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The Journals of Emlyn Harness

Carl Carruthers wiped the droplets of sweat from his brow with the white monogrammed handkerchief he kept neatly folded inside his Stetson hat, a practice he had learned from his late father. An image from his childhood, that of his father wiping his brow as he leaned against a porch post on a hot afternoon, formed in Carl's mind.       

 "I'm tellin' both of you boys this so that you know how to behave out in the world. We may be poor now, but we can still conduct ourselves like gentlemen."   

Kenneth John Carruthers continued the admonition with smiling firmness, his sons listening attentively as they sat in twin rockers on the wide porch.    

"Carl, if you learn good manners early on, both you and your brother Curtis will do well. You'll still be able to sit down and eat beans and biscuits and swap lies with the ranch hands, but you'll also be ready to dine at banquet tables with wealthy men, presidents and kings."  Carl looked across the wide porch at his twin brother Curtis. They had always been exact reflections of each other, not only in their remarkable resemblance, but also in their manner and bearing. The Carruthers Brothers were now in their mid-fifties and, in every way, radiated prosperity.

    Carl folded the handkerchief neatly and, before placing it back in the crown of his Stetson, lightly polished the large, silver buckle on the Western belt cinched around his bull-fiddle middle. He looked out across the lawn where people were now gathering for the auction. It was a clear April morning in Dripping Springs. In the open field on the back side of the property, bluebonnets were in bloom. A few cotton-soft clouds placed themselves prominently in residence, motionless in the chalk-blue Texas sky.

    "Looks like we're gonna have a real nice turnout today, Curtis."

    Curtis Carruthers was plugging a microphone into a small public address system that had been set up on the porch. With a smile as wide as the brim of his hat, Curtis replied, "Yes, siree! Mother Nature has been most cooperative, Carl. You 'bout ready to let her go?"

    Curtis plugged in a second microphone and handed one to his brother. Carl placed the Stetson back on his head, covering the few stray and graying hairs that remained. He nodded to his brother.

    The Carruthers Brothers, both clad in tastefully tailored western suits, Stetson hats and handmade boots, moved simultaneously toward the center of the porch. In well-rehearsed choreography, they arrived front and center at exactly the same moment. By their appearance, and the fact that they were both carrying microphones, they could have started singing a Country and Western song and no one would have been surprised. With evangelistic exuberance, Carl spoke first.

    "Good mornin', folks and welcome! Glad to see y'all could make it out on this sweet April mornin'! Now, tell me, ain't we got the prettiest weather in the world right here in the great state of Texas?"

    As Carl had expected with his opening statement, the crowd responded with cheers and whistles.

    "Most of y'all know who we are. But for those of y'all who don't, I'm Carl Carruthers and this is my brother Curtis."

    Curtis touched the brim of his Stetson with his index finger and softly saluted the people assembled in the yard.

    "Thank you, Carl. Brother Carl always gets to speak first 'cause he's about two-and-a-half minutes older than me. Course I'm about two-and-a-half times smarter than him. So, if you folks have any questions, just ask me. Carl's gonna get the biddin' started here in just a minute. But first, let me tell you a little bit about the property. It was built in nineteen and twenty-three by a retired gentleman named Emlyn Harness. He lived in the house until June the twenty-fourth, nineteen and forty-seven. After that, Mr. Harness, uh, vacated the property. Nobody was able to find any relatives of Mr. Harness, so the property sat in probate for quite some time. The state took it over just before the Korean War. They didn't do nothin' with it until about nineteen and sixty-three. At that time it became temporary offices for a nonprofit group that worked with Lady Bird on some of her wildflower beautification projects. It has remained vacant, but well maintained, since nineteen and seventy-seven, when that Bluebonnet group was relocated to offices in Austin. Now, because of some budget shortfalls, the good politicians in Austin have decided to liquidate some of the state's assets. They have made available to the public, this fine historical dwelling and the 12.45 acres of prime real estate that it sits on.Carl's gonna start off the biddin' now. And remember, if you don't get the house, you're still eligible to win that ham and fifty dollars in cash! Let her go, Carl!"

    The crowd applauded as Carl seamlessly made the transition to the auction process.

    The pickup truck pitched as Ben Rider regained control. He could see the face of the woman in the small Japanese sedan glaring at him through the window as she passed. She was mouthing something that Ben could not hear but he assumed it was not, "Have a nice day!" The map he had been reading was still opened across the steering wheel of the pickup.

    "It can't be that hard to find. It's only about twenty miles from Austin," he said in frustration.

