Lacey Mercer lives in Buckeye, AZ.
Rule Number One
I looked through the branches of the Mesquite and could see him sitting on his horse just outside of the thicket of trees. I stayed perfectly still while he searched for me, his eyes shielded from the sun by his black, dusty hat. He had been chasing me since the flat top hill and his horse’s sides where heaving from the effort. At the base of the hill, he had managed to get close to me when I hesitated before jumping the wash. The rope I drug from my horns was the result of that hesitation. He had tried to dally around the horn of his saddle once he saw the rope tighten around my head, but I jumped the second I felt the bite of honda, jerking the rope out of his hands. So now, I waited. Nestled under a tree just inside a Mesquite thicket, shaded and mostly hidden by the sharp, low hanging branches.
His horse grew impatient, chomping at the bit and pawing the ground stirring up more dust, adding to what was already being whipped up off the sun baked floor courtesy of the desert wind. The thorns from the tree where digging into the hide on my back, but still I did not move. My hide was tough, much tougher than this man’s skin, and I knew he wouldn’t come into the tangle of branches and thorns that was the thicket.
A spiked lizard appeared from under a bush and scurried across the ground before it shot out from beneath the tree I was hiding under. This brought the man’s attention in my direction and we locked eyes. We both stood silent, still for a moment, looking at each other and then he did the oddest thing. He got off his horse and started inching towards me. Why would he get off his horse? Was he stupid? Did he think he could catch me on foot? Then I saw what he was after. He was not moving towards me but towards the end of the fifty-foot rope that was jetting out from under the tree. He lead his palomino behind him as he kept one eye on the ground and one eye on me, making his way slowly towards the end of the long stretch of rope attached to my horns.
As much as I wanted to lunge forward, I did not move. I let him get closer and closer. Just as he began to bend down and pick up the rope, I exploded out from the stand of trees, head down, tail up. The man fell back and to the left while his horse reared, spinning to the right. He lost grip of the reins and the spooked palomino took off running in the direction of home. The man scrambled, back peddling, barely avoiding a barrel cactus as he fell. I stopped half way between the trees and the man, shaking my head at him while he got to his feet.
I knew this was my chance. I bolted to the south, past the thicket of trees and in the direction of the herd, that I knew should be at the water tank this late in the day. The man was far behind me now but I could still see him in the distance standing there, picking up his hat and watching me run away across the rocky ground. Maybe on his long walk back he can think about rule number one of working on the open range alone. Never lose your horse.