.