Goodbye Old Friends & Other Stories

By Len Custer and Charlotte Hayes

This is a collection of 14 absorbing short stories on a variety of interesting subjects.

In Goodbye Old Friends, an elderly man is faced with losing his beloved team of mules. His health is failing and the care and companionship of his faithful friends of 15 years is his only reason to continue living. As he sits alone, during the night before the mules are to be taken by his son, he reflects on his long and adventurous life. The final goodbye to his old friends is a heart-wrenching scene.

The other 13 stories cover a wide spectrum of subject matter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 27, 2001
• ISBN: 9780595721023

Len Custer

I am a 71-year old businessman, who was introduced at an early age to the world of literature, by my schoolteacher mother. In recent years I have expanded my love for reading into writing stories based on my life experiences and verbal history told to me by family and friends

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Goodbye Old Friends & Other Stories

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Leonard G Custer

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase presented by Writer’s Digest an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse.com, Inc. 620 North 48th Street, Suite 201 Lincoln, NE 68504-3467 www.iuniverse.com

Front cover illustration by Charlotte Hayes

ISBN: 0-595-12130-6

ISBN: 978-0-5957-2103-0 (ebook)

Contents

Acknowledgements

Goodbye Old Friends

Family Secrets

Doc D. Dog

Moses

Kindred Souls

Suburban Farmer

The BB Gun

Deputy Sheriff

The Piano Mover

Schoolmarm

The Epitaph

Fish Pirates

Revenge

Miss Bellman

About the Author

Acknowledgements  

My heartfelt thanks to Nora Caley, Leah Humlie, and Don Metzler, members of the writers group, for their suggestions, frank evaluation, and encouragement during many of our monthly meetings.

I also appreciate the assistance from my friends, Randy and Ann Bridle who graciously agreed to read the manuscript and made many needed corrections of punctuation and typo errors.

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Goodbye

Goodbye Old Friends  

His daughter’s Pastor had called on Clay Crawford today. The lonely old man liked the young Pastor and looked forward to his periodic visits, even though he seldom attended church services. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in a just and benevolent God. All his life he’d worshipped that kind of God, and marveled at His creation, in such places as behind a walking plow, on horseback, herding cattle, or on the seat of a freight wagon.

In Clay’s opinion, the churches of so called organized religions were filled with many bible-thumping hypocrites; people who sat in the front pews and sang loudest Sunday mornings, then would stab you in the back, with a shady business deal, come Monday. The dedicated Pastor had discussed that assertion with him, saying: Even self-proclaimed Christians have human frailties. It’s not the church’s fault they do bad things; it’s their lack of personal faith, and the work of the devil.

Well, I can understand about human frailties ’cause I’ve got more ’n my share of ’em, but I don’t aim ta start at this late date makin’ out like I’m ‘holier than thou’ by sittin’ in the front pew ever Sunday, Clay replied.

Clay, it’s your immortal soul I’m concerned about. You’re in the twilight of your life. Are you prepared to meet your maker? Don’t you think it would be a good idea for you to come to church and get to know Him better, before He calls you home?

The old man nodded his head in the affirmative. You’re right about my bein’ in the twilight of my life and I’m about as prepared as I’m ever gonna be ta meet my maker. Fact is, the good Lord could turn th’ lights out on me right now for all I care, ’cause there’s not much left here for me and tomorrow it’s gonna get worse. His usually strong old voice became husky, and his eyes misty. The young Pastor felt compassion for the despondent old man. Hell, Clay continued, I know they think they’re doin’ it for my own good, but after tomorrow morning I won’t have anymore reason left to even get outta bed.

The cluttered, but sparsely furnished room was almost dark now. Ever since the Pastor left, he’d been setting in an old squeaky rocking chair. It was the same chair his departed wife had sat in for endless hours, staring through blank, uncomprehending eyes, during those torturous years her soul was locked into a demented mind, until she finally found peace in death.

As he was prone to do often lately, he was reading the blurred entries in a journal he had kept for many years, and reminiscing about his life. His loneliness and the realization that the twilight of his life was growing dim dominated his emotions. What was there to live for? Why even get up and fix something to eat? He endeavored to recall only good memories, to get him through the night, and help him deal with the great loss he would suffer tomorrow. But his mind wouldn’t concentrate on only the happy times. Some of the difficult events of his long life also forced their way into his consciousness.

