All across the prairie old gopher holes gape wide open. Collapsed, abandoned for a better address. Clipper avoids them. If he steps in one, his leg will snap like a twig. He avoids sagebrush lately, too, but like I tell him, sagebrush won’t kill him. He’s dragging now, tired as me. My bones ache from four hours bouncing in the saddle, but a couple more miles we’ll be home. We checked the near pasture fence, and it’s as much as I can do in a day anymore. We rode over to the next valley, down, around, and up again by the highway.

Time was, fence kept cattle in and rustlers out, nothing more. Nowadays, it catches flying garbage. Dismays me how many grocery bags hang up on a line of fence. I pack ‘em out. Don’t like garbage on the prairie. Fence looks good, no breaks, and only a handful of Safeway advertising tangled in it. The sun’s dropping now but still warming to our shoulders.

Over the ridge I see a line of green aspen trees turning yellow on the tops. They stand tall along Dry Creek, snake right through our place. Dry Creek keeps them alive - and the wildlife, and the ranches along its banks. The Two Bar J has stood there ninety years, homesteaded by my pa. In years when the creek runs high, the ground softens enough so wildflowers poke their heads through the dirt and flood the prairie with color. That Indian Paintbrush is blood red, and pretty as a Wyoming sunset. When the creek hardly runs, the ground is harder than a wrangler’s skull whose itching for a fight.

A damn pain spews in my gut. It bucks me over. I grab hold of the pommel. Clipper slows to nothing. My mouth’s dry and my teeth clench shut. I sit like this, all tensed up, waiting for it to subside. I breathe easy again, and look around the prairie checking no one saw. Yeah, I know it’s dumb. I could be settled in my rocker, now, done for the day. Not complaining, though, my idea to ride out. Truthfully, the fence could have waited. I’m just cussed stubborn. I guess.

The pain jabbed this morning as I pushed my boot in the stirrup, clouded up my vision like a dustbowl. Helen fussed. “Jeb, honey, please, let me drive you to town. You must see the doctor.”

“Never seen a doctor in my life,” I rasped at her, but had to rest up against the coral. “And if a ride out on the range can’t fix it, it can’t be fixed. I’ll decide if I need a doctor or not. Stop fussing, woman.” Been married fifty years, couldn’t bring my eyes to look at her. Those harsh words fell between us into the coral, lay in the dust staring at me. Back of my neck heated up; mopped it with my kerchief. Didn’t even know why I wanted to ride out so bad. I softened my voice up, “I’ll be fine, Helly, I just need some air. And I’ve got to check the near fence; I’m not going far.”

“You’d better not, Jeb Johnson, you stubborn old man.” Concern showed clear on her face. She stood arms folded, biting her lip like she was calculating. She got all hurried, “I’m worried, Jeb. You think I don’t know, but you haven’t been well for months... Stay home. It’s already eleven o’clock. What if a storm blows up? I don’t think…”

“Helen, that’s enough.” I mounted Clipper and eased into the saddle. Damn woman. “Walk on.” I headed out.

Two Douglas-fir trunks hundred feet tall pointing skyward in opposite directions, bound with rope at the cross point anchored into the ground and set into the fence, are the entrance to our place. An old board - Two Bar J - burned into it by my pa, hangs down on a rope between them. When I rode through I raised one arm high, tried to touch it. Do it every time. Salute that old board and the pioneer generation. I looked back then; Helen still watched from the porch. Arm bent at the elbow, hand across her brow shading brown her eyes from the sun. I waved and she waved back. From that distance she looked like the girl I married; small little missy, a mass of wild, dark hair, and a waist that fit through a quarter. Glad she waved; I quit feeling so bad and headed for the prairie. From the porch, maybe she couldn’t tell me from the long-legged buck she fell for, when I rode a horse better than any man she knew.

But now, hell, my back’s hunched over; I’m leaning on the pommel and rocking from side to side like a greenhorn. It’s Clipper taking us home.

I love wide open prairie. Even though it’ll kill me as soon as look at me. Suck every drop of water in summer; burn me to the ground. Freeze me in my tracks in winter. Turn me into an ice sculpture so I don’t hit the ground till spring. The Snowy Range watches over everything. Peaks stretch up twelve thousand feet, coated in snow even in August. They’re grand; my idea of art. Me and Helen, we sit up there on a summer evening looking out over three different states.

