Diggin’ My Way

The sun was a mean ol’ cuss, hangin’ high over Spanish Springs, burnin’ the back of my neck like a brandin’ iron. The Kiley Ranch sprawled out around me, a dusty patch of sagebrush and hardpan, with the Pah Rah Range squattin’ blue and hazy in the distance. It was cattle country, tough as rawhide, and I’d landed here as a hand under Jasper Tuttle, a boss with a stare that could stop a stampede and a sense of humor drier than the playa in July.

We were in the bunkhouse when I let my fool mouth run. Jasper was goin’ on about needin’ hands for some big jobs, and I, bein’ greener than a spring colt piped up.

“Boss,” I said, leanin’ back with a grin, “I’m lookin’ for a spot where I can start at the top. Ain’t cut out for grunt work.”

The other hands choked on their coffee, but Jasper fixed me with his flinty eyes. “Top, huh?” he said slowly like he was sizin’ up a steer. “Well, Tom, I got just the job. West side of the ranch needs a fence. You’re gonna dig pole holes, set posts, and string barbed wire. By yourself. Get movin’.”

My grin slipped like sand through a sieve. “Pole holes?”

“You wanted the top,” Jasper said, a wicked glint in his eye. “Top of them posts is where you’ll start. Now git.”

So here I was, out on the west side of the Kiley, a shovel in my blistered hands, cursin’ my big mouth. The ground was hard as a banker’s heart, baked solid by the Nevada sun, and every hole I dug felt like a personal grudge.

My back ached, my palms were raw, and my only company was the wind whinin’ through the sage and the occasional buzzard circlin’ overhead, bettin’ on when I’d keel over.

By the third day, I was leanin’ on my shovel, sweatin’ buckets, when I spotted a rider comin’ my way. It was Nate Skinner, an old hand with a face like a beat-up saddlebag and a laugh that’d make a mule jump.

“Sierra Tom,” Nate hollered, pullin’ up his gray gelding, “you look like you’re diggin’ to China.”

“China’d be easier,” I growled, spittin’ dust. “Jasper’s got me out here ‘cause I said I wanted to start at the top–am I was jus’ jokin’.”

Nate let out a cackle that echoed across the flats. “Boy, your tongue’s gonna get you hung one day. Jasper’s teachin’ you a lesson, and it ain’t about fences.”

“What’s it about, then?” I asked, drivin’ the shovel into the dirt with a thud.

“Knowin’ your place,” Nate said, leanin’ forward in the saddle. “You wanna be a top hand, you gotta eat some dirt first. Jasper’s been runnin’ the Kiley since afore you was born. He knows how to break a man in.”

“Break’s about right,” I muttered. “This is pure misery.”

“Misery’s what you make it,” Nate said, turnin’ his horse. “Keep diggin’, pard. You’ll come out stronger.”

He rode off, leavin’ me to my shovel and my thoughts. By the seventh day, I was a wreck—hands bleedin’, temper short as a fuse.

But I’d sunk nearly fifty holes, each a little deeper. The posts stood tall, waitin’ for the barbed wire I’d string come mornin’. That night, I sat by a small fire, the stars sharp as spurs over Spanish Springs, when I heard boots crunchin’ on the gravel.

Jasper stepped into the firelight, his shadow stretchin’ long across the dirt. “Still kickin’’?”

“Jus’ barely,” I said, tossin’ a twig into the flames. “You tryin’ to kill me out there, or just make me wish I was dead?”

Jasper chuckled, a low, gritty sound. “You wanted the top, boy. Out here, the top’s earned with sweat and cussin’. You learnin’ that?”

I glanced at the line of posts, their shapes dark against the dusk. “Reckon I am,” I said. “Coulda just told me, though.”

“Ain’t no lesson like the one you dig yourself,” Jasper said, a sly grin tuggin’ at his lips. “Finish the wire tomorrow. Then we’ll see what’s next. Might even let you ride somethin’ besides that shovel.”

He walked off into the dark, leavin’ me to ponder his words. It took me ten days to finish that fence—ten days of blisters, dust, and hard-won wisdom.

When I drove the last staple into the final post, the barbed wire singin’ taut, I stepped back and looked at my work. It wasn’t the top, not by a long shot, but it was somethin’.

A start.