    Ben folded the map and laid it on the seat beside a copy of the classified section of the Austin American-Statesman. He picked up the paper and looked at the display ad circled in red ink. There was a small black-and-white photograph of a house sitting on a knoll next to a large oak tree. The photo was framed by the logo of the auction company. Ben read the announcement aloud.

    "Carruthers Brothers Real Estate and Auction. Historical one-bedroom house with outbuilding and 12.45 acres of land to be auctioned to the highest bidder. Saturday, April 4th at 10:00 A.M., rain or shine. A smoked ham and $50.00 in cash will be given away. Follow the signs west when you get to Dripping Springs."

    Ben checked the time on his wristwatch.

    "Ten-fifteen! Jeez! The place is probably already sold!" he exclaimed, looking at the ad in the paper again. "Follow the signs due west, when you get to . . ."

    Ben looked up from the paper to the two-lane blacktop road ahead. As he rounded a bend, a sign came into view which read, "Welcome to Dripping Springs, Texas. A Nice, Quiet Little Town." About a half a mile ahead, Ben saw a few houses scattered along the highway that led into Dripping Springs. Like almost all small towns in Texas, a tall water tower with the city's name painted on it, was the most prominent structure on the horizon.

    "All right! Here at last," he exclaimed. "Now, where are those signs that I'm supposed to follow?"

    Ben raised his eyes in a mock prayer. "Please, don't let it be sold."

    "Yes!" Ben exclaimed as he caught sight of the first Carruthers Brothers sign. In a space beneath their logo, written in black, felt pen, was the word "AUCTION" and an arrow indicating that he should turn right. Ben turned onto the road. It was a bit narrower than the state road he had driven from Austin and was not as well-maintained. Tar-filled cracks in the grey asphalt wiggled across the pavement like flat black snakes. The road curved through the countryside on the outskirts of Dripping Springs. The freshness of the April air filled Ben's nostrils as he rolled down the window. Live Oak had long resided in these rolling hills and the bluebonnets were in bloom in every pasture. After about three-quarters of a mile, the road turned westward. The morning sun was at his back and shone through the rear window of the pickup truck, warming his neck and shoulders. Ben slipped a cassette into the player and pressed the play button. A song, written by a friend who had moved to Nashville to seek his fortune, filled the cab of the truck. Ben sang along with the words he knew so well. He had played this tape dozens of times since Walt Wilkins had mailed it to him as a Christmas gift.

         A little farther West

        I will lay this burden down

        And plant my dreams in some higher ground

        I'll leave this sorrow behind

        And won't need this bitterness

        Where I am going, a little farther West

   Ben's attention was shifted back to the side of the road as the sunlight glinted onto the lens of his glasses, reflecting off another Carruthers Brothers sign. "Auction. Straight Ahead," it read. Feeling less anxious and now confident that he was finally on the right road, he gently pressed the accelerator and increased his speed. The road rose and fell before him, climbing and descending like a kiddie roller coaster. As he crested each hill, he could feel himself lifted slightly off the seat before plummeting into the next shallow hollow. Rising from a shaded basin where a lazy branch creek flowed under a one-lane bridge, he ascended to a plateau. A larger Carruthers Brothers sign had been placed near a driveway entrance just ahead. It read, "Auction Today." A small white cardboard sign was tacked to it. " Park Where You Can Find A Spot." Ben downshifted into second gear and slowed the truck. He could feel his heart rate increase as the house came into view.

    "I'm supposed to have this house," he had thought when he had first seen the advertisement. "I know I've never been there, but somehow it feels like home."

    Seeing it now, lifted off the page of the black and white newspaper, with the midmorning sunlight washing across it, brightening the Spring greens of the grasses and illuminating the majestic oak in the yard, the house seemed like the realization of a recurrent dream to Ben.

    The house was a circa 1920 wood-frame structure with white clapboard siding. It had a wide porch on three sides, French windows and doors, and was set back from the road about two hundred feet, with a southwestern exposure. A split-rail "Drunken-Man" fence lined the county road frontage and the gravel driveway. An ensemble of white wicker furniture, consisting of an armchair, rocker, and chaise could be seen on the far end of the front porch.

    As Ben turned into the driveway, he saw that several cars and trucks were lined up parallel to the drive and some were parked on the grass. He pulled his truck behind another pickup and parked. He hurdled the split-rail fence and sprinted across the yard toward the crowd assembled in front of the house. He could hear a baritone voice coming through the speakers.

    "Come on now, y'all. I've got thirty-seven five. Thirty-seven thousand, five hundred. Thirty-seven, five! The acreage alone is worth that. Who'll give me forty thousand? Forty thousand!"

