Roping himself was possibly the most humiliating moment in Alan's life. The calf dodged left past him, his horse wheeled after, and right there everything went to pot. Alan's aborted loop swung wide around his head, stiffly clipped his startled horse's ears, and slapped his own face with stinging force. Then it flopped to rest around his arm and shoulder, coiling like a nylon snake. Man and horse stopped, tangled rope seemingly everywhere.

"The calf's neck, Al," grinned Chris as he jogged past on his horse.

Alan's reins jerked in his hand, as his horse jammed its head into the bit with impatience. Stewing in mortification, Alan was pretty sure everyone had seen. There were the crew and Rich, his boss, and the neighbor, Old Man Lorenzo. They all had to be laughing up their sleeves.

Chris cast his rope with a vicious zip, hand snatching his slack, turning in a blur about the saddle horn. A big calf lunged and bawled in stiff-legged protest at the end of his rope. He spurred his horse up, turned it for Luke to sweep in behind. A quick loop buzzed and Luke caught both heels. Another calf headed for the branding fire's bitter smoke.

Sitting his horse beside the fence, Alan coiled the long, stiff curls of his rope and sighed. They made it look so easy. Luke worked for Lorenzo, and both men could probably rope a ground squirrel out of its hole. And Jon, down there on the ground castrating bull calves. Jon never swung his rope more than twice, always looked like he was half-asleep. But he seldom missed his loop, certainly never caught himself in it. Lord, here he came now.

Pocket knife in bloody hand, Jon stopped at Alan's knee, gave him a little smile. "Elbow up a little more. And keep your swing level, follow through. Okay?"

With effort Alan returned the smile, nodded. Kindness seemed to burn his shame deeper. Only Rich and Lorenzo had more than four years over Alan's nineteen, but he knew when to shut up and listen.

Old Man Lorenzo never once turned his head, nor even acknowledged Alan's presence. Out here beyond the cattle guards, the screw-ups never lasted long enough for their names to be worth knowing.

Touching his horse with his spurs, Alan walked back towards the shifting, jostling bunch of calves at the other end of the big, square corral. Hooves thumped up beside him and it was Chris, shaking out a new loop.

"Alan, like this." A wide loop swept up and around Chris' head with a brisk whir, flat and swift in its orbit, then dropped limply beside his knee. "Let's get another."

Alan nodded again as Chris went past. Advice was free, when everything one did came easily as breathing air. To Alan, roping came as gracefully as ballet in logging boots.

In a moment, Chris had another big calf blatting and leaping on the rope in his wake. "Alan, get in there! Two heels!"

Alan's horse surged forward beneath him, positioning him perfectly. Elbow up, three fast swings - and his rope struck the calf's ribs, earned a kick, and fell flat. Luke slipped past and made one quick dab, caught one heel. Luke could afford Jon's good-natured jibes about missing the other foot. Face hot and teeth clenched, Alan stopped his horse. He felt his frustration echoed in its bunched muscles, its yank on the bit. "Stand still!" The horse knew Alan's job better than he did.

Resolution burning through him like straight whiskey, he built another loop. He touched spurs to his horse's ribs and moved towards the calves. Easy, now, don't get 'em all stirred up. He kept his eyes keen for unnotched ears, unmarked hips. A small, brockle-faced heifer calf was now on the outside; just walk up behind her, make the catch. She gave a little hop, and Alan swung and threw with perfect form. The rope struck the calf's leg, launching her into a leap and kick to freedom, where she jammed herself back amongst the others. Okay, that was an honest miss. He could quit now with some dignity.

Alan felt relief as he let his horse walk itself back towards the fence and gate, coiled his rope as he went. Idiot, he berated himself. The way you rope, you couldn't catch a cold, let alone a calf. At least he could work the ground without making a fool of himself.

