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Shirt Tails
Jantallian
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Dedicated to Westfalen,
who started this train of thought with some wicked and witty answers
to the question: Why did Jess wear that spotted shirt in 'Drifter's Gold'?
In fact, why might he wear a spotted shirt at all? Herein are some answers!
These tales are not one continuous story or linked to each other. Each chapter is a self-contained story which proposes a different reason and outcome in a different scenario and genre at different stages in the Sherman Relay Station time-line. Some pick up on action and characters from previous stories I have posted. The Tales can be read in any order, although I have put them the way they are for the sake of contrast and balance.
And if you have an ancient photo of your 'many greats' grand-pappy in a floral shirt and his letters vouchsafing the universal tolerance of exotic shirt materials by real cowboys, please bear in mind, while reading them, that these tales are just fiction.
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Tale (Chapter) Titles
1. The Persistent Widow
2. Wolf Brother's Farewell
3. Spots Before the Eyes
4. A Day with a Duck
5. Ropa Adecuada and One Darn'd Shirt
6. Hold On to This Shirt
7. The Girl I Left Behind Me
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Shirt Tale 1
The Persistent Widow
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"Parcel for y', Jess!"
Jess Harper looked up at the shotgun guard leaning down off the stage from Laramie and his blue eyes narrowed forbiddingly. There had been a distinct snigger in the man's voice. Jess let his icy stare linger on the man for several seconds. The guard gave him a nervous and placating grin; he'd been stupid enough to forget Harper's short-fuse reputation and his tendency to react first with his fists. Satisfied that he'd made his point, Jess took the parcel without a word and, turning his back on the stage, stalked across the Sherman Relay Station yard and into the house.
As his employee strode through the front door, Slim Sherman looked up sharply. Jess disappeared into the bunk room. Slim dumped the coffee pot on the table and followed him quickly. Jess was supposed to be changing the team. What on earth was he doing inside?
Once in the room, he saw the parcel in Jess's hands. The frown creasing Slim's pleasant face was transformed into a broad grin. Then he saw the set of Jess's shoulders and his natural kindness kicked him in the conscience. The grin faded as fast as it had come. He said sympathetically: "Not another one!"
Jess tore open the parcel, his every movement full of resigned irritation. He looked down at the shirt in his hands.
It was pea green with white spots.
Both men regarded this latest offering with mute horror.
At last Jess moved. He folded the shirt carefully and placed it with a kind of gentle, controlled fury on the top of a pile of shirts on the chest of drawers. At the bottom of the pile, there were checked patterns in different sizes and varieties of incompatible colors. Then came striped shirts - wide stripes, narrow stripes and even one with diagonal stripes, in an assortment of blindingly bright hues. Worst of all, the next set had flowers, ditto!
Jess heaved a shuddering groan, the only sound of pain Slim could remember him making, ever, so far in their acquaintance. He put a compassionate hand on the younger man's shoulder and said: "Should have worn one of the check ones!"
Jess looked at the checked shirts at the bottom of the pile. "You are kiddin'!" The checked shirts would have looked lurid in a circus. The rest were no better.
Slim firmly restrained his desire to roar with laughter at the ridiculous situation a little friendly help had landed Jess in. It wasn't fair and there was no way his friend deserved the disproportionate response which his kindness and hard work had brought upon him.
All he had done was to be part of a working party, helping the unfortunate Mrs. Amelia Benson, who, arriving with her husband to start a new life in Laramie, had been widowed almost immediately by a falling tree. Naturally the community had rallied round. The men had given their labor to finish clearing the little plot the Bensons owned and completing the half-built house and shop which had been going to make their fortune. Or not, as the case may be, since there was little demand in Laramie for fine bone china and such merchandise did not, in any case, take kindly to long transit in unsprung wagons. Jess, of course, had flung himself into clearing the trees and brush to the detriment, as usual, of his shirt. Mrs. Benson, like so many women of a certain age before her, had fallen prey to the 'Jess Harper needs mothering' syndrome and decided that it was her mission in life to keep him in whole shirts. Still worse, she had not kept her intentions from the sympathetic ladies of the town, whose gossip grapevine was unrivaled.
Unfortunately her taste in material was execrable. And equally unfortunately Jess's kindly desire not to hurt her feelings by explaining why he was not wearing the shirts had backfired. The town ladies' spy network was also unrivaled and, when this news reached her, Mrs. Benson assumed that each of them had met the fate of all Jess's shirts. She kept on supplying him with replacements.
It had been going on for ten weeks now. On what seemed like a daily basis.
Jess gave another stifled groan in which the words "What am I gonna do?" could just be distinguished.
Slim took pity on him. He gave the shoulder under his hand a squeeze and said: "You aren't going to do anything."
"I ain't?" Jess sounded almost despairing.