Right now clouds obscure the tops. It’s a bad sign. Dry lightening storms generally occur here on late afternoons, but those aren’t summer thunderheads. Thunderheads are clean, white; roil up and up like steam from a tea kettle. Barrels of thunder crash around cavernous insides, shards of lightning paint them every color of the rainbow, and they don't drop a spit of moisture. Up there now are stratus clouds, spread out flat, wide gray slabs of them. Snow is what they bring, beautiful, but deadly. I rub Clipper’s shoulder, it feels warm. “Maybe just a skiff and then be gone, eh boy?” I keep glancing over and those clouds keep coming. They garrison on the western horizon like union soldiers at Fort Laramie.

Once formed up they march, and clear every bit of blue sky out of their way. The rough edge of the wind blows in; chills the air, flaps the tails of my duster, pinches my ears. A Golden Eagle swoops down, seeing what fool critter is out here, no doubt. “Get on home, boy.” I tell him. He soars high and heads for shelter. I wish we could get out of here that easy. Already, I can’t see the aspen. I’ll keep the Snowy Range on my left till I can’t see it either. The wind blows straight down the back of my neck searching out warm spots. I get my collar up. Pull my hat down tight on my head. Tumbleweeds bounce, they're taking off like a starter pistol fired.

Clipper picks up his step, but I ease him back. “No hurry, old fella.” His neck quivers. I stroke along it, my fingers dig in and feel warm flesh between short, soft hairs. Clipper’s a chestnut stallion, and, I guess, my greatest friend. I bought him over in Cheyenne, almost thirty years ago. On a grey spring day still too close to winter for blooming, I stood in Billy Thompson’s coral considering a Palomino. The sun crept out from hiding and fell all over this big handsome Chestnut. Horsehide shone the color of Helen’s hair when afternoon sun stares through the window and she’s draped over a book. Ripples ran through his big body from front to back. He wasn’t afraid of anything. I piled him in the horse box, never regretted it. He’s whinnying, throwing his old head up and snorting, but he’s stopped trying to beat the storm home.

Helen will worry. She was right about the storm. I don’t feel too proud, upsetting her like that, and for what? So I can catch pneumonia? I love that woman, should tell her more often, I guess. Shouldn’t talk to her like that, neither. Regret’s not something I’m much familiar with, but I think it's nagging at my chest now.

The wind’s blown on by and the snow’s arriving, like it always does; silently. Wisps of dry gossamer swirl weightless in the air. I sure like these first flurries; it’s like riding inside a snow globe. But the numbers swell; increase till they fall straight down pushed by the army advancing behind them. They pile up on the ground. Huddle between rocks, disguise sagebrush and conceal gopher holes. Re-sculpt the prairie into an unrecognizable place.

Sky, gray as it was blue only minutes ago, chokes-up with clouds that descend lower and lower. Horizons close in. It’s like a room I saw on TV once. Walls and ceiling moved closer and closer, till they crushed someone.

Snow’s thick in the air and on the ground. It sounds like nothing on the prairie is breathing except Clipper. His breath echoes in great snorts of warm air. I wish they’d hold together long enough for us to walk into. But I feel safe in the space the storm’s giving us. It's a cocoon. Clipper’s big hooves leave a trail through the powder like a coyote on a moonlit night. Won’t last though, the wind will be back. Always is.

The temperature drops fast. We move forward but we’re alone on a cold, white ocean, abandoned by the sun. My duster yawps open at the top and my cold, stiff fingers take a hold of the button and ram it through the hole. Then yank my blanket out from under the saddle straps. I feel like a bullfighter wielding a cape and in danger of dropping the darn thing. So I roll it, get it around my neck, hold two ends, and drop the rest down like a curtain. It won’t protect me against much of anything but I got it done and I’m damn happy. I bend my head low. Warm air wafts up from inside my shirt, and I tuck my face inside my collar to stop my chin freezing off. Pick up the reins and get my hands inside the blanket.

“Walk on.”

