he asked with disgust thick in his voice. Turning to walk out of the house, he took three trash bags with him to the dumpster down the street.
7 - Riding south
Sitting on the bike, Andy watched the tractor-trailer rigs drive in and out of the truck stop outside Colorado Springs. It was an ever-moving kaleidoscope of truck types, logos, and colors, the big vehicles weaving up and down the aisles between parking spaces.
He’d been on the road for a dozen weeks, and was back to looking for work. If he could find a safe place to park the bike, he could probably pick up a few bucks unloading trucks. He’d been doing lots of different odd jobs since leaving Wyoming; nothing paid great individually, but if you did enough jobs, the money piled up. He simply had to work harder to get the cash than he’d expected.
He’d found that the oilfields weren’t hiring inexperienced hands, and since you couldn’t get that experience without working—which you couldn’t do without experience—well, that severely limited the opportunities to break into that area.
So, Denver had been a bust, but he’d talked to some ranch hands and backtracked north by a couple hours to a small town off the interstate. Sitting on a bucket in a feed store there, he had introduced himself to several ranchers in the area, and was able to pick up a variety of jobs. Those ran the gamut: fixing a bunkhouse roof, stretching five miles of fencing, seining a stock pond for turtles, digging irrigation ditches, and stacking tons of square hay bales into a hayloft.
He’d been a sheep herder for a day on a ranch northwest of Denver, which wasn’t a bad gig. That had lasted until the second day, when they were supposed to dip the sheep prior to shearing in order to kill any parasitic hitchhikers they’d picked up in their wool.
A deep channel with cement walls and a fence served for the dipping process. The fence ran along the inner edges of the structure to create a funnel. The ranch hands filled up the channel with the potent dip solution as if it was an artificial pond, and then began driving the sheep between the fences and into the dip.
Andy had watched the sheep wading into the chemicals and realized that a few of them were climbing on the backs of the herd to escape it. “Hey,” he shouted at the lead hand and pointed.
The guy nodded and rode his four-wheeler over. “See the railing? Stand on the cement inside that, and walk on top of the sheep to push them under,” he yelled and roared off on the equipment.
Andy looked after him like he was crazy, but he wanted the job, so he edged closer. Swinging one leg over the railing, he held it in a white-knuckled grip, sliding his other leg over and leaning back against the rail. Tentatively reaching out with one foot, he shoved down on the back of one floating sheep. It went under quickly, and he gave himself a little air punch of victory.
That was his first undoing, because he lost his grip and his feet slid off the cement into the dip. His legs were pushed against the wall by the bodies of the sheep, and he felt his boots filling with dip. Pulling them back up, he grabbed the railing with both hands again, disturbed by the smell now coming from his lower legs.
Cold, wet, and smelly—that sounded like an ad for his last girlfriend back home , he thought and snorted. Seeing a brave sheep moving his way, one that had almost totally gotten itself out of the dip by climbing onto the back of fellow sheep, he primed his pushing foot. Just as the sheep got to him, it launched itself sideways onto the back of yet another sheep.
“Walk across there and push them all under,” he heard from behind. He looked around in disbelief, but it was the lead hand again. “Walk them sheep, boy.” Holding the railing with one hand, he shook his head but stepped out onto the back of a sheep, pushing it down into the dip.
He took a soggy step, and then another one, his footsteps absorbed by a combination of
7 - Riding south
Sitting on the bike, Andy watched the tractor-trailer rigs drive in and out of the truck stop outside Colorado Springs. It was an ever-moving kaleidoscope of truck types, logos, and colors, the big vehicles weaving up and down the aisles between parking spaces.
He’d been on the road for a dozen weeks, and was back to looking for work. If he could find a safe place to park the bike, he could probably pick up a few bucks unloading trucks. He’d been doing lots of different odd jobs since leaving Wyoming; nothing paid great individually, but if you did enough jobs, the money piled up. He simply had to work harder to get the cash than he’d expected.
He’d found that the oilfields weren’t hiring inexperienced hands, and since you couldn’t get that experience without working—which you couldn’t do without experience—well, that severely limited the opportunities to break into that area.
So, Denver had been a bust, but he’d talked to some ranch hands and backtracked north by a couple hours to a small town off the interstate. Sitting on a bucket in a feed store there, he had introduced himself to several ranchers in the area, and was able to pick up a variety of jobs. Those ran the gamut: fixing a bunkhouse roof, stretching five miles of fencing, seining a stock pond for turtles, digging irrigation ditches, and stacking tons of square hay bales into a hayloft.
He’d been a sheep herder for a day on a ranch northwest of Denver, which wasn’t a bad gig. That had lasted until the second day, when they were supposed to dip the sheep prior to shearing in order to kill any parasitic hitchhikers they’d picked up in their wool.
A deep channel with cement walls and a fence served for the dipping process. The fence ran along the inner edges of the structure to create a funnel. The ranch hands filled up the channel with the potent dip solution as if it was an artificial pond, and then began driving the sheep between the fences and into the dip.
Andy had watched the sheep wading into the chemicals and realized that a few of them were climbing on the backs of the herd to escape it. “Hey,” he shouted at the lead hand and pointed.
The guy nodded and rode his four-wheeler over. “See the railing? Stand on the cement inside that, and walk on top of the sheep to push them under,” he yelled and roared off on the equipment.
Andy looked after him like he was crazy, but he wanted the job, so he edged closer. Swinging one leg over the railing, he held it in a white-knuckled grip, sliding his other leg over and leaning back against the rail. Tentatively reaching out with one foot, he shoved down on the back of one floating sheep. It went under quickly, and he gave himself a little air punch of victory.
That was his first undoing, because he lost his grip and his feet slid off the cement into the dip. His legs were pushed against the wall by the bodies of the sheep, and he felt his boots filling with dip. Pulling them back up, he grabbed the railing with both hands again, disturbed by the smell now coming from his lower legs.
Cold, wet, and smelly—that sounded like an ad for his last girlfriend back home , he thought and snorted. Seeing a brave sheep moving his way, one that had almost totally gotten itself out of the dip by climbing onto the back of fellow sheep, he primed his pushing foot. Just as the sheep got to him, it launched itself sideways onto the back of yet another sheep.
“Walk across there and push them all under,” he heard from behind. He looked around in disbelief, but it was the lead hand again. “Walk them sheep, boy.” Holding the railing with one hand, he shook his head but stepped out onto the back of a sheep, pushing it down into the dip.
He took a soggy step, and then another one, his footsteps absorbed by a combination of
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