August alwasys seems to be a time for relaxing. Rodeos, romping, camping, riding and fishing. Also writing. Here are some of our favorites.

The village priest, Padre Puebla, was in a panic. The Bandit General was on his way to ravish his village. It was but a poor village consisting mainly of downtrodden poor peasants and a few equally destitute shopkeepers and mechanics. But that would not stop the Bandit General any from stripping them all bare of what little they had. Strip them bare of their souls as well as their property all in the name of The Glorious Revolution.

    Oh he will come to the church alright thought Padre Puebla  and demand of me what little treasures the church has. All his church had by way of treasure was a pair of golden candlesticks, a silver chalice, and less than thirty pieces of silver from last week’s collection. So he gathered together these few treasures and locked them up in a big old battered chest of his and decided he’d bury it somewhere. 

    But now he had two problems. First the chest was too big and too heavy for him to carry by himself and second he had to find a place to hide it. So he prayed to the Lord for help and the Lord answered his prayer for as he was praying the front doors of the church blew open and in burst the thief Paco.

     Paco was a regular customer of the priest’s. Like clockwork he would always come in on the first of the month and confess to all his ‘misdoings’ as he euphemistically called them from the month before. That way he reasoned he kept his slate clean, up to date, with a zero balance owed the Lord. Padre Puebla would of course always forgive this poor misguided soul. First because in a funny odd kind of way Paco was a likable scamp.  And second for the reason that it was his job to forgive people for their sins. And when he forgave Paco for his sins, he would always say unto him,  “Go forth  and sin no more my son.” But sin more the son would do and Padre Puebla could do nothing but forgive him again and again and smile.

    “Paco, I am so glad to see you.  Welcome my child. Please come in. The Lord has need of your services, my son.”

    Padre Puebla knew that if anybody knew where to hide a treasure it was Paco. After all that’s how he made his living finding other people’s hidden treasures to steal. Therefore it only stood to reason that he would know where to hide the church’s treasures now wouldn’t it. Hide it where the Bandit General would never find it for sometimes it takes a thief to do the Lord’s work.

    Beckoning to Padre Puebla’s call, the thief about to go on the cross, came forward. Padre Puebla warmly engulfed him in a big old bear hug. He was a much bigger and larger man than the diminutive Paco for he was well fed at the church’s expense. The proof of the pudding being that he was a little flabby and had a slight paunch. Padre Puebla finally released his hold on Paco after Paco told him he was squeezing the life out of him. But Padre Puebla  did not release the church’s hold on Paco.  He looked heavenward and uttered, “Help us Lord in what we are  about to do.”

    ‘We Father?” questioned Paco. “ What are we about to do? I didn’t come here to do anything. I came here for my monthly confession just like I go to my barber for my monthly haircut.”

    “I will hear your confession my son but first you must help me hide the Lord’s treasure chest here,” replied the priest pointing to the chest.

    Paco’s eyes lit up upon hearing the words ‘treasure chest.’

   “This here treasure chest Father?” he asked, going over to it, laying hands upon it, rubbing his hands over it, his eyes lighting up.

    “Yes the Lord’s treasures my son. I need you to help me carry the chest and bury it somewhere where the Bandit General will never find it. You as a thief certainly must know of a good hiding place. Help me do this and you will be granted a thousand pardons provided of course that you do not come back later and steal it. For if you do, you will burn in Hell forever.”

    There thought the priest that ought to put the fear of God in him.

    A thousand pardons that’s a lifetime pass thought Paco.

   “I will help you Father but I have no shovel. I will have to steal one first from some poor peasant. Give me a few minutes and I will be back with two shovels, one for each of us.” Paco didn’t care that much for physical labor and he’d be damned if he was going to do all the digging himself.

    But just then God intervened for the second time and in walked the poor peasant Pablo.

    “No you won’t,” said Padre Puebla, “for God has just given us shovels. Pablo here will provide them.  Won’t you my son?”

    Pablo came forward, nonplussed by all that, went straight up and away to Jesus on the cross hanging on the wall in the front of the church and knelt before Him. Then he crossed himself, mumbled something known only but to himself and God, and rose.  “What is all this about shovels Father?” he asked.

    “I need you to help us hide this chest,” he said pointing to it. “For it contains the church’s treasures and we need to bury it. Bury it somewhere where the Bandit General will never find it. Paco here is going to find a place for us to bury it.”

    “Oh but you don’t need Paco to find a place for you Father. You may bury it at my farm.”  Pablo was anxious to earn some points with Padre Puebla for he came here to ask a favor of him.

      Padre Puebla looked at Paco for his approval, for after all he was the expert here in hidden things, not the peasant Pablo.

    “Well Paco does that sound like a good idea to you? It does to me.”

    “That will work, Father,” said  Paco, not wishing to contradict  his priest but mad at Pablo now for stealing his thunder.  “The Bandit General  would never think of looking for it at the farm of a poor impoverished peon such as Pablo here.”

    Pablo was insulted by that remark and was about to insult Paco with a derogatory comeback about his profession but Padre Puebla cut him off.

     “Good. It is settled then. We will bury the chest at Pablo’s. We will go along the river. It is the quickest way there. Hurry now my children pick it up and let’s go.”  

    But Pablo did not move. He stood his ground. “Father?” he asked.

    “Yes my son, what is it?”

    “I came here to ask a favor of you.”

    “Well what is it my son?” asked Padre Puebla, visibly frustrated now by the delay.

   “I seek sanctuary for my three  daughters here in the church. You know what the Bandit General and his men will do to them if they find them.” Pablo was a widow and saddled with the responsibilities of solo parenthood. His wife having died giving birth to their third daughter.

    “Granted my son,” Padre Puebla answered quickly as he waddled to the church’s back door and held it open for Paco and Pablo.  “Come now my children, hurry, hurry, bring the chest, and follow me. I’d help but my back has been bothering me again.”

    The holy yet unholy, anointed and appointed, trio trudged along the river to Pablo’s farm and when they got there Paco suddenly stopped and set down his end of the chest, the rear end.

     Padre Puebla and Pablo were nonplussed. They were in the middle of Pablo’s barnyard.

    “Here is where we will hide the Lord’s treasure,” said Paco pointing to the corn crib.  Paco wanted credit for picking the spot to hide the treasure.    

    “There in the corn crib?” questioned the priest.

    The corn crib was small, approximately ten by ten and it was only about half full of corn to the height of about five feet.

      “Yes there in the corn crib. We will bury it in the middle and pile the corn on top of it,” answered Paco. “No one will ever think to look for it there. Burying a treasure in the earth is not a good idea. People will see that the earth has been disturbed and therefore figure that something’s buried there and start digging. But no one would ever think to look in a corn crib for treasure now would they? Besides there isn’t that much corn in there and it will be easy for all three of us to bury.”

    Though the plan appeared to be ingenious, another reason Paco chose the corn crib was that it was easier moving some ears of corn around than digging five feet into the hard compacted earth. And this way Padre Puebla could help too.

    “Okay,” said Padre Puebla, “it is settled then. But remember that each of you has made a covenant with God. So do not forsake Him oh my children for if you do, He will rain His wrath down upon you forever,” he added, throwing in the wrath of God again for good measure.   

      So they all three went into the crib, took out the corn, placed the chest on the floor in the center, and then covered it over with ears of corn.

     “There,” said the priest when they were finished, “it looks the same as before now doesn’t it?

    “Yes Father,” echoed his children.

    “Good. Go about your business now and when the Bandit General has left the village, I will come get you and we will retrieve the treasure. Okay?”

    “Yes Father,” jointly chanted his children.

    The priest left and went back to his church to tend to his new flock of three lambs, the daughters of Pablo.

    Paco slinked back to his lair.

   And Pablo remained at his farm guarding the treasure as he worked his fields.

   The Bandit General was in the village now and paid Padre Puebla a visit at the church. Padre Puebla had sheltered Pablo’s daughters in the church’s choir loft, with the other angels he joked, but the Bandit General was not concerned about them even though he knew they were there.  No what he was concerned about  was where was the gold and silver. So he questioned Padre Puebla at length but Padre Puebla did not cave and told him nothing and after a while the Bandit General’s patience began to wear thin. So he told Padre Puebla that he had other ways of finding out things. Like how he found out about Pablo’s daughters being there in the church. So he left.

    The Bandit General’s other ways of finding out about things were not all that subtle and he found out in no time at all from the priest’s parishioners that Padre Puebla, Paco, and Pablo had been seen together yesterday down by the river carrying a chest. That transformed the holy trio into the guilty as hell alliance and they were immediately rounded up, taken into custody, and thrown in the calaboose.

     There cramped together in a small smelly cell the Bandit General issued his edict. “You three were seen together carrying a chest down by the river yesterday. You will tell me where you buried the treasure and tell me now before the Federales get here or I will kill you, all of you. So who wants to tell me where the church’s treasures are hidden.”

    “If we could have but a few minutes please sir,” begged Padre Puebla ever so politely.

    Padre Puebla had a plan.

   “Granted,” said the Bandit General. “For let it not be said that I am an unreasonable or ungenerous man. I will leave now but be back shortly. Back with baited breath.” he laughed, his chest jiggling his phony medals.

    Padre Puebla had a plan but it was not a good plan.

    “Look,” he said, “here’s what we will do. Since we were seen down by the river, I will tell him that we buried  the chest along the river. He will ask me to take him to it.  I will take him to the river but not find it of course. I will tell him then that whoever saw us must have dug it up. Hopefully he will go after that someone and that will buy us enough time until the Federales get here.” Padre Puebla knew that would bring the Bandit General’s wrath down upon some poor innocent soul, but he could not help himself. He had to save the Lord’s treasure. So silently he asked God to forgive him as Jesus had forgiven Judas.

    “Well what do you think?” he asked his compatriots.

     Paco and Pablo both sat there with their mouths open not believing that a man of God would do such a thing.

     “Agreed then,” said Padre Puebla, “that is our story and we’re sticking to it in the name of our Lord. Okay?”

     His children nodded their heads affirmatively for one does not dare disagree with one’s priest now does one?

     The Bandit General returned.

      “So are you ready to tell me?” he asked.

     Padre Puebla answered for them. “Yes I will take you to the river to where we buried  the treasure.”   

    “Good. Let us gather at the river then,” joked the Bandit General as he smiled, a smile missing a canine tooth.

     Padre Puebla then led the Bandit General to the river and pointed to a spot on the river bank. “Here,” he said. “Here is we buried it.”

    “Dig it up,” the Bandit General ordered.

   “But I have no shovel,” pleaded Padre Puebla.

   “It is but mud and ooze. Get down on your hands and knees and dig it up, priest.”

   So Padre Puebla got down on his hands and knees and scooped up the muck and the guck  of the river. But of course the earth regurgitated no treasure. And after digging a few more places, the Bandit General’s patience had expired.

    “Some one must have dug it up, General,” said Padre Puebla. “The someone who saw us.”

    “Yah right,” growled the Bandit General.

    “So since you refuse to disclose the treasure to me, I have no choice but  to keep my word and kill you. Hopefully the peasant, once he knows you are dead, will tell me.”

     But the Bandit General had no intention of killing Padre Puebla. He already had enough troubles with the Federales on his tail and he didn’t need to be bringing the wrath of God down upon himself for killing a priest. So instead he took him back to the jail and placed him in an isolated cell deeper in the bowels of the jail far away from the other two. Then he said unto the priest, “I will take the poor peasant now to the river for his baptism under fire. And if he does not find the treasure for me, I come back with him and kill the both of you then. Then I will take the thief and if he doesn’t tell me, I will kill him also.

     So much for the plan of Padre Puebla.

     Underneath all that huff and puff the Bandit General also had a plan and it was a somewhat  better plan than the priest’s.

    He had his men, for a Bandit General does not do physical labor, create a fake grave of the good father by piling  some loose dirt about a foot high in the shape and length of a grave and place a cross upon it. Then he got Pablo, took him to the priest’s faux grave and showed it to him.

    “Here is the priest’s grave mi amigo. This will happen to you too if you do not tell me where the treasure is. For iI I can kill a priest, then certainly I can kill a peon like you now can’t I?”

     But that did not scare Pablo. In fact it embolden him for he thought that if Padre Puebla did not break, did not lead the Bandit General to the corn crib, then he too would not break.

    “Well what say you?” asked the Bandit General. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

    Pablo did not answer. Instead he lifted his chin defiantly in the air.

    “Do not think I do not know where your daughters are mi amigo. Tell me where the church’s treasure is or I will let my men loose upon them.”

     Certainly a father could not be that deprived thought Pablo and certainly the Bandit General was a father for it was rumored that he had fathered many daughters and sons too. Perhaps he will listen to me if I appeal to him as one father to another thought Pablo.

    “Do you have a daughter?” he asked the Bandit General gambling on the answer but pretty sure it was a safe bet.

    “Do I have a daughter?” laughed the Bandit General slapping his thigh. “Well none that I know of anyway.” He in fact knew of at least four. It’s good to be Bandit General and have women at your disposal. 

    “Well if you did and someone raped your daughter what would you do?”

    The Bandit General without hesitation blurted out, “Why I would kill him of course. Kill him especially slow like.”

    Then the Bandit General paused. He felt a pang of guilt about letting his men rape this man’s daughters and decided to spare Pablo, a fellow father like himself, from all that. So he said unto him, “I think I must think about this a little more mi amigo.”

    So he took Pablo  away to another subterranean cell and left him there. Then he had his men create a second  fake grave next to the first fake grave. Then he had them dig  a real grave,  next to the second fake grave. For as said it is beneath the dignity of a Bandit General to do physical labor. And then he got Paco and took him to the now three graves, two fake, one real.

    “Do you wish to join your two compatriots here Paco?” he asked him. “For as you can see I already have a grave prepared for you.”

    Paco looked into the abyss of his grave to be and thought if this man can kill a priest and poor peasant, then certainly he will have no trouble killing a low life thief like me. Paco weighed his options. What the heck he thought, go ahead and tell him, ain’t no skin off my nose now is it, and with these two gone there’s no one here to rat me out now is there?  On the other hand this mad man will probably kill me anyway on principle alone because I am a thief. Therefore it is better to not tell him. It is better to redeem my soul, he thought.  At least this way I will die an honorable death even though I did not live an honorable life. God will forgive me, maybe. He said a prayer and crossed himself.

    But before he could say another word the Bandit General spoke up  ‘I promise you that if you tell me where the treasure is, I will spare you.  For I am a man of my word am I not? I told the priest and the peasant here that I would kill them if they did not tell me and when they didn’t, I kept my word and killed them didn’t I? So I will keep my word and free you if you tell me. After all that is only logical now isn’t it?”

    Somehow that kind of convoluted thinking hit home with Paco for that is how his muddled brain worked. So he decided to give it up. “I will tell you where the treasure is,” he volunteered, sure now that his life would be spared, “if you promise not to kill me.”

    “I promise. I promise. I promise,” promised the excited Bandit General.

