Mark R. Probst - The Filly.pdf

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The Filly
The Filly
file:///C:/Users/Rosemarie/Downloads/w00t!/w00t!/TheFilly.html
TheFilly
by
MarkR.Probst
Bristlecone Pine Press * Portland, Maine
TableofContents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Preface
TheFirstPart:TheCowboy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
TheSecondPart:TheDrive
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
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The Filly
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Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
TheThirdPart:SanAntone
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
About Bristlecone Pine Press
Preface
I have always been a fan of the Hollywood western: the films of John Ford, Anthony Mann, John Wayne, and
Jimmy Stewart, among many others. I had a great desire to pay tribute to this genre of a more glamorous and
adventurous west. Later years would bring about grittier and more realistic depictions, but I still loved the
romanticized films of the 1940s and 1950s. I have also had a great fascination in how gay men and women
were able to cope and survive in different eras. E. M. ForsterÓs Maurice beautifully demonstrated how this
was accomplished in Edwardian England, and Gordon MerrickÓs TheLordWon’tMind showed us what gay
life was like in 1930s New York. I have chosen to write a story intertwining these two concepts: thus a gay
western. History records very little about how homosexuals existed in the old west, therefore much of what I
write is simple speculation. In this work I have sought to achieve the flavor of the classic movie western
without the constraints of the old Hollywood taboos.
TheFirstPart:
TheCowboy
ChapterOne
The little bell hanging above the door gave a little jingle. Ethan looked up from the bins of oats he was
restocking in back just as the stranger stepped in out of the bright sunlight. He stood for a few seconds,
blinking into the gloom. Spotting Ethan, the man flashed him a toothy grin and said ÐHowdy.Ñ Ethan nodded.
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The stranger was in his early twenties, a somewhat tall cowboy with a lean build, a handsome face, square
jaw, smooth skin tanned from the range, and a soft intelligence in his blue eyes as he continued to look at
Ethan.
ÐHowdy, stranger! What can I get for you?Ñ Mr. Simpson emerged from the back room, reading glasses on
the end of his nose and a pencil tucked behind his ear. He was fifty-five, thin and sallow. He had probably
been going over the dayÓs receipts, accounting for every last nickel.
ÐWell, if itÓs not too much trouble I needed to get a few supplies.Ñ The cowboy seemed awfully polite and
well mannered. He wasnÓt dirty, smelly, rough, rude or rowdy. His shirt wasnÓt wrinkled. His chaps and boots
were clean. He was clean shaven. When he removed his hat, his hair was neatly cut, straight and blond, the
kind of blond that had been bleached out by months in the sun.
ÐI need a quarter pound of coffee,Ñ he said, Ða quarter pound of sugar, uh, five cans of beans. Do you have
pickled eggs?Ñ
ÐYep.Ñ Mr. Simpson scribbled the order on a sheet of paper, ÐAnything else?Ñ
ÐSome beef jerky, uh... canned peaches? Make that two cans, and a loaf of bread if you have it.Ñ
ÐSorry, no bread,Ñ said Mr. Simpson. ÐWe have flour and yeast and salt if you want to make your own.Ñ
ÐNo thanks.Ñ He smiled again. ÐI also need some matches, and IÓll take one of these newspapers here.Ñ
Ethan hefted up the sixty pound sack of oats and started for the storeroom. There were boys half his age who
could haul as much or more, but he had been a bookworm for the better part of seventeen years and a general
store clerk for the better part of nine months.
ÐEthan, come gather up these items.Ñ Mr. Simpson held up the list. Ethan dropped the sack in the corner and
timidly crossed to the front counter. The stranger was about his height and made direct eye contact, flashing
another smile. Ethan faintly smiled back, took the list from Mr. Simpson and trudged to the back of the store
to gather the goods.
ÐAre you new to town, stranger?Ñ Mr. Simpson asked as he scooped the coffee into a small bag atop a scale.
ÐIÓm just passing through,Ñ the cowboy replied. ÐIÓm really hoping to find work as a ranch hand.Ñ
Ethan returned to the counter with an armload. He lined up the five cans of beans in front of Mr. Simpson. He
glanced at the cowboy, who again made brief eye contact, this time with a slighter smile, before turning back
to Mr. Simpson.
