North Star by Sharon Frame Gay

NO LONGER FOLLOW that old North Star. It floats in the sky, filled with betrayal, swallowin’ up the light and hope of a lot of folks. I figure that’s what makes it burn so bright. I counted on it every night, riding across the Panhandle atop old Rusty, thinkin’ it was leading me to a better place. If there’s a better place for old cowboys like me, I haven’t found it yet.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been sittin’ on a horse. I don’t like how feet feel on the ground, rough pavement scuffing the bottom of boots, the earth hanging on to my soles. My skin looks like leather, burnished to a fine patina from all the sand that blasted it over the years. This old face is dark as a berry, my stomach white as a trout’s belly. The hat’s seen better days, too. It’s a Stetson, bought with hardearned money, brown as the Texas hills and broken in just so. Fits like an old friend.

Everyone calls me Lanky, though the name my Momma gave me is Milton. Ain’t no cowboys around named Milton, and Lanky kinda fits, because I’m lean and spare as a fence post.

I grew up on a farm outside Carthage, Missouri. We had an old mare named Trudy, and I rode her out to the pasture every day to bring in the milk cows for my daddy. She was slow as a spring thaw, but we got the job done, my short legs sticking straight out across her broad back, flicking a rope back and forth and hollerin’ at the cows. They were heading for the barn, anyway, their udders full and throbbing with milk.

I rode Trudy to school every day, too, until the 6th grade. Daddy figured that was all the learning a farmer needed. I was plucked from the schoolhouse and set down in the barn, forking hay and mucking stalls.

You’d think I’d seen enough cow shit in my day, but when I grew up, I had a keen interest for the West and cowboys. It was the late 1920s. The country was already startin’ to change. Cars and trucks replaced the trains and wagons as people made their way west. Newly carved roads lead all the way to California, the land swollen with promise.

I heard about big ranches in Texas and Wyoming. Spreads that covered hundreds of square miles, churning out beef cattle by the thousands. They needed wranglers. So, I hitch-hiked my way from Missouri to Texas, gaping at the miles of dust and ravines, scrub grass and barbed wire fences as far as the eye could see. Once in a while, there was a road with a tall pole sign, the ranch name carved into the wood.

In the heat of an April day, I was dropped off near a cattle guard below a sign that said Sweet Canyon Ranch. I threw my duffle on the ground, made a little nest for myself, and waited for any signs of life. It was well into the next morning before a truck picked its way over the hill and rolled to a dusty stop in front of me. A weathered cowhand got out and walked over.

He cocked his head. “Are you lookin’ for work, son?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, jumping to my feet. “How did you know?”

“Why the hell else would you be sitting here on this devil’s half acre if you had something better to do?” He spit into the dirt and looked me up and down. “Can you ride?”

“Yes, sir. Been riding since I could walk.”

“But you ain’t got no horse, I see, or saddle neither,” he grumbled.

“Well, I hope to buy a saddle after I earn some money, and I was hoping you had a spare horse I could borrow.”

He snorted then, even grinned a little. “I guess I can find some old plug and a used saddle for ya. Hop in. I’m headin’ into town.”

I did as I was told, and we drove back down the road that delivered me.

“My name’s Les Harper,” he mumbled around a jaw full of tobacco.

“I’m Milton Briggs, but everyone calls me Lanky.”

“Makes sense,” he said.

The rest of the ride was silent. Les, it seemed, was a man of few words. He used them like gold, buying only the ones he needed and saving the rest for some other time. I contented myself looking out the window and watching the landscape go by.

In town, I helped him run errands, picking up supplies and tossing them into the truck. Then we drove back to the ranch. It wasn’t as large as other spreads but big enough. There was a bunkhouse the size of a barn, dozens of cowboys and hundreds of Hereford cattle dotting the landscape. Their white faces were like snowflakes, all different, but all the same, too.

Les lent me a sorrel cow horse to ride named Rusty. Over time, I scrimped and saved and bought him from the ranch. The day Rusty became mine was one of the happiest days of my life. That horse was my best friend.