     So he told him the treasure chest was buried in the corn crib on Pablo’s farm and led him to it. But  when they got there the five foot pile of corn had shrunk some. Now it was only about three feet high, not five.  That was because the Bandit General’s troops had taken some of the corn to feed their horses. Paco panicked, crossed himself, tilted his head heavenward, and prayed to God for deliverance. The Bandit General saw all this and said, “I hope you are not lying to me Paco for if the treasure isn’t here, we will return to the grave that I have dug for you.  Now go in there and get me the treasure chest.”

    Paco went into the crib and began digging through the corn with his hands. Thank God the chest was still there. They had  buried it deep enough.

     “Well Paco God has spared you and therefore so shall I. For as said I am a man of my word am I not? You are free to go. So go now before I change my mind and decide to kill you.”

    Paco scurried like the rat he was from the corn crib and out of sight into the world of underbrush, mesquite, and cacti. But then he stopped after going a short distance and watched as the Bandit General hoisted the chest upon his shoulders, for he was a big strong ox of a man, and walked away with it.

     Paco followed the Bandit General, unobserved of course, back to the faux graveyard. There he saw the Bandit General bury the treasure in what was to have been his grave, put a cross on it, and leave. Sometimes a Bandit General will dirty his hands and do physical labor when it is in his own best interests to do so.

     The Bandit General’s plan was to come back for it later, when it was safe to do so, and claim it for himself and not The Glorious Revolution.

     Paco was thinking the same thing. That he would come back later and claim it for himself. He was already counting his money as he quietly slipped away and disappeared into the desert night with a smirky smile upon his haggard face.

    Come morning the Bandit General and his men left. The Federales were only but a mile away. His men were either too drunk or too hungover to put up much of a fight and they knew it. But the truth of the matter was that his men were cowards.

    By noon the Federales were in the village. They found Padre Puebla and freed him. He returned to his church. A little later they found Pablo and freed him too. He took off for his daughters and when he got to the church the first thing he saw was Padre Puebla. His jaw dropped.

     “I thought you were dead Father. I saw your grave. Have you risen from the dead like Lazarus?”

    Padre Puebla laughed and assured him that yes he was alive and that no he had not risen from the dead.

    Then Pablo told him what the Bandit General had told him and that he pointed out his grave to him.

   Then Pablo’s daughters upon hearing their father’s voice came out of hiding and there was a tearful and joyful family reunion. Finally after a while Padre Puebla said, “Pablo let us go now and see this grave where I am supposed to be buried for if there is a soul buried there, it is my duty as a priest to say a few words over him.”

    So Pablo kissed his daughters good bye and they went back into hiding for Federales were known to commit atrocities too.

    When they got there to Pablo’s surprise there were three graves now, not one. Pablo pointed to the first grave and said, “There that is where the Bandit General said you were buried Father. He said he killed you because you would not tell him where the treasure was.”

    “He was just trying to scare you, my son. That’s all. This first grave is probably the grave of some poor soul he had killed for God knows what reasons.”

    “But what about the middle one?”

    “The same except the middle one was probably to scare Paco into thinking he had killed both of us.”  

     “Then the third grave is Paco’s grave Father?”

    “I am afraid so my son, for I have not seen him since the Federales got here. Go get a shovel so you can dig him up and then I will see that he receives a proper church burial in hallowed ground for if there ever was a soul in need of a proper church burial, it is our Paco.”

   “Just one shovel Father?”

   “Yes, my son. I have a bad back and shoveling would only make it worse.”

    So Pablo left and came back with a shovel. He dug and dug the grave he believed to be Paco’s until he hit paydirt, the church’s treasure.

    “The Lord moves in mysterious ways sometimes now doesn’t He my son,” smiled the priest grabbing the shovel from Pablo, cracking open the chest with it, and finding the church’s treasure intact.

    “Yes He does,” said Pablo. “Now if He will only tell us where Paco is.”

    “Well get busy digging then,” commanded Padre Puebla. “Maybe he is in the middle grave.”

    “Yes Father.”

     Pablo shoveled away the loose dirt on top of the middle grave but when he came to the hard compacted undug earth underneath it, he realized there was no grave there.

    “Try the other one,” ordered Padre Puebla.

    Pablo did and found the same thing again.

    “Now what?” asked Pablo.

    “Don’t worry my son. I am sure Paco is alive and well and long gone by now. The Federales probably have an arrest warrant out for him. He will come out of hiding when the coast is clear when the Federales are gone. Just you wait and see. The Lord will bring our Paco back to us.”

    But the Lord did not bring their Paco back. The lure of the treasure did. After three days and nights in the desert Paco came back to life.  He saw that the Federales had left the village after they had stripped it, in the name of The Glorious Republic, of anything of value left by the Bandit General. So he stole a cart, a donkey, and a shovel and returned like the thief in the night that he was to to the faux grave yard to claim the treasure, not for himself but for the Lord, and return it to Padre Puebla. Return it to redeem himself, to save his soul , for Paco felt guilty about having betrayed the Lord and giving up His treasure. For after all he had given his word now hadn’t he? There is honor among thieves now isn’t there? But when he got there, lo and behold, he found that his grave had already been robbed. He stared into the empty black hole and cursed himself for not getting there in time.

     “Please forgive me Lord,” said Paco, “I shouldn’t have waited so long. The Bandit General has gotten it after all. I have failed You Lord. Oh well I will make it right Lord,” said Paco refocusing. “I will do a thousand and one penances now.” And he left and returned the cart, the donkey, and the shovel back to the place from which he had stolen them. The first of his thousand and one penances.

   The Bandit General never did get back to retrieve the treasure. He was in such a hurry to leave the village before the Federales got there that he didn’t have the time to dig it up. He figured he’d come back and get it later. But the Federales got to him first. Didn’t even line him up against The Wall, blind fold him, or offer him a cigarette. Though they did have him dig his own grave first. And no matter how hard he pleaded with the Federale General to spare his life in exchange for a fortune in gold and silver buried in a place known only but to him, the Federale General did not bite. He had heard all that many a time before. All that went in one ear and out the other of the Federale General. Just like the bullet that went in one ear and out the other of the Bandit General.

Author is a retired attorney who started writing for something to do in his rusting years.

At night on the road,
after 10 days alone,
I find an old hobo
in a ditch laying prone;
He’s a drunk and a mess
and seems glued to the land,
but there’s something familiar
in this corpse of a man;
Though the rain’s pouring down,
I get closer and see
that this man has a gun
and it’s pointed at me;
He’s ranting and raving and counting to three.

He said, “Put ‘em up!
It’s a stickup, you see!”
And he tried but
he couldn’t take nothing from me;
I gave all that I had—
all I had left was me;
But he thought, and he said that might do, if it’s free.

Just walk with me this tired road a while.
So I try.

But the road’s too long,
and the load’s too heavy;
I try to show him the way,
but my hands are unsteady;
And I keep on pushing,
but I’m just not able;
There’s a horse in my heart,
but it’s far from stable;
And it rocks and it shakes like a three-legged table.

But I keep trudging on
What else can I do?
There’s a chill in the air
and a rock in my shoe;
I summon my strength and
I try to keep hiking,
though the thunder’s a-rolling
and the lightning’s a-striking;
And my stomach is empty,
and my eyes want to cry,
and I call out for help,
but my mouth is too dry,
and at this point I’m thinking I might as well die.

Just a few steps more,
and I fall on my knees;
There’s a wolf at the door,
there’s a snake in the trees;
I’ve been walking in circles,
been crawling in place;
There’s no sign of the hobo,
not even a trace;
With my nose in a puddle, I can see my own face.

Cause I slipped and I fell,
after 10 days alone,
I find myself down
in a ditch laying prone.

John Clinkscales is an aspiring poet and author living in Oakland, California. Originally from the East Coast, his work wrestles with the question of American identity in an increasingly fragmented culture, and he considers low-rent travel his official religion. His work has previously appeared in True Chili.

“Man, that guy’s bullshit is getting old fast,” Tex Tai Chi said to his buddy Zack Pasadena at the bar of the Short Twig Saloon.

“No kidding,” Zack replied. “It’s getting pretty deep.”

The newcomer, Romar Goulet, a gaucho from Argentina, had been boasting about his manly exploits and belittling the cowboys in the bar about their inferior skills; roping, riding, shooting, lovemaking and especially, drinking. American cowboys were no match for the rugged gauchos from South America.

Goulet noticed Tex and Zack at the end of the bar. Ah, two he hadn’t badgered yet. He stood next to Tex and slammed his half-empty fernet bottle on the bar top.

“Two more soft cowboys drinking beer,” he slurred. “Why don’t you two sissies try a man’s drink for a change?”

He slid the bottle into Tex’s chest. Tex grabbed it and cracked it over Goulet’s noggin, who dropped to the floor like cow plop.

“That’ll be enough of your shit,” Tex said. “You pampas ass.”

Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own, It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere, For Richer or Noirer, and Flash Wounds. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!
http://www.youtube.com/user/MrLeehammer

Working hard
Til I’m tired
On my spread
That’s where I’ll stay
No more fences
No pretenses
That’s my goal
On this fine day

Watch the sunrise
Wait for the sunset
Eating irons
Are for later today
Herd now needs water
Herd now needs rounding
Nothing better
On this fine day

Once was offered
Two million dollars
That dog won’t hunt
So I walked away
What price the fresh air?
What cost the cool breeze?
I sent that dealer
So far away

Stew and Biscuits
On my table
Cowboy boots
Are tucked away
The stars are bright
The wolves are singing
What an end
To this fine day

Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 40 years, lives in 1974, and has been married for 30 years. His works are found everywhere a search engine operates.

Now a cowboy is a real kind of man,
A dying breed, one who just shouldn’t be caged;
But has to be free.
He lives in the saddle,
And rides for the brand.
He’s what most would call a top hand.
He’s talks about bar fights
And watching cattle on long, cold nights.
He’s talks about his favorite horses,
And all three of his divorces.
He loves horses and puppies and babies,
And the smell of fresh cut hay.
He’s gentle, but tough,
And I hope I get to be a cowboy, someday.

Nick loves all things country, cowboy and farming. Grew up doing a lot of it. Has a love for horses, hard work and right living. I am a new poet, throwing my hat in the ring. Lives in Idaho. Love this stuff.

In the center of town, there was a trickle of a shadow, and a wavering in the dirt on the road. The dust on the wind was eddying around something, or perhaps around nothing. The town had gone to ghost long ago, and things that had been, long ago, still caught the wind on cool fall days.  But on this cool fall day the light began to show a shape, and color appeared on the surface of the little void in the road. And it was a body, and it appeared to be a dog. In just a moment the colors on the fur were a rich gold with brindled orange and ripples of red. The dog had stopped were water lapped among the leaning buildings of the town. The water matched the dog’s fur in all its colors. The little waves reached for the rest of the town, even as they swallowed the buildings behind. The town was half old buildings on dusty plots, and half swamp and old buildings leaning and groaning into expanding pools of muck. The dog stepped from the dust and mud to gravel fill, which rose just above the water, preserving a path down main street. The dog padded forward, appearing now to be simply a German Shepherd, with no hint of translucence or any other advanced stealth technology. It then stopped, gazing down the road, to the places where the road rose up on stout new pylons through the clogged swamp, among the corroded stumps of old pylons that the slough had nearly claimed.  

            Back in the forest, two men sat on horses. They wore wide hats to shield the brow and handkerchiefs against dust and sun. Dust was more forceful than the sun in the autumn sky. No amulets were woven into the manes of their horses, and no prayer books were clutched at their chests. They wore stout cotton shirts without pattern, and pants of cotton stouter still, blue denim brushing a long holster that hung from the saddle of the younger rider. He was an old youth or a young man, and his companion was similar in build, tall and thin, though elder to the point where grey mixed with white in the shadow of his hat brim. The boy listened as the dogs communicated with one another. He couldn’t understand much of the language of dogs, but like any folks who’ve spent enough time with dogs, he heard enough to know something wasn’t right down in Slickensslough Proper. Though, through the trees, the half-swallowed town didn’t look any different from usual. He didn’t believe the town was haunted, or that the death of the Valley Folk would pass through the town, like the soothsayers were fond of whispering.

            “Good boy, Sir.” The young man muttered to the dog, then turned to his grandfather. “Sir is out of stealth. He’s standing in the middle of the road. If we’re being watched, Sir should draw them out.

            His grandfather nodded.

            The boy went on. “I’m gonna send up some beetle drones.”

            The old man paused for a breath before replying. “You normally send up drones while the cattle graze?”

            “Today ain’t like other days.” The boy replied.

            “But it’s supposed to look like other days, ain’t it, Verdy? That’s what you said.”

            Verdy nodded. “I imagined it’d be alright. I lied to myself, I guess. But once we cross the causeway all hell is gonna break loose. I’m sorry Paps, I guess I’m trying not to lose my nerve.”

            Paps simply ran his fingers through his horse’s mane. Chipmunk was used to the gesture, and remained standing in place. Nickels, a younger horse, stamped to the right and the left, feeling the shuddering anxiety from his rider. Verdy pulled his horse back into place, his eyes staring through the trees. Fields that once had once grown hardy radishes and sorghum had lain fallow for a century, plowed only by the hooves of migrating herds of cattle, since the mining economy had drowned in the muck. Each cow, with a brand and a rancher’s tracking chip, stopped to clip the last of the valley grasses before the long climb into the mountains. Today the Grivvens herd of four thousand six hundred and twenty-two head of cattle were strolling into the field by the town. A single dog ran among the cattle. Burr, the small terrier, had no problem herding every last calf into place, despite being in stealth mode. Completely invisible to outsiders, Burr made herself visible to Verdy and Paps as a point of light in their field of vision. Burr was making herself visible to the cattle as well, but Verdy was pretty sure the cattle could see Burr in stealth mode, whether Burr wanted them to or not.

            “Burr. Search the town” Verdy whispered. “Keep it stealthy.”

            Burr responded from about a mile away with a quick yelp, which Verdy heard clearly against his eardrums. Verdy tracked the point of light that scrambled between bovine legs and over the stone fence of the graveyard on the near edge of town. He could still see Burr’s movements behind the stone wall, and as Burr entered the Smithy’s forge.

            Verdy blinked three times, and his field of vision shifted to Russ’s. The bulky St. Bernard was bringing up the rear, and gave a friendly growl to acknowledge the arrival of Verdy’s link. The dog walked well back on the forest road, watching a small gaggle of elderly Holsteins bringing up the rear. Russ jogged back and forth to either flank of the herd, all while keeping his nosed tuned to any trouble from back in the direction of home.

            “Up.” Verdy commanded. The dog stopped in place, then tensed. His hackles rose and his head dropped. From along the spine there was a gentle whirring sound as twelve beetles flew over his head, then his spine straightened and his hackles closed up, and he trotted on.

            Verdy arranged the video feeds from each beetle along his visual periphery, with a command for the feed to enlarge if anything unusual appeared.

            “So, we’re cattle rustlers then, huh?” Paps laughed.

            Verdy tried to reply with a laugh, but his nervous chuckle was thin. “They’re ours, right?” Verdy asked. “To care for. Isn’t that in all the old contracts? We own the cows.”

            “Think about it as you will,” Paps replied. “We own the cattle, but not what’s in them. We’ve never owned their robot parts, and don’t go playing to forget that part.”

