Ride Out

The ranch hands had taken to calling Steve “Old Man” or “Pops,” though he wore his years like a badge of honor. At forty-six, he had a decade and a half on most of them, but his calloused hands and wiry frame left no doubt he could still pull his weight.

When Joey—barely more than a kid—told him he was too old to be breaking roughstock, Steve’s blue eyes twinkled with a challenge. He swung himself atop a twisting cyclone of a horse and rode it to a standstill, the boys hollering and clapping from the corral rails.

But pride comes with a price. As Steve dismounted, he didn’t see the hooves coming. The horse lashed out, striking him square in the head and shoulders, then trampled him in the arena dirt.

The men scrambled, hauling him to the bunkhouse and laying him on his cot. Cookie, the camp’s cook and de facto medic examined him with a grim shake of his head.

“Man needs a doctor,” he muttered.

But they were miles from the nearest highway, and snow-heavy clouds were already rolling in.

Steve stirred as Cookie wrapped his head in bandages.

Raspy and determined, his voice cut through the murmurs. “It’s gonna snow. Big one. You better gather the boys.”

Jose, the young vaquero assigned to keep watch over him, exchanged a look with Cookie, who stepped outside just as the first flakes began to fall. Within an hour, the ranch was a hive of activity.

Cowboys bundled in heavy coats and scarves saddled their horses, preparing to round up cattle scattered across two hundred acres of open land. The snow was approaching quickly, and if they failed to move the herd, they would lose more than just a few to the cold.

Steve watched the preparations from his cot, his jaw tight with frustration. He tried to sit up, but his body rebelled, a sharp reminder of his injuries.

“’Fore they tail up and freeze,” he muttered, wishing he could saddle up and ride with the boys.

Instead, he sank back into the cot and closed his eyes as the yard grew quiet. When Steve woke again, it was dark and silent, save for the howl of the wind.

His body ached, but his mind was clear. Hours slipped by, the storm hammering the bunkhouse. By morning, the snow was piled in drifts, deep and treacherous.

Steve swung his legs over the side of the cot, his determination outweighing his pain. He willed himself to stand, gripping the back of a chair until the dizziness passed.

Dressed in layers against the bitter cold, he stumbled to the barn and saddled his horse. The wind nearly knocked him off his feet, but he pressed on, driving himself toward Thompson Draw. He knew cattle would seek shelter there, hunkered against the canyon walls where the wind couldn’t bite so deep.

After hours of grueling effort, he found the handful of cows half-buried in the snow. Steve whooped and hollered, his voice echoing off the rock walls, spurring the cattle to their feet.

They balked and turned, trying to retreat to the safety of the canyon, but Steve’s horse blocked their way.

“Not today,” he growled, forcing them to move.

He drove them out of the draw, their hooves breaking a path through the drifts.

As night fell, Steve found himself in unfamiliar territory. The canyon narrowed into a treacherous path, and the snow showed no mercy.

He relied on instinct, driving the cattle downhill through the dark. The wind burned his face raw, and his hands were numb around the reins, but he pushed on.

When dawn broke, the sun rose in a direction that left Steve uneasy. He’d taken a wrong turn in the dark, but the snow was thinning now, giving way to dry ground. Once the sun was high, the herd and horse stood on open range where the storm hadn’t touched.

Steve sat tall in the saddle, his body aching and his stomach growling, but his heart swelled with satisfaction. Below him stretched a landscape painted in hues of red rock and sagebrush, beautiful and unforgiving.

He tipped his hat back, drawing a deep breath of the clean, dry air, allowing the sun to warm his numbed body. His job finished, cattle safe, and that was enough.