Nate's Love

This was written for a writing contest. I can't remember the rules. I think it won something.


The steer wasn’t going for me, but he got me. He was tied so he couldn’t stand, but his head sure could move. I was pulling my brand, “Lazy H,” from the fire when he turned his horn. The tip ripped through my coveralls, tore a big hole in my thigh.

I’m bleeding bad and need help. I cut the steer loose, but first I brand the sumbich. I stagger to the truck, but with no strength in my left leg, I can hardly shift.

I’m feeling woozy after a mile banging through the fields. The truck lurches dead. Then I see Nate Jackson, the new neighbor. He came out here two years ago, “swept in with Kennedy,” we say at the cafe. He doesn’t know that Deadwood’s no place for blacks.
Nate rides over on his gelding, hat back. Doesn’t say a word, just climbs in. I shove over. He drives and talks.

Says his grandfather, Roy, rode trail with Nat Love, a.k.a. Deadwood Dick. Roy took a distant second to Love’s first in the 1876 Deadwood rodeo. They drifted out of Dakota Territory together, fighting Indians and working cattle. Even got jobs together as Pullman porters, toward the end.

We finally make it to the hospital in Deadwood. I need blood. Nate donates a pint. While they’re pumping it into me, he leans over and says, “Used to be, one in four cowboys had black blood.” “This is two for two,” I wink up at him.