Dear Mr. Price,

I hope this letter finds you well. The weather has been dry this season along the Chisum Trail. The cattle stay thirsty, and the trail hands never let their canteens out of sight. Dust hangs in the air most days, like we’re driving this herd straight through a flour mill.

I may earn from affiliate links.

“…and before I forget, something happened out here last night that I ain’t quite made sense of yet. I’ll get to that in a minute, but first I wanted to thank you for the dinner bell…”

I’m writing to let you know that the dinger  you sent has been a blessing. It’s got a fine, clear ring that carries clean across camp. The handle fits my hand just right, and that leaf accent on top was a handsome touch. A few of the boys even asked if you hammered that out yourself or if you had an apprentice with a steady hand. I told them you didn’t need any apprentice — you’ve been swinging a hammer longer than most of them have been alive.

I still can’t believe the Red River swallowed up my old dinner bell. One minute it was hanging on the wagon, next minute the whole rig hit a rut and the bell bounced off and rolled straight into the water like it had somewhere important to be. The men searched for hours that evening, poking around with sticks and wading in up to their knees, but it was no use. By now it’s probably washed clear down to Mexico, ringing away under the current every time a catfish bumps it.

Camp morale is no small thing on a cattle drive, and the drivers have been a bit low without a proper bell. There’s been confusion about when it’s time for grub. Some wander in late, claiming they didn’t hear supper was ready. Others hover around the pie, trying to sneak a slice. When I rap their knuckles with my wooden spatula, they say, “Oh, I thought it was dinner time.” I tell them if they spent half as much time working as they do sniffing around the campfire grill, we’d be in Kansas by now.

The new bell has already helped straighten things out. First night I rang it, the whole camp came running like they thought I’d found gold. One fella even tripped over his own boots and rolled down a little hill, but he still got up and made it to the line before the beans cooled. I told him he didn’t need to sprint like that, but he said after two weeks of guessing when supper was ready, he wasn’t taking any chances.

We had a little trouble last week with a storm rolling in from the west. Wind kicked up something fierce, and the whole sky turned the color of old iron. I had to tie the new bell down with a strip of rawhide so it wouldn’t blow clean off the wagon. Even then it clanged and rattled all night like a ghost was trying to call the men to supper. A few of the boys said it kept them awake in their hot tent, but I told them it was better than listening to coyotes yipping at the moon.

Speaking of the men, they’ve been in rare form lately. Trail dust does strange things to a person. One of the younger hands, a kid named Lyle, keeps insisting he can smell rain coming, even though the sky’s been clear for days. Another one, old Hank, swears he saw a mountain lion watching us from a ridge, but when we rode up there to check, all we found was a jackrabbit with an attitude. I think the long days are getting to them.

The cattle haven’t been much easier. They get spooked at shadows, and every night we have to keep watch so they don’t stampede over nothing. Last night a tumbleweed rolled through camp and half the herd jumped like they’d seen the devil himself. Took us an hour to calm them down. I told the boys if a tumbleweed can scare them that bad, they better hope they never see a real storm.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate the bell. It’s more than just a tool out here. It keeps the camp running smooth, keeps the men fed, and gives us all something steady to count on. Funny how a simple thing like that can make the whole outfit feel more settled.

If you ever get the notion to make another one, maybe a touch heavier so the wind doesn’t boss it around so much, I’d be glad to put it to use. But this one’s doing fine work already, and I’m grateful for it.

I’ll write again when we reach the next town, assuming the mail rider doesn’t get himself lost or distracted by a saloon. Until then, keep your forge hot and your hammer steady.

Yours on the trail,

https://www.instagram.com/natepricecreations/