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(no subject)
Jan. 8th, 2008 01:16 pmJim hurts.
Everywhere.
He surfaces from unconsciousness long enough to wonder how much time has passed and who lit the fire burning cheerfully (but far too brightly) in the grate. As his eyes slip closed again, he notes that someone has obviously neatened the bunkhouse. That's odd, he thinks to himself.
It hurts to think.
Probably best to keep his eyes shut, then.
Everywhere.
He surfaces from unconsciousness long enough to wonder how much time has passed and who lit the fire burning cheerfully (but far too brightly) in the grate. As his eyes slip closed again, he notes that someone has obviously neatened the bunkhouse. That's odd, he thinks to himself.
It hurts to think.
Probably best to keep his eyes shut, then.
(no subject)
Jan. 8th, 2008 12:39 pmDawn is slow in coming. The sun spills over the horizon like a slow leak, its purple and gold fingers tracing the mountains before crossing the lowlands and Harrison's ranch. A rooster crows sharply, cutting through the muffled sounds of pumping water and animals feeding.
Jim holds the colt's reins to the side and sweeps the soft brush along the animal's gleaming neck. He'll need coarser bristles for the sweat and saddle stains on his back; should have asked Jessica to grab one after her trip to the kitchen. A chance turn of his head reveals she's almost back to the corral, clutching sugar cubes in her hand and stepping lively around a pile of muck.
The muster is due to return either this day or the next. Jim is of two minds about seeing the men again; he's loath to lose his time with Jessica, but proud to show Harrison (and Curly, that bastard) what he's accomplished with the colt. He's eager to show them mountain men hold their own.
But he's not sure when it became equally as important to prove he’s good enough for Jess. He knows they won't agree, no matter if he found one of those veins of gold Spur is always hunting or made his money on a gamble, like some of these men on the flats. Still, it's important.
He can't look at Jessica while thinking such thoughts. Not yet. Returning to his task, Jim gives his head a slow shake and begins the tedious process of grooming away sweat stains with an inadequate brush, but he only manages one stroke. The colt raises his head and whinnies, backing away, trembling all over as if scenting danger. The brush falls to the dirt.
"Whoa, boy," Jim says in surprise. There's nothing new he can see or hear. "Hey."
Behind them, Jessica climbs on a rail and frowns into the distance. Jim tries to calm the colt, turning him in circles, whispering soft, soothing words, and doesn't notice that she's searching for him. He cranes his neck, looking for some sign of what upset the horse, and goes completely still when he finds it.
The brumbies. The whole magnificent herd, galloping across a rise as if they mean to pay Harrison's ranch a visit. Eyes fixed on their progress like a man possessed, Jim works his jaw and tells himself he sees a bay mare with a broken halter around her neck. "Bess," he growls, voice harsh with emotion. His eyes widen, following the horse he believes to be Bess, but he's somewhere else. All he hears is the snap of a chain. All he sees is the giant tree trunk rolling to crush his father. And the pounding hooves...
No man could forget the sound of so many hooves coming (for) toward him, churning the earth and tearing across the ground like the devil himself.
Without a moment of thought for the consequences, Jim throws the reins over the colt's neck, leaps on his back and digs his heels into his bare side.
"Jim," Jessica warns. "Don't you dare."
Jim ignores her. He knows what he has to do, knows to his very bones that he has to recapture that mare and deliver her to Spur to make things right. Don't go throwing effort after foolishness, Spur said. It's only foolishness if he fails. And if he happens to bring in a few extra brood mares, all the better. This is his chance, he tells himself, riding hell-bent for the fence.
The colt clears it easily, proving he's worth every one of those thousand pounds, and Jim hangs on with grim satisfaction. His powerful stride lengthens, eating up the ground, racing to meet the brumbies. Still Jim demands more, pushing and fixating on the next fence as if they could sail over on his force of will alone.
A good horseman knows better.
Hooves digging into the dirt, the colt refuses the gate and sends Jim flying over his head. The fall robs Jim of his breath, depositing him face down in the dirt, directly in the path of the brumbies.
Later, he'll think it's a blessing that he doesn't remember much of the abuse his body takes as they pass over and around him.
The world goes dark and odd patches of gray, and it's filled with a dull, rhythmic noise he knows he should recognize. Someone groans. It takes him a moment to realize the noise came from him. Opening his eyes he sees his hat nearby, curiously unharmed and free of dust, and spits dirt from his dry, swollen mouth. His face feels twisted into a permanent grimace. Then he feels something strange, something more chilling than the thought of the trampling he'd just suffered.