Cowboys learn to love beef in every way possible, whether we’re given a bit of flank steak, chili, or meatloaf. I figured, over the years, I had enough iron in me from all the red meat that I could be used as a magnet. But I have to say, I never tired of it, even after riding behind my dinners all day long on the range. We lined up the herd and marched across miles of scrub, bringing them to pastures or enormous feed lots. The cattle ate and bred and were born and died in an assembly line to the chopping block. I felt sorry for them sometimes, as we loaded them into stock cars, and they bawled out to their friends as they pulled away. I kind of wished they believed in God or something, so when they died, they went to meet their maker up in some kind of cow heaven, instead of into an oven with a bunch of taters.

Days melted into each other. I was as satisfied as a young man could be out there on the ranch.

—

ONE EVENING, RIGHT BEFORE supper, a car snaked down the dirt road and stopped along a barbed wire fence I was mending. A man got out and waved.

“Hello there!” he shouted.

He was portly and wore city clothes. His vest was a little too tight around a lazy middle. Sparse hairs stood up on his head like a porcupine.

“My name’s Callister. John Callister. I work for Ennis Studios. You know, the movie studio?”

I nodded. I’d heard folks were filming a movie around here. “How can I help you?” I asked, settin’ my wire cutters down and walking over.

“Well, son, we’re looking for cowboys to hire on as extras and teach our actors how to ride a horse.”

“Already got a job.”

“Ennis pays good wages. Six months-worth of work. We might even bring you back to Hollywood with us.” He bared his teeth into a smile. It reminded me of an old coyote I shot when it tried to kill a calf.

He quoted big money. A week’s salary was more than I made in a month on the ranch.

“All I ask is you ride over to Indian Springs on your day off. Look around and see if it’s something you might like.” He reached into his pocket, took out a business card and placed it in my hand. I stuffed it in my jeans and nodded.

A couple of cowboys at the ranch thought they’d ride over to the movie set on Sunday, so I tagged along. It was about ten miles away, so we piled into an old feed lot truck and took off.

The set was bustling with cowboys—Indians, too—looking for work. I was gawking at everything when Callister walked over. He stuck out his hand, and I took it. It was soft as a cow’s udder.

“Kid, you’re the type we’re looking for. Handsome and tall, a genuine cowboy.”

I flushed at the compliment.

“We need somebody to teach Miss Lily Bruce how to ride.”

“Miss Bruce?” I asked, peering around the lot.

“Only our leading lady! Come along.” Callister turned and walked toward an outbuilding away from the cameras.

I followed him like a speckled pup into an old shack. It was lit with candles and electric lights, so bright I had to squint. There, in the middle of the room, was a woman. She was sitting in a chair, her back to me. Long blonde hair rode over her shoulders in soft waves.

“Miss Bruce, this here’s Lanky,” Callister said, then took a few steps back as if he was talkin’ to a queen or something.

She stood up and turned around. I fell into her eyes like a rabbit in a pond, only I didn’t thrash to get out. I just kept swimming around in ’em. There were freckles that danced along her cheeks and nose, and I wondered if I could kiss them clean off. I stared down at my boots, because I couldn’t look at her without burning up the way you would in the sun without a hat.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, and I wanted to grovel at her feet. She was tiny, her head barely grazin’ my chest as she peered up at me. She reminded me of one of those sparrows I’ve seen nesting in the barns. Only she was as colorful as a rainbow, and there was no space to breathe. She took up all the air.

“John, is this the man who’ll teach me to ride?”

“Yes,” we said in unison, and I blushed. Then I remembered I was wearing a hat, pulled it off, raked my fingers through my hair, and blushed again.

“When can you start?” she asked

My mouth made noises I hardly recognized. “I, uh—tomorrow.”

“Great! I look forward to seeing you then, Lanky.”

To this day, I will tell you that there is such a thing as love at first sight.

It was easier to quit the Sleepy Canyon Ranch than I thought it’d be. But then again, I was ridin’ on the wings of excitement. The angry words Les threw at me slid down my legs and puddled around stubborn feet.

