PrintI rip a square of paper towel off the roll beside the sink—dishes overflow onto the counter—and fold it in half to form a pincer between my thumb and forefinger. The satiated tick is still as I pick it up from where it fell off the dog. Its body is smooth and spherical as I roll it between my fingers, and smaller than a pea. I palpate it a couple times. Its texture reminds me of a paintball, or a fresh egg after someone has peeled away the shell, leaving only the thin membrane that seals the yolk and white inside.
“Are you going to squish it?” Rhiannon asks while petting the dog.
“I guess,” I say and look at her as I continue to roll the ball around between my fingers.
Rhiannon is young and enthusiastic: she won't take no crap from no one. Although, in this case she’s content to let the job go to a man. She said man with all the scorn an English teenager can muster. “It's not a job for a lady,” she continued.
“So what is she doing in Texas?” I wonder. Living in the back country and rising with the sun is tough and lonely work. Rhiannon is following the horizon. She’s gone West, and her calloused hands and sun-bleached hair no longer fit the model of a girl from the northern island of Shetland.
“Go on then!” she insists.
And so I squeeze it. It bursts easily, and when I look inside, I see the remains of my arachnicide: a splotch of dark, dark crimson, about the size of a quarter.
“Time to start the day,” I say as I throw the paper in the garbage and clomp down the steps of the trailer, Pop-Tart in hand. The dogs—Cougar, Cutter, Beau, Turtle and Dottie—follow us—Bruce Logan, Rhiannon and I—as we saddle the horses and ride out.
Riding The Range
The western saddle doesn't take much getting used to, and we’re quickly trotting along the east fence-line, heading out of the close 600 and into the southern 3000 acres to check on the cattle and look for buffalo. At least, I'm looking for buffalo. And deer, and coyotes, and wild hogs. And turtles. All of which can be found on the range somewhere, amongst the maze of oaks and mesquite, and often near the water holes.
At the bluffs we let the horses pick their way up, shale breaking and rolling underfoot. Bruce leads, but he’s ready with advice if I need it.
“Tik, with that 2-year-old you're on, let him feel his way, but be ready to support him if he needs it.”
Bruce is also on a young horse and is riding ahead of me, somehow finding a path through the dry skeletal scrub, which grab the stirrups and twist around my legs. He doesn't look back to see if I'm still there, but he continues explaining: “Keep the horse between your legs and hand. If you want to go right use your left leg and open with your right. The horse needs somewhere to go, and when you take your leg off he should go towards it. If he doesn't, then use the reins.”
I remember the first time I met Bruce—last week—while he was competing in Canada. I caught up with him between rounds and asked him if I should bring my English riding pants, boots and helmet.
Bruce eyed me up and down, taking in my North Face vest and sneakers, and said, “I don't think you'll need them. We run a pretty simple operation. Jeans and boots are all you'll need, but whatever you're most comfortable in.”