* * * * * * * * *

Small droplets of water clung to the bright green blades of early spring grass from the thundershower that had passed on to the west. Rays from the rising sun cast a red glow on the retreating storm clouds. The water droplets sparkled in the bright sunlight, making the gently rolling hills appear to have thousands of reflecting crystals sprinkled over the short grass. The air smelled rain-washed fresh, and meadowlarks were singing their morning songs. A brilliant rainbow arched across the western sky.

Clay took it as a good omen for a bright new start for them down in the Oklahoma Indian Territory, where they were headed. His family stood beside the canvas-covered wagon with him, observing Mother Nature’s beautiful tapestry. He tenderly wrapped his arm around his wife’s shawl-clad shoulders and gently hugged her against his side. Their six-year old daughter held her daddy’s other hand and her two younger brothers clung to their mother’s long skirt.

He pulled a deep breath into his lungs and gradually blew it out. Evie, ain’t this one of the best darn mornings you ever saw? That rainbow’s gotta mean good luck, and this rain’ll make the grass grow faster. It’ll fatten up these critters we’re takein’ down to th’ Territory to sell to the Pawnee Indian Agent.

Yeah, it’s pretty all right—until one of them twisters comes rippin’ cross those hills, she replied, looking up at him with tired eyes from under the man’s slouch hat she wore. You know this wasn’t my idea to move to th’ Pawnee Indian Reservation where we won’t even have a roof over our heads.—Havin’ to break out new land an’ all. If I had my druthers, I’d still be back on our farm in Cowley County Kansas instead of out here in these endless Osage Hills.

Come on, Evie, where’s your spirit of adventure, her husband pleaded, with a little squeeze of her shoulders? There’s gonna be some more Indian land openin’ up for homesteadin’ soon. When it does, we’ll be right down there on top of it, and get us a good farm.

Evie shook her head in resignation. There was no accounting for his wanderlust. If she were going to keep the family together, she had no choice but to wander with him. It was either that, or stay behind and take care of the kids alone.

Well whatever, she said. It’s time I fixed some breakfast since you wanta move the herd on south today and I’ll have to break camp. Go fetch me some water.

It was security she was after, but he seemed to always be looking for a pot of gold at the end of some western rainbow. Before they married, her husband had been a cowboy driving longhorn cattle from Texas to Kansas, a freighter in Wyoming, a horse wrangler for a wheat harvesting crew in Eastern Washington, a logger in Western Washington, and a gold prospector in Northern California.

They had farmed a couple of different places in Kansas for a few years after they were married, but he was always restless. Now they were on their way to the Pawnee Indian Reservation where he had leased 160 acres of raw land, which he intended to clear and farm. Except for a few dollars left over from the sale of the farm after buying the 100 head of cattle which they were grazing on Osage Indian Reservation land and slowing driving south as they fattened, all their other worldly possessions were in the wagon. There wasn’t much beyond the bare necessities.

It was a struggle against nature and time, but they made it through the first year on the Pawnee Reservation, with little to show for the backbreaking work, except a rough subsistence and enough seeds to plant another crop. Their home had been a single room they dug out of the creek bank and covered with sod for a roof. The next year was slightly better financially, and a second story room was added to the dugout.

But they suffered a great loss when their little girl died in the spring, from what the Indian Agency Doctor had called, consumption. She had been her daddy’s favorite. Another little girl was born to them in the fall. He loved the little baby and her two brothers, but it would never be as deep as his affection had been for their first born.

From Clay’s viewpoint, during their third winter on the Pawnee Reservation, their luck changed for the better. The government announced another block of former Indian Reservation land would be opened up for homesteading in the spring.—There would be another land rush! That was the opportunity for which he had been praying.

During the winter, he scouted the area to be opened; searching for a choice claim, and he found just what he had dreamed about all those years. On the opening day, he had only to outrun the hordes of other land-hungry people to get it.

About midnight, before the appointed morning for the run, Clay arrived at the starting line and secured an advantageous spot. He was mounted on his fastest horse, with only a light bedroll, some precooked food, a water canteen, a tin can for boiling coffee, and a gallon of oats for the horse. Weight was conserved, by strapping on his Navy colt 45, rather than taking his heavier and cumbersome Sharps rifle in the saddle scabbard.