“You’re gonna regret this, Lanky,” he spat. Then he turned his back on me and walked away.

I said farewell to the other cowboys and asked for my pay. It didn’t seem so hefty in my pocket now that I’d quit. The ranch manager said to take Rusty and clear out. He saw no reason for me to spend the night, so I traveled down the road in the darkness, the only sounds the grinding of Rusty’s bit in his mouth and a few coyotes howlin’ to each other. I was too excited to sleep anyway, so we rode until the sun came up over the movie set. I tied Rusty to a post and followed the voices to my destiny.

Miss Bruce walked up to me in a riding skirt, fringe jacket, and boots, and my heart slithered out of my chest and threw itself in her shadow.

I helped her into the saddle. Showed her how to hold the reins, how to lay them against the horse’s neck to turn, pull back to stop, nudge with the knees to go forward. I snapped a lead rope on the mare and walked her ’round in a circle while Lily practiced. Then, Rusty and I led her out of the corral. We took a little trip through the scrub and dust, Lily chatting away. I smiled and nodded, happy as a dog who found shade under a porch.

Lily tilted her head and looked at me from under her hat. “So, Lanky, what does a cowboy do out here in the middle of Texas?”

Somehow, ridin’ with her away from the others, she seemed more like an ordinary person. I warmed to the subject. Told her about ropin’ and branding cattle and driving them to the railroad. I talked about the nights around the campfire, stars flinty as diamonds, and the moon risin’ over the hills like a giant’s head.

Lily sighed. “That sounds lovely. So peaceful and nice. I see why you like it.”

We stopped the horses amid a blooming sea of Bluebonnet flowers. A prettier sight I’d never seen. They danced in the wind, the same breeze that stirred Lily’s hair. I squeezed my eyes shut real hard, so I could capture this picture forever. Even now, years later, it comes back to me in my dreams. The sky was so blue and the sun so high, it seemed like the world stopped breathing for a moment, just so we could inhale every bit of it ourselves.

“What’s it like in Hollywood?” I asked.

Lily gazed off in the distance, a smile playing across her lips. “It’s wonderful, Lanky. People bustle everywhere. The city is full of smells. Restaurants, orange blossoms coming down from the hills, and ocean breezes with salt air, fresh as rainfall. And the sounds! Why, there are car engines, the grinding of trains as they ease into the station, children laughing, folks talking. The movie studio is magical. I can walk along and see a pirate and a princess or a villain or maybe even the King of England! They’re all actors, of course. But I’m telling you, it’s like living in the middle of your favorite book!”

I nodded. It sounded as pretty as she was. But I couldn’t imagine a day without the open sky, the sound of cattle bawling, or the smell of a campfire.

Lily was full of stories. Every day we rode out behind the movie set, and she made me laugh or sometimes feel sober as a judge. She wove a spell so deep and silky I figured I’d remember her voice forever.

I didn’t miss the ranch. Not at all. In the eyes of the movie makers, I was a real cowboy. The actors marveled at my roping skills. One time, the director put me in a scene, looping the lasso over my head in the background, while Lily and the others acted up a storm.

Those days were the best days of my life. I woke up every morning with a smile plastered on my face and couldn’t wait to fetch Lily for another lesson or stand by while they filmed, ready to wrangle a horse if it got rowdy.

One day, I took her farther out on our ride and surprised her with a picnic I’d packed in my saddlebag. We sat in the prairie grass, and she giggled like a little girl. Without all the fancy makeup for shootin’ movies, she looked younger, more carefree.

“Lanky, this is the best food I believe I’ve ever tasted!” she said, and I reached over and brushed a crumb from her mouth.

Things got serious then. She stilled like a fawn— her eyes wide. I leaned over and wrapped my hands around the red bandana she’d tied around her neck and pulled her face toward me. Then lightly touched her lips with mine. She reached up and stroked my jaw, then kissed me back.

Lily broke away first, leaving me breathless.

