Sumner Wilson's Musings
Saturday, June 26, 2021
Saturday, September 5, 2020
BLACKSNAKE
An
anecdote from a wayside tavern.
Innovation
turns the wheels of progress and advances civilization. Time just won’t stand still.
So when the railroad won the transportation war with steamboat service, the
gambler, Truck, left the rivers, took his grip and deck of cards and hit the rails.
In only a few short years, he became as well known to all those who operated
the rails as he’d once been on the rivers. He shrewdly harvested acquaintances
with the engineers who ran the mighty engines, the conductors, the brakeman, the
station agents, the porters. Always a garrulous type, those who met him found
they were unable to resist his charm or the big tips he left.
August 1890, Lyons Beach, Ozora County.
Truck
snagged a layover in the tiny burg of Lyon’s Beach. At least five hours or so said
the station agent. He paid in advance to have his luggage loaded the moment his
connecting train hit the station. He just knew that five hours of sheer boredom
faced him. He squared up with the agent, and then followed the crowd of
stranded passengers—men—toward what he considered the downtown area, which, in
truth, was all there was of the town.
He followed the
men—like a herd of sheep—into the first gin mill in his path—Shiny Tom’s.
Shiny Tom’s front
door stood wide open. The same held true for the back door. This created a
draft, much like a chimney. The draft drew the smoke outside, or that was the
intent. However, this proved to be a feeble fable. It did little to rid the gin
mill of smoke. When he stepped inside, it stood so thick in the air that even
by standing on tiptoe, he still couldn’t orient himself to the layout of the
interior, which sadly meant he couldn’t locate the bar. The joint smelled of
stale beer, sweat and urine, whiskey and puke. Not all the urine was human. He
saw a pocket-sized jenny against the north wall, alongside a long bench
occupied to maximum capacity by topers who were enjoying their Saturday frolic.
Truck had seen animals in drinking hells before, and wasn’t even close to being
shocked. With its eyes closed, the jenny unconsciously munched from what was
left of a bale of hay lying on the floor.
The
occupants of the bench spoke at full volume. All talked, none listened. Busy,
as they were every Saturday in taverns across the country, giving the “boss”
hell. Truck had heard every single one of the complaints made by men just like
these in his wandering, gambling life.
Men yelled
for more beer, for whiskey, for gin, and just for the hell of the yell.
Saturdays—and strong drink—always set workingmen up as a special breed. No guff
from the boss today. This was their day. If the “man” showed his mug inside
Shiny Tom’s today, he’d likely wind up with a bad case of the gone-ass straight
off. But he wasn’t here, wouldn’t be here. He’d learned long ago not to attempt
to make friends with his “hands.” He was too big a chump for that, anyway, or
so his workers liked to boast. Shiny Tom’s was their grand lodge.
When the
tear ducts of his fiery eyes flushed away the burn of pollutants, he saw two
men rolling around on the floor beating each other senseless or trying to do
just that. One of them—the man on the bottom—had bitten off the lower half of
his opponent’s ear. Blood flooded from his mouth, which made him look like some
old drunk lady who’d applied her lipstick without the aid of a mirror. The man
held the part of the ear he’d just amputated in a firm tooth-grip in the vise
of his overpowering, hazardous jaws. He looked to Truck to be a new strain of
hominid, yet to be named and studied. No one even tried to break them up.
What’s more, it appeared no one even saw the two men wallowing around on the
floor, amid the cigar stubs, tobacco juice, urine, and sawdust strewn about to
keep down the dust, which, he noticed, was failing in its duties.
He stepped a
few feet deeper into the establishment with great relish, and cased the lovely joint.
“Get the
hell out of my way, booby,” someone said, as if Truck were still standing in
the flow of traffic, which he wasn’t, but not because he wasn’t trying.
However, the lug was drunk. So he decided to overlook him. He’d been drunk a
time or so himself, and knew the way the wind blew. His hearing seemed ready to
shut down from the roar created by the bursting-at-the-seams house.
The joint
smelled good to Truck, like a new book to a book lover. He liked the noise and
filth so much—the odor—that he reckoned Shiny Tom’s tavern would suit his
tastes just fine. In fact, he loved the joint, without even setting eyes on
Shiny Tom himself. He figured he’d take to him as well, when he did see him. He
had good judgment when it came to determining a man’s character. But he’d barked
on the wrong tree more than once, although he tried his best not to dwell on
his mistakes.
