Born Of The Sun

John H. Culp

• Publisher: Normanby Press
• Year: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781786258045
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

Set shortly after the Civil War, this distinguished novel tells the story of a boy starting a new life in the Concho country of Northwest Texas.
"An epic novel of frontier life—'BORN OF THE SUN' is…continuously dramatic and entertaining. It belongs on the same shelf with the novels of Alan Le May and A. B. Guthrie, Jr."—New York Times
"A book any red-blooded American should be proud to read, and we guarantee he'll be well entertained."—NEW HAVEN REGISTER
"True Americana, filled with the exuberance and hardy spirit of the pioneers."—ROANOKE TIMES
"A magnificent book."—Dorothy M. Johnson
"Strong adult fiction…superb reading…authentic story."—DENVER SUNDAY POST
"One of the most vivid and refreshing novels of the southwest to come along in recent years."—TULSA SUNDAY WORLD
"A permanent addition to enduring Texas fiction."—DALLAS TIMES HERALD

XXI

WHEN I CAME TO, it was raining—soft and gentle.

I groaned.

Somebody spoke. A voice said, “You all right, kid?”

“Poco?” I said.

“Yeah, kid,” Poco said.

“Where are you?” I said.

“Over this way,” Poco said. “You hurt anywhere?”

“My back—I can’t move,” I said.

“Try moving your legs,” Poco said. “Can you move them?”

“A little bit,” I said. “But I can’t get my knees up.”

“Does your back hurt?” Poco said.

“No. It’s just dead,” I said. “Right across the kidneys. It don’t have no feeling at all.”

“Stay still,” Poco said. “Don’t try to move till morning.”

“Where are the boys?” I said.

“Busy,” Poco said. “None of them don’t know where they are.”

“Where’s the herd?” I said.

“There ain’t no herd,” Poco said. “The herd’s gone. Sucked up into the air like kindling sticks.”

“I thought I saw cows in the air when that lightning flashed,” I said. “I never saw such a night. And this wind is colder now.”

“When that funnel hit, you had green horns of fire sticking out on your head—just like the devil,” Poco said.

“What are you staying over there for?” I said.

“Well, kid, I been laying by to move over that way but my legs won’t let me,” Poco said.

“You hurt, too?” I said.

“Two busted legs,” Poco said. “One when I hit Matigua and one when I got wrapped up around this oak tree.”

“Does your back hurt, too?” I said.

“Hell, yes. I hurt all over,” Poco said.

“Try getting your knees up.” I laughed. “Like you told me to.”

“You little bastard,” Poco said. “I danged near got eat by lightning rescuing you, and now you laugh at me. Wait till I get you back to the Concho.”

“I never did see such lightning,” I said. “It came straight for me. I plain couldn’t move for watching it.”

“If I wasn’t watching it, you wouldn’t ever have moved again,” Poco said.

“Where are the horses?” I said.

“They ain’t moving either,” Poco said. “That last lightning and that black funnel done it. You’ve lost yourself two horses already on this trip, kid.”

“Matigua would have made a nice horse,” I said after a minute. “Ain’t you heard no riders at all, Poco?”

“No riders at all,” Poco said. “Them that’s living are riding for the herd—what’s left of it—and them that’s dead are colder than we are.”

The rain stopped and the stars came out. “That old Big Dipper don’t give a dang about nothing,” I said. “Why does there have to be cows in the world, Poco?”

“Because down in Texas, God made men to herd them,” Poco said. “There ain’t no better reason than that for herding cows.”

“You still hurting?” I said.

“I ain’t hurting half as much as I’ll hurt when that stump-legged Pegleg finds me,” Poco said. “Provided he ain’t been blowed to hell with those cows.”

In the morning the sun came up bright and clear. A brisk west wind blew. We looked at a desolate world—trees chewed off, dead and suffering cattle and horses stretched about us.

“Poco, look at this grass,” I said. Matigua lay dead nearby, with my saddle burned off. The grass, yesterday knee high and green, was pulverized into nothing, not by the tornado but by the electricity which had been in the air. The grass was only inches high now, and I put my hand out and those dry inches crumbled in my fingers.

Pegleg and Ace and Colt rode into the swale. “Look at them two dead horses,” I heard Pegleg say. “Their saddles burnt plumb off.” Then Pegleg saw us. He clamped his teeth together before he spoke. “You fellows all right?”

“I reckon.” Poco grinned. “We just didn’t figure to work today. Us two poor mortals don’t comprehend nature. Me and the kid figured to lay on our backs and study the peaceful heavens today.”

They got off their horses. Colt bent over me. “I been worried to death about you. Gawd’lmighty, you’re singed bald-headed.”

“You ain’t been worried about nothing but missing breakfast,” I said.

“What’s wrong with you, kid?” Pegleg said, kneeling down.

“My back. I can’t move my legs,” I said.

“What’s wrong with you?” Pegleg asked Poco.

