what,’’ he said. “If it was Austin, she’ll pay for your tent and bag and whatever else she ruined.’’
“I can take care of myself.’’ I heard the huffiness in my own voice.
Marty took pity on me and changed the subject.
“Trey, you were saying you’re never sure if people like you for yourself,’’ her voice was soft, caring. “That must be really hard.’’
“I wouldn’t think it’s so hard,’’ Maddie said. “You’ve just got to make sure you give people something to like.’’
“Maddie knows all about that subject, Trey,’’ I said.
Before my big sister and I could really begin to bicker, one of the trail outriders loped up to the breakfast crowd. She pulled up on her horse’s reins, leaned back in the saddle, and whistled for everyone’s attention.
“Twenty minutes, everybody,’’ she yelled. “It’s clear enough to go, so we leave in twenty. Remember to stay behind the mule wagons.’’
She turned and sped off to spread the news to the rest of the camp. We all stood and started packing up our breakfast trash.
“I’ll take that,’’ Trey said, piling plates and napkins into his arms. “And, yes, Marty. It is hard. Folks have always looked at my family’s land and money, and thought I was lucky. They thought it was a breeze being Lawton Bramble III. But my daddy wore some pretty big boots. And no matter how hard I tried, I never seemed able to fill them.’’
As Trey carried our trash off toward the garbage cans, Marty tsked. “That is so sad.’’
“That’s one way of looking at it.’’ Maddie folded her arms as she watched him disappear. “Another is that Trey doesn’t have to worry so much now about those big ol’ boots of Lawton’s.’’
The outriders patrolled the mounted and waiting crowd, their eyes never still. They looked for any problem that had the potential to become a crisis. Here, a weekend cowboy needed a red ribbon tied to his horse’s tail, a sign to steer clear because the horse kicked. There, another horse spooked at the sharp snap of a cow whip. Embarrassed but unhurt, the rider landed hard on the sandy ground.
Little got by the outriders.
“Listen up,’’ the one closest to us shouted. “We can’t say it enough about them cow whips. This is called the Cracker Trail Ride. It honors the Florida pioneers. They used to call ’em Crackers for those loud-assed whips they used.’’ He looked down the line of riders, not focusing on any one person. Still, all of us knew what was coming next. “Now, if your horse don’t like the sound of a cow whip, that’s your problem. Not the Cracker Trail’s. You need to get ’em used to that sound, ’cause you’re gonna be hearing it a lot.’’ He shifted a wad of tobacco under his lip. “And if they can’t get used to it, you and your horse are gonna have to find another trail to ride.’’ The outrider gazed down the line again, lingering for a moment on the woman whose horse dumped her off. She got busy fiddling with a leather strap on her saddle.
“We just can’t take the chance of a horse bolting out into the road or knocking somebody off whenever they hear a whip crack.’’ He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the pasture. It hit a soda apple, poisonous to cattle. I wondered whether tobacco worked as a weed control.
“We’ll be off in a few minutes,’’ the outrider said. “Let’s have us a good ride.’’
He gave a quick smile, but the serious look stayed in his eyes. Keeping track of more than a hundred riders of various ages and abilities is hard work and heavy responsibility. It’s definitely more challenging than working cattle. More like herding cats.
Mama took the opportunity of our delay to catch up on her socializing. The last I’d seen her, she was jabbering away, somewhere near the back of the crowd.
Sal enlisted another non-rider to help him move my Jeep and the horse trailer, as well as his own car, to our next camp. The organizers provide
“I can take care of myself.’’ I heard the huffiness in my own voice.
Marty took pity on me and changed the subject.
“Trey, you were saying you’re never sure if people like you for yourself,’’ her voice was soft, caring. “That must be really hard.’’
“I wouldn’t think it’s so hard,’’ Maddie said. “You’ve just got to make sure you give people something to like.’’
“Maddie knows all about that subject, Trey,’’ I said.
Before my big sister and I could really begin to bicker, one of the trail outriders loped up to the breakfast crowd. She pulled up on her horse’s reins, leaned back in the saddle, and whistled for everyone’s attention.
“Twenty minutes, everybody,’’ she yelled. “It’s clear enough to go, so we leave in twenty. Remember to stay behind the mule wagons.’’
She turned and sped off to spread the news to the rest of the camp. We all stood and started packing up our breakfast trash.
“I’ll take that,’’ Trey said, piling plates and napkins into his arms. “And, yes, Marty. It is hard. Folks have always looked at my family’s land and money, and thought I was lucky. They thought it was a breeze being Lawton Bramble III. But my daddy wore some pretty big boots. And no matter how hard I tried, I never seemed able to fill them.’’
As Trey carried our trash off toward the garbage cans, Marty tsked. “That is so sad.’’
“That’s one way of looking at it.’’ Maddie folded her arms as she watched him disappear. “Another is that Trey doesn’t have to worry so much now about those big ol’ boots of Lawton’s.’’
The outriders patrolled the mounted and waiting crowd, their eyes never still. They looked for any problem that had the potential to become a crisis. Here, a weekend cowboy needed a red ribbon tied to his horse’s tail, a sign to steer clear because the horse kicked. There, another horse spooked at the sharp snap of a cow whip. Embarrassed but unhurt, the rider landed hard on the sandy ground.
Little got by the outriders.
“Listen up,’’ the one closest to us shouted. “We can’t say it enough about them cow whips. This is called the Cracker Trail Ride. It honors the Florida pioneers. They used to call ’em Crackers for those loud-assed whips they used.’’ He looked down the line of riders, not focusing on any one person. Still, all of us knew what was coming next. “Now, if your horse don’t like the sound of a cow whip, that’s your problem. Not the Cracker Trail’s. You need to get ’em used to that sound, ’cause you’re gonna be hearing it a lot.’’ He shifted a wad of tobacco under his lip. “And if they can’t get used to it, you and your horse are gonna have to find another trail to ride.’’ The outrider gazed down the line again, lingering for a moment on the woman whose horse dumped her off. She got busy fiddling with a leather strap on her saddle.
“We just can’t take the chance of a horse bolting out into the road or knocking somebody off whenever they hear a whip crack.’’ He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the pasture. It hit a soda apple, poisonous to cattle. I wondered whether tobacco worked as a weed control.
“We’ll be off in a few minutes,’’ the outrider said. “Let’s have us a good ride.’’
He gave a quick smile, but the serious look stayed in his eyes. Keeping track of more than a hundred riders of various ages and abilities is hard work and heavy responsibility. It’s definitely more challenging than working cattle. More like herding cats.
Mama took the opportunity of our delay to catch up on her socializing. The last I’d seen her, she was jabbering away, somewhere near the back of the crowd.
Sal enlisted another non-rider to help him move my Jeep and the horse trailer, as well as his own car, to our next camp. The organizers provide
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