Connie saw him, sitting tall in the saddle two hundred yards from the road shoulder, hat in hand, his face weathered, his clothes dust-covered, his hair tinged red by the setting sun. He wiped his face with his sleeve. She’d stopped to check her left front tire. Had that jagged-edged hubcap torn the tread of the used tire her father told her to buy in El Paso? “It’ll get you to Las Cruces, and I’ll use the warranty for a new one,” he promised.

Why the hell did her father retire in the desert? There’s nothing to see except empty space and, occasionally, the bleached bones of cows and coyotes. Now, on the roadside, was the Marlborough Man watching her suffer from mechanical ignorance. She waved. She had a portable inflator. Maybe he had a tire gauge. Sure, for his horse.

She knelt down and inspected the damage. Well, glory be, the tire was fine. Maybe she hit an oil slick. She’d heard it can cause a car to slide like black ice does.  

She waved again and shouted, “Helll-oo!”

He waved back in slo-mo and put on his hat, but his pony didn’t move toward her.

Disgusted, she got int the drivers seat, and revved her Camaro convertible. Momentary concern gave way to chronic frustration. She’d show his cranky-ass real horsepower! She glanced to her right. He had moved closer to her. She could see him smiling. He turned his pony right, and trotted away. She caught up to him, and the pony broke into a lope. She kept pace as they headed westward. 10 mph —20 mph —a full gallop at 30 mph.

But my car can run farther and faster on a tank of gas than your horse can on a bag of oats. And your horse will tire and die someday, while I’ll be showing this baby at classic car show when I’m sixty.

The pony jumped a corral fence without a stumble. Alright, her car couldn’t jump. She heard a snap! and fishtailed again. Damn it! She’d call Triple ‘A’ and flirt. It was better than  playing the fool in a new car … in a stagnant water ditch … with a blown used tire.

The cowboy was a quarter mile ahead.  “Come back!” she yelled to him. Can’t you see, I need you?”

She shaded her face with her hand. He was riding towards her. When he got to her, he said nothing, and she … she couldn’t speak. He wasn’t a young man. His eyes squinted at her as he leaned forward, resting his hand on the pommel of the saddle. He seemed to be questioning what he was looking at. He rubbed his eyes with a dirty fist. “C’mon, Eliza,” he said, and slowly rode off into the sunset.

An old rider of the purple sage.

Somewhere in space, OnStar’s four satellites were calculating her location and sending help. But, until help arrived, she was alone, a damsel in distress armed with a can of mace, watching as darkness revealed a cloudless, star-sequined sky. Vast and silent. Like God. Limitless beyond comprehension, so we rub our eyes and marvel. Maybe this was why her father, Edward Dearborn, chose to retire in the desert. It was an astronomer’s dream come true, far away from city lights that obstructed the view, the only competition being the white globe that seemed to hover above the horizon.

Edward wasn’t an astronomer, but his heroes had always been cowboys. He loved bleached bones. Shiny arrowheads. A turquoise studded hat band. Hand-tooled boots. Dancing the two-step at a country-western bar. Her friends would always ask if Ed was home before they visited, fearing Hank Williams Jr. would be wailing about somebody’s cheatin’ heart. Or Marty Robbins warning about ghost riders in the sky. Yippy-yi-ayyyyy. Or the one about the stampeding cattle, and how lightning showed the face of Jesus. It was possible to hear the Master call your name …

“Someday this will all be yours,” her father said about his vinyl record collection. She’d roll her eyes. “They’re the songs of America’s youth,” he said to himself as held the record by the rim and slipped it into a plastic sleeve. Reverentially. “My Grandfather said the whole family would gather ‘round the radio to hear broadcasts from the Grand Ol’ Opry. Imagine that, Connie. ”

When she was ten, she prayed he wouldn’t get dementia. Imagining can lead to all kinds of problems. Delusions. Hearing voices of non-existent people. Dreaming in the daytime. They spoke less and less or … maybe, she stopped listening. The last time he called, he said little except, “I’d like to have you visit.” That was Wednesday night.

She reached into the back seat for the sweater she kept folded on the seat. The hostile heat was evaporating quickly; the shadows on white sand as stark as the shadows of the backyard walnut trees on snow. Was the cowboy safe in the bunkhouse? She imagined him pulling the saddle off Eliza and filling her feedbag and treating her to an apple, hearing the steps creak as he climbed the stairs to a drafty cabin, and keeping his gloves on as he added kindling to the fireplace grate. Only when the fire crackled strong would he takes off his yellow-leather gloves, and rub liniment on hands aching from hours of plain ol’ hard work.    

“He’s drinking coffee after washing the dust off his hands and face, Connie,” she heard her father whisper. “He’s looking at the sky, as we are. Together with our music, our memories and our mistakes. Maybe he’s thinking about the prettiest woman he ever saw in Abilene, Wichita, or Omaha  ̶  and saying no to them all because around his neck he wears a locket that holds his dead wife’s hair on one side and a little girl’s ringlet on the other. He’ll hold the heart-shaped metal in his fingers, and bring to his lips for a kiss. For the last time in his life.”

It was her father’s voice, wasn’t it? Or maybe it was just the wind flooding the air with the scent of bitter-sweet sage. Does it ever rain in the desert? “Yes,” he said, “when you least expect it. You’ll feel a drop or two on your cheeks.”

Jenean McBrearty taught sociology and political science, and recently graduated from Eastern Kentucky University with an MFA Creative Writing where she was awarded the English Department’s Award for Best Graduate Creative Non-fiction. She writes full time … unless she’s watching basketball.

“Don’t take your guns to town Bill.”

     “You too Ted. Leave your guns at home son.”

      But it was too late. Ted had already strapped his on.

     “Boss you know damn well they ain’t loaded. Ever since that drifter you

hired then fired a couple months got drunk and shot up the place you ain’t allowed

no loaded weapons on the premises.”

    “Or any liquor for that matter either,” chimed in Bill. “That’s why we’re going to town.”

    “So why do you need your guns then if you’re gonna drink?”

   “Because a man ain’t a man unless he’s packing while he’s drinking. That’s why.

Nobody messes with ya if you got a big iron on your hip Boss.”

   “A big iron on your hip Ted?”

  “Ya a big iron on your hip Boss. Besides we got bullets with us in our gun belts in case

we need ‘em.”

      “Well don’t be needing ‘em. I worry about you two getting drunk, doing something

foolish, like challenging someone to a gunfight, and getting yourselves killed. I don’t

want to lose you two. You’re good hands. You know how hard it is to get good help

nowadays in light of that saddlebum I had to fire.”

      “Boss, I’ve been practicing my drawing at night after supper.  I’m pretty quick.”

     “Well, I’ve seen ya out there practicing Ted. Going up against the other guys in those mock draws of yours and I’m not impressed. In fact, I’m under impressed. I’m an old man. I’ve seen my share of gunfights in my day and you ain’t no gunfighter Ted. You’re just a gunfighter wannabe. You’re a cowboy and that’s all you’ll ever be. So stay one.

   That remark offended Ted.  So he flipped his boss a contemptuous salute and stomped out of the bunkhouse, slamming the door so hard behind him that the whole flimsy building shook.

   Bill tilted his head, gave his boss a raised eyebrow wide eyed look that said,’oh well’, shrugged his shoulders, and gently shut the door behind him as he left.

   They went to the A Tu Salud Saloon. It was Saturday night, the joint was jumping, the drinks were flowing, the piano was tinkling, the crowd was mingling, the place was jelly jam packed. The two of them sauntered up to the bar when Bill suddenly grabbed Ted by the arm, stopped him, and said, “Watch out for that spittoon there Ted.”

    There on the floor was a spotlessly clean gold spittoon with not a drop of spit dribbling down its side. Ted almost kicked it over but he saw it in time and avoided it. But he paid no attention at all to the man standing a few feet from it. 

    “Two beers Sam,” shouted Ted above the din.

    Sam came forward and plopped down two heavy bottomed glasses of beer with a deadening ominous thud. Ted flipped Sam a gold piece.

    “Let Bill know when that’s gone Sam. He’s getting the next rounds.”

    Sam smiled as he shook his head side to side. He liked these two amiable cowboys who always behaved themselves, were polite, and always let him keep the change.