As the sun rose, the Cavalry Troopers had difficulty holding back the excited and eager mob of people behind the mile long starting line. At 8A.M., the starting cannon boomed.—Thousands of desperate land seekers surged forward on horseback and in all types of conveyances. Great clouds of dust soon engulfed those in the rear. Within 2 hours Clay was out in front of everyone who was going in the same direction he was headed. By noon, there was no one in sight. He felt safe to stop and water his horse, give himself and the horse a few moments to catch their breaths, and stretch his aching thighs. Then it was back into the saddle, pushing hard for that once in a lifetime opportunity.

During that grueling ride, Clay occupied his mind with visions of his dream homestead. A spring-fed stream made a half-circle through the 160-acre claim, creating in its loop over 60 acres of fertile sandy-loam soil that would be ideal for all manner of row crops. There was enough timber to provide fence posts and firewood, native blue-stemmed grass meadows from which to cut hay, and a gentle hillside pasture covered with thick growths of buffalo and gamma grasses. It had everything he’d need to make it a successful farm.

It was about 2 in the afternoon before Clay reached the rock monument that should hold the claim marker for his chosen homestead. Not another soul was in sight. He’d won!—For the first time in his hard life, he’d have a real chance for success. His heart beat rapidly in anticipation as he swung down from his foam covered panting horse, removed the container’s top, and reached in for that vital piece of paper.

When his fingers touched only the hot sides of the metal cylinder, his heart skipped a beat. His fingers groped in the cylinder again, hoping he has just missed it. He withdrew his empty hand, blinked, trying to focus his sweat-filled eyes, and peered intently into the empty cylinder. It took a few more seconds for his mind to accept the horrible truth.—The document he’d need to file the claim was gone!

Clay threw his well-worn wide-brimmed hat to the ground in disgust, then laid his head on his forearm and leaned against the heaving side of his horse for support. How could this terrible thing have happened? No one could have beaten him to this claim, who had started when and where he did! It had to be one of them damned Sooners; some sneaky bastard that hid out from the Troopers who were supposed to have cleared everybody out of the area before the run started. That low-life’s gotta be around here close by, I’ll find him, put my 45 down his gullet, and get my claim back!

Before Clay could act on that thought, he heard a rustling sound in the grass behind him. He whirled toward the sound and found himself looking into the muzzle of a Winchester carbine held waist high by a hard-eyed bearded man. Instinctively, Clay’s hand dropped toward the butt of his pistol. The stranger snapped at him in a raspy voice; so loud it made Clay’s horse shy.

Don’t be a damn fool, Cowboy. Just get back on your horse and ride on, if you wanta see the light of another day.

Neither the intimidating rifle leveled at his gut, nor the tough countenance of the stranger were strong enough to overcome Clay’s deep anger and disappointment at that moment. He flared back at his antagonist with fire in his eyes.

You’re a damn sneakin’ Sooner, and you stole this claim that’s rightly mine. There’s no way you coulda beat me here fair and square.

That’s somethin’ you’d never be able to prove, Mister. Now you got about two minutes to mount that horse and get movin’, ’fore I plant ya where ya stand.

During his years of wandering, Clay had encountered many desperate and hard men. He had learned that some talked tough to intimidate, but others were cold-blooded killers. This man’s unwavering steely eyes told him—he was a killer! If I resist him now, or try to sneak up on him latter, one of us is sure to die over this claim. I’ve got a family depending on me, and he probably don’t give a damn—one way or the other. With a heavy heart, Clay mounted his tired horse and rode away from his dream, without a backward glance.

There were still other claims to be had, but compared to what he had struggled for and lost—nothing else looked worthwhile to Clay, even though he had to come up with something for his family. The sun was sinking when he decided reluctantly that he’d have to take the next claim he came to, or come up empty handed. After pocketing that claim marker, he was too emotionally drained and physically bushed to even inspect the land he had chosen by default. He unsaddled and hobbled his faithful exhausted horse, ate a lonely cold meal, spread his bedroll under a black-oak tree, and fell into a fitful sleep.

As the sun rose over his new domain the next morning, Clay was up inspecting what his struggle the day before had provided for him and his family. The more he saw of the scrubby land, the more despondent and discouraged he became.—There was no bottom cropland, no good timber, no surface water; there were just sumac and blackjack groves on the land, dispersed over rocky hillsides. How in the hell could anybody support a family on that kind of desolate land, he lamented to himself. Is this damn rock pile even worth the time and effort to registering the claim? he asked his disinterested horse.

