ch8 The Last Hooray

Chapter 8
Prayers and God’s Will

The red dust rose in the still air above the corrals of bawling, un-happy cattle. The cowboys had been grimly branding the yearling calves all week, and the red dust covered their faces and clothes, giving them an orange tint in the afternoon light. This is where the Mulhall cowboys sharpened their roping and riding skills. Round-up was a yearly event lasting weeks, and by the end of the ordeal, all the cowboys became expert ropers, riders, and branders. Tom Mix and Charlie Mulhall were there, working with the hands. Zack had given specific instructions to work them both all day, every day. Charlie and Tom were given no slack. But both of them seemed to enjoy and thrive on the work.
It took about a week after separating the yearlings from the mama cows before the bawling quieted down. The herd lingered near the corrals while the cowboys worked the calves. The older hands were preparing to move the mama cows back out towards better pasture when Cooder and Robert arrived.
“Smell that?” Cookie August asked Cooder.
Cooder looked around trying to figure if there was something besides manure and burning flesh he was supposed to be smelling.
“All I smell is cowshit and burnt steer,” replied Cooder.
“That is the best smell in the world boy. That is the smell of success to a cowboy. That is the smell of another good calf crop. That is the smell of money, to ol’ Zack Mulhall.”
Cookie August sniffed deeply and smiled at Cooder and Robert.
“C’mon boys breathe deep.”
Cooder and Robert both imitated Cookie and sniffed deeply the rank dusty air.
“Remember that,” Cookie said. “I don’t know how many more seasons you young-uns will get.”
Cookie turned in his saddle and gave a wild half yodel, and raised his arm in the air in a circular motion. His face was as hard and creased as a ripe hedge apple. Cooder had to smile as Cookie pulled his hat down tight and grinned. He kicked his horse towards the cattle. He was enthusiastic as a young boy. The cowboys darted into the back of the herd on his signal, and started moving the mama cows towards the open prairie.
Cooder and Robert watched the herd move slowly down the track towards Orlando. They unloaded the supplies from the wagon and then slowly followed them. After a mile or so the quiet of the prairie and the song of the meadow lark supplanted the noise of bawling cattle.
“I know a good little creek we can camp by ahead, “Robert said, and pointed towards a tree-line. It is where Red Shirt has his sweat lodge.”
“So what is a sweat lodge?” asked Cooder.
“You will see.”
After hobbling the horses, Cooder and Robert explored the sweat lodge. It was built against the red rocks of the creek bank. Down a short path there was a small waterfall, and a clear pool. The sweat lodge was built of a frame of willow branches tied together. Several cowhides were tied in a bundle and suspended from a tree branch to keep the bugs out of it. Robert lowered the cowhides and spread them over the frame of willow, making a small shelter.
“We need to make a fire now.”
Cooder started gathering wood and Robert started a small flame.
“We will ask the great spirit to guide our paths. To protect us from evil. We will ask for wisdom in our plans. We will ask for help in making a family. We will ask for guidance in buying our farms,” Robert said solemnly.
“So this is like your church,” Cooder stated.
“No. This is a way to purify yourself so that when you ask these questions, you may hear the answers clearly. You will see.” Robert replied. The Ponca do not find God in a house. “Church is every day, and everywhere. Your conversation with the Great Spirit is in every thing you do, and everything you say. That is what the Ponca believe.”
Cooder was quiet thinking of what his friend had just said.
It took a while to build up a bed of coals. They sat quietly by the fire and listened to the afternoon slip away. There was a small pile of rocks by the fire, and Robert started to put them into the red coals. He handed Cooder a clay pot and asked him to fill it with water and put it into the sweat lodge. After the rocks were red hot, Robert said “It is time.”
He took off his clothes and nodded to Cooder to do the same. Cooder stripped down naked. Robert took some tongs made to take the rocks out of the fire, and put them into a willow basket. He then carried the glowing rocks into the sweat lodge.
