Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Write for the ACTION and/or ADVENTURE Genre (11/13/14)
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TITLE: Between Hay and Grass | Previous Challenge Entry
By Ann Stocking
11/20/14 -
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Raindrops clung to my eyelashes, blurring my vision of the thirty pack horses I was trailing out to the day pasture. I was riding a green colt, greener than me, but so far, he’d minded his manners, and we were getting along just fine.
Rolling thunder accompanied us, growling through the timber, and the rain let up just as we reached the alpine meadow where the horses were to graze for the day. They scattered out, knowing their business. Dodge, my colt, shivered pathetically, and I pulled his soggy rigging. He gave himself a shake, and I looped the lariat around his neck, and held the loose end. Save time, not hobbling him.
I gathered up some branches, leading Dodge like a fancy lapdog, and with numb fingers, I built a small fire. One-handedly, I jammed a few branches into the ground close to the fire and peeled out of my slicker and drenched jeans. I hung them over the branches. Soon, wisps of steam swirled from the muddied denim and oilskin.
I had a sandwich in my saddlebag, and I toasted it over the flames. The rest of me was starting to feel pretty fine, too, cozied up by the fire. I pulled off my boots and gave Dodge the length of the lariat, holding the end in my hand. He munched on the wet grass, eyeing me reproachfully whenever I yelped at a flying spark landing on my naked legs.
Dripping water pattered from leaf to leaf, and wrapped in a blanket of warm smoke, with that ham sandwich feeling comfy in my belly, I dozed off. A shrill whinny jerked me awake, and the lariat whipped through my hand. At the edge of the clearing was a black bear, huffing and grunting.
“Whoa,” I hollered, but it was too late. The packhorses, with Dodge dragging that lariat, were on the run. I gave chase in my stockinged feet, thorns on the wild rose bushes needling my bare legs.
The bear ambled away, not interested in sinewy, old packhorses.
“Whoa,” I yelled again, but the horses weren’t stopping for a spindly, half-grown boy in his skivvies. Hoofbeats and the jangling of neck bells faded away. Picking my way over deadfall and pine cones, I followed, through fireweed and thistle and tight-woven willows. The trampled grass was easy enough sign, so I slogged along in my mucky socks, swatting at ravenous mosquitoes and deer flies whining in my ears.
I could sneak back to the pony barns. Grab my duffel from the bunkhouse and thumb a ride to ... somewhere. Nope, that’s not the way my daddy raised me. And don’t forget Dodge. What if he gets hung up on a tree?
I trudged on.
Finally, in the distance, I heard a jangling bell. So I wouldn’t spook them, I crept stealthily through the timber. Nearest me was an old packhorse, dependable, quiet Jack.
“Hey, Jack.” He flicked an ear, but went on eating, unruffled. I inched forward and grabbed his tangled mane. He fell into step beside me, and we walked through the herd until we came to Dodge, who had lived up to his name, by not getting that lariat snarled around a tree and breaking his silly neck.
I looped up the lariat and swung myself onto his back, and between us, we had enough know-how to get us all back to the meadow. My fire had gone out, or rather been snuffed out, when my makeshift clothes rack had collapsed into the flames.
It was a sorry boy who rode into the yard a few hours later, filthy, bug-chewed, and wearing a charred slicker and a pair of jeans that weren’t much more than scorched holes held together with a few rivets.
The barn boss looked me up and down, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the mud. “Looks like you have a tale to tell, kid. We were all between hay and grass once, but learned to finish the job. Looks like you got ‘er done.”
I hung my head at his praise, and as I hobbled away, I heard him snicker.
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Made me think of a very young employee of my dad's. He told him once that he was the worst person to work for because when he messed up, my dad didn't get angry, he just laughed. :)
This painted a really fun picture:
'It was a sorry boy who rode into the yard a few hours later, filthy, bug-chewed, and wearing a charred slicker and a pair of jeans that weren’t much more than scorched holes held together with a few rivets.'