A breath on the back of his neck.
Again Jim hears a blowing sound and gradually realizes it's a horse’s breath tickling the bare skin above his scarf. But not just any horse. Certainly not the colt. He rolls over in fright, eyes huge and aware, and stares at the stallion his father spoke of on his last fateful night.
(Devil)
This time, the world explodes in a riot of color before it goes black.
Jim holds the colt's reins to the side and sweeps the soft brush along the animal's gleaming neck. He'll need coarser bristles for the sweat and saddle stains on his back; should have asked Jessica to grab one after her trip to the kitchen. A chance turn of his head reveals she's almost back to the corral, clutching sugar cubes in her hand and stepping lively around a pile of muck.
The muster is due to return either this day or the next. Jim is of two minds about seeing the men again; he's loath to lose his time with Jessica, but proud to show Harrison (and Curly, that bastard) what he's accomplished with the colt. He's eager to show them mountain men hold their own.
But he's not sure when it became equally as important to prove he’s good enough for Jess. He knows they won't agree, no matter if he found one of those veins of gold Spur is always hunting or made his money on a gamble, like some of these men on the flats. Still, it's important.
He can't look at Jessica while thinking such thoughts. Not yet. Returning to his task, Jim gives his head a slow shake and begins the tedious process of grooming away sweat stains with an inadequate brush, but he only manages one stroke. The colt raises his head and whinnies, backing away, trembling all over as if scenting danger. The brush falls to the dirt.
"Whoa, boy," Jim says in surprise. There's nothing new he can see or hear. "Hey."
Behind them, Jessica climbs on a rail and frowns into the distance. Jim tries to calm the colt, turning him in circles, whispering soft, soothing words, and doesn't notice that she's searching for him. He cranes his neck, looking for some sign of what upset the horse, and goes completely still when he finds it.
The brumbies. The whole magnificent herd, galloping across a rise as if they mean to pay Harrison's ranch a visit. Eyes fixed on their progress like a man possessed, Jim works his jaw and tells himself he sees a bay mare with a broken halter around her neck. "Bess," he growls, voice harsh with emotion. His eyes widen, following the horse he believes to be Bess, but he's somewhere else. All he hears is the snap of a chain. All he sees is the giant tree trunk rolling to crush his father. And the pounding hooves...
No man could forget the sound of so many hooves coming (for) toward him, churning the earth and tearing across the ground like the devil himself.
Without a moment of thought for the consequences, Jim throws the reins over the colt's neck, leaps on his back and digs his heels into his bare side.
"Jim," Jessica warns. "Don't you dare."
Jim ignores her. He knows what he has to do, knows to his very bones that he has to recapture that mare and deliver her to Spur to make things right. Don't go throwing effort after foolishness, Spur said. It's only foolishness if he fails. And if he happens to bring in a few extra brood mares, all the better. This is his chance, he tells himself, riding hell-bent for the fence.
The colt clears it easily, proving he's worth every one of those thousand pounds, and Jim hangs on with grim satisfaction. His powerful stride lengthens, eating up the ground, racing to meet the brumbies. Still Jim demands more, pushing and fixating on the next fence as if they could sail over on his force of will alone.
A good horseman knows better.
Hooves digging into the dirt, the colt refuses the gate and sends Jim flying over his head. The fall robs Jim of his breath, depositing him face down in the dirt, directly in the path of the brumbies.
Later, he'll think it's a blessing that he doesn't remember much of the abuse his body takes as they pass over and around him.
The world goes dark and odd patches of gray, and it's filled with a dull, rhythmic noise he knows he should recognize. Someone groans. It takes him a moment to realize the noise came from him. Opening his eyes he sees his hat nearby, curiously unharmed and free of dust, and spits dirt from his dry, swollen mouth. His face feels twisted into a permanent grimace. Then he feels something strange, something more chilling than the thought of the trampling he'd just suffered.
A breath on the back of his neck.
Again Jim hears a blowing sound and gradually realizes it's a horse’s breath tickling the bare skin above his scarf. But not just any horse. Certainly not the colt. He rolls over in fright, eyes huge and aware, and stares at the stallion his father spoke of on his last fateful night.
(Devil)
This time, the world explodes in a riot of color before it goes black.
