Don't I Know You?

By Terry W. Burns

What would life be like if everyone you met thought they recognized you? Slaps on the back, free meals and drinks, included in every circle, but would it always be a good thing? Larry Smith had this gift—or curse—it had always been there. Over the years he learned to use it and refined it to a fine art. Then he discovered, sometimes it could backfire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TheFictionWorks
• Release date: Dec 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781581244908

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Chapter 1

Howdy, the man said. Ain’t seen you since Dodge. Was it Dodge? I can’t rightly recall the handle, but I sure remember the face.

Name’s Larry Smith, and I sure enough been to Dodge.

Larry offered his hand, and the cowhand shook it. Larry was hefty, but fell short of being fat, and he had a face that was . . . well . . . nondescript. The kind of face too bland to remember, or one you could never forget, all at the same time. A face that looked something like everybody you ever met, or for some reason seemed to be that way.

Sam Mack, the cowhand said. Just finished pushing some critters up here with the Lazy S.

In contrast, Sam was a lean drink of water, had an ever-present smile set in a craggy face fuzzy with a two-day growth of beard. He looked at Larry through vision that seemed as fuzzy as the beard. Both men wore weathered chaps and work shirts. Their hats and shirts were caked with sweat and trail dust. Sam signaled for the bartender.

The old man paid us off over at the Drovers Cottage. Sam continued as he poured Larry a drink from his bottle. As if they had rehearsed it, both men reached for the glass, put one foot on the rail, held it up in a salute, and tossed down the drink. You been punching cows?

Mostly I’ve drifted here lately, Larry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. I’m looking for me a riding job, but I reckon I’m gonna have to go back down to Texas to find it.

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. Well, Larry, how about if I buy us a steak? I been craving one, and I pure-dee hate to eat alone.

I reckon I could eat.

The pair walked over to find a table. On the way over Sam caught the eye of the harassed waitress and yelled, Burn us a couple, darlin’.

If Larry had a special skill in life, it was that most people liked him on sight. No . . . no, that was not quite it. Actually, most people thought they knew him on sight. It happened all the time. He didn’t fight it. Years of experience had taught him it was easier to accept it than to go through the very lengthy debate necessary to prove they were wrong. Besides, it usually came in handy.

I forget, Sam said as they settled around the table. Did we ride together over in Dodge, or just know each other?

I’m like you, Larry said, lot of time, lot of water under the bridge. It all runs together, don’t it?

Actually, there was a lot of truth to it. It happened to him so much he wasn’t entirely sure anymore who he had met and who was only responding to his peculiar talent.

Who am I to argue with fate? he said aloud.

What?

Oh, sorry Sam, just thinking out loud. He tucked his napkin in his collar as the food arrived. Say, those are good looking steaks, aren’t they? If they’d get platters a little bigger, they wouldn’t hang off the sides like they do.

Sam said, Oh, I know how to fix that. We simply trim off the excess and eat it first, then everything will be all neat and tidy.

Sounds sensible to me.

Larry and Sam had a fine evening as they re-hashed good old times they had actually never had, as well as people they both knew. As to the latter, it was surprising how many there really were. For all of its huge size, the west was really a very small place. Everyone out here rode the cattle trails, or the wagon trails, or maybe the Butterfield stage road.

On these flat plains, anybody could see campfire smoke or a dust plume for fifteen or twenty miles, a campfire at night even farther. It wasn’t surprising that when there was somebody out there, people generally knew it, and both parties most often took steps to find out who the other was, friendly or not.

There were relatively few towns of significance, and when somebody was in one, they hung out at the saloon, whether they were a drinking man or not. Little news was available, so at the saloon, everybody talked about who they had seen and where. This meant everyone knew pretty much the same people, whether they actually knew them at the same time or not. This also had the effect of contributing to Larry’s unique gift.

The next morning Larry rustled around at first light. Abilene was a wide-open town, board front buildings spread down both sides of a wide dirt street. It was friendly and companionable in the early evening as everybody ate and shared a drink or two. As the evening wore on, the locals packed it in and went home, and slowly but surely, the more conservative revelers drifted out. Soon the party picked up speed and volume. The saloons were lined up across the tracks from the town itself, and were as colorful as their names, such as The Alamo, Applejack, Old Fruit, or The Pearl and the Bulls Head.

At the peak, there were a few fights and maybe a shooting or two. Then the heavy drinking began to take its toll. In the wee hours of the morning, things gradually ground to a halt. The soldiers were hauled back out to Fort Riley, and the evening ended with a ‘whimper, not a bang,’ as the old saying goes.

