CHAPTER 12
It wasn’t long before the two riders came to the first of the low hills. The trail slopped around to the north side of the hill and followed the wide mouth of a wash. The trail was hugging the south side of the wash for a little way, but then crossed over to the north side and then into the center. All the while the sides of the wash were growing taller the further they went.
Matthew could feel that his backside was growing more and more uncomfortable as the day had progressed. Chet had continued to give Matthew tips on riding through out the day. “You need to sit up straight like there was a rod right down through you back… Keep those heels pointed down. You’re ridin’ on the balls of your foot.” But all the words of education had not been enough to stop the growing pain on his posterior. Finally Matthew could take the discomfort no longer.
“Hey Chet,” Matthew called, “I need to stop for a minute.”
“What’s is it?”
“Well, I’m growing a bit too uncomfortable to keep bouncing in this saddle.”
Chet raised an eyebrow. “What kind of uncomfortable are you talkin’ about?”
Matthew dropped from his saddle and stood for a moment and rubbed his buttocks, not answering Chet’s question.
“Are you feelin’ sharp pains?”
“Well, to be honest, it feels like I’m being rubbed about raw.”
Chet looked around for a moment and said nothing as though he was wrestling with an idea. Having made up his mind he looked squarely at Matthew and pronounced, “You need to drop your britches.”
“What?”
Chet cleared his throat, then said, “You need to drop your britches so I can get a look at what you been doin’ to yourself down on the south side of your person.”
Matthew blinked at Chet. “I am not in the custom of parading myself around before people!”
“I believe you, I’m sure. But, if you got yourself some saddle sores, then they need to be treated if you are goin’ to be continuin’. From here on out, they is just gonna be gettin’ worse- worse than that head of yours.”
Matthew stood facing Chet. He made no move to do anything.
Chet leaned his forward and rested his forearms on his saddle horn and said, “You know, Son, I don’t take no pleasure in lookin’ at the bareness of your afterparts. But if you be gettin’ open sores where you be sittin’, then we got to deal with it. Else wise you won’t be riding nowheres for nothin’”
Matthew gave a heavy sigh and decided that there was not much he could do but follow the instructions of Chet. He turned his back to the man who was still in his saddle. Slowly he undid his pants and allowed them to slip down to his thighs.
“You got to lift the tails of your shirt just a bit,” instructed Chet.
As he lifted his shirttail exposing his own tail, Chet gave a soft whistle as the entirety of the area came into view. “You done took the skin right off both sides of your personality- they is about the size of an old Lady Liberty.”
“A what?”
“A silver dollar.”
Matthew could hear Chet chuckle which made him drop his shirt tail and pull his pants back up, but as his did they rubbed across his backside, making him wince in pain.
Chet meanwhile had dropped from his horse and walked off towards the side of the wash. Matthew called after his companion asking where he was going, and Chet just said that he would be right back. Chet had walked around the nearest bank for a moment and than came back with something riding on the end of his long knife. As Chet drew closer Matthew could see that it was some sort of plant with sharp needles sticking out from all over it.
“This here is what we call prickly pear or Indian figs,” explained Chet. He put the large fleshy leaf on the ground and proceeded to strip it of its spines.
“What do you intend to do with it?”
“Well, what I’ll be needin’ you to do is take that shirt of yours and tear the tails right off from the front to the back. This here plant has got the right stuff for puttin’ some healin’ on that backside of yours. I’m goin’ to be makin’ a mushy mess of this stuff and you’ll be needin’ to put it on those there sores of yours. It’ll all start to feel better right away.”
Matthew did what he was told, tearing his shirt into one long thick strip of cloth. Chet had put the cactus leaf on a flat rock and worked it with his knife into a slimy poultice. Taking the cloth from Matthew, Chet scooped up the contents and filled the center of the cloth.
“You got to take just a bit of this and rub it on both of those sores you got, heaven knows I ain’t goin’ to be doin’ it for you. Next, you got to wrap this cloth and wrap yourself up so the stuff stays on the sores. And while you is at it, go ahead and rub a bit of that juice on that neck of yours. You’ve been gettin’ an awful burnin’ from the sun up that a way also.”
Matthew pursed his lips together realizing that he had to expose himself once again in order to apply Chet’s medicine. Putting his pride aside, Matthew took a bit of salve on his fingertips, lowered his pants, reached behind himself, and found the first of the two wounds. Gingerly he applied the sticky stuff to the sore. Instantly the sting was soothed as the salve was applied. When both wounds had been treated and a layer had been applied to his neck, Chet then instructed Matthew to tie the shirttail around himself, taking care to keep the extra salve on the affected area of his bottom.
