Pardo sat astride Topper. It was a day that started off with him riding fence down by the highway. He volunteered for the duty. Most cowboys didn't care for the long ride out and back. Pardo liked riding that stretch of fence. It was peaceful and Topper really liked it.

Topper loved the lush green grass that grew just outside the fence. His long neck made easy picking of grass that was never mowed. Cattle could reach the grass closest to the fence, but their shorter necks didn't have the boarding horse reach Topper had.

Pardo sat still, allowing Topper to stop and start when he wanted. Each time his neck moved up to the fence, he took another taste of the sweetness. He'd stand there a while, knowing he had to move on. He knew to walk close to the fence so Pardo could look for breaks. It wasn't hard work and the grass made it worth his while.

It was a good road but since the super slab went five miles east of the ranch, no one used Old Ranch Road any longer. You could be in Laramie in no time at all by driving to the new highway.

It wasn't just for Topper's benefit that he liked this stretch of highway. He might see one or two of those sleek sporty jobs. Might hear one was more like it. He didn't get a lot of time to look at one.

He could hear one coming a mile away.

At first, he questioned what the sound was. Then, he remembered what that sound meant. The driver would have the pedal to the medal. If Pardo didn't focus on the furthest spot on the road he could see, the car would come and go before he caught even a glimpse. They were going faster than a hundred miles-per-hour, way faster.

With his eyes glued to the road, he'd see it's shape. It would come and go so fast that Topper, disturbed by the noise, would begin to look up. The car was gone so fast, Topper hesitated before going back to the sweet taste of the grass.

The sound was like no other. From a distance it was a howl. When it passed, it was a scream. The wind it created blew past Pardo, dissipating in the pasture behind him.

There were few things in life that pulled Pardo's trigger. That was one, he thought, as Topper lifted his head, walked another half dozen steps, and reached over the wire again. He ate silently and Pardo didn't need to prod him to get him moving again. He knew the routine. They'd get to the end of the fence sooner or later. Neither of them were too concerned with time. They'd done this before.

The thrill of one of those babies passing him by was nothing like the thrill he got from being amongst the cows as they stampeded for parts unknown. The cowboys became obstacles in the way of the stampede. The point was to slow them down, and once slowed, they'd walk, and twenty minutes later the cowboys would find the delinquent cows on a hill munching grass again.

They couldn't and wouldn't run through the fencing. It took too much effort, and cows, once they started running, didn't like to stop because of the effort it took. When they came to a fence, stopping was all there was.

You rode fence for that reason. If you kept the breaks out of your fence. It would stop stampeding cows. Leave a hole in your fence, and the cows would all find a way through it and they might run all the way to Laramie. Fences were strong. They held in the cows.

That was as exciting as it got on the Lazy R.

No, Old Ranch Road wasn't a race track, but since the Interstate opened, drivers of high performance cars with massive power plants under the hood, brought their car to the smooth straight road with few cross roads this side of Laramie.

Better yet, you didn't see any cops patrolling a road without traffic. No, smokey was out on the super slab writing tickets for five or ten miles over the limit. It was hard to say what kind of fine you'd pay for doing 140mph or 150. Anyone who could afford a car like that didn't worry about tickets he accumulated.

The sound and the thrill it gave him was remarkable for a man who had one horsepower, and it took him an hour to match the distance one of those babies traveled in ten seconds with their 500 horsepower power plants ready for takeoff.

It was a study in contrast. Pardo would love to get behind the wheel of one of those babies just once. He'd be satisfied with that. He didn't want to own one. He did want to drive one once. He'd like to experience 150 miles an hour for himself. Since he had nowhere to go, he didn't need a car with speed. He preferred riding Topper.

Most of the cattle were miles from any highway, and you went at a walk going from one pasture to the next. It was the same every day. Nothing changed on a cattle ranch. It was always the same. The same cows, the same cowboys, the same ranch, the same food.

There was symmetry in it, but nothing to compare it to.

Pardo couldn't recognize most of the cars that raced past, but he heard them a long time before he saw one. The sound was awesome and it gave him a thrill when one passed at more than a hundred miles-per-hour.

Sitting astride Topper, and moving at no miles per hour, that kind of speed moved Pardo down deep. As he moved along the nearly two miles of wire, maybe one of these speedsters might pass. On a good day, there would be two he watched fly by.

The pace of life on a ranch went at the speed of a horse walking or cattle moseying along. Pardo's ten-year-old pickup had fewer than eight thousand miles on the odometer. He thought of buying a new F-100 one day, but his truck ran fine, when he drove it.

