And again no one moved. Then, about two seconds later, I stood up and said, "Let's all rise and go to our cla.s.ses," and every student obeyed.

They just needed a leader, and I was there at the right time. They might not have followed me ten minutes earlier. And another thing they were waiting for was one of their own to lead them, so they would not have to yield to authority.

CHAPTER 13

MY TRAVELS TO THE GULF, MCCAMEY AND DENVER

As I look back I can easily see that all the ventures our family had been caught up in through the years added up to a lot of worry for parents with a bunch of kids to feed, shelter and educate. But to me they were stepping stones to a better future. Partly because of those experiences, I was building a confidence in myself which culminated in my being unafraid to tackle most anything-either with or without money, perhaps foolhardy at times, but nevertheless, still unafraid.

By this time I had done quite a bit of running around, but most all of it was close to home. I had never seen a desert, a big river, big mountains, nor an ocean. There were other things I wanted to see too, but at age nineteen I suddenly had this overwhelming desire to see an ocean,-not just any ocean, but rather one particular ocean, the Gulf of Mexico. Now, I knew the Gulf was not a real ocean, but I reasoned that it was big enough to please me. It must look a lot like an ocean. And since I happened to know that there was a good-looking little girl spending her vacation swimming in the Gulf that summer, I made up my mind right away that the Gulf was indeed the ocean I wanted to see.

I had this Model T-whoa, let's stop right here long enough to let the younger generations know that the Ford Model T was never called Model T until the Model A came along in 1928. Up until that time they were just plain Fords, all practically alike except in 1924 they began coming with balloon tires. And in those days all cars, regardless of brand name and year of manufacture, were black.

Anyway, getting on with my story, I had this Ford touring car and I wanted to see the ocean. It was only 350 miles to the Gulf, and it would take about four gallons of gas for each 100 miles- and gas was 9 cents a gallon-add two quarts of oil at 10 cents a quart-total one way only $1.50. My goodness, I could drive down there and back and eat a week on five dollars. No problem, I had $11 in my pocket. With that kind of money I could rent a cabin and have money left over for a few movie tickets at 15 cents each.

So, a day-and-a-half later I was standing there on the beach looking at that big body of water with that little body of a girl swimming in it. We had a wonderful time for a week, and my financial estimate turned out to be almost correct. To get back to Hamlin, I only needed $1 more than I had. And that was on account of the girl's little brother. I hadn't figured there would be three of us so much of the time. But I soon learned that the third party could add up to an extra dollar in just a few days, as well as taking away a lot of the pleasure I had planned.

And so, that was another time I started home on just a little money. I knew that the girl or her father would have been glad to lend me a dollar. But I wasn't about to let them know I was that near broke. I was a big boy, an independent man, out on my own. At least that's the way I wanted it to look to them. But to me it looked altogether different.

I had $1.20 in my pocket when I headed out for Hamlin. But I wasn't afraid; there was no anxiety. I had been in tight spots before. There was not even any hurry. I stopped along the road to pick up hitch-hikers. One fellow I picked up was heading for a ranch somewhere near Mason. He rode with me a long way. His home was about six miles off the highway in wild country, and it was a hot day. I told him my money situation and he told me how he hated the thought of having to walk six miles on a hot day carrying a suitcase. I offered to drive him home for a dollar. It was a deal. I drove him right up to his house, he paid me the dollar, and I sailed right on into Hamlin without any trouble.

I think a lot of my self-confidence came from reading the Bible and one other little book. After we moved to Hamlin, someone gave me a set of little leather-backed books. They were so small four of them would fit in my shirt pocket, maybe even five or six. One was t.i.tled "As A Man Thinketh." It was my favorite. I read it through many times and kept it long after the others had disappeared one by one. It was rich food for thought and it strengthened my trust in me and in my fellow man. Its teachings helped me over many a rough spot. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, whatever the circ.u.mstances, its philosophy made me unafraid. And being unafraid, I would tackle most anything.

For instance, there was a kid in Hamlin who had an old motorcycle he couldn't get to run. For some reason he thought I might be able to make it run, so he brought it to me to piddle with. It didn't take long for me to get the motor running. But I should have looked it over better before I tried to ride it. It proved to be quite a wreck and it had certain parts which were ready to come apart from other parts which were supposed to stay connected together.

