Misery

‘2026 May Round-Up Challenge’
by janajinbc

Days of rain hindered, but did not halt the demands of ranch work. Drenched earth and high water levels could impact any of the Ponderosa ventures, however, so Hoss was checking on the cattle crew in the North pasture, Candy was contacting the mining supervisors, and Joe headed for the timber camps.

Water dripped off his hat and trickled beneath his slicker, but Joe shrugged off the discomfort and focused on the day’s secondary purpose. Cochise was getting a day off while Joe rode a green-broke mustang the hands had dubbed Misery. Before submitting to rein and saddle, Misery left several bronc riders, including Joe, bruised and humbled. Convinced she would eventually be a good cowpony, Joe considered today’s outing as the next step in her training. The horse was responding well, obedient and willing, and Joe patted her shoulder affectionately.

The fall was not Misery’s fault.

This trail ran along a ridge that fell into a grassy canyon often frequented by the wild horse herds Joe monitored. Without warning, the rain-soaked path gave way beneath them and mud, horse and rider slid down the steep slope, grating over rocks and debris along the way. With neither time nor opportunity to leap from the saddle, Joe dropped with Misery, feeling every scrape and tear along his right side until his head struck a protruding rock.

Joe had been unconscious before, and the gradual return of his senses felt familiar. Something soft cushioned his back, maybe a forest floor or a grassy bank. Yeah, a pine forest, he thought, as another sense kicked in and the clean, woodsy smell registered. Ponderosa pine. With that reminder of home, his memory flooded back and events came into focus with painful clarity.

Eyes still closed, his mind flew back to that heart-dropping moment when the trail vanished. Misery! Joe’s eyes flew open, and he moved to sit up. Too much, too fast. He fell backwards and let the shock of that brief glimpse settle in his mind as he waited for his head to stop spinning. Joe was still astride Misery; well, almost astride. She must be dead, or she’d be struggling to stand instead of being an inert mass pinning his right leg to the ground.

Slowly, Joe opened his eyes again and looked around. The canyon wall loomed about ten feet away from their bed of mud studded with rocks, brush, and debris from the trail above. Definitely not a forest floor, but the mud was soft, and the pine smell drifted from up-canyon. Misery was certainly dead. Joe felt a moment of grief, but his mind refused to settle on any one thing, jumping from the need to escape his trapped position, to fear of being buried under another slide, to the increasing pain burning along his right side.

Fighting back panic and an instinctive need for action, Joe struggled to organize his thoughts and assess his injuries. His left side seemed fine, but his right was a mess. Besides the gash on his head, he was scratched and torn and bloody from shoulder to thigh; his shoulder likely dislocated, and his arm broken. As for the leg beneath the horse, he shuddered at the dire possibilities. Eyes closed, Joe let his head drop back on the mud, the incessant rain washing blood and dirt from his face.

Unbidden, a tired chuckle broke the silence of the hillside and Joe mumbled his thoughts aloud. “With Misery, in misery. What a mess we’re in, old girl. Sure wish you could move off my leg, though.”

Reining in his wandering thoughts, Joe used his left arm to achieve a semi-sitting position. Pulling a stout branch from the debris nearby, he set himself to digging a trench around his leg, hoping to make enough space to pull free. Hours passed as he alternated between digging and falling, exhausted, into a semi-conscious state where time had no meaning and pain ruled.

Joe’s long habit of conversing with Cochise carried over to his other mounts, and Misery was no exception. She was dead, but she was his companion in this predicament, and it felt oddly comforting to talk to her. Besides, it helped him stay awake and alert.

“You would have had a good life on the Ponderosa, Misery. Round-ups and trail drives are hard work, but we treat our horses right. I’m sorry this is our last adventure; well, your last. I hope it isn’t mine,” Joe muttered.

Oh, he knew his family would rescue him, maybe tonight, but more likely in the morning. He had his gun, even his rifle was still in its scabbard, so he could chase off any predators for that long. And heaven knew he wouldn’t be thirsty when he only had to open his mouth to get all the water he needed! What he kept trying not to think about was what shape his leg would be in when they got him out of here. His whole right side was so painful that he couldn’t isolate any feeling below his knee. Without circulation there, he knew he could lose the leg. Deliberately shutting off that train of thought, Joe focused on digging away the mud, continuing his monologue to Misery as dusk settled around them. Reminded of his weapon, he fired off a three-shot signal for help and sagged in relief when he heard answering shots in the distance.

Two days later, Joe relaxed in the porch rocker, basking, finally, in warm sunshine with not a rain-cloud in sight. Doc Martin had set his shoulder and arm to rights and his headache was finally easing. It had taken their crew hours to dig him out from under Misery, but the mud and rain had been his saving grace, burying his leg instead of crushing it. A sprained knee and a few dozen stitches seemed a small price to pay. Raising his coffee mug in silent salute to Misery, Joe offered a final farewell. Joe’s own adventures would go on.

The End