    Simultaneously Ted and Bill each took a good long drink, wiped their mouths with their sleeves, slammed their beers down, and even said, “Ah” at the same time.

    “The nerve of him saying I’m a gunfighter wannabe. You’ve seen me outdraw every man at the ranch, Bill. You know that I had my gun out and pointed at them while their hands were still on their holsters. Hell, not a one of them ever got their gun out of their holster did they?”

    “Ted, don’t be taking yourself so seriously. Those guys ain’t no gunslingers. They’re just a bunch of wet behind the ears young cowpokes like ourselves. Hell you ain’t never been up against anyone in your life and there’s no way to know how good you are unless you go up against a real gunfighter and I don’t believe it would be in your best interests to do so.”

   “You too huh, You think I’m slow too do ya? That I’m just a gunfighter wannabe.”

    Ted took a step to his right, stepping over the spitoon, hoping to insult his partner by distancing himself from him. That’s when he felt it on his hand, something wet and sticky. He looked at his hand.  Someone had spit tobacco juice on him. He looked at the man to the right of him, the obvious culprit.

    “Hey you there,” shouted Ted to the man.

    He got no response.

    “Hey you old timer.” The man’s stoop shoulders and uncut gray hair sticking out from under his cowboy hat gave his age away.  “Hey I’m talking to you old man,” bellowed Ted, tapping him on the shoulder.

    The man slowly, and with apparent effort, turned his creaky old frame around to face Ted.

     He’s an old timer alright probably in his sixties, thought Ted as he studied the man’s wrinkled up face. Why he ain’t nothing but a washed up old saddle tramp.

    “What?” demanded the man in a surprisingly rather loud bold voice.

    “You spit on me.”

     “No, I spit in the spittoon.”

     “No ya didn’t old timer. You spit on my hand. Here, take a look.”  Ted held up his hand for the man to see the indisputable evidence.

     “That’s your fault then not mine. You walked into it because I was aiming for the spittoon and I alway hit what I’m aiming at.” He turned his back to Ted.

     Ted put his hand on the man’s shoulder and spun him around. Then he wiped the spit on the front of the man’s shirt.

     Instinctively the man reached for the gun that wasn’t there. He was unarmed. Unarmed by choice. He didn’t wear a gun anymore because if someone recognized him as George Westin the gunfighter, there was always some fool wanting to challenge him to a gunfight. But under the code of the west no one ever shot an unarmed man. No one would gain a reputation as a legitimate gunfighter if he did so. He’d be branded a coward and a poltroon. The lowest life form ever there in the West.

     Sam handed Westin a towel. Westin wiped off his shirt, best he could anyway, then threw it in Ted’s face. Ted went for his gun. It was unloaded of course but only he and Bill knew that. He did it for show, bravado.

    “I’m not armed,” said Westin, raising his hands in the air, backing away.

     “Ain’t armed huh. Well I can fix that.”  said Ted as he took off his gun belt, laid it on the bar, and slid it to the man.

   “There put it on.”

   The man put it on.

    Now it was Ted’s turn to get swung around.

    “What in the hell are you doing Ted?” demanded Bill.

    “Just shut up and give me your gun belt will ya.”

    “You know damn well it ain’t loaded,”  he whispered.

     “Well neither is mine.”

     “So what are you doing then?”

     “Just funning with the old man. That’s all.”

     “You know who you’re funning with?” interrupted the eavesdropping Sam leaning over to the two of them.

     “No who?”

     “George Westin. One Shot Westin. One and he’s done. That’s who.”

     “That old fool is One Shot Westin the gunslinger?” asked an astonished Ted as his eyes lit up. He couldn’t believe his good luck. Now he’d get a chance to go up against a real gunfighter. Find out how fast he really is and not get killed in the process.

     “How many men has he killed?”

     “Depends on who you ask,” answered Sam.

     “That many huh.”

     “For god sakes leave the man alone Ted.” squawked Bill. “You don’t want to be messin’ with George Westin.”

     “Give me your gun Bill. I’m gonna outdraw the great George Westin. Give it to me now.”

     “No.”

     “Bill.”

     “Okay, okay it’s your funeral, kind of.”

     “Bill took off his gun belt and handed it to Ted. Ted buckled it on and turned around to face his opponent who now stared at him with fire and brimstone in his cold steel gray killer eyes. Ted shuttered. The two instinctively started backing away from each other like two wild male of the species animals sizing each other up. The crowd backed away too, making sure they were out of the line of fire. But they still remained of course not wishing to miss the action. Then when Ted and Westin thought they were far enough apart they stopped.

     “Your move cowboy. Whenever you’re ready, go for it. If you got the guts that is,” taunted Westin looking Ted right in his blinking twitching dull light brown eyes.

     Ted went for it but he never got his gun out of his holster. Westin had clicked off all six empty shots in a blink of an eye, leaving Ted standing there looking like the fool he was. The crowd let out a burst of laughter, christening him the laughing stock of the A Tu Salud Saloon.

      Westin holstered Ted’s gun, took off Ted’s gun belt, and tossed it back to him.

     “Lucky for you kid that you’re so dumb that you forgot to load your own gun.”

     That set off another round of guffaws from the crowd.

    “Salud. To your health cowboy,” said Westin raising his shot glass, then downing his drink in one fell gulp and loudly slamming his shot glass on the bar.

    Ted slinked out of the bar with his tail tucked between his legs. A few minutes later Bill left. He didn’t want to be seen leaving with Ted.

     Word got back to the bunkhouse that night before Bill and Ted did and for the next week the men had trouble keeping from laughing at Ted whenever they saw him.

    The next weekend after that fiasco Bill and Ted drew range duty. That meant they’d be out there on the lone prairie all by themselves riding the fence lines checking for breaks, keeping an eye out for lame, sick, or injured cattle, or anything else that might come up and need their attention. This gave Ted the time he needed to work on his draw and his aim. Bill tried to talk him out of it but all to no avail. Ted, insulted and humiliated, had to have his revenge. So he practiced drawing and shooting every chance he got when he was far enough away from the ranch for his shots not to be heard.

    But he wasn’t the only one practicing. Oh no George Washington Westin the aging and one of the last of the gunfighters, was practicing too. He’d been in the business long enough to know that if he outdrew someone and he let them walk away, like here, that person would be gunning for him and he wouldn’t quit until one of them was dead. He also knew that he was getting old and that he was that split second slower on the draw now. But he knew how to fix that. He’d make his hair trigger even hairier. Make it so that it went off even quicker. So he worked with the trigger mechanism until he got it to the point that at the slightest touch it would fire. It might not be all that much that he gained, maybe a tenth of a second, but that tenth could be the difference between life and death.

     Next Saturday night, the same place, the same cast of characters, met for the final showdown.

     Westin was at the bar talking to Sam when Bill and Ted strolled in. He spotted them first. He wanted to get this over with.

    “Loaded for bear this time are ya kid,” hollered Westin.

    “Yes I am,” answered Ted, “but it looks like you aren’t.”

    Westin was unarmed.

   “You afraid to face me since I’ve been practicing.”

   “Sam,” said Westin.

   Sam reached under the bar, took out Westin’s gun belt, the notches in his gun handle clearly visible for all to see, and handed it to Westin who strapped it on.

     “I am now. Got bullets in it too. You remember to put bullets in your gun this time cowboy. I don’t want to be shooting me no unarmed dumb kid.”

     “Yah, I got bullets in it this time, old timer.”

      With that said the patrons scattered like rats deserting a sinking ship out the door. They knew the bullets would be flying this time and no one wanted to be anywhere near them when they did. Sam went over, closed the front door, locked it shut, returned, and took his place behind the bar. Just the three of them were in the place now. Bill was gone. He didn’t want to see his partner get killed.

    Westin backed away from the bar and assumed the gunfighter position.

   “Still your turn to go first, kid.”

   Ted went for it and again he was too slow. Westin got off the first shot but because he had fine tuned his hair trigger so, he missed his mark. His gun went off before he got it aimed at Ted’s heart and the bullet hit Ted in his left shoulder, knocking him to the floor, and sending his gun flying from his hand. Ted put his right hand over his wound. It hurt like hell but he never let on. He’d be damned if he’d give Westin the satisfaction.  

     Westin held his fire, satisfied the fight was over now.

