Categories > Books > Outsiders
Buckshot
0 ReviewsBuck Merril needs some easy cash. [ONE-SHOT]
Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns Buck Merril and any characters from her books I may mention.
XXXX
Buck looked up at the thunderheads forming in the distance, hoping to hell the rain would hold off until he got to Arlington. The brakes on the ’47 Chevy pickup weren’t that great when it was dry, and he wasn’t aching to test them out in the rain, especially not with the load he was hauling.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the horse trailer bobbing along behind him. It had been a hellish time getting Buckshot in that thing. A more ornery horse he’d never seen in all his days of raising Quarter horses, but maybe that’s why he’d been such a winner on the track.
Buck downshifted as he headed for the exit and balanced the wheel with his knees while he searched for the piece of paper with the directions on it. The truck gave a shudder as he slowed and Buck shuddered himself. This old bucket of bolts needed a complete overhaul, and Buck was scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came to cash.
He never should’ve agreed to buy his cousin’s horse, but at least he’d already paid for it. Truth be told, he was tempted to get that money back, but he’d bought Bella for a song. Hell, Abilene was way out of his way, even from Arlington. He should probably thank his lucky stars he wouldn’t have to sit around and make small talk with his uncle, a man that looked too much like Buck’s own father for him to ever feel comfortable around the man. His uncle was a decent guy, he supposed. But he couldn’t get past those looks.
They were in even bigger financial trouble than he was and that was saying something. Shoot, Buck remembered visiting them in Abilene once or twice, and the spread they had wasn’t nothing to write home about. He’d jumped at the chance to buy the palomino, though. She was good racing stock, he had proof of that sitting in his barn back home. He’d bought the one foal, Rogel, and his cousin Ruby had kept the other. If he could have both of them racing and making money, he’d make it out of the hole.
He’d make it out a lot faster selling Buckshot, too.
Buck glanced over at all the paperwork on the seats, taking a deep breath. His palms had begun to sweat. He didn’t like dealing with these big shot cowboys, but he liked to think running that bar of his gave him a quick lesson in dealing with shady folks. He served half of Tulsa’s criminal population, and the other half he served would be their replacement someday, he reckoned. He remembered his old man saying he attracted the worst kind of people and maybe it was true.
A few minutes later Buck pulled into a ranch, marvelling at the cars in the dirt clearing. The ranch itself was a decent spread, but he hadn’t expected so many people were going to show. He knew these guys were into racing, but hell, he didn’t think he’d have to worry about competition.
Buck lit a cigar and sat in the cab of the truck for a moment. He’d had luck on his side on the drive down – not a cop in sight to run the fake plates on the truck.
He liked a cigar now and then – not a cigarette like all them boys back home smoked. No, he liked the flavour and he liked to savour it. It helped him think.
He saw a group of men untrailering a horse nearby. He wasn’t bad looking, but Buckshot had him beat, that he knew for sure. Buckshot may have been a mangy looking dun, but it helped on the track. People always underestimated him.
That might come in handy today.
Buck picked up the papers and tucked them into his jacket. He straightened the string tie, picked up his hat and opened the truck door.
It was time to make a sale.
XXXX
Buckshot had been more than happy to get out of the trailer, and wouldn’t settle down once he was in the paddock. Buck was more than sorry to have to do this – he’d be more sorry when he got home, he was sure – but he needed money. Buckshot was going to bring it in, come hell or high water.
He found Mr. Grayson outside the racing ring, watching a few horses take their turns around.
“Mr. Grayson?” he said, taking his hat in his hand. “Buck Merril.”
Grayson nodded, then gestured down to Buck’s cigar. “You got another one of them handy?”
“Yessir,” Buck said, procuring a second cigar. He lit it for the man, watching his white mustache bob as he inhaled.
“I thought you said this horse of yers was championship stock?” he asked, looking warily over at Buckshot. Buck followed his gaze. Yeah, the horse could use a brush or something.
“He is,” Buck said, taking the papers out from his jacket and handing them to Grayson. He watched with baited breath as he looked through them. It had taken Buck a hell of a lot of time to research the championship lines and come up with a suitable parentage. Grayson might find out one day, but by then he’d realize Buck Merril didn’t come from anywhere near Tupelo, Mississippi and his cash would be long gone.
Grayson nodded as he smoked and read.
“Got a lot of other horses ‘round here, lot of others wanna sell,” he said. “I want a fast one, a mighty fast one.”