After I started the machine, I took it out on main street and headed toward down-town Hamlin. It was going pretty good when I discovered the throttle wire had broken and the throttle insisted on remaining wide open. I tried to cut off the gasoline at the carburetor, but it was too hot to handle. By this time I was a lot closer to town than I meant to be and was traveling a lot faster than I wanted to be. I couldn't switch the thing off because it had no switch. It usually died when I closed the throttle, but this time I couldn't close the throttle.

What should I do? I could jump off and let the thing go. But then there was a good chance the machine would suffer great damage. I was certain I would suffer, and I didn't like the idea of looking at my own blood. Nor would I enjoy hurting here and there all over my body.

Quickly I thought about what made the thing go, gasoline and spark. The gasoline was beyond my control. The spark-let's see- -can't get to the spark plug wires, but I can get to the magneto. Two clips held the back end of the magneto on. Did I dare try to steer the thing with one hand at the speed I was going, while I leaned over and tried to take the mag apart with my other hand? Why not try it? If I fall, so what? I was going to fall anyway. And I just might succeed. It was my only hope, I had to succeed. So I did it. I took the mag apart and it stopped. And that's the way this motorcycle story ended, just one city block short of down-town Hamlin.

A few years later I bought myself a good used motorcycle. It was an Indian Scout and it proved to be the best little machine I could ever hope to own. It could do everything but cook. We kids had a lot of fun riding it all over Hamlin. On the paved street I had as many as six of us on it at once, one on the handle bars, two on the gas tank, me on the seat and two on behind. Sure I was in the driver's seat; it was mine wasn't it?

I well remember one time I got on the little machine and went down through San Angelo and on out to McCamey. The trucking business was slow at that time and I wasn't especially needed at home.

It began to rain as I rode west out of San Angelo. And as I went farther west I ran onto a lot of new road construction. The road became muddy and boggy beyond description, and the rain kept falling. Of course you know you can't ride a motorcycle on slick, muddy roads, nor in water on muddy roads. But you can walk along beside it and hold it up and guide it while the motor pulls it along. That is, you can until the water gets too deep, like where it flows across the road in cement dips. That's what I was doing until I came to one such place and I knew the water was far too deep to try to cross. It was a real river of water. I doubt that an army tank could have made it across. Anyway, cars and trucks couldn't have crossed it. Come to think of it, there were no cars nor trucks on the road. I hadn't seen one during the last two or three hours. In fact, I think there was only one person on that sloppy road between San Angelo and McCamey-and he was a crazy kid on a motorcycle.

Some people might wonder why the boy didn't turn around and go back. But I knew the kid personally, and I knew he wasn't in the habit of starting something and then turning back. He never even gave it a thought that he should go back. He was headed west, and turning back wouldn't get him out west.

There was a railroad beside the highway. If I could get my cycle up on the railroad, I could cross the creek on the railroad bridge. But there was a ditch full of rushing water between me and the railroad. The banks of the ditch were steep, especially on the side next to the railroad. The water in the ditch was at least waist deep and the ditch was twice that deep. So now what do I do? There was just one thing to do, build a bridge across the ditch.

I started walking along the railroad and finally found one loose crosstie. I put it on my shoulder, carried it and placed it across the ditch. It was just long enough. But I knew I couldn't very well balance a motorcycle on one slick crosstie without another tie for me to walk on beside the machine . Again I looked all up and down the railroad but there wasn't another tie nor a piece of lumber-not even a fence post. I finally thought to myself, "So what? Let's not just stand here in the rain doing nothing. Let's try it." We did. That is, we tried it. We didn't make it, but we got half way across before I slipped and fell.

Even before I hit the water, I glanced back and saw the motorcycle leaning toward me and I thought to myself, "Boy, you better hit that water on the run or that thing is going to be right down on top of you." So I dived down stream. The rushing water helped carry me from beneath the falling motorcycle.

I struggled to my feet against the angry current, blew muddy water out of my mouth, brushed it out of my eyes and witnessed the worst setback I had suffered in my life.

The bridge was okay, but the idea that I could balance me and a motorcycle on one narrow crosstie was a complete failure. We didn't make it across the bridge and the cycle didn't stay up there on it. But I knew where my little Scout was hiding. I could see one handle bar sticking up out of the water.

There was probably no other person within forty miles, but as I stood there in that muddy water, I seemed to hear Someone shout to me, "All right Boy, don't just stand there! Get busy and get that thing out of there before it gets full of muddy water." I fought my way upstream, stumbling over the cycle on my way to the visible handle bar. I got two hands full of motorcycle and tried to stand it up on its wheels, but it wasn't easy. And even when I got it up, it was still mostly under water.

