I had just talked to them. They were trailing cows home to sort and put in the calving pasture. Dad was riding with my sister, brother in law and pastor. Mom was ready to flag for them when they came out to the road. It made me homesick.
The summer and fall pastures are about 10 miles north of the home place and each winter they are brought close. The river at home is surrounded by rough pasture that makes for great shelter. They sort cows so that those that will be calving first are kept closer to the pens, corrals and barns.
My sister texted to say that there was another accident... Dad's horse went down on him and he was in the ambulance on the way to the hospital about 45 miles away. Both bones broke on his lower leg. Surgery early in the morning.
But...they asked, "Do you remember which leg was broken when the horse went over on him 15 years ago?" The surgeon needs to know. Which accident I ask? It was almost easier to go by the horse. Was it when Flashy slipped on the river bank? Or the time that Mac went over in the stubble field?
My mind's eye saw the makeshift tire tube that he had fashioned into a stirrup so that he could still check cows. Watching him ride with his leg in a tire tube is something you don't see everyday. "The right," I say. I hope that was it.
But for this rancher determined to stay in the saddle...this probably won't be the last broken bone. So we had better keep track!
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