“What a
bully fine joint to while away a couple of hours,” he said. Already, he’d
forgotten that he was supposed to be bored with this layover. He said it, but
was unable to hear his own words, for the large rumble of shouted voices, of
feet scuffing the floorboards, of the rubber bumpers of pool sticks striking the
floor, which was symbolic of a summons for a fresh rack of cue balls.
The rack
boys—five of them—were in a dandy run trying with a valiant effort to keep up
with the demand commerce placed on them. But it looked to Truck as if they were
bailing water from a boat that’d just struck a large stone in a rock-infested
shoal and ripped out half the bottom. There was no way to keep up. They tried
though. Truck gave them good credit for their courage and stamina. There were
eight pool tables and one of billiards. Pretty much a sprawling affair.
He stood for
a time attempting to locate the bar, for the smoke still hindered his vision.
He tapped the shoulder of a man—one wearing dirty overalls. Truck figured the
man hadn’t bothered to go home after leaving work at noon—even long enough to
change into clean duds. He’d planned to ask the gent where the bar stood, but the
man was full into his binge. He whirled around and swung his beer mug at
Truck’s head. Truck ducked the man’s efforts with ease, and stepped into the
nearest low bank of clouds out of sight of the foolish and quite fortunate
drunk. For Truck was a crack boxing master, among his innumerable talents.
He wasn’t
one to take advantage of a man on his Saturday spree. So he stepped deeper into
the clouds, and when he spied an old man—he must’ve been the local philosopher,
for he had long white hair, down to his belt that flowed like an Alpine ski
run, as well as a beard that fell to his knees—he quick-stepped over to him. Truck
took him for the owner of the jenny, for he sat, sipping a drink from a filthy
glass, eating peanuts and fondling the side of the placid beast, which seemed a
sure sign of ownership.
“Please
sir,” he said. He removed his swell brown derby. “Is it possible that you’d be
kind enough to direct me to the bar? I’m dry as a bone and nigh to dying of
thirst?”
“Yes, I can”
he said. “I will too, but under one condition.”
Dry, sure
enough, but still patient, he said, “What’s this one condition?”
“That you
fetch me a gin and tonic.” He turned then and pointed to the east to indicate
where the bar lay hidden in the clouds.
“Will do.”
He started to skip off, gaining new strength from the promise of a drink, but
the old man caught him by the arm with finger knuckles knotty as dresser knobs.
“Yes sir?”
“Plus a
bottle of red sody pop.”
“A bottle of
red sody pop?”
“Yes sir.
For my jenny here. She’s still thirsty even though she’s already downed a case
of them.”
Truck turned
and charged full-out into the cloudbank. By and by, he found the bar. To his
regret, however, customers stood four deep, awaiting their turn. But after
twenty-five minutes—according to the Seth Miller on the wall—he finally fought
his way to the bar and placed his order.
Shiny Tom,
decked out in a stiff white shirt, black bowtie, and emerald green sleeve
garters, stood with elbows propped upon the bar in a shouted conversation with
a few men Truck figured were the barkeep’s cherished friends. He knew it was
Shiny Tom by the high-gloss shine upon the good man’s baldhead.
Taking time
to converse with friends was all right, he figured, for four hired flunkies, with
tongues that lapped down to their shirt pockets, battled, with stoic gallantry,
to keep up, and the cash register was making proud music, playing a lively
Sousa tune that sounded to Truck like The Double Eagle March. Shiny Tom’s joint
proved to be a moneymaker, or so thought the gambler. A right vigorous bar, it
was. And the ambience was really some fine peaches.
He collected
his order. He took the order, gin and tonic and whiskey, the bottle of red pop,
back to where the philosopher sat stroking his jenny.
He handed
over the drinks, and before he even sipped his own gin and tonic, the old
fellow felt it necessary to attempt to quench the thirst of the jenny. Truck
thought this noble of the old man, and stood easy to enjoy his whiskey. He
watched the animal swilling the red pop, and this furthered his pleasure.
After he
returned from a second bar run, the old man patted a vacant seat right next to
him. But, before he could take it, stepping slow, like a gentleman, a fellow in
a neat gray worsted suit, standing beneath a 25.0 rated derby hat, which made
Trucks’s own derby look like rat skin, attempted to beat his time with the
seat.
It looked
bad there for a time, but the philosopher, not one to lose a sponsor, tripped
the man with a sudden outthrust leg. Then, while the man tried to scramble to
his feet, Truck claimed triumph over the seat with a loud whoop, which perked
the ears of the jenny. It then turned his way, broke loud wind, and showed him
its yellow teeth in a forged smile.
