Cowboy Up, Part I

A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:

Cowboy Up

Chapter 1.  Angel?

Detail from Brokeback Mountain special edition by SpyrousSeraphim.  My thanks.

Summary:  Chris Redfield is a rancher, plain and simple.  Then a mysterious young man turns up, seeking employment.  And Chris soon finds himself in unfamiliar territory. 

"Yeehaw!  Ride him, Uncle Bob!"  The dust swirled around the legs of the big black stallion as it bucked and reared, trying to dislodge the unfamiliar weight now on its back.  The horse's mouth and nostrils were flecked with foam, its flanks were shiny and streaked with sweat.

He had only been on a minute or so, but to Bob, it already seemed like forever.  Of all the horses he'd broken over the years, none had ever felt quite like this one.  He could sense the power in every muscle, every sinew of the horse, as it twisted and turned beneath him.  And as he tried to counter, then second guess, each and every move, he realised it had become a battle of wills, not just a simple bust.

Chris waved his black Stetson in the air, his brown eyes wide and bright, his heart pounding in his chest.  He wished he was in the saddle himself, but that was his uncle's right, as the ranch's owner.  One day,  perhaps ....  And the big stallion was magnificent, Chris had kept his eyes on him from the first time he saw him as a yearling, over two years back, up near the high ridge.  He had never asked his uncle that the horse be his.  But secretly, he dreamt it would.

Andy clapped a strong hand on Chris' shoulder.

"Boy, ain't that something.  Boss has got his hands full today."  The foreman gave Chris a friendly, toothy grin.  He too, had broken a few broncs in his time, as his missing teeth testified.

"I wish ... I wish ..."  started Chris.

"Don't say it, Chris, if you say it, it won't come true, boy."

Suddenly, without warning the big horse wrinkled his spine.  He kicked off with his hind legs, and then dug his forelegs into the dirt and dust of the small coral.  And Bob Redfield never saw it coming, only the dirt and the dust as they rushed towards him.

The smiles faded from Chris and Andy's faces.  They both heard the 'snap' as Bob hit the ground head first.  His legs twitched briefly and the rowels on his spurs squeaked as they slowly stopped spinning.  Then there was a sickening silence.

"Oh Jesus, no!"

Chris leapt down from the top rail and ran over to the prone figure.  Bob's head lay at an odd angle to his shoulders.  Chris knew he was dead, even before he gently rolled his uncle's body over.

"Easy, Chris!"

Andy knelt down beside him as Chris closed his uncle's eyes.  The big horse stood still in a corner of the coral, looking at them balefully.

"Sonofabitch!"  Andy went for his gun, but Chris stopped him.

"Let him loose Andy, just get him out of my sight."

It was Chris Redfield's first order as the new owner of the Lazy-R ranch.

"Boss."

Continued after the jump . . .

The Greyhound crawled its way up the coastal side of the Sierras, jagged grey rocks, jagged green vegetation.  Pete Carney sat looking out of the window, they'd just stopped at the last big town before the high mountain pass.  And although he'd been looking out of the window, he hadn't seen the young man board at the stop, much less see him sit down beside him as the bus pulled away.  It was only when the man spoke that Pete realised he was there at all.

"Hi." said a warm, and strangely mature voice, for someone Pete judged four or even more, years younger.  It was hard to tell, the reflections through the windows of the coach seemed to make the face looking at him shimmer.  Like something that hadn't quite set.

"Enjoying the view? said the young man amiably.

"Oh, er, I guess.  I prefer the sea really."

"I know what you mean.  This ranch job, it's not really you, is it?  I mean, look at you, big guy, strong swimmer I bet.  You should be in the Navy, or the Marines."

"Wha ... how'd ya know ...?"  Pete looked confused, he hadn't said anything, had he?  Yet this guy seemed to know him, like he'd known him for ages.

The young man beside him nodded in the direction of the overhead luggage rack.  Full, and then some, with a tan leather saddle and a white cowboy hat.  It was a 'George Strait' Resistol; the young man's keen eyes had quickly spotted its signature hat tack.

"Saw your gear.  Nice.  Cowboy, eh?"

Pete grinned, and felt his face go red.

"Well I dunno', not yet.  I've done some riding.  I can't seem to settle."  he scratched the back of his thick neck ruefully.

"Tell me about it!  Listen, I got an idea ..."  The young man carried on chatting as he took out his bill-fold from the back pocket of his jeans and fished out a card with just a name and a number written on it.  Then he took out a roll of hundred-dollar bills, all new and shiny.  So new and shiny, in fact, that Pete cut his finger on one as the young man counted them into his hands.