“Ain’t none faster,” Buck said, plying the Mississippi accent on as thick as could.
“Well, we’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see. You got a jockey with you?”
Buck shook his head. There was no way in hell that was happening.
“S’alright, I’ll get one of the others to ride him.”
“He’s a bit ornery around strangers,” Buck said. Strangers, friends, family … everyone. That horse hated just about everything on the planet. It’d be nice to get ahold of Ruby’s horse and have half a chance of riding it himself instead of just staring. Buckshot, despite being named for him, couldn’t stand Buck.
The afternoon went by slowly, with the horses being rode out. Grayson was quick to decide he didn’t like one, and soon enough it was down to Buckshot and another horse, a black Quarter horse with a powerful start.
The other man was pushing hard for the sale. Buck sat back and listened before he spoke.
“Let’s race ‘em, then,” he said. “Winner makes the sale.”
The other man turned and looked at him suspiciously. “I think I’ll make it without a race.”
“We can make it interesting, if that’s your thing,” Buck said suddenly, a great idea happening upon him. “You win, Mr. Grayson here buys your horse … and you get my truck over there, and that trailer, too.”
“Truck don’t look like much,” the man said.
“It’s worth some in parts,” Buck said. “Trailers worth more, I’ll say that.”
“Not interested.”
“Well then … “ Buck said. “Well then, maybe I’ll have to throw in my own horse.”
The man turned around again, as did Grayson.
“You ain’t serious.”
“I’m serious,” Buck said. “We race. You win, you get it all, you can sell whatever you’d like to Mr. Grayson here, and I’m on the first Greyhound back to Mississippi.”
“And if you win?” Grayson asked him.
“Same deal,” Buck said. “I get his horse and his truck and trailer.”
“Don’t have one,” the man grunted. “Midnight Bandit boards here, I live in Arlington. I just got my car.”
Buck looked over to the parking lot and just about shit himself when he saw the 1966 Thunderbird convertible.
“Well now,” he said. “I think that’d be a fair trade, wouldn’t you?”
Grayson grinned widely. “Alright then! I like a wagering man. You in, Thompson?”
The other man looked at Buck, then over at Buckshot, who was dancing away from the jockey who was trying to mount him.
“Yeah, we got a deal.”
Buck hid the smile as best he could.
XXXX
Buckshot may not have been from championship stock or even had a pedigree of any sort, but the minute the hand shake took place, Buck felt like celebrating. His only concern was the horse bucking off a jockey, but the man who mounted him took control fairly quickly. Whether it was the excitement of a race or the horse knew this was his chance to get the hell away from Buck, he looked ready to race.
One of them men fired from the sidelines and Buck watched as Midnight Bandit took an early lead. Buckshot liked to sneak up in the end, and sure enough, he was over the quarter mile line a length in front of Midnight Bandit. He heard Thompson swear and saw him throw his hat to the ground.
“Well, gentlemen, this has been a real exciting day,” Grayson said. “Real excitin’. Merril, if you still want to unload Buckshot, I’ll take ‘em off your hands.”
Buck followed Grayson to his office and they filled out the paperwork. Buck left the office with a fat roll of cash in his pocket and a smile on his face.
“Thompson!” Buck called.
The man turned around.
“Yeah, yeah. I got the pink slips here,” he said, handing over the title and registration for the Thunderbird.
“You know, I feel awful bad you ain’t got a vehicle to get home in,” Buck said sadly. “Hows about you take my truck? I’d feel an awful lot better then.”
Thompson looked over at the truck and then Buck. “Yeah, fine.”
Buck handed over his keys, glad to get rid of the rust bucket.
“Oh, the trailer stays though,” Buck said with a grin.
He smiled broadly as Thompson walked over to the truck and unhitched the trailer.
Buck spent some time hooking the trailer up to the Thunderbird – man it was a sweet car – and then got in the driver’s seat. Shit, he’d sold his most ornery horse for some cash and got a new car, all in one day.
“Merril!”
He turned in the seat to see Grayson coming towards him, and for a moment Buck panicked that Grayson had discovered Buckshot’s lack of breeding.
“What about your other horse? Midnight Bandit?” he asked, gesturing towards the black horse in the paddock.
“Oh yeah,” Buck said with a laugh. He forgot he had a new horse.
Well, his uncle better have a double horse trailer back in Abilene, since his little single was going to be full.
It took a half hour to get the black horse into the trailer and settled. Buck set out on the highway towards Abilene, the country music station cranked up high and a smile on his face. Life was good.
