Chapter 1 – Friends for Life
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The sun hung low over the plains, painting the sky in long streaks of gold and crimson. Jake Harmon, new foreman of the Roaring Rapids Ranch, rode his bay gelding at an easy lope, the leather saddle creaking in rhythm with each stride.
He’d been on the job just a week, but already he was feeling the weight of the title. The owner, old man Cardwell, had told him plain: “Jake, I need someone who can keep the cattle safe, the hands working, and trouble off my doorstep.” That was the job, and Jake aimed to do it right.
A faint dust plume to the south caught his eye. He nudged the gelding into a trot, eyes narrowing against the glare. As he closed the distance, he saw three steers had broken away from the main herd and were drifting toward a draw — a dangerous place if they spooked and bolted down into the rocks.
Jake whistled sharp and swung wide to head them off. The gelding responded quick, muscles bunching under Jake’s legs as they cut across the slope. The cattle balked at his approach, milling nervously, and one tried to break into a run. Jake turned the gelding hard, crowding the steer back toward the others. Dust swirled around them, the smell of sweat and earth heavy in the air.
Once the strays were turned, Jake eased them back toward the herd. He didn’t like leaving the rest of the south pasture unchecked, but a broken leg on a steer was worse than a late supper.
By the time he’d finished, the sun had dipped lower, shadows stretching long over the prairie. He decided to swing east toward a narrow creek before heading in. A man could always use fresh water before night came on.
That’s when he saw it — a flicker of movement near the bend in the creek. At first he thought it might be a coyote slipping through the grass, but the shape was wrong. He slowed the gelding and leaned forward in the saddle. It was a dog — a lean, dust-colored shepherd-mix with a thick ruff around its neck.
The animal stood its ground, ears back but not in aggression. It looked more tired than dangerous. Jake swung down from his horse.
“Easy, boy,” he said in a low voice. The dog watched him warily, ribs showing through a matted coat. Jake pulled a strip of jerky from his saddlebag and tossed it onto the ground.
The dog’s nose twitched, and hunger got the better of suspicion. It edged forward, snatched the meat, and gulped it down.
“Been a while since you ate, I reckon.” Jake reached into his canteen, poured a little water into his hat, and set it down. The dog drank deep, tail wagging once, then twice.
There was something in those amber eyes — not fear now, but a flicker of hope.
“You’re a long way from town,” Jake said. “Guess we’re both new to this range.”
The gelding snorted as Jake remounted. He whistled softly. The dog trotted alongside as he turned toward the ranch.
By the time they reached the home corrals, the dog had decided to stay. Jake swung down, tied his horse, and squatted in the dirt beside the dog.
“Name’s Jake Harmon,” he said, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “And you… you look like a Boone to me. Steady, sharp-eyed… yep, Boone suits you just fine.”
The dog’s tail thumped the dirt.
That night, after supper in the cookhouse, Jake sat on the bunkhouse porch. The stars blazed overhead, and the murmur of the river carried on the breeze. Boone lay at his feet, belly full, head resting on its paws.
In a land where trust was earned slow, Jake figured he’d been given a gift. Out here, a man didn’t find many friends for life — but sometimes they found him.