By David Larsen

    Andrew Hickman took one last snapshot of the riding stables his family had operated for more than forty-five years. His cellphone rattled in his trembling hands. People wanted more than an hour rental of a halfway decent horse. A romp through the creosote and ocotillo dotted hills couldn’t compare with all of the hoopla at the fancy schmancy riding academy eight miles down the road on State Highway 1129, halfway between Ft. Stockton and Dos Pesos. These days a sturdy horse wasn’t enough. They wanted more. They wanted pizazz. They wanted ritz. They wanted glamour.

     The tack room was shabby. Now that he was no longer the proprietor of the business he could see it. The stables were an eyesore, no doubt about it. His residence was in shambles. Even he had to admit it. And the grounds, the dusty spot alongside the highway that could easily be overlooked if you weren’t watching out for it, did smell and look a mess, but what could anyone expect after four decades of horses tromping the sixteen acres, peeing, shitting, peeing some more? And the flies. Oh God, the flies. He wasn’t going to miss the damned flies.

     Andrew could move into town—Dos Pesos, not Ft. Stockton, for crying out loud—and he would, but his bunk behind the stables was all he’d ever known. He’d never slept anywhere else, other than the four years in the crowded dorm at Sul Ross, where he studied agriculture, to what 

end he hadn’t a clue. Yet, when he sold out to the West World Equestrian Center everything was gone, lock, stock and barrel. Andrew now had a little money in the bank, not that much…certainly not enough. He’d actually have to find employment somewhere. Doing what? he wondered. I’m thirty-six years old. I don’t know nothin’ but tendin’ horses and shovelin’ shit.

     The sheriff’s tan squad car pulled onto the property, kicked up a flurry of dust then settled. Kyle Reed struggled to yank himself out of the vehicle. Andrew smiled. The Contreras County sheriff had put on ample girth over the years.

     “Andy,” said the sheriff, “I thought I’d come out and see how you’re gettin’ along.” He kicked at a stone near the worn-smooth hitching rail Andrew leaned against. “This has gotta be hard on you.”

     “It ain’t so hard, Sheriff.” Andrew grimaced. It wasn’t hard. But then again, it was.

     “That woman who bought you out was worried you might do somethin’ foolish.”

     “Like what?”

     The sheriff chuckled. “I ain’t sure. Maybe she thought you’d do something out of spite.” He winked. “She’s a different sort than we’re used to around here. She’s from up near Ft. Worth. They do things different up there.”

     “Her place is across the line, in Pecos County. She’s got no business havin’ you come around here to check up on me. Let her worry about her goddamned equestrian center and leave me alone.”

     “That’s true,” said the sheriff. He looked Andrew in the eye. “She’s in Pecos County, all right, and you’re in Contreras County. I guess you bein’ in my county makes it my business.” He grinned. “Andy, hell, I’ve known you and your family forever. I just don’t want to see you doin’ somethin’ you’ll regret later.”

     “I ain’t gonna do nothin’ except close this place down and move on.” He sighed. “As you can see the horses are gone, she took everything worth any value. The blankets. The saddles. What’s she got to stew about?”

     “Just doin’ my job, Andy.”

     “I know you are, Sheriff.” Andrew wiped the sweat from his forehead with his straw Stetson. “It just irks me that folks won’t just let me be. Everything I’ve done is on the up and up.”

     “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

     “Sheriff, do you ever feel like the whole world’s against you?”

     “All the time.”

     “What do you do?”

      The sheriff cocked his head. “What can I do? I just keep pushin’ on.” Again, he chuckled. “Bein’ the sheriff in a West Texas county that’s about to shrivel up and blow away ain’t the most desirable job in the world.”

     “I’d bet it’s not.”

     “You bet your life it ain’t. But most folks are decent enough. Even the ones that give me the most trouble.”

     Andrew watched a school bus pass by on the highway. “School kids used to come out here to learn to ride,” he said. “Now they’ll go to that woman’s place. It won’t be the same. Me and my parents cared about ‘em. She’s just in it for the bucks. My pa and ma really liked those kids…and the horses.”

     “How’re Mavis and Walter doin’?” 

     Andrew shrugged. “They like Odessa good enough. They miss Dos Pesos, but this business could no longer support the three of us.”

    “I s’pose not.”

     “That woman’s gonna serve up barbeque at her place. Can you imagine that? You can ride, then eat some goddamned charred brisket. I’ve heard tell she hires a band from San Angelo to play on Friday nights.” Andrew took a deep breath. “Sheriff, I can’t compete with that.”

     The Sheriff shook his head. He blinked. “I don’t know what to tell you, Andy. What are your plans?”

     Andrew nodded. “I ain’t sure. I’ve rented a place from Mr. Gonzalez in town.” He squinted. “I’m gonna be your neighbor, Sheriff.”

     “Then what?”

     “I thought about teachin’. I went to college, you know.”

      The sheriff spit. “That might do the trick. You’ve been teachin’ people how to sit a horse your whole life.” He paused. “Have you talked to anyone at the school?”

     “Not yet. I’ve got enough money to see me through for a while.” Andrew watched a hawk circle overhead. Then another hawk, then another. “That woman’s teachin’ folks to ride English style if they want it. Can you imagine that?”

     “I ain’t got a clue what that is.”

     “It’s ridin’ with a frilly saddle. It’s more high society than a western saddle.” Andrew glared at the empty highway. “Now, who the hell would want somethin’ like that?”

     “Like you said, some dude who doesn’t know squat about this part of the world.” The sheriff again kicked at the stone. “Folks up there in Pecos County have got more money than they have a right to. Some of ‘em at least.” 

     “Sheriff, I’m comin’ on middle age. I’ve got no wife. I’ve got a pittance from the sale of this place. Hickman’s Stables is all I’ve known.”

     “Like you say, it’s the pits, but a young fella like you will come out all right. You’ve been to college. You’re plenty bright.” The sheriff spit. “You’ll find something.”

     Andrew watched the sheriff fishtail out of the parking area. For an old geezer the fella had spunk. His own truck was loaded down with what little he thought he’d need in town. It’s been hard, he muttered to himself, but it’s been good. Two miles down State Highway 1129 he could see the black smoke curling up in the rear mirror of his Ford F-250. It struck him odd that horse manure and old pine could go up so readily.

                                                                      *   *   *

David Larsen is a writer and musician who lives in El Paso, Texas, two miles from the border with Mexico. His stories have appeared in numerous literary journals and magazines. He has recorded eleven albums for El Viejo Records.