    Ben joined the crowd of bidders, most of whom were wearing colorful casual clothing. He brushed past a tall man dressed in distinctly different attire. The man, in his late-twenties, was dressed more like someone who had just walked off the set of a Western movie. His wide-brimmed hat hung by a strip of leather across his broad shoulders. He was wearing a long split-tail coat and matching pants. His Western-style boots were plain, lacking the custom tooling and stitchery of the handmade boots the Carruthers Brothers were wearing. His white collarless shirt was clean, but had seen some wear. His frontier appearance was a marked contrast to the short sleeve shirts, blue jeans, baggy shorts, and T-shirts which were the attire of choice for that warm, April morning.

    "Excuse me, sir. May I move in a little closer?" Ben asked the tall man.

    The man said nothing, but stepped aside so that Ben could move forward.

    Carl Carruthers was pointing toward a man in the front row who was wearing a straw cowboy hat.

    "How about it, Percy? You've had your eye on this place for quite a long time. You're not gonna let Sheldon get it for thirty-seven five, are you?"

    Percy lifted the straw hat from his head and announced, "Thirty-eight."

    Carl and Curtis Carruthers both placed their right hands on their chests, gasped and staggered back. Carl took a deep breath and stepped forward.

    "Percy, you know that Curtis and I both have weak hearts. The shock of such a huge increase in the bidding could cause us to collapse."

    Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"Lord-a-mercy, Percy! I know your pockets are deeper than that. Folks, I have an outlandish bid of thirty-eight thousand dollars from Percy Lester. Do I hear forty thousand? Forty thousand? Anyone? I have thirty-eight thousand. Goin' once . . . goin' . . ."

"Forty-five thousand dollars."

Everyone in the crowd, including the astonished Percy Lester, turned to see the person in the back who had increased the bid by seven thousand dollars. It was Ben Rider. He was in his early thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and small gold-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a baseball cap that said "Don't Mess With Texas" across the front. It concealed only a part of a shock of hair that extended a bit past his collar. His red and black plaid cotton shirt was unbuttoned and hanging outside his baggy brown pants, the T-shirt he wore beneath the open long-sleeved shirt read, "UT-Austin." A pair of black high-top Converse basketball shoes completed his outfit.

The Carruthers Brothers were grinning like a river. Carl thrust his arm forward like a prizefighter and pointed a diamond-ringed index finger toward Ben.

"I have a bid of forty-five thousand dollars! Forty-five thousand from the young man in the plaid shirt!"

The tall man in Western attire standing a few feet away, also turned to see who had made the bid. Although he was looking directly at Ben, his gaze seemed strangely faraway.

"Howdy, "Ben smiled.

The tall man appeared dazed and disoriented. He did not respond to Ben's greeting. He walked from the crowd toward the large oak tree in the yard.

"The bid is forty-five thousand dollars, Percy. Will you go forty-six? Percy? Percy, will you go forty-six? I have a bid of forty-five thousand dollars from the young man from Austin. Forty-five. Will you go forty-six?"

Percy indicated with a shake of his head that he would not.

"Forty-five thousand. Goin' once . . . goin' twice . . . sold!" exclaimed Carl. "To the young scholar from the University of Texas! Come right on up here, son."

Carl handed his microphone to Curtis and walked toward the steps. Curtis concluded the auction with polished charm.

"Don't run off now, folks. We're gonna have that drawing for the ham and the fifty dollars in cash right away. And remember, the Carruthers Brothers hold an auction each and every Saturday, rain or shine. So, y'all come back, you hear!"

Curtis set both microphones aside and turned on a tape recorder which began playing Western Swing music through the public address system. Still aware of his audience, he danced the Texas Two-Step across the porch to where his brother waited to greet Ben Rider. Pleased with the sale, the twins were grinning.

Ben made his way to the porch as the crowd dissipated. Percy Lester, sulking, remained near the house as Ben approached. Percy took a tin of snuff from his shirt pocket and placed a pinch in his cheek. Ben extended his hand to Percy.

"I'm sorry I had to outbid you, sir, but I really wanted this house."

Percy looked at Ben with disdain, turned to look at the Carruthers Brothers and shook his head disappointedly. He looked back at Ben, spat tobacco juice on the ground and walked away in silence.

Carl Carruthers took one step down and motioned for Ben to join him and his brother on the porch.