Luke dismounted as well, and Jon and Lorenzo brought their horses into the pen, mounted up. Alan thought Lorenzo looked like one of the old Spanish dons, sitting straight in the saddle, his eyes stern as a hawk's between steel-grey moustache and flat-brimmed black hat. They said the only time Lorenzo had ever worn walking shoes was while in the Marines in Korea. He trained and rode spade bit horses, possibly the last man in this part of the country who knew how, and he knew every brand in northern Nevada. Alan could not imagine Lorenzo as ever being a green, fumbling kid.

The young men let Lorenzo make the first catch, Chris swiftly following his lead with a second small calf neatly snared by two heels. With a sigh, Alan stepped out to pin the calf down for branding. Maybe tomorrow he'd do better.

***

A meadowlark's liquid trill rang in the frosty dawn, as they gathered cattle from the pasture along the river. Shoulders hunched tightly against the cold that seemed to breathe off the damp meadows, and hooves sucked sharply in frigid black mud. Yet by the time they had cows and calves parted into separate pens, the chill, damp spice of morning was fading swiftly in the sun's brassy glare.

Alan envied Jon and Luke as they sat their horses in the branding fire's first belch of pungent smoke, readying their ropes. They cut such confident figures, sitting up there tall against blue sky and sagebrush hills, young faces serious in the shadows of their flat-brimmed hats. But at the same time, he was in no hurry to court humiliation, again.

Nearby, Lorenzo spoke to Rich and both laughed. Lorenzo would handle the branding iron, while Rich cut earmarks. Alans own job would be castrating, slippery, brutish work, but he didn't think about it. Moments later, the first calf came skidding on a ropes end, and soon the reek of burned hair scorched Alans nostrils, clung to his clothes, but the steady pace of the ropers kept him too busy to pay heed.

A rider came in, taut rope behind and a rider following; they had a big one head-'n-heeled. Alan grabbed the struggling calf by the tail in mid-jump, heaved from the hips and brought him, thump, to the ground. Neck rope was removed, a rope on a stake fastened to the calfs crossed front feet, so only the heeler needs stay to hold the calf. Calf gave a harsh, startled squall as the hot iron hissed against its hide. Quick slash of the knife, left ear given a swallow-fork, castration to follow if it was a bull calf. Then the ropes came off and the calf leaped up and away, trotting back to its mates with indignant flaps of its tail. And so the morning passed.

From under the bottom fence rail, two little blue dogs stared tensely with bright, eager eyes. Alan tossed them the mountain oysters, and dropped velvety scrotums in a bucket for Rich to count later. The forenoon shadows slowly crept into hiding under fences and loading chute. Now Alan wanted desperately to get back up roping, swallowed hard on the shameful suspicion that Rich would not see fit to let him. He felt his belly go thud when Rich did give him the nod.

"Alan, get your horse."

Luke walked to the fire, stuffing a fingerless leather glove through the belt of his chaps. He nodded to Alan. Lorenzo and Jon were already horseback.

Nervousness was not in Alan as he re-entered the corral, sidestepped his horse to shut the gate. However, he was prodded by the sharp-edged memory of yesterday's fumbling, with only three calves to his credit. He quickly shoved it from mind. Today was another day. A calf was just a roping dummy with a little more wiggle. Stick it on 'im, boy, he told himself. He shook out his first loop and walked his horse resolutely into the open.

His first throw was a miss, a heel-loop the little rascal simply sprang out of. Jon laughed, whoops! Lorenzo scooped up both heels of another, neat as fitting slippers. Alan willed himself to fierce coolness, built another loop, let it hang ready at his shoulder. Todays horse was quick-moving but steady in its mind, ears working forward and back, moved as if mounted on short springs. A big black calf was pushed to the outside, three flat swings and whoo! jerk that slack, boy! Rope suddenly electric, alive, calf leaping with an angry bawl and nylon sizzling through his fingers. "Dally, dally!" someone yelled, and his hand cranked around the horn, rope burning and biting into mule-hide wrap. The rope snapped taut across his hip as his horse turned away, bringing the calf around for the heeler.

"Right there, Alan." Jon coming in behind, quick loop lapping over the calf's hip. Both heels dove into its trap and Jon snatched up the slack. "Okay, go!"

