Living with Animals

The overly burdened pack horse stumbled under her heavy load, falling to her knees. The man, a foul mouthed drifter, yanked the bit in the horse’s mouth and kicked her sweat- stained flank. “Get up you stupid son of a bitch,” he spat, kicking the animal a second time. The horse rocked sideways, a glazed look in her eyes, and made a feverish effort to rise but fell back down, her impossible load and lack of care finally taking its toll. The cowboy snarled and spat into the dirt. He strode to his saddle horse, pulled his 30.6 caliber rifle from its sheath, and approached the fallen animal. “I’ll show you how we deal with slackers.” He pointed the rifle at the horse’s forehead and cocked the trigger. The click of the mechanism alerted the mare, for she knew what followed, and she whinnied and thrashed her head wildly, her eyes rolling white with fear. Once again she fought to rise but fell, the weight of the pack pulling her onto her side. The cowboy stepped closer, aimed directly between the animal’s eyes, and squeezed the trigger. The gun exploded, propelling a curtain of shrapnel and black smoke backward into his face, imbedding shards of hot metal into his upper body. He screamed and fell to the ground, clawing at his face as blood poured from his eye sockets. The explosion terrified the already frightened horse, and she flailed at the dirt, and fought to right herself. His skittish saddle pony bolted through the sage brush, leaving the man sprawled in the dirt, blind and bleeding. On the bluff overhead, Lily Rose sat atop Max, her gelded quarter horse, and when the cowboy hit the dirt, she squeezed her legs signaling him to move out. They quickly wound their way down around the rock outcroppings to the howling man and his intended victim, and Lily Rose dismounted and went directly to the struggling horse. She whispered soothingly in low tones and stroked the horse’s forehead, calming her, and the man, his face coated in dirt and blood, heard her. “Who’s there?” he screamed. “I need help. Help me, I can’t see!” Working with experienced hands, Lily Rose unhitched the cinches that held the cumbersome packs, freeing the downed horse from her burdens, and gently encouraged the animal to her feet. She said nothing to the man who knew she was there but could not see her. Now free of her packs, the small chestnut colored mare made a valiant effort, heaving herself to her feet, where she stood wobbly and weakened by her struggles. Lily Rose led the animal to Max, who nuzzled her, blowing his hot breath into her nostrils. Turning now to the cowboy, who sat staring at the sky unfazed by the brightness of the mid- day sun. Lily Rose said, “I’ll tell them you’re out here. They should find you before the wolves do: if they come right away.” She turned and walked back to Max and his new friend. “But wait,” yelled the man, “you can’t leave me alone out here. Who are you? I’m hurt, take me with you.” “No,” she said. “They will come. The smell of the blood will bring them.” She gathered the reins of the smaller horse’s bridle, mounted Max., and turned him back the way they had come. As they climbed up into the rocks, the cowboy’s screams followed, but she paid them no mind. He had to pay the price, and she always collected. When Lily and her horses got back to the ranch, she called the sheriff and reported the man sitting in the dirt, his eyes full of blood. She didn’t give her name, just his location, and then she hung up. If the cowboy was lucky, they’d find him. If he wasn’t lucky, well, he’d brought it on himself when he’d crossed her property. She had trailed them, watching, and then willing the gun accident. It was her gift: it came as natural as breathing, and each time it happened, the hole in her heart became smaller. *******