Once There Was a Cowboy

By Peter Kraker

Gaunt and hollow-eyed, Jack had passed the limits of his endurance. There, lost in a fierce storm on a mountain far from home, for the second time since Utah had died, he prayed. His prayer was one of desperation- God, do what you will with me, but please get this horse off the mountain His voice held no power though, and the howling of the winds rose to a shriek, blowing his words back in his face, as though the very mountains themselves took voice in the elements to taunt and mock him.

Once There Was a Cowboy gives us all pause to reconsider the brutal storms of our own lives and to take heart that perhaps the very God of the universe loves us enough to destroy the very things we cherish that we might come to Him- ravaged but cleansed, broken but uncompromised. Sifted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781490870755

Peter Kraker

A former college and professional athlete, long-time alternative high school teacher, coach and huddle leader with the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, Peter Kraker draws upon his faith, athletic background and experience mentoring, teaching, and counseling young adults in his first novel. As a storyteller, Kraker honed his craft with his own four children and in thirty-five years of spinning yarns and tales in his high school classrooms. Kraker and his wife, Colleen, live in West Allis, Wisconsin, where they are usually found with one or more of their four adult children and grandchildren gathered around their kitchen table, swapping stories and planning their next adventures.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 Peter Kraker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7074-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7075-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015904148

WestBow Press rev. date: 3/10/2016

One day the angels came to present themselves before The Lord, and satan also came with them. The Lord said to satan, Where have you come from? Satan answered The Lord, From roaming throughout the earth, going back and forth on it. Then The Lord said to satan, Have you considered my servant, Job? There is no one on the earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil. Does Job fear God for nothing? satan replied. Have You not put a hedge around him and his household and everything he has? You have blessed the work of his hands, so that his flocks and herds are spread throughout the land. But now stretch out Your hand and strike everything he has, and he will surely curse You to Your face. The Lord said to satan, Very well, then, everything he has is in your power, but on the man himself do not lay a finger.

Then satan went out from the presence of The Lord.

-The Book of Job

Jesus to Peter: Simon, Simon, satan has asked to sift you as wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.

-Luke; 22:31-32

Contents

Mary

Mary

Mary

Mary

Jack and Suzanne

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack and Suzanne

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Mary

Mary

Mary

Mary

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Mary

Mary

Mary

Mary

Mary

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Bob

Bob

Suzanne

Jack

Mary

Mary

Mary

Carson

Carson

Carson

Jack and Suzanne

Suzanne

Suzanne

Jack

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah

Carson

Carson

Carson

Carson and Mary

Carson

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Carson

Mary

Mary

Mary

Mary

Mary

Mary

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Suzanne

Jack and Suzanne

Jack and Suzanne

Jack and Suzanne

Jack and Suzanne

Jack and Suzanne

Jack and Suzanne

Jack and Utah Carol

Suzanne

Jack

Suzanne

Mary

Mary

Carson

Carson

Carson

Mary and Carson

Mary

Carson

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Mary

Mary and Deena

Mary and Deena

Jack and Utah Carol

Suzanne

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Matt and Old Jim

Matt and Old Jim

Matt and Old Jim

Matt and Old Jim

Jack and Matt

Jack and Matt

Jack and Matt

Matt and Old Jim

Matt and Jack and Utah Carol

Jack and Utah Carol

Suzanne

Suzanne

Suzanne

Jack and Utah Carol

Suzanne

Suzanne

Suzanne

Jack and Utah Carol

Jack

Jack and Ken

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Matt

Matt and Ken

Jack

Suzanne

Jack

Suzanne

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Jack

Suzanne

Jack and Mary

Mary and Deena

Mary

Jack and Mary

Jack and Mary

Jack and Mary

Jack and Mary

Mary and Jack

Jack and Mary

Mary

Jack and Mary

Jack and Ken

Mary and Carson’s Parents

Mary and Carson’s Parents

Mary and Carson’s Parents

Mary and Carson’s Parents

Mary

Mary and Carson

Mary and Carson

Mary and Carson

Mary and Carson

Mary and Carson

Mary and Carson’s Parents

Mary and Carson

Mary and Carson

Seth Walker

Seth and the Team

Jack and Seth Walker

Jack and Seth Walker

Jack and Wally

Jack and Matt

Jack

Jack and Suzanne

Jack and Suzanne

Jack and Suzanne

Epilogue

Author’s notes:

