Clint stepped a little closer to the fence line, squinting. It was still dark out there in the pasture, which made it difficult to count the head of cattle. It would be another twenty minutes or so before he put out the feed and four bales of hay, but the cows had arrived early, as always. One was missing. Clint again counted, lost track, stepped closer to the fence, and resumed the count. The cows at the hay drop, farther back from the trough, were harder to see not just because of the lack of light, but also because they weren’t standing shoulder to shoulder like the cattle waiting at the feed trough.
It’s just too dark, he thought as he turned to walk back to the barn. He saw Bo leaning over the hitching post just outside the main door. Holding a cup of coffee in both hands, he’d been observing Clint trying to count heads. Clint pushed his cowboy hat halfway back on his head and scratched his scalp. He mumbled, “Got to wait.” He walked closer to Bo. “I think we’re missing a cow.”
“You sure?” Bo asked.
“Nope, but I will be after I’ve had a cup of coffee. Maybe it will wake me up, and by that time, it will be lighter.”
Bo leaned easily over the hitching post, peering for a few moments into the pasture dark. After another sip of the coffee, he poured the remainder onto the ground, holding the cup upside down until the last drop fell. He then followed Clint to a small room just inside the main barn door. It was Clint’s office, furnished sparingly with the usual office lineup, including a tall filing cabinet. All records on the animals, along with documentation on equipment and ranch hands, were kept there in Clint’s usual organized fashion. On a small table just inside the door was a coffee pot from which Clint poured a cup. A hot, white cloud of steam rose up from the mug and floated around Clint’s face as he took a sip. He offered some to Bo, who declined. The two of them made small talk as they patiently waited for the sun to rise and provide them enough light to effectively count the cattle.
Bo asked Clint, “Have you seen a young colored boy running around with a fishing pole?”
“Yep, I see him most every Saturday running across the backside of the pasture. Always toting a small box and a fishing pole. He’s easy to see as he runs through the tall grass with the bobber at the end of his fishing pole bouncing up and down. He seems harmless enough,” Clint concluded as he focused his eyes on the ever-brightening dawn, concentrating on the pasture and his final sip of coffee.
A long pause, then Bo responded, “Yeah, I saw him for the first time the other day, like you say, bouncing up and down across the pasture on his way to the creek. He stopped just before he crossed the creek and waved both arms at me in an attempt to get my attention. I just sort of tipped my hat and let him go. What harm can one young black boy do?”
Clint took another sip of coffee and, without turning to look at Bo, remarked, “There was a day when you would have run off the black folk congregating for a baptism in the creek. I think you’re slowing down just like that old rooster.”
“Yep, I reckon those days are long past. It takes me awhile to gather up enough steam to do much of anything these days.”
As if on cue, a lone rooster announced the rising of the sun.
“It’s a good thing we don’t rely on that bird to get us up in the morning. I swear he crows later every day.”
“Yep, he’s getting old and slow. Won’t be long before a fox gets him. He’s gotten to where it’s hard for him to get up in the trees at night to roost, and he is still too cantankerous to lock up in the henhouse. You sure you don’t want a cup of my coffee?”
“Got my own inside, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” Clint replied. They stood quietly in the growing dawn, taking in the serenity of the quiet, early summer’s morning. Within ten minutes, there was ample light for them to count that cattle, which they each quietly did. Bo was the first to speak.
“Better saddle up Whisky. It looks like I’ll be taking a ride after all.”
Clint agreed—one short of thirteen.
Bo returned to the house to put on his Lamas, their leather so soft and supple that they flopped over and touched the floor when not stuck on Bo’s legs. The heels, having been re-soled often over the years, fit the stirrups perfectly, giving him a strong grip. They were also slanted in a little, giving spurs a better angle at a horse’s belly to tickle or abruptly jab the soft hide, depending on the amount of convincing necessary to motivate the horse. However, Bo never wore spurs on any of his horses these days. Spurs were for the young cowboys, muscled and brave enough to mount an arrogant stud and convince him to obey. Those days had long since passed for Bo.
He poured himself another cup of coffee and took it back to the barn with him. He walked through the barn this time, to the far end, and there he surveyed the herd. He sipped from his mug. The look of displeasure quickly followed as he choked down another mouthful of the liquid.
“Man, that’s tough to take!” he remarked, and resigned, he once again flung the coffee onto the ground just outside the barn.
“It’s Sally,” Clint said as he reached over to finish cinching up Whisky’s saddle.
“What’s that?”
“I said it’s Sally II that’s missing. I figure she had her calf last night some time and is laid down somewhere with it. I noticed yesterday after I fed them all that she sort of separated from the herd.”
“Well, that makes sense. I’ll go find her and bring back the calf. She’ll follow us in.”
“You want a cup of coffee?” Clint said, poking fun at his friend.
“What?” Bo was oblivious. He stared in the direction of the far corner of the main pasture. About half a mile away, a truck had turned onto the dirt road that led to the house. It was Matt, late as usual. The lights of the truck bounced up and down as if he were driving over a freshly plowed cornfield.
“That boy is going to kill himself or someone else if he doesn’t slow down.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about—it’s the cows. You want me to fire him?” Clint asked with a hint of hope in his tone.
“No, just tell him to slow down.”
“It would be easier to fire him. Coffee?”
“No.”
“No to the coffee? Or firing the boy?”
“No to both, and I’m sure your coffee is just as bad as mine.”
“Suit yourself,” Clint replied.
With practiced ease, Bo swung himself atop Whisky and headed into the pasture.
“Where you going in such a hurry?” Bo asked his horse, who had picked up his pace to a canter. He often had discussions with his equine partner. “Whoa now, just you stop right there,” he ordered, pulling back on the reins. “I want to search the front pasture first, along the tree line, before we head over to the other side of the creek.”
Whisky cranked his ears around as if to better hear what Bo had just said. At least he appeared to be listening. “Now giddyup.” Bo let out the reins and gave Whisky a light leg command to the left. The horse snorted and jerked his head.
Then Clint sounded off from behind him.
“He’s got a notion in his head! He was like that the entire time I was saddling him up! You might want to let him go his own way!”
Bo turned in the saddle to better address Clint over his left shoulder.
“You reckon?” Bo let the reins out again, and Whisky turned towards the bridge and resumed the canter.
“Yep, I reckon,” Clint said as he indulged himself in a few final moments of quiet solitude before Matt stumbled into the barn with his excuse for being late.