Rim Rock

By Barbara Bretana

I was 16 years old and alone on the rim rock, coming home for the yearly family reunion on the Box S called Boxes in the soon to be new state of Colorado. Coming down from the Mogollon Rim, I took the trail to one of the old line cabins. It should have been empty but someone had been there before me. I didn't think anything about it, my dad was always hiring new hands. They came and went as the seasons changed. I put up my horse and went fishing in the creek, caught me a brace of nice two pound brookies. Back at the cabin, I was held up at the point of a .44 Russian and told I was trespassing/ when the yahoo heard my name, that's when all hell broke loose---

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Bretana
• Release date: Oct 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310360848

Barbara Bretana

I've been writing and reading since the age of three. Anyone who knows me knows I'm nuts about horses, reading, dogs and painting. Went to school in Vermont, Castleton State and Pratt/Phoenix School of Design and found out college wasn't for me. Worked with Developmentally Disabled and loved it. Went back to school for my CNA license and decided to try writing for a career as I keep breaking things like my rotator cuff, discs and whatnot. Getting bucked off your horse, well, I don't bounce like I used to. I'm the one in the brown coat.

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Rim Rock

Barbara C. Bretana

Copyright 2014 Barbara C. Bretana

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Dedication

Tigger, Punkin and all my friends that have left for the hills----

This one is for Chafra, Hershey and Riffa; and the thousands of miles I put on your back in the Vermont woods, Texas Hill Country and Missouri breaks. You were the best friends I ever had with four legs.

Zach, you always ran ahead except when you were heeling my horse and when I see you all again, it’ll be from the top of my saddle as we ride the clouds of Heaven.

Chapter 1

I came down off the rim rock with the reins in my hand, stepping cautiously on a narrow trail that had seen better days before wind and rain storm had washed parts of the cliff side away, making it a treacherous path for those faint of heart and bumble-footed. Charlie One Sock was mountain bred, sure of foot and handsome, to boot.

He stood nearly six foot at the withers, a blood bay with a spotted blanket to his shoulders, a large star on his forehead and one sock fore. His eye was large and calm and he had splashes of white on all four legs in the black stockings.

I’d trapped his mama in the hills behind the ranch and been gifted the next day with the long-legged colt that had grown to become a stout, sleek gelding that could do it all.

My brothers had teased me over the care and fussing I’d done to raise him but I had a finished animal that never bucked, never put a foot wrong, would follow like a dog and could outrun anything on four legs or two.

He was a five-year-old that summer, in the prime of his years and growth and had carried me from the hills of Kansas to the mountains of Arizona Territory, to the citified east and halfway to California. His wanderlust was equal to my own, we had a hankering to see the country and I had been following the will o’ the wisp for over a year.

He pushed his nose into my back and I stepped faster so that he couldn’t knock me off my feet for being careless and lacking attention on a trail that demanded it. I had my bow hanging from one shoulder, my .44 hung low on one hip and a quiver of arrows hung down my back, bumping me as he pushed. I kept my moccasin feet out of his way, he was shod and I didn’t need a broken toe.

Metal clinked on the basalt and sandstone, his hooves left white streaks but I wasn’t worried about anyone trailing me. Behind me were massive pines that held back the slopes and littered the ground with fallen needles making a carpet that had muffled our hoof beats.

The letter in my pocket that had taken three months to reach me and bring me home did not warn me of any threats to me or the ranch; it was just a general summons to come home for a yearly get-together. Knowing how hard it was to find and gather all of us, the letter gave us four months to meet.

I had two weeks left to make the deadline but I was only a few days away from the borders of the 100,000 acres of the Box S, known as ‘Boxes.’

I was sixteen that summer. I had left the ranch the year before with my father’s blessing and my mother’s disapproval. She felt I was too young to wander on my own but I had been gone for over a year without mishap. I knew that anything could happen, flash floods, rattlesnake bite, horse fall or a thousand other ways a body could die and never be found. I traveled the high country, liked the wild places and trails, and was happiest on the ridges of the rim rock.

