Ranch Water

Rico and me had just finished our ride, across the Waynoka Dunes, the ones Oklahomans call Little Sahara. A storm had blown down part of boss man’s fence and he’d lost about twenty head of cattle. We rustled them back, all present and accounted for. The other ranch hands chose to mend the fence while Rico had volunteered us for the rustle. We always fancied ourselves more cowboy than most. Rico was my mentor. I was his young apprentice. I did my best to keep up with him on our long rides, matching him task for task until all the work was done. Rico admired my mettle, and I could tell he pushed me to be something better out there on the Oklahoma plains.

We sat at the end of the day smoking cheroots and drinking ranch water. Rico tilted his chair on its back legs and propped his boots on the porch railing. I sat side-saddle on my bay mare. I enjoyed putting my horse away in solitude. I found the other ranch hands too rowdy for my sweet lady and I was sure she appreciated the silence, too. She was a smooth chestnut brown with spots of white on her strong haunches. It was like God wanted to polka-dot her, then changed his mind. She wasn’t my horse. I was her cowboy.

I never asked Rico where the ranch water came from. He just seemed to produce the tequila and limes out of nowhere and next I knew we were sipping. I thought to ask, but you look a gift horse in the mouth enough times, they quit giving. Besides, the cheroots were mine, so I figured I contributed. We were facing due west, the big orange sun already dipping down behind the ridge we’d rode over to get back to the house. The other boys were at mess already. Rice and beans and hardtack, all washed down with chicory coffee. I preferred Rico’s ranch water any day. I never liked to mess straight-away after a hard ride. Being my mentor, he usually sat back with me and enjoyed the smoke and drink, letting the alcohol hug kick in before we sat down to mess. Rico always said I never got hungry like a man. A real man, he said, always wants to eat.

Rico watched me stare off into the sunset. He could always tell when I was all inside myself. “Hard ride, Billy?”

“I guess, Rico.” I told him this without taking my eyes off the sky. I could feel him looking at me, as if he were trying to get inside my head and see what I was thinking.

“Don’t worry, Billy,” he said. “We’ll all be rewarded one day. Might be bleeding at the knuckles now, but it’ll all be worth it. Wait and see.” Rico had a way of making you feel like you’d just been to Sunday Mass at the end of a hard ride.

I took a long swig from my ranch water. The sweet tequila and tart lime sizzled on my tongue. “It’s not that, Rico.” I finally looked at him. His head rested on the back of his chair. He had his baseball cap pulled up to show a dirty line of sweat across his brow. The cheroot dangled from his lips. The cherry lit up every now and then when he took a deep pull. “I don’t know if this is all there is to life,” I said. “But...I kinda hope it is.” 

Rico laughed. “Billy, you been breathing in too much Oklahoma dust.”

I laughed along with him. “Maybe so, Rico. I just think, well...”

Rico snorted and spat. The wad of it slapped down two bull lengths in front of me and I wondered at the absurdity of the physics. “C’mon, Billy. Only God and the Devil’s got patience.”

I suddenly wished I was standing on the ground, so I could kick the dirt around a little bit. “Well...everyone’s got their idea of heaven – sunny and warm; reuniting with loved ones; happy twenty-four-seven. What if that ain’t it at all?”

Rico let his chair come down to rest on all four legs. He sat up and looked at me like he was seeing something only he knew was there. “Explain yourself, Billy,” he said, earnestly wanting to know what I meant.

I thought real hard. I wanted to get my words out just right. “I like what we do. I like the sun and the dust. I like the horses and the steer, even the ornery ones that run away like those we had to rustle back today. I like to put in a good day’s work for a good day’s pay. I like to sweat, and I don’t mind going without eating every now and again while there’s work left to do. I like to sit out here on this porch smoking these cheroots and drinking this here ranch water. I guess what I’m saying is...this is heaven for me, Rico. Can’t imagine it could be that much better anywhere else. Down here or up there.”

Without further prompting, Rico stood and walked to the end of the porch. There was a shocked sort of look on his face, mixed in with a smile. “Damn it, Billy. If that ain’t the most profound shit I’ve ever heard. Here’s to you, boy.” With that, Rico poured out a good bit of his ranch water, like a preacher baptizing the ground.

I smiled, not really knowing what else to do. I pointed to the spilled drink in the dirt. “Ain’t that for showing reverence to the dead?” I asked, not remembering where I’d seen or heard it.

Rico’s face changed again. This time he looked deadly serious. “Billy...that’s exactly what I’m doing. You ain’t a boy no more.”

I thought to ask him what he meant, then decided against it. I was down to the last pull on my cheroot and the ranch water was starting to give me a bear hug. The big orange sun was completely hidden behind the ridge and the stars were starting to show themselves. 

“Go put that horse up and come to mess,” Rico said, already walking to the dinner hall. “Tonight, we eat like men.”

I walked my bay mare slowly towards the stable, suddenly starving.

By Ron Cassano