Leonard and Kevin finished their work at the barn just shy of ten o’clock. They were usually finished around nine, but Matt was extremely late that Monday morning, and the two of them had to work without him. When he did finally arrive around seven forty-five, most of the cleaning and feeding was completed except, of course, for the goats. Horses and cattle always came first.
“It is a good thing the goats are patient,” Clint remarked as the boys hauled out the last bale of hay for the cattle that gathered in the fading shadows of the brightening dawn. Actually, Clint knew goats were patient only up to a point. They, too, had a way of letting everyone know it was their turn to be served breakfast. There were only six of them, but when they ran back and forth alongside the fence noisily sounding-off in unison, one would think they were being slowly starved.
“I only have to spread out this last bale of hay for the cows, Mr. Clint, then I’ll feed them and clean their bedding areas,” Kevin said.
Clint looked directly at Matt, who was leaning lazily on one of the fence posts, drinking a Big Gulp, as he directed Kevin, “You just stay in the barn and finish up. Matt will take care of the goats.”
“What? Why?” Matt blustered.
Disgusted, Clint did not acknowledge this reply and kept walking toward the barn door. A few minutes later, he told Kevin and Leonard they had performed a fine job and let them go for the day.
Bo hadn’t made an appearance yet that morning, but Clint knew he was up and about—lights were on in the house. Even though the boys had a way of bringing out the extrovert in Bo, it was fleeting, and Clint had noticed a quiet distance settling in the old man lately, more so than usual. Maybe it was because it was getting close to the anniversary of Mary Beth’s passing, which would lead to a series of other emotional events: their wedding anniversary a month later and her birthday the month after that. The summer months turned into a pile of wistful reminders for Bo. Clint felt more than a professional attachment to the ranch; he felt kinship and responsibility to the people here, especially Bo Kelso. As such, he guarded both man and beast with a quiet ferocity.
The full noonday sun reflected in wide, shimmering rays off the flat, steaming waters of the cattle tank. Dug into the top of the bluff, the tank sat just short of the large pecan grove on the edge of the main pasture where it wedged its way between the property line and Clear Creek. Kevin and Leonard sat quietly in the only spot of shade to be found along the banks of the one-acre tank. Close by Texas standards, it was still more than a mile from Leonard’s back door and just as far from the barn. The dirt road that ran off the main paved road passed within twenty-five yards of the cattle tank and led to the main gate of entry for the ranch. It was a dehydrated mass of dust and gravel, dry as a preacher’s throat after a three-hour sermon in a crowded clapboard church, with no fans on and the windows down.
The dirt cloud rose up from the road and hung in the air like fog, completely obscuring visibility for several minutes after a car had passed, or in this case a truck, Matt’s truck.
The teen tore down the road, almost sliding sideways on the gentle curve that swung him to the right and onto the final stretch of road leading to the main gate. Matt obviously noticed the two of them sitting in the shade and fishing at the cattle tank because he started honking his horn and yelling at the top of his lungs, not in a friendly manner but in his normal taunting, condescending, bullying way. The dust floated over toward the boys and descended on them, causing them to choke and cough as they waved away the dust from their nostrils. “Jerk,” they said in unison, only loud enough for the two of them to hear.
“I should’ve known he would do that,” Leonard said as he struggled to spot his bobber floating in the tank.
“Yeah, me too. If it weren’t so doggone hot, we’d be fishing on the creek, and he wouldn’t be able to do that to us.”
The heat was stifling—to the point where the boys kept their conversations short just to save them from breathing in the air that felt like it came out of the end of a torch. And to make things worse, now that scorching air was full of choking dust.
They turned their attention back to the water, but not for long. Kevin was the first to notice the sound of another vehicle coming down the road. They looked up, looked at each other, and Leonard groaned, “Here we go again.”
It was Matt again; however, this time he was not on the road—he was in the pasture. Just short of the boys, Matt turned his truck hard to the left and gunned the motor. The boys could see his hands slapping one over the other on top of the steering wheel as the grill of his truck emerged from the lingering dust. The back end of the truck swung around hard and fast as the tires broke traction and spun, throwing gravel and dirt over the boys. The spray also peppered the ground around them and spread across the top of the water like raindrops. The boys quickly stood and covered their faces with their hands and started backing into the tree line, dropping their fishing poles.
Just a few feet from the boys, Matt stopped his truck after coming full circle, a neat doughnut. He revved his motor one time for effect. Dangling his left arm out the window, he flung his head back as he pounded his right hand on top of the steering wheel. He laughed like a jackal, snorting in between breaths and flinging his head forward and back.
The boys stayed quiet, unmoving, in hopes that Matt would become bored with his childish pranks and go away. They sensed this was a small taste of Matt’s capability for cruelty. As long as he stayed in his truck, he could laugh all day long. Their discomfort seemed to entertain Matt greatly, which was fine. They were just thankful for the safety of the pecan grove, to which they had rapidly retreated in self-defense.
The dust had almost completely cleared by the time Matt finished laughing.
“Man, you should’ve seen the look on your faces. Hey, did you pee your pants?”