    “It’s over, kid. I don’t shoot injured unarmed men.”

     Westin holstered his gun, turned around to Sam, and signaled for him to pour him a drink.  And as Sam did so Ted stayed where he was and surveyed the situation. He saw his gun was three feet to the left of him. He thought about going for it but since Westin’s back was to him he couldn’t shoot him in the back. The man who killed One Shot Westin had to shoot him face to face.

    The crowd began beating on the door after having heard the gunshot demanding to be let in.

    I have to get him turned around to shoot him, thought Ted. I can’t be a back shooting coward now can I.

   Sam was pouring Westin a second drink when he saw Ted reach over, grab his pistol, and aim it at Westin.

    “Westin turn around and face me you coward,” shouted Ted.

    That was the last thing Ted ever said. In the blink of an eye Sam took his pistol out from under the bar and shot Ted dead center in his breast killing him before Westin ever got turned around.

     That second shot was too much for the crowd. They had to know what was going on and had to know it now, even if they exposed themselves to danger. So they beat down the door and rushed in. Bill ran over to the fallen Ted, knelt down, and propped up his buddy to his chest. He began to cry. Then he saw the two gunshot wounds on Ted’s chest and smiled.

     “Look at it this way Ted old buddy, old pal,” chuckled Bill, “it took One Shot Westin two shots to kill you. No other gunfighter can say that.”

The author is a retired attorney.

            Jabbing the posthole diggers into the ground, I pull the sandy soil from the earth. Digging post holes all day isn’t exactly my idea of fun, but I guess that’s what I get for working on the A- Ranch. It is one of the bigger ranches in the Sandhills, and everyone knows the A- brand. While I’m digging from dawn until dusk, my boss gets to ride around on his white stallion and ‘oversee’ everything. He then goes home to his lovely wife and feasts on chicken pot pie or meatloaf, and what do I get? Bologna and wonder bread. Pathetic. I work for Mark and Ellie Anderson; they hired me after high school because my pa died of cancer, and I had nowhere else to go.

            “Calvin, get back to work, you’ve been starin’ at the horizon way too long,” Mark says, slinging out his pliers to tighten the wire on a post I thought that I had finished. I allow my eyes to growl at him, and I pluck my fingers into the finely ground tobacco and pack my bottom lip with a dip. The clouds begin to roll over the hills from the east, casting shade on our sweaty bodies.

*******

            The fall wasn’t a bad one, except that President Kennedy was assassinated. Ellie cried for an entire week. Before we knew it, we had our first snowstorm, and then the next couple. I live in the Bunkhouse, and it isn’t properly insulated. I have a feeling that mold is growing in the ceiling, and I hear the mice scampering between the walls. I had spent Christmas day with my mom, and with a pickup filled to the brim of leftovers, I came back so I can be ready to feed the cows the next day.

            “How is Charlene?” Mark insists that I share a meal with him and his family every so often.

            “Mom’s getting along alright; she is still stationed at the post office.” I shift in my seat, hoping that the casual questions would end soon. Snow whirls in currents outside of the window, warning me of heavy snowfall for the night.

            After a few more minutes of talking, I slip on my muck boots to bear the cold. I begin the four-hundred-meter jaunt back to the bunkhouse. Snow layers the land, outlining the hills and the trees. I wonder what the Kennedys are doing for Christmas. How can a man feel so inclined to murder? Granted, I lose my temper, but that is only when people or cows are being stupid. My reverie dissipates as a flash of black pierces my eyes. There is something about six hundred meters away in the calving lot next to my house. Mark’s Angus cows are still in the Rosebud pasture, there is no reason why a cow should be this close to the house.

            The black smudge moves faster than the normal speed of a pregnant cow trudging through the snow. Loping a few meters forward, it jumps over the fence into the tree line. Picking up speed, I stomp faster to inspect the fence for broken barbed wire. Even though it is below freezing, sweat begins to bundle under the wild rag on my neck. Not a single wire on the fence is snapped, nor fence post crushed. Highly unusual when a cow jumps the fence. I’ll tell Mark in the morning that a cow must be loose.  

*******

Mark and I saddle up and ride around the tree line looking for the possible lost cow. He is just as puzzled as I am.

            “Are you sure you saw a cow? Maybe you have floaters in your vision.”

            “I’m 22 years old, I don’t think I have that.”

            “Well, I’ll ride through the rest of the herd just in case to see if a cow is missing.”

            As Mark lopes his horse into the western hills, I decide to go clean up the tack in the horse barn. I pour my horse Big Red some oats in the feeding trough inside the barn. I grab the saddle oil to see if I can rub the squeak out of my fender. Every time I get into a trot on Big Red, it sounds like a little mouse is yelping with every step. It nearly drives me mad.

            Glancing out of the barn window, I notice that Mark trotting up to the barn. He hops off his horse and pokes his head through the open door.

            “There’s no missing cow, thank God.”

            “Maybe I was just tired or something, or maybe-”

            “Either way, once you’re done taking care of the tack, clean all of the horse crap out of here, okay?” Mark flashes a smile under his burly mustache.After oiling my own saddle, I oil Ellie’s saddle. The dust swirls around me in the barn, configured by the light streaming through the window. The smell of must and sweaty horse lingers. Clean the horse crap. I trudge to get the shovel.

Out of the window, the rotor is standing still on the windmill- no wind today. The sun is blaring, reflecting off the snow to create an extreme level of brightness, compared to the dim barn. Then I see it again. Standing near the base of the windmill is the black smudge. Taking a few steps toward the window, I try to decipher the shape of a black object. It is the same size as a cow, but it doesn’t have short hair like our Angus cows do. It has long matted fur. And a muzzle. It’s a black wolf!

 Hidden in the belly of the barn, I know that the wolf cannot see me.I open a cabinet to see if Mark left his rifle. Nothing. I step out of the barn and sprint toward Mark’s house. My heart is pounding as fast as a rabbit- a helpless little prey. I turn my head to see if the wolf is chasing me. It is closer now, but it is sitting in the snow. Its bright orange eyes are on me, looking me over. Facing the wolf, I notice that he is baring his teeth. He opens his mouth as if he is going to howl to alert his pack of fresh meat. Instead, he lets out a laugh. Not a howl that sounds like a laugh, but a chuckle.

I stumble down onto the sandy snowy ground. The wolf keeps laughing at me. Wave after wave of his billowy cackle pierces my ears. I run back to Mark’s house. I don’t look back. My lungs burn like fire as I lumber onto the front porch.

“Good Heavens Cal!” Ellie exclaims. I hear the click of Mark’s lazyboy as he stomps into the front porch.

“You drunk kid?”

“I saw…” I take a moment to catch my breath. I can feel my hair matted to my scalp from sweat. “I saw a black wolf.”

Mark raises his eyebrows. “There aren’t any wolves in the Sandhills.”

“No, I saw it. And it was as big as a cow.” Ellie shoots a worried glance at Mark.

“Look out the window, it’s right over by the windmill!”

“I don’t see no dang wolf,” Mark takes a sharp exhale. “Tell you what Calvin, you have been working hard, and I think that you should take the rest of the day off.”

“I swear I saw it.”

“Why don’t you walk down to the bunkhouse and have an early supper and go to bed.”

“It was right there, I’m not crazy.” I feel a bead of sweat running down my face.

“I think that the stress of the job and the fumes of the saddle oil might be getting to your head.”

“I know what I saw, I heard it laugh.” At that moment I notice that my head is banging as if a migraine is coming on. “My head does kind of hurt.”

Their house smells of beef stew. Once again, I would be eating bologna. I walk back to the Bunkhouse, checking over my shoulder every so often. I go right to bed, at 5:00 p.m. with no supper. Perhaps I did inhale too many fumes.

*******

Months have passed since hallucinating the wolf. Mark and Ellie didn’t feel like mentioning it, trying to shield me from the obvious embarrassment I had been to myself. We moved the pregnant momma cows into the lot next to my house so that we can keep a close eye on them when they begin to calve. Every time I visit my mom for an occasional dinner, she always mentions how I have lost weight. She is hypersensitive to that sort of stuff because my dad lost a lot of weight when he was sick.

