Out of the Blue

While busy patching a fence, a thunderstorm snuck over the mountains like a midnight cattle rustler. Seeing those dark clouds rolling in, I hightailed it away from the barbed wire, hobbled my horse, and squatted down on the balls of my feet like I was using a trench latrine.

Now, holding that pose is about as comfortable as roosting on a cactus, and my spurs were sinking into the mud forming around me. Tempted to take them off, I figured, why risk it? After about twenty minutes of waiting, the storm finally moved off, and I felt pretty safe—seeing as lightning usually strikes ahead of the storm, not behind.

Well, usually.

As I finished splicing the wires together, I caught a flash out of the corner of my eye. And if you see lightning without hearing it, it’s so close it’s practically kissing you.

The next thing I know, I’m ten feet back from the fence, flopping around like a trout in a skillet, legs numb as fence posts. Mid-flop, I noticed my horse jerking around like he’d stepped into a hornet’s nest.

When I flopped over his way, we somehow moved toward each other. I glanced down and saw my boots flying up, still attached to my feet—thank goodness for small favors.

Finally, my horse got up, stumbled, and then sprang with a hop that landed him with his right feet on one side of the fence and his left feet on the other. That got him going, and he took off like he had rockets strapped to his backside, galloping home at a speed I’d never seen him hit before, dragging half the fence with him.

Once I managed to get myself upright, it struck me just how precarious a fix I was in. Living alone, if I didn’t make it back to the ranch, there wouldn’t be anyone looking for me.

My only lifeline was the radio phone, which worked about as often as a groundhog in winter. So, if no one heard from me for a spell, they’d figure it was the usual.

Finally, I got to my feet, and with my horse long gone, I started the three-mile limp back. I began laughing, imagining some poor soul driving by, taking one look at me in my sorry shape—foaming at the mouth, shaking like a broken windmill, dragging one leg, hunched over like Quasimodo—and speeding past, probably spraying me with mud for good measure.

When I finally staggered close enough to see the house, the radio phone worked when I called my Hondo to tell him I was lightning-struck.

His response was classic nonchalance, “You’re not going to the doctor, are you?”