by Rusty Davis
The white rope was a bright necklace against the black neck of the stallion as he shook himself and, for one moment, stood still. He looked out at the range, at the free wide open lands where the strong survived and the wild wind never stopped. He took one look at Carrick and Reb, then started to lope, as though not entirely sure of what to do with his new freedom. Then he caught a scent, or heard a sound, because the loping gait turned into a gallop. Hooves pounded the ground. When he came to the barrier of the muddy banks of the creek, he simply leaped the ribbon of water, sailing over it as though born to run and born to fly.
Carrick and Reb watched as the king of the wild Wyoming range returned to his empire. They sat their horses as the Wyoming wind sang its own song. They watched the free stallion until he was a distant black dot in the lengthening shadows. Dismounting, they walked to an oak that was scarred by storms, and sat beneath its gnarled limbs. They watched the shadows climb Red Butte until the sun’s rays barely touched the top layer of red-brown rocks, then left the formation in the shadows. They watched as hawks and clouds streaked across the red-orange sunset. They sat as the breeze stiffened, and even as the sun faded into purple smoke in the west beyond the distant hills and the first fireflies began dancing above the waving grasses.
They sat awhile longer, in a silent shared place that was deeper than any words could shape. They knew that the world would call soon enough, bleeding troubles and dumping its wreckage at their feet in the unholy chaos of reality. It could wait. For now, as the past stepped grudgingly aside for the future, it was enough to share the relief that they had survived, and the hope that they could endure.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rusty Davis is a freelance writer. His first novel, Wyoming Showdown, was published by Five Star Publishing.