The man in
the worsted suit flashed Truck a mean eye, brushed off both knees and pressed
on without further hatefulness. The old man smiled a sly smile, snorted a
spiteful snicker, then continued to bottle-feed his animal.
After two
hours of hearty quaffing, Truck talked the old man into holding his claim on
his seat. He had to go to the toilet.
While inside
the foul, rank-smelling room, taking a much needed leak into a metal trough, he
saw a long smudge of what he first took to be black ink on the wall. But when
the smudge moved, he changed his mind. He learned then that the smudge was
nothing less than a huge black rafter snake, racing up the wall. Blacksnakes,
Truck knew, were not poisonous but did have sharp, clingy teeth. Finished, he
hastened his step back to his bench seat.
Another hour
of red pop proved to be too much for the jenny. When the philosopher saw the
animal under duress, he patted its side, and spoke sweet-talk to it like a
concerned parent to an ill child. Despite the sweet-talk, the suffering animal,
walked off going two steps per foot, turned four rapid circles and threw up all
over the floor. Then, with a relieved stomach, it nuzzled the old man until the
philosopher gave it another large swill of pop. Afterward it shook its mousy
coat, and flopped down with a solid thump upon the floor at its master’s feet
not far from where it’d emptied the contents of its stomach. Bits of red
vegetable matter lay in the foul mess. Truck thought it likely they were red
bell peppers. Some gray sludge that might’ve been turnips was mixed in there as
well, half-digested hay, and, of course, red sody pop.
Truck amused
himself for the next thirty minutes by watching topers hurtling the large wash
of thrown-up ooze on the floor not far from his seat.
At length,
he heard the loud slam of the toilet door. A man who looked to be insane, scared
to death, or both, raced away from the toilet. His trousers were down around
his knees. He must’ve been doing serious business in the john, Truck figured.
The wild man raced across the floor, as if he were trying out for the local
cross-country team. Doing so in spite of the clothing wadded now around his
ankles, and screaming like Aunt Janey Jones at full voice with every leap.
The burly,
bald barman caught up a pistol and gave pursuit. Then when he must’ve felt he
was in range, he fired one off. But he was no marksman, Truck saw. But to his
good credit he was in a full run,
attempting to hit a moving target. So, the roving gambler calculated this
allowance.
Truck leaned
forward just as the fleeing man squared the corner at the end of the nearby billiards
table. Now he saw what’d caused the ruckus. The fleeing man, trousers down
around his ankles, wasn’t alone. For a blacksnake had attached itself—jaw teeth
firm—to his backside. The very snake Truck had encountered on his earlier visit
to the jakes. It dragged the floor behind the fleeing man as if the luckless fellow
had grown a tail while going about his duties in the john.
A few of the
braver chumps along the gauntlet, tried to stomp the man’s tail, but each and
all missed by a good margin. The snake-man was now circling the pool tables, and
trying to take the tight square out of all corners, but with no success. By and
by, charging way too fast, he crashed foursquare into the far wall under a full
head of steam. Truck thought this would end his part in Shiny Tom’s gay circus.
But, sad to say, he was only too wrong, which happened to him but infrequently,
perhaps once every other year.
The sprinter
leapt to his feet, and lit out again. The snake still dragged along behind its
host, as is predictable of all tails. Then, just in front of Truck’s eyes, its
host hurtled the gunk, and the reptile dragged along through it as well. The
blacksnake and its engine had little difficulty traversing the slimy terrain,
but when Shiny Tom hit the sludge, his feet went skyward, his head floor-ward. When
he struck the floor flat of his back, air burst from Shiny Tom’s lungs like a
locomotive exhausting a vast quantity of steam.
But the unconquerable
barman leapt to his feet, backside covered in swill, further stinking up the
joint, and continued his pursuit with no though to conceding, still touching
off his pistol.
"Kapow!"
"Kapow!"
“Kapow!” Again,
he fired, with no thought to reloading the device of death he held in his hand.
At least it might’ve been a device of death in the hands of one better suited
as a marksman, such as Truck.
Then, in
front of the billiards table, the snake fell to the floor of its own devices,
or perhaps from the good graces of our lord and savior. It then scampered forth
with much haste beneath the nearest pool table.