"We," Slim reminded him firmly of their team-work, "are going to think of a plan. And we're going to consult the master of cunning - Jonesy." He gave Jess a shake to bring him back to the realities of their day. "Now get out there and look after the stage. The team isn't going to get changed by magic!" And with that, he propelled Jess inexorably in the direction of the yard.
It was, therefore, some time before the three of them were able to sit down at the table with copious supplies of coffee and set about applying their minds, jointly and severally, to coming up with a scheme to circumvent Mrs. Benson's misplaced kindliness. Once they had discarded the more far-fetched ideas – starting a new fashion in Laramie (Jonesy), marrying her off to someone else (Slim) and emigrating to California (Jess) – and since no-one wanted to hurt her feelings by actually telling her the truth, they were stumped. At least, they were until Jonesy gave a sudden snort of excitement.
"Got it! What y' gotta do is t' make her feel that wearin' those shirts ain't good for you."
Jess's face said very plainly how perfectly obvious this was, but he merely raised an eyebrow and waited for his friends to come up with a way of doing so. After a lot of vigorous discussion and the identification of those they would need to help them, Jonesy and Slim turned to Jess with satisfaction. He was less than impressed by the plan.
"Jonesy, I cain't –"
"You wanna fill the bunk-room with that pile o' shirts?" Jonesy asked sardonically. "Y' can, Jess Harper, an' y' gonna!"
ooooo
Perhaps a decent veil should be drawn over Jess's progress down the main street of Laramie, clad in the pea-green spotted shirt. Suffice it to say that no aristocrat riding in the tumbrel to the guillotine could have felt worse. It was not in his nature, however, to show any nervousness or embarrassment in public. He simply switched his mind into gun-fight mode: cold, automatic and alert. And he kept his concentration on making Traveller move at a sedate walk, when both of them would much have preferred to reprise the mad escaping gallop which had ensued from their very first entry into the town.
A little ripple of interest ran along the street as Jess rode by. People came out of doorways and alleys. Children ran and pointed and were hauled back by their parents. The smith dropped his hammer on the anvil with a mighty clang of surprise. The Sheriff, sensing the disturbance, erupted from his office, rifle in hand. And, of course, the men of the town forsook whatever they had been up to in the Livery Stable, the General Store, the Telegraph Office, the hotel and, not least, the saloon. There were one or two cat-calls and whistles, but on the whole, there was an unspoken sense of male solidarity in the face of female meddling in a man's right to wear whatever he liked on his back.
Slim was conspicuously absent. This was Jess's moment, albeit one which he could probably have done without. Right now he looked as if he had sold out to the opposition – and the color didn't even suit him. Everyone was riveted to the scene, waiting to see whether he would finally tell Amelia her solicitude was misplaced. Not that Jess would put it exactly like that. He'd just have to muster every ounce of tact he possessed and hope she did not break into floods of tears.
Traveller slowed to a halt in front of the newly completed Benson residence. The shutters were closed on the shop window, but horse and rider had scarcely stopped moving before the door flew open.
"Why, Mr. Harper! What a pleasure!"
It is doubtful whether anything could be less of a pleasure for Jess. While he was not averse to shamelessly exploiting the mothering instinct of susceptible females, his independence rebelled against smothering. Beside, good women always caused him to leap into the saddle and head rapidly out of town. He didn't seriously think Mrs. Benson was looking to change her widow's status any time soon, but the doubt lingered that no woman spent so much time making a man shirts if she didn't have some ulterior motive.
Jess slid to the ground and dropped Traveller's reins. He took off his hat. He touched his hand briefly to the butt of his gun, as if it could somehow save him. He straightened his shoulders and advanced on the eager widow. He looked her straight in the eye.
"Mrs. Benson, I'd like to thank y' kindly for all the needlework y've been doin' on my account."
So far, so good. It was the truth. She was still smiling.
"Think nothing of it, Mr. Harper."
Oh yeah! Nothing? When it was turning his life into sartorial hell?
"I sure appreciate the effort y' makin', ma'am, but I've got to tell you I can't see fit to wear the shirts no more."
Uh-huh, this was not going well! A frown had replaced the smile.
"Why, Mr. Harper, they seem to be an excellent fit, if I say so myself."
"It ain't the fit, ma'am. It's the effect."
Oh no! That could not be a bottom lip beginning to quiver, could it?
"But the effect is perfectly charming. You look even more –"
Jess cut in hastily, desiring no compliments and only bent on getting to the end of this harrowing conversation. At least, it was harrowing his nerves, if not hers.
"Ain't the effect on me, Mrs. Benson. It's the effect on the others."
Oh hell! There was definitely a tear running down from one of those kindly and admiring eyes. Jess felt like closing his own and falling to his knees in prayer that the rest of the plan would take effect instantly.
"What others?" The question was accompanied by a distinct sniffle. Jess, of course, had no handkerchief, unlike Slim, who could have produced a clean one without delay. But Slim was in hiding.
