The stout little bird twittered and chirped, sitting on a branch in the tree. He was brown and white and had a lovely singing voice. Another bird came and perched with him. She was a bluebird. Together, they made beautiful music with their warbling. Sweeter than honey was their melodious harmony. A gift bestowed upon them by the Almighty Himself.
The boy sat on a branch just below the two birds, watching them and smiling friendly. His eyes were soft and blue, his hair dark. He looked to be no more than the age of ten years old. For a while, he listened to the birds singing, before he, too, whistled and joined them in song. His own voice was like that of an angel. Noticing a third party had interrupted their duet, the two birds looked down at the boy with their small black eyes. The boy stopped his whistling, but kept the smile on his face. The bluebird tilted her head, confused by his presence. Her friend, on the other hand, looked to his right and then looked away in the other direction, as if ignoring the boy.
"Buster Scruggs!" Called out a woman's voice. "Buster Scruggs, you come down from there right this minute!"
"Coming, Mama!"
Buster looked at the two birds and told them, "Sorry, amigos, but I gotta leave you for a minute. Don't stop singin' on my account." Carefully, he climbed down from the tree and set his feet back on the ground. Brushing himself off, Buster turned around and walked over to the woman standing on the porch. She was holding a dishrag in her hands. "Yes, Mama?"
"Buster, have you been showing off that singing voice of yours to them songbirds again?"
"I sure have, Mama."
His mother smiled and bent over and placed a hand on her son's head. "You have the voice of an angel, my son", she said.
Buster felt proud hearing her say that.
"Go find your father and tell him that supper is ready."
Buster turned and went over to the red-painted barn and walked in. He went over to the stable, where his father was tending to the horses. In a way, Buster looked very much like his father, who was proud to have a son that shared his image. Buster's father looked at him and smiled, knowing that his flesh and blood had been practicing his gift of a harmonious voice that sounded like Heaven.
"Howdy, son."
"Howdy, Pa. Mama told me to tell you it's time for supper."
"Good, I'm starved."
Buster petted one of the horses on the nose and said to his father, "How's Old Blue doin'?"
"Not too good, I'm afraid", said Buster's father. "Looks like I'm gonna have to take him into town and sell him."
Buster looked up at his father, eyes wide with disbelief. "Sell him? You can't do that. Old Blue's the best horse we ever had."
"I'm sorry, son, but a horse as old as him ain't no use for a hard-working man like me. I hate to see him go, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."
Buster lowered his head, looking sad but understanding. "All right."
"Tell your mama I'll be in in a minute."
Buster turned around and walked out the barn, looking back at the old horse who was to be gone the next morning.
The Scruggs family gathered around the table for supper. The talk was minimal, but the conversation was pleasant, so long as there was no mention of guns or weapons. Mama Scruggs didn't like it much, but her husband did. Still, they never argued. Not even when their son was out of the room.
Mr. Scruggs looked over at his wife and told her, "Tomorrow, I'm gonna take Old Blue into town and trade him in for another horse."
"What kind of horse you figure on getting, Pa?" Buster asked.
"Don't know yet, son. But I'm gonna bring us home a real good horse, strong one."
"How you figurin' on buying a horse?" Mrs. Scruggs asked him. "You're headin' out for that cattle drive in the morning."
"Well, it's simple, ain't it? I'll sell Old Blue in the morning and buy us another horse on my way back."
"I still wish we didn't have to sell Old Blue", said Buster. "He's my best friend."
"I know, son", said his father, "but we're gonna get us another horse, sooner or later. You'll see."
The night before her husband set out on his cattle drive, Mrs. Scruggs pulled Mr. Scruggs aside and whispered something to him in his ear. The husband and wife talked about their son and how he didn't really have any friends. They had no neighbors and there were hardly any children around for him to play with, for most of them lived in town. They lived on a farm in the middle of nowhere. And so, Mrs. Scruggs suggested her husband bring back a permanent friend for their son. Mr. Scruggs agreed to her idea and gave her a kiss just to show it.
By the time the sun rose up over the valley, Buster's father had already gone. The boy felt sad he didn't get to say goodbye, but his mother reminded him that he would be back soon.
