12/2/11

I wish...
By Deryn Pittar


My legs are aching to match my heart. My buttocks are bruised along with the bits between. The spiked rowels on my boots track my footsteps to the edge of the bank. I stretch my back and take in the view. It’s mighty pretty.

The sun’s setting itself down for the night, hiding behind the Raft River Mountain Range. Its orange afterglow covers the horizon, smudging the underbelly of the clouds. A purple haze coats the distant hills. I soak up the beauty. It eases my pain. I long to capture the scene in oils, as a record of our day,…. but I don’t paint in company. It’s not considered a manly thing to do. Daddy only puts up with me “fiddling with those dang brushes” because my late mamma was an artist. The sunset cheers me, lifting a little the despair that rides my back, haunts my sleep and rides with me.

Tomorrow will be great day to round up the remaining strays. I look behind me and see the campfire’s light beginning to reflect on the faces of my companions, as darkness creeps upon us. We’re spending the night on a small rise. It lends a view over the herd we’ve rounded up in the last few days. Most of them are Daddy’s cattle, but mixed in were a few unbranded ones. We fixed that up today when we stopped, late afternoon. I always carry a branding iron, strapped to the pommel of my saddle. You never know when luck will send you an unbranded cow or two.

I look down at the mob and check that several of the cowhands are standing watch as outriders on the edge of the herd, preventing any cow making a dash for freedom. Once darkness settles the herd will rest for the night. If we wake before sun up we can get them moving, before the heat of the day turns the plain into a cauldron of dust, flies and noise. The horses are snickering to each other, stamping their hooves as they try to decide whether to sleep standing, or lying down. They’re as dragged out as we are. It’s been a long week away.

We’ll be home by dark tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to it. Daddy’ll be mighty pleased with the roundup and he’ll be straight into me about marrying and providing him with some young ‘uns. I bet he’s got another hopeful lined up, “just passing by”. I feel like a prize bull, and I’m sure the simpering young things feel like prize cows too. Perhaps at thirty I’m getting too fussy.

The best one on offer is Sally-Anne Watson. Now she’s someone to ride the river with. Her Daddy owns a ranch just over the border in Colorado. Daddy scoffs ‘cause Bill Watson runs sheep. Personally, I find working with sheep very pleasant. For one thing they don’t make me sneeze or itch. Horses are fine intelligent animals. It’s just that every time I get near them my eyes run and I can’t stop snuffling. I spend most of my life hidden behind a handkerchief. Luckily, a large colourful handkerchief, tied over your mouth and nose, is a compulsory part of being a cowboy. It keeps out the dust and, in my case, covers my itchy nose.

The cook calls, and I join the gang for supper. I might be the boss’s son, but I work as hard as they do. I ride with them and I eat with them. I enjoy these cattle roundups. I get to spend all my time in men’s company, - and some of them are mighty attractive.

I’ve been with a few women, mostly prostitutes, especially in my wild young days when I got roostered regular. It’s what you do when you’re growing up. Now that I’m a bit wiser I know that, other than the physical relief it brings, I don’t much enjoy it. I keep my eyes closed mostly. That seems to help. I have to make an effort, ‘less folk get suspicious.

Out here on the range, I find my eyes lingering on the butts of the younger cowpokes. I enjoy their fresh young faces and their bronzed rippling muscles as they lasso the young calves and wrestle them down for branding. Watching them makes me want to rush over and hug them, ruffle their hair. Not that I ever have. No girl has ever moved me in that way.

How am I going to tell my Daddy that? My Granddaddy claimed this land, arriving along with the early Mormon settlers. He drove off the Indians, and viciously protected his boundaries, ‘til his claim was accepted into the records. As a third generation rancher I’m supposed to carry on the tradition. I try not to dwell on it. I’ll have to marry Sally Anne and just get on with life. She’s as fine as cream gravy, and it’ll shut Daddy up.

All I really want to do is to ride off into the sunset with ‘Sancho Souix’ over there. He is handsome, tanned, with beautiful dark smouldering eyes. I feel strongly attracted to him ‘cept I don’t know what to do next. He’s Mexican with a dash of Indian in his breeding; it’s written in his features. I think he’s attracted to me - but it worries me that I may loose my manhood, or my life, if I’ve misjudged him. They are very handy with their knives these Indian Cowboys.

Damn it, I guess I’d better tell Daddy I’ll marry Sally Anne. I feel sorry for her, and me. She will be expecting so much from me. I’ll just hobble my lip, and do what a man’s got to do. It won’t be much fun, for either of us.

There must be a God to have created this wonderful sunset. I just wish he’d been concentrating more when he made me.


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I write poetry, flash fiction and am currently working on a romantic paranormal novella. I like to experiment with a wide range of topics and have recently been challenged by writing romantic pieces.. It's a lot hard to write romance than it is to read it.