"Don't pay no mind to Percy, son. He's got more property than he knows what to do with. He just like ownin' real estate. In fact, he's got some mighty nice houses that just set vacant. Houses that plenty of folks would love to rent, but he won't do it. Come on up on the porch and we'll set a spell and take care of 'bid'ness'. I'm Carl Carruthers and this ugly feller here is my brother, Curtis."

Curtis pressed his chest against Carl's and the two brothers looked at each other, a reflection of each other in profile.

"Ugly? Who's ugly? Have you looked in the mirror lately? If you did, you'd see who's ugly."

"I don't have to look in the mirror. If I want to see ugly, all I have to do is look at you. Lord! You are ugly."

"You two have been doing this kind of thing for a long time, haven't you? I'd bet there are several variations on this joke, right?" Ben asked, aware that this banter was just good-natured fun.

"Yes, but all the clever variations are mine," the twins replied in unison.

The brothers winked at each other and laughed heartily. Then, in a series of quick moves, the brothers circled each other, flanked each other, stepped behind and in front of each other, and concluded their silliness standing side-by-side. This was a bit of physical comedy that they had obviously performed since childhood.

Splitting the sentence, they asked, "Can you tell which twin is Carl, and which twin is Curtis?"

"Carl is the one with the big diamond ring on his index finger," Ben replied without hesitation.

The twins looked at each other and nodded. "A very observant young man," Carl said to Curtis. "Indeed, indeed. Very observant. That's the first time in, I can't remember when, that anyone figured that one out," Curtis admitted.

"I'm pleased to meet you both. I'm Benjamin Rider. Just call me Ben. Everybody does."

Ben shook their hands and the trio crossed the porch to where the wicker furniture was located.

"Have a seat, Ben, and we'll talk a little bit about your new house."

Ben sat on the chaise and the twins seated themselves in the armchair and rocker. Carl was the first to speak.

"Well, Ben. Welcome to Dripping Springs. You've done bought yourself a mighty nice piece of property."

"And at a mighty fine price, too," Curtis added enthusiastically.

"What do you do for a living, Ben?" Carl asked.

"I teach history at UT Austin. It's a non-tenure position. My contract runs out next year. It'll probably be renewed, but I thought I'd hedge my bet by investing in a little real estate."

"Best investment a person can make, "Curtis nodded.

"Well, you teach history. Now you're gonna be livin' in some. You're gonna hear some pretty interestin' stories from your neighbors about this place."

"Interesting stories? Uh, just what do you mean by interesting? It's not haunted, or anything like that, is it?" Ben laughed nervously.

Carl and Curtis looked at each other. They turned back to face Ben. Carl shrugged his shoulders and spoke haltingly.

"No. Not, really, Ben. Well, uh, Mr. Harness, the fella, uh, who built this place, he, uh . . ."

Curtis interrupted his twin.

"What my brother is tryin' to say is that Emlyn Harness was a strange old man who used to tell everybody these wild stories about when he was out West. A lot of those stories still get told around here. Specially around campfires when folks are tellin' scary stories to kids. There ain't nothin' to 'em. I heard them stories when I was a young'n. Harness did disappear, though. In June of nineteen and forty-seven. Folks around here figure he just wandered off some place and got lost, or somethin'. Nothin' for a bright young feller like you to worry about. You got yourself a fine piece of property here, and you're gonna be real happy with the place. You're gonna enjoy livin' in this house, Ben. Like the sign at the edge of town says, 'Welcome to Dripping Springs, Texas. A Nice, Quiet, Little Town.'"

    The loud report of the Colt '45 shattered the quiet of the morning. The bullet splintered the sign that had been painted on a piece of rough-cut cedar and nailed to a post. The impact had blown a hole in the sign, obliterating the letter "G." The sign now read, "Drippin Springs", which is how most folks around here pronounced the name of the town anyway.

The drunken cowboy spurred his horse and continued at a gallop down the dusty main street of town. Whooping and hollering, he fired off several more rounds. A few of the townspeople ran for cover, but most others went about their business, ignoring the disturbance. This kind of thing happened all the time in Dripping Springs, Texas in 1887.

Walter Clay was the proprietor of The Bull Creek Souvenir Shop. It was a small store on Main Street filled with unusual items, many of which he had brought to Dripping Springs from Philadelphia a few years earlier. Odd trinkets, toys and collectibles, memorabilia, and curious goods were what he now sold. A walk through his store was like a journey through the mind of a child with a vivid imagination. He was carrying a tray filled with marbles as he walked out of the store onto the board sidewalk. The drunken cowboy was in the middle of the street in front of the shop, rearing his horse up on its hind legs and howling like a coyote. Walter placed the tray atop a small table on the sidewalk where a selection of toys was displayed. He picked a marble from the hundreds in the tray and held it up to the light.