"Ouch!"  Pete sucked his finger as the blood flowed, paper cuts were real a bitch.

"Oh, sorry, they're fresh from the printers.  Ha ha, only joking!"

As Pete looked into the smiling eyes opposite him, his finger seemed to stop hurting.  In fact, at that precise moment, he didn't seem to have a care in the world.  He smiled back.

"Just go through that one more time, so I've got it straight in my mind.  You want to buy my all gear, yes?  And what was the number for again?"

"Sure." said the young man patiently.  "My pleasure ..."

When Pete Carney got up to leave at the next town, the young man called out after him.

"Ring that number, Pete, he's expecting you."

"Thanks again, I will."  It was only as he waived goodbye from the stop, that Pete realised he hadn't told the guy his name.  He shrugged broad shoulders and went in to the Greyhound office.  "When's the next bus back to the coast ...?”

************************

It had been two months since his uncle's death, two hard months for Chris.  Not for the first time in his life, he'd suddenly found responsibility thrust onto him.  And just as before, the time when his parents were killed, he just plunged straight into things.  No planning, no discussion.  What's the aim?  What's the problem?  How do I get from here to there in a straight line?  Bang!

His uncle's funeral for instance.  Once the town sheriff had come up to the ranch to record the death, the doctor had followed close behind.  OK, they were the legal formalities.  But once they were satisfied, the next hurdle had been the funeral.  The Parlour tried to dazzle him with a range of tasteful, expensive, options.  'This much for the casket, this much for the service, a plot? certainly Mr Redfield, that will cost ...'  And when that didn't work, they tried to cajole him.  'Surely you want the best for him Mr Redfield?  It needs to be a fitting tribute ...'  Chris decided it was all bull.

"Claire, their ain't gonna' be no funeral, finito!  We'll bury uncle up on the high ridge, the preacher can come up and do the church stuff.  We don't need a choir and hymn sheets and shit.  He loved it there, he wouldn't wanna' be anywhere’s else."

She knew her brother was right.  She also knew that they couldn't have afforded a fancy service and a plot in the town cemetery in any case.  She'd gone through the accounts books with her brother, twice.  Aunt Jane had done that for her husband up until her death two years earlier.  But since that time Uncle Bob had let things go financially.  It had come as a shock to learn the ranch was running on a knife-edge.

The service was a quiet affair, up on the high ridge, where even on the calmest days a breeze always cooled and refreshed a weary cowboy.  Barely a dozen people, some townsfolk and neighbours, plus the preacher.  Chris read a short eulogy, war veteran, rancher, husband, uncle...  As he finished, he looked up, a line of wild horses topped the ridge above them.  He could make out one in particular, big and black.  Not moving like the others, just stood there, staring at them, like it had in the coral.  Chris stared back, he didn't know what he felt, not hate like Andy.  Sadness perhaps?  Fate?  Claire put a comforting arm around him.

"Hey Chris, come back to us.  You OK?"

"Yeh, I'll follow you all down later.  Just wanna say goodbye, alone."  He saw the concern in her face and forced a smile.  "Don't worry, I'm fine, sis, honest."

And then, a few weeks afterwards, with his old boss gone, Andy decided his heart wasn't in ranching any longer.  Though he loved Chris like he was a son, he knew Chris would want to do things his way, the hard way.  Best to move on and give the kid some space, a new start for all concerned.

"I think I'll have me a break Boss." he told Chris once he'd made his decision.  "Visit my sister on the coast, perhaps git me some new teeth!  I'll stay till you find someone new, and you holla' come round-up time in fall, y' hear?"

Chris squeezed Andy's leathery hands.  "I'll hold you to that old-timer.  This place ain't going nowhere."

He grinned, but Chris secretly knew it was a blessing in disguise.  He'd have to take a pay-cut himself, though there wasn't much to cut.  And a younger hand would certainly be cheaper than keeping Andy on.  He talked it through with Claire, listening to the various options she put forward.  But she knew he'd already made his mind up; she could read him like a book.  Come hell or high water, it was clear Chris was going to keep the Lazy-R going, even if he did it all himself.  It was a Redfield thing.

Chris started by asking around the neighbouring ranches.  Then he scouted a couple of rodeos, and drew a blank every time.  It was Claire who suggested he put an ad in some rodeo magazines.  Chris didn't see the point.  If someone had enough time on their hands to read a magazine, and not just flick through the pictures, Chris was damn sure that person wasn't a cowboy.

