Strum Again? Book Three of the Songkiller Saga by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough Read Free Book Online

drunk
around noon mortal-time after a night of gaming, drinking, and
turning tricks, which was her favorite way of relaxing, and gave
them a garbled version of her activities and handed over the money
she'd made from prostitution to the Chairdevil.
    "What do I want with this?" he asked.
    "Aw, c'mon, boss, keep it. It's just not
traditional for me to keep it all," she'd said, and told them a
long-drawn-out version of how she had picked up and lost Gussie.
After that they called the meeting to decide what to do.
    The Chairdevil didn't exactly take the whole
thing seriously anyway, since he had his preparations in place in
Texas already to meet the weary travelers as they attempted the
border crossing. Even desultory investigation turned up Gussie
Turner's connection with the minivan, and the Chairdevil put out an
all-points on her, until her van was finally spotted outside of
Albuquerque.
     
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    The man who had once been Willie MacKai's
boss looked over the latest applicant for the remaining position as
ranch hand. "This is a very impressive résumé, son," he said,
slapping the folder down on the desk beside his kangaroo-skin
booted heels. "Yes, sir, very impressive. B.A. in English, M.A. in
creative writing and a minor in folklore from UT, and M.B.A. from
Baylor. Manager of a small-press publishin' house in Houston.
Mighty impressive if I was lookin' for a schoolteacher. Lord, son,
whatever made you think of applyin' for a job as a ranch hand?"
    "Well, sir, as you can see by my
résumé," Spencer Guttenberg indicated the folio on the desk with a
soft and well-cared-for hand sullied only by dishwashing jobs to
help pay for extracurricular activities while he'd been doing all
that schooling, "I am already qualified and am, in fact, a poet.
I'm a member of PEN and have had several works published in Harper's and The New Yorker as well as the small presses
before I acquired my M.B.A.—"
    "Is that a fact?"
    "Yes, sir, but you see, when I take stock of
my life, I realize that writing poetry is only half of what I wish
to do. Actually, I was inspired in college by the works of J. Frank
Dobie, Curley Fletcher, and S. Omar Barker. You see, sir,
it's—uh—actually my ambition to be a cowboy poet, and so far I've
only had the time to do the latter half. So I thought I would like
to apply for a job—oh, not as a foreman or anything, just as an
apprentice ranch hand, you might say—and then I would learn the
cowboy side of things."
    "You don't say?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "A cowboy poet?"
    "That's right, sir."
    "Well, now, son, I know all about J. Frank
Dobie. Used to have a hand who was quite an authority on him,
though this fella was more in the line of a guitar player and
singer than he was a poet—still, he knew a lot about it. I never
heard of them other fellas though."
    "Haven't you heard the song taken from the
Curley Fletcher poem, 'The Strawberry Roan'?" Guttenberg asked.
    "Oh, that song. I ain't heard that in years. Do you
know it?"
    "A little," Guttenberg said, adjusting his
spectacles. "I forgot it for a while, and then I found it in a
collection of poems."
    "You'll have a lot to learn if I give you
this job, son. Cowboyin' is different than schoolboyin'."
    "I know that, sir," Guttenberg said with the
beginning of a gleam in his eye. "And I will endeavor to remember
Fletcher's immortal words in order to maintain proper perspective
and humility. 'I know there are ponies that I cannot ride. /
There's some of them left, / They haven't all died. / But I'll bet
all my money the man ain't alive / That'll stay with old Strawberry
when he makes his high dive.' "
    He recited the last in as deep a Texas drawl
as the boss and grinned at him.
    The boss threw his hat at him and said,
"Okay. I don't know who told you about the likin' I've took to
singin' cowboys and cowboy poets since Willie MacKai took off, but
you go take your bedroll and guitar out to the bunkhouse with the
rest of 'em, and Dally Morales will take you on the