A few hours later, it began coming to life again as shops opened up and locals and area farmers and ranchers began doing business with each other. The day belonged to the locals, and the nights to their frisky young visitors. The arrangement worked, and everyone seemed to like it that way.

Eventually, the town would get all civilized, and want some tough town marshal to tame it. Of course, their current marshal, Wild Bill Hickok, could get it done if they said to do it. Right now, though, all they demanded from their law was to see to it their visitors didn’t destroy property, and see they restricted their violent activity to each other and let the locals alone.

In most towns, this meant a dead line, with the locals on one side and the cowboys on the other. In Abilene, it was called the Devil’s addition. Often as not, a railroad track would actually draw the line, as it did here. Thus the origin of the expression that someone is from south of the tracks.

This morning, on the uptown side, a shopkeeper swept the boardwalk in front of the general store as Larry walked up. In his late forties, slight and wearing a full white apron, he looked the part. The shopkeeper said, Morning, you’re out early.

Thought I’d ride out this morning. Gonna go look for a riding job.

Reckon I don’t know of one around here. The shopkeeper gave the walk a couple of last half-hearted sweeps in the direction of the street.

Didn’t much think so. ‘Spect I’ll have to go a ways to find one.

You come to settle up? The storekeeper went back inside.

Larry followed him. Naw, I ain’t never put nothing on the cuff with you.

Really? I thought sure you had an account open. He stared at his account book with a blank look. Finally, he said, Well, I declare. I’m plumb drawing a blank on your name. Ain’t that a kick in the slats, long as we’ve knowed each other?

Smith, Larry Smith.

Oh, shore, how could I forget that? I swear I don’t know where my mind is these days. No, you’re sure right, I ain’t got a thing down for you.

Well, I gotta get me some possibles for the trail. I’m gonna need to hear some prices, though. I’m starting to get a little light in the pocketbook, so I gotta stretch it as far as I can.

Oh, come on, Larry, you’ve been a good customer. You kept your bill paid up and all. We’ll get you outfitted for the trail, and if you’re a bit light, you can send it to me when you get signed on. I trust you.

Larry expressed his gratitude and began to gather provisions. He knew it wouldn’t do any good to explain that he’d only been in town a couple of days. It only made people mad, and it never resolved anything.

As he started to ride out of town, he heard a voice behind him. Hey!

A young rider came loping over. He had unruly copper colored hear peeking out from under the hat he had pushed back on his head. He was lean and had a boyish face that made his age hard to guess. Thought it was you, he said. How the heck you been? Where you headed?

Fine. Texas.

Want some company for a while?

Sure.

He fell in beside Larry and began to roll a cigarette. Want one?

No, thanks.

Been a spell since we’ve seen each other, ain’t it?

Probably.

Was over at the Double Deuce spread, wasn’t it?

Don’t recollect.

You know, it makes me ashamed to say so, but . . .

Larry, Larry Smith.

Oh, sure, funny how you draw a blank on a name sometimes. I did it once as I introduced my girl to a bunch of relatives. Got half way around the room introducing her and just plain come up blank. What made it worse was I had got down to an Uncle that had knowed me since I was a sprout. Man, was I embarrassed!

Happens all the time, Larry admitted, matter of fact, I can’t remember your handle either.

No kidding! It’s Jake, Jake Lambert! Jake had a very disarming smile. It made Larry feel like it would be very hard to stay mad at him even if a guy wanted to. Makes me feel a whole lot better, you not remembering my name either.

You know, he continued, I ought to warn you folks sometimes think I talk too much. If I get to doing it, you just tell me to shut up. Shucks, I know I talk too much. I’ve always been that way, so it don’t hurt my feelings none when somebody calls my hand on it. I mean I understand how it is.

He looked to make sure Larry was listening. He decided that he was. Larry, you got a job waiting for you down in Texas, or are you only looking? And don’t you hesitate to speak right up if I get to asking anything you think ain’t none of my business. You just say so. Shucks, I don’t wanna go sticking my nose in . . .

Jake!

. . . where it ain’t wanted or nuthin. Ah, what’d you say?

You take a breath and I’ll answer your question.

What question?

Never mind.

Listening to someone talk non-stop for three solid hours was an experience. Larry didn’t mind, though, it helped pass the time. He thought it was like having one of those gramophone things built right into his saddle, only there was no switch to turn it off.