“We should go.” I nodded, my mind whirling.

She packed away the leftovers in the saddlebag. I went about tightening Rusty’s girth and tugging on the stirrups, all the time stealing glances at Lily.

We hardly talked as we rode back to the movie set. She dismounted before I could even get off Rusty and come around to help her.

Her eyes were serious as she stroked the horse’s nose. “Thank you for a lovely picnic, Lanky.”

I smiled and started to say somethin’, but she turned and walked into her tent, pulling the flap behind her.

When I saddled her horse the next morning and led it up to the set, a woman appeared and told me that Lily wouldn’t be riding that day. Or the next. They were shooting important scenes in the saloon. They’d let me know when they needed me again. I nodded and walked away, feelin’ lonesome and empty.

A week went by. The studio hired me to ride as an extra during the big scenes. Sometimes I caught glances of Lily as she walked in or out of the saloon, bringing sunshine with her, then taking it away like a cloudy sky before it rains.

One morning, I heard a car honking like it was tryin’ to capture everyone’s attention. I ambled out with the rest of the folks and saw a long black sedan drive right down the middle of the set. People were clapping and hooting, so I joined in, even though I had no idea this would upset my applecart in such a way that I might never recover.

The car stopped in front of the saloon. A tall man got out and waved at everybody.

“Who’s that?” I muttered.

“Who’s that?” said an actor. “Why, that’s Armand Du Bois, only the greatest actor in Hollywood!” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead, then stubbed out a cigarette with a boot. “He’s the star of the movie with Miss Lily.”

I took a hard look at him. Mr. Du Bois was handsome, I admit to that, and looked as arrogant as a range stallion, head up and nostrils flaring. He wore brand new cowboy boots, the kind you’d never wear on a ranch. They were black and white leather, tooled with a bit of turquoise in ’em. His shirt had pearl buttons down the front, shining in the sunlight as though stars fell from the heavens and landed on his chest. Blond hair curled around his ears, and he sported a handlebar mustache that reminded me of a longhorn steer.

Lily came bounding out from the costume shack. Golden hair billowed around her face in disarray, and she wasn’t wearing shoes. Her face lit up like a lightning strike, and she looked about as joyful as I’d ever seen her.

“Army!” she cried and ran into his arms. He bent over her and kissed her mouth the way a bird stuffs a worm down a fledgling’s throat. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he half carried, half dragged her into a tent.

The actor standing next to me felt the need to explain. “That there’s Miss Lily’s fiancé,” he said. “They’re gonna get married when the movie’s done and they go back to Hollywood.”

I wished there’d been a chair out in the middle of the road, because it was hard for me to take the news standin’ up. Harder still to keep my face from giving away all the feelings that swept over me. I grunted something, then turned and walked off and into the fields, where I kicked at the dirt for a while. Then I slunk down to the corral and leaned on the fence until sunset. In the dusk, I wandered over to the sleeping quarters and fell into bed with a thud.

A few days later, I saddled Lily’s horse and one for Mr. Du Bois. They were shooting a scene that morning where they’d race across the prairie with Indians chasin’ them.

I was nervous. Lily was still learning to ride, and horses can spook. I cinched the saddles extra tight and stood waiting by her tent.

Lily and Du Bois came through the flap at the same time. She smiled at me, then looked down and blushed. Du Bois’s eyes narrowed when he gazed at us, and he scowled. He took the reins without even saying thank you and mounted in one quick motion. I walked over to Lily and helped her into the saddle.

“Now, Lily,” I warned,” remember the horse can feel it if you’re nervous. Be sure to keep your feet deep in those stirrups and don’t be afraid to hold on to the horn when you gallop.”

She nodded. There was a thin sheen of sweat on her face, and she looked skittish. I touched her hand, and she settled a bit. I smiled up at her and winked.

“Wrangler, come along for the shoot. We want you to make sure the horses are okay,” said the director.

