Memoirs of a Worker

Spooked Cowboy

I’ll dedicate this to all those who may be a bit nervous with the dark, especially my wife! I hope you enjoy.

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It was six in the morning, birds were chirping, and the bright morning sun was shining through my cabin windows. I rolled over and looked at the sparsely furnished room and crawled out of bed. I struck a small fire in the old wood kitchen range and prepared food for breakfast. The cabin had no electricity, or plumbing of any kind. I stretched and looked out the window and noticed that my horse, Cheyenne, was still in the coral. That was good because he was a jumper and a wanderer. Many times I had to hike the two miles to the other cabin to snag him.

The spring where I obtained my drinking and cooking water was refreshingly cold. I filled my canteen and then stuck my face in the small pool of water. I cupped my hands with water and then ran my hands through my hair, in an attempt to calm it down before I donned my cowboy hat. There was no one to impress but my horse.

It didn’t take me long to realize the life of a cowboy is a lonesome existence. The quiet can get monotonous and I found myself daydreaming at times. My wife and kids were miles away in our home, and here I was on the back of a horse searching for stray cows in the mountains, far away from any civilization. This particular summer I spent my time riding a horse all day, every day, waiting for construction bids to come through.

Late in the afternoon as I rode along a ridge on the border of the far end of the ranch, I noticed a black cow, partially concealed in a thick clump of aspen trees that was too close to the property boundary. I whistled and shouted but the cow didn’t budge. I didn’t really want to go after her because there was a lot of downfall and I wasn’t keen on the idea of Cheyenne soaring over them, a trick he had done all too often.

I got off the horse and picked up a few rocks and hurled them at the cow. The cow milled about but stayed put. “Okay Cheyenne, let’s go get her,” I said as I climbed back in the saddle. I kicked my heels and Cheyenne shot into action, charging straight towards the cow, as I was shouting and whooping. We leaped over a few trees but thankfully it was relatively flat ground. Then the cow retreated farther into the patch of trees and disappeared.

As we plowed into the thicket I caught a glimpse of the cow and Cheyenne raced forward. The cow turned and Cheyenne slammed on the brakes. There, in front of us, was a huge, dark, bull moose who turned and snorted at us. He shook his enormous antlers and pawed the ground. Moose happen to be some of the most unpredictable, temperamental animals in existence and their dangerous attitudes are legendary. Cheyenne decided it was best to hightail it out of there and I was in total agreement.

When we were at a safe distance, we rode at a more leisurely pace, and then I noticed the setting of the sun. I was miles away from the cabin.  I needed to head down the mountain to reach my destination before it got dark.

I’m not saying I’m afraid of the dark . . . cautious or leery would be better words. When we had descended to the base of the mountain, Cheyenne and I noticed a deathly silence! Cheyenne’s ears started twitching back and forth trying to catch a sound. His head turned and then he whinnied softly. “What is it ole boy?” I quietly asked as I patted his neck.

Meanwhile, the shadows from the trees and shrubs were slithering across the ground, growing long and grotesque at an alarming rate. They seemed to be reaching for us to snag us down to the underworld, and I tensed.

The only sound I heard was my heart beating, and I was straining to pick out anything unusual. I flipped the reins and we moved forward, and then I heard it! Something high up on the mountain moved every time we moved. Whenever we stopped, it stopped. We were being stalked!