“Come,” he said.
After they entered the sweat lodge there were only a few shafts of light coming in. Robert had put the hot rocks in the center of the sweat lodge in a small pit. He softly started chanting a song as he dipped the water and poured it onto the rocks. The water hissed and boiled into steam, and it quickly filled the small sweat lodge. As the heat came down, Cooder bent forward. Robert again dipped the water out of the clay pot and poured it onto the hot rocks. The heat again enveloped them and the sweat came to the surface of their faces and backs.
“My first sweat was with my father and uncles when I was very young. I didn’t like it much,” Robert said. “My father and uncles are dead now. Many of our people are spirits now. But I believe they are here with me. I believe they are helping me. So we do this to purify ourselves, to sweat out the dirt from our bodies, and thoughts from our minds, before we ask for help.
Robert was quiet for a while.
“Now I like the sweat lodge very much,” he said, and poured some more water.
As the heat exploded again from the rocks Cooder thought of nothing else but the heat. The sweat was pouring off him now, and he kept his head bent and felt the sweat drip off his nose.
Robert again started chanting softly. Cooder had no idea what he was saying but the song made him feel better. Soon he was humming along with Robert. After a while, he didn’t mind the heat so much. Robert poured the water again and again over the rocks and each time, his mind fought the urge to run out of the lodge. After each struggle, he found himself forgetting the heat and looking inward. He found himself humming the simple song, and thinking about his new friend and new life. His thoughts flew like a hawk over the prairie, and he saw his mama and sissy there at the farm. He saw himself building a new house and a barn, on his new land. He saw Robert and Leslie building a house and barn. He saw cattle grazing on a hillside, and horses in a corral. He felt the importance of saving his money, and a determination to realize his dreams. As he sang the song with Robert, he felt renewed and focused. As he sang this new song and sweated, he felt the significance of the change in him; the new way he had looked at the world with his new friend these last few weeks. In his mind he asked God to help him. He asked the Great Spirit to guide him with his plans, and suddenly he knew what the meaning of the song was. It was his song, his words, his prayer, his dreams. He felt a sudden clarity in his mind that came to him like the steam from the hissing rocks. He lifted his head and welcomed the heat upon his face, as he hummed his new song.
Red Shirt had been watching from the hillside. He was happy with Robert and Cooder. He was happy that Robert was showing Cooder the old ways. He walked down quietly into the camp and put some more rocks onto the coals and waited. He heard Robert and Cooder singing softly and closed his eyes and dreamed of his first sweat lodge. He dreamed of his people back on the Missouri River, and for a few moments he was happy and young again.
After a while Robert opened the flap to the sweat lodge and got out. Cooder followed. They were surprised to see Red Shirt there by the fire. They walked down to the pool by the waterfall and walked into the cool water. Cooder was surprised at how clean he felt. After all the dust at roundup it felt really good to sit in that pool. He liked the taste of it in his mouth, and the smell of It. Yellow leaves floated down the water fall and drifted past him. Cooder pulled himself under the water and scrubbed his hair.
“Well, what do you think of the sweat lodge?” Robert asked.
“I feel really good right now. I haven’t felt this good in a long time,” Cooder replied.
After a while Robert and Cooder got out and walked back up to the fire and made camp for the night. Red Shirt joined them after his sweat and bath.
“Uncle, this is Cooder Gooch my friend from Mulhall,” he said. “Cooder this is Red Shirt. He is a medicine man and a chief of the Ponca.”
Red Shirt had brought a couple of rabbits for dinner. He pulled them from his bag and threw them to Robert.
“Skin these and we will eat them,” he said.

