Kevin pushed his way through the barbed wire fence, gently spreading the wires and placing his legs through one at a time. It was easy and fast without the burden of fishing poles, tackle boxes, and sacks of lunch. Walking in the early morning through a cow pasture could be a hazardous venture, as Kevin was all too aware, so he walked with care. Ant hills were sometimes as high as his ankles, and cow pies were sure things to avoid, the fresh ones especially. Today he was particularly intent on these things, trying to keep his mind busy.
On occasion, he would look up and scan the land around him, hoping to see Leonard also on his way to work. Most days, he could easily spot Leonard walking in the same direction— but not this morning. A little hope remained that perhaps Leonard had already gotten to work and was there, waiting. Kevin wasn’t sure what he would say when he confronted him, so he came up with a plan: he would just act casual and keep his mouth shut until Leonard made the first move at conversation. At least he would try.
Clint stood at the far end of the barn, turning on the light switches one by one as the horses impatiently stomped, demanding their breakfast. He then removed his cowboy hat and began rubbing his head, reading the chalkboard itinerary for the morning. As was usually the case, at the top of the list was a request for Whisky by the Drink to be saddled and ready for a ride.
He turned when he heard Kevin’s approach and watched him in silence as the boy walked the lighted stretch between the stalls. He noticed the boy checking the shadows of each stall—probably to make sure Matt was not creeping around somewhere. Or maybe he was looking for his buddy Leonard.
“You know you had today off, right?” Clint asked, looking at Kevin with a lifted brow.
“Yes sir, but it’s kind of boring around the house.”
Clint gazed down at him and knew something was wrong; however, instead of asking and harping on it, maybe making things worse, he decided to go with a diversion.
“Well, since you’re here, I may as well put you to work. The stalls will be fine today—they don’t need cleaning. So, you can help me saddle Whisky. Do you know where Whisky’s tack is, boy?” Clint asked in his slow, gritty drawl.
“Tack?” Kevin asked, confused.
“Yes, boy, tack. You know, saddle, bridle, and blanket.”
“Yes sir. It’s in the room full of saddles.”
“That’s right, boy. We call that room the tack room. You can’t miss it. There’s a sign above the door that says ‘Tack Room.’ And that’s where saddles, bridles, and blankets—all the horse gear—is kept. It’s tack.” Clint was having a little fun with his young friend, spilling out playful sarcasm, though he wasn’t sure Kevin was catching on. “Now be sure you fetch the right tack for Mr. Kelso’s horse. You can’t miss it; it’s hung on the saddle horse below a placard that says ‘Whisky by the Drink.’ Bring it to me, and I’ll show you how to saddle a horse.”
Kevin felt privileged to perform a task that Clint usually did himself. The saddle was heavy, and the aroma of the polished leather was strong but pleasant as he carried it over to Whisky’s stall and set it down on a small table just outside of it. The table had a half round section of boards built into the top of it, so that the saddle sat upon it and did not touch the ground. It took Kevin three trips to retrieve all the necessary tack in order to prepare Whisky for his morning ride. When that job was complete, Clint told him to get started feeding the horses— all the feed and hay was already laid out—and then he would show Kevin the proper way to bridle and saddle Whisky.
They had just finished feeding the last of the horses when Matt drove up. Clint expressed his discontent for Matt’s usual tardiness with a slight grunt. As Matt entered the barn, he walked past Kevin, who was closing the stall door of the last horse he’d fed. Kevin’s eyes stayed looking in any direction that did not include Matt.
“Matt!” Clint barked from across the barn. “Get down here and then take this wheelbarrow out back to feed all the goats.”
“Goats! Don’t you think that’s a job for the greenhorn?”
“The greenhorn was on time, even though he didn’t have to come into work today; you’re not. That gives you goat duty.”
Matt picked up the wheelbarrow and pushed it to the back of the barn so he could fill it with goat feed.
As he passed by Kevin, he asked in a low, snaky voice, “Where is your little friend this morning?”
Kevin ignored him and walked away, heading for the next task to be done, whatever that was, even if it was just getting away from Matt. He wished Clint was still out there. He had stepped inside the tack room and could not hear nor see the conversation between Matt and Kevin.
“You must be deaf. Every time I ask you something, you don’t answer back. Now where is your little friend at?”
Silence.
“Ohhhh,” Matt said with exaggerated realization, “I bet he’s out there in the dark somewhere. That’s why I can’t see him.”