About the Author

Mary

The big man behind the microphone was working an old Waylon Jennings tune, and he was working it hard. He was on his game tonight, as hot as the stage lights themselves, and streams of sweat flowed erratically down his face, diverted by the seams and scars of forty-some years of hard living. The crowd was on their feet, stomping and slapping out the rhythm. He wasn’t Waylon, but Red Rhoades was the real deal, and they knew it. His pick pounded the strings of the battered old Martin like a hammer, and eyes closed tightly, he leaned in and bullied the mike, …I’m a ramblin’ man…don’t give your heart to any old ramblin’ man… a final flood of notes, and he whipped the old 6-string around, and, back to the applause, took a long pull from the bottle of whiskey sitting behind him on a stool. He turned back to the sea of faces before him, and waited for them to quiet.

The big train done left the shed, he growled to their delight. Bam! down came the pick on the strings, and one gave way, adding to the delirium as Red Rhoades launched into his signature song and the source of his nickname- the Big Train.

Red Rhoades was more than an outlaw in the world of country music- he was a rogue musician. Early in his career he had hung with the so-called bad boys of country- both Waylon and Johnny Cash had toured with the man before the Big Train had worn thin his welcome there. One could only wreck so many hotel rooms, and wade into so many audiences to fight hecklers before those around you become a little gun-shy…

It certainly wasn’t a matter of talent. The truth was that he was a prodigious talent- a deep bass voice, a gifted song-writer, and perhaps the finest guitar player in country music. So good a player, in fact, that Guitar magazine once did a cover story on him. In the article, he was asked about his love affair with his Martin D-28, once owned by Hank Williams Sr. himself.

"I do love my guitar… he acknowledged. Maybe too much. I’d kill a man if he tried to take it from me… The attractive young writer had paled and instinctively leaned away when he’d added without rancor, …or a woman. He played that guitar in a rage, it seemed, thrashing so hard it appeared the vintage instrument would be blown asunder at any moment, rending strings and sending picks flying into the crowd. The writer, in a prophetic commentary at the conclusion of the article, observed that, …if that’s how Red Rhoades treats his beloved guitar, I wouldn’t want to be his wife…"

Indeed. Deena Hoppe changed her name to Deena Rhoades because, as she would say many times later, "He wouldn’t take no for an answer. If the truth be known, she was afraid of him from the start. He’d spotted the eighteen year old dark-haired beauty one hot and steamy summer night in the front row of a concert in Muscle Shoals, and right in the middle of the performance, jumped down and told her to stick around after the show. She did what she told, and within a week, he had proposed. Her own father was a mean-mouthed alcoholic, and when the flamboyant Red offered her a way out of the house, she’d said, Yes." Just like that, she was out of the frying pan, and into the proverbial fire, and Red kept that fire stoked. She was pregnant within a month, and by the second month, he was giving her the same loving care he gave the Martin.

Mary

She was more shocked than hurt the first time Red hit her. They were seated at the supper table, alone in their small, one bedroom apartment, and Red, not for the first time, was criticizing her cooking. Only a month into her pregnancy, Deena was having a terrible time with morning sickness, if you could call it that. The reality was that she felt horrible most of her waking moments, and particularly when around food. That night she had pulled together some leftovers.

What is this crap? He had barked at her, before pitching his food, plate and all, into the sink from where he sat. Rising from his chair, he continued, Girl, you don’t bring a lot to the table in a marriage, do you??

Her feelings hurt, she shot back, Well, I don’t see you exactly jumping in to help out around here… The next thing she knew, she was on the ground beside her chair, her face stinging from the quick backhand Red had delivered as he walked past her on the way toward the door.

That’s just a little reminder that you don’t get smart with me. And with that, he was out the door. She had cried herself to sleep that night, knowing full well, like every woman who’d ever been hit knew full well, that her childhood dreams of being treated like a princess by her man were over, and forever.