Shiny Tom
had suffered a minor back injury from his short flight and heavy fall, and was
unable to bend over the required distance to shoot the limbless, scaly,
elongated creature that now lurked about in the dark shadows beneath the table.
"Quick,
Slim, run behind the bar. Fetch the broom. See can you roust this old gentleman
from under this here table. I mean to kill this old gent. He’s had run of this
joint far too long.”
Truck
learned then that this was not the first encounter between these two
combatants.
Slim, no median
runner himself, returned with the broom in a twinkle of a fair maiden's eye. He
set to work then to drive the snake from its stronghold, where it appeared it
was about to make its last-stand.
Slim poked
the grip end of the broom under the table first, and jabbed about for a spell.
“Turn the
broom around, idiot,” yelled Shiny Tom. He had one of those bulging voices that
would’ve served him well as a ringmaster of the Boggs & Shepherd Circus.
“Sweep him out of there. Ain’t you never operated no broom?"
It soon became
obvious to all the snake had taken up residence beneath the table, and had
settled in until the next due date of the tax census.
Slim got
down on his knees then, and did swell duty. He shoved and poked and brushed and
swept. But, with no good result. The snake knew its rights. It arched its neck
in defiance like a work-weary mule.
By and by,
the creature decided to run a bluff. It unhinged its jaws, laid its lower
mandible far down on its neck. Its upper jaw ran up past the line of sight of
its beady, snaky eyes. The insides of its mouth looked as white as—as white as
... salt.
When he saw
this, Slim leapt upward so fast he struck his skull on the ledge of the pool
table. The table shifted nary an inch, but the hapless Slim? Well, he fell flat
on his face, out cold.
A couple of thoughtful
gents grabbed him by the ankles. They dragged the poor fellow out of the flow
of traffic where he might find safety until he battled back from the thick and
wooly darkness that always seems to accompany oblivion.
Another of
Shiny Tom’s bravo’s snatched up the fallen broom, dropped to his knees, and
advanced on the snake.
But straightaway,
he backed out of danger. Truck watched as he looked up at Shiny Tom, and in his
most intrepid voice said, "I don't
know 'bout this here, Tom. This mightn't be the creature we think 'tis."
Three of the
bystanders bent, peeked beneath the table, and rose as one to agree with the
other old boy. One said, "I think we might just have ourselves a
cottonmouth on our hands."
Shiny Tom's
face turned much redder. The broad eyebrows that hovered above his pale orbs
fluttered like birds in flight.
"Egadfrey."
he yelled. "I'm in a room full of complete idiots. That there ain't no
such a damn thing as a cottonmouth."
The old boy assaulted
by the snake while in the john, sat upon the floor now against the wall. He
shook his head and mumbled thankful prayers for his safe delivery. No one there
felt they should offer him any sympathy whatsoever, or so it appeared to the
gambler.
Truck now
heard the philosopher laughing heartily, joined occasionally by same from the
jenny.
The snake,
by now, sat in a curl with head reared, and stared shamelessly into Shiny Tom’s
eyes. Then seeing it couldn’t stare down the barman, it struck at him a couple
of times, then fled with the intention of exiting on the far side of the table.
The entire
fearless troop scampered to the other side. They screamed and yelled at Tom in
top lung with each step. They implored him to shoot the snake without further
delay. Fortunately, for all there, Shiny Tom was the only man heeled.
Truck saw
his friend, the philosopher, behind the bar, building himself a fresh gin and tonic,
disinclined to wait for the end of the engagement, evidently. His laughter
rattled the rows of glasses behind the bar, and when he reached his bench seat,
the jenny commenced laughing along with the old-timer.
Shiny Tom
drew a bead on the departing snake.
"Kapow!"
As per
average, he missed.
The bedlamites,
in pursuit, bounced with glee off one another, off the walls, off of and even over
the pool tables, blind to everything, except their manic chase.
After much
pursuit, they managed to corner the scaly beast again.
"Egadfrey,"
Shiny Tom yelled. "I've got you now, my bully slithering friend. Lay back,
boys. Lay back. I mean to clip his fearsome head from his shoulders with one
true shot from this bulldog pistol.”
Tom’s
courageous students stood back, save for a few who were more foolish. Shiny Tom
drew a "true" bead. The stouthearted battalion sensed great things in
the offing.
