Wild Horses On The Salt

6

6“Damn! Skunked again!” Noah grabbed his red Arizona Cardinals cap, slapped it against his leg, and eyed the orange cat that posed on a fencepost by the gate. “You're not being much help, Red.”

The cat reached both paws out, dug its nails into the cross beam, and stretched languorously. Then the feline walked over and head-butted Noah's hand. He rubbed the tabby on the rump.

“Looks like that skunk got you again.” Walt, tall and lean with dancing blue eyes and a quick smile, approached the gate and watched Noah from under a cowboy hat that had once been brown but which had been bleached to a dull tan by the Arizona sun.

“Didn't hear you coming.”

“That's because you're a city boy, Noah.” And so it began. The usual razzing the younger man incurred because he'd been raised in suburban Southern California.

Noah smiled, then gazed at the broken apiary and the bees wafting about as they attempted to repair their home.

“Did it get the queen?” Walt joined Noah and the two men approached the ring of stacked boxes. They moved slowly. Any quick movement would be enough to excite the bees, and neither was wearing protective clothing.

“I don't think so. But you're not here about the bees, Walt.” The cat twined its way between the two men and rubbed up against Noah's leg.

“The gate out front. I'm here to measure the opening and see what you have in mind.”

“Of course. I forgot.” Noah took another look at the apiary and shook his head. “Let's do that.”

Noah leaned up against the fender of his white SUV. He watched Walt, now hatless, work a thick metal measuring tape between the end posts of two stretches of fencing that were connected by a simple aluminum gate. Walt jotted some measurements with a nub of yellow pencil, then swung the gate open and pushed the door flush with the fence line. He eyed the opening from several angles.

“How high off the ground do you want it to be?” He kneeled and spread one large, scarred and callused hand up the fencepost, his thumb resting in the dirt.

“I don't know. You're the artist.” Noah grinned. “Michelangelo with metal.”

“I accept the compliment.” Walt stepped back ten paces. “One cow? One bull? A mother and a calf? A group?” He scratched his forehead. “I got it. How about a skunk and some bees?” Walt laughed.

“You're a funny man, my friend.” Noah pushed himself off the truck's fender. “Can you draw up some options?”

Walt nodded. “I can. Give me a few days.”

“Thank you, Walt. Now I've got to get back to my bees.”

The older man nodded and got into his truck.

Noah waved and watched him go. Walt's trajectory from cattle rancher and rodeo bronc rider to one of the best and most sought-after metal sculptors in the Southwest never failed to amaze him.