She tried to leave him twice during that pregnancy, but he told her that if she left with his baby, that would be her last act on earth. She believed him enough to stay. When the baby, a little girl named Mary, was born, Red found, for the first time ever, something he truly loved. Deena birthed the child alone…

It’s a woman’s work, Red Rhoades replied when a frightened Deenah asked if he’d come up to the delivery room with her as the nurse wheeled her into the elevator. She cried as she was wheeled into the birthing room, and didn’t stop until the first real pain took away her breath, and the tears. Her own mother had died years before of cancer, and there was no way she was going to call her father. So with only a nurse holding her hand, she began her work. Red Rhoades was summoned by hospital staff when the baby was born. He was asleep in the waiting room, hung over from the night before, and cussed out the nurse who awakened him that he might greet his new-born child. The nurse bit her lip, and led him into the room where Deenah sat holding her new-born. The older woman rolled her eyes at the doctor as she gestured to the man following behind her.

"The father is here, Doctor…" Red walked over, bent and took the small bundle right out of her mother’s arms, and proceeded to walk around the room, talking and cooing to the little girl. There was never a word to Deena, who sat in the bed alone, aching for some, any, show of affection, tears streaming down her face.

The stunned doctor sat on the window sill arms crossed, and watched the callous display for a minute or two before pronouncing his verdict, Seriously? This is how it’s done? You make me sick.

Red never looked up from his baby, and never missed a beat with his response. Don’t care if you just birthed this baby, doc. Walk out now, or they’ll carry you out. The doctor wisely left.

To the day he died, he never raised his voice or a hand to his little angel.

Mary

5 years later…

Warm afternoon sunlight streamed in through the open sliding doors, and a cooling breeze ruffled the curtains. The little girl rested comfortably in her mother’s lap as the woman read softly. Suddenly she looked up at the woman questioningly, and the mother stopped reading.

What is it Mary?

Mama, why did Jonah run away? I thought God told him to go to Ninevah…

I think he was frightened, Sweetheart. Sometimes when people are scared, they run away.

The girl considered her mother’s words, then with all the innocence befitting a child of her age, she asked, Then why don’t you run away, Mama?

The relaxed lines in Deenah’s face tightened, and she instinctively glanced toward the bedroom. Nothing. Turning back to the girl, she asked quietly, What do you mean, Mary?

"You’re scared of daddy, Mama… So why don’t you run away?"

Deena closed the book, and studied the girl. Only 5 years old, she had already seen and heard too much. This is my house, too. Besides, I’d miss you too much, Mary…what would I do without you?

Why does daddy hit you, Mama? Mary closed her eyes and held the child close to her breast. She knew the question would come, and had considered how she might answer it a hundred times, yet she floundered.

Well… she began, …your daddy and I… he… your daddy… Here she stopped to collect her thoughts. Deep breath, then the words spilled quickly. "Your daddy was raised by a daddy who was…an angry man. He hit your daddy, and I guess that’s all he knows. And when he drinks alcohol, then he gets really angry. And I… I happen to be the one who he takes it out on."

But why you? Why not me?

The woman wrapped her arms tightly around the child, and shook her head, her face serious. "Oh Mary, your daddy would never hit you. He loves you more than anything in the world."

At the sounds of movement in the bedroom where Red slept, both mother and child started. Deena slipped the Bible they had been reading into her bag, and pulled out a first grade primer.

Remember…

I know Mommy, Mary said with a conspiratorial smile, "not a word about the Bible… It’s See Jack run… Then she put her nose up to Deena’s, and together they whispered, Just our little secret…"

Deena had been given the Bible by a man on the street, and she didn’t know much about it, but she felt better when she read it with Mary- like maybe she was doing something right, something normal for the young girl.

A bleary-eyed Red Rhoades made his way into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and drank milk right from a carton. Deena opened her mouth as if to protest, then stopped herself. He looked at the two of them sitting there.

Come here baby… Give your daddy a little sugar. He snapped his fingers, and Mary disengaged from her mom, and dutifully walked over to her father. He scooped her up, and holding her with one arm, tapped the side of his face, and the girl kissed him on the cheek. She arched her back to lean away from him.

"Your whiskers hurt, daddy." He laughed, and set her down. He walked over to the window, pushed back a curtain and looked outside, squinting against the glare.

Where’s my breakfast? he rumbled in a low bass.

It’s two-thirty in the afternoon, Red. She replied, and instantly regretted it. He straightened and turned slowly, his words growing louder as he spoke.