“He busted me off my horse before that lightning hit,” I said. “And broke two legs doing it.”

Pegleg put his hands under my kidneys and pulled up on my back. “Do you hurt here?”

“No, sir. I don’t hurt nowhere,” I said. “I don’t feel nothing.”

“Then, just lie still,” Pegleg said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I ain’t going nowhere.”

Pegleg went to Poco. “You sure those legs are broke?”

“Sure,” Poco said.

“Where?” Pegleg said.

“This one here—and this one here,” Poco said, putting his hands down easy.

“I wish we had a bottle of whiskey,” Pegleg said, sweating.

“I got a bottle,” Ace said. He walked to his saddlebag. Ace brought back the bottle and gave it to Poco. “Drink it,” he said.

“Sure,” Poco said. “I’m having all the luck.”

Pegleg took off his jacket and he tore his shirt into strips. “Ace, cut me some splints,” he said. “Poeo, this’ll hurt.”

Sweating more, Pegleg got to work. He straightened Poco’s legs and bound them in oak splints with his shirt strips. Poco drank whiskey and cussed him proper.

“You got any of that whiskey left?” Pegleg said when he finished.

“Sure,” Poco said. “I knew you’d want a drink when you got through, you red-faced Irish hooligan. I saved you as much as I drunk. Now you’ll never know who was hurt most, me or you.”

“Ace, you and Colt build two travois,” Pegleg said. “There’s plenty of rawhide on the dead cattle out there. I want to get out of this swale.”

“Pegleg, what we got left?” I said.

“Not much,” Pegleg said grimly. “We lost four men—Boyles and Kemper got killed in the stampede, and Snyder and Stanley Marrs sucked off the face of the earth. Half the rest is crippled. Half or more of the horses gone, out of two hundred. And cows—we ain’t had a chance to know yet. When you look at the Milky Way tonight, kid, that’s where your cows are.”

“Old Stanley,” I said. “Is Joe all right?”

“Joe got an arm broke but he’s riding,” Pegleg said. “Clendenning’s arm is broke, too.”

“How many more men are down?” I said.

“Four, besides you two,” Pegleg said.

“I never saw lightning come so regular,” I said. “It come right at me and I couldn’t move. And then Poco and the roar and the lightning hit all at once.”

“I reckon it was Poco chewed off these trees to their roots,” Pegleg said.

Poco didn’t answer. He was asleep, breathing heavy.

I finally got it out. “Is Speckledy all right?”

“Speckledy’s all right,” Pegleg said. He put his jacket over me. “Speckledy’s done more good than anybody to gather the herd. Every time a lost cow sees him, they run a-bawling to old Speckledy like he’s their mama.”

“I reckon we won’t ever sell old Speckledy,” I said.

“Hell, no, we won’t sell him,” Pegleg said.

Ace and Colt came up with ponies and the two travois. The travois were made of two long poles with green cowhide stretched between them. Pegleg helped load me and Poco on them and lashed us steady. Poco’s face was gray as the crumbled grass. Pegleg stuck his wooden leg in its scabbard and mounted his horse. He sat there bare-chested, shivering in the wind. “Ace, you and Colt bring these two on down to camp. I want to see what’s left of the outfit,” he said.

It was bad—worse than I imagined. They lay by the side of a creek under a red bluff. Four men lay there, broken and half naked. One, Hash, had been scalped by a flying tree. His chest was crushed. Olney and Joyce were unconscious. Tex Payne had died.

“How many riding men we got left?” I said to Pegleg.

“We started with twenty,” Pegleg said. “Four lost outright, and now Tex Payne dead. That’s fifteen left. You and Poco hint and these three others. That leaves ten. And Joe and Clendenring with busted arms. That leaves eight. Eight men to get a herd through—if we’ve got a herd.”

“It won’t do any good to try to get these hurt men through by themselves,” I said. “Even if we could, what if we ran into Indians shorthanded like this? We got to stick together-cows, horses, and men. Is that what you think, Pegleg?”

“There ain’t no other thought,” Pegleg said. Suddenly he groaned. He pointed to the southwest. “Well, we’ve had everything else this trip. Now we’ve got Indians.”

A line of Indians rode and walked across the prairie, following the beaten swath of the tornado’s path. There were about thirty in the band—warriors stripped to the waist, half a dozen bright-dressed squaws, and a few children on travois. The men were armed with lances and rifles and bows and arrows.

“Kiowas,” Pegleg said. “Well, for once in my life I’m getting the jump on an Indian. This time they’ll eat wo-haw till they choke. But I hope we don’t have trouble, for...

Table of contents

• Title page
• TABLE OF CONTENTS
• DEDICATION
• I
• II
• III
• IV
• V
• VI
• VII
• VIII
• IX
• X
• XI
• XII
• XIII
• XIV
• XV
• XVI
• XVII
• XVIII
• XIX
• XX
• XXI