Panhandle Read Free

their long run. I started to attempt to pick a good one, but deemed it an impossible feat, and managed to rope the first one within my reach. It was a wonder my rain-soaked rope didn’t knock that poor little fellow down, as it must have weighed twenty-five pounds.
    The little horse came along easily enough, and I laughed as Billy came dragging his choice out by his saddle horn. His victim was set back on the end of the rope and shaking his head. Billy’s saddle horse leaned into the pull, but stalled out after a step or two. It was just about an even match. Billy managed to face his horse up, and waited until the little paint he’d roped reared high and lunged forward to stand snorting and spraddled on quivering legs. At that, the bronc seemed to have enough and came along willingly.
    â€œEver notice how a horse will handle like a baby for a hundred pretty days straight, and then when it’s muddy and wet, and blowing or snowing, they want to wrestle?” Billy asked. “Never try to catch your old gentle saddle horse in a muddy lot with your Sunday best on, I guarantee you.”
    â€œIt’s just that they ain’t any happier than the rest of us with inclement weather.”
    â€œWhat the hell is ‘inclement’? Where did you get such a god-awful word?”
    â€œYou just ain’t got any education, that’s the problem with you. This here”—I raised a finger to the sky—“just about fits the bill. Inclement. I’d say it is.”
    Billy had managed to coax the paint up beside him, and as I raised my hand, the bronc bolted and snatched to a halt at the end of the rope. Billy’s horse staggered in the mud, the rope digging into Billy’s thigh. For a moment I thought his saddle would roll, broadside like he was. He righted things, and managed to bring the paint back in, blowing like a buck deer and rolling his eyes.
    â€œServes you right for roping a pinto.”
    â€œThat sore-footed nag you’ve got won’t go five miles tomorrow. Besides, I like a horse with some flash.” Billy wasn’t lying. He loved nothing more than parading around on a good-looking horse.
    â€œWell, I won’t have any problem riding this one, will I? You can do all the trick riding you want, and if those reservation savages catch up to us, they might spot you first and leave me alone,” I answered as smugly as a cold, saturated man who’d had no sleep in two days could.
    Billy stepped down under the trees, and began unsaddling his horse. He was silent for once. I was sure I had bested him, and that was enough to make things a little bit bearable.
    Billy somehow managed to saddle the paint without a wreck, and turned the other horse loose. He had the little fart tied to a tree and hobbled by the time I finished my own. If he hoped to soak some of the devil out of that paint, he was sadly mistaken.
    I pitched my roll on the highest, driest spot I could find—one with only three inches of standing water—and flopped down. I could hear Billy splashing around somewhere behind me. I rolled up in my blanket, hoping to sleep, or float through the territory, one or the other.
    â€œRiding with you is like riding with my mother. Hell!” Billy grumbled.
    â€œGo to sleep. The rain’s slacking off.”
    â€œYeah, it’s falling straight down now, and not sideways like before.”
    April in the Panhandle isn’t exactly tropical, and that rain was cold enough to chill beer. It’s amazing the conditions a man can sleep under when he’s been in the saddle for two days straight. Just before I dozed off in one of the most miserable bed grounds of my life, I asked, “Reckon Andy’s all right?”
    â€œHell if I know.”

C HAPTER T WO
    A ndy showed up the next morning and I guess you could say he was all right. He was caked with mud from head to toe, his hat missing, gamely half carrying, half dragging his saddle