While Red Shirt took his sweat, Robert cooked dinner. They had beef jerky and peaches, and roasted rabbit. Red Shirt made some tea, and they sat around the fire and listened to the coyotes.
“So Cooder, you are from Mulhall?” Red Shirt asked.
“Yes, my folks live west of Mulhall.”
“You’re papa is a farmer?”
“Mostly cattle, but we grow vegetables, and hay.”
“So you and Robert are friends. That is good.”
“Yes, it is.”
“We are going to try to buy land near Mulhall and raise cattle and horses,” Robert stated.
“Hmmm. Tell me about your plans,” Red Shirt said.

Myrtle had been the owner of the Orlando Opera House for four years ever since Henry died, and she moved back into town. Henry had been a marginal farmer at best. Myrtle was happy to sell the farm, cotton crop and all, to Zack Mulhall, and move into town above the grocery store. Henry had owned the building, and after the grocery failed, Myrtle decided to open a saloon after the prohibition took effect in Mulhall. Business was good. Myrtle had three billiard tables, the biggest card games in town on Friday and Saturday nights, her own ice house out back, as well as a Chinese laundry, and the coldest beer in Logan County. She had a house band that played both Friday and Saturday nights, and she had several sporting ladies, who occupied the upstairs bedrooms. Myrtle believed after watching her husband gamble everything on one crop year after year, that diversity was the key to success. Liquor, gambling, prostitution were all legal in Orlando.
Her biggest liability and headache were the girls. It wasn’t a problem attracting women who wanted to work at the saloon. The problem was getting rid of them after a time. The girls tended to get bad attitudes after a year or so. So Myrtle would split the pot with the girls fifty-fifty, and then confiscate half of their earnings and put it in the bank. The girls couldn’t touch it until they left. Myrtle hadn’t met a whore yet that would save a nickel on her own. After the girls saved up two thousand dollars, she would send them on their way, and get a new girl. Those were the house rules. “Take em’ or leave em,” she would tell the girls. Myrtle’s reputation for fairness and her forced savings plan actually attracted the best and prettiest whores. After about two years, the girls could move on with a little savings, or marry a local farmer or rancher. Myrtle’s operation had been a model of success.
Last year she had employed a Chinese girl who had caused quite a stir. Fang Hua had come to Orlando from Wichita where she had worked near the meat packing plant. According to Fang, farmers and cowboys were much preferable clients to meat packers. Fang had brought her family with her, and had started a Chinese laundry behind the saloon. Fang was the first whore that Myrtle had met who had any business sense. She and Myrtle had become good friends.
“I wish you would get rid of that three legged dog, Myrtle.” Fang said, sitting at the bar with Myrtle. “Three legged dogs are not lucky.”
“What do you mean? Of course he’s lucky. That is the fattest dog in town. He drinks all the spilt beer, peanuts and popcorn. Otherwise you girls would be doin’ a lot more sweepin’ and cleanin’ around here.”
“He has horrible gas,” Fang observed.
“Well I imagine it is his diet. Get up dog, and go on outside,” Myrtle pointed towards the door. The dog ignored her.
“What is his name anyway? If you are going to have a lucky dog then you need to name him,” Fang said.
“Dog, I guess.”
Dog apparently didn’t feel comfortable in the way the two women were looking at him. He got up awkwardly on his three legs and farted loudly, yawning and stretching obscenely.
“Well you name him then, Fang. That way you own the luck good or bad.”
“His name is Cho’u,” Fang said and held her nose.
“Ok Chow, outside,” Myrtle said sternly, and pointed to the door.
Chow looked at Myrtle and Fang with a look of annoyance. He yawned again, and limped outside.
“I don’t think he likes his name,” Myrtle said, laughing.

Cookie stopped the herd about five miles outside Orlando. There was good grass and good water. He watched the cattle spread out on the hillside and eagerly nose through the dried prairie grass for some of the winter rye that was already popping up. Cookie scratched his neck, and took off his bandana. He was dirty. He had been dirty now for three weeks. He was out of clean clothes. He needed to get to town. He smiled and thought of a good steak, cold beer, clean clothes, a hot bath and Myrtle, at the opera house. He needed to get to the bank and pick up the pay for the boys. Getting a good scrubbin‘ at the whore house was part of the deal, as far as he was concerned.
“Alright boys, cook a couple days worth of beans, I’m gonna’ go get our pay, and do some business.”
He didn’t even get a grunt from the boys. After a month of round-up, they were not gonna’ balk at a few days of sitting around watching cattle graze.
He gathered his dirty clothes and stuffed them into his saddle bags. He took a small package from his bag and looked inside to make sure it was still there. He had bought matching ear rings and a necklace for Myrtle. He had figured pretty quickly that she had more money stashed than most of the banks in Orlando. It was quality and gesture that she appreciated. He had carefully cultivated his relationship with Myrtle to the point that she actually looked forward to his coming. He could get his laundry done and if he was really lucky get laid. He had no illusions about any permanent relationship. He didn’t want to be disappointed, but he still liked to flirt and court Myrtle, and he believed she liked it too. She treated him well, and he enjoyed being fussed over every once in a while.
By the time Cookie rode into town it was already past dinner time. By the time he had his horse put up in the livery stable, the Orlando Opera House, was already getting busy. Myrtle had the double doors open, and fiddle music, and laughter spilled out on the boardwalk.
“Hello girls,” he said to the working girls sitting at the back table. Looks like you got a new fiddler.”
“We do. You gonna dance with me Cookie?” Cindy, one of the girls asked and got up and gave him a hug.”
“You lookin’ for me cowboy?” Myrtle asked, slipping up behind Cookie.
“I reckon so. How you doin’ Myrtle?” he said, and handed her his little box.
“Well how pretty,” she said, holding up the ear rings. “You look like you need a bath.”
Cookie was happy to see that Myrtle was pleased with his gift. “I’m lookin’ for a hot bath, a steak, and a cold beer,” Cookie replied with a grin, “But I’ll take anything I can get.”
Myrtle smiled at him.
“And your laundry of course,” Fang Hua said.
“Yep, and my laundry.”

