8. Into the Smoke
Into the Smoke
Falon
When I woke on my own to a quiet morning, and not to Frank, I smiled into my covers.
Easy mornings were my favorite. It was still early, before sunrise, and long before most of the world caught up.
Ranch life generally started before sun-up most days, including holidays.
Cattle, horses, and ranches in general, did not stop to celebrate holidays or sleep-in days.
An hour later, Frank had finally caught up and tried to make up for his tardiness in volume, much to Muddy’s dismay, who brayed in return.
Frank had moved from the fence to somewhere near the coop, which made his crowing seem louder and seemed to come from my actual kitchen.
I’d been up since before him, which said something about the state of my sleep and nothing good.
By six, I was ready fed and ready to conquer the day.
The truck was loaded, and I was in the east field, driving slowly along the fence line while Oliver and Cooper worked the cattle.
Atlas was still in training and prone to big ideas, so he rode in the back and supervised from a safe distance.
I’d drive a little, stop, push some flakes off, then drive some more and repeat the process.
The hay came off the bed in wide, loose flakes, lying across the frost-stiff grass in a trail the cattle followed.
This was the part of ranching nobody photographed.
The cold-fingered, pre-coffee, just-get-it-done part.
I loved it anyway. I loved the scent of the mornings, the hard work I did before sunup, and the accomplishment I felt.
It was more satisfying than anything I’ve seen on my phone or TV.
It was the pride in what I did and the sense of fulfillment that gave me purpose.
The Jenkins place ran along my east fence line.
I could see their barn and west pasture, but their house was blocked by the barn.
I smiled to myself when I heard John calling out to his cattle.
He always said “good morning” to the ranch and sometimes to the animals as he went about his daily chores.
It was his way of thanking God for his ranch and his life.
I loved that about him. I had started to do the same, but not as loudly.
It was more of a whispered prayer than an announcement.
For me, it was more of a conversation between me and the ranch and me and God, than John’s, but to each his own, right?
John had already greeted the world and was now in his far pasture doing the same thing I was doing.
He’d waved, and I waved back. Beatrice, his wife, was probably getting ready for her weekly Tuesday morning town trip.
You could set your watch by half the women in this town.
I finished the last pass and turned the truck toward the gate.
That’s when I smelled it. Faint but unmistakable. My instincts immediately kicked into high gear.
It wasn’t a campfire; this was different. Like being able to tell between cigarette smoke and an extinguished candle.
I stopped the truck, craning my head around to find the source. A fire in Montana, near a ranch that was not set to burn extra brush, was never good.
Oliver and Cooper stopped too, ears up, noses sniffing , then looked back at me. Cooper barked, and Oliver was looking towards the Jenkins’.
Then, I saw it, a light tendril of smoke coming from the Jenkins barn.
I had my phone out dialing nine-one-one as I bolted for the barn, hopping over fences and clearing the sprinkler line. If I weren’t in such a hurry, I would be proud of myself for not face-planting at least once.
“Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”
“Fire at the Jenkins barn on County Road.” I was already there and moving. “I’m the neighbor. I saw the smoke. I don’t know if anyone’s in the barn, but there are horses.”
“Ma’am, I need you to stay back from the?—”
“Sending you my location now.” I hung up.
Oliver and Cooper were at my heels. “Stay.” Oliver sat. Cooper sat, then immediately stood again. “Cooper.” He sat. “Stay.” Their instinct is to help, but in a fire, it would be too dangerous for them.
The handle was okay; I tested that first. The barn door was already hot when I reached it; the air around it had that shimmer that made me hesitate, but for only a second.
I could hear the horses whinnying from out here, and I knew I couldn’t just sit here, waiting.
First, I could hear stomping and knew John tended to put Chief near the doors.
Each has its own stall. I’d watched their animals more than I could count.
I pulled my flannel over my head, dunked it in the water trough by the fence post, and wrung it out fast. It wasn’t for me; it was for the horses. A wet shirt over a horse’s eyes is the difference between leading a horse to safety and getting trampled or dragging an unwilling horse.
