Sliding On The Edge by C. Lee McKenzie

and they’re being what Kenny calls skittery . I never know if he’s giving
me real words, but I use them anyway.
    The man holds a coil of rope in his
fist. He stops before he reaches the fence, lays the coil out in
front of him, then raises his hand and yanks on the rope until it
cracks overhead. It’s a whip, not a rope. And, most important,
there’s not a gun in sight. The horses crush into each other, and
the black horse slams against Kay’s fence so hard that the posts
wobble.
    I walk closer. Either the man doesn’t
see me or he’s blind. I’m at the fence, and, if I want, I can touch
the black horse that’s pressed hard against the rail. It tosses its
head and shies away from me. It’s actually stuck between a rock and
a hard place. That old man with the whip is coming up from one
side, and I, a stranger, am standing on the other.
    The horse reminds me of a kid I saw
once, who got caught between a gang and the cops. Their eyes look
the same and, like the horse, the kid pressed himself against the
building as if by pressing hard enough he could get on the other
side of the bricks and escape. I never knew how that standoff ended
because the cops dragged me down the street to ask me
questions
    “ Hey!” I yell across the
horses’ backs. The black horse tries to rear, but the other two
have him pinned. He can’t do more than raise his head and dig into
the dirt with his front hooves.
    The old jerk sees me all right. He
isn’t blind, but he’s totally smashed. He stops and nearly loses
his balance. The whip trails from his hand like a tail he’s lopped
off of some poor animal.
    “ Git outta here!” he
slurs.
    “ You git outta here, you old
jerk! And leave these horses alone.”
    A sick grin spreads across his face.
I’ve seen those kinds of faces late at night outside the
casinos—mean drunks on their way to do something bad to anybody who
gets in their way. Weaving on his feet, he coils the whip and
starts toward me. The horses bolt around his backside and disappear
behind the barn. I hold my ground as he comes closer. I’ve seen
enough drunks to know that all I have to do with this one is give
him a shove and he’ll fall flat on his butt.
    Now here’s something I never thought
I’d hear myself say: “How about I call the cops, old man? You like
the idea of going to the slammer?” I must sound like I know what
I’m talking about, because he draws up short and stands unsteady
like he’s in a shallow boat.
    Even from across the fence, the smell
of gin and stale tobacco make me want to puke. When he opens his
mouth I take a step away, but his stench follows.
    “ Stay off a . . . my prop .
. . property.”
    “ She’s not on yer property,
Floyd.” Kenny Fargo’s voice is loud at my back.
    I scream and spin around. “Man, you
about gave me a heart attack!”
    Kenny ignores me and walks straight at
Floyd. “Yer drunk. Go to bed or I’ll call the cops myself.” Then
Kenny turns to me. “You ought not take on Floyd when he’s drunk and
has his whip. Now, go on inside. I’ve got some things to do. Tell
Kay I’ll be late for dinner.” Kenny flings his leg over the top
rail of the fence and jumps down onto Drunk Floyd’s
side.
    He walks alongside Floyd, his hand on
his back until they reach the shack. Then Floyd staggers up the
steps, dragging the whip like a dead snake, and disappears inside.
I stay put, ignoring Kenny’s orders about going in the house. Kenny
walks to the water trough and, one by one, the three horses come
out from hiding. They nuzzle Kenny’s back, then dip into the trough
for a drink. Kenny goes into the barn and the horses follow
him.
    Country people are way
weirder than city ones . I start toward the
house. Kay puts dinner on the table at the same time, so I figure I
have ten minutes to clean up. It feels weird to know what’s going
to happen every day and when it’s going to happen.
    At dinner, there’s no mention about
Drunk Floyd or my little meeting with the