Scanning the afternoon sky from his saddle, Tuck noticed an ominous shape. As the bowing sun cast fiery hues of crimson and tangerine over the vast plain, a single cloud seemed to resist the calm of the afternoon. Its base, dark and brooding, covered the blue silhouettes cut by the Rocky Mountains in the east. Its upper reaches sprawled out rising laterally to a flattened top.
Tuck's face winced as he registered the familiar anvil shape, and his body tensed in anticipation. Though he was well prepared after leading countless cattle drives across the Goodnight-Loving trail his breath quickened as he mentally prepared to lead the herd through the storm. He let out a sharp high pitched whistle, calling over his men and directing them to quicken the pace and head towards high-ground.
From his position of command in the back of the herd he watched as the 6 men flowed through the group of 1,200 cattle. Like a conductor he orchestrated the actions of the herd, commanding the strength of each man to produce a symphony of movement. As directed, the amorphous mass of cattle twisted like a gnarled branch pointing west towards a grove of Ponderosa Pines clustered on a small hill.
The cattle settled in amongst the trees and the last rays of sunlight gave way to the night. The sound of wind rustling through the pines, and raindrops being cut by waxy pine needles filled the air. Tuck relaxed in his saddle feeling pleased with his decision.
He has spent the last seven years driving cattle North from his home in San Angelo, Texas. It had been difficult to carve out a living in the livestock business. There was significant risk in long drives, and he had been promoted based on his ability to mitigate loss of product. He used anticipation and decisive action to overcome the unpredictable forces of rustlers, tribesmen, and nature to rise to the rank of trail boss. The key to his success was an abundance of sheer will. He felt this was a man's most important resource, and it allowed him to maintain control over the herd and crew.
His musing was cut short as a splinter of light cracked through the air. The bolt of energy crashed into an old growth pine, splitting the towering giant in half as the impacted section burst into flames. Tuck could feel waves of agitation echoing through the herd. The crash of thunder was replaced by the wailing of the animals and pounding of hooves. Simultaneously his horse jolted beneath him, and he was cast slightly off balance. The men all began speaking various nothings to the herd as they attempted to soothe the rising discomfort. Their calls fell on deaf ears and hoofbeats replaced the sound of Tucks pounding heart as the herd stampeded towards him. He expertly evaded the charge of longhorns as they bolted down the hill towards the muddy prairie below. He whistled towards his men, and they flanked the herd racing towards the front of the pack. If they could redirect a few of the lead cattle they could hopefully quell the stampede.
Tucks spurs bit into the flanks of his black horse as he raced through the wet dark night. He beckoned the horse on, commanding his way towards the front of the pack. Overwhelmed by the rising energy of the herd and the insistence of its rider the horse began to thrash. As it writhed under him Tuck was thrown to the ground and engulfed by the wet mud. As he lay on the floor a flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the sky. In that instant he could clearly see the powerful hindlegs of his horse and its bright white hooves perilously looming above him. As the light disappeared a jolting pain ripped through his body, setting every nerve ending ablaze as the crushing weight of the horse fell upon his leg. The pressure was immense, and he felt flattened and powerless as the air was stolen from his lungs. He tried to escape by wriggling through the mud like an earthworm as his horse continued to pound the ground in every direction. The horse shot away into the darkness of the night, in pursuit of the herd.
As he lie in the blackness, he began to regain his composure. He pulled his bootstraps attempting to pry his feet from the ground. As he tried to bear weight, he felt a re-emergence of shooting pain from his right foot and collapsed back the floor. As he waited in the darkness peering into the endless night sky, the stars seemed to grow. The sweltering pain and tension echoing through his body was only thing preventing him from being swallowed up by the earth. Helplessly he pondered his fate. Would he be left to die by his crew, who could finish the drive and split his share of the profits? Even if he survived, would he ever regain self-sufficiency or would he become an invalid, destined for the almshouse. He had put to rest many lame horses or cattle that could no longer maintain their place in the herd and feared a similar fate.
Over time the echoes of hooves softened, his crew regained control of the herd and helped Tuck back up the hill where they set up camp. In the dim light of the fire Tuck used some wood to create a makeshift splint for his mutilated ankle. After his nightly ration of beans and bacon he crawled towards his bedroll and settled in for the evening.
He was disturbed by the gentle sounds of snoring cyclically reverberating through the cool night air. This was the first time he had camped with a crew since becoming a trail boss. Separation re-reinforced the professional hierarchy, and it allowed him to avoid untidy camps and poorly structured campfires of the crew. He traditionally limited interactions to a quick dinner where he would enjoy the meals he had meticulously planned to be prepared by the designated cook. This allowed him to model radical self-reliance, a value any cowboy must possess if they are to survive on the trail.
The morning light broke as he hobbled towards the horse that his crew tied up near camp. He felt a combination of rage and disdain as he looked upon the black horse whose weakness had nearly cost him his life, and stuffed his broken foot into the stirrups. The four day journey to Cheyenne was painful, but Tuck was able to reach the livestock broker in Wyoming where he received his salary, purchased a new horse, and parted ways with the crew. The company veterinarian was able to help set and cast his ankle. After four months in the saddle, he was looking forward to the comforts of town.