            “So, we are just rustling prosthetics then.” Verdy managed a smile. “The world’s most advanced cow prosthetics…” He trailed off, entering his own thoughts, somewhere below the voices and visions of dogs and beetles that were delivered directly to his eyes and ears.

            There came a low growl from the shepherd.

            Verdy snapped to attention. “What do you see, Sir?” Verdy asked the dog, but even as he said it, he was connecting to the dog’s vision, as was Paps. From the dog’s eyes they saw a figure coming out of the hills and setting foot on the planks of the marsh road. Sir padded forward past the raised gravel, and stepped onto the wooden bridge that crossed the widest channel of flowing thick water.

            “Good dog.” Verdy whispered.

            The figure beyond had stepped up onto the plank and pylon of the swamp portion of the road. Sir’s vision had a solid zoom, but Verdy could find no recognition. The dog’s vision displayed an overlay of all information that the dog could scan. Internal wires, drives embedded below the skin or worn on the arm, and a few medical prosthetics.

            As of late the dog’s vision had become even more difficult to read. Each person appeared as an overlay, not merely of their flesh and technological prosthetics, but also an overlay of additional outlines. Verdy could make no sense of it, but each person appeared as an amalgamation of multiple forms pressed into one.

            “You figure out why the dog’s vision went all strange?” Paps asked.

            “They’re seeing something we aren’t. Something we can’t.” Verdy replied.

            “You sure it isn’t a glitch?” Paps asked.

            “Not these dogs.” Verdy spoke with certainty. “They don’t glitch. It’s the cows…” Verdy’s voice had trailed off. He was in that place again. A place of mind and not of wires. Of calm analysis and not merely the shields against the world. “The cows are seeing something we can’t. They’re teaching the dogs. But they can’t teach us.”

            The figure continued to come closer. A shuddering ghost of a thousand spirits.

            “Why you gotta talk in riddles, Verdy? I been lettin you keep your secrets with this herd. But ain’t today, a day of all days, when you let me in on what you know?”

            “Yeah, Paps. “Verdy replied in a flat, distracted tone. “Today. But not yet. It’s for your protection, that’s why I kept it all from ya.”

            “That’s what ya say.” Paps replied.

            Sir gave a yip. A yip of familiarity. “Sir!” Verdy called. “Show us just the face! The person’s identity.” The view shifted, but merely into a more brightly glowing overlay of confusing data above the flesh and synthetic additives.

            “Ummmm….Skin, hair and clothing, Sir, show us just the skin hair and clothing!”

            Sir’s vision shifted to a figure with long grey braids, a wide brimmed floppy hat, and a thick and colorful wool sweater under an ankle length open tan coat. The figure had no eyes, and even as recognition came to Verdy, he called again to Sir. “Eyes too! Include the eyes.”

            The eyes popped into place, and it was Mamma Stoltzfus. Stone amulets were woven into her hair, and her prayer book was in the chest pocket of her sweater.

            Verdy breathed a sigh of relief.

            “You sound almost happy to see her.” Paps remarked. “First time you woulda ever smiled at her approach.

            “She’s trouble.” Verdy admitted. “But she’s a trouble I know.”

            Mamma Stoltzfus arrived at the bridge, and began to cross. She gave Sir a pat on the head, which he allowed.

            “Paps Grivvens. And young Verdant. A blessed day to you each.” She greeted the dog, knowing the Grivvens would be listening through their connection to the dog’s ears.

            Verdy spurred on Nickles, and Paps urged Chipmunk to follow after. The two horses came out of the trees and entered into the town, marked by fenceposts without rails. Mamma Stoltzfus waited and watched, Sir sitting next to her.

            Verdy stopped Nickles on the dust by the blacksmith shop. The multiple chimneys left it with more substance than most other houses and shops. Verdy started to settle in his saddle, until a surprised jolt from Burr grabbed his attention and his sight. Two men crouched in the kitchen of a house, where a stone backing for the stove had held up a portion of the wooden home exterior. One man was tossing a smooth hollow tube into the air, letting it spin, then catching it. They each wore bulky vests, the mark of the hardware they had brought to power the spinner cannon. The tap of the cannon tube on the man’s hand could not be heard over the milling of the cattle, except by Burr, who heard each time the man caught it. Burr swiveled her head, cycling through her sight and smell and scans of light and heat and vibration. Another figure lay behind the brush growing in an alley. A woman, Burr noted perceptively. She too was strapped with more hardware than was necessary outside of a battlefield or a solo mining expedition. They had on blue-suits, to cloak their heat and their electromagnetic emanations. That might have fooled most scanners, but Burr had a nose for that type of thing.

            Verdy’s hand was in his holster before Burr wheeled away to finish her search.

Paps held up his hand to Verdy. “Leave it in the holster.”

“But-“

Paps cut him off. “This ain’t our first trouble. We ain’t gonna turn against our countrymen.”

“They turned against us long ago.” Verdy replied.

“They had troubles. And we can’t say we weren’t part of bringing trouble to this valley. Let’s try to talk this through.”

Burr spotted three more figures in blue-suits. Verdy had never seen more than three folks by the Slickensslough, and never when they weren’t all three tending to the same herd. Verdy kept his hand in the holster as Mamma Stoltzfus spoke. “The Slickensslough’s bubbling.” She said. “I fear what the day will bring.”

She had stopped walking, and turned towards the water, hands on the rough wood of the bridge railing. Sir sat down next to her, looking out under the railing.

It was true. There was a roiling in the waters, like the stirring of a beast in the deep. Bubbles lifted and popped, and Sir helped the Grivvens to smell the rotten sulfur that had risen from deep in the earth’s crust.

“It was the day that company came to town that the first corruption rose into the clear waters of the millpond,” she began, her voice rising in oration. Verdy had heard the story, but he was pretty sure she had tuned up the timeline for a better tale. “SusteNext. Frankenstein meat growed in a city factory! Don’t all you ranchers want to help us! Let us turn your cows into lab rats and fill them with robot parts!”

Mamma turned to stare at the dog, and Sir met her gaze. Verdy had Sir’s visual feed so Mamma filled his vision, though he devoted the corners of his vision to Burr and the Beetles. Verdy felt the intensity of Mamma’s gaze as she continued.

“The rest of us had the good sense to say no. But the Grivvens had to sell out to the city folk. To embrace the abomination, and the corruption grew in the millpond, until it became the Slickensslough, and the sickness of the swamp spread down the valley!”

Mamma stood straight, and looked through the town to where the two men sat on their horses. The Grivvens switched back to their own eyesight. Her story was misaligned by two handfuls of decades, but she spoke the metaphor as truth.

“Just so SusteNext could dupe the world- to show you bozos on horseback with green grass and cows in their commercials, instead of the concrete floors and conveyor belts of their real meat production lines!” She paused. Then she snapped, “Well, aren’t you gonna tell me how it weren’t like that? How the Grivvens grass and fine care was the key to the taste that SusteNext found? How without your fine ranching they never coulda made good meat in their factory vats?”

“We don’t need to have that conversation again.” Paps muttered.

“Call off the dogs.” She spoke it as a command. “Have them turn off their cloaking. Let us scan the cattle. We only need a hundred or so of the good ones. We’ll cut out their prostheses. We’ll fetch a good price for their metal bits. Then we’ll call it a day and let you off the hook for destroying our livelihood. Destroying the livelihood of every rancher in this valley. In the world.”

“Their robot bits is proprietary.” Paps replied.

“Our buyers don’t mind.” Mamma replied. She was walking again, closer, and they started to hear her voice with their own ears.

“We are taking the herd to the hills.” Verdy spoke firmly. “None of them are getting cut up. They’re gonna live out their days and their wires and sensors are gonna waste away with their bones when their time comes.”

“I see.” Mamma replied. “So, let me get this straight. You destroyed our livelihood. But you got enough corporate hardware here in these cattle that, even at liquidation rates, we could keep food on all our tables for a few lifetimes. But instead of helping out your old countrymen, you got a fancy to let the herd die of old age. Just for fun?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Verdy replied.

“Are you gonna call off the dogs?” She asked again.

“Not a chance,” Verdy spat back.

Mamma looked to Paps. She was only thirty feet away. Sir had left her, and was sitting well back, in the middle of the road. He looked calm, but he knew what Burr knew, and what Russ knew. He knew what the drones saw and what Verdy saw. So he was not calm.

“You with the boy?” Mamma asked Paps.

“For better or for worse, we’re sticking together.” Paps looked at Verdy and shook his head, smiling just a bit.

Then Verdy went blind.

The shock of it caught in his throat, and he whirled to swing defensively at the sudden blackness. The open air provided no resistance, and he had only a second to grasp at the saddle horn as he tipped and fell.

Then there was just the dust on his hands, stinging. The smell of Nickles, lingering where his face had struck her side. The stamping and lowing of cattle. And the dread. The dread of wonder. The wondering how it was that Mamma Stoltzfus had come across technology powerful enough to overtake his system. With all his world-class upgrades straight from SusteNext. She had come into possession of a terrible technology. And was willing to use it.

“Stay with the herd.” He called. Burr would hear. Even if his network was down, she’d hear the natural sound of his voice. He didn’t want to think of a weapon capable of shutting down the dogs, but he didn’t think such a thing existed. The dogs would protect the herd. That was their job. Not to protect Verdy, or even Paps.

He froze, then took one breath. His system would reset. It would identify the breach. He remembered his training from the company security experts. Don’t pull out your contacts. That’s the urge when you go blind. Then you can see, but you are left with eyes bleeding from where every wire was ripped free, cut off from all of your network visuals and menus. Wait for your system.

Verdy lunged toward the nervous shuffling of horseshoes. Only a second or two had passed. He felt a stirrup. He pulled himself to a knee, as Nickles stepped back. Mamma Stoltzfus wouldn’t shut up. She called out, “You think we wouldn’t read the new laws? You think we’d wait until they took our herds!”

Verdy’s hand reached the edge of his holster. Nickles was stamping in a circle, and other footsteps approached. Verdy hung onto the holster with both hands, hopping along with the horse.

“Illegal to butcher a cow! Starting tomorrow!” Mamma yelled. “They couldn’t even bear a little fair competition, real meat versus fake. They had to outlaw real meat, so the world’s stuck with their slop!”

Verdy reached into the holster and pulled out his own weapon. The sleek Bracer was the length of his forearm and curved to fit, from his wrist to his elbow.

“You know what they said we should do!” Mamma yelled. “Be tour guides! Give safaris when the city folk come to see our herds turned out to the wild!?”

The bracer settled onto Verdy’s arm. He felt its power flooding through his system, chasing out intruders, fortifying his network, reaching out for dangers and allies. Light and sight returned to his eyes.

 Chipmunk pulled at her reins against a stranger. A woman had hold of Paps, a clear glass knife at his throat. Verdy took a step toward Paps. A man moved into his path. Like the rest of them the man wore a helmet with visor down; the helmet matched to the rest of the man’s blue-suit as its colors shifted to match the surroundings. It was a poor imitation of Burr’s camo capabilities, but was effective against the casual gaze.

A tube floated between Verdy and the man, bronze and spinning, just big enough that Verdy might have slid his arm into it. But Verdy could feel its energy, perhaps through the sensing powers of the bracer, or perhaps with his own nerves standing his hair on end.

Verdy reached for the tube. Not with his hand, but with the Bracer’s energy. Verdy’s weapon probed for a crack in the tube cannon’s defenses, with Verdy offering only the slightest oversight. The cannon fired, but not before the bracer had taken hold of it enough to turn it in the air. Just an inch. The blast went wide of Verdy, but Nickles stumbled and let out an angry neigh of pain. The blast had glanced across his rump, ignoring the flesh, but slamming into the horse’s enhanced skeleton. Nickles nearly fell, then limped forward.

Verdy punched the man in the stomach. The man grunted, and Verdy grabbed the cannon tube, with his actual hand this time. He pulled with the muscles in his arm, but it was the bracer that allowed him to pull it free from its bond and toss it down the street. The cannon operator jumped aside, but Verdy clenched at the man’s legs with the Bracer’s magnetic emanations, while sending just the tickle of an electric jolt to the man’s thigh muscles. The man wobbled but did not fall. The man’s protections were many times enhanced from most men that Verdy had sparred with, but the Bracer gave only a few moments additional delay before finding a path to the man’s internal network. It sent a pulse to neutralize any nerve commands, and the man’s leg muscles relaxed completely, and he buckled into the dust.

Verdy turned to Mamma Stoltzfus, and sent a simple signal in her direction. She hadn’t increased her defenses, so the Bracer gave no hesitation before setting each of her joints to flail, and she dropped in a writhing heap.

Verdy tuned toward Paps. The woman’s visor faced him, her knife at Paps’ throat. Verdy paused, and took a breath. A man crouched just behind her and Paps. The Bracer tracked the other three individuals spreading out on his periphery, but Verdy focused on the woman. He could send her flying back, or flopping to the ground. Each action would drag the knife across Paps’ throat.

It was a well-planned strategy. Mamma had known he carried a Bracer, and they had created a low-tech bind for him. He scanned for a way to relax her arm, but the Bracer sensed an exoskeleton from her wrist to her shoulder. Verdy could magnetically blast the arm out of the way, but there was no command to force the arm to stand down. He cursed within.

            He stepped back, and lowered his Bracer arm. It was, of course, still just as effective, but the symbolic gesture seemed to relax the others, and he ceased his attacks. Mamma Stoltzfus stood up, as did the man that Verdy had knocked down. The cannon tube clanged against the pebbles as it skipped across the road, then rose into the air, returning to its place, spinning in front of the man’s chest, throwing off the dust it had accumulated.

            A large man, squeezed into an ill-fitting blue-suit, sidled up beside Mamma Stoltzfus. His breathing was heavy and his gut strained against the intelligent fabric. In his hand he held a classic gunpowder weapon, its long skinny barrel was polished silver, and he kept a finger carelessly on the trigger.

            “Eddy? Is that you?” Verdy leaned toward the man, squinting as if he could see through the man’s visor. The man looked at Mamma Stoltzfus, then back at Verdy, without speaking. Verdy continued. “Where’d you get that shiny toy? Only Eddy’d be dumb enough to bring a gun to a knife fight!”

            Though Mamma reached out a hand to calm him, Eddy’s visor flipped up. The angry face of Eidmoyer Stoltzfus was glaring out at Verdy. The gun raised, and Eddy yelled, “Verdy, you self-righteous dung weasel! You always getting’ all the gazillion dollar upgrades and makin’ fun of us trying to make our way in the world!”

            “Peace, Eddy!” Mamma Stoltzfus cried out, but Eddy screamed louder. “You ruined the valley and all the stuff our grandpappies built in the last thousand years!”

            “A thousand? You sure about those numbers?” Verdy asked casually.

            Eddy screamed and threw his hands into the air, the pistol shaking in his fist.