The thought of soiled britches apparently struck Matt as very funny, and he started laughing hysterically again.
And still, the boys did not move. Even the two of them together were no match for the likes of Matt.
“Hey, lighten up you two. Can’t you take a joke?”
Of course, this was not a joke to the boys. It was disturbing harassment, a bigger person scaring a smaller one just for the morbid rush of it.
In a quick movement, Matt leaned forward in his seat. Both Leonard and Kevin drew a rapid breath, thinking Matt was reaching for a gun or something equally dangerous. They would not put it past him to produce a weapon and begin his next game.
Matt’s head reappeared in the window. He had the cigarette lighter in hand, pulled a Winston from behind his ear, and lit it.
“You fellows want one?” he asked with a smirk.
“We don’t smoke,” Leonard blurted out.
Kevin heard a hint of arrogance in Leonard’s voice and hoped Matt did not detect it. Bullies did not need much of a reason to be pushed over the edge and turn a simple taunting into a full-out physical assault. The less we say, the sooner he’ll go away. At least he hoped so.
Playing possum was not easy for Kevin and Leonard. They were accustomed to taking a stand, sticking up for themselves. They’d encountered bullies before, but they were usually of the same age, maybe a little stronger, but comparable. The boys knew that if it came down to a fight, they would fight, and give and take their licks. However, Matt was, in their eyes, an adult. He did not fit the profile of a schoolyard punk. Matt was out of school, had a full-time job, a part-time job, lived on his own; he even had a driver’s license, could go and do as he pleased, and had to answer only to himself. Kevin and Leonard were baffled as to why he even wasted his time tormenting them.
Matt took a long drag on his cigarette, leaned his head back on the truck seat, and exhaled smoke out the window. The air was so still; the tendrils hung above the roof of his truck, slowly spreading across it, fading into long sheets as it disappeared into the air and the bed of his truck.
“So when do you girls go back to grade school?” Matt asked.
“We’re in junior high, not grade school!” Leonard snapped back, this time with an unmistakably sharper tone in his voice.
Kevin nudged his friend with his elbow; Leonard was getting dangerously close to poking the bear. The look on Matt’s face changed. His brow wrinkled as his eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened. There was no mistaking the look—it was as clear as the warning of a rattlesnake. Matt would control the tempo of his torment, not the poor mouse he was toying with.
With menace in his eyes, Matt said, “Well, I’ll let you girls get back to playing with your fishing poles. You do know that the cows crap and pee in that tank, don’t you? You may as well eat a turd out of the sewer, ‘cause that’s what those fish are swimming in.”
With that, he turned his truck around and began to drive away. Backs turned, the boys braced themselves for another pummeling of grass and gravel. Instead, they were surprised to hear only Matt’s bitter cackle as he slowly drove away. When the boys determined the truck was far enough away to keep them safe from another spraying of earth, they turned in his direction, staring at the back end of the old pickup as it tooled down the road.
Kevin gave Leonard a half punch in his upper arm. “Ouch, what was that for?”
“You need to keep your mouth shut around that guy.”
“Why? I’m not afraid of him.”
Kevin searched Leonard’s eyes and saw that was just the tough guy in him talking.
“Let’s go fishing somewhere else.” Leonard started gathering up his fishing gear.
“Are you afraid of what he said about the fish swimming in the cattle’s toilet?”
“No.” Leonard paused a beat. “I’m afraid he’ll come back and run over us next time.”
Kevin let out a quick laugh, reached up, and put his hand on Leonard’s shoulder as they turned and walked toward the edge of the cattle tank.
Just as they reached for their fishing poles, they saw movement on the other side of the pecan grove.
“Oh . . . that’s why he didn’t blast us with dirt,” Kevin gave a quick nod of his head.
“What do you mean?” Leonard said, turning around.
“He saw Mr. Kelso coming. That’s why.”
Bo was making his final swing around the backside of the main pasture, easily seen through the pecan grove.
The boys’ arms were flying above their heads in greeting. Bo acknowledged their enthusiastic wave with a tip of his hat. He asked if the boys were having any luck fishing. Confessing their lack of success, they told him they were just considering moving to another fishing hole.
“It’s hot enough to fry a frog on his third hop across an asphalt driveway. It’s definitely not the right kind of weather for sitting out in the sunshine baking your brains under your hat while you wait on the fish that’s as cool as he can be. Don’t you think so?” Bo asked.
“Yes sir, but if we go home, there is nothing to do except maybe whatever my mom comes up with—probably girly stuff around the house,” Leonard said earnestly.
Bo chuckled at this. “Girly stuff, huh? What does that include exactly?”
“You know . . . sweeping, gathering laundry, dusting, all sorts of stuff.”
Leonard’s mother watched over the boys and one other girl during the summer. Jenny was seven years old and lived on their road. The epitome of a girly-girl, she always wore summer dresses and shoes to match, her blond hair short with flowing curls. She and Leonard’s mom were always baking something— and not just simple things like cookies. Any variety of elaborate cakes and pies could adorn the kitchen table at the end of the day, decorated to perfection, every one. Jenny would threaten the boys with a wooden spoon any time they passed through the kitchen, warning them to keep their hands off. Short for her age, her head barely cleared the kitchen counter. What she lacked in height, she made up for in tenacity.