(no subject)
Nov. 27th, 2007 01:00 pmYou've got to be firm with a young horse, yes, but not cruel. Never cruel. He'll prove that the likes of Curly should never be allowed near a horse again.
Jessica's challenge stays on Jim's mind throughout the long work day. It occupies his thoughts while he mucks stalls. Chops wood. Cleans tack. It fills him with an uneasy anticipation as he fetches water for Mrs. Hume. And it's still there, holding all his attention, when he leans against the bunkhouse at the end of the day, unaware that he completed all of his chores without a single sullen thought directed at the men on muster. Strains of piano music drift on the night air, caught up in and mingled with the sounds of horses shifting in their stalls and a breeze swirling dust. The piece is bold, unfamiliar, and strangely exasperating, much like Jessica herself, and Jim smiles slightly before knocking the dirt off his boots and turning in.
He doesn't sleep much. Alone in a room of empty bunks, he folds his hands under his head and plans his every move, remembers everything his father ever told him about breaking horses.
Gentling horses.
Morning dawns clear and sunny, and Jim is up and dressed, early duties fulfilled, before breakfast is even served in the main house. He grooms the colt to an elegant sheen and leads him to one of the smaller corrals, whispering compliments. The bright sun picks up the red in the colt's coat and bleaches the wooden fence a near white, but Jim leaves his hat near the gate; he wants the colt to see his eyes. Releasing him, Jim slowly backs to the fence, watching the horse -- a magnificent animal worth more than he'll likely ever see, and some would call him a fool for not putting more stock in that fact -- buck and rear and trot with his head held high.
Jim knows exactly when Jessica arrives. There's a strange current in the air, and his stomach gives an odd flop. He even finds himself standing a bit straighter. But he only spares her a distracted smile as he reaches for the longe whips and begins. She needs to see his determination, his confidence, his belief in his methods. She needs to see that horses, whether mountain brumbies or prize-winning colts, respond best to kindness, not cruelty. He'll prove it.
As he works, Jim remains calm and patient, letting the colt grow used to his presence in a new setting. To rush would mean failure. The whips aren't used as Curly would deem fit; Jim simply lets them flow around the animal, never touching, and eventually steers the horse where he wants him to go. The colt gallops and kicks, putting on a grand show of defiance, but it's just that: a show. Jim gives him no reason to be afraid. When he settles down, Jim spreads the whips wide and the colt trots up to him as if it's what he's wanted to do all along. He snorts, paws the ground, and seems to look directly into Jim's soul.
How could anyone want to break such a spirit?
Slowly, Jim extends his hand and pets the soft muzzle. He can feel Jessica watching him, has been aware of her all along, and flashes her a happy, smug smile.
He'll prove it to her. He'll prove it to everyone.
Jessica's challenge stays on Jim's mind throughout the long work day. It occupies his thoughts while he mucks stalls. Chops wood. Cleans tack. It fills him with an uneasy anticipation as he fetches water for Mrs. Hume. And it's still there, holding all his attention, when he leans against the bunkhouse at the end of the day, unaware that he completed all of his chores without a single sullen thought directed at the men on muster. Strains of piano music drift on the night air, caught up in and mingled with the sounds of horses shifting in their stalls and a breeze swirling dust. The piece is bold, unfamiliar, and strangely exasperating, much like Jessica herself, and Jim smiles slightly before knocking the dirt off his boots and turning in.
He doesn't sleep much. Alone in a room of empty bunks, he folds his hands under his head and plans his every move, remembers everything his father ever told him about breaking horses.
Gentling horses.
Morning dawns clear and sunny, and Jim is up and dressed, early duties fulfilled, before breakfast is even served in the main house. He grooms the colt to an elegant sheen and leads him to one of the smaller corrals, whispering compliments. The bright sun picks up the red in the colt's coat and bleaches the wooden fence a near white, but Jim leaves his hat near the gate; he wants the colt to see his eyes. Releasing him, Jim slowly backs to the fence, watching the horse -- a magnificent animal worth more than he'll likely ever see, and some would call him a fool for not putting more stock in that fact -- buck and rear and trot with his head held high.
Jim knows exactly when Jessica arrives. There's a strange current in the air, and his stomach gives an odd flop. He even finds himself standing a bit straighter. But he only spares her a distracted smile as he reaches for the longe whips and begins. She needs to see his determination, his confidence, his belief in his methods. She needs to see that horses, whether mountain brumbies or prize-winning colts, respond best to kindness, not cruelty. He'll prove it.
