The broken down old cowboy took care of his broken down old horse before he took care of anything else. She was rubbed down and nose-bagged and watered in the draw before the ancient feller took care of his own needs: starting a little fire further up the swale where the grass was drier, with what few twigs and branches he could find nearby and starting a supper which consisted solely of a cup of roughly brewed coffee.

Habits of a lifetime, even as he rolled out his blanket, he kept on his six-shooter ready with five bullets in its chamber, cowboy style: not because he expected to be in a gunfight with another man, but because he might need it to frighten a stampeding herd of cattle into a safer direction. But for old Muley there was no herd tonight. He was through, and he knew it. He was too old to cut the mustard any more.

He sang a little song to himself, 3/4, a melancholy strain it sounded in his cracked tired voice:

"Evenin' mister. Saw yer fire, can I come on in?" just to play it safe, he held up both hands. He did have a holstered revolver but the odds of him drawing it and hitting a target from horseback was ..........let's face it....nil.

"Sure!" nodded Muley "Got some coffee on the boil. Make yerself at home." the seated man called in a jovial tone. If he was dangerous, he was sure doing a good job of hiding it. He watched the young man's actions carefully, noting with approval how the shaver took care of his horse before he took care of himself. While he waited, Dickins rolled himself a cigarette and lit it on his now dancing fire. 

When the boy came closer, Muley touched his forefinger to his hat brim in greeting and asked, with studied irony in his form of address "So... where you headed, old timer?"

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"Beef jerky...if you want a few sticks," he explained.

"Say, don't mind if I do!" answered the old man cheerily, being careful to only take one. "This'll last me all night, what with my lack o' teeth."

Cade had to smile then, "Old timer? Not sure what that makes you then?"

Dickins laughed a wheezy laugh. "Well, I ain't as young as I used to be, I'll admit that much. Name's Dickins, Dick Dickins, but most folks call me 'Muley' on account of... well, maybe that yarn's fer another time. Wouldn't want you thinkin' badly of me on our first acquaintance, he he he." he chuckled softly to himself. "Where you headed anyway, Old Timer?"

"I'm lookin' for the Rockin' P ranch. I heard in the nearest town they are hiring there as it's a new place. Figure I'll throw my hat into the ring."

"Yeah's good chance ol' Pikey's hirin'." Muley nodded encouragingly while he chewed on the jerky.

"You from around here?" he had his own question. Maybe he was in luck and this fella worked for that ranch.

"No Sir.... ain't really from anywhere really. Always been goin' somewhere, more're coming from anyplace in particular. Ramblin' sort of a feller..." until now, he ruminated sadly. Like Old Paint in the song, his feet was all tired and his back was all sore. "I'm headin' the same place you are. Just wanted to drop in on the Boss there, Barney Pike, an' wish him well in his new ranch, y'know? Thought I'd make camp fer the night here and arrive fer breakfast: that's the best time to arrive any place, don't you think, Old Timer?" he asked. 

He looked the young man over, darned if the feller had even started shaving yet. 

"So, everybody call you 'Old Timer', or you got a real name, too?"

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"Well, nobody calls me Old Timer but sure I got a real name. I didn't pick it though, that was my folks doin," he declared.

Muley nodded. "Well, reckon if we got to chose our own names when we was babies, we'd all be called Ga Ga!" philosophised the ancient cowboy. "Ga Ga Dickins... actually, that don't sound so bad! He he he. So, what name d'your folks saddle you with?"

"Cade. Cade Brodie."

The old timer (the real old timer) reached over to shake. "Mighty proud to meet ya, Cade Brodie. So, you from round these parts?"

"Not from around here at all."

Dickins nodded that slow thoughtful nod again.

"Then you're an unknown quantity to ol' Pikey. That's good. Don't know nuthin' bad about you, and no need to tell him, neither: and all the good stuff about yourself you can demonstrate when we ride in together in the mornin'"

Old Muley seemed to have decided that Mr Cade Brodie was spending the night here. 

"What's your best skill, there, Mister Brodie? You a lariat man? Handy with a de-horn saw? Top hand with a brand? Barney Pike I know's pretty much an expert in all aspects of cowography, but maybe apt, nowadays, to forget the day I first met him, when he was so green he could hardly identify a steer, let alone rope one! By which I mean, he's hard to impress: we need to dazzle the feller with your finer points."

It was nice of Muley to want to help the lad - for so it seemed - but this was hardly encouraging intelligence. 

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Muley certainly had good sense of timing - or a good nose for breakfast, for they rode up to the Rocking P at just the right time.

"Y'hear that?" he asked, turning in his saddle and jerking a thumb toward the sound of a triangle being clanged, summoning the regular hands from the bunkhouse "Not a moment to soon or a second too late" he informed Cade happily. "If nuthin' else, we should get fed, unless Barney Pike's turned off mean fer some reason: hmmmm... heard he got himself married again, that'll sometimes do it!" pronounced the antiquated student of human nature. 

"Suuuuure. You know, Brodie, many a nice feller I've known, soon as a woman gets her claws in him, she nags and pesters and so aggravates him, he just sort o'... turns off mean." the old codger nodded.

Well here they were. Off their horses the two men got and tied 'em up at the fence in front of the ranch house. They headed t'ward the door, but that door creaked open and out came a figure, even before Cade and Muley could get close enough to knock.

@[Flip]  

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