Snow still blankets the ground, and the chill has been biting my skin. Frost lays thick on the ponds, and I feel like the sun rarely comes out from his hiding place behind the clouds. President Johnson established the Warren Commission to investigate the death of JFK. All I know is that the guy who killed JFK was killed a couple of days later by some nightclub owner. I think that it is karma because Oswald had it coming, but Ellie always says how sometimes things just happen because we live in a fallen world. That is always her answer for all bad things. If someone dies, that is because sin entered the world, and a consequence of sin is death. Ellie and Mark always go to St. Joseph’s, but I don’t go anywhere anymore. I haven’t really been to a service since dad’s funeral.

Mark and his family are in the big city today for some doctor appointments. He made it very clear that he expects the calving barn to be well-cleaned by the time he gets back. Scrape the old frozen afterbirth off the ground, spread new straw, scoop the cow crap, and sprinkle calcium carbonate to trap the odors and germs. The calving barn I am cleaning up is big enough to hold around fifteen cows and their newborns, so the task is going to take me all morning.

A grumble in my stomach erupts about two hours into the job. I guess that is what I get for skipping breakfast because I slept in. I try to spread the new straw quicker to see if time will move faster, but the dull pain is still present within me.

“Hunger shouldn’t be ignored.” My heart jumps into my throat as I spin around to see where the voice is coming from. Sitting in the far corner pin of the calving barn is the wolf I saw months earlier. His paws are about the size of my face, and I can see steam rolling off his burly body.

“What are… how did…”

“If I were you, I would go and find some food. There is no use working on an empty stomach.”

Without even thinking I respond, “Mark expects this to be finished by the time he gets back.” The wolf closes his eyes and emits a low growl. His ears twitch slightly.

“Mark wants you to work here in the cold while he eats at a nice restaurant. That doesn’t sound fair to me.” The wolf flings his eyes open, exposing his burning orange eyes. His pupils dilate as he focuses on me.

“What are you even?” My stomach turns.

“I am what you think I am.”

Silence settles in the barn as I stare at the wolf, watching the black fur on his chest rise and soften. “Well, I’m not sure what I should think. My boss thinks that I may be losing it, or that my eyesight is bad.”

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks. What matters is what you think. You should think to eat some breakfast.” The wolf flashes a smile; his sharp teeth are as white as the snow outside. Numbly, I walk out of the barn and head to my house. I do not check to see if the wolf is following me. I enter the bunkhouse and take off my boots. What if I am actually seeing the wolf? As I make myself a sandwich and open a bag of Doritos, I deliberately decide not to tell Mark or Ellie. They wouldn’t get it. No one will be able to get it except me, because I am the only one who can see the wolf. When Mark and Ellie arrive back at the ranch later that day, I feel a sense of pride as I keep my secret from them. They would never get it, but I do.

*******

As soon as the first calf dropped onto the ground, the intense season of calving began. The investigation of JFK’s death still treks on, and I wonder how Jackie and her family have been handling his absence. So far, we have fifty calves, with only three deaths. Not too shabby. We still have hundreds of cows left to calve. Mark and I both have been losing sleep. We check the cows through the night and still get up early in the morning to feed the cows. I usually take the midnight and 2 a.m. shift, and Mark usually checks them at 10 pm and 4 a.m. The wolf never hurts our livestock. He’s not like other wolves. When I check the cows, sometimes the wolf joins me. We talk about what it is like to live alone. He is a lone wolf, and I am by myself most of the day. Unlike my mom or Mark, he listens to me as I talk. He understands me, and he says that he will only appear to me because I deserve it more than others. He says that the nights are bitingly cold and that he wishes he had a place to rest.

As I slip on my overalls and muck boots, I think about the conversation I had with the wolf the night prior. He told me that I should be in charge of the A- ranch because I do more work than Mark. I somewhat agree, even though I know that this ranch has been in Mark’s family for generations. Mark used to run it with his two brothers after his dad died, and he grew up in the same house he lives in now. The wolf insists. I am starting to trust the wolf more and more.

During the dark hours of the night, the wolf has been there to be my companion. I always look forward to talking with him, even though guilt bubbles up in my consciousness about keeping secrets from Mark and Ellie. I open my front door and stomp through the snow to the preheating feed pickup. I loaded it up with cake yesterday, so now I just need to feed the brown pellets to the cows. There are no clouds in the crystalized blue sky, and the warm sun gives me a smidge of hope for the coming spring. I drive past Mark on his horse, and he waves me down to talk to him.

“Two calves, Calvin. Two calves died last night. Didn’t you check them?” Mark isn’t shouting, but I can hear the disappointment in his tone.

“I swear I checked them!”

“Well if you would have checked them, you would have realized that there were wet newborn calves on the frozen ground. You would have had the right mind to put them in the calving barn with their mommas to warm up.”

“Didn’t you hear me! I said I checked them. If anything, it’s probably your mistake.” I surprise myself by yelling at Mark.

“Listen, Calvin, just try to do better. I know things have been a little rough for you lately, especially because this time four years ago, you know…” Mark is no longer frowning, instead, his blue eyes have a shade of worry to them.

“You don’t know anything.” Without saying goodbye, I drive away. I see Mark in my review window, fiddling with his reins. What does he know, that my dad died four years ago? That doesn’t mean that he understands anything. I drive the feeding pickup over to our first group of cows and feed them. I watch their udders swing back and forth as they jog towards the feeding pickup, knowing that there will be a promise of cake to nourish their bodies. I switch a toggle shift, allowing the cake to funnel out of the feeder, onto the ground. Cows swarm around the cake as maggots do on a piece of rotting flesh. I guess everything must be fed somehow.

After feeding that bunch of cows, I move on to the next bunch. As I drive to the next pasture, I feel a tug on the steering wheel, as the pickup slides off the road into the muddy ditch. I press the gas pedal to the floor, but the pickup does not budge.I press on the gas pedal again, and I hear the tires dig themselves deeper into the slush. The once beautiful sunlight seems blinding as I hop out of the pickup to inspect how badly I am stuck.

“Damnit!” I yell at the pickup, but mostly at myself for messing up, once again.

“I see that you have found yourself in a rough spot.” Feeling hot breath on my neck, I spin around and find myself face to face with the wolf.

“Will you help me get out? Surely you are strong enough to push me out, please.”

“You ask a grandiose thing of me. What do I ever ask of you?” The wolf questions in a low whisper. I gaze into his bright orange eyes, hoping to find a hint of sympathy, but they are placid. The orangeness of them reminds me of a hunter in the woods. I reflect on the feeling I had once in the wolf’s presence. One of a rabbit.

“You ask nothing of me. But I could really use your help right now. Mark is already pissed at me.” My mouth has become dry, and my tongue feels like sandpaper.

“If I do this for you, I will have to ask one thing of you.” The wolf wears a smile.

“I’ll do anything you ask. Please just help me out!” I reach out my hand to touch his thick fur, but I stop myself, for I realize I have never touched the wolf’s coat before. I don’t want to anger him in this moment of helplessness.

“I will help you out. All I ask is that you leave your front door open during the night. Do not close it, do not lock it, just leave it cracked open so I can slip in.”

“It’s going to be below freezing tonight, the cold will get in.”

“The cold doesn’t matter. How do you think I feel sleeping out in the cold, night after night? Have you ever broadened your mind to think about how I must feel?”

“I didn’t realize. I guess I could just bundle up. Fine. I will do it, just please help me now.” The wolf motions for me to get back into the pickup. I stick my head out of the window. He lifts himself up, so he is standing on his two back paws. He is about twelve feet tall standing upright. Bigger than any horse I had ever ridden. If I hadn’t had a personal relationship with him, I would probably find myself a little frightened. He places his paws on the back of my pickup, and he yells at me to press on the gas. The growl of the motor is weak compared to the amplitude of the growl coming from the wolf. I realize that the pickup is inching out of the ditch. Looking back at him, I notice that his large eyes are shut as he strains to push the pickup out of the muck. Inch by inch, the pickup works its way back onto the road. That’s a relief, now Mark won’t have another reason to yell at me. I hop out of the pickup onto the frozen ground.

“Thank you, wolf.”

“Don’t forget your promise, I know I won’t. I will see you tonight.” The wolf nods his head and bounds off, back to the tree line. He disappears from my sight, but I know that he won’t be far.