More silence, but this time Kevin’s tension was evident. No more, he thought to himself. I cannot put up with this anymore.
He could feel the frustration build in him like pressure in a can of soda that had just been kicked across the ground. And Matt was pulling back the tab.
Chin set firmly, Kevin tried to force back the din growing in his mind. Though he tried his best, he knew it would ultimately be futile. Matt would keep pushing him, and he would explode.
With obvious disgust, Kevin spat out, “Geez, shut up, Matt! I didn’t answer you back because I don’t want to answer you back. I don’t even want to talk to you. Leave me alone.”
Just then, Kevin could see Clint emerging from the tack room, a wide brush in hand. But he was still far enough away to be unaware of the brewing exchange. Matt casually began pushing the wheelbarrow out the back of the barn, passing Kevin with a low, wicked snicker.
He sure is pleased with himself, Kevin thought. Matt’s only goal in life seemed to be to annoy and draw blood.
“Good morning, boy.”
Kevin wheeled around, startled.
“Did you enjoy your weekend? I thought you had today off as well?” Bo asked, emerging from the outside shadows and into the light of the barn.
It was then Kevin understood Matt’s sudden retreat. Bullies had a sixth sense when it came to people in positions of authority, a built-in warning system—like fine, little hairs on the back of their necks—that tells them: it’s time to play the nice guy and save the game for later.
Bo cocked his head to the side, chin tilted up slightly to get a better view of Kevin’s face. What he saw, he could not completely fathom: the pain of a shattered friendship, the frustration with a barn bully, and the loneliness of it all. Even in the darkest shadows of the barn, Kevin’s worry was as visible as the rising sun, sneaking into the sky. Bo didn’t know details, but he had an inkling. He kept it to himself for now.
“Is Leonard here yet?” Kevin’s voice had a high pitch to it.
“Nope, I don’t think he’s coming back to work. His mother called me the other day and told me that he didn’t want to work here anymore.” He eyed Kevin. “I may be an old man, but I know when there is noise in the henhouse. Something’s wrong.”
Kevin’s eyes scanned the fading darkness over the pasture as the sun pushed its way into the morning sky. The yawning rays of the sun were a brilliant red and orange. Bo knew he was searching the pasture for his friend. Sensing Kevin’s reluctance to talk, he placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder and guided him and Whisky out of the barn. A few feet outside the barn, he tied Whisky to a hitching post. It was made of cedar, a little more than four inches thick and stretched across two larger cedar legs, buried firmly in the ground. Each end of the six-foot-long cedar hitching post had a four-inch-wide copper band that molded around the cedar like a glove, and attached the post to the upright legs.
“Here, boy. Let me show you the first knot I ever learned to tie.”
Bo took Whisky’s reins, looped them around the post two times, and then back under. The two flat sections of leather were perfectly aligned side by side and locked together. He then gave them a firm tug to show there was no give.
“My father taught me that knot, after he handed me the reins of my first horse; I never forgot it. He only showed me that knot one time. Even over the excitement of receiving such a grand gift, it didn’t distract me from memorizing that knot.” Cryptically, he finished, “Funny, the things we remember, the things we are taught and don’t forget, even though there are some things we would like to forget.”
They stood leaning over the hitching post, Kevin on one side and Bo on the other with Whisky a step back. Whisky’s sleepy, brown eyes drooped as his long eyelashes flickered in an attempt to stay awake.
“Did you and your friend have some sort of fight?”
“Something like that. Leonard thinks I called him a name.” Kevin paused for only a moment before the entire story came pouring out, smooth and honest, like a pitcher of cold water.
Bo nodded throughout the narrative, taking in every word without interrupting or offering advice. Even Whisky was patient, waiting for his morning ride as he arched one of his back legs in a resting posture. When Kevin had emptied his heart, Bo offered only one bit of advice: “I think your parents are right. You should give it time. It will work itself out.”
“But what if it doesn’t?” Kevin asked.
Bo reached out with his thumb and forefinger and gently pulled at the two leather straps draped on top of one another. They slipped off the hitching post and made a slapping sound as they flipped off the railing. Lifting his left hand up, both straps landed cleanly in his palm.
“Boy, there ain’t a knot in this world that can’t be untied.”
Kevin stared at the reins draped across the old man’s palm, astonished at how easily he’d removed them from the hitching post.
“You just got to know which end of the rope to untie first.”