I followed the parade of cameras, actors, and horses out behind the set. There was a small watering hole alongside an old wagon trail, and above the trail on a hill were about ten Indians mounted on ponies, smoking and laughing, waiting for the cue to race down the hill after Lily and Du Bois. Du Bois raked his hands through his hair and tweaked his mustache, then looked back at the director and said he was ready. He and Lily trotted toward the Indians, then stopped and turned around about halfway up the hill.

The director yelled “Action!” and everybody moved at once. Lily and Du Bois dug their heels into their horses’ sides and took off toward the cameras in a fury. The Indians galloped down the hill, hollerin’ and shaking spears and such.

Lily’s horse wasn’t interested in being chased by ten angry Indians. His eyes rolled around in his head, and he did a little crow hop. Lily grabbed hold of the saddlehorn, terrified. My heart chugged in my chest.

The horse bolted and veered to the right. It ran straight for the watering hole, then balked at the last second. Lily flew over its head and landed in the water.

I was up and running before anybody else, jumped in the pond, grabbed Lily by the arms, and brought her up. She was coughing and gagging. Dirty water streamed down her face. I wiped her mouth with my hand and pulled her to my chest. Then I bent down and kissed her. To this day I will never know why

I did it. Impulse. Anger. Relief. But the next thing I knew, somebody grabbed me by my hair, drew my head back, and clipped me on the chin.

I shook my head and blinked. It was Du Bois. I gathered my fist and hit him in the gut, and then we were rolling around in the muddy hole, trading punches with each other. Lily screamed “Army! Lanky! Cut it out!” but we kept at each other like rutting elk. Two Indians pulled us apart. They held me with my arms behind my back as Du Bois climbed out of the pond.

He snarled from beneath his dripping mustache. “Don’t you ever touch my woman again! Get out of here and never come back.”

He didn’t look near as high and mighty as he poured water out of his fancy boots. I jutted my chin out and pulled against the Indians, but they wouldn’t let go.

The director got right up in my face and hollered. “You’re fired, you idiot! Get outta here!”

I turned to Lily, who stood there in wet clothes with tears and mud running down her cheeks. She looked at the two of us, spun on her heel, and left.

I started after her. “Lily!” But she kept on walking.

Callister huffed over and said to get my things and leave. As I saddled Rusty, he brought over an envelope with my last wages. Then he handed me a packet tied with yellow ribbon.

“From Miss Lily,” he said.

I nodded, stowed it in my saddlebag, and left. A few miles down the road, I turned into a field and let Rusty graze while I opened the parcel.

Inside was her red bandana. I groaned and held it to my face. It smelled of Lily, Texas, and sunshine. Underneath the bandana was a folded piece of paper with the words “I’m sorry.”

My jaw clenched. Why didn’t she say more? Why didn’t she see me, talk to me before I left? Hurt and angry, I stomped over to an old Cottonwood tree and tied the bandana around a limb, dug a hole with my boot, and placed the note there, then covered it with dirt.

Now that I’m an old man and can whittle away at love, I think those two words said it all. A fella can tuck them in the side of his cheek and talk around it, and nobody can tell if he’s chawing on tobacco or heartache. But on that day, those words seemed dry as a shallow well, and the bandana a flag of surrender. I wish sometimes I’d kept that bandana, wore it around my neck ’til it fell into tatters. At least kept that much of her. I wonder if it’s still tied around that old tree limb. And if it still smells of sunshine.

—

IT TOOK A HELL of a lot longer for Rusty and me to travel back to the ranch that day. Les saw me coming and shook his head.

“So, Lanky, ya here for a visit or because things didn’t work out?”

I hung my head and twiddled the reins in my hand. It was time to eat some crow, and I knew it weren’t gonna go down easy. But I was man enough to look him in the eye and took the first bite. Swallowed hard.

“Les, I sure could use my job back. I know it was foolish of me to leave, and I hope you know I learned my lesson. I’m sorry.”

Les must have taken pity on me. He flattened his lips and nodded, then turned on his heels, talking over his shoulder about young fools. Each word stung.

“Go on down to the bunkhouse and tell the boys you’re back to work.”

