The Amarillo Trail by Ralph Compton

Author:Ralph Compton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2011-02-08T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Clarence Ruggles bent to the plow. His muscles rippled in his suntanned arms. Sweat beaded up in the grimy creases of his forehead like sunstruck jewels despite the shade from the brim of his seedy straw hat. His hands gripped the plow handles and he bore down on them as the mule strained to pull him through a rock that had surfaced suddenly in the furrow.

“Gee, Pete,” Clarence said, and tugged on the reins that were draped over his shoulder like elongated leather suspenders.

He heard the screech of the iron against the rock, but the mule swerved from its path, and though the furrow was now crooked, it would surely do.

The other fields that bordered the fallow one were already green with corn, milo, and wheat. This was the last big field to plow and plant. It was the largest, more than a square mile, and had not been plowed for a year. The dirt was hardpacked and the moldboard plow was so dull he knew he would have to sharpen it before he finished the field. The mule was sweating and its hide was streaked with blood drawn by the blowflies. It was hot and there was so much field left to plow, Clarence knew he would have to unhitch the mule and turn the plow over in order to file the blade to a necessary sharpness.

He had files in the thin sleeves of his overalls. He unhitched the plow and tilted it on its side. He removed the files from his pocket and sat down, straddling the plow. He started with a rattail file and bore down on it as he raked the sharp edge of the plow. Metal began to gleam as the dirt and dull metal flaked into dusty filings. When he had exposed the entire blade, he switched to a flat file and began to hone the blade to a fine edge. His even strokes were methodical and he could feel his muscles flex and ripple in his arms. His sleeves became sodden with sweat and his hands grew slippery as if they were bathed in oil. Finally, the plow edge was sharp to the touch, and he slipped the files back in his pocket.

He left the plow as it was and walked up to the road to the barn, every muscle in his body aching, his legs rubbery, his footfalls uncertain. He had graded the road with a two-by-twelve weighted down and pulled by Pete so that it was smooth and wide. It bordered that field and the others that lay beyond.

The sun stood straight up in the sky when he slipped the traces next to a watering trough.

“Pete, you can rest while I eat my dinner. I’ll bring you back some oats.”

The mule tossed its head and its floppy ears bounced up and down like a harlequin’s tassels. Clarence tied the reins to a post next to the trough.

He walked along the edge of the field toward the barn. He could see both his house and the nearby barn, but they were small and just barely poked above the horizon.

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