            Without moving, Verdy sent a command to the Bracer. It focused its energy on the gun. Invisible lasers focused and crossed just beyond Eddy’s fingers. It was a mere moment before the bullet casings glowed red within the revolver cylinder. Eddy had another half moment to feel the heat on his hand before the gunpowder ignited. Verdy was already moving toward Paps, back turned toward Eddy, his shoulder clenched against his ear to protect his neck from shrapnel. Only then did he realize that he had lost his hat at some point. The woman flinched against the explosion just as Verdy grabbed the hand that held the knife. Verdy pushed Paps’ neck away from the knife. There was a nick on the right side of Paps’ neck as he fell away, but Verdy didn’t see it begin to bleed, and he focused the Bracer on the woman’s arm. The metal binding her arm slammed hard into the ground and the glass knife flew into the dust. She lay pinned on her back. Verdy slid in front of Paps, backing them both away as he separated from the others. Then he paused, realizing that he had not been hit by any debris. Everyone froze, listening to Eddy’s screams of pain.

            “What’ve you done, you fool child!?” Mamma yelled at Verdy as she knelt by Eddy. Verdy had a tinge of shock and shame as he saw the effects of the explosion on Eddy’s hand. The cylinder had channeled much of the energy from the blast back toward Eddy, and if he retained any use of his hand it would never be with more than the use of one or two fingers. A burnt gash travelled up Eddy’s arm, his other hand trying to clutch it closed.

            Verdy felt Paps behind him and set his jaw. “I’m not the one started this hullabaloo!” He shouted. “You think you can put a knife to Paps’ throat all whiles keeping this a friendly gathering? You attack our insides and our outsides and you got the good nerve to be offended at my defensiveness?” Verdy felt his anger rising, the Bracer on his forearm held across his chest like a shield.

            Verdy gave a Bracer push, and Mamma and Eddy fell back into the dust. Nickles and Chipmunk had run to the edge of town, so he only had to watch out for Paps. Again, without moving, Verdy sent out a wider Bracer blast, and three cannon tubes went clattering to the ground. Verdy had hardly noticed the two other individuals standing in the background, their cannons spinning, until they were thrown off balance. Eddy still wouldn’t shut up about his hand, cursing Verdy and Paps and SusteNext and gunpowder. Verdy yelled louder, amplifying his voice with the Bracer.

            “Mamma! After all your schemes over these years! This might be your worst! You come at us with a posse of rodeo clowns, and you give them cannons and knives! You’re scraping the bottom of the lard barrel! You scrape low enough to find any Zimmermans yet?”

            “Hey!” Yelled the cannoneer laying on the ground in front of Verdy.

            “Shut up, Donny.” Mamma Stoltzfus commanded.

            “Ha!” Verdy laughed without humor. “Donny Zimmerman. Stand aside, Mamma. I’m taking my cows to the hills!”

            Verdy felt a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s not get anyone else hurt.” Paps said.

            “Last chance, Grivvens!” Mamma Stoltzfus called. “It’s only as I have more good graces than I should that I’ve requested this chance for you. Don’t test fate on a day the Slickensslough’s in a right mighty turmoil!”

            Verdy pushed her with the Bracer. She didn’t move.

            He pushed her again.

            Nothing.

            He released any limitations on the Bracer and pushed hard enough to throw back her skeleton without regard to damage to muscle or tendon.

            Mamma just shook her head.

            From behind her, a man who had been hanging back stepped forward. Verdy noticed for the first time that his blue-suit came only to the elbow on his left arm. As Verdy watched, low ridges on the forearm skin rose up into rings that glowed with a pulsing purple light. The man’s lower arm would have to be more prosthesis than flesh to withstand the power. It was a full Bangle, with seven Bangle rings rising from his arm.

            The woman with the knife rose up to Verdy and Paps’ right. But she didn’t have a knife in her hand. The metal on her arm rose up and pressed through the forearm of her suit. The exoskeleton was pushed neatly aside. She also had seven Bangle rings, pulsing and glowing.

            Suddenly the blindness made sense.

            In Verdy’s opinion, a Bracer was superior to a Bangle.

            But it was debatable.

            And two Bangles…

The man with the Bangled arm lifted his visor. Verdy was hit with a wave of confused recognition. The face was familiar, but he could not place it. He cycled through all the places he might have seen this man.

            Then the woman lifted her visor. The comfortable warm recognition of her face rose immediately with confusion and dread. As the confusion subsided the dread rose.

            “Janey?” Verdy muttered.

            “You can keep calling me that, I suppose.” Janey replied.

            There was a long pause. Only the cattle and Eddy lowing broke the silence.

            “Don’t feel bad. I’m an excellent actor.” Janey proffered awkwardly.

            “You targeted me.” Verdy muttered.

            She just shrugged.

            “No amount of priceless upgrading can put good sense in a bloke.” The other Bangled man spoke.

            “Bill!” Verdy remembered.

            “Sure.” Bill replied. 

            “What’s going on?” Paps asked from behind Verdy. Verdy looked at him for a moment, then wheeled to face Mamma Stoltzfus, who knelt beside Eddy, trying to wrap his hand in strips of cloth.

            “Who are you working with?” Verdy cried out. “Do you know these people? Their loyalties? Do you even know what company….or even country, they report to?”

            Verdy was interrupted by an extended growl from Eddy. Eddy had raised himself to his knees, and leaned away from Mamma. He raised his arm to point at Verdy. The cloth fell, revealing his mangled hand. There was no pointer finger, but Eddy conveyed his focus nonetheless.

            “Suddenly you think something of loyalty?” Eddy spat at Verdy. “You think we should protect one thing against another thing? What’s that, Verdant? WHAT’S THAT!?”

            Mamma stood and placed a hand on Eddy’s head. She spoke almost softly. “We would’ve ranched in this valley for another thousand years. But the Grivvens had other ideas. Now we’ll sell what we can to whoever can pay. Even if it’s just a map of the Grivvens’ land. And a list of their arrogant foolishnesses, that makes them think they’re invulnerable to all attacks.”

            “But them?” Verdy asked, gesturing to Bill and Janey.

            “From what I hear, you’re one of them.” Mamma Stoltzfus looked him dead in the eye. “Where’d your accent go, Verdy. You sound city all the sudden.”

            “Verdy…” There were questions in Paps’ voice from behind.

            “I won’t lie to you, Paps, even if your grandson can’t say the same.” Mamma stepped forward.  “Where’d you think he’s been disappearing to for all these trips?”

            “Chicago.” Paps replied.

            “Ah! SusteNext headquarters for more training and upgrades!” Mamma laughed. “But there’s some upgrades you just can’t get there! SusteNext makes some pretending of following the law, even if they have to write new ones every few months.”

            Janey placed her finger on Verdy’s shoulder and traced a line down his back. Verdy didn’t move. “The Toledo Underground has a dazzling nightlife.” Janey addressed the comment to Paps.

“No…..” Paps muttered. “Toledo? Verdy, the abominations created there! You haven’t cavorted with such, have you?”

            Verdy was silent.

            “Why don’t you show him?” Bill suggested.

            “Are we still talking about lab-grown beef?” came a voice from the ground.

            “Shut up, Donny.” Verdy managed.

            Verdy felt the weight of guilt, at keeping secrets from Paps. The other things he had dealt with, but not his own lies. To Paps.  

            “Well, I’m in a hurry.” Bill threw up his hands as if apologizing for his interruption. Janey stepped back, moving to stand near Bill. “Call off the dogs, Verdy. I need answers. Tell them to stop cloaking”

            “What are your questions?” Verdy asked.

            “Why is the military so focused on this herd of cows?” he replied.

            “Military?” Donny asked.

            Even Mamma’s brow wrinkled, though she didn’t speak.

            “Feeding an army is a big undertaking.” Verdy shrugged. “Controlling the growth rate of meat, as well as its exact fat and caloric content- that’s of huge interest to military planners.”

            Bill let out a long sigh. “Our sources tell us there are numerous branches of government in talks with SusteNext. There’s a planned partnership that will focus heavily on intelligence. Global intelligence.”

            “Sounds like you know more than me.” Verdy replied.

            “We don’t have time for games.” Janey interjected. She clicked her fingers on both hands. Verdy hadn’t paid much attention to the backpack-sized bulges on the backs of Janey and Bill. But suddenly they were disgorging floating orbs, drones the size of baseballs that flew through the town and out into the field. They formed a grid over the herd, hovering at regular intervals across the entire expanse of roaming cattle.

            Sir snapped to alert, growling. The dog confirmed Verdy’s suspicions. The drones were explosives. Powerful explosives. Verdy felt for their communication grid, but the Bracer felt sluggish. He turned, and Janey was smiling at him. She and Bill had their Bangles crossed across their chests, doubtless counteracting any effects of the Bracer.

            Bill spoke up. “Those grenades are a bit jumpy. I wouldn’t mess with their controls, unless you want to see them pop.” Sir was coming to the same conclusion, letting Verdy know not to push the explosives too hard.

            “Now, I don’t remember this part in our agreement.” Mamma Stoltzfus noted. Her voice didn’t waver. She sounded strong. Like Paps.  

            Janey snapped, “You’ll get your money, lady. But I have some pretty clear directives. I need to know what’s going on with these cows, or I have to shut down the operation.”

            Verdy sat down in the dust.

            He pulled off the Bracer. “Unlock,” he commanded. He tossed the Bracer at Mamma Stoltzfus. She managed to hide her surprise, but Eddy did not. “Mamma!” He exclaimed in a loud whisper, seeming to forget his pain.

            “Is this what you want?” Verdy asked Mamma. “To see the Grivvens without options? To take our things? Or watch it all burn down?”

            “You burned down this valley a long time ago.” Mamma replied. “And yeah, I think seeing the Grivvens brought low would bring me a touch of joy in my old age.”

            “It’s about survival, Mamma. Don’t get stuck on the right now. Look ahead. Survival for us. All of us. Even the cattle.” Verdy’s voice held a note of pleading.

            Mamma didn’t reply, but she picked up the Bracer, and placed it on her arm.

            “Whoa!” She gave a slight giggle, then regained her composure after her first blast of the Bracer’s power.

            Verdy turned to Bill.

            “It’s a lot of information.” Verdy said, staring at the ground, but speaking to Bill. He tried to talk to Janey too, but his stomach lurched to look at her. Had he almost considered her his girlfriend for a day or two? That magical stranger- finding him all those nights in Toledo. Just another traveler in Toledo, there with her work colleagues. So interested in him. Between his surgeries…

            He pushed it out of his head. But her number was still a favorite in his contact list. He pushed on. “A lot of information. The molecular composition of muscle. How each drop of intake relates to taste and nutrition. How muscle is grown in a cow. It was impractical to have truck convoys of servers following the herd. Impractical and insecure. So, about fifteen years ago, they had an idea. An idea that would create a computer network that generated its own energy, regulated its own heat, was mobile, waterproof, and efficient. Also, a network that communicated in signals that no one had ever seen before. It was completely secure.”

            “Neural.” Bill stated.

            Verdy nodded.

            Bill went on. “We assumed. But we had to know. But fifteen years? We didn’t know anyone had tried such a thing before two years ago. It wasn’t even legal until last year.”

            “I’m guessing SusteNext has worked out the details of legality with the government, complete with absolution for past sins?” Mamma noted. Verdy shrugged.

            “We have to see.” Janey said. “We have to know what we’re up against. We are ordered to destroy it if we can’t get a meaningful picture of it.”

            Verdy laughed. “You aren’t up against this herd. This herd is all there is. You can’t build an organic neural network. You have to grow it. What’s the best that Toledo can offer? Eleven rats with linked brains, secretly being tested for the last four years? That’s nothing. Truly nothing compared to my herd.”

            “Verdant.” Paps voice was surprisingly stern. “Your herd?”

            Verdy turned his head, but not so much that he could make eye contact with Paps. He dug his fingernails into the dust of the road, sending up a cloud of dust around him, making Donny, the only other sitting figure, cough into his handkerchief.

            “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Paps. It really was all about the meat. At first. Recording the digestion, the volume and content, the alimentary processes. Storing the data, securely getting it all back to headquarters. But it’s been a while since it’s been about the meat.”

            “SusteNext is the largest food producer in the world!” Paps protested. “Once they figure out the right taste for pork and chicken, their meat empire will be…, will be…” He trailed off, not knowing what point he was making.

            “Yeah Paps, but SusteNext will soon be a historical spinoff of a new company. A company that will change everything. The economy, the military, transportation, education…” Verdy gestured toward the herd. “When a brain doesn’t have to worry about safety, reproduction, migration, even nutrition…the neurons are freed to work on other tasks. And they aren’t just harnessed. They grow into solutions. They embrace the network, and the network becomes alive. The hardware grows to meet the needs of the software. The ability to eliminate redundant commands and data are inconceivable. The brain uses simple building blocks, recoding itself each time a new pathway is needed. The herd is a living, breathing computer, a thing that exists in and separate from the cattle brains.”

            “Cow brains?” Donny laughed. “You gotta be kidding me. Cows are dumb!”

            “As dumb as he is, Donny brings up a key point.” Verdy addressed the group as a whole. “SusteNext created this thing almost by accident. No one plans to build a new world on the brain of a cow. We all know what comes next.”

            “Primates.” Mamma guessed.

            Verdy nodded. “And which type of primates.”

            “Humans.” It was Paps’ voice. “It’s the next step, if the rumors out of Toledo are true.”

            “Someone’s gotta stop it.” Verdy spoke to no one in particular. “Or the human physical brain will become a commodity, with little need for the individual consciousness trying to use it. In fact, the incentives are high to reduce the individual. To steal the physical structure away from an identifiable person.”

            “Show us. Show all of us.” Janey phrased the command as a request.

            “Burr!” Verdy called. Verdy felt the terrier start toward him, but it was a moment before the others could also see the dog approaching. She had returned to the herd, but was now reentering the town, without stealth, black and grey fur bouncing as she ran. The dog pulled up next to Verdy, and eyed the strangers.

            “Show ‘em girl.” Verdy gestured toward the flock. Show ‘em everything!”

            The dog stood quietly. Doing nothing. Good girl, thought Verdy. This was the part where he would usually feign ignorance, and declare that the dog would not listen to him. But there was no need for subterfuge. The game of secrecy was over. Verdy reached over and scratched Burr behind her ears. “Good dog,” he whispered one more time, then stated,

            “You’re a burr in my boot

                        But a boon to your brothers

            I’d sell you for loot

                        If I had my druthers.”

The dog listened to the limerick and accepted the signal, the password of sorts, that Verdy’s command was sincere. In a moment the cattle specs were accessible to each member of the odd crowd standing there among the crooked buildings in Slickensslough proper.

            Overlaid on each cow was a map of their innards, complete with their slender skeletons, reduced in size by lightweight carbon fibers, that allowed for extra chemworks within. Volumetric reservoirs and rows of sensors lined the digestive tracts, and wires were as prevalent as veins around the stomachs, and as prevalent as capillaries in the neck. Some cows had extra boxes and chambers in their rumps or their guts or their chests. A closer look at the menu of each cow revealed the purpose of each part. A neurotransmitter lab in one cow, a hormone extraction port in another. There wasn’t time to scan a tenth of the unique features of the most laden cows, and the viewers looked from cow to cow in amazement.