Riding up to the fire, Alan positively, most emphatically does not smile. After all, this is what he's paid to do. He almost forgot to toss slack into his rope, so the ground crew could take it off the calf's neck. The approving look Rich gives him feels like a presidential medal.

Lorenzo still hadn't spoken to him, but that's all right. He probably just figured the kid was finally doing his job. Jon dismounted, swapping places with Chris on the ground.

"Go ahead," Chris said, meaning he'll heel whatever Alan heads. So find something big.

Alan was not comfortable heading for another roper. In his mind, it was like having someone follow him around until he got it right. Acutely conscious of Chris' presence at his back, Alan held his rope ready, eyes searching the mass of small, angular, furry backs and rumps. Spotting a fat red heifer he swings, throws, and feels that it's all wrong even as the loop sails free. It fell flat as overcooked spaghetti. He turned his horse, stopped, began reeling in stiff coils of rope. He did not swear, but thought about it.

"You let your hand tilt," Chris said evenly. "Don't. Follow through on your throw." He sat there, stoically waiting for Alan to get himself organized.

Now nervous, Alan readied another loop, picked a red bull calf. Missed by a mile.

"Al." Chris looked away, shook his head.

Alan felt heat in his face again, bit down hard on the urge to snap back. After all, Chris had given him another try. Lorenzo dragged another calf to the fire, eyes glancing past and through Alan with no expression. There was no sign he saw Alan's sorry performance, at all.

His horse stepping on springs beneath him, Alan kept trying. He missed some. Caught more. And firmly did not dwell on the misses. Ropers changed again, with Alan still up. Riding into the branding fire's acrid smoke with rope tight across his hip became fairly frequent for him. Gradually unbranded calves became the distinct minority among the jostling animals, and Alan's stomach demanded to know when was lunch.

The last calf was a small, flop-eared Brahmer cross, agile as a house cat. Rich made his throw, missed. Jon sleep-walked up behind the calf and swung an easy loop - which the calf leaped through like a circus performer. Alan shadowed them, but was content to let better ropers have at it. He watched Rich throw his rope on the ground again, as the little Brahmer skipped free once more.

Suddenly, Alan realized he was the only one with a ready loop. The flop-eared calf eyed him warily from a tight huddle of its larger fellows. It felt them breaking away from Alan's approach and made a dash. Alan simply took his chance and side-armed a rope trap in front of the little animal's hind feet. Both dove straight in. He jerked his slack, nylon whizzing violently to life, turned his horse away as his dallies caught with a sharp jolt. As he watched proudly over his shoulder, the last calf skidded to the branding fire. This time he did grin.

Cinches loosened outside the pens, they took long drinks from the water cooler on Rich's truck, and Chris shoved a chew behind his lower lip that must have emptied half the can. Alan pulled his saddle to let his horse's back cool a few moments, and briefly watched Rich and Lorenzo talk by the gate. In the meadow beyond, the earsplitting cacophony of bawling cows and calves was fading, now that the pairs were mothered-up and drifting away together. Small heads butted warm, motherly flanks in hungry insistence, little tails twitching contentedly as the memory of their recent ordeal fled from mind.

"Did good, Alan."

Alan jerked his head up in surprise, sudden warmth flooding his insides. He grinned as Chris walked by. "Thanks!"

Chris stopped, half-turned. "You're ruint, you know."

Alan cocked his head. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Once you start catchin' 'em ..." Chris grinned. "It's like a disease. You'll be ropin' the dogs and the neighbor's kids, just to get your fix."

With a laugh, Alan picked up his saddle blankets, smoothed them onto his horse's sweat-slick back. As he swung his saddle heavily on, he noticed with pleasure the deep, smooth rope-burns in the grey leather of his horn wrap. He felt a presence at his shoulder as he tightened his cinch, and glanced up. A shock jolted through him for Lorenzo stood there and those keen eyes looked straight at him.

"Who built your saddle, son?" asked Old Man Lorenzo.

*~*~*~*~*

Copyright © 2004 G. M. Atwater. All rights reserved.