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.
