Any bull worth keeping was a mean bastard. A brute born of fire and raw muscle. The fiercest bulls sired the strongest calves, and it was calves that kept the Silver L ranch from becoming just another dust speck on the horizon. They taught me that the first day I started cowgirling there, some 8 years ago. Still there was a cavernous divide between a mere aggressive bull and the creature that was Hornpipe.
Its very presence was an omen of darkness. Ebony fur, eyes that glowed with a malevolent fury, Hornpipe was singular. Its horns rose like twin scimitars, threatening and sharp, promising pain and chaos. Every time I had to pen that beast, fear clawed at my spine, leaving my shirt soaked through and clinging to my trembling back.
Andy, the best hand the Silver L had ever seen, had christened him. It was right after the beast had snapped Andy’s favorite riata in two, like it was only a darning twine. In his rage, Andy had vowed to put “a flurry of bullets into that monster, and carve myself a tee-bacy pipe from its damned horns.”
Perhaps Hornpipe had been listening.
Within forty-eight hours, Andy was dead, gored by the very creature he’d sworn vengeance upon. That bloody day marked my ascent to the title of top hand. But more importantly, it signaled the moment Hornpipe… transformed.
Whispers spread like wildfire. Others said it was the taste of human blood that triggered the change, that the act of murder made it become what it became. Others say a witch-man came down from the hills to cast a dark juju upon Hornpipe.
I held no truck with those tales. In my bones, I knew Hornpipe was born wicked, cursed from the moment its mother dropped it onto this dark earth.
And as I trailed the beast across the sun-scorched, cracked expanse, regret gnawed at me. If only Andy had slain Hornpipe when it was still just an unruly bull. If only we’d acted when we still had a chance…
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