Until he got back to Tulsa and had to tell Dallas Winston he’d sold the horse he raced.
XXXX
Buck looked up at the thunderheads forming in the distance, hoping to hell the rain would hold off until he got to Arlington. The brakes on the ’47 Chevy pickup weren’t that great when it was dry, and he wasn’t aching to test them out in the rain, especially not with the load he was hauling.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the horse trailer bobbing along behind him. It had been a hellish time getting Buckshot in that thing. A more ornery horse he’d never seen in all his days of raising Quarter horses, but maybe that’s why he’d been such a winner on the track.
Buck downshifted as he headed for the exit and balanced the wheel with his knees while he searched for the piece of paper with the directions on it. The truck gave a shudder as he slowed and Buck shuddered himself. This old bucket of bolts needed a complete overhaul, and Buck was scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came to cash.
He never should’ve agreed to buy his cousin’s horse, but at least he’d already paid for it. Truth be told, he was tempted to get that money back, but he’d bought Bella for a song. Hell, Abilene was way out of his way, even from Arlington. He should probably thank his lucky stars he wouldn’t have to sit around and make small talk with his uncle, a man that looked too much like Buck’s own father for him to ever feel comfortable around the man. His uncle was a decent guy, he supposed. But he couldn’t get past those looks.
They were in even bigger financial trouble than he was and that was saying something. Shoot, Buck remembered visiting them in Abilene once or twice, and the spread they had wasn’t nothing to write home about. He’d jumped at the chance to buy the palomino, though. She was good racing stock, he had proof of that sitting in his barn back home. He’d bought the one foal, Rogel, and his cousin Ruby had kept the other. If he could have both of them racing and making money, he’d make it out of the hole.
He’d make it out a lot faster selling Buckshot, too.
Buck glanced over at all the paperwork on the seats, taking a deep breath. His palms had begun to sweat. He didn’t like dealing with these big shot cowboys, but he liked to think running that bar of his gave him a quick lesson in dealing with shady folks. He served half of Tulsa’s criminal population, and the other half he served would be their replacement someday, he reckoned. He remembered his old man saying he attracted the worst kind of people and maybe it was true.
A few minutes later Buck pulled into a ranch, marvelling at the cars in the dirt clearing. The ranch itself was a decent spread, but he hadn’t expected so many people were going to show. He knew these guys were into racing, but hell, he didn’t think he’d have to worry about competition.
Buck lit a cigar and sat in the cab of the truck for a moment. He’d had luck on his side on the drive down – not a cop in sight to run the fake plates on the truck.
He liked a cigar now and then – not a cigarette like all them boys back home smoked. No, he liked the flavour and he liked to savour it. It helped him think.
He saw a group of men untrailering a horse nearby. He wasn’t bad looking, but Buckshot had him beat, that he knew for sure. Buckshot may have been a mangy looking dun, but it helped on the track. People always underestimated him.
That might come in handy today.
Buck picked up the papers and tucked them into his jacket. He straightened the string tie, picked up his hat and opened the truck door.
It was time to make a sale.
XXXX
Buckshot had been more than happy to get out of the trailer, and wouldn’t settle down once he was in the paddock. Buck was more than sorry to have to do this – he’d be more sorry when he got home, he was sure – but he needed money. Buckshot was going to bring it in, come hell or high water.
He found Mr. Grayson outside the racing ring, watching a few horses take their turns around.
“Mr. Grayson?” he said, taking his hat in his hand. “Buck Merril.”
Grayson nodded, then gestured down to Buck’s cigar. “You got another one of them handy?”
“Yessir,” Buck said, procuring a second cigar. He lit it for the man, watching his white mustache bob as he inhaled.
“I thought you said this horse of yers was championship stock?” he asked, looking warily over at Buckshot. Buck followed his gaze. Yeah, the horse could use a brush or something.
“He is,” Buck said, taking the papers out from his jacket and handing them to Grayson. He watched with baited breath as he looked through them. It had taken Buck a hell of a lot of time to research the championship lines and come up with a suitable parentage. Grayson might find out one day, but by then he’d realize Buck Merril didn’t come from anywhere near Tupelo, Mississippi and his cash would be long gone.
Grayson nodded as he smoked and read.
“Got a lot of other horses ‘round here, lot of others wanna sell,” he said. “I want a fast one, a mighty fast one.”
“Ain’t none faster,” Buck said, plying the Mississippi accent on as thick as could.
“Well, we’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see. You got a jockey with you?”