“Thank you,” I said, but he just waved his hand like slapping at a mosquito and walked away.

All that was left from eating crow was its feet. That was saved for the bunkhouse and the ribbing I got from the other cowboys. After a week or so they quit calling me “Hollywood,” and things settled down. It took a lot longer for my heart to settle.

Lily would never be mine. She’d fetched up with that stallion, and there was no place at their table for me. Sometimes, I wished I could wash away those days like a cloudburst, pretending it never happened. Now that decades have gone by, I’m glad time didn’t clean out the memories, because I cling to ’em in the dark.

—

I’D BEEN BACK AT the ranch for four years when Les walked up with a telegram from my mother. My Daddy died from the influenza. She needed me home to run the farm.

I quit my job for the second time at Sweet Canyon Ranch, and it wasn’t any easier. Worse yet, I couldn’t bring old Rusty with me. I had to catch a train and couldn’t afford his passage to Missouri. Les bought him and my saddle for twenty bucks and gave me a ride to the train station. I stared out the dusty windshield and thought of Lily’s sweet face and Rusty’s soft muzzle as I told him goodbye, him not understanding anything at all, and me understanding way too much for such a young man. After the train pulled away from the station and night fell, I pulled my Stetson over my face like I was sleeping and let myself cry until morning. I don’t believe I’ve ever cried again, except the day Mama passed away, many years later.

After my mother died, I stayed on the farm, as there sure wasn’t anywhere else to go by then. I never did find a wife. Lily was all I ever wanted. Sometimes I’d see her face on the movie screen in town, her eyes looking in the camera the same way they stared up at me in the field of Bluebonnets.

Over time I bought another horse. A fine Tennessee Walker, with a gait so smooth it felt like we were waltzing through the meadow when we turned the cows back to the barn each night. I named him Rusty, to honor my old friend left behind in the Texas dust.

Sometimes, I take Rusty out on the road for a little exercise. He glides along, and I sit tall, the way I did when I was young. I look up at the sky and pretend we’re wading through the prairie, prodding a herd of Herefords along under the North Star. My bones ache after only a mile or two, and we turn back for home.

One day we were trotting along the road when a neighbor waved at us from his mailbox. His little boy was standing there with him.

“Joey, look. That’s Lanky Briggs. He was a real cowboy who worked out in Texas on a cattle ranch! Had a job in a movie, too, with Indians and everything!”

Joey’s eyes sparkled as he watched us go by. Tapping the brim of my Stetson, I touched Rusty with my spurs, and we loped off. I’m not sure, but I reckon right then and there, that boy got some dream dust sprinkled on him, and his thoughts turned toward the Great West. I suspect he might go there someday.

There’s no going back to Texas for me. The only dreams I have now are old man dreams, the kind that fall asleep in a chair after supper. But every night when I wander out to the barn, smell the cows and hear Rusty nicker, my heart takes me back to that field of Bluebonnets. Then I tuck the memories away for the night until morning, when I stir them into my coffee and swallow ’em down, the yearning as honest as daybreak. a

Sharon Frame Gay lives in Washington State with her little dog, Henry Goodheart. She grew up a child of the highway, playing by the side of the road, and spent a lot of those years in Montana, Arizona, Nevada, North Dakota, and Oregon. Interested in everything Western, and in horses in particular, she bought her first horse when she was twelve. Although she is a multi-genre author, she has a special fondness for writing Westerns. Her Westerns can be found on Fiction On The Web, Rope And Wire, Frontier Tales, Typehouse Magazine, and will soon be appearing with Five Star Publishing in an upcoming Western anthology. She is also published in many anthologies and literary magazines, including Chicken Soup For The Soul, Crannog Magazine, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thrice Fiction, Literally Stories, Literary Orphans, Adelaide, Scarlet Leaf Review, Indiana Voice Journal, and others. She has won awards at The Writing District, Owl Hollow Press, Women on Writing, and has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. You can find more of her work on Amazon, or as "Sharon Frame Gay-Writer" on Facebook, and Twitter as sharonframegay.