The dust choked Pan. He wasn’t used to grabbing around the saddle with his legs even though he’d told the trail boss he’d been riding since he was two. Short, with a wispy goatee, he whistled hoping to get the horse on his side.
Herm, the boss man, saw the way Hera steadied when Pan stroked her ears. He noticed the boy’s feet reaching deep in the stirrups, as if trying to find a comfortable spot. He also noticed the longing in Pan’s eyes. Herm had a gut feeling that this kid had potential. Handing Pan a paper and pen, he said, “We head out day after tomorrow. See if you can learn to ride, son.”
That word, “son,” cleaned the dirt from Pan’s lungs, eased the ache in his thighs, and gave him a reason to prove himself.
The first night around the campfire, Herm sat next to Pan. They rode the ranch the next day, Herm praising Pan when he sat tall in the saddle. “Like a centaur,” Herm said. He had a penchant for myth.
That’s how Zeus got his name. A feisty old steer, Zeus had an attitude that made him a head taller than any of the other cattle. He picked fights and mostly won. The ranch hands kept a distance from him, their horses skittering back and curling their lips in an equine sneer that said, “Stay away.”
Pan either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He was confident that the sound of the harmonica he carried everywhere would seduce most any creature. That included Zeus. Too sure of protection, too inexperienced to read the posturing of the beast, Pan rode too close to Zeus. He cut him off from the herd, making Zeus look like an ordinary cow.
Herm laid a long, low whistle in Pan’s direction. All the cowboys looked, but none of them approached. None of them made a move to avert the disaster they saw coming. Pan’s horse pranced sideways. Hera was a steady mare and if it hadn’t been for her, things would have gone way worse.
Zeus turned in a cloud of fury. The dust swirled around his hooves, the sun behind him raising the rusty color of vengeance from his sleek coat. The steel in his eyes suggested the strength of an angry god. He showed no sign of backing down.
Pan had a stubborn streak himself. Glued to the saddle as if he and Hera were one body, he held the harmonica to his mouth. Hera trotted ahead. Pan blew a riff that started slow and matched the timing set by the steady pawing of the steer against the ground. In no time, it was Zeus who followed Pan’s rhythm, his hooves kicking up the earth in befuddled motion. Hera led Zeus around the herd like he had a ring in his nose. The whole thing was short. Within minutes, everything but the dust settled.
Herm whistled again, this time with appreciation for the way Pan got himself out of trouble. Closing the distance between them to pat Pan on the back he said, “Not bad for a greenhorn.”
Pan’s face burst into a smile. The adrenalin subsided and he realized that he had been scared. That’s how it was for him. Never an ounce of fear until he was out of danger, he got into these situations but he also always pulled them off. Something he was born with, like music, like his knack with animals. The sun shone behind him, lighting the blond shimmer of his hair and the oiled saddle horn that he held lightly in one hand. At long last, he was going to be a centaur.
Monica McHenney writes in Palo Alto, California which she shares with her husband, her son and two foster dogs. She taught parents about raising toddlers for twenty-five years. Now she writes. The secret to toddlers is getting enough sleep. Monica hasn’t found the secret to writing, yet, but hopes to.