Larry?

Huh?

I said, shouldn’t we be picking out a spot to hole up for the night?

Probably.

Your attention kinda wanders, don’t it? People seem to do that a lot around me. It’s probably because I tend to monopolize the conversation somewhat. I don’t mean to, it’s just kinda how I am. My momma used to say . . .

The next time he stopped talking was to shovel in some fried bacon and skillet cornbread Larry had fried up.

Chapter 2

Two days out of Abilene, they met an outfit pushing cows up the Chisholm Trail. The first one they saw was this tall, lean waddie riding point. Behind him lumbered a brindle steer with a huge set of horns followed by what looked to be an endless herd of cattle trudging along doggedly. The man entertained the steer by playing a mouth harp. He grinned when he looked up. He said, Well, I’ll be danged. How in the heck are you? Sure could use you on this here trip. It’s been a woolly-booger.

Larry and Jake turned back the way they had just come from to ride with him a ways so they could talk. They couldn’t stop him for fear the lead steer would stop or stray, and the whole herd would follow.

Wish I’d been on this drive too, Larry said, cause if I had, I’d only be a couple of days away from a payday.

The cowboy laughed. Ain’t it the living truth, though! I’m sure enough looking forward to getting to Abilene. How’d you leave it?

We treed it a mite, but I reckon it’s recovered by now. Oh, this here’s Jake, Jake Lambert.

Howdy, Jake. My name’s James Jackson, but they call me Slim.

Don’t reckon I gotta ask why, Jake said.

Nobody ever does. The chuckwagon is over the rise there. Slim pointed with the mouth harp. We just lined this herd out, so he’ll still have grub on. Probably hasn’t even fed the nighthawks yet. You guys oughta go get yourself some grub.

Don’t mind if I do, Jake said.

They turned and rode over the hill and into camp. The cook looked up as they rode in. Howdy, he said. You boys on the grub line?

Larry said, We could use a cup of coffee, anyway.

There it is.

They tied their horses off on the front wheel of the wagon. Larry went over by the fire and picked up a cup. He began to fill it from the fire-blackened old coffee pot. The cook wiped his hand on his apron and offered it to Jake. He looked like a man who liked his own cooking, maybe bordered 300 pounds, balding and missing some teeth in his smile. My name’s Sourdough, he said.

Jake, Jake Lambert.

Who’s your buddy over there? I reckon I know him, but I can’t seem to pull his name up right now.

That’s Larry Smith. You probably know him, all right, seems like everyone else does.

I think he trailed with us last time out, or maybe I only remember him from trails end.

Yeah, things do tend to run together, don’t they?

They sat and visited for a spell. The Ramrod and the nighthawks came up. The Ramrod tried to send Larry out to help work a little spill over on the other side of the herd. Larry was about to answer, when the cook spoke up. Cap, you’re forgetting yourself. Old Larry ain’t signed on this here trip; it was last time out. He only dropped by for a cup of coffee. He and old Jake here is trailing south.

Cap looked somewhat pained. Well, I’ll be hornswaggled. We been on the trail for months, you’d think I’d know my own hands. Guess I wasn’t thinking.

Oh, it’s all right, Larry said. Be happy to help you clean up that little spill.

No, thanks a lot, but the boys will take care of it.

The ramrod threw the dregs of his coffee into the fire, stepped back up into his saddle and rode back to the herd shaking his head and talking to himself. Larry glanced at Jake to find him looking at him curiously.

Sourdough put a few pancakes in the skillet for the nighthawks and said: You boys want some of these?

They looked at each other and nodded. Might as well, can’t dance and too lazy to plow, Jake grinned.

They felt like they’d been stuffed for basting when they thanked sourdough and pulled their weight noisily back into the saddle. As they rode out, Larry noticed Jake wasn’t talking non-stop as he usually did. He started to say something about it, but decided a little quiet wasn’t such a bad deal.

They had only ridden the better part of an hour when they smelled wood smoke. They followed it back in and it led them suddenly into the middle of a camp. As they rode in, they both instantly knew what it was. A cinch ring heating in the edge of the fire, and a dozen or so cows held in a little makeshift brush corral blocking the mouth of a small draw said it all. Rustlers! No doubt about it!

Jake laid his hand on his gun, but Larry whispered, Easy with that thing, don’t you go getting us shot!

A voice behind some underbrush to the right said, "Man, you oughta be more careful riding up on a camp like that. I nearly put holes all through you afore I saw who