The barkeep
took his good time. But, at the precise moment he fired one off, the snake decided
to move. The movement caused an instinctive leaping foot stomp from one of the
men—the same gent who wore the worsted suit Truck had beaten to the bench seat
earlier. The snake-stomper had nearly as poor aim as did Shiny Tom. He missed
his target. Shiny Tom missed his primary target as well. However, he did manage
to hit the brave soldier in the metatarsals, and Truck reckoned by this that
his aim had improved. He allowed then the fellow in the worsted suit was a man
born to lose.
The snake
scurried off like its tail was ablaze and it in search of a cool body of water
large enough in which to extinguish the flame. On it fled. In and out, between
and through. Round and about the busy stomping feet.
The wounded
comrade hobbled along. He grabbed at his foot, and wept with no shame. No one, however,
cared at all about the sorry chump's condition, but continued the pursuit, screaming
to lift the rafters. It appeared several times they’d trapped the supple
creature, but due to their ineptitude, it always managed to make escape without
much trouble, suffering absolutely no harm.
The
philosopher’s laughter ruffled his beard like a stage curtain. His jenny broke
bountiful air, and laughed along.
"Shut
them doors," screamed Shiny Tom. "Don't let him outside."
Truck stood as
close to the action as he dared, enjoying the chase, and had totally forgotten
time in a way a man will do during moments of high excitement when the
adrenaline flows like an artesian well. So when he looked up to the sound of
his friend calling from the bench seat, he saw him waving to attract his attention.
"In
station, young sir," he cried. "Your train's in station."
“Ain’t this
is a piss-poor time for the train to show?” he muttered. Being a powerful runner
though, he figured he’d see the jolly performance to its conclusion.
The snake
headed for a corner. It seemed to all there it’d made a fatal mistake. There
was nowhere for it to go. The wall would stop him.
"Egad,
boys. We got him now," the barkeep shouted.
But the
snake lunged straight up the wall, and increased its speed as it gained altitude.
Amazed for
the moment, all stood and gaped, watching the goal it had in mind. By and by,
in spite of the fact the ceiling was covered in pressed tin, it made for a rat
hole gnawed in the plaster of the wall just below where it and tin met.
"Shoot,
Tom," said Slim. He’d recovered just now and rejoined the posse. "Shoot
the damned thing. It's headin' for that hole."
"Shoot."
"Yes,
shoot, Tom."
"Egad,
sir ... it's gettin' away.”
"Shoot,
Tom."
Shiny Tom
held his fire. He did have the weapon raised however, and had drawn a bead
along its shiny blue barrel.
Shoot, Tom,
if ever you plan to."
Still the
august bartender held off, with the pistol held aloft. His balding pate turned
the light right fine even in the murky, smoke-filled room.
The snake now
was but a few feet from freedom. Tension swelled the air like biblical hatred.
"Shoot,
Tom. Or give me that there gun, and I'll do 'er for you."
"Train,
boy," cried the sage."Train's in station. Engine isn't going to the
house to be serviced. She's a run-through."
The jenny
broke wind again, bared its teeth, and laughed loud and crow-like.
Truck had
but little time. Still—well, hell, he wanted to see this adventure to its
dramatic end.
"Shoot!"
"Yes, shoot
the bugger."
The snake
now had its head buried in the hole.
"Shiny
Tom!"
"Train,
boy, train. You're fixing to get left.
He had to
make his move now or spend several further long hours in this burg. He
commenced walking backward toward the door.
Just when
all looked dire in defeat, Shiny Tom jerked alert. He pulled down again on the
snake.
Truck paused
at the door, one foot inside, one outside.
A hush like
what will probably fall over all creation at the exact moment the cruel comet destined
eons ago to strike Earth, thereby ending time, now enveloped that glorious gin
mill.
“I daren't
leave now even if it means being stranded the night through.”
Just then,
he heard the saddest, sorriest sound of his entire life. Instead of a mighty
"boom" a pale puff of smoke rising from the barrel of the gun, and a
large blacksnake falling dead from on high, he heard instead a dry, melancholy
click.
The hammer
had fallen on an empty chamber.
The snake
disappeared into the rafters, where it seemed it made its home.
Shiny Tom
turned to Slim. "Hell's afire, Slim. I do believe I just run out of
ammo."
This then
was it. The game was up.
Truck spun
about and pulled-foot in full gallop. By the time he reached the middle of the
street, still a hundred-yards to go, the iron monster shook and quaked like
some enormous beast attempting to shed rainwater from its hide.
A long
passage of steam issued to the ground from its boiler port. Smoke streamed
skyward. Truck ran faster.