The laundry and bath was just off the bar on the bottom floor. The tubs used to soak the bedding were also used as bath tubs for anyone who wanted or needed one. The whores frequently sent prospective clients for a good scrubbing before they were allowed upstairs. The water was pumped up from outside through a wood fired boiler, and up into the laundry room and also the bedrooms if needed. The water was still hot in the boiler for a bath. Cookie looked forward to his baths at the Opera House. There was nothing compared to getting a hot bath in a good whore house as far as Cookie was concerned. Myrtle or one of the girls would scrub his back with a long handled brush, and keep the hot water coming.
Myrtle was there to take his clothes and had some of Henry’s old clothes for Cookie while his were washed. Cookie didn’t mind looking like a farmer for a few hours.
“I ordered your steak, medium rare,” Myrtle said. She stuck a cigar in his mouth, and lit it for him. “Lean forward and I’ll scrub your back.”
Cookie leaned forward as directed. “Ewwwww, Awwwww, Oh God. Up a little. Oh, right there,” he said as she scrubbed him down.
“Raise your arms,” Myrtle ordered.
Cookie blew smoke rings while Myrtle scrubbed his arm pits.
Myrtle was amused by Cookie. He always had the dirtiest underwear and the hardest pecker after a month out on the range. She reckoned she could take care of both. Cookie wasn’t needy like most men. Cookie didn’t assume anything, and was appreciative of even her slightest affections if she decided to give them. If not, he wouldn’t get offended, but go on about his business. At this point in her life she didn’t need a man, she just liked to rent one every once in a while.
Cookie lay back in the tub and puffed on his cigar, after his scrubbing. He listened to the Texas style fiddling while he soaked his old bones in the hot soapy water. It didn’t get much better than this, he thought.
After the bath, he dressed and went out into the saloon. His steak was waiting for him, and afterwards he danced a few dances with the girls. The girls rubbed their bosoms up against him seductively, as was their practice. They grinned at him un-ashamedly, and seemed to delight in their wicked ways. The Baptists were right, he thought, dancing was just humping standing up.
It wasn’t long before he felt his eyes trying to shut on him, and he stumbled a little trying to dance.
“Cookie, why don’t you go on up to my room and sleep,” Myrtle said, “Before you fall down, my God.”
“I appreciate it Myrtle. That bath about did me in,” he replied.
“Girls,” he said and raised his hat.
“Nighty-night Cookie,” they replied, as he headed towards the stairs.
“And give your hat to Fang Hua,” Myrtle ordered, “That has got to be the dirtiest hat in Logan County, My God.”
When Cookie was out on the range, even the smallest sound, or restless cow would wake him. But in the dull roar of a lively saloon, Cookie could sleep like the dead. Late that night, Myrtle slipped into bed with him and woke him. He never heard her come in the room, or undress. He never heard her slip underneath the covers. She was warm and naked, and they made love silently. It was sweet and slow, and they both fell asleep satisfied and happy. Cookie couldn’t remember a better end to a perfect day.