ÐYou know,Ñ Mr. Simpson stroked his chin, Ðas it so happens, the Haywood Ranch is getting ready for the big
cattle drive to Cheyenne in June.Ñ
ÐReally!Ñ The cowboy grinned at Ethan as he deposited the canned peaches and pickled eggs on the
countertop. ÐCould you give me directions on where to find this ranch?Ñ The man looked so directly at Ethan
that he wasnÓt sure if the question was meant for him or Mr. Simpson.
ÐWell, you go straight up the main street here, sir,Ñ Ethan answered, pointing at the north wall of the store.
ÐAnd at the end of town you will see a road. Go east on that road and you will pass six homesteads. And you
will come to a big spread called the Haywood Ranch. You canÓt miss it.Ñ He ducked away and retrieved the
remaining supplies, and hovered nearby while the man neatly arranged and packed the merchandise into a
burlap sack. Mr. Simpson tallied the sum on the same piece of paper upon which he had made the list, and
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quoted the total to the cowboy, who plopped down the appropriate coinage and picked up the sack.
The cowboy winked at Ethan and tipped his hat to Mr. Simpson. ÐIÓm much obliged sir.Ñ
ÐThink nothing of it. WhatÓs your name stranger?Ñ
ÐIÓm Travis Cain. Glad to have met you.Ñ He extended his hand.
ÐIÓm Mr. Simpson, the proprietor of this store. Good luck to you.Ñ They shook hands and Travis gave one last
glance at Ethan before the door closed and the bell jingled. Ethan watched through the window as Travis took
all the merchandise out of the burlap sack and packed it all carefully into his saddlebags. He mounted a
beautiful sorrel mare, clicked his tongue and trotted off toward the Haywood Ranch.
* * *
Later that evening, Ethan hunched on a crate in the storeroom, engrossed in WutheringHeights. He had been
studious in school, so much so that he finished the twelfth grade at age fifteen. He had learned everything
Miss Peet could teach him. Even now, two years later, he was quite close to her. The township didnÓt have
anything so luxurious as a lending library Ï the nearest one was forty miles east, in San Antonio Ï so the
only way he could get books was by borrowing them from Miss Peet. She had a modest collection and he had
only a few more chapters to go in Bront before he exhausted it. There were a few volumes that didnÓt
interest him, but every so often she acquired new ones. If he could finish Bront tonight, he could stop by
Miss PeetÓs house on the way home from work tomorrow, return it, and see if she had anything new for him.
Mr.Heathcliffpausedandwipedhisforehead;hishairclungtoit,wetwithperspiration;his
eyeswerefixedontheredembersofthefire—
ÐEthan! Are you about done in there?Ñ
Ethan slammed the book shut. ÐJust finishing up, Mr. Simpson!Ñ He grabbed the broom and scurried up the
stairs back into the store. It was six oÓclock, closing time, and it would take him about twenty minutes or so to
sweep up the spilled oats and red adobe dust from well-worn, creaky, hardwood floor. After he finished, he
grabbed his book and a couple of mushy looking apples from the storeroom, and headed out the door. He had
an understanding with Mr. Simpson about the apples. Customers preferred the prettiest, freshest apples, so the
ugly ones often didnÓt sell. So Mr. Simpson agreed that he could take two of the bad ones everyday to feed
the horses.
On the way home he passed by the town stables. There were two horses standing by the fence waiting for
him. They whinnied as they saw him come around the bend. This was a daily routine that they looked forward
to. He fed them each an apple, patted their noses, and stroked their manes. His father had taught him to ride
when he was six Ï after he had been killed in a gunfight some nine years ago, his mother, Ophelia, had to sell
the horses, and they hadnÓt owned any since. Occasionally some of the townsfolk let him ride theirs, and after
ten years he had good horsemanship skills. If he could just save enough money, he might buy his own colt or
filly. He wanted to get a young horse, form a special bond, and train it from the beginning. Not one that had
been spoiled by a previous master.
The horses grunted their approval. The apples were gone, and when they saw he had no more, he headed for
home.