"Have a look at this one. It's called a Tiger's Eye, Emlyn."

Emlyn Harness took the marble from Walter and held it in front of his face, rolling it slowly between his thumb and index finger.

"Isn't the color beautiful? That elliptical variation of color in the center really does make it look like a tiger's eye, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does, Walter," agreed Emlyn.

The cowboy pulled the pint bottle out of his boot, bit the cork with his teeth and spat it onto the ground. He placed the bottle to his lips and drained the contents. Some of the whiskey spilled down his chin and onto his neck and bandana. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his soiled chambray shirt. He threw the empty bottle up into the air, drew his pistol from its holster and fired a shot. The bullet missed and the bottle fell to the ground near a water trough in front of the Bull Creek Souvenir Shop. The cowboy spurred his horse across the street and up onto the board sidewalk, sending citizens fleeing for safety. The sidewalk was only about four feet wide, narrower in places where merchants used it to display their goods. The horse, already overexcited by the gunfire and antics the cowboy had put it through, was even more agitated as it knocked over barrels and tables, chairs and boxes. The cowboy continued to howl as he and his steed wreaked havoc on Dripping Springs.

Emlyn and Walter were in the direct path of the horse and rider as they crashed forward. The initial collision was with the display table in front of the shop. The impact sent a platoon of Revolutionary War Infantrymen tumbling onto the sidewalk where several brave, lead soldiers were killed beneath the horse's hooves. The horse made an abrupt turn, upending the table. Clowns and cherubs, monkeys, tops and marionettes cascaded like a comic waterfall onto the defeated Minutemen below. The tray of marbles was catapulted skyward. Multicolored meteorites fell to the wooden sidewalk, their impact resounding as they bounced off the boards. Continuing to spin, the horse's haunches struck Walter and knocked him backward through the door of the shop. Arms flailing in a futile attempt to break his fall, Walter grabbed a carousel rack which held a selection of peculiar headgear. He landed on his backside in a sea of silly hats. A particularly foppish fedora with excessive plumage perched on his head.

Emlyn dodged the spinning stallion by stepping into the street. Waiting a few seconds for the proper moment, Emlyn seized the rider by the arm and back of his shirt. With a solid jerk, using the centrifugal force of the spinning animal as an assist, Emlyn unseated the rider and launched him headlong into the street. The cowboy landed belly first in the dust, expelling air like a blacksmith's bellows, as his head came to rest on a pillow of manure.

Emlyn grabbed the reins of the horse and spoke gently.

"It's all right, my friend. Everything is all right, now. Let's just take a walk over here to the water trough and get a nice cool drink. I'll bet you're really thirsty after all this excitement, aren't you?"

The animal resisted at first by pulling at the reins and twisting its head, but Emlyn's calm and quiet coaxing was succeeding. He led the horse carefully from the sidewalk onto the street.

"Just take your time. That's right. Step down right here."

When the horse had all four legs on solid ground, Emlyn moved closer and placed his hand on the side of the horse's face and stroked it gently.

"That's better, isn't it? Feels better when your hooves touch the earth, doesn't it? Sidewalks are for humans, not horses, right?"

Emlyn led the horse to the trough and tied him loosely to the hitching post. As Emlyn started to walk back to the store, the horse tilted its head and, with his shining, chestnut brown eye, looked curiously at Emlyn. The big animal relaxed, took a long drink of water and stood calmly, as if this calamity had never taken place.

The cowboy was being dragged by his bootheels across the dusty street toward the sheriff's office by two dutiful citizens. It was almost a certainty that Sheriff Patrick would have to be awakened and helped from the cot in the jail cell to the rocking chair behind his desk. The night before, he had probably been as drunk as the cowboy. They may have even shared a bottle.

"You should wear that hat more often, Walter. It's the right color for you," Emlyn chuckled as he extended his hand to help his friend from the floor. "Come on. Let's get these marbles picked up before someone steps on one and breaks a leg."

Walter righted the carousel, picked up a few hats from the floor and hung them back on the rack.

"Ah! Another peaceful day in Dripping Springs. You know, Emlyn, all this serenity makes me so glad I decided to move here and escape the uncivilized folks in Philadelphia."

Emlyn bent down and picked up a cobalt blue marble. He held it up and looked into it. The light passing through it revealed blue-white lines, streaking through the marble like forked lightning. Emlyn rolled the marble around in the palm of his hand and looked westward.

"Yup. It's getting a little too peaceful around here for me, too."