“What the hell is that noise?” Cookie asked. He sat at a table in the saloon and cocked his head towards the sound. It was silent and the acoustics were such that he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It was after noon already. Cookie had slept well. He sipped his coffee and looked at Fang Hua.
“Snoring,” she said.
“Cookie looked around. There was no one there except the dog.
“It is Melvin, upstairs,” I think.
“Who is Melvin?”
“Melvin, the fiddle player. He is snoring upstairs in Cindy’s room.” He spent his fiddle wages on Cindy, but passed out. We couldn’t move him, so Cindy kicked him out on the floor.”
“He wanted me, but I told him he take bath first, he too stinky.”
“Ummm,” Cookie sipped his coffee, and smiled.
“Sounds like you had fun last night. Sorry I missed it.”
“No fun, just work,” Fang said. “I make money now, later I have fun.”
There was some banging upstairs, and Cookie heard Myrtle talking loudly.
“Wake up Melvin, get up off my floor. Can’t nobody get any sleep with all that snoring. Cindy, get your ass out of bed and help me.”
Melvin came down the stairs, sliding down the wall, holding his fiddle. Myrtle and Cindy helped him navigate down the stairs. Melvin shakily took a seat.
“My God,” he said, and put his fiddle on the table.
“Better get Melvin here some coffee,” Cookie observed, “He looks a little green.”
Fang’s two uncles, Fu and Chen came out from the laundry. They sat down at the table and started talking to her in Chinese.
Cookie was enjoying watching Melvin, who was visibly suffering with the loud jabbering of the two Chinese laundrymen. He was getting ready to grab his fiddle if he puked on the table.
“Your clothes are almost dry Cookie,” Fang said.
“Melvin, you need a bath,” Myrtle said, “I won’t abide a smelly fiddle player.”
“My God,” Melvin said, holding his head in pain.
“Fang, tell your uncles to pump up some hot water for Melvin’s bath. Cindy, help him with his bath.”
Cindy led Melvin back to the laundry room.
Fang spoke in Chinese to her uncles, and Fu got up and noisily yelled down orders to one of the nephews outside. Hot water started to fill the tub.
Fang got up and went in the back and brought back a tea pot, and some cups. “Tea anyone?” she asked cheerfully.

Mrs. Daisy Kemper, Carrie Nation, and the Baptist Womens Leadership Committee were pulling up to the front of the Orlando Opera House. It had been a long ride from Mulhall, and the wind had torn the wide brim of Daisy’s hat and ruined the ornamental flowers. The rough road and incessant wind had wreaked havoc on the women’s hair and hats, and shook their confidence a little. The Baptist women were careful about their appearance and posture especially in public. They spent a few moments adjusting their head-ware. Only Carrie Nation, who did not wear a hat, and whose hair was tied in a tight bun, looked unruffled and resolute. Carrie stepped grimly onto the porch of the Opera House and took a deep breath. The work of the Lord was never done.
Their trip to Orlando with Carrie Nation had been planned for some time. But with the weather, and their conflicting schedules, Saturday Morning was the only day they could all get together. Daisy Kemper hoped that there would be enough people at the Orlando Opera House to make it worth while. Daisy was a little intimidated with Carrie Nation. She towered over the other women, and Daisy was a little nervous about destroying other people’s property. Carrie Nation didn’t seem to care one way or another. She was convinced that her efforts were all part of a divine plan, and she put her faith in the Lord that all her missions were meant to be.
Cookie was just getting his throat warmed up for some good conversation, asking Chen and Fu about their adventures building the railroad in Colorado, when Carrie Nation walked through the double bat wing doors.
Chow had been snoozing by the door. Normally Chow took no notice of patrons of the Opera House, but this one brought the aura of death and destruction with her. Living as a three legged dog, had endowed Chow with the ability to sense and recognize malicious intent, and danger when it neared.
Myrtle was startled when Chow got up quickly on his three legs, farted loudly, and bared his teeth and growled, his hair standing on end. She hadn’t seen that much movement out of the dog since Fang’s Uncles unsuccessfully tried to give him a bath.
Carrie carried her ax in her hands, and with deliberate speed walked into the Opera house and delivered the wrath of the Lord. “You ate no bread and drank no wine or other fermented drink. I did this so that you might know that I am the LORD your God,” she said in a loud and authoritative voice, and slammed the small ax into the table in front of Fu and Chen.
The Baptist women from Mulhall had entered the Opera House behind Carrie, but seemed a little taken aback from the violence and enthusiasm of Miss Nation. They stood in a group at the door, and were supposed to accompany Carrie’s actions with hymn singing.
Daisy had rehearsed a hymn with the women and relished the prospect of delivering it to the unwashed and insalubrious patrons of the Orlando Opera House. But the small crowd, and Carrie’s immediate violence surprised her. This was not what Daisy had envisioned.
The tea pot and the tea cups flew into the air and crashed down on the floor. Cookie grabbed Melvin’s fiddle. Fu and Chen screamed and fell backwards in their chairs.
Cookie scooted back and grinned still holding his coffee cup. Normally loquacious in times like these, he struggled for words. “God Damn, Myrtle, did you I-rate the Baptists?” he finally said.
“Wine is a mocker and beer a brawler; whoever is led astray by them is not wise,” Carrie said.

