Do the Right Thing

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by jfclover

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The drive is a success.  We bank the money and start back to the Ponderosa by way of Placerville.  Hoss and I will spend the night, play a few hands of cards, and consume a shitload of beer.  There’s no drinking on any of our drives, so we often make up for that on our way home.  Four of our drovers stay in Sacramento but offer to return for the drive next year.  My father is a decent man.  He pays a decent wage and makes sure Hop Sing serves good, hot meals.  Men often stand in line to work on a Ponderosa drive. 

Our drive ended well this year.  We didn’t lose a steer or a horse or a man.  That’s called luck, and I’m always happy to report good news back to Pa.  The smile on his face shows his pleasure, and I favor that more than words.

My father has assigned either Hoss or me in charge of our drives for the last few years, says his old bones aren’t happy curling up inside a bedroll anymore.  “I’ll leave it to the young folks to do that kind of work.”  Heck, I can’t blame him. I’m not that keen on sleeping on the cold, hard ground either, but hardships are a substantial part of ranching, and it’s the life I choose.  Unlike my brother, Adam, who prefers to sit in a chair rather than in a saddle, Pa, and Hoss, and I are drawn to the land and everything it has to offer. I wouldn’t change my life for anything, although I often speak too soon.

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I stand, drop my cup, and draw my gun.  When a stranger—not much more than a boy—approaches another man’s camp, it’s good to stay on the safe side rather than play the fool.  Hoss stands too, but the kid doesn’t hesitate or stop.  He moves forward until he’s inches from our campfire. 

“Morning,” he says.  “Mind if I warm up before I move on?”

The weather is mild enough that I don’t wear my jacket or gloves.  He doesn’t fool either of us with his stupid remark about warming himself.  I don’t drop my gun, and neither does Hoss.  Caution is a priority.  What we don’t figure into the situation is that our new friend has two youthful pals who come up behind us.  Guns drawn.  Ready to fire if necessary and so thin and fragile looking that I wonder how long ago they’d sat down for a decent meal.

“Drop the guns, Gentlemen.”

Hoss and I turn our heads and face the two young men with guns leveled in our direction.  We’ve been made fools of, but if they choose to let us live, I’ll gladly tell the story.  Hoss is the first to speak.  “Okay, Fellas.  What’s your game?”

“This ain’t no game, Big Man.”  Hoss catches my eye, but we remain on our best behavior.  Neither of us wants to upset boys holding guns.  I think of them as young rattlers, youthful snakes with a hair-trigger shot of venom about to explode.  “Give us the money.”

“What money would that be?”

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you, Big Man?”

“I’ve got about ten dollars on me.  What about you, Joe?”

“‘Bout the same.  Ten, maybe twelve.”

The youngster closest to me cocks his gun.  “Who wants the first bullet?  Mr. Big Man or you?”

I dig in my pants pocket. “I was mistaken.  I have  thirteen.”

“You’re trying me, Mister.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do.  Take it or leave it.”

The young man doesn’t like my answer and fires at the ground next to my left boot.  Dirt and rocks scatter, but Hoss and I are still alive to tell the story.  We both know what the men are after, but we banked the money in Sacramento.  I have a receipt, but I doubt they’ll be happy when I tell them they’re out of luck.

“What’s in them saddlebags?”

“Normal stuff.  Jerky.  Coffee.  Clean shirt.”

“We seen you ride in with that herd of cattle.”

“Yeah.   We do that every year.  What’s your point?”  Hoss’s eyes caution me to behave myself, but the kid is making me mad.  We worked hard to bring the herd across mountains and valleys and rivers, and even if I had the money with me, the last thing I want to do is hand it over to a gang of idiots that can’t be bothered to work for a living.

“Your attitude ain’t makin’ me happy.”

“You’re not making me happy either.  As I said before, we have twenty-three dollars between us.  Take it.  Get yourself a bath, a decent meal, and find yourselves some good-looking whores.”

“We want the cattle money, Mister.”

“If it will make you happy, check the saddlebags, but you’re out of luck, Fella.  There isn’t any money.”

The thinnest boy does as I suggest.  He grabs my bag, pulls out a plaid shirt, and throws it into the fire.  What a waste.  Pa paid good money for that shirt, but the kid isn’t satisfied and reaches for Hoss’s bag.  My brother’s shirt doesn’t end up in the fire, though.  Our idiot robber has other plans, and after tossing the oversized garment on the ground, he acts like a frustrated four-year-old and stomps on the fine, white material with both boots.  Hoss and I watch with amusement.  There’s nothing more to say, and the young outlaws are clean out of tactics. 

“You have two choices, Boys.  You can ride away and avoid a hanging, or you can shoot us dead and end up on the gallows.  It’s your choice.”

Their eyes dart back and forth.  It’s a tough decision to make, but they do the right thing.  They choose the first option. 

A tall kid turns my way.  “Sorry, Mister.”

I hand the boy my thirteen dollars.  “Treat  yourself and your friends to a hot meal.”

“The youngster drops his head.  “Thanks.”

The End

4 – 2026