Red, Green, or Murder

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“Hooooowhup!” Dale Torrance bellowed, and his horse understood whatever that language was and ducked hard to the left, cutting off a calf’s escape. Dale and another of the H-Bar-T hands, Pat Gabaldon, worked the herd counter-clockwise around the corral’s perimeter. Every now and then a calf, all gangly and awkward like a teenager, would bolt sideways from the flow, figuring who knows what in its bovine brain.

I stood in the middle of the arena with Herb Torrance and enjoyed watching the two kids do all the hard work. Half of their efforts went into playing rodeo stars, and they were spending a good deal more time having fun than the actual task at hand demanded. But we were in no hurry-although if I dawdled much longer, I would be late for lunch. Since I had no other plans on this pleasant day, I had agreed to meet another old friend, George Payton, for a take-out burrito after I’d finished with the paperwork for the Torrances.

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