Bad Day Under the Aspens

It was her tone of voice. Over the radio, a brief call: "Ciara, this is Jessalin. We're up at Safari Cut. I need you here."

I'd been forking partially moldy hay to a bunch of stray cows we were holding in the arena for some neighbors, but I jumped in the Dodge and spun the tires to get back to the barn. Cisco was still saddled, and I was wearing spurs. We ran that half mile without hardly breathing.

Jess told it like this: "I don't know what spooked them. Yosemite jumped and I grabbed the bit, but it only kept me in the saddle a moment longer. I thought I was probably the only one who had come off, but when I gathered my wits and looked back, I could see a pair of legs here, a pair of legs there. I radioed immediately; I didn't think it would help to wait until I had done a full check. Thanks for getting here so quickly."

The owner of the ranch sits grimly, holding her arm, a black eye developing. Her friend and guest lies in the fetal position, complaining meekly. A trained First Responder arrived forty seconds after I do. Things are neatly packaged, efficiently handled, wrapped up within and hour, and we ride and pony six horses back to the barn.

First real accident of the year, with a little more than a week left to the season. Doesn't that just figure. My poor wrangler has stiffened up and is limping. I send her home with an ice pack.

I finally get back to the cows at the tail end of this long day. Their water trough is empty by now, and I turn the hose on and they crowd around, nine of the thirteen pushing around the fifty-gallon tank. They raise their heads and with their flat noses shiny and wet, ask with big dark eyes, "What could possibly have been more important than us?"