Clinton's Negro's - They knelt on the grass, it was dry ground as their concentration level grew as their tanned faced white master approached them on horseback. The master seemed to rise slowly in his saddle as he got closer, making him look taller and meaner.
They had been wandering the hills north of the farm, serving no purpose at all and not working on the fence as ordered that morning.
Finally the master had asked his foreman the question; how is the north fence coming along? Eventually the negro foreman responded with his head down; they have made some progress even though the farm was untamed to the north the fence was important to keep the beef cattle in the foreman really had no idea.
The master looked at his dark black foremen, all he could consider was the stone age looks of his negro foremen, that rough and dirty wilderness look, most likely a grandson of a god forsaken dark African cannibal.
The master had given strict orders; the Empire Ranch was untamed at times but it was still a bustling masterpiece of good farm/ranch management and it would require a lot of work to carve out planting fields and pastures for the cattle.
The master also had his thousands of acres of timber wood that would create some fantastic number of board feet to be sold down the river. The timber lands were most likely his greatest potential source of wealth and then the cattle would create his own earthly treasures.
He had cashed in on the cotton crop but it required too much labor and with the new economy in the south, everybody had to be paid.
His brother who lived the pioneering ways had started some not so little side businesses providing consumer goods produced in the south to the Yankee bastards north of Richmond and a few things in town.
His brother had a diamond on his finger, so he always listened to his advice even though the end of the Civil War has mired good men in long term debt.
The master pulled on the reins of the horse and it tossed it's head back and slowed to a walk and then came to a complete stop, and stood on the same dry ground where the negroes knelled and avoided looking up directly at their master, but referred to as the boss as slavery was over.
With a prospectors eye the master looked at them and yanked about the horse so he could dismount and take a closer look. He hitched his horse to nothing but as trained the horse waited where they stood with the master now on the ground.
Master Clinton was riveted on the men kneeling in front of him.
Master Clinton bent down as it started to rain just a little, his glasses got wet and now he was looking through the milky glass of old and worn out eyeglasses.
Water started to flow down his rugged leather hat as he looked at the men with the general idea of shooting all seven of them even though a little risky this day in time.
Accordingly his right gun hand touched the carved wooden handle of his pistol discovering that his revolver was still there if needed. His only brother owned a small hotel complete with a bar and restaurant, a barber shop and the only entertainment emporium within one hundred miles and fantastically successful it seemed.
Master Clinton had these seven men, some cattle and a lot of trees but he was also just about dead broke, broke at 32 years of age and sleeping with a big barreled ass woman whose face looked like a crocodile.
Some folks were getting rich, but Master Clinton was always needing money to pay these Africans that played all day.
Master Clinton had a plan, a 15 cent Negro, a mule and a really good lie.
Master Clinton was going to Washington.
He just had to get elected first.