He lived two miles from town. It was a small farm, just two cows, two dozen chickens and a small crop of
potatoes, carrots and corn. William did all the farming and it was the only productive thing he did. William
was bitter, and every so often repeated his oath over dinner to avenge his fatherÓs death by killing the man
who murdered him. He had dropped out of school right after their fatherÓs death, around age twelve, to take
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over the farm. It was plenty of time to turn into a hard drinking, gambling ruffian. Lately he was getting
locked up in the jail for stirring up trouble, but the sheriff had been close friends with Jack and Ophelia and
always managed to get the injured parties to drop the charges.
Neither son made very much money, for different reasons, so Ophelia had turned the homestead into a
boarding house. They were able to take as many as four boarders at a time. Meals and laundry service were
included for twelve dollars a month. Currently they had three boarders Ï Mr. Pendegast, Mr. Baker, and Mr.
Ponce. They were all cut from the same cloth. Like almost all of previous boarders, they were bachelors who
had the misfortune of being short, pudgy, and balding men, and Mr. Pendegast and Mr. Ponce wore glasses.
In EthanÓs opinion, their problem was not that they couldnÓt find wives if they wanted to; they just aimed too
high in the looks department. The kind of women who interested them would marry them only if they could
offer ironclad wealth. Without it, they would have to accept somebody homelier, or do without. They chose
the latter. And without wives, the motherly services of Ophelia Keller were an appealing alternative.
Mr. Pendegast worked in the town bank as a teller. Like Ethan, he walked to work. He left before Ethan in
the mornings, but quite often Ethan would pass him on the way. Mr. Ponce and Mr. Baker were more of a
mystery. They each did odd jobs way out of town. Since their work required a lot of traveling, they each had
a horse and a rig. Care for their horses was their own responsibility.
Avoiding piles of mushy green horse manure, Ethan followed the deeply rutted road over the narrow bridge
spanning the dry creek bed, passed the giant cottonwood tree, and rounded the bend to home. The Keller
homestead was a long, spread out farmhouse with an upstairs loft over the kitchen that was used mainly for
storage of OpheliaÓs sewing and quilting materials. When their father was alive, there were only four
bedrooms, but sometime after Ophelia opened it to boarders, she had two more rooms built on. It had six
bedrooms, a drawing room, a dining room, and a kitchen with a water pump that came up through the floor.
Ophelia and Willie each had their own bedroom. The other four were for the boarders. In the event that all
four rooms were rented out, Ethan was banished to the loft. But as one room was currently vacant, Ethan was
using it. The bed was so much more comfortable than the little cot in the loft. There was also a nice sized barn
with enough stalls for the cows and horses. Mr. Ponce and Mr. Baker also used the barn to park their rigs.
There were also two outhouses. The second one was added at the same time the extra rooms were built.
As usual his mother had supper prepared and waiting. As he came in and kissed her on the cheek, she called
for Willie, Mr. Pendegast, Mr. Ponce and Mr. Baker to come to supper. Everyone seated themselves around
the dinner table. Tonight they were having jackrabbit stew and biscuits. As they often did, Mr. Ponce, Mr.
Baker and Mr. Pendegast discussed politics. TonightÓs subject was the effectiveness, or ineffectiveness based
on your point of view, of President Rutherford B. Hayes. They were now debating whether or not Congress
was right to override HayesÓs veto of the Bland-Allison act. Ethan blocked them out, wondering if Heathcliff
was actually going to force Cathy to marry his son. Later in the summer, when the sun didnÓt go down until
eight oÓclock he would sit on the porch and read, but now in early April, the sun had already gone down and
so he would read by lamplight in his bedroom.
They had just finished the meal and Ophelia started gathering the plates. She had fair, smooth skin that hadnÓt
aged since EthanÓs earliest memory of her. She had EthanÓs brown eyes, but her hair was jet black and curly.
She kept it pulled back into a neatly arranged bun, and all around her hairline were rebellious wisps of curly
hair. Even though they were untamable, they were attractive and she jokingly called them ÐpoppiesÑ because
they just popped out on their own. In the years since she had reached middle age, she had put on a more
robust look.
ÐIs everyone ready for dessert?Ñ she asked. ÐThereÓs apple pie.Ñ OpheliaÓs pies were the best in the region.
She brought the pie out from the kitchen. It looked enticing Ï its lightly browned crust with crinkled edges
and apple filling oozing out of the slits on top. All the men watched intently as she cut it into eight perfectly
symmetrical slices. Ethan forgot about Heathcliff and Cathy. His slice was coming Ï but oh, who was
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