The Cowboy Way of Doing Things
Do what’s right, ride tall, and keep your boots clean—it’s the cowboy way.
In the heat of a May afternoon, the Indian Territory sprawled out beneath a wide-open sky, the air thick and heavy with the scent of sun-baked earth. Nathan œNate Jennings, a ranch hand on the expansive Bar B ranch, wiped his brow and took a deep breath, embracing the simple life of a cowboy. He had worked for old man Bartley for nearly five years, becoming part of the rustic fabric of the ranch.
Nate had a rugged appearance, with sun-bleached hair, a weathered face, and a strength honed from years of hard labor. bond he shared with Bartley was forged through loyalty–Nate had taught Bartley™s children how to ride, and in turn, Bartley had given him a home away from home. But deep within his chest thudded a sense of unease; something was wrong on the ranch, and it demanded his attention.
Over the past month, several head of cattle had mysteriously fallen ill, their bodies succumbing to an unknown ailment that left them listless and gaunt. Nate had first shrugged off the incidents, attributing them to the rough weather and the natural vulnerabilities of the animals. But, as he watched droves of the usually strong herd wilt and perish, his instincts screamed that foul play was afoot.
That evening, Bartley gathered the hands around the dinner table, his brow furrowed and voice heavy with worry. œWe™ve lost ten head this week alone, he said, his voice raspy as if it bore the weight of the loss. œI™m no doctor, but this isn™t just bad luck. Something isn™t right.
That night, Nate lay restless under a canopy of stars. The owl™s hoot beckoned the haunting worries that encircled him like wolves, urging him to consider possibilities that existed beyond the comfortable borders of ranch life. If someone was poisoning the cattle, it had to be someone from outside, a competitor with insidious intentions. If he was right, loyalty to Bartley, who had invested so much in the ranch and its cattle, demanded action. Nate resolved to investigate at dawn. The next morning, Nate™s first destination was the nearby creek that fed the ranch, a vital source of water for both man and beast. He collected a sample between cautious glances, inspecting the banks for anything unusual. A faint shimmer caught his eye, something buried under a patch of grass. As he knelt closer, his stomach sank–empty bottles with labels marked in unnerving ways.
With a sense of urgency, he returned to the ranch, his heart racing as he considered his findings. He headed straight for Bartley™s office, where the old man sat poring over ranch accounts, scribbled papers obscuring his tired eyes.
As he approached, he noted the less-than-warm demeanor emanating from the Smiths barn. Frank Smith, a lean man with an air of arrogance about him, was well-known for his ambition. Rumor had it that he™d go to any lengths to secure more land and cattle, a competitor who would stop at nothing.
