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Text originally published in 1959 under the same title.
Pickle Partners Publishing 2015, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.
Publishers Note
Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.
We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.
BORN OF THE SUN: A NAMIBIAN NOVEL
BY
JOHN H. CULP
I
I REMEMBER Huddleston Groc as first I came upon it that late November afternoona sleet-covered cluster of cabinswhen the stage with its vapor-blowing horses rolled down a cedar-clad ridge to stop at Mas Place.
The buildings were mere shacks on the wild northwest frontier of Texas, in the Concho country. On one side of the road stood Mas Place and a general store, on the other a saloon and a fenced shack and a rawhide-lashed corral which was a livery stable. Scattered closely about the road and its buildings were a few log cabins and a stockade.
Before Mas Place was a hitch rack, at which three horses stood, their whitened rumps backed to the wind. Above the rack, on poles that extended upward, was a hewn-board sign on which was painted in faded red letters against the bouncing sleet
HUDDLESTON GROC
and underneath it
MAS PLACE
The stage stopped at Mas Place, the four horses snorting and blowing, and those at the hitch rack roused themselves coldly and stamped restlessly. The man riding shotgun by the driver leaped down from the stage. He was frozen and slipped on the ice.
Goddamn! he roared. I can kill myself in easier ways than this!
There was a shout from across the road, and a big-hatted, red-bearded man and his helper rushed from the livery stable compound bringing fresh horses for the stage. The stage driver was on the ground unhitching the horses, and some of the passengers were stepping down. The first to leave the stage was Mr. Derryberry. He was a short, round man, with a stomach that stuck out in front like a watermelon. He wore a big hat and a red plaid mackinaw, and his feet were in high boots with his trousers tucked in the tops. He helped a lady from the stage, and she went down the road to one of the log cabins, her shawl-wrapped head bent against the sleet and wind. The next to leave the stage was a drunk Indian. He pulled a battered black hat lower about his pigtails and stepped down into the cold fury of the sleet.
Boy? Mr. Derryberry said.
Yes, sir, I said.
Get off the stage, son. Your Uncle Martin will meet you here.
I clutched my old valise tighter, my elbows sticking out of my ragged sweater. Another man got off the stage now. He was drunk, toothe man Mr. Derryberry had called Goldurn. Goldurns blood shot eyes looked through fuzzy white whiskers like candles burning in a snowstorm. When his feet touched the icy road, he slipped and fell, and Mr. Derryberry straightened him up and started with him for the door of Mas Place. A tall, slim man moved over me to leave the stage. He wore two tied-down revolvers on his legs, and he had sat watching the three horses at the hitch rack, a hard glint in his gray eyes.
Son! Mr. Derryberry called.
Yes, sir, Im getting off. I held my valise tight and stepped from the stage.
The tall gunman turned when he entered the door to Mas Place and stood there, still watching the horses at the hitch rack. He stepped aside to let us pass, and Mr. Derryberry and I went into Mas Place.
It was a restaurant. It had a stove and counter and tables and a makeshift bar, but around the walls were shelves which held most everything from clothes and canned goods and coffee to hardware and whiskey. Three men sat at the tables, and old Goldurn and the Indian leaned over the counter drinking coffee from tin cups and slopping it out on the counter. The men at the tables were big-hatted and bearded and they were dressed like ranchers. They sat with a whiskey bottle before them, all but the smaller of the threea shifty-faced man who sat alone.
But standing in the middle of the room was something that made me almost wet my pants. It was a woman. And I never in all my life saw such a woman. She was looking at me with a strange feeling in her eyes and she was the God-awfullest got-up woman in Texas. Her face was thin, and her hair was parted down the middle and pulled back over her ears. She wore a mans red checkered shirt and tough old heavy pants tucked into a pair of boots that fitted up to her knees. And about her waist were two crossed belts, and tied low down on her legsjust like men wore themwere the butts of the biggest, meanest guns I ever saw. She started for me like she was going to eat me up, and I ducked back against Mr. Derryberry, holding my valise.
Hey, boy! Where you going? Mr. Derryberry said. This is Ma Huddleston. And these two men are Mr. McMasters and Clabe Burdette. Theyre friends of your Uncle Martin and Aunt Maybelle. What in tarnations got into you? Aint you ever heard of Ma Huddleston?
No, sir, I said.
Well, now, thats just like me! Ma Huddleston snorted. Running up and scaring the poor child to death. Always raising a tempest in a pee pot, thats Ma!
Son, Mr. Derryberry said, years ago Mas boy, just about your age, was stolen from this very room and killed by Comanches. All the menfolks of that first settlement were killed, too. Ma and young Katherine Marrs held off those Indians with rifles till help came, and they saved the rest of the children. Now that I think of it, you look a lot like Mas boy. You must have given her a turn.
Im sorry, maam, I said. I saw you coming at me with all the guns and I couldnt help myself.
Now, now, now, Ma said, putting a rough arm over my shoulder. You come right over here and drink some hot coffee. Why, boy, youre plumb sleet-covered. Its clean down your neck.
Yes, maam, I said. The stage window was busted. It come in all over me.
Ma took my flop hat off and set my valise down at the ranchers table. Now, take that old sweater off and well put something on to get you warm. She took a brand-new brush jacket from a shelf and put it on me. Now, aint that better? She stood back, a smile on her hard old face.