I pulled the barn door open and went in.
The smoke was low and thick, rolling along the ceiling. The fire was in the back. It could be anything, hay storage, probably, or the tack room. Combustion from dirty stalls or damp hay. Who knew, and right now that didn’t matter.
Chief was in the first stall on the left, throwing himself against the door. Ranger was across from him, the whites of his eyes showing fear, and his hooves were banging against the boards. I went to Chief first.
“Hey there, buddy.” I kept my voice low and even. I used a casual, conversational tone with all my animals. “Hey, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Have I ever let you down before?” I asked him like it was just another day and not a barn-burning day.
I got the wet shirt over his eyes and unlatched the stall.
He was hesitant, but he followed, taking bigger steps because he couldn’t see.
Horses tended to do that; they took bigger or higher steps as a natural sense of precaution.
I walked him out into the morning air and let him go.
He’d run for the fence line and stop. They always did.
Then, I bolted back in.
Ranger was harder. He’d worked himself into the corner of his stall and wasn’t interested in coming forward.
I talked to him the whole time, low and steady.
“Now, listen, Ranger,” I spoke like I was talking to one of my dogs.
“I know you don’t like it, but come on. I’m not that tall.
You're going to have to lower your head a smidgen more if this is going to work.” I eventually got the shirt over his eyes and a hand on his halter.
He came out sideways, nearly took me into the door frame, but we got through.
Two out. Three to go. I went back in, the smoke making me cough a little.
The smoke was thicker now. I could feel it in my lungs. It was a scratchy, insistent burn. I didn’t have unlimited trips left. I was going to have to be faster. Scout and Ace were in the middle stalls, and the fire was audible now, a crackling from somewhere behind the back wall and getting louder.
Scout went first. He was young and terrified, but we got out with the least fuss thus far. I released him into the pasture and turned around without stopping.
Ace came easier than I expected. He was the eldest and trusted me more than anyone, which made my heart glow. I loved Ace. I tried to take him off John’s hands, but he loved him too.
Four down.
I stood at the barn door, rewet the shirt in my hand, lungs burning with every breath and every cough, and looked back in.
Duke was in the last stall. He was a draft horse and was bigger than anything I’ve seen, but he was usually a big ol’ teddy bear.
I could see him from the door, his dark coat muted against the smoke, his terrified eyes, and his 2000lbs of pure muscle throwing himself in circles.
He was John’s horse. The youngest of the five and the biggest, the one John had been working with all spring.
He was also the furthest from the door and the closest to wherever the fire was eating through the back wall.
My eyes were burning and watering. My throat felt like I’d swallowed sandpaper.
I heard my mom and my dad yelling from somewhere behind me, but Duke was still in there.
I couldn’t just leave him. My heart raced, and my throat was tight as I fought back fearful tears.
I knew going back in was dangerous, and I was a little afraid.
But even as tears threatened to fall, I ignored my parents and went back in.
“Duke.” I kept moving forward, toward the heat, toward the fire, and kept my voice even as I called out his name. But I just kept on talking even as my voice threatened to tremble. “Duke, baby, I’m coming. I’ve got you. I know. The big, bad fire is a little scary, but I need you to listen to me.”
He spun when I reached the stall, a tight, frantic circle, too scared to see me as anything but another threat.
“Duke,” I called out a little louder, and he looked at me and seemed to register who I was.
I got the stall unlatched and managed to get my wet shirt up and tucked into his halter.
I couldn’t reach and hold on to them both.
Then, the back wall groaned. And Duke threw his head up and pulled me up with it.
I’d be surprised if he knew I was there.
Duke lurched sideways, and I went with him, both of us stumbling toward the door, and I had one hand on the halter and one hand on his neck, and I was talking, steady and low, because that’s all I had left.
A loud crash came from behind me, and Duke pranced.
I watched his feet; one step would crush my foot.
I could barely see the light of the door through the smoke.
I was only yards away. I nudged Duke forward, and he took my direction.
Then a shape filled the doorway.
Bo.
My heartbeat quickened with relief as I saw him moving toward Duke and me.