BooksBarbecue
Back Anything for Billy
Chapters (127)
  1. Cover Page
  2. ANYTHINGFOR BILLY
  3. Dedication
  4. PART I
  5. 1.
  6. 2.
  7. 3.
  8. 4.
  9. 5.
  10. 6.
  11. 7.
  12. 8.
  13. 9.
  14. 10.
  15. 11.
  16. 12.
  17. 13.
  18. 14.
  19. 15.
  20. 16.
  21. 17.
  22. 18.
  23. PART II
  24. 1.
  25. 2.
  26. 3.
  27. 4.
  28. 5.
  29. 6.
  30. 7.
  31. 8.
  32. 9.
  33. 10.
  34. 11.
  35. 12.
  36. 13.
  37. 14.
  38. 15.
  39. 16.
  40. 17.
  41. 18.
  42. 19.
  43. 20.
  44. 21.
  45. 22.
  46. 23.
  47. 24.
  48. 25.
  49. 26.
  50. 27.
  51. 28.
  52. 29.
  53. 30.
  54. 31.
  55. PART III
  56. 1.
  57. 2.
  58. 3.
  59. 4.
  60. 5.
  61. 6.
  62. 7.
  63. 8.
  64. 9.
  65. 10.
  66. 11.
  67. 12.
  68. 13.
  69. 14.
  70. 15.
  71. 16.
  72. 17.
  73. 18.
  74. 19.
  75. 20.
  76. 21.
  77. 22.
  78. 23.
  79. PART IV
  80. 1.
  81. 2.
  82. 3.
  83. 4.
  84. 5.
  85. 6.
  86. 7.
  87. 8.
  88. 9.
  89. 10.
  90. 11.
  91. 12.
  92. 13.
  93. 14.
  94. 15.
  95. 16.
  96. PART V
  97. 1.
  98. 2.
  99. 3.
  100. 4.
  101. 5.
  102. 6.
  103. 7.
  104. 8.
  105. 9.
  106. 10.
  107. 11.
  108. 12.
  109. 13.
  110. 14.
  111. 15.
  112. 16.
  113. 17.
  114. 18.
  115. PART VI
  116. 1.
  117. 2.
  118. 3.
  119. 4.
  120. 5.
  121. 6.
  122. 7.
  123. 8.
  124. 9.
  125. 10.
  126. 11.
  127. 12.

It seemed Will Isinglass, nearly one hundred at the time, had bought a motorcar—the first to be shipped to the eastern New Mexican plains—where he was living out his days with a scattering of cattle and a few pet buffalo he had acquired from Quanah Parker. The old man knew how to start the vehicle, but was vague about how to stop it; the car—they’re the new buffalo, I guess; someday they’ll cover the prairies in vast herds—ran away with him and sailed off into one of the canyons of the Canadian, crushing the great plainsman underneath it when it hit. They say he was emptying his pistol into the motor, in a vain effort to kill the thing, when the car went off the cutbank.

The ex-parlormaid only grew more quarrelsome as I sat in silence, holding the newspaper, with tears in my eyes—the story ran only six lines—and thinking about that great, violent old man.

12.

I went home, of course—rode Rosy to Denver and caught the train. Philadelphia was no different, nor was family life. Dora discovered me back in my study one morning, took a quick look, said, “You ought to trim that ugly beard,” and went on with her life. The girls squealed “Papa!” a few times, and went on with theirs. Cook was the only person who asked where I had been; when I told her I’d been out West, she assumed I meant Cincinnati and talked for an hour about a sister of hers who had emigrated to Ohio. “Thank the Lord, she hasn’t been scalped yet,” Cook said, stirring her pudding.

Well, home life must have its little vexations everywhere. The worst I had to put up with was the insufferable Waddy Peacock, Dora’s beau, who had been required to buy a mansion a block away so he would always be on hand when Dora needed an escort, which was often—she had not lost her taste for balls and socializing.

After some thought, I declined to trim my beard. Dora took this refusal as an act of raw defiance and stopped speaking to me. She adopted Cook’s view of my travels and let it out that I had contracted brain fever in Cincinnati and could no longer summon the coherence to fulfill my duties as a husband—at least that’s what was reported by cronies at my club.