The two of them would spend at least two hours a day reading to each other. It was a package deal for Jenny’s parents. Leonard’s mom watched Jenny, tutored her, and indulged her.
“She is seven going on twenty-five. And bossy,” Leonard complained.
“I see,” Bo said. “Still it’s awfully hot to be fishing out here at the edge of an open pasture. Why aren’t you fishing in the old sand mine on the back of the property? The water is crystal clear, and most of the bank is shaded down two sides. The water is only knee deep on a tall coon dog off the bank and as clear as a glass of spring water. You boys can swim there, as long as you stay close to the shore and stay together.”
Each began to bounce on his toes. “I am an excellent swimmer, Mr. Kelso. I was on the swim team at my old school,” Kevin said.
“And I took swimming lessons at Johnson’s pool up the street last year—in the advanced class,” Leonard said.
“You don’t have to worry about us,” Kevin added with conviction.
“Where is it at, Mr. Kelso?” Leonard asked.
“I thought you knew. I have seen the two of you all over this ranch each time I rode the fence line, trotting across the fields and thickets like two armadillos tied together by rope.”
Eyes wide with the idea of it, the boys quickly looked at each other. They didn’t remember seeing the old rancher that frequently.
“Oh yes, I saw the two of you many times, long before we met and said our hellos, running fast, laughing loud, while Whisky and I walked slow and talked low. Yep, you sure were easy to find on Saturdays and sometimes during the week after school.”
As he spoke, he dismounted Whisky and walked the horse over to the water’s edge, allowing him to drink. He stood beside him and worked his hands slowly and smoothly, one behind the other, across the horse’s hips and over his tail until he reached the other side of Whisky’s saddle. He never broke contact with his horse’s body, reassuring his horse in doing so. Then Bo raised his arm and drew the boys’ attention in the direction of the tallest pine trees on the other side of Clear Creek.
“Beyond those tall, yellow pines is a grown-over dirt road. The saplings popped up like corn and choked off the road down to a small trail just wide enough for a man on horseback, or maybe . . . two excited boys running side by side. Following that trail until it runs out at the sand mine should get you to a small beach. I ride Whisky there at least once a week and let him walk out into the water to drink and cool down. From the saddle, I can see hundreds of fish darting around in that water. No one has fished there in years. It’s been hidden by the overgrowth because there are no longer enough cattle to eat away at the plants and keep them set back. I was sure you boys would’ve found it by now.”
The boys stared with great interest, hanging on every word that their old friend spoke. If their eyes could have gotten bigger, they would have needed more room on their heads. With each syllable of description, they leaned in a little closer. This story about the sand mine was, to them, like describing the location of a lost treasure buried in a far-away, mysterious country. They were so excited about this secret that they did not even care about the fact that the beach was more than three miles away. In the blistering heat. One way.
“Can we fish there?” Kevin excitedly asked.
“I don’t see why not. You two have fished everywhere else.” Bo tried for deadpan, but a grin was peeping through his façade. The boys hastily grabbed their fishing rods and tackle, running at a full sprint towards the bridge—the fastest route to the creek—shouting “Thank you, Mr. Kelso” to the beat of their pounding steps.
In a rare fit of mischief, Bo mounted Whisky and laid out the reins. He gave him a gentle kick with his heels, and the horse launched forward, almost rearing up off his front hooves. Off to the races.
Within a few seconds, he’d passed the two running boys. Whisky flipped his tail wildly, head held high as he stretched out into a full gallop. Bo knew the horse was in his element, enjoying the rare treat of running with abandon. Whisky snorted loudly as he passed the boys, as if to say, “Tag! You’re it. Catch me if you can.”
Bo reached the barn well ahead of the boys and pulled back slightly on the reins. Whisky responded by slowly decelerating to a trot.
The sound of Whisky’s hooves pounding on the ground caught Clint’s attention. He’d been taking a short nap propped up in his chair just inside his office door. He reluctantly cracked open one eye and then the other. He was comfortably settled into his desk chair, both legs kicked up on top of the small wooden crate jammed between the filing cabinet and the far wall. The springs of the old wooden office chair creaked as they uncoiled when Clint leaned forward.
“Now what can that be all about?” he whispered in a low growl.
He knew Bo would not return for at least three hours, and this was one of the best fifteen minutes of the day for him usually, just a fraction of time that he and the cats cherished together—everyone gone, chores completed, radio playing softly. The only thing left to do for Clint was to brush down Whisky after his morning ride.
Although it was hot outside, a slight breeze blew through the barn, and a small fan with four metal blades cooled his face and kept the flies away. Even the two barn cats curled up in their favorite spots, one on the far corner of the wide windowsill just above the filing cabinet and the other on the box full of magazines just outside the office door. This ruckus was definitely an intrusion on their happy place.