Chapter 8

As we climbed out of the Blazer a cowboy walked toward us, detouring around the windmill. "Can I he'p y'all?" He had a clear southern accent – it sounded like Oklahoma to me, though I'm not good at discriminating between the various varieties of southern. I'd lived in Oklahoma, though, and I guessed that's where he was from.

"You must be new here," I said with a smile. "I'm Darvin Carpenter, and this is my wife Cecelia and our daughter Darlia. We always come out here for a month in August, and stop in and say hi, and ride a bit now and again."

"I'm Floyd Bible," he said, holding out his hand as he got closer. He was wearing jeans and boots and a faded blue work shirt, and a gray cowboy hat. There were spurs on his heels, of course, and his belt buckle looked like he'd won it in a rodeo somewhere. It must not have been an important win or a big rodeo, or else he'd never have worn it. I shook his hand, and then so did Cecelia and Darlia. "I'm pleased to meet you," he said. "Y'all thirsty?"

It wasn't an odd question in the desert. "We never turn down a drink," I said, smiling again.

"Y'all come on, then," he said, and led the way toward the trailer house that stood behind a couple of catclaws – big ones, more trees than bushes. There was a water cooler – the plastic colored kind that you see on utility trucks – sitting on the steps, and he let water into a tin cup that looked like it had once been military, for it had the shape of a canteen's bottom. He handed it first to Darlia – and I gave him an internal nod of approval, for that was how I'd have done it. When Darlia was done she handed the cup back to Floyd, who again filled it and gave it to Cecelia. She handed it to me when she was done, for she hadn't drank much, and I finished it off.

"Thanks much," I said. "The only place I'll drink the water is out here, and in Rush Springs."

"Y'all know Rush Springs? I got family there, though I'm from Cox City."

"I've been in Rush a few times, mostly for the Watermelon Festival. And I've driven through Cox City a time or two. I used to live in Red Hawk."

"I think I was in Red Hawk oncet," he said. I noticed that Cecelia hadn't said a word about his English, which accent aside was somewhat like mine – she'll nail me all the time, but politely let others' misuse of her beloved mother tongue slide. "Little place, so small if you sneeze you'll miss it, main road a couple miles south, right?"

"That's it, all right. I was a cop there back in 86, 87, 88. But before then I did some time in the middle of horse right here on the OX."

"You was a hand here?"

"Yeah, a long time ago, probably before you was born."

"I guess – I ain't but 22."

"Y'all kids are gettin' younger all the time," I said with a laugh. "I left outta California 21 years ago."

"And here I thought I was gettin' grown," Floyd said, laughing himself. "Let me show you what we got in the corral ... or were you just letting us know you're around?"

"I wanna ride a horse!" Darlia squealed. "I don't care about my Daddy – I wanna ride a horse!"

"What she said," I told Floyd, and we followed him toward the corral.

It's been a long time since I was a cowhand, and I'd never been a expert judge of horses. These weren't big animals, but little cow ponies, able to get through the sometimes thick stands of cactus and greasewood that constitute the OX Ranch's range. A cowboy's horse isn't a showoff animal, nor yet one that needs to be exceptionally powerful. What it needs is to be able to work with a man on its back for long periods, and to be quick and agile when quick and agile are necessary. For riding we wouldn't need outstanding cowponies, though, just horses. As far as I could tell, that's what was in the corral.

Darlia climbed up on the gate, her arms hanging over the top. It was a metal gate, like you'll see on farms and ranches all over the country, though the fence was post-and-board. "I like the roan!" she said.

Floyd looked at her with approval. "You got good eyes, Miss Darlia," he said.

Cecelia grinned. "I am afraid that I shan't garner such pleasure from you, Mr. Bible," she said, "for as a rider I make a very good pedestrian." It was an unaccustomed use of casual speech, but I could tell she was having a good time, which will sometimes loosen up her English. "I like the gray with the white stocking on his left front foot."

"Not bad – but your daughter's better at it than you are."

"Nor am I surprised. The only interactions I've had with horses have been on our annual visits here, whereas Darlia has spent a little time on her uncle's farm in Washington and is, as far as my limited knowledge can inform me, a fairly accomplished rider."

Floyd grinned at me. "Now you, cowboy, better make a good choice. You've got experience."

I climbed up on the fence and sat on the top of it, as though I were a spectator at a small town rodeo. "I can ride 'em, and I can rope and brand and put on ear tags, and I can turn bulls into steers, and I've only got th'owed a few times, but I never could tell a great horse from a piece o' junk." I was, I realized, talking more like Floyd – between having lived in Oklahoma and having been a cowboy I was responding to him instinctively. I nodded toward the horse that I thought might be best for me. "But that there appaloosa looks like it just might be tame enough for me."

Floyd looked at me for a moment. "You ain't so bad as you say, Mr. Carpenter. I'd ride that one myself. It wouldn't be my first choice, but not my last either." He took a rope down from where it was hanging on one of the fence posts. "I'll catch him up for you, and then you can show me your stuff."