Pardo hadn't driven it to Laramie in a coon's age.

When he was younger, he went to town every chance he got. He drank too much, spent too much, and the next day, he couldn't remember where he'd been or what he did.

He'd start out drinking beer with Lazy R cowboys. He ended up drinking whiskey in a hole-in-the-wall he didn't remember going to.

That was only the half of it. After a night in Laramie, he came back to the ranch broke, and unable to sit straight in the saddle.

His life had become boring, but he had money in the bank. He loved the fresh air, riding the range, and he enjoyed herding cattle. He'd been at the Lazy R for twelve years. Only, Rowdy, the foreman, had been there longer than him.

He and Rowdy had private rooms over the chow hall. The other cowboys lived in the bunk house. Pardo was Rowdy's right hand man, which meant he did Rowdy's dirty work. None of it was hard work. In bad weather, it wasn't as easy, but it's all Pardo knew.

Del, owner of the Lazy R, wasn't a difficult man. While he appeared to be another cowboy when Pardo started working there, he'd since become more of a businessman who didn't hesitate to ride out to see how branding was going or to decide which herd was ready to go to market and when they'd go.

Except for his hundred dollar boots, and brand new J C Penny cowboy shirt, Del didn't change much. He'd worked for Big Del until he died. Now he ran the show, but once a cowboy, always a cowboy.

Pardo was a cowboy's cowboy. He took the new wranglers under his wing. Del knew who to send out with his newest hire. Once Pardo nursed one along in how things were done at the Lazy R, he told Del if he had a cowboy or not.

It was up to Pardo to tell the guy, "You don't cut the mustard."

The Lazy R became his home and the cowboys were his family. He'd always been on ranches, and he probably always would be. The idea of going somewhere else and doing something else was far from his mind at thirty. Some of the cowboys were in their fifties. Pardo saw that as a lifetime away.

Three years ago, or thereabouts, Ranger up and died on him. It was the only horse Pardo rode since he started at the Lazy R. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend. It was Del who took him to the corral for him to pick another horse.

Only one horse stood out among the dozen or so in the pen.

"That one," Pardo said, once he watched him spin around.

"The pinto? I was ready to send him to the glue factory."

"In that case, I'll give you a hundred bucks for him."

"Pardo, you got to have a horse to be a cowboy. It's on the house. You don't need to pay for the horse you ride on my ranch."

"Yeah, and you was going to send him to the glue factory. I want bill of sale that says, I'm the owner of Topper."

"Topper?"

"Yeah, he spins like a top I once had. He's Topper."

"I'll give you the bill of sale. I don't want your money," Del said.

"Take one hundred dollars out of my next pay envelope."

"I pay you a hundred bucks a month? I can't afford you. I feed you and furnish you a room, and a hundred bucks a month too?"

Del was like that. As bosses went, Del was a keeper.

Pardo didn't want any misunderstandings. He wasn't planning to go anywhere, but if he left the Lazy R, he wanted his horse to go with him. He'd lost the only horse he'd ridden since becoming a cowboy. He didn't want to risk losing another friend.

Topper was a yearling when he picked him out. He might outlast Pardo's cowboying days. A good cowboy needs a good horse, and Topper was one of the best.

Topper and Pardo were friends. Topper took him where he wanted to go, and Pardo rode fence by the highway, where the grass was tall and sweet. Topper took his time nibbling the choice patches of fragrant grass that grew outside the fence.

Pardo didn't figure to spend the rest of his life being a cowboy. He couldn't think of anything he'd rather do. When Pardo came to the Lazy R looking for a job, he thought all kids rode horses and wrestled steers for fun. It was the cowboy way. It was his way.

Pardo let Topper move at his own speed. With his right leg resting on the saddle horn, and a blade of grass in his teeth, he was daydreaming for a spell when he noticed the boy. He was the only thing out of the ordinary on an ordinary day while he rode fence.

"Where you headed, kid?" Pardo asked, when the kid got to him.

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing to me," Pardo said. "But wherever I go, I ride."

Topper didn't stop munching as the boy watched the cowboy and his horse without moving. Maybe he could pet the horse.

"Can I pet him?" he asked.

"Sure," Pardo said. "He might bite your hand off though."

The boy stepped back, pulling his hand away.

"He bites?"

"Never bit anyone yet, but always a first time."