I feed the next few bunches of cows with ease. I wonder how long the wolf will stay during the night. Should I lay a blanket out for him in case he wants to sleep; I don’t even know if he would want a blanket. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Should I tidy up my house? What about the mold in my ceiling? My brain continues to run with ideas of how to make the wolf feel welcome in my home while I pull up to the horse barn. As I pour a bucket of cake into the horses’ feeding trough outside, I don’t realize Mark and Ellie walk up behind me.

“Hey Calvin, how’s it going?” Ellie says. I know that she is smiling because she is trying to appear caring.

“Good.” I smooth out the cake into an even layer in the feeding trough. I notice Big Red and the other horses slowly approaching.

“Mark told me that you seemed a little stressed out this morning, are you sure you are okay?” Ellie asks. The sun flashes off her dangling Crucifix necklaces into my eyes. I know that Ellie is going to give me her usual lecture on how I should have hope in the Lord and that everything will get better. She will offer to drive me to town to see my mom. By saying those words though, she never makes me feel better, in fact, they just make me kind of mad.

“I’m fine. Didn’t you hear me the first time, woman?”

“Don’t you talk to her that way. All she is trying to do is help you.” Mark says. The blood veins in his forehead are popping out in the same way they do when he gets fired up while working cattle.

“You guys can help me by leaving me alone.” I flash a smile at them, but not because I am happy. Because I am right. Mark wraps his arm around Ellie as he shoots me a glare. They walk away, leaving me to do my chores. There is no doubt that Ellie is going to go phone my mother, but I didn’t care. A new kind of fire is pummeling through my veins. Before I knew the wolf, I would have never been able to stand up to my boss. Now I can do it with ease.

*******

As the sun goes down, I remember the promise I made with the wolf. Actually, I haven’t been able to get the thought out of my mind all day. I pick up some dirty laundry off my floor, and I wash all of the dirty dishes. I put on multiple layers and even my coat. Setting a stone in front of the screen door, I prop it open, just as the wolf instructed me to do. Sitting down on the living room couch, I await the arrival of the wolf. It is about nine, and I know that I will have to check the cows at midnight. Perhaps the wolf would like to come with me. The cold pricks my skin, but I clench my teeth and bear it.

*******

I wake up still on the couch. I didn’t mean to fall asleep; I glance at the clock. 11:30. A low growl startles me as I jolt upright. Combing the room, I notice that the huge black mass of the wolf is settled in the corner of the room.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. You see I left the door open?” I point towards the front door, hoping to receive praise. The wolf just stares at me; his eyes seem to no longer be a bright orange, but rather, as red as an open wound.

“Did you want me to set a blanket out or anything? You can even sleep in my room if you want, I can stay sleeping on the couch.” I stammer, looking for the right words. “I have some cuts of meat in the freezer if you want any. I have pork and beef.”

“Indeed. There is something I want.” The wolf answers in a grating voice. His presence looms over me, making my insides squirm. “I want you. And I already have you. I found you alone. You trusted me and followed me as a moth does to fluorescent light.”

“What? I don’t quite understand.” My heart drops to my ankles. The wolf rises to all fours and takes a step toward me. “But you helped me, and you listened to me. And I left the door open to my house.”

“You are all alone. Mark and Ellie tried to help you, all in vain. Your mother would be disappointed in you. You cannot escape.” I fall to my knees. A few tears spill from my eyes onto the dirty shag carpet. The wolf carefully moves closer to me.

“What are you?”

“I am what you think I am. And you thought wrong. Few people ever find out.”

“I don’t… What do you want from me?”

“I want you.”

“Please just stop. Stop! Leave me alone.” Tears keep rolling from my eyes, and my heart is pounding once again, like a rabbit.

“But you see, hunger is not a thing that should be ignored. It should be tended to.” With the stench of death fuming from his mouth, the wolf exhibits his sharp teeth. The wolf pounces, landing atop me.

*******

At four a.m. Mark wakes up to check the cows. A couple of cows look like they are ready to calve. Walking past Calvin’s house, he realizes that the front door is propped open. Mark decides to investigate the house. Stepping into the house, Mark first realizes the metal smell lingering in the air. The house is as cold as it is outside, and as Mark walks into the living room he finds Calvin. A mass pile of blood has frozen to the shag carpet, and Calvin has huge gaping holes in his neck.

“My dear Jesus, how could this happen?” Mark squats down to feel Calvin’s skin, and it is as cold as snow. Mark sprints back to his house and calls 911, but how can he exactly explain what he saw? There is no knife or gun around Calvin’s body. The holes looked like were bite marks from that of a predator. Mark recalls months ago when Calvin came into his house disheveled, exclaiming that he had seen a wolf. Mark holds Ellie close to him as he cries into her hair. Ellie wraps her arms around him, holding him in an embrace.

Grace Vinton grew up on a cattle ranch in the Sandhills of Nebraska. She is currently pursuing her Secondary English Education and Creative Writing minor at the University of Nebraska in Kearney. She loves writing, riding horses, and the Sandhills.

It was three years ago, last time I saw Bullfrog Mullins play live. I had to drive an hour and a half to Atlantic City. Tonight, he’s here in my town, playing at my local spot. The taproom at Lucky Lanes has a long bar with a string of lights shaped like jalapenos over it. Near the pool tables there’s a little plywood platform that passes for a stage. Nights when they bring in some crummy cover band, I usually find somewhere else to drink.

The first legitimate artist they booked in years turned out to be one of my top five of all time. My father has roots near Tallahassee, so he put Bullfrog up there with Willie and Waylon. When we moved to Jersey from Pittsburgh, he let the cassette flip five times and turned it up when I complained. I listened to Bullfrog a lot when I lived in LA, where everyone pretended not to know who he was.

I get a little lit in the bar waiting for him to show. There’s a couple next to me, halfway facing each other where the bar makes a right. The guy has a Hawaiian shirt on, and he keeps looking at his watch. He doesn’t want to keep the sitter waiting. They’re arguing, as if I’m not sitting right here. I’m used to it. Most people’s eyes just slide off a girl like me. Most of the time I like it that way.

At eleven o’clock they turn the lights off at the concession stand. He comes in through a door with a red exit sign over it and walks to the stage leaning right to offset the amp in his left hand. His leather vest shines in worn out patches and a band of sweat circles his felt cattleman. He bought his jeans stiff and dark blue and faded them himself. If he ever walked into a supermarket, he would look exactly the same. Bullfrog is five foot eight inches held together by tobacco resin.

            The industrial smell of his cologne, like some kind of machine oil, hits me as he walks to the bar. There are heavy rings, steel, maybe pewter, on the two fingers he holds up like a peace sign. He walks away with two beer bottles and sets them up under a tall black pub stool on the stage. When he grabs a bottle between songs he knows where it is without looking.

The voice that earned him his name wasn’t built to last, but his fingers move alright on an old Gibson. He wears a brass slide on his pinky and opens with a Carl Perkins tune. In the short set Bullfrog plays, he manages to repeat a verse in “Barn Owl” and forget the words to “Guess I Got Lucky That Day.” I can’t tell if anyone else notices.

Most of the crowd waits to hear him play “Florida,” which he does after he makes a half-assed show of leaving the stage. When he hits the first chords people in rented shoes wander in from the lanes. “I love this song. This is him? He’s the Florida guy?”

I never cared for “Florida.” I know, every fan hates the hits because the hits don’t belong to them. “Florida” doesn’t even belong to Bullfrog anymore. It’s a beer commercial, a spring break anthem that sold tourism and orange juice. It charted in the late eighties and became a radio staple on rock and country stations. The song fell in the sweet spot between cowboy boots and boat shoes with enough electric guitar and Southern fuck you to last. It’s the reason Bullfrog Mullins can still make a living as a musician and the reason I get to see him play at the bowling alley thirty years later.

When Bullfrog carries his gear out the way he came in, I shuffle out the front door with the crowd. I stand away from the smokers that gather around the doorway and listen to a voicemail from the pharmacy telling me my prescription is ready. A pickup pulls out of the parking lot with the radio playing. I put my phone away and inhale, catching the smell of weed mixed with tobacco smoke.

A cab pulls to the curb and four people squeeze into the back. I bum a cigarette from a young guy talking to his girlfriend and puff on it a few feet away from them. I can’t think of anything to say to them and when they walk away I flick it into the street. I don’t know what I expect from these nights. Whatever it is never happens. Almost everyone’s gone when I walk back inside to my seat. The bartender hasn’t cleared my empties.

