Later that winter, my uncle George carves Gramps a cane. Like most canes, it has a round rubber shoe on its bottom and a smooth, curved handle. Below the curve, George has engraved the bust of a mustang, the details so intricately rendered that it must have taken him days to finish. George wants Gramps to see the horse with his fingers. The horse's neck arched and rearing back, its eyes rolling wildly, its nostrils flared. Gramps has always refused to use a cane before, and so George makes him one he has to use, or else seem ungrateful. George is banking on that. The cane's craftmanship is also, in another way, a credit to George's consideration. People lavish attention on the cane, on how well it was made, and not on the fact that Gramps now has to use one. George has been around too many old cowboys not to know a few things about pride.
Mountain City
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