Claire tried not to be too smug when her brother finally got a reply to the ad.  From one Peter Carney, whose parents owned a small stud down in the Carmel Valley.

Claire smiled.  "Oh, I know the area, it's really pretty there.  They've got these cute, cottage style houses, with thatch and gables, and big lawns, and orchards, and ... and you'd probably hate it bro."  She had caught the look in her brother's eyes.  He'd brought her up, she couldn't help but be in his image, but she liked to think she'd softened her edges a little.  Chris, on the other hand ....

It wasn't that he couldn't be sociable when pushed.  It was just that he preferred his own counsel, authority was an issue.  He'd given up a scholarship at the academy to get Claire through college, working instead.  That missed life-experience had left him taciturn and perhaps a little selfish.  Once Claire was out in the wide world, he'd leapt at the chance to work on the ranch with Aunt Jane and Uncle Bob.  He and his uncle were two of a kind.  They could spend a day fencing and posting, barely exchanging monosyllables, just happy in each other's company and in their work.  It was a family business, and Chris had always had a strong sense of family.  He just didn't feel the need to shout about it ....

"Why don't you take him on trial, whilst Andy's still here?  Minimum wage till he's proved himself"

"Is that legal?"

"If you include board and lodging, I reckon so.  Hey Chris, he's the only one to answer the ad ... poor guy must be really desperate!"

Chris glared at her, she so much like Ma in looks, but just like Pa and Chris in temperament.

"Is that meant to make me feel good?

"Only one way to find out bro."

Chris couldn't argue with that.

************************

Apart from Andy, there were no longer any regular hands on the ranch.  Ben, the rancher to the north, helped out when needed with his crew, just as Bob had helped him.  And then there was Carl, a bit of a mystery man, a quiet recluse who owned the land to the south.  But Ben said he was solid, and that was good enough for the Redfields.  Out to the east, a large military training area stretched across the high plains, Army and National Guard.  They were good neighbours, Bob and Chris were always invited to their social functions.  Though if Chris missed going to the military academy, he never said.  Range fires were the major problem, caused by stray rounds or by nature, but whatever the cause, everyone helped out at such times.

In fact, it was talking to the base Fire Prevention Officer that made Chris miss his pick-up at the end of the long drive that wound down to the main road.  The bus was due to stop around midday.  It was half-past already.  He'd be more than an hour late by the time he got there. 'Damn!  Not the way he wanted to impress the new hand.'

It was summer, and the dust whirled up behind the old Ford pick-up as Chris drove down the track, drifting west in the light breeze.  He parked up by the unofficial stop, marked only by a sign pointing up the track he'd just come down.  It said all it needed to say, 'Lazy-R'.  It was a Redfield sign.

Chris scanned the area, frowning.  There didn't seem to be anyone around.  He stood still and listened.  There was an almost imperceptible sighing noise.  It came from a nearby oak, down in the small creek that the asphalt road followed.  He traced the sound.  Someone was laid down in the dappled shade under the tree, they were snoring gently.  It was a young man, shirtless, in Wrangler jeans, Chris recognised the cut.  The man's white felt hat was pulled down over his face, and his head rested against a finely tooled tan colored saddle.  For a moment Chris didn't want to wake him, he looked so peaceful lying there, almost angelic.  Why was that?

Chris coughed politely.  "Ahem, are you Peter Carney?"

"Nope." the man answered matter of factly; seemingly unsurprised at being disturbed.

The spell was broken.  "What?  Who are you then?  I've no time for jokers, Mr Carney."

The man ignored the question.  "Mr Carney couldn't make it.  I'm his replacement."

He raised the hat from his face and smiled.  For a moment the sun danced across his features; Chris had trouble making them out at first.  Then the young man stood up with an easy grace.  Lithe, like a cat.  Now Chris could see he was well muscled, but not overly so.  His skin was a warm gold, matching his hair, Chris couldn't tell if it was light brown or dark blond.  He had a marked Apollo's belt, accentuating his broad chest as it tapered to his hips.  But his eyes!  As the man held out a hand in greeting, they sparkled with what?  Amusement?  Friendship?  A warm hazel, his irises seemed to whirl and change pattern from one moment to the next.  Chris shook himself from his day-dreaming.

"Oh, er, well if you're not Peter Carney, who the hell are you?"

"Piers, Piers Nivans."

-- To be continued --