Copyright James J. Doyle, Jr., a.k.a. Grandpa Jim
It was morning in the Panhandle.
Don’t know where he got the name. I guess it was the tourists. “Look, it’s a cowboy. And look at that nose.” He did have a prominent feature. “He’s the Panhandler,” they’d laughed. Slider on the horse beside him spit tobacco and wiped his mouth. “Panhandler, Panhandler Joe,” he’d said between his teeth. “Yep, fits you.” He didn’t think so, but it caught on, with the others around him, mostly cowboys. He didn’t see many other people.
His real name was Joe Canyon.
A laugh is a laugh. He didn’t mind. Still, he preferred Joe. With a friend. All he had most were cowpokes. And Slider.
* * *
It was Sunday in Canyon, Texas.
He tied his horse to the hitching post and walked up the steps to the church.
She gave him a sidelong glance across the aisle as the service started. After the message, listening through the songs. His voice is good. Another quick look. Clean shirt and jeans and boots.
The music ended and the folks moved into the aisle to the door.
She watched him walk out. Hat in hand. Stop and shake the preacher’s hand. She liked that.
Stepping into the bright West Texas morning light, she shaded her eyes to follow the young cowboy.
He walked his horse slowly away from the crowd before mounting and putting on his hat. A quiet competent manner. He turned his head and stared off into the distance. A prominent feature . . . but not unbecoming.
She wondered who he really was?
* * *
The sun was setting over Palo Duro Canyon.
On the rim, she looked down into the darkening canyon, far below at the thin stream of Prairie Dog Town Fork as it wandered off, that small start of the mighty Red River. She laughed, heard the hoofs strike stone behind her, and turned in her saddle.
“Do you come here often?” he asked as he brought his horse up beside her.
She straightened in the saddle. “When I can. My aunt lives close.” She tilted her head. “Are you here . . . often?”
“It’s on my way home. I mean back to the Beauchamp Ranch, where I live . . . and work. I stop to watch the shadows on the rocks as the sun fades. The angles and colors.” He lowered his gaze into the rugged cleft, while she studied his face. “I don’t know. There’s something about this place, when I look down from here.”
Another horse slid to a stop behind them. “Now, what are you two doing . . . on my ranch?”
The two backed their horses to face the newcomer.
“Slider, you know this section is open land.” Joe turned to the girl. “I’m sorry. This is Slider Beauchamp. I work for Slider and his dad. . . .”
“Slider Maurice Beauchamp, to be precise. Experienced cowhand excellante’ and BBQ chef extraordinaire, to be even more precise and quite humble, if I do say so myself.” He tipped his hat to the lady. “And who do I find on the rim with Panhandler?”
She turned to the cowboy beside her, “Panhandler?”
“I’m sorry. It’s a nickname. My name is Joe, Joe Canyon. . . .”
“What, you two don’t know each other? This is getting more interesting by the evening minute.”
“I’m sorry.” She glances from one cowboy to the other. “My name is Mary, Mary Amarillo. And I need to be getting back.”
“I can ride with you, Mary. . . .” Joe fumbles. “The light is fading. . . .”
She smiles. “Thank you, Joe. I know the way. It’s not far to Aunt Heddy’s place. Besides,” she winks at Slider, “we don’t want to give Slider anymore to talk about.” She turns her horse toward the trail. “Goodnight to both of you, Slider and . . . Joe.”
They watch as Mary rides into the twilight.
“I guess she knows your real name now. Ain’t that something?” Slider pulls the tobacco from his vest pocket to take a chaw.
“Slider, you know what Becky would say.”
“You would play the Becky card.” He pats the plug back home. “Just when I was ready for a good chew and spit.”
“Slider. . . .”
“Okay. Okay. Let’s get roving. See if any of those steers have wandered to close to the rim. Then head them back to the corral and us back to dinner.” The two cowboys drift away into the darkening prairie as the full moon guides their way.
* * *
The campus lights twinkle in the dry air.
“I like West Texas A&M University at night.” Becky Flambeau swings her book bag and bends toward the other walker. “All our classes are in the hot Texas day. I’m glad we could make the presentation. Panhandle evenings are best. Don’t you think so, Mary Amarillo?”
“I met a cowboy.” Mary answers.
They both stop and Becky turns to her friend. “That wasn’t what I asked, but who hasn’t met a cowboy. This is West Texas. Why that Slider is always turning up. Asking if I like BBQ. I like to cook, but all he talks about is brisket and ribs.”
“You know Slider Beauchamp?”
“He’d like me to know Slider B., but he’d have to give up the tobacco first.”
Mary turns toward the campus library, the lighted window, a seated figure, hat on the table.
“Becky, I need to check something in the library. Is that okay?”
“Sure. I want to check out the Campus Center anyway. Remember we have class at 8.”
Becky walks off and Mary turns to the library.
* * *
He’s bent over a book.
“Isn’t it late for a cowboy in the library?”
Joe lifts his head. “Mary?”
“You remember me?”
“Yes. . . . I do. . . . Sorry. . . . Studying.”
“Studying?”
“Business Law. My last class.”
“I go here. And, I haven’t seen you before.”
“Night classes only, when I can. I work on the ranch during the day.”
“You said last class?”
“Yes. I’m graduating.”
“Me, too.”
He touched his hat on the table. “What are your plans after graduation . . . Mary?”
“Law School. St. Mary’s in San Antonio.”
His eyes widened. “Me, too. Not St. Mary’s. U.T. Law in Austin.”
“You are a surprising cowboy, Joe.”
The lights flicker. May looks around at the empty room. “Time to leave. I need to be getting home.”
