Kathleen Eagle - Never Trust A Cowboy

“And we both know there’s more’n one way to skin a cat,” he whispered to his new companion. “Ain’t that right?” Then he laughed at himself for conjuring an image of peeling Lila’s T-shirt over her head. “Skin the cat” was one of his dad’s crazy sayings.

“The hell with her” was not.

* * *

Del found Frank cleaning a saddle in the new barn. One wall of the tack room was lined with racks stocked with saddles and hooks heaped with bridles, all in beautiful condition. Frank was a true horseman.

“Brad back yet?”

“Haven’t seen him.” Frank tapped the lid on a can of saddle soap. “He took his pickup. I don’t think he was too serious about checking cows. Not from a pickup.”

“The fence was down about a mile off the highway on the cut-across. All three strands cut.”

Frank dropped the can into a rubber tub. “Could be kids.”

“There were tire tracks. I don’t know why kids would go to all that trouble, though. Not the best place for a party. Nothing left behind. No cans, no bottles, no butts.”

“Did you fix it?”

“For now. Should be replaced.”

“You rode the fence line on horseback?” The older man’s face lit up. “There’s wire out in the shop. We’ll load some up, drive over and do it right.”

“I can take care of it now. Just say the word.”

“I did. It’s we . We’ll go out and stretch some wire.” He slid his stool up against the wall, lifted his John Deere cap, raked his fingers through thinning gray hair and then settled the cap back in place as though they were heading for town. “I think I’m gonna like you, Del. Seems like you’re here to work.”

“I’ve worked for guys who want me to wade right in and do what needs doing and guys who want me to wait for orders. I’m good either way.”

Frank clapped a sturdy hand on Del’s shoulder. “Then you’ll be good loading up the wire in case my wife looks out the window. I’ll bring the pickup around.”

“Guess I’m done waiting.”

The chance to spend quality time with Frank fit nicely into Del’s plan, and considering the way things were working around the Flynn place, it had come sooner than expected. It was a good sign, he thought, and then he dismissed the idea. He was looking to connect the dots. From his perspective they were neither good nor bad. They were just dots. The connections were all that counted.

“I didn’t mean to bother you with this,” he told Frank as they approached the stretch of fence he’d patched earlier. He pointed, and Frank pulled over. “Retirement must be nice.”

“Brad says I’m retired?” Frank chuckled. “Don’t worry. You can answer truthfully. It won’t get back to him.”

“I guess what he said was, he’s trying to get you to take it easy.”

“In my old age?”

“Now, he didn’t say that. You’ve got a real nice place here, Frank. Probably been building it up acre by acre for...”

“Most of my life.” Frank pushed his door open, but he wasn’t in any hurry to get out. He was taking in the view. Grass and sky. “Belonged to my wife’s family, my first wife. I own half the land. Lila’s grandmother left her the other half, along with the home place.” He turned to Del, as though he was about to deliver news that deserved special treatment. “My first wife died.”

“When Lila was twelve.”

Frank raised his brow. “Brad told you?”

“Lila did. My mother died young, too.”

Frank gave a tight-lipped nod. Del read the message in his eyes. Tough break all around.

“Lila’s never forgiven me for getting married again. She should’ve outgrown that by now. A man doesn’t stop living just because his wife dies. Especially not if he has a young child. Your dad remarry?”

Del shook his head. “Never did.”

“Is that some kind of tradition?

“You mean for Indians?” Del shook his head. “My mother was white. My dad was Lakota. I’m sure he had his reasons for not getting married again, but being Lakota wasn’t one of them.”

“It’s hard, losing your wife sudden like that. Or your mother. Leaves a big hole right through your chest. The wind—” he gestured with a shivery hand “—whistles right through.”

Del showed Frank the tire tracks, which, interestingly enough, didn’t elicit much reaction. Del had to fish for it.

“Brad said neighbors have been losing cattle.”

“Could be rustlers, I guess. There’s been some rustling now and again lately, but it’s mostly been tribal cattle. I don’t lease any tribal land, so I stay out of their business, but I’ve heard rumors about the tribe being short quite a few cows.” Frank turned his attention to the fence, but he kept talking as he examined Del’s fix. “They say the ranch manager is a suspect. Old fella named Stan Chasing Elk. His daughter and mine were real close.”

“Who’s accusing him?”

“Mostly the tribal police, but I guess the tribal council is getting down on him. Anyway, that’s what I’ve heard. As long as it’s just the tribe’s cattle, it’s none of my business.”

“Could be it’s your business. You callin’ the law on this?”

“If we’re missing cows, you damn betcha. You did a nice job here, but we’ll string up new wire.” His tone shifted, as though he’d been asked to testify. “It ain’t Stan. We go way back. Good man, Stan.” He turned his attention to a passing cloud. “Stan the Man. Remember the baseball player?”

Del glanced at the cloud, half expecting to see a Stan or two up there, acknowledging Frank’s memory with a thumbs-up.

Frank snapped out of his reverie with a chuckle. “Course not. That was a long time ago.”

“Stan the Man Musial. One for the books, and I do read some. Musial said, ‘When the pitcher’s throwing a spitball, just—’”

“‘—hit it on the dry side,’” they quoted in unison, and then they both laughed as Frank clapped a hand on Del’s shoulder.

“I played baseball in high school. First base. Pretty good hitter.” Del read approval in Frank’s face, and he figured the old man had faced more spitballs over the years than he had. “Your sport, too?”

“Was. Never had time to play much, but...” He looked down at the tire tracks and shook his head. “Yeah, I think we might’ve lost some cows. We’ll see what Brad comes up with. I keep my books on paper. He’s got this computer thing going, and we don’t always match up.”

“I’m not much of a computer guy myself.”

“Glad I’m not the only one. Guess we need to get with the program, buddy.” Chuckling, he laid his hand on Del’s shoulder. “They say everybody’s replaceable these days. Even cowboys.”

“Yeah, that horse is out of the barn.”

“Come to think of it, they haven’t made the computer yet that can chase that horse down and run him back in.”

“Or string wire,” Del said. “So I guess I’m not completely replaceable.”

“Brad either chose well or lucked out this time.” Frank smiled. “I admire a man who knows the value of a good horse. Still the best way to herd cows.”

* * *

Del tried two hills before he found a piece of high ground where his phone quit cutting out. Truth be told, he was one hell of a space-age cowboy. While truth telling wasn’t part of his job description, he made an effort to keep mental tabs on it, and taking his smartphone in hand and tapping out a couple of texts allowed him to get in touch with reality even as he was keeping his head in the game. The message that came back was unsatisfying, but at least it was a contact.

Follow Benson. Get a line on Chasing Elk. Move up the line ASAP.

ASAP wasn’t Del’s preferred approach to a job. Space-age aside, a dyed-in-the-hide cowboy didn’t do ASAP. If the question was “Fast or good?” his answer was always “The best you’ve ever had.”