With those discouraging thoughts dominating his mind, he fed his faithful horse some oats, built a small fire, and was boiling some coffee in his tin can, when his noticed a spring-mounted wagon being pulled by a fine looking matched team of sorrel horses, approaching his sparse campsite. The disheveled man driving the team stopped his wagon near the hobbled horse and spoke to Clay.

Mind if I get down to visit fur a spell with ya, Mister?

No, I don’t mind, Clay replied. In the spirit of the hospitality of the west, he continued. I could use some friendly company. Only other man I saw out here threatened ta shoot me.—You’re welcome to some of this here muddy coffee I just boiled, if you’d care for some. Ain’t got no sugar or cream though.

They shared the strong coffee, as the woebegone man told Clay his pitiful story. He had bet everything on this last chance for free land. All that he owned, except the team and wagon he arrived in, was loaded on a bigger wagon back at the starting line where his wife and five children were camped out, waiting to be guided to the claim he had assured them he would win. Shortly after the run started, the rear wheel of his light wagon had hit a rock and shattered. He was thrown from the wagon and dazed. By the time he recovered his wits, caught the team, and mounted the spare wheel he had the foresight to bring—the stampede of eager land-seekers had long since passed him by.

The man had been making unsuccessful offers for claim markers all along the way, and he asked Clay if he would sell his. He pleading that he didn’t have much cash, but he had to find some place for his family because they had nothing to return to in Texas, where he had been a sharecropper. Clay sure couldn’t see any future for anyone on the scrubby land for which he held the marker, but if this poor soul wanted it, he was amiable to negotiations. They settled on trading the man’s team and wagon for the claim marker, if Clay would let him use the team and wagon to go after his other wagon and family.

Clay spent one more night sleeping under the black-oak tree and the man arrived with his family and rig about noon the next day. They were a pitiful looking rag-tag bunch. After seeing the man’s sad-eyed, emaciated wife and the scraggly kids, he felt a little guilty for having taken advantage of their desperation to pawn off a worthless claim on them. But then, he also had a family that had to be considered. He was certain he had gotten the best of the trade, as he tied his saddle horse behind his new wagon and drove away, with the man’s best team of horses. He’d failed in getting his dream homestead, but he’d be returning to Evie and the kids with something to show for his efforts.

Foresight is never as good as hindsight, Clay would tell his grand-children, years latter. Once, his story went, I held th’homestead rights to some land I thought was useless. Turns out I slept on a million dollars for a couple of nights, before I traded it for a team of horses and a spring-mounted wagon. Actually he had slept on hundreds of millions of dollars. Some 30 years later, that worthless land he traded away was located about dead center in one of the most prolific oil fields ever discovered in Oklahoma.

The team and wagon were soon traded as a down payment for a hotel and restaurant in the boomtown of Perkins, Oklahoma. After they operated that business for about 3 years, it was traded for a farm on which the family settled and farmed until Evie insisted they retire from farming and move into the town of Pawnee. Clay wasn’t ready to retire, but Evie’s health was failing and he felt obligated to move to town with her.

His oldest son took over the farm, but Clay retained a young matched team of beautiful sorrel mules he had recently purchased. Pawnee was a small town and at that time many people kept milk cows and saddle horses on their town property. The property Clay purchased for his wife had a barn and a corral on it that would accommodate his prize team of mules.

For a couple of years, Clay rented acreage on the outskirts of the town, and farmed it with his mules and equipment he borrowed from his son. It was just something he wanted to do to keep himself busy. However, he reluctantly had to quit that activity when Evie’s mental ability deteriorated to the point where she could no longer be safely left alone. His family provided some help in caring for her, but Clay insisted on keeping her at home and tending to her needs himself, when others in the family wanted to institutionalize her.

Through no fault of theirs, his beloved mules became expensive freeloading boarders, but no amount of logic would persuade him to part with them. They were his friends, and became his only relief from the strenuous care of Evie. He found time each day to pamper them, by currying them until their rich red hair glistened, and keeping their dark manes clipped to perfection. Their haircuts usually looked better than his did.

Those mules were fed oats every day and the best hay money could buy. Their stalls were cleaned daily and new sweet straw was provided for their beds, while they frisked in the corral. When someone was available to stay with Evie for a few hours, he’d put on their well-polished harness, and hitch Pete and Jack to the spotless wagon he kept just for that purpose. Then he’d proudly drive them around the town of Pawnee. Actually he didn’t have to drive them because they were trained to respond to his voice commands. Gee would turn them right, and haw would turn them left.