            But it was the brains that were the most shocking. Even Bill and Janey, who had taken the recent discussions in stride, stared in amazement at the glowing threads that overlaid the brain of each cow. It was as if a second brain of wire was the ghost of the physical brain, the wire mesh so fine it was like glowing dust within the skull of the cow. Down into each neck the fine mesh of wires extended, as if the circuitry of the brain was allowed to overflow and fill space as needed.

            They might have watched the cows for hours if Mamma Stoltzfus hadn’t managed to glance over at Verdy.

            “Verdant Grivvens! What have you done!” She cried, and it was the despair in her voice that tore at Verdy. Not anger or disgust, like she usually sent his way, but dismay, just as Verdy might expect from Paps. And a moment later the gasp did come from Paps. A gasp of dismay.

            Verdy had let his own innards show. It wasn’t something that was done in polite company, and it certainly wasn’t done among rivals, but Verdy was past all such mores and tactics.

            Let them see.

            The mesh that clawed into his own brain wasn’t as intricate, but it bore resemblance to the network that was bonded to the cows’ brains. It was like nothing any of them would ever have seen, except maybe Janey, deep in an underground lab, and even she could never have seen a human so wired directly into the brain, from lizard stem to cerebral folds. It had never been done, as far as he knew, and he had placed himself in a position to know. Verdy doubted anyone even noticed that he was missing a kidney, or bothered to wonder at the custom port that had been constructed there.

            “You gave up your mind?” Paps asked with a sadness in his voice that dropped Verdy’s heart into his boots.

            No, Paps. I still got it. All of it.” Verdy choked over the words, just a bit. “But I’ve seen a mighty frightful future coming, and I gotta stop it.”

            “Not like this,” Paps begged.

            “Anything less wouldn’ta done. I’m sorry.” And Verdy meant it.

            Verdy looked around. Mamma was shaking her head at him. Eddy was bent over against some porch steps, teeth clenched and eyes closed. Donny sat on the ground looking dazed. Two others of Mamma’s people hadn’t spoke, but had their visors up and were staring at the herd. Verdy thought he recognized one as a Martin or a Huber. Bill and Janey were recording everything they viewed, and couldn’t look from cow to cow fast enough.

            “If you want us to leave without blowing this herd, you better find a way for us to download bigger chunks of what we’re seeing!” Bill called out.

            Verdy was about to reply when the feed from the beetle drones caught his eye. He paused, then looked at the sky. “Paps,” he called. “Look!” He directed Paps to the drone feed.

            After a second Paps nodded. “That’s cause for concern.”

            “Russ, UP! Single, disconnect.” Verdy called out.

            Somewhere out by the forest Russ released a single beetle drone, and it rose to the sky without any wireless connectivity.

            Verdy called out to Bill and Janey, “Hey, Toledoans! You guys jamming our beetle drones?”

            Janey looked up at him, annoyed to have her eyes off the cows.  “We wouldn’t bother with your drones. And no- we didn’t bring anything that could do that.”

            “Well, look!” Verdy tossed the feed to them. Bill took a quick look and snapped at Verdy. “What am I looking for? Everything looks fine!”

            It was true. The drone feeds showed bright skies over rolling forested hills and distant pastures. Verdy pointed to the hills. The hills they could see with their own eyes, not through the drone cameras. Bill followed his directions, and Janey lifted her eyes as well. The evening light was darkening over the hills as a fog bank lifted up from the next valley. The low clouds were heavy with the threat of rain and the early pinks of sunset tinged their edges.

            The beetle footage did not contain any such pink cloudbank or rising fogs.

            Verdy heard Janey curse. She looked at him. All charade of mock tenderness was gone from her demeanor. “Look, kid, this is a two-person job we’re running here, so obviously we want to get in and get out without making a scene, but give us some sort of master guide to what we’re seeing. We can’t let this thing continue to exist unless we know what we’re looking at. And where we’re going, no one is going to give us grief for setting off the bombs.

            “Ok! Ok- I have just the thing you’ll be wanting!” Verdy leaned down to Burr. “Bring me Mashded Taters.” Burr took off toward the herd.

            A lone beetle descended from the sky. Verdy couldn’t sense it, but he held out his hand, and the beetle alighted on his palm. With the physical contact the beetle transferred its short surveillance recording to Verdy.

            “Sweet Lord Almighty.” Verdy whispered. And before anyone could ask, he shared the recording with all the others.

            A full-size military carrier was floating over the hills, steadily approaching from no more than ten miles out. It was massive, reaching from one hilltop to the next, its shadow darkening the valleys below. It wasn’t moving fast. Carriers rarely did. But it floated steadily closer.

            ‘Well, that’s something.” Donny mused. “And I thought we were just going to bring back some cows.”

            Burr was coming back now, darting ahead and then waiting for the cow behind. Mashded Taters was a Scottish Highland breed, with long white hair brindled in grey. Bangs dropped over her eyes, and a lower lip jutted out, giving the cow’s face under the horns a look of disinterested thoughtfulness. The cow managed a hurried walk, in the way of a large cow, making a great show of haste but never breaking into a run, the furry bulk shuddering about but achieving speeds only slightly more rapid than the cow’s normal casual walk.

            Verdy ran out to meet the cow and the dog.  Janey and Bill followed, Janey watching the sky and Bill watching Verdy.

            “What’s this?” Bill asked.

            “It’s what you need. A command cow.”

            “I don’t have time for games, boy” Bill snapped, but Verdy was hardly listening. He had dropped to his knees and grabbed Mashded Taters’ face in his hands. The breath of the cow blasted into Verdy’s face. The cud scents of fermented sorghum and mountain grasses overwhelmed him, but seemed to pull his being right into the cool waters of a mountain stream.

            “Heifervescence.” Verdy whispered to Mashded Taters. “That’s what my mom used to call it. The breath of a cow will wash away the burdens of the world.”

            “Verdant! Your time is up! Give us whatever information module you have!” It was Janey speaking. Verdy turned to her. And perhaps because he had once stared into those eyes with deep attraction, Verdy saw something different in the eyes at that moment. He didn’t know what it was, but he realized, without any doubt, that Bill and Janey were planning to detonate their explosives, no matter what information he gave them.

            But Verdy turned calmly to Mashded Taters, and ran his hand along her spine until he felt the slightest divots under the fur. He pressed three fingers down, one on each indentation, playing a chord on the cows back. The cow’s spine verified that Verdy had the authorization to press down in just such a manner. A narrow chamber opened up just below the cow’s spine. Inside was a metal recess, clean and smooth and holding an object. Verdy reached in and once again pressed his fingers into the correct positions, then, with perfect timing, he released and pressed again. The object slid out, and Verdy took it into his hand. It was only slightly longer than Verdy’s palm, and a bit thicker than his hand. It was vaguely diamond shaped, though one end was longer, like a stone spearhead, the edges rounded, not sharp.

            “What is it?” Janey asked.

            “I guess you’d call it an artificial choke point. A way to bring the herd’s intelligence together in one place, to transfer data out of the system, or to receive commands.” Verdy realized that his hands were shaking, and his voice trembled. “It’s the soul of the herd. It’s artificial, but it’s the soul, nonetheless.”

            “What?!” Bill snapped.

            The carrier crested the hill. Its shadow raced toward the Slickensslough, and its mass seemed to expand to fill the sky as it approached the town and the field.

            “Give it to me!” Bill demanded.

            “I have to unlock it manually.” Verdy replied calmly.

            “SusteNext gave you that capability?” Janey asked, incredulous.

            “They gave me enough. I took the rest while they weren’t looking.” Verdy smiled.

            “Well, everybody’s looking now.” Janey eyed the carrier, then looked back at Verdy. “Do it!”

            Verdy held the simple metal piece with both hands, his thumbs hovering above the pattern etched into the metal. There were no visible buttons, but Verdy knew where it would sense his touch. Then he began the sequence, bound by the timing of his taps and the order by which he pressed across the etched design. There was no sign that he had correctly inputted the password, other than a slight shift at the longer point, were a panel slid a millimeter, leaving a narrow gap.

            “May I join the herd, Mashded Taters?” Verdy asked, trembling further still. “Yours and the connected beings of your sisters and brothers?”

            “Go looney on your own time, kid.” Bill stepped forward, holding out his hand. Without fanfare, Verdy lifted his shirt, and placed the object into an opening that lay in his skin where his left kidney should have been. A delicate probe shot into the module before the opening closed, and Verdy’s skin seemed to slip back over the opening, revealing no sign of what had been there a second before.

            For a moment Verdy held to his own consciousness, trying to ignore the flood of information overwhelming his system. He saw Janey and Bill raise their bangles toward him. He saw Mamma Stoltzfus behind them. She unleashed all the attacks of the Bracer that she knew. Directly into the two from Toledo. She was unskilled in its use, but Verdy marveled at how clearly he could read the flow of energy into their bodies. She was trying to hurt them. Which meant, apparently, that she was trying to help Verdy.

            They were incapacitated for a moment, but it wouldn’t be enough. Verdy reached out and disabled the Bangles. He couldn’t have said how he did it, but he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. How vulnerable they were. How much the bangles communicated with the rest of the body systems wirelessly. How easily the communication waves could be mimicked and altered. He pushed Janey and Bill to their knees, and held them there.

            Then he just felt it. The Herd. It was a vast intelligence, living within the organic brains, but separate from them. The dogs were there too. He hadn’t known how integrated they were into the Herd. But he felt the personalities he knew within the Herd. Of each dog. Of each cow.

            Through it all was a focus on grass and flowing water and the safety of the herd. Verdy laughed out loud at the bovine-tinged nature of the world’s most advanced network.

            The carrier was slowing over the Slickensslough. It seemed to move very slowly. Everything did. Verdy turned and looked over to where a cannon still spun before the chest of one of Mamma’s quiet companions. Verdy saw the electromagnetic waves holding it, spinning it, and commanding it. He saw many ways that he could reroute its power.

            He reached out his hand toward the cannon. The reaching had no function, except in the minds of the observers. In the moment that he rerouted a blast to the center of the cannon, he squeezed his fist, grunting, as if with effort, as if crushing a can. The cannon tube crumpled in on itself, and fell to the ground.

            Verdy looked up. Military carriers were built with state-of-the-art encryption. To Verdy it looked open to the air. It wasn’t exactly a broken screen door, but no more than a wooden door that could be knocked in with a stiff shoulder. Communications were constant back to headquarters and to multiple command centers. Internal communications leaked through and seemed to swirl like a cloud about the carrier. Inside, each person’s internal networks sent communications to and fro. The normal encryption that guarded individual privacy was open to Verdy, and even the military grade personal protections fell before the gaze of the Herd.

            The military should have been working on creating new encryption based on the neural network. But SusteNext had delayed their access. That was everywhere, the story of it all, zipping in the conversations and commands. SusteNext had demanded an end to their competition, the outlawing of any natural beef butchery. And the government paid the price. Tomorrow the laws went into effect. Tomorrow the military was scheduled to begin its partnership with the Herd. That was the plan. And no one had been concerned about today. The Herd had hidden in plain sight for years.

Verdy could feel their breath and their heartbeats. All personal military systems monitored vitals through an intensive internal network.

Verdy saw that Megan Coronado was on board. The CEO of SusteNext, with a contingent of high-ranking specialists and lackeys. He couldn’t read anyone’s thoughts, but there was a glut of stored notes, agendas, and talking points. Each time someone clicked on a menu item with an eye blink, Verdy knew. He marveled at the vulgarity of it, how the military fawned over the private citizens, how they mobilized in service of SusteNext, hungry for the power of the Herd. They had planned a casual flight out to the herd today, mostly for ceremonial purposes. The drone jamming was standard. But the unplanned movement of the herd had created concern, then an emergency response. Aircraft were being ordered to take flight.

Verdy quickly grew tired of waiting for the hold to open on the lower decks. Verdy could see that the plan was to release twelve manned security flyers to float around the herd perimeter until the situation was fully assessed. Verdy waited impatiently as the Captain approved the order, as it was relayed below deck, and as, finally, a finger was reaching to push a button to open the door. The button did nothing, of course. Verdy had cut off its functionality. But they needed them to feel something, so with each push of the buttons Verdy skipped the engines for a second on the far side of the ship, without letting the control panel display any engine distress. The effect was a slight roll, the carrier tipped a foot or two on its side and then righted itself each time the button was pushed. It was as if the door was tugging, and stuck, and the attempt to open it shook the whole ship.

The Herd was full of sensors and transmitters, making it simple to gather in the information floating in the air, and to send out new signals to join the invisible commands darting through the air in waves. The door operator reported each unsuccessful button push into the microphone on the panel.

Verdy trained the external cameras on himself. And he placed himself on every screen within the carrier, from the main bridge displays, to the cafeteria displays, to the break room entertainment screens. Verdy was surprised at the number of phones on the carrier, with most, but not all, bearing military security software. He placed himself on every phone, and turned up the volume, whether the phone was in its owner’s hand or pocket.

He considered having a conversation with Megan, about his recommendations for SusteNext going forward. But he found he didn’t have the patience. Or the desire.

So, he simply said, “I think we’d like to be left alone for a while.”

It would have been easy to simply lock in an autopilot course that would gently turn the carrier around and send it floating smoothly back to base while its pilots pounded on the dead control panels.

But Verdy raised his hands toward the sky, his movements displayed on every screen within the carrier. Then he moved his hands to the left. The carrier lurched in the direction of his hands. Not enough to really scramble the occupants, but enough to clear off some shelves and to perhaps break an unfortunate wrist or ankle.

He moved his hands back towards the hills as if struggling with a great weight. The carrier began to turn, lilting slightly on its side, the front swinging around and back toward the hills. The panic within the carrier was rising. Verdy wanted to smile, but he maintained a face of struggle and determination. The front of the carrier slid into the forest hill, just a bit, though even the minor contact sheared trees in half and scraped up a swath of earth underneath. Then the carrier was past the hill, wobbling from front to back in a manner that was never intended for the massive vessel. The hull was thick, and the impacts would only damage sensors and appendages; the vessel remained secure.

It rose into the air. And Verdy moved his hands back behind his head. The carrier began to reverse. Verdy whipped his hands forward, tossing an imaginary soccer ball in front of him.

The carrier accelerated rapidly, thrown high into the air by max thrusts from every engine, in a creaking, grinding, fury of thrust.

Verdy then set the autopilot to chug happily back to base, without accepting any input from the bridge controls until it was time to land.

Verdy ended his theatrics as he disconnected from the carrier visual feeds.

While tossing the carrier he had also found two coffin-like stealth pods buried in the swamp. He had brought them over to Bill and Janey and popped them open.

“I believe this is your ride. Probably time for you to get a move on.” Verdy addressed them both, then turned away before they could reply. Mamma was standing there, eyes wide. Paps was approaching as well.

Verdy turned back around, “Oh- I almost forgot!”

He gathered the grenades and sent them spinning in a whirlpool pattern above the two from Toledo, spinning faster and faster, the vortex tip threatening to drop down and touch them. They cowered low.

            Then Verdy laughed and sent the spheres off in a straight line over the field. He took them high in an arch, and plunged them into the Slickensslough.

            Verdy didn’t look again, but he sensed when Janey and Bill had laid down in their pods and sped off, disappearing in the evening shadows.

