Saddle Dust

Chapter 7

In a dry valley hundreds of miles north of the Hartsford's ranch, Casey Long sits with her back against Steadfast's saddle and throws another small stick onto the fire. Her boots stand drying by the flickering flames and her socks hang steaming over a branch she has wedged in the cracked mud earth. Nearby, Steadfast picks at a few dry stems that jut up into the cool night air.
The area used to be a vibrant forest, but has since dried out leaving the husks of its former residents to stand as centuries to the desert. They are witness to the changing wind and hills and odd creatures that move and shuffle about the landscape.
A can of beans sitting on a rock in the fire pops and fizzes water out of a small vent hole Casey poked in the lid with her hunting knife.
"Well, it's about done I think."
Casey moves to squat by the fire and chop-sticks out the can of beans between two thick sticks. She sets the can on a cool rock outside of the fire ring and holds the can of beans down with her bandana in one hand while tearing open the vent hole further with the hunting knife. After the lid has been removed, she sits down again, propping her calloused feet up on the rock. She leans back against the saddle, greasy braid brushing against the ground. She sniffs and wipes her nose on the edge of the bandana and looks up at the stars. The steam rises from the can into the night air.
"What do you think, Steadfast? The stars seem brighter tonight. No clouds."
Steadfast looks over at her, pricking his ears up and then turns his attention back to a particularly stubborn plant husk he was chewing on.
"A clear sky means a cold night. No blanket of clouds to warm us up with."
Casey smiles at the old saying. Sundance used to say that to the gang whenever they were on a particularly tough stretch of trail. She looks on at the stars for a few more minutes before sitting up and patting the can of beans with her fingers quickly to test its temperature.
"Ding ding ding! Dinner's on folks!"
Casey begins to slurp her food straight from the can but stops when she catches Steadfast looking up at her again. She smiles and lowers the can, wiping her mouth on the bandanna.
"Sorry, I must've forgotten my manners. Been on the trail alone too long haven't I?"
Steadfast twitches his ears. Casey goes back to her dinner and eats half of the can leaving the rest for breakfast. She sits for a little while longer before reaching into the saddle bag at her elbow. She pulls out a flask of whiskey- which she drinks from, and a harmonica.
"How about some music?"
Steadfast, battling a clump of weeds, doesn't look up. Casey blows a few short puffs into the harmonica to knock the trail dust out of it. A few notes wheeze out as she does so. The harmonica runs up a scale, then down. Then the first few notes of Red River Valley sigh out into the night air. After the second verse, Casey looks up at Steadfast who has stopped eating and is looking at her with his ears pricked up again.
"Not your preference?"
He flicks his tail.
"Alright."
Casey plays through Drunkard's Hell (Bill's favorite) and starts in on Arizona Killer but stops at the third line when Steadfast snorts and paws a hoof. She looks up and he tosses his head and snorts again.
"Ok, I get it. Maybe I'm not going to join a music group anytime soon, but you've got to give me some credit for trying."
Casey trades the harmonica out for a brush and walks over to Steadfast who snorts and whinnies and shakes his big shaggy head. She begins to brush out the mud clots and trail dust which clump his coat paying special attention to the area where his saddle sat. Casey hums quietly to herself while she brushes stopping only to flick a cricket off of her big toe. A coyote yips to his friends somewhere across the landscape. Once Casey has finished, she wraps up Steadfast's bridle and tucks it under the saddle. Casey knows that Steadfast will stick around without being tied up in a pen for the night. She knows that even without his tack, he isn't going to wander very far. The only thing identifying him as being a domestic animal is an old, slash lazy S brand on his hindquarters that mark him as being the property of a certain ranch in Bolivia.
Casey flips out the horse blanket and folds herself into her bedroll. She lays her head on the saddle and lets the fire die out on its own. But before she falls asleep, she whispers what she has whispered almost every night since Bolivia: "Goodnight Sundance. Goodnight Butch. Goodnight Laura and Carver and Bill and Charlie. Goodnight Pa and Momma."
The coyotes and the wind soothe her to sleep. It's a chilly night.