I’m surprised when Bullfrog comes back into the bar and throws a leg over the stool next to me like he’s mounting a horse. Ten years ago, Bullfrog signed my CD at a record store. I met him again before a show in Philly. Even still, I feel a tingle in my pits. I count the bottles on the bar, lined up with wet, wrinkled labels while a fresh one sweats in my hand. Not that I think Bullfrog will disapprove.

“My daddy is from Leon County.” Just like that, it comes out of my mouth. He makes a slow turn on the barstool to face me. For a second I think he might stare until I slink away and leave him alone.

“Where’bouts?” he says.

“Near Lake Jackson. He took me to see you when you opened for Merle.”

“Huh,” he says. He looks at his beer like he wants its opinion. When he turns back to me, he’s back on stage, performing. “Thing about Merle is, he’s full of shit. Every night of that tour we hit a bong the size of a grain silo before he went out to bash the hippies for getting high. What year was that? ’98?”

“’92.”

“How ‘bout that. What’s your name, sister?”

I never get to answer. We both turn when a woman comes into the bar and shouts, “Oh my gosh, you’re still here!” For a second I think she knows him. There are two of them, mid-forties and pretty. The one who spoke has blond curls. The other is shorter and has a stud through her nose.

“I just wanted to say that you were amazing,” she goes on, stretching out the second a. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would just love to get a picture with you.” Bullfrog gives me a shrug and slings an arm around the blonde. The other woman holds up a phone and frowns.

“Not here,” she says. “It won’t come out.” She motions them to a table in the corner. Bullfrog hops down and follows. She snaps a few pictures, and then they switch places. Then they squeeze Bullfrog’s face between theirs and take a selfie. Then they order a round of shooters.

I almost have to admire them. They hunt in a pack, like hyenas. After awhile the short one peels off. Alone in the bar with Bullfrog and the blonde, I start to squirm on the stool. It isn’t jealousy. I didn’t come to screw Bullfrog Mullins. Neither did she, but it looks like she’s thinking about it now. I pull the wallet out of my back pocket by the chain on my belt. It’s time to go.

I hear them as I’m counting out a tip. They sing it together.

“We drink it in the sunshine, made it by the light of the moon

Shootin’ bottles, singin’ loud, sleepin’ in the afternoon”

She mumbles through the rest of the verse and comes back big for the chorus.

“If I’m down and out in Florida, at least it ain’t New York or D.C.

Play my guitar all day long underneath the Cypress tree

If I’m doin’ time in Florida, Florida’s where I gotta be

Long as I can see the Florida sun, it’s good enough for me”

When I hit the air again I know I have no business driving. I drop my keys in the parking lot swinging them around on my finger. It’s almost empty now and it’s not hard to guess that Bullfrog got here in the brown and tan conversion van with Florida plates. I remember reading that he lives in Vegas now.

I get into my car and the CD starts where it left off when I turn the key in the ignition. The song is “Ghost Man.” It was playing when the truck overheated and my father popped the hood, and I could barely see him through the steam. He wouldn’t let me help and he swore at me when I got too close, and then he said he was sorry and he didn’t want me to get hurt.

The trash in the glove box rattles when I open it. I have a flashlight in there, and my registration, and an insurance card I got before I let the insurance lapse. I have lip balm and tampons and napkins from drive-thrus. I have a short, green-handled Phillips head screwdriver. It rolls over my palm and I wrap my fingers around it.

I leave the door open and the engine running when I get out of the car. Even with half the lights out in the parking lot I can see the rust around the wheel wells of Bullfrog’s van. If anyone sees me with my hand on the side of the van to hold me up, they probably think I’m puking. The thought has crossed my mind.

I reach down and stab the sidewall with the screwdriver. When it doesn’t work, I dig it in, twisting as I put my weight on it until I hear the air hissing out.  I do the next one on my knees. That one goes quicker and I jump up when the van rocks toward me. I take a few backwards steps before I turn and walk back to my car.

On the way I home I think about the van. It’s a big box on wheels and the curtains in the windows make me wonder how often Bullfrog sleeps in it. I can still hear the music over the wind from the open window that keeps me awake and focused on the road. I pop out the CD.

With my left ring finger wedged through the hole I hold it out the window, angling it up and down against the current of air. I consider letting it go but I pull the CD back in and toss it on the passenger seat. I wonder what will happen when Bullfrog finds out what I did. Maybe he’ll miss a show in Wilmington or Baltimore. Maybe the blonde will feel bad and take him home with her. Maybe he’ll write a song about it. I wonder if he’ll know it was me.

James Hertler lives in Red Bank, New Jersey with his wife and two children and works at the lumberyard. He studied creative writing at the University of Rochester and writes fiction, short and long.

We had no intention of including “the cowgirl” in our schedule to critique each other’s work. That was back in the early 60s when we were students at the Chicago Institute of Art. 

            Our delusion was pierced by a voice that said, “I’d like to be on the list.” We were stuck with Leona.  At least she was at the bottom.

            We moved like we were walking through mud when Leona’s Sunday came around.  We sat on the floor of her sculpture studio, dressed in capri pants and crisp blouses, mouths slammed shut, hoping to get this over with as soon as possible.

            “Just what does your content of horses and cows communicate?” someone finally asked. 

            Leona jumped up, planted her legs in a V, pushed her fists into her hips.  “I’m tired of you hee-hawing about my Western art and cowboy clothes.  I don’t stick out like a cowlick in Idaho when I wear Levis and checkered shirts.  The boots and hat, they’re all part of who I am. You’re lookin’ at country – thank you, Loretta Lynn.”  She shifted her head slightly,lost in a sunset over the Caribou Range, before bringing her focus back on us.

            “We romanticize The Cowboy,” she said, sounding like she was speaking in capital letters.  “We don’t romanticize his life.  We know why we drive a shiny new Land Rover and he settles for a beat up Ford pickup that he tinkers with on Sunday afternoons, hoping he can spend the next Saturday night in town.  We know why we live in the ‘big house’ and ranch hands live in the bunkhouse.

            “I’ve been on roundups with the boys, caked with dirt and sweat, days feeling as long as the Snake River, clothes crusted to our shivering bodies at night.

             “Let me tell you something else:  I know a Russel from a Remington.  My daddy owns a Remington – the real thing, not a reproduction.      

            “I know what gives me privilege to make ‘cowboy’ art.  I’ll never be as good as Russel or Remington, but I intend to spend my life paying homage to the sinew of horse and rider.  Like Remington, I want you to ‘take away something to think about – to imagine’.”

            Silence hung over us like dust stirred up by a herd of rampaging cattle.

            “Are you done, Leona?” someone asked.

            “For now.”

Fay L. Loomis was a nemophilist (haunter of the woods) until her hikes in upstate New York were abruptly ended by a stroke three years ago. With an additional nudge from the pandemic, she now lives a particularly quiet life. Fay is a member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers.

Often, we collectively encouraged him when he was in an inebriated state, because we were all generally in an inebriated state, to ride his horse around the pool table in the bar where everyone knew everyone else’s face even if we could rarely remember each other’s names. Some of us generally had forgotten our father’s name in the state we were in. That seemed to happen once a week, for about a year until the owners spent several grand on a new hardwood floor—and Jean Autry and her horseshoes were no longer welcome.

Pappy was good at drinking Diamond Red wine, poaching deer, and breaking horses. He was generally bad at gold mining, smoking pot, and women. Pappy lived out of his saddle and sometimes under bridges and lots of times on the edge of deep timber with his horse and a campfire, at times with anyone who would put up with him. He was a Korean War Veteran and claimed to have been shot up, stomped on, broke legged shit-on throughout most of his life and had the scars to prove it.

There was a six-month spread when Pappy had a seventeen-year-old girlfriend who ran away from an affluent but oppressively violent home 200 miles away, and somehow hooked up with Pappy, bought herself a Welsh mare, and rode everywhere Pappy did. With a floppy hat and a Rubenesque figure, she put Pappy through his paces and had him riding with the wind boiling through his horse’s mane. She had been the slightly chubby rich girl from grade school whose father bought her and her sisters fine Arabian geldings. She knew during this pleasant upbringing, nothing of what she learned underneath the starry, starry skies with her very own cowboy horse- trainer Blackfoot Indian who fed her stories on the 17th parallel and showed her the finer points of horse sense. She’d take the six months with Pappy with her all her life, but six months was probably enough. Her mare’s name was Pinkie.