As he works, Jim remains calm and patient, letting the colt grow used to his presence in a new setting. To rush would mean failure. The whips aren't used as Curly would deem fit; Jim simply lets them flow around the animal, never touching, and eventually steers the horse where he wants him to go. The colt gallops and kicks, putting on a grand show of defiance, but it's just that: a show. Jim gives him no reason to be afraid. When he settles down, Jim spreads the whips wide and the colt trots up to him as if it's what he's wanted to do all along. He snorts, paws the ground, and seems to look directly into Jim's soul.
How could anyone want to break such a spirit?
Slowly, Jim extends his hand and pets the soft muzzle. He can feel Jessica watching him, has been aware of her all along, and flashes her a happy, smug smile.
He'll prove it to her. He'll prove it to everyone.
A challenge
Feb. 25th, 2007 07:36 pmThe cattle station is quiet with everyone gone. Not as quiet as the mountains can be, but close.
Jim has grown used to the chorus of chickens and hogs, the occasional dog barking, unbroken by the sounds of hooves and gruff laughter. He has stopped looking over his shoulder and expectantly watching the horizon. Up in the hayloft, he makes as much noise as possible, choosing to delight in the solitude rather than continue sulking. Bale after bale of hay is tossed below, and Jim grins to himself, wiping the faint sheen of sweat above his lip with the back of a work glove.
It's a beautiful day. Not even the lone man left behind can find fault with it.
He climbs down the rickety ladder, jumping the last few feet to the dirt aisle between stalls. The colt gets his hay first, like the magnificent king he is. Jim finds it hard not to spoil such an animal, and smiles with pleasure as he enters the stall and offers the largest bale of the bunch.
"There," he croons softly, a fond look in his eyes. The colt takes a large bite and snorts, as if receiving his due.
Jim has grown used to the chorus of chickens and hogs, the occasional dog barking, unbroken by the sounds of hooves and gruff laughter. He has stopped looking over his shoulder and expectantly watching the horizon. Up in the hayloft, he makes as much noise as possible, choosing to delight in the solitude rather than continue sulking. Bale after bale of hay is tossed below, and Jim grins to himself, wiping the faint sheen of sweat above his lip with the back of a work glove.
It's a beautiful day. Not even the lone man left behind can find fault with it.
He climbs down the rickety ladder, jumping the last few feet to the dirt aisle between stalls. The colt gets his hay first, like the magnificent king he is. Jim finds it hard not to spoil such an animal, and smiles with pleasure as he enters the stall and offers the largest bale of the bunch.
"There," he croons softly, a fond look in his eyes. The colt takes a large bite and snorts, as if receiving his due.
What good can come of being left behind?
Feb. 1st, 2007 02:48 pmBe saddled and packed by sunrise, Mr. Kane had said. Not Jim. Jim has no reason to disturb his horse's morning grain or pack his saddle bags.
Jim isn't going on the muster.
It grates, twisting his heart in a way he hasn't felt since leaving the homestead behind. He's from the mountains. He should be saddling up, not men like Curly. Quietly seething, Jim leans against the bunkhouse rail with his arms crossed, studiously ignoring Curly when he leads his tired looking chestnut to a stop directly ahead.
"Don't forget to feed the chicks, bandicoot," Curly snarls, mounting his horse and riding away to meet the others. His laughter trails behind, and Jim imagines it coloring the crisp morning air. Rolling his eyes, he kicks at the ground and goes to finish readying Harrison's horse.
Harrison. Like a commander taking no notice of his troops, he slides into the saddle of his big gray without sparing a glance for Jim. With a quiet click of his tongue, he canters off through a cloud of chickens, the ever loyal foreman at his heels.
Jim knows the order to leave him behind came from Harrison's lips, and so it is with a combination of anger, regret and jealousy that he watches the man cross through the gate and ride to the head of the pack. His jaw clenches. As still as a statue, he stands in the dust and watches the distant silhouette of mountains long after the riders are out of sight.
It's only after she moves away and he hears the gate catch that Jim realizes Jessica had been standing beside him.
More regret.
(no subject)
Nov. 12th, 2006 04:06 pmIt's hard, really, to go about your business when there's a door to the end of the universe just around the corner and no one else seems to notice. Hard, but not impossible.