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The creaky doors of the Buckhorn saloon parted, and Tuck was greeted by the scent of unfiltered cigarettes and whisky. He took long confident strides towards the bar as his boots echoed across the hardwood floor. As he drummed his fingers on the wooden bar top, he felt a combination of weariness and excitement. He always felt a bit skittish after coming back into town. But the payment of his $200 salary lent him a cool swagger. He motioned to Buck, the grizzly bearded man behind the bar who stood unmoving until Tuck placed a dollar on the bar top. The bartender spit a lip of tobacco into an old spittoon before reaching for a bottle of whisky and sliding a shot over to Tuck. The warm liquor burned on its way down his throat and combated the frustration of his trip. The comfort of whisky was exceeded only by the steak dinner. After months of choking down trail provisions, the warm smokey flavor of a ribeye seemed to massage his palate. He tipped the bartender 25c and headed to the backroom for a shave. The barber worked shaving cream into his course beard hair, shaved his face then trimmed his overgrown locks.
The rusty hinge on the door to his rented room squeaked open and he threw his rucksack on the bed. He looked into the mirror on the small wall and only recognized the piercing green eyes staring back at him. He examined his dirty blonde hair slicked back to the left. The long top was parted and complemented by tight skin shave on the sides of his head. The dusky lines cast by his pronounced cheekbones gave way to a full mustache that curled upwards on both ends.
Looking into the mirror he saw a man that had been well worn by the trail. A life spent under the sun had tanned his skin. Like a canyon wall his face was weathered and carved by the unyielding forces of time. The darkened bags under his eyes looked forward to sleeping in a proper bed. His hands were calloused and cracked, telling the story of a lifetime of labor, endurance, and determination. The rough skin had been created by miles of rope passing through his palm and thousands of hours gripping the rough leather of the saddle. He wore his callouses as a badge of honor. He was proud of the scars he earned riding and roping calves. Despite their weathered appearance he believed they maintained a certain sensitivity. They were steady, like the north star and when not engaged in hard labor, he used a touch as gentle as the breeze to calm a suborn calf and feel the subtle movements of his horse.
As he attempted to stuff his casted foot into his boot he began to curse incessantly. His normally calm demeanor was shattered as he swore at the boot, foot, and his horse. The whisky had not removed the taste of failure from his mouth. Briefly he felt in full force the ache in his foot as well as the damage to his ego. In that moment a feeling of vulnerability overtook the cowboy. Despite his experience and preparation, the unpredictable nature of life in the west had bested him. This was deeply uncomfortable compared to the rugged sense of self-assurance he typically exuded. Sweeping away this feeling he looked into the mirror and straightened his posture. He prepared to go back to the bar, knowing that with money in his billfold the night was his.
Tuck's hand gripped the rough oak banister as he peered down into the saloon from the second floor. His eyes were floodlights, scanning every inch of the barroom. In one corner three players sat around a worn red felt while a man with a in ragged derby hat dealt a round of stud. A variety of characters had filled the room, the condensation of their glasses painted a mosaic of crescents on the bar top as the night progressed. The hum of conversation and laughter of patrons was eclipsed by the soft jingling of ragtime emerging from the piano. On a small stage a young woman gently danced to the rhythm.
Through the flickering light of the smokey saloon he couldn't make out the exact features of her face, but the alluring movements of her silhouette possessed a grace he had only seen in nature. She wore an ivory white gown that hugged the form of her shoulders, the plunging neckline gave way to bellows of fabric that cascaded gently off her hips. A small strand of glowing blonde hair decorated the side of her face while the rest of her mane was held back by a blue silk ribbon. The streaks of her flowing hair reached to the small of her back. As she swept her hand through the air, tendrils of smoke danced between her fingers. Her dark black boots were crafted of the finest leather with turquoise needle work forming floral patterns across each shaft. Tuck was captivated by her ethereal presence. In that moment she transcended reality, becoming the living embodiment of femininity. She transported the audience to an alternate plane in which grace, sensitivity, and nurturance existed unobstructed by the harshness of western life. Suddenly, her misty blue eyes glanced towards Tuck, boring a whole through his skull and ripping him from his daydream.
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Lucy retreated backstage looking forward to the night's end. Her stained dress was a punch-card with tattered holes keeping record of the endless hours spent working the saloon. The applause of the crowd was still audible as she looked into her cracked mirror. The lines on her face appeared to darken each night, reflecting the scars that had been etched into her soul. Her once bright eyes held a glimmer of resignation. She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to wake from this awful dream.
Lucy was a woman of value, and this was all one awful mistake. Born in Laramie, she had once been a renown equestrian rider whose striking looks enchanted everyone that crossed her path. Her rare combination of talent and beauty earned the veneration of her town. Despite being lavished in the attention of every well-to-do bachelor in Wyoming she married a simple cobbler whose kind heart had earned her favor. After her husband's death she became invisible. Unknowingly, the records of her triumphs had dissipated with time, now she was seen only as another fallen woman. Bucks was once a place of opportunity, a temporary solution for a poor widow. With youthful optimism she had originally planned to regain control of her destiny.
At first, she clung to her former self. Awaiting the day she had enough money to leave town and imagining the saloon's applause was instead filling the arena as her horse cleared the final jump. Each night she dreamed of the smell of yellow bales of hay and the warm feeling of a horse's breath on her cheek. She did her best to get by and waited, sure someone was coming to save her. But as the months passed she crumbled under the weight of the world's oldest profession. Like a wild stallion broken in and saddled, she was forced to give in.
