A cattle drover's life isn't easy, but it's a living.
|The hot autumn sun beat down on his shoulders, and his head, making him sweat under his cowboy hat. He didn't particularly notice the heat. He couldn't do anything about the weather, but appreciate the good days. He was sweating, and the light breeze cooled his body. He shifted his weight in the saddle. He'd been on his horse for several hours, and stretching helped pass the time.
He headed his horse toward a small area of mesquite trees, tall enough to provide some shade. He turned his horse and surveyed the heard. They were moving along. No problems. He dug into his pockets for his tobacco pouch, and commence to roll himself a smoke Nimble fingers and tongue my practice, he rolled his cigarette while still surveying the area for warey movement..
He remembered that she was the prettiest whore he's seen since the trail drive left San Antonio, almost two months ago. It was just another town they passed, drank at, passed out in, and remembered only in a haze when sobriety came on later the next day. His head was still throbbing a bit, and he took a good long couple of swigs from his cantine before he struck the match against the horn of his saddle and lit his smoke. He still thought of that blonde haired girl in San Antonio. Ah, the pleasure of a smoke.
She had golden hair, yellow hair, not like most of the dark haired beauties he knew living closer to the Mexican border. Her hair sparkeled like daylight fell on it, even inside the dark saloon. She had unpinned her hair when they went upstairs. He had watched her brush it, shiney, then so soft to the touch he had run both his hands through her long blonde hair. He remembered her smell, of lavendar and rose water. He smoked his cigarette. It was a good afternoon, one of those that makes you glad to be alive.
More to come.