Category: All Stories

Dutch Malick was lonely; for a deck of cards, a friendly voice cracking with warm humor or saddle gibes, for something that would tell him he was not the last person about in the world. For most all his life he was a line rider, low man on the totem pole, singular but almost invisible, a dot on the prairie or up a strange draw or wadie, a ghost of a person… him and his horse. His hands, in addition, were scarred from the very first day of line work years past, brutal scars from a brutal wire caught in the horns of a steer prodded wild by some unknown force. He’d never be able to draw a weapon with speed, even if his life depended on that quick draw. He tittered when he thought he was not in such good hands. Even a small laugh was worth the effort, self-inflicting humor went a hell of a long way when you were alone on the line, in a box canyon, out alone on prairie dog territory, “long as I don’t laugh at myself too seriously, poke too much fun.”