"Did I ask for an update on the time, or did I ask for breakfast?!? His hands rested on his hips, and his head was cocked to the side, his eyes slitted. Well?!"

Here we go, was what she thought, but aloud said, I’ll have it ready in five minutes… She hurried past him, but not quick enough. A rough hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of hair.

I’ll have it in five minutes, he mimicked, then in anger, Girl, you’ve had all day to get a meal together… what you been doin’?!? What?!?

Deena twisted to ease the pain, but slowly as to not prompt a blow.

I’m sorry Red… I’ll get you some breakfast. she did not resist, or talk back. Experience had taught her the consequences of that. He looked at her for a full ten seconds, contempt in his eyes. She kept hers lowered.

You can be replaced. The big man spoke evenly now, his voice flat, before shoving her roughly toward the kitchen. Mary sat in the corner, brushing her doll’s hair, seemingly oblivious to the encounter only fifteen feet away. But her lips moved soundlessly as she prayed.

Mary

Red Rhoades was gone for the weekend, and the two girls were home alone. Deena suggested they take a walk and enjoy the beautiful fall afternoon. They headed over to the park, which was only a half mile away or so. Deena enjoyed their time at the park. She felt almost normal as she pushed her daughter on the swings, just like the other young mothers and their children. This was normal. She was doing something that all mothers do. She knew, however, that the similarities ended there. How she envied the other women her age, as they talked about their husbands, and their hobbies, and the small details of their lives. She wondered if any of them were scared to go home, as she was… They passed a Catholic church, St. Patrick’s, the old red brick structure darkened with time, moss and exhaust fumes just south of Chestnut on Second Avenue South. They had passed the church many times, and though she’d never stepped foot in a church in her life, Deenah felt a strange attraction to the place each time they walked by. Today, the sound of singing drifted out an open window. It sounded so sweet and pure it brought tears to the woman’s eyes. She brushed a sleeve across her eyes, and threw her head back, and then walked on. Then Deenah stopped, and on an impulse, turned around and walked up the steps to the church entrance, Mary still holding her hand. The little girl looked at her questioningly.

I just want to go in and sit for a moment… and listen. Okay?

"It’s a church…." The child’s words were both a statement and a caution. They both knew Red’s Rhoade’s rule regarding churches- no churches.

It’s okay…It’ll be just a minute… and Mary, just like the Bible, not a word to daddy.

The large door swung easily, surprising Deenah, who had prepared to use both hands. Stepping inside, she held the door for her fair-haired child, who peered in cautiously before passing under her mother’s arm. It was dimly lit, and there was a coolness in the air- like that of a cave, though certainly not dank and musty like you’d expect a cave might be. And despite the singing, there was a hush that bespoke of prayer and meditation, and…safety. Deenah immediately felt a sense of calm settle over her. The woman took a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark, before she looked around. There were scenes painted on the yellowed stucco walls, whose dark earthy tones and shades suggested that the brush strokes had been laid down in years gone by. A bank of candles glowed soft and red against a side wall. A composition above the candles beckoned to her and she drew near. It was a young mother and a small child. The child regarded her with eyes of age, out of sync with the infant’s size and tender years. They were eyes filled with compassion and understanding. That would be Jesus… Deena decided . But it was the Mother’s eyes that drew her attention. They were not happy eyes, but eyes that knew pain. A single tear rolled down the painted mother’s face. Deena felt an odd kinship with this woman.

What happened to you? she wondered aloud. They hadn’t gotten to anything about Jesus, or his mother, in their Bible reading, so Deena really was a bit in the dark as to why the woman would have been sad. Deena stood for over a minute, transfixed before the painting, before she was roused from her thoughts by Mary’s voice.

Mommy? Can we go in?

