A Gathering of Old Men by Ernest J. Gaines

Yank was waiting for us behind a bush on the riverbank side of the road. Clatoo didn’t have to stop, just slow down, and old Yank hopped in the back of the truck. Yank was in his early seventies, but he still thought he was a cowboy. He used to break horses and mules thirty, forty years ago, and he still wore the same kinda clothes he wore back then. His straw hat was draped like a cowboy hat. Wore a faded red polka-dotted handkerchief, tied in a loose knot round his neck. His pants legs was stucked down in his rubber boots—not cowboy boots. Back, shoulders had been broke I don’t know how many times; made him walk leaning forward. Hands had been broke and rebroke; now he couldn’t shut them too tight, or open them too wide. But he still thought he was a cowboy. He spoke when he first got in the truck, but after that we didn’t do much talking. We was just feeling proud. I could see it on Yank’s face; I could feel it sitting next to Chimley and Mat. Proud as we could be.

A mile or so after we picked up Yank, we picked up Dirty Red at Talbot. Clatoo had to blow the horn twice before we saw Dirty Red shuffling from behind the house. He carried the old shotgun by the barrel, the stock almost touching the ground. He had a self-rolled cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He had as much ashes hanging on the cigarette as the cigarette was long. Dirty Red wouldn’t take time to knock the ashes off a cigarette. Ashes fell off when it couldn’t hang on any longer. Dirty Red got in the truck and spoke to everybody.