Wooden Hawk, a Short Love Story - Page 1
didn’t rupture yourself, did ya, Virgil?” Hank inquired, removing his weathered
cowboy hat and scratching the top of his head in the process.
Old Buck had sure thrown Virgil for a loop.
And if Virgil had mortally wounded himself, the bossman Hawk wasn’t going to be
pleased. They were already short-handed at the ranch.
Virgil huffed and puffed like an exhausted
big bad wolf as he tried to collect himself, still sprawled-out on the raw
earth, his mouth fighting the small dust storm as he gazed at his cohort who
was currently scratching his sparsely-covered head.
And Hank didn’t scratch his head like a
normal person, rather with his hand positioned like a hooded-cobra over his
head, his fingertips working the scalp.
“Nah, nothing important damaged,” he finally
assured the inquisitive Hank, spitting to one side to remove as much of the
dirt as possible from his mouth. Tasted foul too, like his third wife’s
cooking. No doubt, that spill had been one dusty thunderclap.
“That horse is a devil rider. Ain’t gonna be
easy to break him. Has the attitude of a difficult woman.”
“Yep; I agree,” Virgil told him. “He’s a
“Looks like he may break us fore it’s all
over. Say….you think we can trick Johnny into breaking ‘em?”
“Nah, that’s a dumb idea,” Virgil assured,
rising from the ground as he accepted Hank’s gloved hand. “If Hawk found out,
he’d do worse than Old Buck could to us.”
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