Yeah, of course… Let’s go… Deena pushed through the next set of doors, which led into the church proper. It was empty, except for a dozen singers up on the lighted altar area, and a woman at the piano. Mary slipped into a worn pew in the darkened back of the church, and leaned back. The people in the light were working on Amazing Grace, and Deena closed her eyes and listened to the words. Deena, of course, had heard this song before, but she had never really before considered the words. Many of the top names in Country music played this song at their concerts, though the lifestyles of the performers was so far from pious that Deena never really connected the song to anything holy or pure. Some of the words and phrases rang foreign to her. For instance, what was the sound of grace? And for that matter, just what was grace? It sounded hopeful, whatever it was. But …through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come… yeah, that she could identify with, anyway. And as for grace shall lead me home…? Deena folded her arms, and without even recognizing it for what it was, snorted her first prayer. "Well, you can just show me this grace thing…" For a full twenty minutes they sat and listened as the group worked. Relaxed, Deena’s eyes closed, and she found herself drifting… Mary however, was rapt. Her eyes never left the singers, and within minutes she was mouthing the words right along with the choir.

Hello. Deena snapped to full consciousness at the sound of the voice. It was the woman at the piano. Deena hadn’t even realized that the music had stopped.

Oh! I’m sorry…we just came in to listen for a few minutes…we should go. Deena began to rise.

It’s okay! You’re welcome here. We’re just taking a break. The woman extended her hand, My name’s Marni…What’s yours?

Deena was a bit rattled, but took a deep breath.

I’m Deena… and this is my daughter, Mary.

Well, hi Mary! the woman said, and she held out a hand to the child as well. You look to me like a young lady that loves to sing…

Oh, I do! The child responded.

Two beautiful names, and both are found in the Bible… the woman observed, then gestured toward the open spot in the pew in front of the two. Do you mind?

Of course not! Deena responded, then added quickly, "This is your place…"

The woman sat and laughed, "It’s not mine! But I do work here… She studied the two of them a moment. So, I haven’t seen you two around here, Deena. Do you live in the area?"

Deena felt the walls instinctually going up, but Marni seemed genuine and safe enough, and Deenah had already come this far by coming here into the church; besides, in a way it was a welcome relief to let someone in, even if only to answer a simple question.

We’re only a few blocks away. We pass this way on the way to the park, and today… I… today I felt like I should come in. Deena felt the words come on, as if on their own accord, and totally against her nature, made the decision to let it out. She spoke quickly, as though if she waited and thought it through, she’d change her mind and jam it back down into those dark places where much of her reality lay hidden. I need to talk to someone… She looked down, and squeezed her welling eyes tightly. Why had she said that? She hadn’t even been thinking it. Why, if Red Rhoades knew she was talking to someone- especially someone from a church- well… it wouldn’t have gone over well. Typically this was the moment- if Deena would blurt out her true feelings, and when the fireworks would start. A slap, a rough grab, a threat. Instead, the bench creaked slightly, and she was enveloped in a gentle embrace. Deena did not resist, but like a baby, she nestled in to this stranger’s arms. For a minute, Marni held the now-sobbing woman until the tears subsided, then she straightened, and holding Deenah at arm’s length, spoke quietly.

I’ll finish with the group, and then let’s talk. Turning to Mary, and taking the child’s hand, she smiled. Come on Mary, sit down by us. Watch how we do things here in the choir. She could see the child’s interest in the singing, but she also sensed that Deena was this close to turning around and walking out. With the girl up the choir, she’d still be there to talk after. The two walked to the front of the church, and Mary sat in the front row, while Marni and the choir went back to work. Marni led the group thru the song in its entirety, and at one point glanced over at Mary, and was surprised to see the child mouthing the words to the song. When they’d finished, Marni complimented the group.

Sounds like we have it…very nice and full. Good work!! By the way, this is my new friend, Mary. Mary, if you’d like, come on up and join the group as we sing the song once more… Marni nodded imperceptibly when the child rose and joined the others on the altar. A few of the choir members reached out and gave the girl gentle welcome pats and squeezes as she passed them. Marni’s piano once again took the lead, and the rich harmony of voices rose and filled the church. Deena’s spirit soared with the swell of sound, a sensation totally outside her experience. She’d never felt so moved by music before, and as she listened to the words, she felt in some strange way a sense of understanding of the grace thing that had her confused earlier. Though she doubted if she could have put it into words, God, if there was such an entity, must give a gift that loosens and lightens, and that was something Deena knew she wanted and needed. For the moment, though, it was enough to feel relaxed. That was a luxury Deena had not known in what honestly seemed like years. Deena opened her eyes and leaned forward, and was surprised to see Mary singing and moving right along with the others in the choir. At one point the young girl closed her eyes, and with voice uplifted, raised her hand aloft. Deena looked on in wonder. There was no deception in Mary, she knew, and no pretense, either. Whatever the girl was experiencing up on the altar was beyond Deena’s reckoning, but she knew it was real, and Deena assumed it was of God. This was not simply a precocious child displaying a talent, but an unashamed response to a higher call. Deena was moved as always by the child’s transparency, and her sensitivity to the spiritual world. In truth, Deena hoped that her child would someday help her, the mother, to meet God. Evidently, Deena wasn’t alone. When the song came to a close, the others gathered around the girl, and showered her with hugs and kisses. Marni didn’t move, but took in the scene, elbows on the piano, chin in hands, a slight smile on her lips.

