Gil Favor knew he had to choose a ramrod for this, his first cattle drive, but he never figured the choice would be so difficult; so much depended on hiring the right man for the job.
Favor sat in the stuffy hotel room, not even bothering to open the window that was well within his reach. At the moment, even so small a task seemed beyond him, he was that tired. It wasn't so much fatigue of a physical level, but more an emotional drain. The physical part was easy for Favor, fit as he was and just reaching the prime of his life. The emotional stress was another ball of wax – that type he couldn't work off or sweat off or sleep off. It bore down on him, sapping his energy and his resolve. If he didn't choose the right man, to back his plays, take over the herd if, heaven forbid, he, as Boss, became incapacitated or even died on the trail, the cattle owners – those ranchers large and small who trusted him with everything of value they owned, would be let down, possibly even ruined for life.
Favor rubbed his burning eyes with the back of his hand as if he could scrub away the image of those ranchers, simple, hardworking, salt-of-the-earth types, with their open, forthright expressions of faith – faith in him. Damn them for being trusting fools, he thought. And damn me for thinking I could get the job done!
But agonizing over his fate was getting him nowhere. Favor took paper from the stack on the tiny writing desk and dipped the pen in the inkwell. On the top of the foolscap he made three columns. At the top of each column he wrote down the name of each of the men still in the running for the ramrod job; Cy Bleaker, Tully Smith and Rowdy Yates. Beneath each name he penned in their attributes or lack thereof. One man always seemed to fall far short of the others, Rowdy Yates.
Favor tapped the pen on the desk. "Never been on a cattle drive, limited experience with cattle, YOUNG, on the sullen side, YOUNG, no letters of recommendation, drifter, YOUNG."
Gil sighed. As much as Yates did not stack up well against the other two candidates, there was something about the young man that gave Favor the distinct impression that this kid, green as he was, was somehow the right man for the job. In the back of Gil's mind his common sense alarm barked a warning. For good or bad, he ignored it.
Gil replaced the pen in its holder, grabbed his hat from the peg on the wall and took his leave of the hotel room. He was a man on a mission – he had to interview this Yates kid one more time.
Favor's quest ended quickly, he found Yates in the nearest saloon, sweet-talking one of the hostesses. He sure can operate, Gil thought, not that that was a plus by any stretch. Favor walked up to the bar and ordered a beer.
Noticing him, Rowdy sent the bar girl away, much to her obvious disappointment. As she passed Gil, a string of muttered curses issued from her red, painted lips.
"Sorry about that, Mr. Favor. Lorene, she ain't exactly a lady." Yates said.
"No offense taken." Favor signaled the bartender, "A beer for my friend."
Rowdy grinned, and once again Gil was struck by his youth. That little nagging alarm chimed right in. Again, Favor ignored it.
"Why do you want the ramrod job, Mr. Yates," Gil asked as he picked up the frosted beer mug and led the way over to a vacant table.
Rowdy pulled out a chair and settled his lanky frame onto the hard seat. Thoughtfully, he took a sip of his beer, wiping the foam off across his already stained shirt cuff. "I can't abide working indoors. It's like…it's like being in prison."
Although Yates' gaze never left Gil's face, his eyes suddenly took on a cloudy, haunted expression and he seemed about to leap from the chair and make a beeline out the saloon door. He looked like a caged animal. As suddenly as the expression appeared, it vanished, shaken off like a bad dream. Yates actually smiled. "I like working outside, sleeping outside. I like the sounds and the smells…"
"And the hard ground, rattlesnakes, rain, heat and cold that go right along with it?" Gil asked.
"Well," Rowdy replied, "not those things so much, but honest, Mr. Favor, I'll do the job for you. You won't be sorry you hired me, that much I can promise."
Gil figured on how that would be great, if true, but probably unlikely. Under adverse conditions, and trail drives were fraught with adverse conditions, men were likely to get on each others nerves. He might very well be sorry if he hired this young man, but on the other hand….
"Think you'll be able to give the drovers orders and have them obey you?" Favor leaned earnestly toward Yates. "You're young. You'd be working with men some years your senior. They might not like taking orders from somebody they consider wet behind the ears."
"There's nothin' I can do about my age, that's certain," Rowdy said, "But I'd get the men to work for me, right enough."
"How?" Favor pressed.
"I'd make 'em respect me is how. I'd work along side 'em, prove my worth. Prove I'm no shirker and not afraid to dirty my hands. Your drovers'll work for me, Mr. Favor. Just give me a chance to prove I can do the job!"
Yates' expression was part the eagerness of youth, of wanting to make his way in the world on his own, and part need. He needed this job and badly, but then many men needed work now, after the War, when jobs were scarce in the south and good paying ones scarcer still.
"Just one more question, Mr. Yates." Gil figured this answer would either give Rowdy the job or force Favor to cross the young man off his list. Perhaps it was fair, perhaps not. "Did you serve in the late War?"
Again, that cloudy, haunted look came into Yates' eyes and Gil knew he had his answer. Favor recognized that expression. He saw it every day, reflected back at him from his own mirror, from his own eyes, from his own soul. He stuck out his hand. "You're hired, Rowdy Yates," he said. "Don't make me regret my decision."
Only time would tell if that nagging, common sense alarm of Gil Favor's proved right or wrong.
END