Pritchard Johnson’s Boots

Pritchard Johnson died at the age of ninety-three. He was born before the turn of the century and made a living working as a cowboy and farmer.

He used to say, “I can still make out good horse-flesh even with my old worn out eyes.”

Some folks thought it was just an old man bragging on the days of his youth. But Pritchard Johnson never bragged on himself or anyone else.

This is one thing I knew.

Having set some fence posts for him a while back, I knew if he came out to take a look and didn’t say anything, I was doing the job to Mr. Johnson’s satisfaction. If it were not done the way Mr. Johnson wanted it, he would have been certain to let me know.

Pritchard Johnson didn’t yell or even cuss and he had a way of speaking that made every man stop whatever he was doing and listen. It was a voice that carried itself down a canyon and back again, but had the faintness of cow grass waving in a morning breeze.

I called it, “A whisper that echoed.”

Besides his voice and broad shoulders that carried strong arms and even stronger hands, were the boots Pritchard Johnson wore.  They were nearly sixty years old.

“Never throw out a good pair of cowboy boots, son,” he’d say to me from time to time.

I was in town when I heard the news, chatting with a waitress named Carolyn at Glen’s Bakery and it was Pops McCory who sprang it on me.

“You’re pulling my leg aren’t you?” I asked.

“Nope, saw the coroner myself jus’ this morning” Pop replied as he noisily sipped at his cup of coffee, “They found him yesterday,” Pops commented, “He was laid out in his field kind of like he was resting.”

Carolyn hurried down to the other end of the counter to collect money from a customer. I sat there stirring my cup of coffee and staring into its blackness.

I remember thinking, “I can’t believe it.”

“Yep, know exactly what you mean,” Pops replied, “Never going to be a man like him again.”

About an hour later, I was climbing out of my truck at the Johnson home in Smith River. Before I could step up on the porch, Mrs. Johnson was there with the door wide open.

I could tell she was sad as her eyes were red from crying; yet she had a smile on her face.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Tommy,” she started, “Got so much to do now with Pritch gone.”

She breathed a heavy sad sigh. Then she looked up and smiled again.

“Almost forgot, I have something for you,” she said.

“Jus’ like Mrs. Johnson — always thinking of others before herself,” I thought.

She got up and left the room. Mrs. Johnson came back in less than a minute carrying a large box. She set in on the floor in front of me.

“Open it,” she said.

I lifted the lid and looked inside.

It was Pritchard Johnson’s old cowboy boots. They were beaten up and dusty, but the soles and heels were brand new.

“Hope they fit,” she said.

“I hope they do too,” I replied as a hot tear traced its way down my cheek.