Jack and Suzanne

The cowboy cast a worried upward glance at the angry sea of clouds that seethed and convulsed overhead, at the same time tightening his grip on the reins.

Bad idea, this, he prayed. The sturdy little paint he straddled grunted, shied and juked sideways at the waist-thick bolt of lightning that slammed into the ground only yards from where they rode. The horse almost folded double and it took all he had to bring her head around and leaning in, he shouted into her ear, Hold! Hold! Hold! Hold on girl… good girl…okay, okay… The terrified animal’s eyeballs were big, but she held, though she snorted, jerked and spasmed as they tacked sideways into the slapping gusts of wind. They rode on, working the herd’s fast-unraveling perimeter with the other men. This wasn’t good. The swirling masses that pitched, yawed and contracted overhead were the birth pains of a wild storm unlike any he’d ever seen. The hail now came like stinging pellets, and he ducked deeper into his slicker. Cattle bawled and small pockets broke away from the roiling main herd, only to be cut off by spurred mounts and shouting, whistling men. Lightning again lit the darkened prairie and the booming crash that followed sent cattle climbing each other’s backs in their frantic efforts to get anywhere but where they were.

He saw it happen as if in slow-motion. A rider not more than fifty yards ahead spurred his mount to cut off a brace of steers that had broken away, when his horse stepped into a prairie dog hole and went down as if shot. Indeed, the leg snapped like a rifle shot, and the horse’s scream rent the already charged air. The rider went down heavily on his shoulder and rose swaying drunkenly.

Oh no… he whispered under his breath, then, …cowboy down!! in a hoarse shout, as he spurred the paint…

Jack! Jack Morris! The woman stood at the base of the staircase, muttering under her breath as she dried her hands on a dish towel. "Cowboy down, right. Try ceiling down. I’ll bring a cowboy down…" She rolled her eyes and shook her head, her lips a thin line as she climbed the steps, crossed the hall and swung open the bedroom door. There he was, as usual, precariously perched on the headboard, his blankets folded beneath him in a makeshift saddle, riding hard. Crouched low over his reins, mouth open and eyes closed, and he was urging his imaginary mount on with his hat. His mom had quite a few creative terms, most having to do with noise, that she used to describe what was going on there, but ridin’ herd is what he called it.

Hey Cowboy!

The boy snapped his head around at his mother’s voice. A smile creased his reddened face.

Too loud?

His mother snorted. "Too loud?!? It sounds like the whole herd is coming through the ceiling…take ‘em outside!" She made a windy circular motion with the towel, showing him the door. The boy ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, then swung a leg over the headboard and pushing off with both hands, landed softly on the pine floor facing the bed. He pivoted.

"Yes ma’am. I tried to soften it… he gestured to the folded-up sock under each bed post. The spurs on his pointy-toed boots tinked like far-off tambours, and the painted pine floorboards creaked as he crossed the room, and she shook her head. It’s hard to be angry with a boy who Yes Ma’am’s" you, and means it, and she watched him pass by with a tight-lipped smile, twirling the towel between her own hands. A mischievous glint rose in her eyes, and as he passed through the door frame, she unleashed with a practiced backhand snap of her wrist. The boy had been watching out of the corner of his eye, and skipped forward, just out of reach of the pop of the towel.

I’m telling you, Mom, you should learn to use a bullwhip- you could come with me out west someday, and herd cattle… She just laughed and followed him down the oak staircase.