            Seeing Mamma, Verdy did think of something else. He sent a message to the carrier, which was still in range of some of the Herd’s more powerful transmitters.

            Verdy realized that he was viewing the people before him as the dogs did. Each person was an overlay of systems, and even their person, their self, seemed to be a layered conglomeration. It was confusing, but there seemed to be something right, something true in the view. The view that he had not been able to see without the technology of the Herd. He adjusted his vision to a simpler view of the group before him, and turned to Mamma Stoltzfus.

            “We never meant to hurt this valley, Mamma.” Verdy tried to sound humble. “I just wanted to find a path of survival. Into the future.”

            Mamma’s face was set hard, but she conceded, “I may have misread the Slickensslough a bit.”

            Verdy shrugged. “If I can find a way to make the water flow clear again, will you start to forgive the Grivvens?”

            “I’m always open to forgiveness in this world. We’ll see how my heart is pulled when that day comes,” she replied.

            Paps stepped forward. “I tried to tell you, Mamma. We were thinking of the cattle and all of us here in the valley.”

            “I’d like to believe you’re wise, Paps,” she replied, “Like I once did. But it’s all felt like such dangerous foolishness these many years.”

            “Give it a try, will you?” Verdy asked.

            “Well…” She paused. “I have seen signs and wonders enough to make me split my head open for a while, just to let some rain in to wash my thoughts clear.”

            “If you’re looking for a sign-” Verdy gestured toward the Slickensslough. He raised his right hand and grasped it into a fist.

            The Slickensslough erupted. A great mountain of orange water rose up, then broke apart into geysers that sprayed high into the air. Muddy sludge was thrown in all directions and a slimy haze clouded the air. The cattle jerked in fright, and Verdy felt their fear for a moment, then calmed them with a message of safety, more hormonal than informational.

            “Huh.” Mamma said. “Is that gonna bring back the clear mill pond?”

            “Nah.” Verdy admitted. “But take it as a sign of good things to come for these parts.”

            A small medical transport flew over the hill and came to land next to Eddy. Two bewildered medics stumbled out, but went to work on Eddy when they saw his injuries.

            Verdy walked over to Mashded Taters and grabbed a handful of shaggy hair. He pulled himself up onto the cow’s back.

            “Nickles is hurt, but he’ll be ok. You’ll see to him, Paps?”

            Paps nodded. “Where are you going?”

            “Don’t rightly know, but I figure I should head into the hills for a while, maybe figure some things out.”

            No one spoke as a young man on a shaggy cow rode through the broken town, and across the uneven pylons of the Slickensslough Road, a small terrier trotting beside him. And it was dark before the last clatter of hooves was across the bridge. A shadow the size of a St. Bernard swept the town, then paused for a moment to look back. The humans had all left, on horseback, on foot, and through the sky. The dog verified the herd was safe from the rear, then turned and loped into the hills.

D. B. Leng grew up on a dairy farm, playing in the field next to the heifers. He is happy when there are cows nearby.
As society becomes more modern, he hopes there will always be a place to ride a horse through a herd of cows.

“The day President Harding died, Paul picked me
up in his Ford Model A Pickup. We worked
the gold mine near Franklin Mountain. I swigged
A & W Root Beer, chewed Vienna Sausages.
Paul rolled a cigarette, then we rumbled toward the mine.

That Thursday, another cloudless day, sweltering. No breeze.
Hot enough it’d about wilt tobacco. Bearable 100 feet down.
I picked, shoveled rocks and dirt into wheelbarrows.
A few young bucks toted them, dumped into a large bin
attached to ropes. Mules pulled it to the surface.

Hell, we might get a few cents per ton. I must’ve sweated a bucketful
by quitting time. Most miners had no shoes. Damp black soil
stained our bare feet over our ankles. Locals called us
‘Black-anklers’ but shopkeepers didn’t mind our money.
After work that Thursday evening a few of us climbed

onto a foreman’s truck and he drove us toward Steeds,
the truck kicking up clouds of dust—the fool drove real fast.
Quarter mile from Steeds, he gunned the pedal on a curve and
the truck listed—we slammed to one side, down a slope,
flipped over and over. I struck a pine tree and was out like a light.

I woke, black as night, on a speeding train with all sorts of people—
some dressed highbrow, some in rags. Behind the engine, our car had
no windows. Some dark figure shoveled coal into the roaring furnace.
The engineer turned his head—face was dark with soot and evil looks.
The boiler roared. We zoomed faster and faster, got hotter and hotter.

We yelled ‘Stop!’ but the engineer waved as wind whipped our cheeks.
He yelled “You paid full fare and now you’ll pay your due.’
He slammed brakes and we screeched to a stop. ‘Welcome to paradise.’
Dark things prodded us off with burning rods. It was so hot my shirt
and dungarees singed, burned my face like splattering grits but

it was darker than a mine shaft. We were blind as moles.
It smelled foul—like sulfur, rotting roadkill, sour milk.
I screamed, felt like I was thrown into lava. All around me
yelling, screaming, crying, cursing. Never heard the like. Tried to run
but the ground was hot as roofing tar on bare soles. Kept jumping.

Then I felt someone snatch my wrists, pull me upward
and I blinked awake by a tree at dusk. The other miners stirred,
tended scrapes, bruises. I felt a goose-egg on my brow and a bloody lip.
We staggered to the road, hitched a ride to Steeds.” The reporter paused,
put in another cassette. I rocked, sipped black coffee, smoked, flicked ashes.

“That’s about it. Never drank no white liquor since, near sixty years.
Joined a church, got serious about the Lord and the Word. You saved?”
The reporter cleared his throat. “Well, this isn’t about me; it’s about you.”
“Cannot remember those verses dad used to read about,
about some damn train, but I swear, I think I rode on it.”

The writer has written sacred and secular verse for many decades. He’s appeared in various poetyry magazines and journals over the years. he is on FB.

  
  “Ruben’s going  with us to town again tonight James.”

    “Again Stu?  Why? All he did last week was just sit there at the bar and sip the same beer all night long while he watched us lose all our money to that gambler Spieler.”

    “He didn’t say. He just said he wanted to go, that’s all.”

    “Well he doesn’t say much period, that’s for damn sure. You know I asked him last week right after the boss hired him where he was from and what he did before he came here and I never did get an answer from him. Hell Ruben Swanson might not even be his real name. You know Stu, I got me a funny feeling about him. Something just ain’t right about that man.”

      Just then baby-faced, twenty something, blonde hair, blue eyed Ruben Swanson, average in height and weight, generic in looks, still in his work clothes, still with cow manure on his boots, entered the bunkhouse.

      “You going like that?”  Stu asked him.

      He and James had gotten cleaned up and  were wearing  their dress up go to town Saturday night duds. Both had strapped on their gun belts. Stu wore two guns, James only one. After all, they were going to the Sure Shot Saloon. They had to make an impression.

      Ruben on the other hand looked like he had just come straight from mucking out the dairy barn, which he had, and he was unarmed.

       “Well, are you?”

       “Packed and ready,” answered Ruben.

       Stu looked at James nonplussed. James looked at Stu and shrugged his shoulders.      

      “Okay let’s go then,” said James.

       Not a word was exchanged between the three of them the whole way they rode to town together though James wondered why Ruben had his packed saddle bags with him since they were just going out for a night of fun. But he kept his mouth shut since he knew he wouldn’t get an answer from him anyway. Stu never picked up on it.

       Now all three of them sat at the bar in the Sure Shot Saloon and sipped their beers as they watched the poker game already in progress. The poker game featuring Slick Spieler, a professional gambler, who had just blown into town last week with the hot Texas summer wind. He was a slick one alright, slick for the way he fancily dressed himself, slick for the way he haughtily carried himself, slick for his trademark slicked back coal black hair and pencil thin mustache, and most of all of course, slick  for his sleight of hand that no one could ever catch him at. He was the Sure Shot Saloon’s new main attraction, good for business, drawing a larger crowd than the can can girls ever did.

     There was a certain organized madness to the man. First he only played five card draw. Second he only let three other players at a time at the table with him. And third he would go about eliminating each player one at a time, until all the chairs were empty before he called for the next batch of fools to join him. From the look on his face it seemed as if he enjoyed every second of it, relishing in this process of eliminating his opponents. So things progressed as usual that evening and soon only Slick Spieler was left at the table. He looked at the bar and recognized James and Stu from last week, gave Ruben a cursory once over, extended his right hand, and with cupped fingers motioned for them to come join him.

    “Come on you two. Who knows you might just get lucky this time. You too Hayseed.”

     One look was all it took. Stu and James just had to take one more shot at getting their money back that they had lost last week. They chugged their beers and like flies drawn to honey buzzed over to join him, James plopping himself down to the right of him, Stu to the  left. Then to the surprise of  James and Stu, Ruben left his untouched beer at the bar and took the third chair directly across from Spieler.

     “Well  Hayseed you sure you’re up for this,” taunted Spieler as he leaned across the table over to Ruben and pulled a piece of hay from his hair that he had palmed in his hand. Spieler stuck it in his mouth and began chewing on it.  “Well?”

     “HIs name’s Ruben,” volunteered Stu.

     “And he don’t talk much,” added James.

     “Fine by me boys we’re here to play cards anyway not to have an intellectual conversation.”

     The game began and as usual Spieler let James and Stu win a little at first to get them to build up their confidence. He knew from last week that they’d be an easy kill. And as to the hick  Ruben he would take him out last. He’d be easy pickings.

      Stu was the first to go down and not long thereafter James. As James slid back his chair  and was about to  get up, Ruben grabbed his sleeve, pulled him to him, and whispered into his ear.

    “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him. I’ll fix it so that when I’m through with him, he’ll never deal again.”

   James pulled his head back, furrowed his brow, and gave Ruben a puzzled quizzical look. Taken back by what Ruben had just said, he didn’t know what to make of it as he got up, went over to, and joined Stu at the bar who was gulping down Ruben’s warm untouched beer. Stu was one who just couldn’t let an untouched beer go to waste. 

    “What did he say to you?” asked Stu, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and setting down the empty glass.

    “That Spieler would never deal again after he was through with him.”

    “What’s that mean?”

    “I don’t know Stu but something ain’t right here. Like I said before there’s something strange about Ruben and I got me a weird funny feeling about this. We’re just gonna have to wait and see how this all plays out.”

    The game resumed. Spieler let Ruben win the next three hands. It was Spieler’s turn to deal now and he was ready to move in for the kill. He dealt the cards. Ruben looked at his hand. He held an ace of spades, ace of hearts, nine, five, and a three. He bet five dollars. Spieler saw him and raised him ten. Ruben took out his billfold, matched it and raised him twenty. Spieler raised him back another twenty. Reuben matched it and called.

     “Jesus, where in the hell did  Ruben get all that money?” said Stu as he elbowed James in the ribs.  “I thought he was broke when the boss hired him.”

    “I did too.”

    “How many Plowboy?”

    Ruben held up three fingers. Spieler dealt him three cards. Ruben kept the pair of aces and threw away the other three.

    “The dealer takes one.”

    Everyone in the place had their eyes on Spieler as he dealt himself his one card hoping to catch him slipping himself a card either from the bottom of the deck or from up his proverbial sleeve. No one was paying any attention to Ruben though except for James.

    Spieler faked a faint smile as he looked at his new card. The crowd picked up on it, followed his lead, and likewise smiled.

    Reuben stared at his three new cards, a jack, an eight, and a third ace, only it was another ace of spades. He said nothing.

    “You’re bet Hayseed.”

     Ruben bet twenty dollars. Spieler matched it and raised him thirty. They kept on matching and raising each other until Spieler had bet every penny he had on him. As to Ruben though no one knew how much he still had left on him. But it  was table stakes and since Spieler had staked all he had on the table, he called. It was time now for the two of them to show their cards.

     Spiler laid down his hand first and spread out his cards.

    “Two pair kings and queens with a jack kicker. Beat that munchkin farm boy.”

    Ruben laid down his hand but didn’t spread it out like Spieler had. Instead he put them down in a fashion where one of the ace of spades covered up the other one so that only the A was showing in the upper left hand corner of the covered up card, hoping to pass it off as the ace of clubs. Ruben reached for the pot.

     “Not so fast there country bumpkin,” said Speler, grabbing Ruben’s wrist. “You don’t have three aces there, clodhopper.”

     Slick Spieler uncovered the covered up ace of spades. A communal gasp went up from the crowd silencing the room.

      “Ya blew it gambler wannabe. You got the wrong sleeve. Your ace of clubs is still up your right sleeve. But you being left handed naturally went to your left and that’s where you screwed up. Forgot that the ace of spades was there, didn’t you?”     

      “You dealt me that card instead of the ace of diamonds which was the next card due up. That way you could accuse me of cheating since I would have beaten you with three aces.”

      Then before Spieler could respond, Ruben reached across the table and uncovered the top card on the deck sitting before him. It was the ace of diamonds. The crowd did its second communal gasp double take.      

     “Well there’s only one way to settle this then isn’t there.”

      Stu jumped up from his bar stool and shouted out, “He’s not even packing.”

      “He is now,” said James, getting up, and starting to take off his gun belt.

      “James what in the hell are you doing? Spieler’s been in a couple of gun fights. He’s still standing in case you hadn’t noticed. Ruben ain’t got a snowball’s chance. He couldn’t outdraw him and even if he did, he couldn’t hit a barn wall from inside the barn. This is on you James, not me if something goes wrong.”

      James offered his gun belt to Ruben.

      Ruben shook his head no.

     “Thank God someone has some sense around here,” said Stu with a sigh of relief.

      Then Ruben pointed to Stu’s gun belt and James knew why.

      “He wants your guns Stu. He’s left handed. My pistol is on the right. You got two guns. Give it to him.”

      Stu looked at Ruben and could tell from the pleading look in his eyes that he really really wanted his gun belt.

     “Tell ya what kid,” said Spieler, “just to make it fair, I’ll let you make the first move before I kill you. That way it’ll be self defense.”

       Stu hated Speiler with a vengeance having lost all his last two weeks wages to him and that taunt of his to Ruben pushed Stu over the edge. He gave Ruben his gun belt.

      “This is on your conscience now Stu, not mine,” said James strapping back on his gun.

      “Thanks a lot James. Thanks a lot.”

      James took Stu aside and whispered in his ear,  “Trust me Stu. I got me a hunch as to what’s really going on here.”

      “Ya mean like those hunches you got in the poker game.”

      Ruben strapped on Stu’s gun as Spieler checked his over. Then they both stepped over to the center of the saloon as the patrons scurried for cover.

     “I’m going to get the Sheriff,” said Stu.

     “It’s midnight Stu. He lives clear on the other side of town. He’s asleep. He ain’t on duty just that dumb deputy of his and he won’t do anything anyway until it’s all over.”

     “Well I’m getting him just the same and Doc Brady too,” countered Stu as he ran out the door. 

     The two participant’s squared off about fifteen paces between them.

