down the trail I lost my tracks in those of the night before, and then cut off across the country.
That was miles ago and weeks ago, and now I was back, almost within hollering distance of the home where I was brought up, the only one I could rightly recall.
Not that it had ever mattered to anybody but me. Those days I was a lonely youngster, shabbier than anybody else and too proud to try to make friends after that first trouble. That was why I started going to the swamp. When a man has no friends he makes up for it sometimes by learning a lot, and I learned a-plenty in those Sulphur River bottoms, and knew all that country away down to Caddo Lake. I knew places even the Caddo Indians didn’t know.
Those days I wandered the swamp trails, hunted and trapped for fur, and I knew where the solid ground was, and the passages a man could go through in a dugout canoe, and the hide-outs of the Indians and a few runaway slaves.
Now I was back. The farm would be there; most folks called it a ranch. There would still be the orchard and the cabin would be standing, and there was land belonging to me that stretched away down to the Big Thicket. Only those days land was not worth much, and everybody had a-plenty of it.
Lying awake staring up into the dark where the rain dripped from the cypress trees, it felt good to be back home. There was nobody anywhere who cared whether I came or went, but I knew the soil, and I knew what I could do with it, given a chance. And I’d been as homeless as a worn-out saddle pony for so long.
My plans were clear and proud. First off I’d break ground and put in a crop, and once I’d earned some cash from selling my crop I’d buy a brood mare and start raising blooded horses. Maybe a man could find a stallion with good lines; there was money to be made with a well-bred stallion.
As a boy in those East Texas swamps and thickets I’d almost never seen anything like a really good horse. Of course, there were some good horses around, but not much of it ever came my way and the horses folks up there had were a rugged bunch, tough stock, and good for working cattle in the brush, but I wanted some horses.
Time had been, right after I took off from home, I’d gone north through Virginia and Kentucky. Talk about horses.
Most of the breeders in the South had been put out of business by the war, so a man with a good stallion, good mares and pasture, a man set up like that could do all right.
Boylike, I’d figured to be rich some time. Every boy at one time or another wants to be rich. He wants to strut it around and make smart with the best clothes and have the girls look him over. He figures with enough money showing the girls will all get round heels when he comes around.
One thing I’d learned was it mattered mighty little how much money a man had as long as he was contented. Me, I wanted enough to eat, my own roof to sleep under, and my own place with crops and horses growing.
Some time maybe I’d find me a woman. Not in this country. I’d go away for that. Hereabouts the name of Cullen Baker was a bad name and nobody was likely to want me.
There would be trouble enough, but trouble begins with people and I would stay shut of them. None of them had any use for me, anyway, and that would make it a simple thing. Run down the way the place was sure to be, I’d have my work cut out for me without traipsing off to town, tomcatting around and maybe getting my tail in a crack.
Longley got up quietly when I figured he was asleep, and rustled an armful of dry wood. If a man can find dry wood after three days of rain he’s a man to ride the river with.
Bob Lee turned over and sat up, reaching for his pipe.
Longley squatted over the fire. “Seems quiet,” he said. “Bob, you reckon them carpetbaggers from up the state at Boston will come into the swamps hunting us?”
“Not unless they’re crazier’n they look.” Bob Lee turned to me. “You awake, Cullen? We should have explained it to
That was miles ago and weeks ago, and now I was back, almost within hollering distance of the home where I was brought up, the only one I could rightly recall.
Not that it had ever mattered to anybody but me. Those days I was a lonely youngster, shabbier than anybody else and too proud to try to make friends after that first trouble. That was why I started going to the swamp. When a man has no friends he makes up for it sometimes by learning a lot, and I learned a-plenty in those Sulphur River bottoms, and knew all that country away down to Caddo Lake. I knew places even the Caddo Indians didn’t know.
Those days I wandered the swamp trails, hunted and trapped for fur, and I knew where the solid ground was, and the passages a man could go through in a dugout canoe, and the hide-outs of the Indians and a few runaway slaves.
Now I was back. The farm would be there; most folks called it a ranch. There would still be the orchard and the cabin would be standing, and there was land belonging to me that stretched away down to the Big Thicket. Only those days land was not worth much, and everybody had a-plenty of it.
Lying awake staring up into the dark where the rain dripped from the cypress trees, it felt good to be back home. There was nobody anywhere who cared whether I came or went, but I knew the soil, and I knew what I could do with it, given a chance. And I’d been as homeless as a worn-out saddle pony for so long.
My plans were clear and proud. First off I’d break ground and put in a crop, and once I’d earned some cash from selling my crop I’d buy a brood mare and start raising blooded horses. Maybe a man could find a stallion with good lines; there was money to be made with a well-bred stallion.
As a boy in those East Texas swamps and thickets I’d almost never seen anything like a really good horse. Of course, there were some good horses around, but not much of it ever came my way and the horses folks up there had were a rugged bunch, tough stock, and good for working cattle in the brush, but I wanted some horses.
Time had been, right after I took off from home, I’d gone north through Virginia and Kentucky. Talk about horses.
Most of the breeders in the South had been put out of business by the war, so a man with a good stallion, good mares and pasture, a man set up like that could do all right.
Boylike, I’d figured to be rich some time. Every boy at one time or another wants to be rich. He wants to strut it around and make smart with the best clothes and have the girls look him over. He figures with enough money showing the girls will all get round heels when he comes around.
One thing I’d learned was it mattered mighty little how much money a man had as long as he was contented. Me, I wanted enough to eat, my own roof to sleep under, and my own place with crops and horses growing.
Some time maybe I’d find me a woman. Not in this country. I’d go away for that. Hereabouts the name of Cullen Baker was a bad name and nobody was likely to want me.
There would be trouble enough, but trouble begins with people and I would stay shut of them. None of them had any use for me, anyway, and that would make it a simple thing. Run down the way the place was sure to be, I’d have my work cut out for me without traipsing off to town, tomcatting around and maybe getting my tail in a crack.
Longley got up quietly when I figured he was asleep, and rustled an armful of dry wood. If a man can find dry wood after three days of rain he’s a man to ride the river with.
Bob Lee turned over and sat up, reaching for his pipe.
Longley squatted over the fire. “Seems quiet,” he said. “Bob, you reckon them carpetbaggers from up the state at Boston will come into the swamps hunting us?”
“Not unless they’re crazier’n they look.” Bob Lee turned to me. “You awake, Cullen? We should have explained it to
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