Bo returned to the barn around ten o’clock to find Clint waiting alone by the large, open barn doors next to his office. Bo tried to read his face as Clint held Whisky’s bridle, tying him to the hitching post. As always, his face gave no hint at his thoughts.
“Did you have a nice ride?” As nonchalant as a spring breeze.
“Yep,” Bo replied casually, angling for the same level of cool. He removed his saddlebags from Whisky’s back and retrieved the apple slice from its brown paper wrap. He offered it to Whisky, who crunched it to a pulp with nary a drop allowed to fall. Bo threw the saddlebags over his shoulder, observing Clint as he loosened Whisky’s saddle. No reaction. He couldn’t stand it any longer. Clint was much better at these games than he was.
“Did the boys stop by and talk to you?”
“Yep” was his reply. Clint removed the saddle and walked to the tack room. Bo followed closely behind him, saddle blanket in hand.
“Well?” Bo persisted.
“Well what?”
“Do you think they will do a good job?”
“I hired them, if that’s what you’re getting at, and not just because you sent them up here. I must admit they are the puniest strays you ever brought home,” Clint said.
“I was smaller than that when I started working stalls and wrangling cattle. I bet you were too.”
“That’s true. I bet those two never had to deal with someone like Matt though. He is already looking at the two of them sideways, ‘specially the colored kid. I bet he is dreaming up all sorts of fun and games right now.”
“Ah, it’ll be okay,” Bo said. “You and I dealt with bullies in the barn when we were kids, and we survived.”
“That ain’t true, Bo. You were the rancher’s son. Whatever bullying you went through was tempered by the fact that your old man would fire someone for going too far, and I always had my brother close by. No one messed with the two of us. Plus we were tougher than a bag of hammers and packed the same kind of punch.”
“That’s true, but I think these two will surprise you. I see something in those boys. They can wrangle Matt just fine. If not, I am sure you will handle things.”
Bo slapped Clint on the back for emphasis and started toward the house through the other end of the barn.
“You know those boys are in school until the second of June,” Clint hollered after his boss and friend. “I can only work them in the mornings on weekends until then.”
Bo paused by the chalkboard at the other end of the barn and turned towards Clint.
“Why, that should work out just fine. It will keep them clear of Matt for a while. That way, they can adjust. Now you don’t have to worry so much.”
“Yeah well, I just like it quiet around here on the weekends,” Clint said.
“We all need to make a few adjustments to accommodate the new hands,” Bo said, turning slowly to resume his walk to the house.
Clint popped his fist against the barn door, a smile on his face. “Well, don’t that beat all.”
He went back toward Whisky at the opposite end of the barn, grabbing a wide-bristle brush, twice the size of his palm, from atop a shelf by his office door. Whisky accepted the brushing with calm appreciation.
“How do you like that, old boy? Now we have to change our lives for two greenhorns.”
Whisky leaned into the brush as Clint took long, sweeping strokes across his back and shoulders. Whisky curled his upper lip, showed his grass-stained teeth, and lightly shook his head.
“Yeah well, if that’s what makes the boss happy, then that’s what’ll be done.”
Clint moved to the other side of Whisky and started to brush again. Whisky stomped his right hoof on the ground and nodded his head—up and down, up and down. “You like that, don’t you, boy?” He gave the horse one last long stroke and three firm slaps on the hip and said, “I’ve got to stop talking to the livestock. Somebody might hear and think I’ve lost my mind.”
Whisky snorted and shook his head from side to side.
“Oh, not you. I don’t mean you. I’m talking about the goats, old buddy.”
Clint untied Whisky’s reins from the hitching post and gently removed his bridle by lifting it over his ears and slipping it off his head.
“Now, sir, if you will join me in the dining room, I have prepared you an exquisite meal.”
Clint walked towards Whisky’s stall, and the horse followed closely behind without a lead. Dramatically, Clint held the stall door wide open with his right hand, bending slightly at the waist as he extended his left arm.
“After you, sir,” he said as Whisky entered the stall. The bedding was fresh and clean, raked in long, perfect lines towards the door. Fresh cedar chips, one-inch thick, were spread throughout the ten-by-ten stall, emitting a pleasing aroma of clean earth and woods for man and equine alike.
Clint shook his head in admiration as he looked at Whisky, royalty in this humble barn. Though he loved all the ranch horses and cared for them equally, Clint knew Whisky was the tie that bound the ranch and its people. And that was one tie that Clint didn’t mind having.