Buck shook his head. There was no way in hell that was happening.
“S’alright, I’ll get one of the others to ride him.”
“He’s a bit ornery around strangers,” Buck said. Strangers, friends, family … everyone. That horse hated just about everything on the planet. It’d be nice to get ahold of Ruby’s horse and have half a chance of riding it himself instead of just staring. Buckshot, despite being named for him, couldn’t stand Buck.
The afternoon went by slowly, with the horses being rode out. Grayson was quick to decide he didn’t like one, and soon enough it was down to Buckshot and another horse, a black Quarter horse with a powerful start.
The other man was pushing hard for the sale. Buck sat back and listened before he spoke.
“Let’s race ‘em, then,” he said. “Winner makes the sale.”
The other man turned and looked at him suspiciously. “I think I’ll make it without a race.”
“We can make it interesting, if that’s your thing,” Buck said suddenly, a great idea happening upon him. “You win, Mr. Grayson here buys your horse … and you get my truck over there, and that trailer, too.”
“Truck don’t look like much,” the man said.
“It’s worth some in parts,” Buck said. “Trailers worth more, I’ll say that.”
“Not interested.”
“Well then … “ Buck said. “Well then, maybe I’ll have to throw in my own horse.”
The man turned around again, as did Grayson.
“You ain’t serious.”
“I’m serious,” Buck said. “We race. You win, you get it all, you can sell whatever you’d like to Mr. Grayson here, and I’m on the first Greyhound back to Mississippi.”
“And if you win?” Grayson asked him.
“Same deal,” Buck said. “I get his horse and his truck and trailer.”
“Don’t have one,” the man grunted. “Midnight Bandit boards here, I live in Arlington. I just got my car.”
Buck looked over to the parking lot and just about shit himself when he saw the 1966 Thunderbird convertible.
“Well now,” he said. “I think that’d be a fair trade, wouldn’t you?”
Grayson grinned widely. “Alright then! I like a wagering man. You in, Thompson?”
The other man looked at Buck, then over at Buckshot, who was dancing away from the jockey who was trying to mount him.
“Yeah, we got a deal.”
Buck hid the smile as best he could.
XXXX
Buckshot may not have been from championship stock or even had a pedigree of any sort, but the minute the hand shake took place, Buck felt like celebrating. His only concern was the horse bucking off a jockey, but the man who mounted him took control fairly quickly. Whether it was the excitement of a race or the horse knew this was his chance to get the hell away from Buck, he looked ready to race.
One of them men fired from the sidelines and Buck watched as Midnight Bandit took an early lead. Buckshot liked to sneak up in the end, and sure enough, he was over the quarter mile line a length in front of Midnight Bandit. He heard Thompson swear and saw him throw his hat to the ground.
“Well, gentlemen, this has been a real exciting day,” Grayson said. “Real excitin’. Merril, if you still want to unload Buckshot, I’ll take ‘em off your hands.”
Buck followed Grayson to his office and they filled out the paperwork. Buck left the office with a fat roll of cash in his pocket and a smile on his face.
“Thompson!” Buck called.
The man turned around.
“Yeah, yeah. I got the pink slips here,” he said, handing over the title and registration for the Thunderbird.
“You know, I feel awful bad you ain’t got a vehicle to get home in,” Buck said sadly. “Hows about you take my truck? I’d feel an awful lot better then.”
Thompson looked over at the truck and then Buck. “Yeah, fine.”
Buck handed over his keys, glad to get rid of the rust bucket.
“Oh, the trailer stays though,” Buck said with a grin.
He smiled broadly as Thompson walked over to the truck and unhitched the trailer.
Buck spent some time hooking the trailer up to the Thunderbird – man it was a sweet car – and then got in the driver’s seat. Shit, he’d sold his most ornery horse for some cash and got a new car, all in one day.
“Merril!”
He turned in the seat to see Grayson coming towards him, and for a moment Buck panicked that Grayson had discovered Buckshot’s lack of breeding.
“What about your other horse? Midnight Bandit?” he asked, gesturing towards the black horse in the paddock.
“Oh yeah,” Buck said with a laugh. He forgot he had a new horse.
Well, his uncle better have a double horse trailer back in Abilene, since his little single was going to be full.
It took a half hour to get the black horse into the trailer and settled. Buck set out on the highway towards Abilene, the country music station cranked up high and a smile on his face. Life was good.
Until he got back to Tulsa and had to tell Dallas Winston he’d sold the horse he raced.
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