Gabriel's Story by David Anthony Durham

that stretched out from either side of their skulls and rose to ominous points. A man could have sat on either horn and ridden the precarious perch. They seemed always on the verge of piercing each other, as if their horns had intentions of their own and the cattle were at their mercy.
    Solomon and Gabriel both took a tentative step toward the house, fearing they’d be overrun, but the drovers were hard at their work. They fought to turn the herd from the homestead, whips snapping like gunfire, their horses wheeling and dancing under them. They moved perilously close to those horns, but in so doing managed to turn the tide of the beasts to one side of the house and plowed fields.
    A rider emerged out of the throng, a bullwhip in hand. He cut toward the cattle and backed away again, his horse surefooted and light, as if it knew the work as well as the man and reveled in it. The creature looked as though it would reprimand the steers with its teeth if it was allowed to. As his horse spun, the cowboy caught sight of the homesteaders. He paused, reflected on something, then snapped back into motion. The cattle had turned toward him in a surge. He drew the whip up behind him, dark and serpentine, like the tail of some infernal beast. With the full force of his upper body, he snapped it hard and loud at the legs of one of the longhorns. He repeated this three times, till the river corrected its course. Only then did he spur his horse away from the group and ride toward the house.
    He drew up before them, reined the horse in, and studied Gabriel and Solomon for a moment. He was a tall man, wide-shouldered and strong, with a square jaw and pale blond highlights for eyebrows. An old Stetson was perched high on his brow, more worn around the rim and ragged than the rider’s years could have accomplished. He wore a bright red handkerchief tied loosely around his neck, and a holstered pistol rode his right thigh. The weapon sat quiet and innocuous there, and yet both Gabriel’s and Solomon’s eyes were quick to note it. Once stopped before them, the rider comfortably, with his whip coiled around the pommel of his saddle.
    â€œSorry about the trespass,” he said, as if all introductions were unnecessary. “Had a stampede day before yesterday. They took us out this way, and now we’re just trying to work them back toward Crownsville.” He paused and followed the progress of the herd, his eyes seeking out the other drovers and confirming their position.
    Gabriel studied the man and horse from head to foot. The horse was long-legged and tall, a dun of stout body, quivering with muscle and energy and a deep-chested strength, a true equine specimen that made old Raleigh look an impostor, a shame to the race. The cowboy’s comfort in the saddle projected a complete confidence in himself, in the mount beneath him, in the coil of leather in his hand, and in the pistol at his side. Gabriel’s gaze focused on that weapon, his jaw dropping a little at the thought of the power contained therein, such a small thing and so deadly, so much discussed in the lore and legends of this place. Gabriel turned his eyes away when the man looked back at them.
    â€œAnyway, sorry about the inconvenience,” he said. “These cattle don’t mind property lines. We’ll leave you some chips for your troubles, keep your cookfires burning and that.” He smiled a half-toothed grin and waited for a response.
    Solomon seemed loath to speak to the cowboy. He watched the cattle and was slow in responding. “They stay over thataway and we’ve got no quarrel.”
    The man nodded. “Fair enough.” His gaze fell on the broken plow. He studied it with an interest that made him lean forward over the horse’s neck. The horse cocked its head and pawed the ground. “Shhh,” the cowboy whispered, calming it. He looked up as if to speak but paused, looked past them at the sod house and out over