And why would I need to go out west? I ride herd around here all day long…

The boy was barely ten years old, but make no mistake, he was a cowboy. He ate, dressed and breathed cowboy. There were really only two problems - one, he lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin- a long way from Big Sky Country, and two, he didn’t own a horse. For now there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about where he lived, but progress was definitely being made on that horse-he was shoveling practically the entire block, walking just about everybody in the neighborhood’s dog, and in general seemed to have money flying in his direction from all sides. All of it went straight into his horse account. As he skipped down the hardwood staircase, he took care not to scratch the oak risers with his spurs.

I’m up to nine hundred thirty-five dollars and seventy five cents…enough for a live one, Mom!

Room and board, was her reply.

Jack made his way through the kitchen, and into the walk-in pantry, where he fished some dog biscuits out of a jar on the shelf, swung open the back screen door, and stepped out onto the back porch, making sure to close the door carefully. It was late afternoon, and the clouds hung sodden and heavy- full of the rain that the forecasters had been promising all week. He stuffed the biscuits in the front pocket of his jeans and grabbed the coil of rope he kept looped over a nail and leapt off the porch. The sky rumbled as he jogged past the garage, and he instinctively looked up to scan the horizon. He never saw the hit coming. One moment he was upright, the next he was upended, sent sprawling by the skidding slide tackle that took his legs out from under him. Jack instinctively rolled as he hit the ground, and scrambled to get away, his eyes wide, but his attacker was on him, pinning his arms to his sides. Jack tried to jam a hand past those locked on his chest, but the other was clearly stronger than he was. He relaxed.

Give?

Give.

The girl rose laughing. Every time! You gotta pay closer attention, boy! Jack rose, rubbing his knee.

"What I need is to get my dad to cut those danged bushes down! How long were you hiding in there, anyway?"

I saw you ridin’ herd, and I knew your mom was going to kick you out of the house, so I lay in ambush! My people have been doing this for generations!

Jack shook his head in disbelief. You’re a peeping Tom! She just laughed, brushing her long jet-black hair back with both hands.

"A peeping Tomboy, maybe…"

Jack picked up his rope and replaced the coils. Go get Ching; let’s rope. The girl brushed wood chips off her shorts and legs, and ran toward the house. She opened the back door, gave a sharp whistle, and a big brindle boxer bulled past her, almost taking the girl right off the back stoop with him. She laughed and pivoted to watch as the animal raced to the boy who braced himself for yet another onslaught. He was ready this time, however, feinting low, before slipping out of the charging creature’s path, even managing to slap the dog’s hindquarters as it skidded past. The boy and dog wrestled and cavorted for a minute or two, before the big animal grabbed the rope from where it lay, and laid it back down at Jack’s feet. The dog sat, panting happily, looking at the boy expectantly. Jack picked up the rope, expertly played out a few loops, and whistled, calling, Fetch ‘em up, Ching! Fetch ‘em up! He began to twirl the rope, first at his side, then raising his arm, a loop forming over his head, while the girl flopped down on the grass beside him, a blade of grass in her mouth, and settled in to watch. He flexed his right leg a few times as he worked the rope, but kept his eyes on the dog as it loped past.

"I think you crippled me this time…"

The dog began to orbit the two of them in an ever-widening circle. Jack had the rope humming now, and when he whistled again, the Brindle broke into a dead run. The boy cast the rope, and the loop settled neatly over the dog’s head and shoulders. Jack carefully pulled back, and the rope tightened. The dog slowed and Jack reeled in the rope, as though he was landing a big four-footed fish. He dropped to his knees, and hugged the dog, who happily lapped the boy’s face. Jack wiped slobber off his cheek, and fished a biscuit out of his pocket, and gave it to the dog.

Good boy, Ching!! Good boy!! The boy slipped the rope over the dog’s big square grin, and gave the dog another hug. He spoke to the girl without looking up.