Pappy taught her everything he knew about horses, which was considerable. Pappy never got on a green unbroken horse, but through a myriad of rope tricks would take the wildest mustangs and with the knowledge of their pressure points have them behaving like tame well-trained dogs in a matter of a just a few days sometimes. They’d walk around the corral with their ear at Pappy’s shoulder.

“Stop!” he’d holler. And the horse would stop.

“Back!” he’d holler. And the horse would begin to back up. Then around the corral they’d go again. Then sometime after that was standard, Pappy would put a saddle on the horse. After the same drill with the saddle, Pappy would get on the horse and ride. This generally took about a week or less.

Jean Autry and Pappy and his girlfriend and Pinkie had come off the Dead Indian highway after a trip up to Lake of the Woods in the early fall camping, eating poached deer and living in the crisp night air by a campfire bundled up in a zip-together sleeping bag bedroll.

Sadly, a log truck spooked Pinkie and she threw her young equestrian into the ditch, but Pinkie got clipped hard by the back tires of the truck that swayed out onto the shoulder of the road. Pappy had to shoot Pinkie, and had a friend come get the dead horse and haul it to his ranch, where Pappy butchered up Pinkie and passed some of the steaks around. This didn’t sit well with his seventeen- year-old girlfriend and after that she dumped him and went home to her parents. Pappy went on the skids for a short while after that.

On one of those bad nights after his heaven-sent young woman rode away into the sunset, several of us watched him stagger out of the bar, too drunk to climb on his horse, and we were too drunk to help him without being kicked. After several attempts to swing an uncooperative leg over the saddle, Jean Autry finally got her head down between Pappy’s legs and lifted him front ways over her neck and got Pappy into the saddle, facing backwards, but nonetheless mounted on his steed; Pappy eventually got turned around and then Jean Autry walked through the streets and back to their camp under the bridge while Pappy slept in his saddle.

Pappy convinced anyone he met that he couldn’t read. Yet the fact was that he had consumed all of Steinbeck, Hemingway, Zane Gray and of course Louie Lamour, but he’d not dream of letting anyone know he was literate.

“It’s detrimental to your health to let anyone know you know anything.” he said.

He was charming for about ten minutes and could get any woman’s attention for at least that long, but the long bouts with Diamond Red and sleeping under bridges made that about the limit of duration for all but the most curious.

“Katy bar the gate! There’s a Recess in Heaven! For an angel, has entered our midst!” he’d say perched at the front bar stool as a woman would enter the bar. And he was perennially on the first stool by the entrance. He seemed always to be ready for arcane adventure toward easy money of some kind and would stop at nothing this side of armed robbery. There were hundreds of failed, but at the time surefire gold schemes, all ending up with him as broke as he began and pockets as empty as the bottles of Diamond Red strewn around his camp.

Pappy had a problem with a bad tooth on a cold winter’s evening and tried to get some clinic or welfare agency to help him out of his agony. After three days of no luck he took a twenty-pound rock and put it through the glass door of the police station. When a beehive of cops appeared and he was arrested, he made them take care of his bad tooth. He did seventy-two hours in the can and was out with his dental problems behind him.

He disappeared for several years into the Siskiyou mountains, the border between Southern Oregon and Northern California, with a string of horses and a giant woman and a gleam in his eye, and with stories about sure gold strikes.

Some years later was the last time I saw Pappy. I had first run into him in the same bar ten winters before I sat there talking to him for the last time. He’d just been released from a California penitentiary after he’d had his third heart attack there. He had gone to the pen because he’d given up his gold, for growing pot in the remote roadless areas he’d not been able to strike it rich on. He’d apparently had some serious success with this enterprise and paid cash for a five-acre parcel close to a National Forest and a shack and a barn and good corral for horses and he was with the same woman he left town with. He’d begun however, to have heart problems and only jail had stopped him from drinking and smoking.

When some redneck thought the skinny cowboy with heart problems could be taken advantage of and reneged on paying for a couple pounds of hand-grown pot, Pappy beat a man twice his size almost to death with a two-by-six.

He was wide eyed, albeit a little pale looking, and drinking draft beer with the same giant woman I’d seen him disappear with years ago.

“I’ve had six heart attacks!” he said, greeting me with a wild- eyed grin.

“The last three was in the state pen.” He was pulling on his beer like a man who’d just walked across the Mojave Desert. His old perilous grin and a different appearance somehow, perhaps serenity, perhaps enlightenment, perhaps he was just damn glad for being out of jail. But after the brief greeting and small talk he turned to me like an evangelist.

“Now don’t you ever be afraid of dyin’. The last heart attack I just plum crossed over to the other side and saw me a rainbow bigger than this whole damn valley! I saw great streams of colorful lights, the likes you’ve never seen, I seen green like you never seen; ah there’s horses there too! And there was peace like I’ve never felt, all so beautiful makes me want to bawl like a baby just thinking it. I saw my little brother there, the one that had died back on the Res. A feeling I had that is the happiest feeling this sorry son-of-a-bitch has ever felt. No worry, no guilt, no pain, no wanting anything. Then I woke up with this pencil-necked intern pulling a big horse needle out of my chest.”

“You son-of-a-bitch!” I said. ‘Why the hell did you do that? I don’t need back in this forsaken hell-hole of a place, goddamn you, goddamn you!” I said.

“The skinny little bastard looked like; he’d seen a ghost, he did!” Pappy laughed and was drinking out of a large pitcher by now. “That was three weeks ago. They told me I couldn’t drink, or

smoke again,” he said, lighting a tailor-made Pall Mall off the one

he’d just had in his mouth.

“They let me out of jail because they said I’d die before I’d serve out the next three years of my sentence,” Pappy said.

As he began surveying around the bar as if someone was listening that should not get this information, he was wide-eyed and almost contrite. I’d not really seen him this way ever. He got out of jail and his woman just drove him north across the Oregon-California border because she now lived back in Oregon, having sold their place and horses and everything with Pappy being in jail..

“Don’t ever be afraid of dyin’ ever!” he coughed, wide-eyed and as seriously adamant as I’d ever seen him.

“If a son-of-a-bitch like me has got that to look forward to, you’re all going to be just fine!” he said motioning a benediction up and down the bar. The smoke was wafting up toward the ceiling fans; Universalism, and the rumble of beer glasses, music, and a mumble of the rest of the barflies prevailed. I’m pretty sure I was the only one who heard this story that night.

James Ross Kelly lives in Northern California next to the Sacramento River. Mr. Kelly was a long-time resident of Southern Oregon where he grew up. “We All Called Him Pappy” first appeared in Mr. Kelly’s collection of short stories entitled “And the Fires We Talked About” published by UnCollected Press.

Billy Cutter left the Bull Riders reception early and sober. Without shooters, the jokes weren’t as funny or the women as intoxicating as at the parties before his injury. At 6 a.m. the next morning, Billy made his way to the mini-mall McDonalds down from the Exhibit Hall. He ordered coffee, a Big Breakfast with Hot Cakes, and an Egg McMuffin. Given the hours he spent daily in rehab, he didn’t worry about calories.

Until Billy reinjured his left shoulder and withdrew at Calgary, the old timers had predicted William C. “Billy” Cutter to win the Bull Riding event at the Wrangler National Finals Rodeo (NFR). Fighting through the pain, refusing to succumb to the temptation of opiates, he found a doctor willing to pass him on the physical and started competing again. Only the top 15 in each event qualify for the NFR in Las Vegas. Billy finished 16^th. His 135,000 Twitter fans claimed he’d been robbed by his bull assignments. Maybe….

When he finished the pancakes, Billy noticed a weekend cowboy sitting with a working woman. The man had on a wrinkled western cut suit, wilted pearl-button shirt, Tony Lamas, and a spotless Black BronKo. Black BronKo (with a capital K) were the first cowboy hats made in China. Billy guessed the guy sold them.