The banks of the ditch were steep and slick. It was hard for me to stand, and the swift current was not friendly. I slipped and fell a time or two. It seemed hopeless and the little Scout was so heavy. And then I seemed to hear that inner voice again, "Heave, Boy, heave! No, stupid, not back on the highway-up on the railroad! First one end, now the other end. Tumble it over, you can't mess it up any more than it is already. Okay, so you did it. Now wash your nasty self up and get out of that muddy water."

Now I was faced with still another problem, would the machine ever run again? I doubted it, not for days anyway. But it was a long way to anywhere from this place. If the motor wouldn't run, I would really be in trouble. It would be too hard to push in the mud. I had nothing to eat, there was not a house in sight, and there was certainly no place to spread a blanket to sleep through the night. So I had to try something, but what? While I was trying to find the answer to that question, I got straddle of the little Scout to sit and rest and think. Then, mostly through force of habit, and with no faith nor hope whatsoever, I gave the starter a kick. It didn't start but it sounded like it had always sounded, not bad, not full of muddy water. I figured even if it wouldn't start, another kick wouldn't harm it. So I gave it a second try. It still didn't start.

Then I remembered that there had been times under normal circ.u.mstances when it required four or five kicks to start the motor. So with that in mind, the faith and hope which I had rejected a short time before, were feebly creeping back into my mind. And with that change in my att.i.tude, I kicked the starting pedal the third time. Well, you can't imagine my surprise when it started and ran like a new cycle on that third try. I was thrilled and overjoyed. I had always had faith in myself, but until now I had never had that much faith in motors. After that, I felt there was no place I couldn't go with a machine like that working for me.

I crossed the big water on the railroad bridge and then got back on the muddy highway. The next time I came to a dip with a lot of water in it, I walked right through with that little Scout puffing along beside me. When water came up over the exhaust pipe, it kept puffing right along. Then water got up over the magneto, then over the spark plugs, and the motor never missed a shot. However, I watched closely to see that water didn't get into the carburetor suction. Everything else was under water and the motor still ran perfectly. She was a real little Scout. If she could have cooked, I would have married her.

But years later when I finally did get married, I could easily see that I would have gotten very little comfort from snuggling up to a wet motorcycle on a cold winter night.

The road and the rain were the same all the way to McCamey. There was an oil boom out there. Jobs were plentiful. Crime and violence were apt to show up at any time. They told me a man was shot down in the street the day before I got there. I couldn't prove it if I had wanted to. They had already carried him away, and I didn't look for the man who shot him.

I got a job with the Sun Oil Company and worked two days. The hottest sun that ever hovered over a desert came out to greet us early in the morning and remained all day. By midafternoon it was unbearable. In those two days I decided that cutting grease- wood to clear a right-of-way for a pipe line was not for me. I would much rather do carpenter work. The wage for carpenters was nine dollars a day; helpers got six dollars. I was not a carpenter, so I thought it best to tell the truth. I signed on as a helper.

They were just about to start building a bunk house when I went to work. The carpenters came to me with a problem none of them could solve. They knew how long to build the house and they knew how many windows to put in it and they knew how wide each window was, but they couldn't figure out how much s.p.a.ce to leave between the windows. They asked me if I was good at math and could I figure it out for them. I was good, I could figure it out for them, I did figure it out for them, then we went to work on the house.

After working at that job a few days, I decided that carpentering in McCamey was not to be my vocation either. I was a home-loving boy and McCamey was not my home. A dollar a day in Hamlin appealed to me more than six dollars a day in McCamey. In the first place I didn't really want to work. I mostly wanted to run around a little, see a little of the outside world and see how other people had to work.

By this time I was running low on money and payday was a week away. I had to decide quickly whether I wanted to work here or go home. If I stayed, the company would advance me a little money for board until payday. But my real question was, did I want to work that long. I couldn't afford to get too low on money and be forced to stay until payday, if I really wanted to go home. It took about three minutes for me to make up my mind. During that three minutes I counted my money and found almost enough to take me home. My decision was final, I was going to Hamlin. It was after work hours and the office was closed. But they had my address and knew where to send my pay, come payday.

Again I counted my money. It hadn't increased at all. I couldn't get all the way home on it, but I could get a lot closer than I was at the time. It was 240 miles to Hamlin. I would have to eat at least one meal and I would have to spend a night on the road somewhere. I counted my money a third time. Would you believe it, 95 cents, that's all. It seemed mighty small and weak, considering what all I was planning for it to do for me. But there was really nothing to worry about; I had a half-tank of gas and I wouldn't need more than a quart of oil. With any luck at all I figured I ought to get close to Sweet.w.a.ter before I ran out of money and gas and oil. And Sweet.w.a.ter was only 45 miles from Hamlin.