"Other men, Mrs. Benson. I don't think y' realize –"
At this point, much to Jess's relief, all hell finally broke loose.
"Harper!" There was a yell from down the street as various buildings disgorged a motley crew of angry cowboys. "You've got a nerve comin' in to town wearin' that shirt!"
"Calm down, boys!" Jess held out his hands as if he could fend off physically the implication that he had been trying to provoke anybody. Fortunately Mrs. Benson did not know him well enough to understand provocation was all too often a Harper mode of operation.
"I ain't intendin' to cause any trouble." Another statement which almost the entire population of Laramie – bar Mrs. Benson – would not believe.
"You're just darn well tryin' to show us up!" This was true because the six men rapidly advancing on Jess were clad in the most dilapidated shirts anyone had seen for a long time – or at any rate, since they had last seen Jess.
"Yeah! Just 'cos y' got someone t' give y' new shirts!" The accusation was accompanied by a lunge which brought the speaker into a grapple with Jess.
"Get off me, Murray!" Jess yelled. "How come y' gettin' all worked up over a simple shirt?"
"It ain't simple, that's why!" Another man grabbed Jess by the arm and there was the sound of splitting fabric.
Mrs. Benson gave a heart-stricken squeak.
"How come you get free shirts when you got a home and Jonesy t' look after you?" someone else demanded, shoving him roughly in the back. The whole group was struggling and swaying now and it was almost impossible to see Jess, surrounded as he was by some angry six-footers.
"How can you object t' me wearin' something a lady's been good enough to give me?" Jess protested in muffled tones as he was grabbed round the throat.
"'Cos it's settin' you above the rest of us!"
"Yeah! We've always worked together like equals!"
"Ain't no call for fancy new shirts when we're workin' together."
"You think y're something else now. Too good for the company of hard-workin' men!"
The scuffle was rapidly becoming an violent struggle. Mrs. Benson was unable to see Jess at all in the whirling mass of bodies and flying fists, but she was certain he was being hurt. All because he had worn her shirt.
"Break it up, boys!" There was the crack of a rifle fired into the air. Mrs. Benson had not noticed the Sheriff bearing down on them, to all outward appearances hell bent on restoring peace and order. At the same time, Slim Sherman came galloping down the street, skidded to a halt, leapt off his horse and flung himself into the crowd.
"Jess! Jess! Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." If it had been a real fight, Slim would be reacting badly to this statement, but fortunately Mrs. Benson didn't know this either.
"I told you not to wear that shirt!" Slim grabbed his ranch hand by the shoulders and gave him a good shaking. Then he turned and fished in his saddle-bag. "Here. Go and put this on. At once!" He waved a plain blue denim shirt under Jess's fortunately undamaged nose.
"Yes. Get out of that shirt, Harper, and stop causing trouble!" the Sheriff ordered. He turned his glare on the rest of the fighters. "I expect to see the whole lot of you in the saloon, buying each other drinks and making your peace, in the next ten minutes! Understood?"
The fighters looked at each other and shrugged sheepishly.
"Is that understood?" the Sheriff bellowed.
"Sure, Mort – yeah, right – goin' now, Mort – c'm on, Jess –" Mumbled declarations of co-operation filled the air. The men shifted uneasily, all the bluster gone out of them. One of them even put an arm round Jess's shoulders.
"Go on!" the Sheriff ordered. "I want to see the back of the lot of you before you cause Mrs. Benson any more distress."
"Sorry, ma'am … Mrs. Benson." Hats were touched and shamed faces turned to the ground as the group apologized en masse.
"Get going! Now!"
The men backed away and turned and more or less fled up the street, carrying Jess along with them. Slim hitched Alamo and Traveller to the convenient stump, now carved and shaped into a hitching post. It was all that was left of the fallen tree which had started all this. He offered his arm to Mrs. Benson.
"Come inside, ma'am. I'm sure you need a quiet rest and a cool drink."
"But, Mr. Sherman, I don't understand. What made them so angry with Jess?"
"Well, you see, Mrs. Benson, your shirts are something a man is proud to have, but just giving them to one man laid Jess open to accusations of favoritism." Slim crossed his fingers and hoped she wouldn't decide it was now her mission to clothe the entire male population of Laramie.
"Oh – yes – I see!"
The Sheriff chuckled to himself as he too headed towards the saloon. Inside, predictably, he found a lot of grinning and back-slapping and Jess standing drinks all round as a tribute to the acting skills of his friends. There was even more celebration when Slim joined them shortly afterwards and announced the timely demise of the 'Keep Jess Harper in whole shirts' project.
But before they could return home rejoicing, Jess announced he had one final shirt-related duty to perform. He disappeared outside for a moment and returned with a bulky brown paper parcel, which he dumped on the bar.
"Since you boys were protestin' that you were gettin' left out –"
He pulled out his knife and slit the wrapping. A pile of assorted luridly colored shirts was revealed.
"A little thank you. Help yourselves!"
