Short Stories: Rattlesnake Boyd and 1-2-3... You're Out

By Sam J. Cutrufelli Sr.

Rattlesnake Boyd They call him Rattlesnake Boyd, but that's not his real name. He is an easygoing range cowboy until he is provoked, then he lives up to his nickname—Rattlesnake Boyd. One, Two, Three…You're Out His name is Damian, and he is a baseball player, but life keeps trying to knock him out. He has had many setbacks seemingly unrelated to baseball, but somehow they are. As you read on, you will notice women are not a big part of him. Maybe one day he will find that steady part of his life that has always eluded him. Could you be that woman?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647015190

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Short Stories

Rattlesnake Boyd and 1-2-3... You're Out

Sam J. Cutrufelli Sr.

Copyright © 2020 Sam J. Cutrufelli Sr.

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64701-518-3 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64701-519-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Rattlesnake Boyd

They called him Rattlesnake Boyd, but his real name was Boyd R. McCarthy. He got the Rattlesnake part in his name accidentally. He was about two years old when his father asked his brother, Dr. Lou McCarthy, if he could take him for a while as he had an opportunity. Work was scarce where they lived, but this opportunity his father had was all in his head. Dr. McCarthy was the town dentist and sometimes the doctor of Madison as the town did not have a medical physician. Boyd’s uncle had a small office attached to the side of the restaurant/bar building. Yes, he had an office, but it had scant customers. There was very little money, and it was mostly trade this for that using the barter system. Dr. McCarthy and Boyd had plenty of time, so they went fishing a lot.

So this day they hitched the horse to the one-seater, and they went fishing. Well, Dr. McCarthy fished, and Boyd did his thing—looking under the rocks, throwing rocks, just about everything else but fishing. He was about four years old. Four-year-olds usually did what he was doing. One day he got bit by a rattlesnake, and Dr. McCarthy heard him cry out and he saw the snake slither away. He pulled out his old Boy Scout knife and told Boyd to take a swig of his ale, but Boyd knew it was moonshine. He poured some on the bite and rolled up his handkerchief and told him to bite hard on it. He said it wouldn’t hurt, but Boyd still cried. He cut where the bite was and poured more of his brew on it. Boyd fainted, and there was more brew, more sucking on the cut, and more spitting. When he was satisfied that was all he could do, he put Boyd in the one-seater and rushed him home to bed.

Come morning, you’re with us or you’re not with us.

He was up all night cooling the fever. Boyd did live through it, but he would not recommend the experience. Since that day Boyd had been called Rattlesnake Boyd.

There were easier ways to earn a nickname.

Kathy was the lady that ran the restaurant, and she and Dr. McCarthy were a couple. In Kathy’s restaurant, you got one thing, steak—steak with eggs, steak with potatoes. She said she didn’t have time to fool with ten or fifteen different things, so it was steak or do nothing, but occasionally she would come to Boyd’s house, and that was when he had the best cooking. One day Dr. McCarthy said that they were going to visit his brother for a few days. He borrowed a two-seat wagon, and they put their boxes of clothes and some food and off they went. His brother and his wife owned the second-largest piece of property in the county. The only larger piece was the Jordan Ranch. That ranch bordered the property of Uncle McCarthy’s brother. The Jordan Ranch was a hardworking cattle ranch whereas the Roth Ranch was not a working ranch at all. Vivian Roth inherited the property when her parents passed away. Mr. Roth, Vivian’s father, rented all his land to the Jordan family for pastureland.

Mr. Roth fenced off a piece of frontage where their house stood about twenty-five acres; the rest was used by the Jordan ranch family. At first, Boyd thought they were escaping for a few days, then he realized it was much more profound. In fact, it was heart-wrenching even for a twelve-year-old kid. It turned out that his Uncle McCarthy was diagnosed himself, and he had less than a week to get his affairs in order. His biggest concern was Boyd. That was why they were at his brother’s ranch. Dr. McCarthy had the cards on the table.

And I don’t have much, but what I have is yours.

Boyd was twelve years old, and he would have to earn his keep. Chores were plenty, and boys could handle them. Soon he would be sixteen and be an adult; at that time he could decide.

So Uncle McCarthy signed over his small house, and he left. He left without saying goodbye. It was very painful for him. They were a family since Boyd was about two years old, and he would miss him.

Time flew by, and Boyd was now fourteen years old. Dr. McCarthy’s wife did not want Boyd living in the main house, so he lived apart in one of the shacks on the property. Boyd didn’t mind this. Uncle McCarthy had something special with his brother, and his wife could not compete.

Most evenings about 6:00 pm with the weather permitting, Boyd would ride his only other possession, his horse, and bring his guitar. They would go to our secluded spot and play, or practice playing, his guitar. Dr. The wife of McCarthy’s brother did not like him playing the guitar anywhere she could hear it; to her ears it was racket noise. She put on airs and said piano or violin produced music—not that box, which she called it—and did not appreciate his music. It was not his music, per se; it was him.

From day one she disliked him, and two years later she still disliked him. But Boyd thought she was nice—maybe spoiled would fit better; but if he kept his distance, they managed. Boyd’s secluded spot was by the fence separating the two ranches. He found some old canvas and some saplings that he put together many nights; instead of returning to his shack, he would sleep in the lean-to.

This one day, a cowboy knocked on the fence to wake him up.

He said he was Romero and asked, What is your name?

Boyd said, My name is Boyd.

He shook his head and said, Glad to meet you, boy.

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