Carrie then took her ax and raised it above the carved oak bar that Myrtle had shipped in from Missouri, and slammed it down into the wood.

“That’ll be enough of that,” Myrtle said, and came from behind the bar with a shotgun. She fired off a barrel into the front wall of the saloon.

The noise was deafening, and for a moment everyone stood still. Rock salt sprinkled down and smoke filled the saloon.

Fu and Chen got up from the floor and ran towards the door of the laundry room.

Chow, drooling and barking, lunged at the Baptist women.

The Baptist women screamed, and followed Fu and Chen into the laundry, Chow limped after them farting and snarling.

“Jesus Christ, how many whores you got here?” Melvin said loudly, standing in the bath tub naked, upset by the noise and sudden interruption of his bath. Cindy was also naked and pouring hot water over his head. She looked completely confused.

Cookie laughed at the sight through the open door, and took another sip of his coffee. Fu and Chen never paused, but cursing in Chinese, ran past Melvin and Cindy and jumped through the open window.

The Baptist women screamed upon the sight of the naked man and woman standing in front of them. Melvin had never quite had a day start this badly. He sat down in the tub of water. He felt profoundly discouraged. He felt his life had reached a new low. He had been woken abruptly this morning, and now during his bath, screamed at by a whole passel of whores. It was just too much. “I don’t want to work here anymore,” he announced, “I’m goin’ back to San Antonio. Where’s my hat?”

Myrtle had the shotgun leveled at Carrie Nation. “You best get your ugly ass out of my saloon,” she said, “You leave your ax and walk out now.”

At this point Carrie, having shocked the audience, had a little sermon prepared in which she would win over the captive audience and threaten those who would not listen with the wrath of the Lord. At least, that was how it usually worked.

The shotgun blast threw off her timing.

“I am the instrument of the Lord,” she started.

Fang, cursing in Chinese, and holding a steak knife, walked up to Carrie Nation and grabbed her arm, and forced her towards the door. Carrie had never been cursed at in Chinese, nor approached by a Chinese whore with a steak knife. She was unprepared for it. She struggled at first, but Fang, despite her size, was much stronger than she was. Chow growled at her as she backed through the front door.

Recognizing a thorough defeat, Daisy led the Baptist women back through the saloon, with as much dignity as she could muster. Chow, still growling, limped after them menacingly. Myrtle followed them with the shotgun.

“Glad you could drop by ladies. I’m sorry we just don’t have any openings at this time. Be sure to check back from time to time, you never know,” Cookie said, and followed them out onto the boardwalk.

“That was one butt-ugly woman,” Myrtle said.

“I think she is a man,” Fang replied.

Myrtle and Fang stood at the door and laughed as the Baptist women stumbled into their motor-car and hurriedly backed out into the dusty street. Daisy drove rapidly out of town.

“Come back soon.” Cookie laughed, and waved goodbye.

Cookie turned and looked at Myrtle. “Damn Myrtle, this is the best morning I’ve had in years.”