Book Junkiez

Hewey Calloway, Elmer Kelton’s favorite footloose cowboy, has
always been known to have a generous nature, readily giving to those in need.
Time has finally mellowed Hewey and given him some wisdom that was lacking in
his youth, but deep down, he’s still the same old Hewey. In this sequel
to The Smiling Country, a beneficiary to one of Hewey’s past
generosities pays him back, and with interest. Knowing Hewey would decline a
monetary repayment, he is gifted land back in Upton County.

The morning sun was warm on Hewey’s face as he neared the Circle W’s eastern fence and the road beyond. When he crossed a small hill just west of the road, he saw an automobile parked outside the fence and a man struggling to open the wire gate that led into the ranch. Hewey rode nearer and saw the man was a stranger. He was older than Hewey by a decade or so, soft in the middle and wearing a dark suit and a snap-brim driving cap.

Although Morgan Jenkins occasionally visited the ranch in his automobile, Pincushion had certainly never been this close to one of the machines. He snorted and sidestepped, threatening to do something untoward. Unconcerned with the horse’s feelings, Hewey swatted the dun on the hip with the heavy tail of a rein. Pincushion decided Hewey was more of an immediate threat than the vehicle, and he moved forward cautiously.

The gate was made of five strands of barbwire with a cedar stay tied in the middle and another at each end. The gate fastened with two loops of barbwire, one at the top and another at the bottom. The gate had to be pulled tighter, by hand, to release the wire loops that held it closed. The man in the suit was having trouble with the task. He looked up as Hewey approached.

“Mornin’,” Hewey said cautiously. He and Pincushion both eyed the stranger with some wariness.

“This is the Circle W Ranch, is it not?” asked the man abruptly. “I am looking for a man by the name of Hewey Calloway. Do you know where I might find him?”

Hewey thought that one over for a moment. The man did not strike him as a lawman. In any case, he had been on the straight and narrow, for the most part at least, since Spring had expressed her dislike of public drunkenness and the misfortunes that so often befell Hewey during those occasions.

“Yes, sir,” he said finally. “This is the Circle W, and I’m Hewey Calloway.”

“That is excellent news,” said the man. “My name is Howard Stephens. I am an attorney in Alpine, for the time being at least. I have some information for you, and some paperwork. Would it be possible for us to go someplace where we might sit and talk? Somewhere out of this sun? It’s getting dreadfully hot already.”

Everything Hewey knew of lawyers taught him to be wary. “What do we need to talk about? Am I in some sort of trouble? I been behaving myself pretty well for a couple years now.”

“No, Mister Calloway. I assure you this is all good news. I guarantee it, to be precise, but it is a bit lengthy to get into out here.”

Hewey was still uncertain, but his curiosity got the best of him. “We can go up to headquarters. It’s just a few miles thataway.” He nodded his head west.

“Perfect,” said Stephens. “Now, would you mind helping me with this gate? It seems to be broken.”

In years past, Hewey felt ambivalence toward the long-haired, long-tusked feral hogs. Now, with the responsibility of land ownership thrust upon him, he saw with new eyes what the pigs could do to the landscape. They rooted up good grass, destroyed dirt tanks and occasionally even tore up fences. He knew they played hell with crops, but that was the farmers’ business.

The four riders reined to a stop in silence, horses and riders all studying the feral hogs. The pigs began easing away, but they were not yet frightened and thus moved slowly. Taking his time so he would not startle the pigs, Hewey reached down with his right hand and untied his rope from where it hung on his saddle. Tommy and Enrique saw his intent. Grinning, they followed his lead.

Spring saw as well. She was not grinning. “Hewey, don’t you do it.”

Hewey just looked at his wife and winked, then quietly built a small loop. He held the coils of his rope in his left hand, loop in the right. He held his reins in both hands because his bronc was too green to ride one-handed. He would have to plow rein it up behind the hog, then bring up his rope once the horse was lined out. No problem. They did it all the time on cattle.

The feral hogs were young, neither weighing more than fifty or sixty pounds. Without a word, Hewey kicked his sorrel bronc into a lope, then into a run, headed toward the hogs.

Tommy and Enrique followed behind, both whooping with pure glee. Spring sat still on Biscuit, slightly amused, slightly angry. “Lord help us,” she said to Biscuit.

After decades of avoiding responsibility, Hewey Calloway finds it thrust upon him.

A western novel about authentic cowboys.

John Bradshaw is a native of the small town of Abernathy, Texas. He is
an award-winning journalist with well over a thousand published stories. Elmer
Kelton’s The Familiar Stranger, co-authored with Steve Kelton, is his
first book.