A Clear Answer

by jfclover

~*~*~*~

“You ready to call it a day, Joe?”

“Almost.  One more go on Satan, and we can head back to the house.”

“You’re crazy, you know.  Just like that dang horse.”

“Maybe.”

I gave the animal two tries already, and both times, the horse seemed to find pleasure in watching me eat dust, but the third time’s a charm.  Isn’t that what people say?  Surely, I can remain in the saddle just once before Hoss, and I head home for supper.

The day starts out so promising.  I have two young wranglers and thirty horses to get ready for Captain Murray of Company C.  The army doesn’t patrol like they used to, so not as many new mounts are needed.  Fort Churchill closed its doors a year ago, which shocked some of the old-timers who felt that the army’s presence would always be a given.

Hoss and my two wranglers are the only men left at the corral.  We had a few spectators during the day, but those fellas either have wives making supper or think a cold beer sounds better than sticking around to see one more ride on the black gelding.  Everyone waves their hats and wishes me well before climbing aboard their own mounts and riding home.

“You about ready, Joe?”

“Yeah.  Let’s get it done.”

My wranglers ease the stallion into the shoot and try to hold him steady.  I adjust my chaps, climb the railing, and settle myself into the saddle.  After winding the rope around my gloved hand, I’m ready to ride.  “Let him go, Boys!”

~*~*~*~*~

 “Your boy’s lucky to be alive.”

“What are his chances, Paul?”

“It’s too soon to tell, but I’ll do what I can.  You know that, Ben.  Hoss and Joe’s wranglers did the right thing by bracing him up before loading him in the wagon.  Someone must’ve seen this happen before.  Hitting the fence before the ground can cause twice the injuries.”

“Is that what happened?”

“I believe so.  One of the fellas said that after Joe rammed into the corral fence, he became nothing more than a rag doll, but that’s a good thing, Ben.  If a man tenses up, his injuries can be much worse.”

“Worse?  I can’t imagine anything worse than this.”

~*~*~*~*~

Early morning light filters through my curtain and splashes a square of light on my bed covers, and though I can feel the warmth, something is wrong.  I can’t quite figure things out, but I feel numb, like a length of wood waiting to be milled.  I want to shout out, although my voice seems to have turned as silent as a breeze on a summer’s day.

My bedroom door opens, and when I try to roll onto my side, I find that my head is made of stone and won’t move an inch.  This whole existence seems unreal, and I want out.  I’m not made of wood and stone, but my brain says otherwise.

“Joseph?  You awake, Son?”

Though I move my lips, there’s no sound. 

“Don’t worry.  Doc’s been here and says your voice should return in a couple of days.”

I must’ve shown my displeasure, but Pa is quick to assure me that all is well.

“You just lie still for now, and I’ll have Hop Sing bring up a hot bowl of soup.”

I want to say that a beefsteak and a big mound of potatoes sound better, but I’m at the mercy of those who can speak.  Pa pulls a chair close to the head of the bed.  He rests his hand on my forearm.

“Do you remember anything?  I didn’t think so.”  He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts.  “You had a bad fall, Son.  Satan threw you into the fence.  Jimmy, and Grant, and Hoss loaded you up in the wagon and brought you home.  Doc’s been here three days in a row.”  My eyes widen at the prospect of lying in my bed for the last three days and recalling nothing about Satan or the mishap.    “Surprised?  It’s been a long three days.”

As morning turns into afternoon, I watch the weather change.  A cool breeze slips through my open window, and the light that brightens my room all morning gives way to heavy clouds that last the rest of the day.  My mood changes as quickly as the cloud that slips in and takes out the sun.

Paul Martin doesn’t have to tell me that I’m in trouble.   I can’t feel my legs, and I can’t make a sound.  Pa brings me Hop Sing’s chicken soup and two slices of bread – right out of the oven – but we don’t discuss anything that matters.

“Hoss is picking up the mail, and Adam is on his way to the timber camp,” is all my father has to say, but I don’t care what they’re doing.  I don’t care much about anything other than when this ordeal will end.  When will my legs work again, and when will I be able to talk?  I don’t know what one has to do with the other because I can’t make a sound.  I can’t ask.

I lie flat on my back in silence.  My brothers are busy, and my father visits when he’s tired of sitting behind his desk, figuring budgets or setting aside money for payroll.  I do nothing but stare at the ceiling and wait for someone to visit.  After six days of pitiful inactivity, my voice returns, and my questions are a constant. 

“When will the doc be back?  When can I get out of bed?  When will my legs work again?”

My father and I seem to have traded places in the chit-chat department.  Even though he pulls up a chair, sits down, and picks my hand up off the bed, he doesn’t answer my questions, and before he drops his head, I see that tears have filled his eyes.  There’s no need for words.  The answer is clear. 

The End

5 – 2026