That doesn't mean Jim doesn't think an awful lot about it while chopping logs and mucking out the stable. He's half convinced the other stablehands are enjoying a joke at his expense, but as far as he can tell, no one seems to pay the door any attention, or even use it for whatever it's true purpose is meant to be.
It's a mystery, but not the only mystery on Harrison's cattle station.
Take Curly, for example. Jim can't fathom why Harrison hired on a duffer like that. Earlier, Jim had been working hard in a stall, ignoring the sweat dripping down his forehead, when Curly and another man had decided to make their presence known.
Jim hadn't particularly cared for them on sight – there’s something about the way Curly insists on wearing a waistcoat and long pocket watch chain, as if he feels himself above everyone, that irritates Jim -- but he stopped shoveling, wiped his hand on his pants and offered it anyway. “Oh, g’day. I'm Jim Craig.”
"Pretty good at shoveling that, aren't ya?" Curly hooked his thumbs in his lapels. Neither man shook Jim's hand. "Pretty smart for a mountain fella. Usin’ the front-end and everythin'."
"Yeah," the second man laughed.
Curly reached behind his ear for a cigarette and gestured for a light. "Like bandicoots in the mountains. You diggin’ for grubs, bandicoot?"
Hands clenched tightly around the shovel handle, Jim walked past and fixed them with a cold look. "Have they given you the day off, then?"
Curly dropped the lit match to the stable floor, flashing Jim an antagonizing smile. White smoke puffed from his mouth. "I'm studyin’ to be supervisor." The match landed in hay, damp but still flammable.
Jim gave him a disgusted look, scooped up a pile of dung and dumped it on both the match and Curly's foot. "Studying to be stupid."
As first meetings go, it wasn't terribly pleasant. Curly shook his foot and looked ready to carry it further, but they soon found themselves interrupted by Jessica Harrison, walking directly for Kip's stall.
"I'll be back later to check on your work," said Curly, leaving him to it. Jim noticed he doesn't walk like he owns the place when anyone of authority is around.
Keeping his eyes on Jessica, Jim went back to his work. He watches her now, wondering if she remembers him from the train station. Part of him hopes she doesn't. It's only a very small part.
That doesn't mean Jim doesn't think an awful lot about it while chopping logs and mucking out the stable. He's half convinced the other stablehands are enjoying a joke at his expense, but as far as he can tell, no one seems to pay the door any attention, or even use it for whatever it's true purpose is meant to be.
It's a mystery, but not the only mystery on Harrison's cattle station.
Take Curly, for example. Jim can't fathom why Harrison hired on a duffer like that. Earlier, Jim had been working hard in a stall, ignoring the sweat dripping down his forehead, when Curly and another man had decided to make their presence known.
Jim hadn't particularly cared for them on sight – there’s something about the way Curly insists on wearing a waistcoat and long pocket watch chain, as if he feels himself above everyone, that irritates Jim -- but he stopped shoveling, wiped his hand on his pants and offered it anyway. “Oh, g’day. I'm Jim Craig.”
"Pretty good at shoveling that, aren't ya?" Curly hooked his thumbs in his lapels. Neither man shook Jim's hand. "Pretty smart for a mountain fella. Usin’ the front-end and everythin'."
"Yeah," the second man laughed.
Curly reached behind his ear for a cigarette and gestured for a light. "Like bandicoots in the mountains. You diggin’ for grubs, bandicoot?"
Hands clenched tightly around the shovel handle, Jim walked past and fixed them with a cold look. "Have they given you the day off, then?"
Curly dropped the lit match to the stable floor, flashing Jim an antagonizing smile. White smoke puffed from his mouth. "I'm studyin’ to be supervisor." The match landed in hay, damp but still flammable.
Jim gave him a disgusted look, scooped up a pile of dung and dumped it on both the match and Curly's foot. "Studying to be stupid."
As first meetings go, it wasn't terribly pleasant. Curly shook his foot and looked ready to carry it further, but they soon found themselves interrupted by Jessica Harrison, walking directly for Kip's stall.
"I'll be back later to check on your work," said Curly, leaving him to it. Jim noticed he doesn't walk like he owns the place when anyone of authority is around.
Keeping his eyes on Jessica, Jim went back to his work. He watches her now, wondering if she remembers him from the train station. Part of him hopes she doesn't. It's only a very small part.
