The Cowhand

The Cowhand

The wood on the fire burned in the open field making sharp pops and cracks in the air, as long licks of its flame both lit the terrain, while fanning the early night sky above in its warmth. The indigo blue heavens above revealed the universe, a single star at a time as the Earth, cooling, seemed to sigh, letting the day's energy go in a gentle relieving breeze. Crickets unseen climbed the tall grass to begin their nightly concert in the dark. From the shadow of the land an Owl on occasion adds its hoot to the unending screech of the crickets which filled the air.

Two stood over him while one, on knees, tended to the fallen cowhands injuries. The men standing kept eyes on the land for Coyote and Bobcat. Indian born, they knew and loved the land. They were part of the land. Neither man spoke much. The third hand, an older man having left city life long ago, worked with much experience to dress the injuries of the young hand. There was a calm in his voice.

“You will be fine. You’ve broken it for sure, but it’ll heal. I’ll have to put a splint on it.”

“Just do what you gotta do Old man.” replied the young man.

With his head rolled back he saw only the stars as they came out. Every night was beautiful he thought, and though he was in great pain, this night was no different.

“OK. I’m going to have to straighten it up to put the splint on. I’ll kill off some of the pain with a shot, but it still going to hurt.”

“I need a drink…. Give me a drink.” whispered the young man.

“Longbow give him some of the whisky and hold his chest down for me.”

Without words or hesitation the cowhand summoned retrieved a small brown bottle and gently lifting his head, did as instructed.

“I’m going to count to three.”

The young man found his eyes. Biting hard on a stick Longbow handed him, he indicated he was ready. The young man had gotten his leg wedged between two rocks while lassoing a stray calf. He had the calf in his rope as his foot was caught. He had been warned about having the rope wrapped around his wrist but paid little attention to it as it had the advantage of helping him hang on to the rope better. But today he learned its disadvantage as the rope did not release him and his leg was broken when he fell towed by the calf to the side. The old man removed the syringe and prepared himself to yank the leg hard. It was a bloody mess but he knew it had to be done.

"Ok boy, it will just take a second…on three. Three!"

Even with the local anesthetic, the young man's body yanked back in a spasm that nearly threw Longbow off his chest.
A muffled Ahhhh! Spitting the stick out of his mouth angered and in pain, he yelled, You son of a bitch, you said on three.

“And I did my friend, I did.” said the old man.
Longbow turned to the old man with solemn face. The old man saw in his eyes he wanted to know was there truth in the words about his condition. The old man sent back a half smile saying.

“He may not dance much at the ball…, but he’ll walk again.”
The old man finished applying the splint to his leg and then, wrapping his bruised wrist sat back and asked.

"See anyone yet John?"

The Indian who was still looking over the land calmly said, “No.”

The old man looked at his watch saying to himself. They can’t be too far away. As for the young man he was trying to lie still as the periodic bolts of pain coursing through his body made him mentally leave the range behind. With each spasm his thoughts jumped to more complicated times, places and situations. He had come to love the land and struggled not to leave it even in his thoughts. He was a Cowhand. As a Cowhand he embraced the land as his mattress, the stones as pillows and the sky his blanket. The life of a cow hand demanded much of the men and women that accept the challenges of life on the range. But he knew he was going back to concrete and asphalt, the sounds of motors, sirens and idle chatter. All was quiet; no one spoke. They all waited. Only nature spoke to him now. It was as he loved it… peaceful. Then John spoke.

“They are here.”

He pointed into the Western sky. The young man didn’t need or want to look.

“You’ll see a doctor soon. You’ll be alright son,” said the old man as the faint egg beater sound of the company chopper grew near.

The horses stirred, made uncomfortable by the approach of the machine.

As the old man finished strapping the young man in, the young man grabbed his collar pulling him close so to speak to him. The old man shouted back.

“You're welcome.”

And as the chopper lifted from the ground to complete its mission, the young man strapped on its side closed his eyes feeling plucked from the ground and the world he loved. He cried while he could not be heard.

The three cowhands left behind stood quietly watching the machine leave till the Earth had returned to its rhythm and then, without words, turned in for the night, each lying by the fire.

Longbow glanced at the old man and smiled.

“Yeah…, I liked him too.” said the old man. Well for a few months he’ll be free from work.”

John then asked, “What did he say to you?”

The old man laid his head down and said, "Oh, just that…, he’ll be back."



Written by D. Sanford Ferguson

Word count 989

Written for the Writers Cramp Competition. Winner of First Prize



On 11-4-11 this story prior to the inclusion of some edit's, made with the aide of some of you reviewer's out there, won the Writer's Cramp Competition.