     Untrue to his word, Spieler made the first move. But Ruben beat him to the first shot, firing  while his gun was still in the holster, the barrel protruding out the bottom of the holster. That plus the left side gun was why Ruben wanted Stu’s gunbelt not James’s. He had shot straight forward from the hip and shot the gun out of Spieler’s right hand along with blowing off Spieler’s thumb, index finger, middle finger, and a good size portion of his wrist. Spieler’s wrist dangled there and he grabbed it with his left hand, fearing it would fall off, and cradled it to his chest.

    Just then Stu, the deputy, and Doc Brady rushed in.

    Doc Brady went over to Spieler, pulled back his right hand, looked it over, scrunched up his face, sucked in some air through his teeth, and shook his head side to side.

    Someone handed him Spieler’s thumb, index and middle finger.

    One look was all it took. “I can’t sew these back on. There’s nothing left to sew. Same goes for the wrist. I can’t sow it back on either. The tendons have been severed. What’s left is going to have to come off.”

    He led the stunned Spieler out the door and back to his office. The deputy followed him.

    Stu ran over to Ruben, grabbed his hand, and shook it vigorously. “Congratulations. You’re one lucky fella Ruben. He beat you to the draw but you got the first shot off.”

    “There was no luck to it Stu,” piped up James.

    “Huh?”

    “Think about it Stu.”

    “Think about what?”

    Ruben went over to the table, counted out what Stu and James had each lost and handed it to them. He pocketed the rest.

     They both thanked him.

     “Say Stu, why don’t you go get yourself a beer. I need to talk to Ruben for a minute and then I’ll join you.”

    “Sure James sure.”

    Stu left for the bar.

    “Pretty clever of you Ruben whoever you are,” said James. “How long had you been after him before you finally got your payback here tonight?”

    “A while.”

    “Well since I see that you’ve already got your saddlebags packed and are ready to go, I reckon you’ll be moving on now won’t you?”

    “Yes.”

    “Well I bid you adieu mon ami.”

     Exit one Ruben Swanson aka whoever he was.

     James went to the bar and joined Stu.

     “I just figured it out, James.”

     “Figured it out what Stu?”

     “Figured out what Ruben meant when he said that Spieler would be done dealing when he was through with him. This was all planned out wasn’t it?”

    “Ya know Stu I do believe there’s hope for you after all.”

Author is a retired attorney now living in Texas.

  
          Rose came to my grave every Friday except the thirteenth. She came before it was light so she could pretend nobody knew, and she never brought flowers or tended the ones that grew wild and tangled over my grave. She never talked to the cross, even though that was all she had of me, but I could understand her silences well enough. She always stayed until sunrise and I always stayed with her.

            She was older than me after a few years, but she never remarried. The other men in town probably thought I’d come back from the dead for her and they were probably right. They probably thought I’d kill them like I did her husband, and they were probably right. I never was a good man.

            I always wanted to die standing up, and I did. But I wanted to die with my hat on, too, and the noose knocked it off. Rose, a baby in her arms with my eyes and another man’s name, picked it up and watched stonily as I dropped.

            Jace grew into the hat but my eyes always looked funny on him.

            I’m no more than earth now. I’ve got worms whispering in my ear all day and night. Lightning strikes a hundred miles away, I feel it. A foot falls in the desert, I hear it. A tree can’t fall in the forest with nobody around anymore. I’m around. It makes a noise.

            My body stays moldering but I drift. I watched a band of soldiers trudging home, young men no more, faces ashen as their uniforms, a kid younger than Jace beating senselessly on a bullet-riddled drum. I watched them lay railroad tracks from here to the end of the world. I watched endless fights over land, watched endless blood spilled. I saw the land soaked in blood and hung out to dry and soaked again.

            And then, for a long time, there was no rain.

            Rose didn’t tell Jace much about me. Just that I was dead. But she didn’t have to. He learned the story from the way women looked at her like she was trash. He learned it from the things men said about her when they knew he could hear. He learned it from the way the other kids avoided him when they weren’t tormenting him.

            Mostly, he learned it from the way the sheriff smirked at him whenever they passed each other on the street.

            He didn’t tell Rose. He figured she had enough troubles.

            Time slipped out of our hands and suddenly Jace was nearly a man.

            He got a job at the bar, the only real money in town. Everyone was thirsty all the time because by then it hadn’t rained in over a year. The dirt around me got powdery and the dirt above me cracked. The tree roots went for me but I had run dry a long time ago.         

            Late in the summer, late at night, all the good people in bed. Jace was behind the bar, Rose sitting there visiting him, proud as ever. The sheriff was the only customer left, slumped lumpishly in the corner. And me, of course, in the air.

            “You can go on home,” Jace said. “Get some rest. Might be a while.”

            Rose touched his hand and I knew she wasn’t going anywhere. “How did I get such a nice boy?” she said, teasing, and he grinned in a way he hadn’t gotten from either of us and looked away.

            “That’s a damn good question,” the sheriff slurred. They turned to look and he got up and staggered towards them. “Looks like blood doesn’t make the man, huh?”

            He punched Jace on the shoulder, harder than friendly.

            “That’s enough,” Rose said.

            “Everybody knew she was gonna be trouble the minute she rode in,” he told Jace, holding out his glass. Jace refilled it, spilling a little. “Pretty as she was. Isn’t she pretty, still?”

            He reached out and brushed a thick finger along her cheek. She slapped his hand away and took a long sip of her drink. I’d already be going for the rifle under the bar. Jace didn’t but he shifted his weight uneasily, looking between them, and his hands closed into fists on the bar. The sheriff noticed.

            “I keep this town safe,” he said. “I’ve been keeping this town safe since before you were born.”

            I remembered that last night, her husband in the ground and her in my arms, the first good sleep I’d had in years. I woke up to find the sheriff and half the men in town standing over me, guns drawn, and all I could say was “Don’t shoot her.” I heard Jace wailing as they dragged me out and I killed two of them trying to get to him.

            We’re all trying to keep something safe. Most of us don’t get paid for it.   

            “Stay away from pretty women,” he went on, still talking to Jace like Rose had left the room. “They’ll screw around on you and get you killed.”

            “That’s enough!” she said. “Go home.” And then, pointedly: “Your wife’ll be worried.”

            “He’s got a right to know.”

            Jace knew already and he didn’t like what he knew, and you could tell it by the look on his face.

            “Jace, he’s drunk, don’t listen–”

            The sheriff looked at her blearily. “Truth doesn’t change just because you’re drunk.”

            Rose pressed her lips together tight and went very still. I watched her breath in, breath out, waiting for this to be over.

            “But then was then and now is now,” the sheriff said.

            It was quiet for a while after he said that. He was looking at Rose and Jace was watching him and Rose was wishing she was somewhere else. It was the darkest part of night and there was still time to go home and pretend this never happened.

            And then Rose looked back at the sheriff, knowing in the way she had what was going to happen just before it did happen. He grabbed her and kissed her hard and that did it.

            Jace jumped across the counter and yanked him off her. He got the sheriff around the throat and the man’s eyes bulged out of his already-red face, looked ready to pop.

            That was the only time my eyes looked right on Jace.

            The sheriff was drunk but he was bigger and meaner. He knocked Jace to the ground and got on top of him and started hitting him.

            Rose screamed “Stop it!” and tried to pull him off. But he kept hitting Jace, again and again, until blood stained the dusty floorboards and he still didn’t stop. And a gunshot rang out. And the sheriff fell over dead. And Rose stood there holding the smoking rifle in steady hands.

            A bastard makes a better killer than a whore, so daylight found Jace in the jailhouse.

            He stood in the patch of light in the middle of the cell. He stood still, eyes closed, face

raised to the light like a man praying. His body stiff and bruised. Dust clung to the sweat and blood on his face, dulling the shine of the sun, and he was holding my old hat at his thighs with both hands.

            He was seventeen years old then. He still looked like the child in Rose’s arms to me.

            The cell was a gray room, river-rock walls around a patch of gray dirt. The worms writhe out on rainy days but in years like this the dust comes up and covers the prisoner like he’s already in the grave. It was a cramped little cell with a cramped little window. It was the condemned cell. I remember it more than anything.

            In years past some people had snuck knives in and then, losing their nerve, carved things into the walls for future inhabitants. See you in hell brother. That was mine. Other people’d done scripture or dirty pictures or their sweethearts’ names. I didn’t care what they’d written the first time I was there, but I spent a long time looking over them that long day and night I spent with Jace.

            Clara and Polly and Grace. Willa and Ruth and Mary. Did any of them watch the hangings? Visit the graves? Most of them were dead, I’d bet.

            and I looked and beheld a pale horse and his name that sat on him was death and hell followed with him. there is no peace saith the lord unto the wicked. and they shall wander from sea to sea and from the north even to the east they shall run to and fro to seek the word of the lord and shall not find it. how shall we sing the lords song in a strange land?

            The sunlight hour ended and Jace slumped over, slid down the wall, sat there huddled up,

scratching something of his own on the wall with a piece of rock. His eyes looked like his again,

which is to say out of place. He twisted the hat in his hands until the brim snapped and then he threw it away.

            I looked at what he had written, which no one else would ever read. I didnt do it in childish scrawl.

            Rose came that night. Sometimes I think that woman spends her life visiting graves. The window was high but she brought a tin bucket and flipped it upside down and stood on it.

            “Jace,” she said, quiet but sharp.

            He got up. He could see through the window if he strained.

            “Mama,” he said. I was surprised to hear his voice steady.

            “You been praying?”

            “Yeah, Mama, all the time I’ve been in here.”

            A coyote wailed in the distance, then another, then the pack. Rose turned to look but they didn’t come close and their cries faded after a while.

            “Don’t do it,” Jace said abruptly.

            “What?”

            “I did it. That’s the story I told and that’s the story I’m sticking to. Your word against mine.”

            I drew closer and laid a weightless hand on his shoulder.

            “In the morning I’ll go to the reverend and explain it properly,” she said. She wasn’t crying–I’d never seen her cry, not while I was alive and not in all the years since. She just didn’t have any tears in her. “I was defending you. It would have been wrong to do anything but what I did.”

            He fell back from the window for a minute. Turned a slow circle looking around the cell. Rose stood there, waiting, perched on the bucket, thick moonlight casting her shadow long. A breeze came and lifted her hair, sweaty clumps clinging to her neck.

            “Don’t treat me like a kid,” he said. “Nobody’s going to believe you–Mama, don’t you know I know what they think of you?”

            Rose inhaled sharply like it was her neck in the noose. She reached for him through the bars but couldn’t touch him.

            “Was he in here?” Jace said after a silence.

            “Yes,” she said. “He was.”

            “Did you visit him too?”

            “He wouldn’t have wanted to see me.”

            I would have. I did. It wasn’t until morning came and she hadn’t come that I realized

what she’d done. I killed for her and she killed me. How else did they know where I was that night?

            “But you…”

            “I told the sheriff where he would be. I told him to come that night. I…I kept him there until they came.”

            She had betrayed me for Jace and she would betray herself for him, too and Jace couldn’t

yet understand or bear either of those.

            “He was my father,” he said. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”          

            “You weren’t going to grow up in his world.” She leaned forward and the bucket tilted with her and came crashing down, clattering against the jailhouse wall. They both froze, waiting for a shot that never came.

            “Jace, listen,” she said intently, getting back up. “After…when it’s all over, get out of here. Go anywhere so long as it’s far away. Forget me, him, all of them, just–”

            “Mama, stop!”

            He scrubbed a hand across his face. He wanted to be tough like her but he wasn’t old enough yet and a couple of tears came.

            “I can’t see you hang,” he said.

            “Somebody’s going to die for this,” Rose said softly. “Somebody always has to die.”

            And finally his voice cracked.           

            “But I still need you.”

He wrapped his hands around the bars and she kissed his knuckles. I always thought I was hanging around the land of the living. But seeing and not being seen, feeling and not ever touching–it was some kind of hell.

I wanted to claw my way out of the earth. I always did but it never compared to that night. My bones didn’t move but the room got a little clearer, the wind a little stronger across my face.

            Rose stiffened. Said my name. Said, “Goddammit, leave us alone!”

            So I did. So I didn’t hear what else was said that night.

            But I was there when they hanged him.

            The reverend was nowhere to be found in the morning. His house was shut up and dark and only an old woman who didn’t know who she was talking to would talk to Rose. It seemed he’d left town when the drought started after years of his best work. Even God wasn’t enough in the end. Nothing could stand up to that white-hot sky forever.

            The height of the day and not an inch of shade to stand in, not even under the gallows. They shuffled around, sweating, irritable, wishing for it to be done quick so they could go home. Rose stood still, damp with sweat, a ghost among the barely living.

            Nobody was close enough to see his eyes but me. And they were scared. They were. But he climbed those stairs with his head high and his back as straight as he could manage, and when they asked if he had any last words, he stepped forward and looked up at the sun like he was still in the cell. He took a slow breath, his last. When he spoke his voice was steady as a mountain and clear as the stream that runs off it.

            “God saw,” Jace said. “He knows–”

            But it was too hot to wait any longer. They tossed the rope around his neck and did it.

            Rose asked them to lay him next to me in her own private cemetery. If he’s lingering, he’s keeping his distance.

            She came one last Friday. Stood above us in a dress the color of the landscape, and

finally, a tear fell. Another. One for each of us but likely both for Jace. She laid a dusty white lily, already wilting, on each of our graves.

            She had brought a starving, colorless horse with her and it stamped impatiently. The grass was sickly yellow-brown, not worth eating, and it crunched under the mare’s hooves. Wildfires were starting on the horizon. I could feel the heat snaking through the ground, bothering the worms.

            Rose touched Jace’s cross and whispered something I didn’t listen in on. She swung herself onto the horse and dug her heels in and didn’t look back, not even when she crested the hill.

            I watched her for a while. One more day, after all the years. She rode through the night and had found no towns by morning and the last I saw of her, the horse had died and she was walking through grass up to her hips. Her eyes looked more like mine than Jace’s ever had. Nothing on earth could touch her now.

            And then I let her go, and then we were both alone.

            Years ago, flowers grew over my grave without anyone tending to them, butterfly weed and marigolds and poppies, orange and yellow and red, bright against the sky. But the rains still haven’t come, and so nothing grows over Jace. There is only dust, pale brown and blowing away in the wind.

Madeline DeCoste is a Midwestern writer who loves a good story more than almost anything.

departed had he, long away
farrago, but saved the town:
he’d booted out the cutthroats,
would not marry the widow.

Bruce Robinson divides his time uneasily among several four-footed and sure-footed creatures.

At first glance
the prairie is boring.
Face it,
it’s flat.
No oceans, no mountains
just grass
everywhere you look.
It’s so boring you eventually
look up.
And then you see
the sky is alive,
it pulses with clouds.
One minute it is a plausible
picnic day;
checkered blanket,
a game of badminton, perhaps
some lemon tea.
Then the scent of the wind
changes, the crows start to caw.
Looks of alarm, hurried
folded blankets,
nowhere to run
except the car.
You duck under the dashboard
and wait.
A vaccuum silence,
a thunder clap,
the roar of rain on the roof.
A sigh, a pause, a pitter pat,
and the sun shines again
on the prairie.