Clay and his mules became a legend in Pawnee. The people enjoyed seeing that old roan-haired man in cowboy garb, driving his prancing mules on their streets. His wide-brimmed black hat would be jammed squarely on his head and his boot-heels hooked on the wagon box panel. Many waved to him, and he often gave the kids rides in the wagon. Sometimes one of his grandsons would be proudly perched on the wagon seat beside him.

Evie passed away after almost 7 years of being mentally incapacitated. Clay had taken care of most of her needs all those years, from hand feeding and dressing her, to care for her personal hygiene. It was a blessing that she no longer suffered, but her death left Clay emotionally and physically drained. He spent more time than ever with his mules for companionship and solace, even though his health soon deteriorated to the point were it was difficult and dangerous for him to care for them.

Because of their love and compassion for their Father and Grandpa, the family put off doing anything about the mules, until one of them inadvertently crowded him against the stall and badly bruised Clay’s ribs. He didn’t recover well from that injury, and the Doctor was fearful he had cracked some of his ribs when it became difficult for him to breathe. But Clay steadfastly refused to go to the hospital for observation and x-rays. When his oldest son tried to reason with him, he said, Son, you know as well as I do, hospitals are were where people go to die! When the good Lord turns my lights out, I’d just as soon it be here at home.

After a family meeting, the dreaded task of taking Clay’s beloved mules away from him fell to the oldest son. Of all the children, he had always been closest to his father, and it broke his heart that circumstances forced him to be the villain for the family. To make matters worse, no one in the family had a place to keep the mules. They would have to be sold.

With a heavy heart, Clay’s son visited his failing father to tell him about the family’s dreadful decision. He felt it best to tell his father a white lie, and he wasn’t good at it.

Dad, I’ve found a place for Pete and Jack where they’ll get good care, and we’ll get a good price. They’ll be just fine, and the money they’ll bring will help pay for your care. I’m sure if they could talk, they’d tell you they’re happy to do this for you.

The son wished with all his heart that could be true, but there was little market for aging mules because most farm work was now being done with tractors. Those wonderful animals would surely end up as dog food, leather, and glue. Clay’s mind was still alert, and he knew where the mules were likely headed. But he was also aware his son was trying to make this as easy for him as he could. He went along with his well-intended fib.

That’s good, Son. If I can’t have them anymore, I’ll feel a lot better knowin’ they got a good home. When you comin’ after ’em?

About ten in the morning, Dad. We’ll hitch them to the wagon and I’ll drive them to their new home.

Clay didn’t eat any supper that night. In fact he didn’t get out of the old rocking chair until daylight, except to relieve his small capacity bladder a couple of times during the night. He mind had wandered down the corridors of memories, some that had been, and some that might have been, if things had worked out differently. As he watched the first rays of the morning sun filter into the room through his dusty east windows, he spoke to his departed wife.

"You know Evie, when it’s all said and done—I really don’t have much to complain about. I’ve been a lotta places and I’ve done a heap ah liven. I know there were times when I was out wanderin’ around and I shoulda been home takin’ better care of you and the kids. But bless you—you took good care of ‘em’ and we truly was blessed with some good children and a bunch of fine grandkids and great-grandkids.

Oh sure, it woulda been better if you hadn’t had to suffer so long, but I think your illness brought us closer together than we’d ever been durin’ all those years before. And if I can believe our daughter’s Pastor, you’re all well now and in a safe place. Maybe I’ll see ya there soon. But today I’ve got to find the courage to give up old Pete and Jack.—God—how I wish you were here to help me through this!

When the son arrived about mid-morning, Clay had the mules harnessed and tied to a post near the water trough. They’d had the usual morning brushing, a good portion of oats for breakfast, and a few lumps of sugar for dessert. Clay had finally forced down some watery oatmeal and a cup of weak coffee. He knew his son would ask if he’d had any breakfast, and this way he wouldn’t have to lie.

Dad, you shouldn’t ah harnessed that team, what with those cracked ribs. I’d been glad to ah taken care of that for ya. Later he told his wife, I can’t imagine how Dad got that 75 pounds of harness up on those mules, when every breath he takes racked him with pain. It had to be sheer guts and willpower. He just had to do it one more time, if it killed him.—Sure as hell coulda killed him, th’ shape he’s in. We’ve either got ta get him into the hospital or someone’s gonna have to stay with him. I don’t think he’s been eatin’ a damn thing!

I didn’t aim ta worry ya son, Clay replied, "But I had to let these guys know I’ll