As Matthew had been going through this process he wondered if this day’s humiliations would ever come to an end. Once again he had been exposed as being completely inept, helpless, vulnerable, bumbling, and made to look the fool. In his dreams about coming to the west he had seen himself as becoming a competent pastor by proclaiming great oratory sermons and dispensing wisdom to those who were lost and confused. He saw himself as a source of comfort to the mournful and distraught. Vision and leadership would flow through the church into the town he served in. And yet here he was being tended to as though he were some rash-ridden toddler.
This final embarrassment triggered a painfully humiliating moment at the home of Alice’s family. Sunday meals had become a weekly ritual at the Wennington’s home, and it hadn’t taken long for him to see that he had developed true feelings for Alice. Matthew was convinced that she had given him more than a few signals of her affections. She had started to attend the Wednesday evening services when she discovered that he would be the regular teacher for that service, she would allow her hand to linger in his when they shook hands after service, and her eyes would hold his longer than was necessary during the Sunday meals. All of this encouraged his own growing love for her.
Being fortified by the growing passion he decided that it was time to approach Mr. Wennington to ask him for his daughter’s hand in marriage. The appropriate time would naturally occur after the Sunday meal.
Upon arrival at their home Matthew had asked Mr. Wennington if the two of them could have a conversation later in the afternoon, after the Sunday meal. Alice’s father had agreed.
Now that the meeting with the father was set, Matthew’s anticipation for the upcoming meeting brought in a wave of nervousness that threatened to drown him. As everyone was being seated for the meal, Matthew pulled out his chair and he inadvertently bumped his fork which then pitched off the table, bumping off his knee, and then bounced under the table. Matthew pushed his chair back away from the table to make way for him to climb under the table to retrieve the utensil. The rest of the family had noticed none of this while they themselves were engaged in getting themselves into their own seats.
“Matthew,” came the sound of Mrs. Wennington when she noticed his feet sticking out from under the table, “do you need some help?”
“No ma’am,” he had said upon rising back to his feet, fork now in hand, “I just bumped this fork from the table, that’s all.”
“Then let me get you a new one,” she offered.
“No, no. I’m fine with this one. Your floors are clean enough to eat off.” He knew he had scored a point with Mrs. Wennington as a smile of appreciation swelled upon her face, but the exchange had distracted Matthew enough to make him forget the location of his chair. Instead of landing on a solid chair as he bent to seat himself, he found thin air as he continued his ungraceful descent to the floor. His legs kicked up in the process and gave a great blow to the bottom of the table causing every thing of the table to bounce with a terrible clash- drinks were spilled causing the liquid to spill over the table and onto the lap of Mr. Wellington. Food bounced out of serving trays, and silverware bounced into the air, making a great deal of it to bounce off the table and clatter all over the floor. Meanwhile, his back had hit the chair, making it slide violently across the floor crashing into the wall, which shook the wall enough to cause the portrait painting of the family to loose itself from its mounts and come crashing down on his head before it finished its fall to the floor.
The incident had cause quit an uproar for the next few moments as everyone jumped to put everything back in order. No real damage was done other than to Matthew’s pride. He wanted to find the nearest hole and climb into it, never to come out into the light of day again. The timing for this unfortunate accident couldn’t have been more detrimental in his own estimation, for the meeting with Mr. Wennington still loomed ahead of him. He wanted desperately to postpone it to a day in which he could distance himself from this day’s performance, but he had already arranged it with Alice’s father. So he ate his meal in distracted, embarrassed silence.
The memory of it all made Matthew shake his head at himself as he finished the task of administering Chet’s remedy.
“Now look here,” Chet said, “you been riding in that saddle of yours all wrong. Avoidin’ the issue you got on your derriere ain’t a matter of buildin’ up calluses and all, no sir. You just been plain riding wrong. You got to keep from sitting back in the saddle- you got to sit up straight. The only time you sit back is when you come to a stop.”
“I don’t know if I can sit in that saddle again,” complained Matthew.
“Oh yes you is. ‘Em sores is goin’ to be teachin’ you how to ride proper like. When you get in that saddle again and it starts to hurt, then all you gots to do is sit up, get your butt off the back of the saddle. You can do it. Fact is, you is goin’ to do it, cause you can’t walk to save your wife, you got to ride. That’s all there is too it.”
A heavy sigh escaped Matthew as he finished buttoning his pants up. His backside was feeling immensely better, but he winced within at the thought of putting it back in harms way. However, he knew that Chet’s words were accurate. He couldn’t go running about the entire territory trying to catch up to his wife on foot. He had to get back in the saddle and learn how to ride correctly.
He eyed his horse warily before returning to its side to remount. And remount he did as delicately as he possibly could. Instantly he felt the pressure of the saddle, and it angered his sores. He rolled himself a little forward off his butt into a more upright position in the saddle. To his surprise, the pain subsided as he found what had to be the correct saddle position.
“I think I can do this,” he said to his instructor.
“Sure you can. Ain’t been but a million other folks that been doin’ it since the dawn of time.”
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