Pardo wasn't surprised by the dirty look he got. It was a mean thing to say. He'd been wet behind the ears once too, and he was about this boy's age when he shoveled his first horse shit for a living.

"Kidding, kid. He don't bite. Go ahead, touch him if you like. He likes being scratched between his ears."

Keeping an eye on the cowboy, the boy scratched Topper's ears.

He seemed to get lost in his thoughts as he let his fingers scratch there. Topper kept eating but he appreciated the attention and he made a pleasing sound while he munched.

"I ain't a kid," the kid finally said.

"How old are you, kid? Eleven?"

"I'm seventeen, no, I'm eighteen. I ain't no kid," he said.

The boy stepped back to look up at the cowboy.

"You don't look seventeen, no, I'm eighteen. You need to decide on one. If a cop stops you. You look like you should be in school."

"I don't go to school."

"Sixteen is more like it," Pardo said.

"Where you going? What's your name."

"Potee."

"I'm Pardo. I work on this ranch. Don't see many kids walking along this road."

"It's where I got dropped off. Going to Laramie to get a job."

"You got a job lined up, do you?"

"No. Got to work to eat though," Potee said.

"I'm eighteen. Just had a birthday. That's why I said seventeen."

"I knew when I was eighteen," Pardo said.

"I'm eighteen."

"When's the last time you ate, Kid," Pardo asked.

"Maybe yesterday. Don't remember exactly. What's it to you?"

"Well, I'm heading back to the ranch house, once I'm done along here. They might still have some lunch out and if not, they'll be fixing me something. Might need to wait a spell for Cookie to rustle up something, but he always makes way more than I can eat. There's be plenty to feed a scrawny kid like you. If you're hungry, I mean. Wouldn't want you to miss a ride on account you was eating. I haven't seen a car go by in the last hour, I think you could break away long enough to eat, but that's me. It's up to you," he said."

"I could eat," Potee said, having the hole the size of all outdoors in his belly.

"You'd need to ride behind me on Topper here. You look like you're enjoying your walk, but if you don't mind riding behind me, we'd go up to the chow hall as soon as I finish riding to the end of this fence."

"I don't mind," Potee said. "Never rode on a horse before."

"You reckon you could ride behind me on Topper?"

"Yes, Sir," Potee said in anxious expectation.

"Well, Potee, I'm Pardo. I'm going to reach over this here fence. You grab a hold of my shoulder. Not my arm, my shoulder. I'll be swinging you up behind me. You think you can do that?"

"Yes, Sir!" Potee said.

As quick as Pardo leaned over the wire, Potee grabbed a hold of Pardo and was immediately swinging up behind the cowboy, ending up behind him on the horse.

"Hold on to me, Potee. You can't fall off if you hold on to me. I'm going to ride down to the end of this fence, and I'll be done. We'll go up to the house and see what Cookie can do for us."

Pardo was surprised at how light the kid was. He lifted him right over the wire. The boy wrapped his arms around the cowboy.

Potee heard the clicking sound Pardo made with his tongue, and the horse started right up. He walked to the end of the wire. They turned away from the wire and the highway, Pardo made the clicking sound again, and Topper picked up the pace. He knew there would be water and hay where they were going.

Potee thought being on a horse was cool.

Topper stopped near the front of the chow hall.

"Now, Potee, this is our stop. What I need you to do is slide off Topper's rump onto the ground. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, Sir."

"He won't kick, but don't spend a lot of time behind him. A horse is easy to spook, and when they spook, they do kick. It's a defensive motion. Topper knows you're back there, but weird things can spook a horse. It's best not to doddle back there."

By the time Pardo quit talking, Potee was off and standing on the chow hall side of Topper, when he saw him clear of the horse.

Potee noticed the leather saddle squeaked as Pardo climbed down. Pardo was taller than him by several inches, and he was filled out the way a man fills out after a few years of deciding what he likes to eat and went about eating it.

Pardo was lean, like a man who did physical labor is lean and tough. He was older than Potee by a few years. He didn't look old. He knew what he was doing. He looked like a man who knew where he was going. Confident like.

Potee knew where he was going, sort of. He could put it on hold if he could get a meal out of it. His stomach was mostly empty since he left the house. He got fed there, but what it took to get fed wasn't worth it any longer. He'd find a job and he'd be able to feed himself. He'd eat only what he liked after that.

"Kid, you awake? Do you want to go in or you going to stand here."

"Potee," Potee said, realizing the cowboy was talking to him.