ain't necessarily that folks are bad, but they are weak or afraid. Be strong. Be your own man. Go your own way, but whatever you do, don't go cross-ways of other folks' beliefs."
"Keep your knowledge to yourself. Never offer information to anybody. Don't let people realize how much you know, and above all, study men. All your life there will be men who will try to keep you from getting where you're going, some out of hatred, some out of cussedness or inefficiency."
When the day came that the headmaster sent for him he fought down his panic. The headmaster was a severe, cold New England man. "We will be sorry to lose you," he said. "You have been an excellent student. As of now you have a better education than many of our business and political leaders. See that you use it." The headmaster paused briefly. "You came to us under peculiar circumstances, recommended by people whom we respect. We know nothing of your family."
For the boy there had been no vacations. When others went to their homes, he had stayed at school, sitting for days alone in the library, reading.
"I would continue to read, if I were you. Books are friends that will never fail you. You are going into a hard world. Remember this: honor is most important, that, and a good name. Keep your self-respect."
"You lack, I believe, an essential to happiness. You do not understand kindness." The headmaster shuffled papers on his desk. "I know that because I have never understood it myself, and it is a serious fault which I was long in appreciating. I hope it takes you less long."
From his desk the headmaster took an envelope. "This was enclosed in the letter which terminated your schooling."
Kettleman did not open the letter until he was alone. It was brief and to the point.
You was settin on the street when I seen you, and you was hungry. I fed you. Figgered a boy needed schoolin, so I sent you. Ever year I paid. You are old enough to make out. I got nothing more for you.
Come to Abilene if you want.
Flint Five twenty-dollar bills were enclosed. He packed his clothes and, with nothing better to do, went to Abilene.
There was no one there named Flint.
After several days of inquiring he met a bartender who gave him a careful look and then suggested he stick around.
At school he had learned to ride, for it had been a school for young gentlemen. He got a job riding herd on some cattle, fattening for the market. It was not cow-punching, just keeping the cattle from drifting. The others were cowhands, however, so he learned a good deal.
After three months the cattle were sold. He went to work in a livery stable. He was there when Flint came.
The wind moaned in the pines. He replenished the fire, and lay back in his blankets again. The boughs bent above him, the fire crackled, and far off a horse's hoofs drummed. The coals glowed red and pulsing. Looking up through the pines he could see a single star.
He could be no more than thirty miles from Flint's hideout in the malpais.
He awakened sharply, every sense alert. He heard a distant shout, and then a reply so close he jumped from his blankets.
"He can't be far! Search the trees!"
Swiftly he drew on his boots and swung the gun belt around his lean hips, then shrugged into the sheepskin. There was no time to eliminate signs of his presence here, so he simply faded back into the deeper shadows, taking the shotgun with him.
Brush crashed. A rider pushed through, then another.
"Hell! That ain't his fire! He had no time!"
"Somebody waitin' for him, maybe."
"Whoever it was" -- the second rider's voice was sharp with command -- "had no business on this range. Throw that bed on the fire."
Kettleman stepped from the shadows, the shotgun ready in his hands. "The blankets are mine." Without taking his eyes from the riders he threw a handful of brush on the fire, which blazed up. "And if he lays a hand on that bed, I'll blow you out of your saddle."
"Who the devil are you?" The older man's tone was harsh. "What
"Keep your knowledge to yourself. Never offer information to anybody. Don't let people realize how much you know, and above all, study men. All your life there will be men who will try to keep you from getting where you're going, some out of hatred, some out of cussedness or inefficiency."
When the day came that the headmaster sent for him he fought down his panic. The headmaster was a severe, cold New England man. "We will be sorry to lose you," he said. "You have been an excellent student. As of now you have a better education than many of our business and political leaders. See that you use it." The headmaster paused briefly. "You came to us under peculiar circumstances, recommended by people whom we respect. We know nothing of your family."
For the boy there had been no vacations. When others went to their homes, he had stayed at school, sitting for days alone in the library, reading.
"I would continue to read, if I were you. Books are friends that will never fail you. You are going into a hard world. Remember this: honor is most important, that, and a good name. Keep your self-respect."
"You lack, I believe, an essential to happiness. You do not understand kindness." The headmaster shuffled papers on his desk. "I know that because I have never understood it myself, and it is a serious fault which I was long in appreciating. I hope it takes you less long."
From his desk the headmaster took an envelope. "This was enclosed in the letter which terminated your schooling."
Kettleman did not open the letter until he was alone. It was brief and to the point.
You was settin on the street when I seen you, and you was hungry. I fed you. Figgered a boy needed schoolin, so I sent you. Ever year I paid. You are old enough to make out. I got nothing more for you.
Come to Abilene if you want.
Flint Five twenty-dollar bills were enclosed. He packed his clothes and, with nothing better to do, went to Abilene.
There was no one there named Flint.
After several days of inquiring he met a bartender who gave him a careful look and then suggested he stick around.
At school he had learned to ride, for it had been a school for young gentlemen. He got a job riding herd on some cattle, fattening for the market. It was not cow-punching, just keeping the cattle from drifting. The others were cowhands, however, so he learned a good deal.
After three months the cattle were sold. He went to work in a livery stable. He was there when Flint came.
The wind moaned in the pines. He replenished the fire, and lay back in his blankets again. The boughs bent above him, the fire crackled, and far off a horse's hoofs drummed. The coals glowed red and pulsing. Looking up through the pines he could see a single star.
He could be no more than thirty miles from Flint's hideout in the malpais.
He awakened sharply, every sense alert. He heard a distant shout, and then a reply so close he jumped from his blankets.
"He can't be far! Search the trees!"
Swiftly he drew on his boots and swung the gun belt around his lean hips, then shrugged into the sheepskin. There was no time to eliminate signs of his presence here, so he simply faded back into the deeper shadows, taking the shotgun with him.
Brush crashed. A rider pushed through, then another.
"Hell! That ain't his fire! He had no time!"
"Somebody waitin' for him, maybe."
"Whoever it was" -- the second rider's voice was sharp with command -- "had no business on this range. Throw that bed on the fire."
Kettleman stepped from the shadows, the shotgun ready in his hands. "The blankets are mine." Without taking his eyes from the riders he threw a handful of brush on the fire, which blazed up. "And if he lays a hand on that bed, I'll blow you out of your saddle."
"Who the devil are you?" The older man's tone was harsh. "What
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