Laura Balster has loved poetry since childhood, and has been writing it since a teenager. She studied Literature at Wilmington College in Ohio and has since lived in Colorado, California, and New York City. She settled down and started a family in Oklahoma and has lived there for 37 years. She fell in love with the prairie and its people; these poems celebrate that.

It’s the screams that wake me. Once I’m awake, it’s sort of routine. Next there’s mother’s voice shushing him. Then the moans, shifting to sobs that dwindle to gasps, and finally, silence.

It’s not every night. Some nights it’s different moans and the rhythmic rocking of bed springs which signals they’re going at it. Once, on a moonlit night, I saw Mom holding Dad’s head against her neck as he panted his need for her into the cool night air. Everyone thinks my war hero father is the master of the universe, but I know better. Mom is.   

            No matter what terrors assail him in the night, mornings bring my father’s usual optimistic industry. With a thumb hooked into his belt and his twenty-two resting on his forearm, he strides out across our VA-bought land to check our cattle. In his mind, he’s the Virginian, Own Wister’s cowboy hero, fresh from the Civil War, eager to make his mark. In reality, war is the only thing my father shares with Wister’s hero, that and his stubborn determination. Our paltry one hundred sixty acres will never be expanded to the vast Wister-style spread Dad envisions and even at the ripe old age of nine, I have doubts about our thirty-two mangy cows and adolescent bull ever being the foundation of a cattle kingdom.

            But such is the power of his dream, my mother and I are captured by it. Saturdays are livestock sale days. The excitement we feel is electric. Mother dresses in her best Bryn Mawr dress adorned with the heavy turquoise broach Dad bought her before he went to fight the Arabs for their oil in Iraq. Dad and I preen in front of the mirror in crisply starched khakis and trim fitting cowboy shirts. Our well-brushed Resistol cowboy hats are removed from the top shelf of Mother’s closet where we keep them safe from the ever-present mice. Uncle Eben, who lives back East, ordered them for our Christmas last year. The attendant delirium over the arrival of those hats, I am convinced, will never be reached again.

Mom is Uncle Eben’s favorite sister, so he indulges her support of Dad’s dream of ranching. He believes Mom will eventually see sense and abandon what he calls an antediluvian pipedream. Cowboy fantasies are pretty contagious though. He comes to visit once a year and fits himself out in the most outrageous Cowboy paraphernalia you could hope to find. Trips into town become a red-faced nightmare for Dad and me. But, I guess the hats are worth it.

            At the auction house, Dad scouts out the brood cows. The best are out of our price range. We eye the most promising of the poorly specimens noting their numbers. There’s not much competition for cows destined for the pleasures of the local canine population. We buy four. Loading the trailer, Dad sheds his original dubious assessment of his purchase.

            “Son, with a little feed these sweethearts will drop some pretty calves,” he says, eyes shining. “It only takes one healthy calf to make our money back. After that, it’s all profit.

            Dubious, I calculate the price we’d need to recoup our money. “You think we could get a calf that good?” I ask. Instantly regretting my doubts, I exclaim, “we can feed them that special feed with molasses. That’ll fatten them up.”

            “Don’t forget, son, we have four. Better odds,” Dad says.

            That cinches it. I like good odds. I’m learning about odds in math. The better the odds, the less the risk. Risk, I don’t like at all. I’m a sure thing boy, double checking every problem before I turn in my homework and preparing for every test as though it’s the entrance exam for Princeton, where my Uncle Eben teaches. Still … those cows look promising, now that I look closer.

            We enter the cows into Dad’s herd ledger with high hopes. Mom and I choose names. Daisy, Rose, and Petal are typical of her choices. Old Crumple Horn, Three tits, and Stumbles for a half blind Holstein are more in my line of nomenclature.

            Worn out cows don’t have fight. When it’s time to calve, they lay on their sides, eyes bulging with the strain on their thin old bodies, content to suffer and die. It’s as if they know in their dull, bovine minds the time for producing spring calves is long past. The only thing animated in these sad dramas is Dad and me. Cowboy dreams die hard.

            Uncle Eben’s faith in Mom isn’t misplaced. After too many stillborn calves and dying cows, she goes back to work. Before she was a rancher’s wife, Mom was a forensic accountant. But this is ranch country. Our town only has one bank, one grocery store, three bars and six churches. Not much call for forensic accountants, unless you consider the churches, but Mom won’t. The worst fraud she ever found was with a church. And getting a conviction is nigh on impossible. But there’s still a lot of folks looking for my mother’s kind of help. She can keep books so the government don’t get a penny or at least not many pennies, and it’s all on the up-and-up. In no time, she’s working all day long and sometimes late into the night to keep up with what she calls, client demand. Dad calls it ornery cheapskates looking for way more than they deserve.   

            Dad and I work through spring, summer, and into fall without going to the livestock auction. Mending fences and mowing hay keeps us busy. In all that time there are only three live births, and one leaves the mother dead. Dad and I bottle feed that boney little orphan and keep it in the yard. When we finally decide to take another run at the livestock auction, it’s late fall, and Dad has a bit more jingle in his pocket. He’s taken out a loan on a third of this year’s hay. I worry.

            Sale day, Mom sits at the breakfast table. “You know,” she says all casual like, “I have put a bit by. Most is going into the boy’s college fund, but I have enough to add a bit to your stash.”

            Dad looks up from his apple pie and really peers at Mom. “You sure?” he says. Mom’s money, unlike them in the bedroom, never frolics with Dad’s.

            “I wouldn’t offer otherwise,” she says and goes to get her big ledger-sized checkbook. While she’s gone, we wolf down our pie and bolt to the truck. Dad’s grinning like a Cheshire cat the whole way to town.

            “Don’t you want Mom’s money?” I say.

            He laughs and shakes his head, No.

            “What’s she going to think? The way we ran off?”

            “Don’t you worry about what your Mother thinks,” he says. “I know what she thinks.”

            We jolt and jog down the pot-hole pocked road for a bit.

            “And?”

            Dad looks at me with that speculative look he has when he’s trying to decide if I’m old enough to be let in on some big secret. I already know about sex and other such things and find it aggravating that he hesitates to tell me anything. After all, I’m nine and can buck hay better than Cody Lunsford, and he’s twelve.

            “Son,” he says with the serious tone he uses when he’s going to tell me something big.

            “What do you think I want from your Mother?”

            That’s an awkward question cause I know. He wants what he gets, pretty often as far as I can tell from the bed springs. And when he doesn’t get that, he gets her sweet shushes when his war terrors plague him. He also wants her apple pies and Boston baked beans, but they’re pretty far down on his list of wants. After thinking for a while, I decide I’d best wait him out.

            When he realizes I’m not talking, he continues. “The last thing I want from your Mother is her money.”

            “Okay,” I say.

            “What a man wants from his wife,” he says, “is her belief in him. With your Mother, that means this ranch. I need her to believe I can cowboy this ranch and make it pay.”

            “Really?” I say. “Dad, you were raised in New York.”

            He looks at me and bursts into laughter. “But I want the American Dream, son, the American Dream.”

             I look back across the parched, blowing fields toward our scraggly property, the dust boiling out behind us. Personally, I think he should have taken the money.

Evelyn Fletcher Symes comes from a long line of story tellers and has all the attributes of tall tale tellers: exaggeration, understatement, and an uncanny ability to fabricate astonishingly believable lies.

Irish face cloth she left drying on the line in the summer sun
Her smile left hanging on the endless Montana’s sky
Her Green Cowgirl Boots left under the front-porch
Darkness shining in the brightness of her eyes at twilight
Cow dung shadow’s lay over the hand-maid’s moonlight
Seated on her dad’s saddle crossed-legged smoking a coiled pipe
Gloved hand guiding the moon’s lost hawk to land
November’s morning bleached in Violet daylight

Terry Has been painting for over forty five years. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, True Chili, LKMNDS and Elevation.

2022 was a chaotic year as you all know. Certainly not one I would describe as quiet here in Arizona. Baker Street is up (publishing January 6 each year). I also completed my second short film. It is with some film festivals now and I hope to offer it online soon.

But we are now getting back to the campfires and cowboys in True Chili. At Underwood, we hope you enjoy the reads.

It’s hot. It’s humid. And it’s quiet (with no school in session). All in all, it’s a good time to sit and think and write. I hope it is a productive time for all of you. I have not been as busy writing as I have been planning. Lots of good stuff in the works not the least of which is that I am dipping my toes into filmmaking. Our first short effort is scheduled to be screened at the “IFP – Phoenix 240 to Glory Film Challenge Screening and Awards” on August 11. More on that later.

On January 6, we opened our submission window on our latest platform: Baker Street. Baker Street focuses on mysteries and suspense stories (think Sherlock Holmes). If you write mysteries, or want to write mysteries, this might be a nice place to try them out.

Baker Street will publish its first issue on January 6, 2022 (Sherlock Holmes’ birthday).

Dear Caroline,

I am in Phoenix now, I hope everything back home is good and that you and the baby are okay. The other day, I woke up in the early morning and my horse was up on a ridge by the border. The other men were still asleep and the stars were still lit up too. I followed her up the rocks and when I got to where she was standing she had gone on a little way, further in the dust. I whistled for her but she only twitched her ears and began to walk away from me again. I followed her for about two miles and then we came to a great red pass, I was nervous that the foreman would think I had deserted. When I called for her, my voice echoed out over the red rocks and into the sand, forever.

I finally got her outside a white-walled town over the border, she was sniffing at the dirt in their cemetery. A local woman who was praying said something I didn’t understand and kept giving me these funny looks. When I got back the foreman was mad, I explained and it made him laugh but he still put me on the night round-up again. The other cowboys say I have a dead man’s horse and that she was trying to find her owner. I never did like spook stories.

     Mathew

Dear Caroline,

I hope you are still well and that the fever cleared for good. Tell Doc Smith he will get his pay when I’m home; which I hope is soon. Wyoming is very beautiful and I wish you could be here with me to see the mountains. In the distance, when it has snowed, the shape they make looks like your swollen stomach when you lay on your back in bed.

An Indian woman wanted to read my palm today but I told her that I wasn’t interested. Some of the other cowboys had theirs done, but that sort of stuff doesn’t interest me. I had my first bath in a week and it was as good as a week without a warm bath might sound. The water was very hot at the start, my legs and feet got that needle-like feeling you get when you’ve not stood up in a while. After a few minutes, it was just fine and although you said people can drown, I slept a little in it too.

I look forward to the way my gut flutters on the ride in when I haven’t been home in months.

     Mathew

Dear Caroline,

Before we left Caspar, the sheriff told us that there had been reports of Comanche attacks on the trail back to Colorado. We didn’t think much of it because we all carried pistols and two of the other cowboys rode with shotguns too. A little way into the journey we were resting on the edge of a deep gulch, we had just eaten our beans and bread when one of the men came back from having to relieve himself and told us there was some trouble down in the pass below. When I looked over into the blackness I could see a fire pit and the light from it threw the shadows of the dead folk on the walls of the rocks. The foreman said it was Comanche work and we were lucky to have just missed them. I don’t know how I feel about claiming luck over someone else’s death.

The next morning when we had woken, I looked down into the pass again, I don’t know why, I didn’t really think about it, sort of how you don’t think about which sock you put on first. I bent over the gulch and the bodies were gone. The fire was just old ash. I thought maybe it had been a dream but now in the dawn, I could see there was an upturned carriage down there buried a little in the sand. It might have been there for a long while or maybe it was just a dream after all. I was too afraid to ask the other cowboys if they had seen it too.

I miss you terribly.

     Mathew

Dear Caroline,

We are passing through Utah now, staying in a little town called Garden City. It borders a great body of water called Bear Lake, and in the summer they call it “The Caribbean of the Rockies.”

I imagine about now you are getting the room ready for the baby, but I don’t want you to overwork yourself. When I get home, I’ll start work on the crib. I still have those planks in the barn from when I said I’d build us a porch swing. Sorry I never got round to that.

 I went winter fishing on the lake too. The ice must have frozen about three feet deep. The locals said if I would have been staying until the end of January I could have caught a Cisco, which you can’t get anywhere else but on the Utah/Colorado border. It was bitterly cold and when the wind came through the mountains over the lake it whistled. I thought of the train on Sunday mornings when it would wake me up and you would still be asleep. I felt a little warmer after that.

I’m in a nice hotel now, the man who owns the place said he wouldn’t have us stay outside in this cold because the wind would cut us in half. The mattress is a little too soft and if I don’t move around once in a while, I just sink right into it. But it beats the ground, I guess. You know I can find anything to complain about.

I love you, forever.

     Mathew

Dear Caroline,

We just crossed the border; I’ll be home in three days no more no less.

Arkansas through Colorado is always my favorite part when riding back East. The mist from the water runs over the rocks and covers the snow and the horse’s hoofs like the story about the headless rider.

The foreman had to let some men go, told them that there wouldn’t be work on the next cattle drive to Texas. I held the round-up again tonight, so I couldn’t write some of the other cowboy’s letters for them like I used to. They were bitter and I think they saw me as the foreman’s little dog.

After I round up the cattle, I sat by the fire whilst the other guys slept. I wasn’t very hungry. The day before coming home is always the longest, I feel close to you and still very distant, sort of how a sad donkey might feel chasing a carrot on a string. I read the letter you gave me the first time I rode out. I read it every night before I lay down to bed. I can picture your voice in my head so clearly that sometimes I get a little lump in my throat and it hurts to read on; but I always do. I know that when I get home tomorrow morning, even if it’s early, you’ll be waiting on the porch. The house will be cut out and black behind you, and we’ll go straight to bed, even if the day has only just begun and the sun has barely touched the clouds.

I love you always.

     Mathew

Joshua Nagle currently lives in small coastal town in mid-Wales with his partner, where he is completing his first novel. He enjoys writing and reading coming of age narratives, and literature that explores the Vietnam war & 70’s America.

Welcome to the New Year.

I’ve received a lot of messages almost universally telling me to hope this one is better than last year. While I might wish that to be true, wishes are not solid. Prayers are. So, instead of wishing for a better year, I pray for one and for blessings for all of you in 2021.

On January 6, we opened our submission window on our latest platform: Baker Street. Baker Street focuses on mysteries and suspense stories (think Sherlock Holmes). If you write mysteries, or want to write mysteries, this might be a nice place to try them out.

Kevin Torrey, Reviewer

It takes a great deal of skill to tell a story without excess verbiage. Some authors spend 20 pages detailing a scene down to the last missing eyelash without advancing the story. Others use action as a substitute for plot.

But sometimes a writer comes along who uses dialogue so well that he can carry the story and still save the rain forest. Eric Luthi uses conversation the way a good artist uses color – it fills the emptiness between the lines with emotion and meaning. And often, the reader can picture the scene through the dialogue alone, which is where the real story lies. After all, this is not an action novel. It is a story about human connection. The characters have real depth, as if they are people the author actually knows. The reader would recognize them, were they to pass them on the street. The story has a genuine, gritty quality, yet lacks the jaded, reality television feel so often displayed by contemporary writers.

It is a quick read, but the characters will stay with you, making you sometimes wonder what they have been up to since you finished reading the story. Maybe Eric will tell us some day.

It would be nice to catch up.