Now that he’d
witnessed a decisive anti-climax to the late struggle, there was but one goal in
mind. He must make the train. He wouldn’t be satisfied to stay the night in
this burg. He leapt up onto the platform. The train had picked up speed. This’d
be touch and go. If only he didn't run out of air.
Off-loaded
passengers stood and watched. Some cheered for Truck. The majority, of course, rooted
for the train.
He ran as
never before. The grab-iron, shiny as steel in the spring sunshine, lured him on.
He threw out a hand, felt the grab-iron with the tip of his middle finger. The
crowd behind him jeered and cheered at the same time, and in full lung.
He was
almost all in. His wind was gone. But, he wasn't man enough to get left. He couldn't
face that mob of unruly cutthroats behind him. Besides that, his entire outfit
had already been loaded in the baggage car. He saw no other choice.
His middle
finger found a friend in the ring finger. Joined soon by his index finger, and
then by the pinky as well.
He closed
his hand on the iron. He made his leap, lashed out with his left hand toward
the far grab-iron, and swung up onto the back platform like a slick, old-head
brakeman. By now, the train had increased speed. It fairly clicked and clacked
down the rails.
He chanced a
peek up at the hog-head on his high engine seat. Even from the distance of six
passenger cars, he saw a large smile plastered wide upon his fat mug.
With all due
gratitude, he swept out his handkerchief, and highballed him.
“Toot-Tootey-Toot-TOOOOOoooooooooooot!”
the hogger responded in his signature whistle.
Truck
clomped on up the steps, and by the time he entered the car in a scout of the
club car and the bar, the engineer already had the throttle in number four
position. Then, as he restored his wind and found his way through the first
car, they fairly whizzed along. The brave engineman now had the throttle all
the way up in number eight, Truck figured. Buried to the maximum.
Feeling
vinegary in success, he hailed a plump, luscious and viperous-looking young
female. Even though he was well-known on this line, he didn’t recognize her,
and this whetted his appetite for fresh female companionship.
"Could
you tell me where the bar is, miss? I’m dry as a bone, and nigh to dying of
thirst."
She cast a
bold, exploratory eye at Truck, smiled, pleased by what she saw evidently, and
with much pluck and downright sass, said, "I can't tell you where ‘tis, but
I most assuredly can and will show you the way. Just you follow me, big
boy."
Follow her
he did, with his eye locked tight on the wonderful undulations of her gorgeous hips,
and the grand and firm bounce of her young and stately rump.
Onward, sped
the train. Onward toward more, even greater accomplishments and adventures, or
so hoped Truck, the tireless roving railroad gambler.
The End
Sunday, June 21, 2020
Review: A House of Men- Sumner Wilson
Tuesday, June 9, 2020
This Machine Fights Fascists.
Wednesday, May 27, 2020
Where the Wildflowers Dance
A man she met in Nebraska, Jason Neal, follows Sarah all the way to Wyoming with the intentions of marrying her. Evidently, Neal is the only one aware of this marriage. She turns him down and this causes Neal to pitch a bitch, becoming so obnoxious that several of John Meadows men are forced to escort him outside. They sit him on his horse and send him packing. He lands in the town of nearby Chugwater. He hires a couple of hard-case gunmen and proceeds to take control of the town and the nearby ranches. He turns from a meek, mild attorney into a stunning tyrant.
Sarah has her mind fixed to marry another man. Jake Summers is a power of strength, courage, moral and mental authority directly opposite of the man Neal.
In the course of taking over the region, Neal finds he must rid himself of Jake Summers. He send out a small band of toughs and catch Jake out far from home and help. Jake is shot and thinking the man dead, the men toss him off a bluff and leave him there for the wolves. Instead, two young boys herding sheep find him there, still living but horribly wounded. The boys fetch their pap and he moves Jake to his house.
Jake wakes up to find himself in a small home of strangers, but even he, himself, is a stranger, for he has lost his memory. Through the tender ministrations of the sheep owner's wife, he recovers his wounds. But his memory is gone.
In time he does reclaim his memory and arrives back at the Meadows ranch in time to put up a battle against evil forces that are attempting to take the ranch from it's rightful owner.
This is as far as I can go with this without giving away too much, and I for one, hate an ol' boy who gives away the ending of a book.
Pick up a copy of Where the Wildflowers Dance. I guarantee you that you'll enjoy this book, written by a man with the eye of an artist who paints sunsets with a fine flourish.