"One of these days, this rope and I… we’ll find you where you’re hidin’, and you’ll be the one on the ground, Suzy… I’ll rope me a Cherokee…" She just sighed, a contented smile on her face, as she lay back on her side, head propped in one hand, watching the boy as he once again began to coil the rope…

Jack

The boy’s father leaned on one of the tapered wooden columns on the front porch of the bungalow, and gazed into the darkness of the side yard. There was something about the summer nights that spoke to a place deep within, beyond reckoning and beyond words. He’d always thought that dusk added a sort of muted importance to the everyday sounds and movements of the neighborhood. Adult laughter, the calls of children, barking dogs and the openings and closings of screen doors- all softened and hushed but expanded and significant in a way that made the man wonder if night wasn’t perhaps the real time. So rich and dark, the velvet night - a time when you read and recorded the world around you with all your senses. Add the heavy sweet scent of the gardens and one could almost take sustenance on the night air, and so he did, breathing deeply, eyes closed for a moment before turning and entering his own screen door, which creaked familiar and friendly. The upstairs bath water was running, he could hear it, and that meant he was on- the two little ones were already hurriedly undressing, probably, ready for the nightly ritual. Bath time after all was serious business in this house. Whose turn was it to wind up the frog whose frantic legs churned the water? Or to dump the plastic animals among which only the long-necked giraffe could keep his head above tide? A lot of splashing and kicking, and finally water school: questions posed, and answers demanded within defined counts, or the cup of water poised over the contestant’s head was ceremoniously dumped. A Bactrian camel has how many humps?(Shivers and frantic thought). Name 5 musical instruments (Eyes searching the ceiling and lips moving soundlessly). What is our address? (Eyes shut tight, fists pressed against temples). No pressure there…

The little ones were in bed now, stories read, prayers spoken, last hugs and kisses and love murmured. Now he stood in Jack’s doorway- the boy old enough now for the observance of territorial boundaries.

C’mon in Dad… The boy looked up from his book, and he shifted over to make room for the man, who eased himself down onto the bed next to the ten year old.

What’d you get? The boy had ridden his bike across town to the library earlier in the day, and he held up a book for his father to see.

"Blueberries for Sal was checked out already, I see…"

Dad! But with a smile. The man reached over, gently angling the book into better light to read the cover.

‘Vientos de las Sierros’… interesting… can I see it? The boy carefully handed the book off to the man.

It’s cowboy poetry, the boy explained, searching his father’s face, satisfied as the man nodded seriously. The man studied the book for a long moment.

1924… S. Omar Barker- you’ve read some of his stuff before, right?

Yep. Could you read this one tonight? He pulled a remnant of worn cowhide, his precious bookmark, from within the pages, and pointed to the top of a yellowed page. I read it already, but I want to hear you read it…please.

"Of course. Any voices in particular? Gollum with a twang perhaps?"

Ha ha. No, just read like you do. Can you turn down the light?

The boy moved in close as the man reached over and clicked the lamp twice, then off and once more to cast a soft glow over the two of them, the room smaller now. A deep breath and he began to read.

The poem told of an old cowboy, burnt by the sun and too many hours too close to the fire, aged and broken by years in the saddle, who sits in the Western dark and gazes into a greasewood fire. The ghosts and shadows of a lifetime of mustangs and spooked herds and hard rides through the Mesquite hang sweet and heavy on the man as he drifts back and in his rememberings sees a boy whose dream it was and is to be a cowboy, and the memories flow like a river.

The father read his best, his voice low and soft, slow and measured, serious and with a tinge of rasp, as befits Western prose best read if not around a fire, then right where they were, where dreams start.

The cowboy, grizzled, white-of hair and stubble and beset by the years, yet not without the faculties to track the scent of the wind-coursed sage up along the mesa’s rim, recalled the burnt brand rising clean and fair out of quivering hide and memory, and once again felt the ground vibrate beneath the milling night herd.

The man read on, an occasional glance over at the boy, whose tense muscles and pursed lips felt every rock, every report of the Remuda’s tramp.

The old man’s eyes dim as he follows the phantom herd and ghosted rider’s fading shouts and whistles, and his pulsings slow and cease as he answers the west wind’s call and heads off to dim ranges leaving behind just a withered husk lifeless before a wind-chased fire. The cowboy kid rode on into eternity, and it was long moments before the boy moved, reaching over slowly, and replacing the worn leather slip. The man carefully closed the book and handed it back. He followed his son’s gaze out the window into the Midwestern evening sky. The boy’s hands moved on their own, working the small patch of exposed softened cowhide. A minute or more passed before the man broke the silence.

What’re ya’ thinkin’ there, cowboy?

The boy looked up into his father’s face. "That’s me, Dad. That’s my story."

Jack

3 years later…

"Where is that boy?!?"