Over the next two weeks, it was just Buster and his mother. While she tended to the farm, Buster would pretend to be shooting at Indians with a stick in place of a rifle. He had seen his father practice shooting with a real gun many times and hoped that one day he, too, could learn a thing or two about how to use one. Whenever he had nothing to do or nobody to play with, Buster would help his mother with small chores around the house. Most of the time, he practiced his singing voice and matched his tone with that of a nightingale. Despite her encouragement, Buster's mother would bring his singing lessons to a halt and teach him the more important things in life he needed to know, mostly how to read and write. Most nights, Buster would lie in his bed and think about his father, wondering where he was and if he was safe and alive. One time, his mother came in to check on him and sang to him. It helped put him to sleep.
The next day, Buster sat in the kitchen at the table. He was carving a piece of wood into the shape of a horse. He turned his head right and looked at his mother, who was preparing some soup in a cooking pot on the stove.
"Mama, when to you think Pa is comin' home?"
"Hard to say. You know it's a long trail from here to El Paso."
Buster stood up and walked out and went to sit out on the front porch, waiting for his father to come home.
Mama Scruggs turned around and went to chop some carrots on a cutting board. She heard her son talking to somebody and looked to her left and walked over and looked out the window. She smiled as she watched her son talking to himself, or so it seemed. Buster had a strange habit of speaking out loud to people who weren't there. Not that his mother or father saw any harm or worry in it. They knew he was lonely.
"I don't know what it is I got to prove to this world", Buster spoke out loud. "My parents always taught me that life out here in the West can only get worse if a man doesn't know how to survive and take care of himself. A man's got a right to have a good heart and be nice to everyone, but also be prepared for anything that might find himself in a position of exhibiting a streak of violence. I'm not so sure what to make of that yet. When I'm as old as my father, but not too old to be put in a grave, I guess I'll know then."
Buster went back to his whittling. He didn't even pay attention to the birds that flew over the house and landed in the tree. Two sparrows, they were. The windmill next to the barn turned slowly in the gentle breeze, creaking slightly. Buster sat there on the porch, humming as he carved from the wooden block in his hand. A few minutes later, he heard a sound coming from over the horizon, a sound that was almost musical. He lifted his head and looked out over the prairie. The sound became more clear as a figure came riding up to the house. He held a guitar in his hands, playing a song. It was his father.
Buster stood up and stared wide-eyed as he found his father had not come back alone. His father rode upon a dark horse named Beau, yet the colt next to him had no rider. The rope around the smaller horse's neck was tied to the black horse's saddle. His father stopped playing the guitar and pulled on the reign and brought his horse to a stop. The black horse whinnied and obeyed his human master.
Buster walked over and gazed at the young horse, admiring the beautiful animal. It was white as snow. It had skinny legs and a good healthy body. The colt snorted as he shook his head, ruffling his long mane of alabaster hair.
"Howdy, son", said Buster's father. "What do you think of him?"
Buster stroked the side of the young colt's face and said, "I think he's about the prettiest-looking horse I ever did see, Pa."
"Well, I'm happy to hear you say that, Buster. Cause he's yours."
Buster looked at his father and asked him, "Oh, really, Pa? Do you mean it?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
"Oh, boy! Hey, Mama, come look at the horse Pa got me!"
Mrs. Scruggs came out of the house and walked over and stood next to her son. "Oh, he's a pretty horse, he is", she said.
Mr. Scruggs slung the guitar over his back and dismounted from his dark steed. He walked over to his wife and placed his hands on her shoulders, giving her a kiss.
"I missed you", said Mrs. Scruggs.
"I missed you, too", said Mr. Scruggs.
The young colt snorted and shook his head. Buster mimicked him. "Has he got a name, Pa?"
"Sure does", said Buster's father. "The man who sold him to me told me the horse's name is Daniel Boone. I call him Dan for short. He seems to like it better."
The boy looked at the white colt and told him, "Howdy, Dan. I'm Buster, Buster Scruggs."
The young colt whinnied heartily and nodded his long, narrow head, as though accepting the boy and his friendship.
From that day on, no matter where he went, or what he did, Buster Scruggs would always be accompanied by his faithful horse, Dan. Their friendship was only the beginning of a long journey of fun and adventure.