With that, Bo placed his left foot in the stirrup, grasped the saddle horn, and swung a leg over Whisky’s back.
“Take your parents’ advice, son. This knot will untie itself.”
Kevin watched Whisky, his boss astride, move into the brightening face of day as the sun rose over the banks of Clear Creek.
“Oh that’s just great, more advice I can’t use,” Kevin said to no one in particular. Then he had a more distressing revelation; Matt was headed in his direction.
Kevin stepped to the side to give Matt plenty of reeking room, the unmistakable combination of cigarettes and beer strong.
“Well?” Matt blurted out as he passed, poking Kevin in the shoulder.
Enveloped in his own concerns, Kevin was in no mood for scare tactics or Matt’s mouth. He had spent his long weekend without his friend, without fishing, without good feelings in general. Kevin and Leonard had made grand plans for this weekend—which did not include work, parents, or household chores—to bask in the summer sun on the banks of Clear Creek or one of the many water tanks, fishing and cutting up. As Kevin looked at Matt now, he saw only the person who had messed that all up for him and Leonard.
He snapped.
“Well what?!” Kevin shouted back, taking an aggressive step forward.
“Whoa. Someone is in a cranky mood this morning.”
“Stay away from me, Matt.”
Matt’s eyes took on a whole new level of squint.
“Hey!” Clint called out from the other end of the barn. “Get out there and clean the goat bedding, Matt.”
“Let the spook feed them when he gets here; he’s obviously later than I am.”
“Shut your mouth, Matt!” Kevin’s hands were outstretched and rigid behind him with the force of his command.
Faster than either of them could anticipate, Clint was already halfway down the hall of the barn, arms swinging, boots stomping in long strides, heel toe heel toe. Clearly Clint had reached his boiling point.
“I’ve had enough of you two. I came to work in a good mood this morning because I had the barn all to myself for couple of days. If the two of you start up again, I’ll send you home for an extended vacation. Now get to your work so I can get rid of you and have the barn quiet and to myself again. Horses are far better company than two arguing children. Tend to the goats, Matt.”
“That’s not fit work for a cowboy, and you know it, Clint; it’s greenhorn duty.”
“No, it’s your duty for showing up late again. Besides that, you’re no cowboy.” Clint stepped close so Matt could see his eyes in the shadows of his cowboy hat. Then he angled forward, his long, lean frame towering over Matt. “And that’s Mr. Clint to you, boy.”
He dragged out his words as he said them, so Matt understood without question who was in charge. Matt offered no challenge or response. He looked into Clint’s eyes just long enough to see the left one twitch and realized this cowboy was not playing around. Clint turned and walked out of the barn past Kevin, who stood like a statue, taking it all in. Kevin walked back to the stall he was cleaning. Clint had set things right, at least for now.
Peace restored, no matter if temporarily, Kevin finished cleaning the stalls. He then went to the building where the sacks of feed were kept and loaded his wheelbarrow with the eighty-pound burlap sacks. Matt finished feeding the goats, then was instructed by Clint to help Kevin with the sacks of feed. The adversaries worked together in silence, each hauling the sacks one at a time into the barn via wheelbarrow. Meanwhile, Clint had removed one of the mares and brushed her in the middle of the barn, where he could observe all the goings-on both inside and out. He figured by the time they had recharged the feed bins, the boys would be too tired to fight. However, that was not to be the case.
Unable to restrain from his needling ways, Matt picked up where he’d left off. He pulled up to Kevin at the pile of feed sacks, breaking the silence as he reached for another bag of feed.
“So, where is your little friend today? Work too tough for him?”
“Shut your face, Matt.”
Matt leaned in close as Kevin wrapped his hands around a bag of feed. “Look, you little runt. I don’t put up with anyone talking to me like that, let alone a little sawed-off squirt like you.”
Kevin lifted his sack onto the front half of his wheelbarrow, preparing to flip the rest of it over, when he saw Matt heading in his direction, sackless. One step, two steps, and on the third step, just as Matt was reaching for Kevin’s T-shirt over the wheelbarrow, Kevin flipped the sack with all his power.
The weight of the sack turned the wheelbarrow onto its side and Matt’s feet. As the momentum of the sack’s forward motion continued, it rolled out of the wheelbarrow completely and knocked Matt backward between the two barrels. The full weight of the sack was on his legs, pinning Matt to the ground.
Spastically trying to free himself from the mess, Matt screamed, “I’m going to bust your head open, you little turd!”