The wind’s back, blows up the snow, erases tracks, and changes the air from cold to dangerous. It steals the cocoon, scratches the skin off my face. I hold tight to the blanket. Strain icy fingers. "Keep going, we’ll be all right, old fella, just keep moving.” Clipper’s ears flatten, and he nods like in agreement. That pain jumps in the pit of my belly again. Stabs right through me, ferocious. I fall forward clean onto the ground. The blanket takes off and I hit the snow face-down. Draw my knees up; try to stand, collapse. I lie shivering, concentrate on breathing. Gain back some strength. Wonder if Clipper stopped. Listen, but only hear the wind howl and caterwaul.

First I know is warm breath on the back of my neck. Push my hand out to rub his leg. “Hello, old fella.” I’m more grateful for warm horse breath than I knew possible. It’s as good a feeling as I’ve known. Clipper nuzzles and stamps, telling me to get back up, get back on. I try but the effort makes me shake. I fall flat, as useless as a lame steer. “No good, old fella, can’t do it yet. What the hell am I doing out here? Hell, I could have napped under a white blanket at home, damn sight warmer than this one. TV warned it might storm and I know that means snow in September.

Exhausted, bone cold, I watch Clipper stamp and range his head from side to side. Snow drifts up my back, starts to bury me. Clipper pushes his nose in my cheek. Every time comforts me. I wiggle my toes. The worst will be over soon. I remember heading home to Helen as the sun dropped like a fireball through a contented sky. At a lazy trot, or a wild gallop whooping and hollering when clouds gathered over the peaks. You learn respect quick for storms on these prairies raised higher than some folks’ mountains. We’d outrun them, cloud-up dust; see gophers scurry in fear for their lives. I rode all day then under a new white hat, and checked every mile of fence on the ranch.

“Think about now, Jeb, you got to get yourself home.” Belly doesn’t feel pain, feels disconnected, hardly like it’s mine. I’ve known almost from the first what this pain is. It’s no surprise. I saw pa fight it and lose. When I tended him, I watched the big man’s world shrink to the size of his sickbed. I swore I’d never die like that, piece by piece in a sickbed.

For the first time, I’m looking the thing in the eye.

Fear stymies folks, keeps them stuck. But that’s not me; I’m not afraid of doing, never have been. Not afraid of dying, either. Withering away, not able to put my own damn pants on, that’s what I’m afraid of. My college educated daughter, she told me about big picture people. I reckon God’s a big picture guy and he expects folks to take care of the details. I guess that’s it; I’m taking care of the details. Only have to think about that Jenny to get a damn lump in my throat. Feisty like her mother, she’ll be fussing at me, too. Already wants the Two Bar J turned into a Dude Ranch.

So, did I ride out here to die, then? No, I didn’t know it would snow, didn’t know it would be today, just wanted to choose. If I make it home, choose again tomorrow. I won’t die lying in bed while this pain in the belly sucks the life out of me… I won’t let it, or getting old, change me. If I decide to ride out, then by God, that’s what I’ll do… Like bravado when I was young and foolish, except now I’m old and foolish. Is that it, then, bravado? You damn fool. Look what it’s got you. No, that’s not it, but if this finishes me, then I’ll be dying living. That’s what I want.

The wind blows away and snow stops falling. But it’s cold as a grave and nothing moves. The prairie’s waiting, making sure it's over. My brain can hardly think; thoughts get lost. Sleep creeps over me, round my face…pushes my eyelids shut. In this silence, I can’t fight it. I dream. Soar high above the storm. Sit on a white cloud in a blue sky. From up here, it’s such a little storm; no more than a white plastic sack blowing over a green pasture.

The geyser erupts, scalds my insides, wakes me, and holds me rigid. Breath comes in noisy gasps. On my side now; arms drawn in. Knees up. Sweat covers me. Nothing I can do but wait. “Sweet Jesus, make it stop.”

It fades. I’m so damn cold. I raise my head and far off see a band of blue sky. Well, I’ll be! That damned horse brought us over the ridge. My neck gives way; head drops, hits a rock. A kaleidoscope of colors swirls in my eyes. Pain screams loud as a freight train on an empty prairie.

Fast as they descended clouds lift, horizons expand. Plants, critters, even the land, take a deep breath; the sun shows its face again -and I can see for miles and miles. A gopher pushes his head through the snow not two feet from me. Cautious eyes stare, decide I’m no threat and look around. I feel peaceful. Smells of sage and dirt are strong under my face.

“Not long now…old fella.” It’s barely a thought as my eyes close …

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