Joe pushes his chair back, stacks his book, puts them under one arm, and takes his hat in the other hand. “Can I walk with you, Ms. Mary Amarillo?”
“Well. Since we are in school together, at least for a while. Yes, Mr. Joe Canyon, you can walk me home. It’s not far. But, what about you?”
“Slider’s playing pool at the Campus Center. He’ll wait. I’m always late.”
* * *
Letter from Joe to Mary:
Mary,
Thanks for your letter updating me up on what’s happening at St. Mary’s Law, and your classes and everything. I agree Contracts is difficult, yours and mine. It sounds like we have the same professor, somehow transporting between schools, using a UFO or something.
Seriously, thank you for you listening to my background. Not many know that I’m an orphan. Mr. Beauchamp told me a while back. It’s easier to write about than talk about. Conversation with Slider is limited. BBQ or Becky. I hear he’s given up tobacco. Think that means more Becky. Good for him.
Off to class. I’ll add more later.
Keep the letters coming.
Joe
Letter from Mary to Joe:
Joe,
I can’t believe our second year is almost over.
They threw our exams down the stairs — as the Professors do to make grading easier. Mine landed well and I did very well. I’m sure you did, too.
Summer is coming soon. I’m clerking in El Paso, and you’re interning in Houston. Far apart. I miss our times together, back home, however short.
Oh, Becky says Slider is slicking back his hair and wearing jeans with a crease when they go to the movies. I do miss them both and you.
Think about me,
Mary
Letter from Joe to Mary:
Mary,
You are the smart one. Order of the Coif. Congratulations — many, many times over. You deserve it, and I am very proud of you. Now me, I’m just Cum Laude, but it should be enough for a job somewhere.
Big News: I have a pickup truck. Not new, but not that old. It’s a graduation present from Mr. Beauchamp. Remember, he was the one who found me in the canyon, wrapped tightly in a banket, by the stream, just below the point on the rim where we met.
Oh, I plan to be back in Canyon on the first. You said you would be home with your family. It’s a Saturday, but I can’t leave early from Austin, and it’s a long drive. I’ll make it to the ranch late, and the next day is Sunday. So, why don’t I meet you at church?
I think about you always,
Joe
* * *
It was bright, a clear morning in the Panhandle.
She stood on the steps, her light blue dress rippling in the morning breeze, a lifted hand shading her eyes to follow the approaching pickup.
He stepped out, creased jeans and new boots, and walked slowly over.
She stepped down and smiled as they reached out and took each other’s hands.
Behind them, Slider quietly opened the church door and Becky motioned everyone out.
With their eyes fixed on each other, Joe dropped to one knee and reached a hand into his pocket.
Lifting the ring out, he held it high, going from side to side so everyone could see.
“Mary Amarillo, with this ring, will you marry me?”
Freeing a hand to wipe a tear, Mary took a deep breath and. . . .
Seconds passed. It seemed like hours for Joe.
Where would he go if . . . she said no?
It was too far to roll under the truck.
And be lost from sight.
Forever.
Please.
Finally, Mary bent down, touched his face.
“Yes, Joe,” she said softly. “Yes, Joe Canyon, I will marry you.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger, stood, and was pulled tightly to her, for a long kiss, in front of everyone.
The crowd exploded in cheers and clapping as Becky poked Slider in the ribs and he carefully placed one arm around her waist, and she didn’t slap him.
* * *
It was early on the streets of downtown Canyon.
“This isn’t the way to the Court House, where you work, Mr. Randall County Attorney.”
“I told you I had a surprise. Don’t worry, Little Mary will be fine. She’s with your mother.”
“You’re right. Besides, it’s time for me to get out and . . . head back to work . . . at the firm. The partners have been calling.”
“You’re the best, and they know it, but maybe it’s time for something else.”
“Something else?” She stopped and studied his face.
“Yes, something like this.” He pointed up at the sign hanging over the building’s front door.
AMARILLO & CANYON, ATTORNEYS AT LAW
“But the firm. . . .”
“Will understand,” he finished for her. “Good attorneys attract business for other good attorneys. You’re the best land attorney in West Texas and I’m the best litigator. It’s a natural fit, and a win-win all around.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“Let me help you. Turn around.” He lightly touched her shoulders to move her about to look down the street at a newly painted storefront and a happily swinging sign.
BECKY & SLIDER’S COUNTRY CULINARY EMPORIUM: THE BEST FLAMING BBQ SKEWERS IN TEXAS AND THE WORLD – YOU BETCHA’ YA’ BOOTS
“Now, if they can do it, don’t we have an obligation to follow? Perhaps with less extravagant language, but in a manner more to our suiting.”
Mary laughed and pulled him close. “Yes, Joe Canyon, we do,” and she kissed him right there, on the open street, in front of everyone going to work, on the streets of Canyon, Texas.
* * *
Mary died 20 years later. Cancer. She lived to see Little Mary follow in her mother’s footsteps — she’s a second-year student at St. Mary’s Law. Young Joe Jr. is planning to study architecture, when he graduates from high school. His mother won’t be there.
She talked to her Joe. Told him what to do. He agreed. He will. But not too soon. Becky and Slider will take care of him. He has plenty of friends, some of them cowpokes.
There’s one thing, though, in the evening near sunset, he’ll ride out alone, to that point over Palo Duro Canyon, where Mr. Beauchamp found him in the blanket below, where they first met, and now where he will lean forward in the saddle, and miss her so much, so very much, smile a sad remembering smile at the lengthening shadows stretching over the scrub and sage and colored sands and across the smooth running stream, in the quiet before night and true moonlight, and believe the Canyon knows more than it tells, then rein about, and feel her riding beside him, on the trail home, and laugh, remembering she never once mentioned his nose or called him Panhandler.