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Owen
Rap, rap, rap!
Jumping up from underneath my sheets, the knock on the door and its intensity, tells me more than I want to hear at six fifteen in the morning. Flipping the covers over onto the other side of the bed, I begrudgingly place my feet on the cold floor.
Rap, rap, rap!
“Alright! Okay!” I shout from the bedroom as I step into some jeans and a t-shirt. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Just hold your damned horses, pal!
As I make my way to the front door, I thought there had better be a good reason for waking me up. I open the door and find a ranch hand nervously playing with the hat in his hands.
“Good morning, sir,” he stumbles out the words. “I’m very sorry to wake you, but I need you out in the field.”
I look at the Kansas sky as the sun encroaches on the horizon, waking from its slumber as well. “I’ll be there in a minute. Is Trent coming up there, too?”
“Yes, Billy went to get him,” he says.
“I’ll meet you by the barn and please have mine and Trent’s horses ready,” I say as I close the door behind me, heading to the kitchen to make some coffee. If this is what I think it is, then it’ll be the fourth time in six weeks that something foul has happened.
While I wait for the coffee, I begin to think about the first time we had seen the ‘field death.’ I remember me and Trent waiving it off as some kind of coincidence. The second time, we didn’t see it that way and thought more seriously regarding the ruin of the crops, thus beginning the talk of hiring an investigator. The third time, we’re hiring an investigator who will be here this afternoon. So, this investigator will have a first hand look at the damage.
I finish getting myself together and walk out of my homestead with coffee in hand, to find Trent walking the path to the barn. “You ready for this shit?” I ask him. “Again?”
He smiles brightly and says to me as he pats me on the back, “Not really, but maybe the great spirit Manitou is unhappy with my people for not standing their ground.” He shrugs his shoulders and quickens his pace. “At least a super-sleuth will be here today.”
I watch as the bubbly fella in front of me almost skips along the path. How does he do it? I take a sip from my coffee. I mean, who is happy to be awakened in the early morning to see bad news? Always taking life one step at a time, embracing each moment to find the hilarity amongst the harsh.
Trent.
That’s just the way he is. I look at him again and smile, knowing that he has been my friend for years, even through the shit we went through back at Bull’s Eye. He always found a way to bring a smile to someone’s face, whether it was giving his piece of bread to another or the pants he had. Didn’t matter to him.
After Wayland’s conviction, Truman brought those of us from Bull’s Eye all aboard, helping us find our way. He’s the one responsible for our freedom and direction. Talking to him of our desire to own a ranch, Truman’s searches had promising results. But, he had more information for Trent. Finding out that Trent’s ancestors originally had the land of a particular ranch, he began to wheel and deal for us. Bless the man that he is. Was.
After Truman’s passing, Trent and I began the task of moving onto our ranch that’s historically from his tribe, the Comanche. Eventually, we’ll make a way for tourists to learn more about the Indian way of life.
With the help of caffeine, I climb up on the beast. We trot to the new case of field death to survey the damage to the crops. Trent sighs and gives orders to the men as I turn and head back. This is getting ridiculous now. I hear Trent pacing quickly behind.
Trying to maintain control, I lose the battle, getting more pissed off by the second. Mom always told me that being pissed off was better than being pissed on. Chuckling, I place the horse in its stall, and follow Trent into the main homestead, or Trent’s house and our offices.
Inside Trent throws his hat on top of his desk. I take a seat opposite him and be my usual nervous self. “How do you want to handle this?” I ask in an attempt to calm him down.
He looks at me with both hands on his hips and then plops in his chair, turning to face me. Blowing a large sigh, he tells me, “I know we’ve got that investigator coming later today, but I’m not certain that this was necessary.” He sits up quickly and half-heartedly smiles. “It’s something like Brett Michaels says, ‘Every row has its corn,’” he laughs a little. “Oh, c’mon, laugh a little.”
“Look, we’ve been over this the last time a crop was destroyed,” I look at my boot and pick some hay from the grooves. “Doing nothing is gonna lead to more destruction. Let’s just see what they think.”
Trent sets a mock scowl on his face and quips, “Like the chicken, I’m in a ‘fowl’ mood over this stuff.”
“Being serious about the care of the crops, the livestock, and the buildings is part of what we do, Trent. If we don’t do something, I fear that the men will start to leave,” I explain the deeper reasoning for the involvement of the fact finder. “We need some answers,” I look him in the eye, “And fast.”
I don’t think that Trent is taking this issue seriously enough and it makes me nervous, especially when a ranch hand comes in every two seconds, asking random questions and we, I mean I, have to hide my concerns.
“Hey, you,” he says, pulling me back to the conversation. “Everything’s gonna be okay.” He sits back and places his boots on his desk. I crinkle my nose as the stench of horse shit reaches my nose. “Besides, we’ll just make up a story of why the gumshoe is here.”
“Like what?”
“We can just say that they’re doing a story about modern-day ranches and they’ll be shadowing us for a few days.” He smiles and nods his head with that goofy look he gets when he’s right about something.
I nod my head in agreement, but can’t shake the foreboding cloud hanging over me.