The woman wore a cocktail dress with black sparkles, stiletto heels, and an exhausted impatient expression. A ladies Black BronKo rested crown down on the table beside her. There were bruises on her upper arms. Twenty years younger, she could be a runner-up for Miss Rodeo Queen.

After failing to qualify for the NFR, Billy had been invited to Australia to re-coop. He had friends on the Australian rodeo circuit and knew an aboriginal woman in Darwin. Tarni ran a oceanfront restaurant, but she had been raised on a ranch. She knew cattle.

Billy’s agent Kent Barnes had bigger plans. “You’re a lock for the Courage Award. No cash prize, but great publicity for your book.” So, Billy Cutter, world class rider and newly published author (All the Bull in the World), found himself at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas early on a Wednesday morning, the second week in December.

The Hat methodically worked his way through three Bacon, Egg, and Cheese biscuits and two cartons of milk. He stole occasional glances at the woman as she ate her Fruit ’N Yogurt Parfait and sipped coffee.

Finally, Rodeo Queen tossed the white plastic spoon down and set the empty yogurt container on the tray. “All right. You’ve fed me,” she told The Hat. “Get my clothes and called me an Uber.” She lowered her voice. “I’m fine now.”

“What about my offer…?”

 “I want to go home.” She stood up.

“Please….” The Hat reached for her. Billy stood to intervene.

“It’s okay.” Rodeo Queen waved him off. “Doug’s not the bad guy.”

“You don’t need help?”

“Need?  Not exactly need– I can handle men like Douglas. But since you’re offering, and since you’re Billy Cutter–”

“Let me grab my coffee.”

Billy dumped his trash and put his tray on the rack before joining them. They were quietly arguing when he sat down. “I’m all ears.” He removed his Stetson.

“My name is Doug Zelinka,” The Hat told him. “Sharon and I attended a party in the Black BronKo suite last night. She had too much to drink, so my boss asked me to make sure she got breakfast and a ride home.” Billy pointed to the bruises on her arm. “I didn’t do those.”

Billy turned to Sharon. “It’s complicated,” she told him. “Doug’s Chinese employer was upset that I lied about my age. Of course, once he saw me in this dress, everything was fine, until the buyer for a big outdoor equipment chain latched on to me. The mope drugged my drink.”

“Allegedly drugged your drink,” Doug interjected.

Sharon faced Billy. “One sip and I knew he’d given me a roofie. When I poured the drink on the son-of-a-bitch, he grabbed me.” She pursed her lips, “That’s where I got the bruises.”

“Security took the buyer aside to explain the rules,” Doug explained.

“No. He took him to find him a different hooker– A man in a suit arrived with an envelope of cash and a nondisclosure agreement. He said someone would stay with me until the drug wore off and would make sure I got home.”

Doug scanned the food court nervously. “Her street clothes are in a locker. She needs to change.”

“I have to return the dress. It’s a rental.”

Billy felt his anger rising. “Did your boss help drug her?”

Doug shook his head. “He paid good money for whores, booze, and strippers. Why would anyone need a roofie to get laid?”  He turned to Sharon. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Why don’t you get her clothes while I speak with Sharon? You might catch a couple hours sleep before you have to be back in the exhibition hall. I’ll make sure she gets home.”

She handed Doug the locker key. “The number is on it.” When he was out of earshot Sharon said softly, “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You did enough.” She picked up her coffee cup.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Well, this is rather sudden…,” she joked, tossing her shockingly blonde hair.

“Humor me.”

“I’ve got an ex-husband who works steady in the construction industry, but he stays one step ahead of the courts who want to garnish his wages for past-due child support. I have two teenage sons who think I shouldn’t have three part-time jobs and work odd hours just so they can go to college. They’re worried that I don’t get out enough.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend.” Sharon put her empty coffee cup down.

“I’m meeting my agent this eight this morning. I have a new sponsor, and he wants to meet my girlfriend–”

“But you don’t have one?”

“I had hoped to secure a suitable candidate at a party last night, but I didn’t find anyone wholesome enough.”

She laughed. “And you think I’m a good candidate?  Because I’m wholesome?”  Sharon leaned across the table, her breasts spilling out of the red dress, her makeup caked and fading, the bruises livid on her arms.

“Without makeup and in street clothes, you could pass for wholesome.”

“And why is that important?” She touched his arm.

Billy’s face flushed. “Kent thinks I spend too much time with whores.”

Sharon laughed again. “Do you?”

“Used to. Don’t anymore. Haven’t for some time. Not since I got sober and climbed back on the bulls.”

“So, you are not seeking my company in a professional capacity?”

“No. I need a girlfriend.”

“And you think I’m her?”

“I suspect you’ve been spun around and knocked down a lot, but you keep getting back up. That’s something I respect.”

 Doug arrived with a worn USMC duffle bag that he set on the floor beside Sharon. She snatched it up. “Time to get wholesome.”

Doug raised his eyebrows. “Don’t ask,” Billy told him. “It’s hard to explain.”

When Sharon returned, Billy was talking with an older gentleman in a pale gray suit. She handed Doug the garment bag with the rental dress, costume jewelry, and shoes. “Take the hat, too,” she told him, pointing to the BronKo Rodeo Queen on the table.

From her duffle bag, Sharon took a sun-beaten Charlie 1 Horse hat with a turquoise beaded raffia. She’d scrubbed her face clean and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She wore ancient Levi jeans, Justin boots, and a faded long-sleeved checkered shirt with white pearl snaps. “Wholesome enough for you, cowboy?” 

“Can you cook?”  The man in the suit asked.

“Sharon,” Billy said, motioning to the man, “this is my agent, Kent Barnes.” He turned to Kent. “This is my girlfriend.”

“I’m Sharon Loffler.” She stuck out her hand to shake. “Pleased to meet you.” Kent seemed amused. “I cook for Billy all the time. Is there something you’re hungry for?”

“The new sponsor has this ad concept–” He paused and reappraised her. “You’re Billy’s girlfriend?”  Sharon smiled. “What’s the last meal you fixed him?”

“I bought  a bucket of fried chicken at the Ready Stop and microwaved mac and cheese.”

The agent nodded. “They want Billy–looking all rugged cowboy–to face the camera and say, ‘Rodeo means pain.’ They flash a clip of his injury, shots from rehab, then Billy back on a bull. ‘Billy Cutter, rodeo champion, the favored rider, brought down, fighting back, resolved to compete again.’ The camera holds on him accepting the Courage award, then it cuts to him, standing before a table of food, with his arm wrapped around a shapely woman’s waist.  Billy says, ‘Comfort means home cooking and Wild Buffalo Jeans.’”

“Fried food, comfortable clothes, and pussy,” Sharon suggested, “the Male American Dream.”

“You bet your sweet ass it is.” Kent hesitated. “You might be a little older than the sponsor envisioned.”

She sat back in her chair and carefully opened the lid of her coffee. “Wild Buffalo Jeans says that when life knocks you down, you need the guts to get back up, because that’s what’s Billy’s done. Do you think some scrawny-assed twenty-something porcelain doll can help him with that?” 

Kent considered her question. “I guess not.”

“Think about the women who will see the ad,” Sharon added, “the ones who buy jeans for their husbands and boyfriends, the ones with a poster in their kitchen of Billy riding a bull. They know he’s not with me for my mac and cheese.”

“I like that angle. I’ll pitch it to the Wild Buffalo folks.” Kent had another thought. “Have you modeled before?”

 “Not the kind of photo shoots a girl would put on her resume, but I know my way around men with cameras,” she demurred. “When can Billy and I meet these folks?”

“Lunch is at 1:30, but leave the Levi’s at home.”

“We can buy new jeans on the strip,” Billy suggested.

“I’ll need to text my sons, too. Let them know what’s up.” She told Kent, “They’re 13 and 15.”

“Do they like rodeo?”

“They think they’re cowboys.” Sharon picked up her old Marine Corps duffle bag. “But they’re too smart to ride bulls.” She handed the bag to Billy to carry.

“I’ll take luck over brains any day,” Billy said, “but it doesn’t hurt to have both.”

Paul Lewellan retired after forty-nine years of teaching in secondary schools and private colleges. Now he lives and gardens in Davenport, Iowa, with his wife Pamela, his Shi Tzu Mannie, and her ginger tabby Sunny. He keeps a safe social distance from everyone else.