DAD- A MEMORIAL

   He was a hard man and rancher from birth, standing poised against the approaching sunset. The smoke from a distant forest fire gave an ominous red glow to the retreating sun. The Native Americans believed a red dawn was a sign that blood would be spilt that day, and this day had been no exception to that lore.
   Re-holstering his Western Roger Single Six pistol into a shoulder harness, he softly rubbed once the right side of his nose, with his index finger; disfigured by a past break with a hoof to the face during lambing season. More than likely the cause for the hay fever he suffered. His skin was sun worn but his eyes were gentle, and caring.  He was content although his facial expressions rarely gave him away, to all but his beloved wife. He melted for her, extinguishing anger as water on a fire with her command.

   Repositioning his dirty old and worn Stetson hat, he ran his left hand through his moist black hair thinning now on the forehead. He cleared his throat and by spitting to the ground he exposed his aged and darkly yellowed teeth, but they were still his own.
   He then reached to hold the trunk of a young Ponderosa Pine. His gnarled fingers, each broken and never set properly, gently touched its bark as one would a small child. The fingertips were always cold but he regretted nothing in life. To him, taking effort and money to visit a doctor was a waste of time. There was work to do and he had no right to put more toil onto his brother, so as each were broken he pulled them as straight as he could and got back to work.
   With the mountain lion laying dead at his feet he stood immersed in the view with his bow legs holding his weight. This was good land, he thought. As he looked to the sheer red cliffs of the Kolob Canyons, part of Zion National Park and bordering his land, in its beauty he recovered from any fatigue. He had tracked the Cougar all day after discovering several dead sheep that morning and as he prepared to throw the great cat from the cliff the two words he was known for slipped from his parched lips, “Lousy sucker!”
   Everyone knew the man on sight, a master horseman and a crack shot, with a well placed curse here and there. Along with his patched and farm greased 501 Levis , he wore overworked but well oiled boots and plaid long sleeved shirts, not to forget a cowboy hat and favorite jacket that both should have been retired twenty years earlier. He was respected even by those he had just met, commanding a silent obedience.
   He swung into the saddle, wheeling his horse toward the cabin. It was a long ride and dinner would be late tonight.

END