I slid the last few feet on my haunches then the trail leveled out on the edge of the flats, rolling away in long swells down to the river. I could see the glint of the river and the ranch a lazy spiral of smoke coming from what I knew was the line camp over the next rise.

I stopped Charlie, put my toe in the stirrup and pulled myself up onto the saddle seat. He stepped off eagerly, trotting through the grass.

In twenty minutes, we crested a small rise and the valley opened up before us. I saw herds of cattle grazing knee deep in red-top and blue stem, elk and pronghorn among them. Herds of wild horses wheeled and took off at scent of us. We rode up to the line cabin and halloo-ed the house, announcing my presence before dismounting.

I kept one hand on my reins, the other on my pistol. I hadn’t made a year’s travel without learning a few things. Trust had been one of the first things I’d abandoned, one of the first lessons learned.

No one came to the door and I saw no movement behind any of the windows. There were no horses in the corral out back, nor any fresh sign around the cabin.

I dismounted, keeping Charlie One Sock between me and the line of fire. Halloo the house! I yelled again, watching the gelding’s ears. He knew buildings meant food and rest and his attention was fixed forward until he relaxed, dropped his head and chewed.

No one was inside, he told me by his manner. I tugged the reins, walking forward towards the door. Using my foot to push it open, I entered and studied the cool, dark interior. No one was inside but there was the remains of a fire in the stove and evidence of a meal on the scarred wooden plank table. I kept my hand near my holster until I was sure the place was empty. I backed out to take the gelding out to the corral.

I unsaddled, threw the saddle pad over the rails to dry out and turned the gelding loose. He wasted no time in rolling until he was covered in dust, then heaved himself to his feet and shook. I went in search of the hay I knew was stored in mows behind the shed.

Water was pumped from a well into a trough and I stopped when I saw that it had been freshly pumped and was still dripping. I dropped my eyes to the dust at my feet; I saw no sign of anything that disturbed the soil or marks that it might have been swept clean.

My hands were full of gear and I slowly dropped it to the ground at my feet. I turned and eyed the surrounding area with still no evidence of another body. I felt uneasy, even though the bay appaloosa gave me no sign of anyone else in the area. I shrugged, threw him a forkful of hay, picked up my bedroll, saddlebags and went inside the cabin.

I built up the fire from the ashes, got a neat blaze going and set a kettle of water on to boil, and then I spent the next hour cleaning up the inside. I found nothing of a personal manner in the room, no clothing, no gear, nothing but a plate of half cooked bacon, cornbread and a cup of black coffee made with poorly ground beans and chicory.

I cooked myself some of my own bacon, hardtack and tea from leaves I’d carried since the East Coast to bring home to my mother.

I was sitting on the stump on the front porch drinking my tea, watching as the sun set over the hills. I never tired of the varied masterpiece of the colors, the abruptness from daylight to twilight, the drama of light and darkness. I heard the clinking of shod hooves from behind the cabin, the quiet snorting as the big bay ate, was comforted that should anyone approach the camp curing the night I would be warned.

Chapter 2

I woke early, before the sun came up and was surprised to find myself rolled in my blankets on the top bunk of a makeshift bed. The line cabin had been built in the early years of the ranch and had housed only two to three line riders. I pulled my blankets around me and went to stand in the doorway to watch the sun rise over the mountain top that shone blue white in the distance. I knew there was often snow on them even late in the summer months; some peaks were over 14,000 feet high.

The coals from my cook fire had burned down to cold ashes and necessitated a walk out to the wood pile for a refill if I wanted hot tea and breakfast.

With fond memories of a nearby trout stream, I thought I might go out and catch breakfast if they were biting. They generally were, I had never failed to catch a good sized brookie.

There was an early morning nip in the air and I was reluctant to come out from under the warm blanket but no one else was going to serve me breakfast in bed. I went back inside, pulled on my pants, stamped my feet into my boots and tucked my shirt into my belt. Last, I buckled my gun belt and slid bow and quiver on