It was almost sundown and I hadn't eaten since noon. Any kind of a little meal would take all of my 95 cents. So I went to a grocery store and paid a dime for two eggs. Then I went out back, cracked them one at a time and let them slide their way down. They didn't make the best tasting meal in the world, but our football coach had convinced me that it was a nourishing one.

By now it had stopped raining but the road was rough and the ruts were deep. Travel was slow on a motorcycle. It was way after dark by the time I got to Rankin, still 225 miles from Hamlin. But I didn't like to travel in the dark so I camped for the night.

I spread my blanket on the board walk by the front door of a small store and went to bed. Before sleep overtook me, I thought back on the last few days and on the beautiful night, and especially on the tomorrow I was about to experience. Could I go all day with nothing to eat? Sure I could. I had gone almost that long before without food. I knew that only one of us could afford to eat this time-either that little Indian Scout or me. This time I had to take care of her first. She would take me home, I could eat after I got there.

Next morning before the town's people began to stir, I rolled up my blanket and was on my way. In San Angelo I drained my pocketbook for gas and oil. On the road between there and Sweet.w.a.ter, I drained the Scout's gas tank. I pulled into a filling station in Sweet.w.a.ter with barely enough gas in my tank to wet the end of a stick. I gave the man a check for a dollar, filled up with gas and oil and got home with seventy cents in my pocket-and mighty hungry.

When I got my check for carpenter work in McCamey, I found that they paid me nine dollars a day instead of six. Maybe they paid six dollars a day to those who couldn't figure feet and inches between windows.

If you are beginning to get the idea that I was spoiled and didn't like to work, you are half right, I was spoiled. But the part about not liking to work is wrong. I liked to work; I was just choosy about the kind of work and where the work happened to be located. I had begun to realize that there was no need to go way off somewhere looking for work.

Perhaps that realization was the reason for my riding a train to Denver just to get a job washing dishes in a cafe. And a few days later I went high in the Rockies to work at a sawmill. That was knowledge working in reverse. I knew better; I just wanted to see some more of the world. In the Bible we are told to get knowledge and wisdom, then it adds, "And with all thy getting, get understanding." I suppose the understanding was the ingredient which was lacking in my getting.

Anyway, I landed at a sawmill 75 miles west of Denver, doing whatever they asked me to do. It was cold up there; man, I mean it was plenty cold! One morning it was 20 below zero, and that was two weeks before Thanksgiving. The lumber mill was in a valley between high mountains. During the three weeks I was there I saw the sun a couple of times. It didn't rise over the peaks until about nine-thirty in the morning and it set behind other peaks at four-thirty in the afternoon. We went to work before daylight and quit after dark. In the extreme cold, when the wind was calm, as I walked through the cold air, it felt like hot branding irons against my face.

One day five of us men were moving some cord wood and restacking it in another place. The foreman came and asked if any of us had ever driven a truck. I kept quiet because I had already seen the old truck and I didn't want any part of trying to drive it in the snow. It had solid rubber tires, no doors on the cab, and no antifreeze in its leaky radiator. The earth was completely covered with snow. I suppose there was earth somewhere under the snow; however, I didn't see any of it while I was there. Besides all that, there was not a level place within 50 miles. Everything was uphill, downhill, or leaning to one side or the other.

The other four men were eager to get out of the job we were doing, so each one tried to tell the foreman that he would be just the man to drive the truck. I kept my back to the foreman and kept working while he talked to the other men. I thought I might be lucky enough to escape having to drive the old truck. But no such luck. The foreman came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "You ever drive a truck?"

I could not tell a lie, so I told him, "A little." Then he and I went away together to one old dilapidated truck.

That was another case of my getting more understanding through experience and research, neither of which was intentional. Now, you may or may not know that, in a snowy place like that, where snow is forever, the snow in the ruts of a road is hard-packed snow, and stacked up, and the snow on either side of the ruts is loose, fluffy snow.

When driving on a muddy road, your truck is apt to slide into the ruts and you might not be able to get it out. But on a snowy road, your truck is more than apt to slide off the ruts and you might not be able to get it back up on them. And if you get your front wheels off the ruts to the right and your hind wheels off to the left, you have just about had it, especially a truck with solid rubber tires.