Kevin jumped back from the tangled mess of feed bags and wheelbarrows. From that vantage point, only Matt’s bobbing head and one waving arm was discernible in the pile. By the time Matt had untangled himself from the mess, Kevin was ready. He stood with both his hands up in a boxing stance as Matt stepped over the second wheelbarrow and swung wildly at Kevin, the swoosh of air from Matt’s errant swing causing Kevin to slam his eyes shut as he flinched in anticipation of the impact of Matt’s fist.
Kevin suddenly recalled his boxing lessons with Mr. Flowers. The former boxer had told him, “You have to keep your eyes open and your hands up. If you see the punch coming, your eyes will tell your feet to move your body and your head. So protect, watch, and move.”
Opening his eyes, Kevin moved his feet to the left, sidestepping Matt’s next swing and then the next. Finally Matt got his feet under him and was now toe-to-toe with Kevin.
This can’t be good, Kevin thought. He almost preferred Matt to take swings at him.
After three missed attempts to connect with Kevin, Matt charged. Kevin quickly stepped to one side again, knocking Matt’s hand away with his left arm. Matt spun halfway around, and as he regained his balance and turned, Kevin struck him square on the nose with a left jab and a quick right.
Oh my God! I hit him! To Kevin’s utter astonishment, Matt fell backward, tripping over one of the wheelbarrow handles, then landing with great impact on his butt.
What have I done? He’s going to really kill me now.
Although Kevin had been able to connect with Matt’s face— Kevin was a head shorter—the statistics were on Matt’s side. Short of Kevin picking up a pitchfork, Matt would be the victor at the end of this fight.
Matt reached up and felt his nose. When he pulled his hand down, it was full of blood. His eyes widened and his entire face wrinkled up like a gorilla’s. Kevin was horrified as Matt jumped to his feet. For a brief second, Kevin thought about running, but there was no time. He tried to sidestep Matt once again, but Matt latched onto him this time and hung on fiercely, forcing him to fall backward to the ground. Now underneath Matt, Kevin grabbed for his arm and wrenched it away. The good news was that it worked. The bad news was that it took both of his hands to release Matt’s grip. That was to Matt’s advantage because he hit Kevin in the left eye with his other hand. As he drew back his hand to lay out another hit, Kevin let go of Matt’s arm in order to cover his face, and . . .
It was over?
Matt was gone. He didn’t feel Matt’s weight on top of him anymore. He opened his eyes between the slits of his fingers and lifted his head to see Clint standing over him and Matt well into his second somersault.
Clint had gotten there just in time to grab the arm Matt had cocked back like a loaded jackhammer. With one arm, Clint had flung the troublemaker off Kevin, like a blanket from a horse’s back. When Matt stopped tumbling, he came to rest just in front of the barn door—directly in front of Bo Kelso’s feet. Bo had emerged from the barn, Whisky’s reins in hand, just in time to witness the final act. The last thing he expected to see was his ranch hands in the middle of a dusty brawl.
“You boys out of things to do?” Bo asked calmly, mildly amused.
Matt struggled to his feet, and fast. Clint helped Kevin to his feet, and the two fighters took a few minutes to assess their damages.
“Did you see that?” Clint asked, as he entered the barn and stood next to Bo.
“See what?”
“Matt’s bloody nose. Kevin gave it to him. That kid really put it on him.”
Bo slowly shook his head, thinking, a smirk peeping out of the corner of his mouth. He called the boys over.
“I can’t have you boys fighting.” He scanned their faces. They were both somber and quiet. Bo reached out with his left hand, turned Kevin’s chin to one side, and examined his eye. He then directed his attention toward Matt’s still-bleeding nose.
“If the two of you can’t get along, I’ll have to fire both of you.”
The boys simultaneously spoke up in protest, promising they would be able to get along.
“We were just playing around, Mr. Kelso. It sort of got out of hand, that’s all,” Matt said.
Bo stared intently at Matt’s bleeding nose and then turned back to Kevin to take notice of his quickly swelling eye. He shook his head and, without saying another word, tied Whisky’s reins to the hitching post before walking back through the barn.
Clint retrieved a handful of ice cubes from the small refrigerator in his office. Wrapping them in a small towel, he handed it to Kevin and instructed him to hold it on his eye in order to stop the swelling. He did the same for Matt. A short time later, he sent both duelling ranch hands home.