The Mopwater Files by John R. Erickson

the wilder­ness, and search for strength and courage, just as the Samurai did in Ancient California.”
    â€œRotsaruck.”
    â€œAnd Drover, I’d like for you to go along as my second.”
    â€œYour second what?”
    â€œMy second. That’s what it’s called. You’d be my second.”
    â€œThat’s not much time.”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with time. It’s a position. You’d be my second in command.”
    â€œOh good. I think I can handle that.”
    â€œGreat. I like your attitude. In the event that I’m slaughtered in the early going, you’ll take my place.”
    His eyes crossed and suddenly he began limping around in a circle. “Oh my gosh, this leg just went out! Oh, the pain! Rush me to the machine shed, stand back, I’m fixing to . . . ”
    My goodness. He fainted. I mean, he just collapsed on the ground, with all four legs sticking straight up in the air. I rushed to his side.

    â€œSpeak to me, Drover. What’s happened?”
    â€œLeg attack. Worst one ever. Terrible pain. Don’t think I can make the trip to the wilderness. Go on without me.”
    â€œAnd leave you here in this state?”
    â€œYeah, I’d rather suffer in Texas. I’ll be all right . . . if I can stand the guilt. That’s the worst part of staying home, trying to live with the guilt.”
    â€œWell, be brave. And Drover, if I should happen not to return . . .” I ran my gaze over the place I had loved and protected for so many years. “. . . take good care of the ranch. Good-bye, old friend, and good luck.”
    And with that, I tore myself away from home and friends, turned and ran away from the voice inside my head that urged me to take the path of leased resistance. Sure, it would have been easier to stay home and forget about Beulah and Plato, honor and duty, and the higher calling of my profession.
    But that’s not what cowdogs do.
    I ran until I could run no more. Finding myself alone in brush along the creek, I stopped and caught my breath. I was panting. The heat was terrible. Who could think of fighting a duel in such heat?
    And what the heck? Maybe I could . . .
    No. I had to fulfill my mission, even if that meant . . . I walked to the creek’s edge and drank my fill of cool sweet water. It was a refreshing change from mopwater.
    Having drinked my fill . . . having drank . . . having drunk . . . having lapped up all the water I could hold, I set a course to the east, threading my way through the dense underwear of tamaracks and willows.
    Undergrowth, actually. Dense undergrowth.
    All the familiar sounds, sights, and smells of civilization faded into the distance, and were replaced by others that were new and strange: dark shadows, the cries of birds overhead, the swish and slither of I-knew-not-what in the brush around me.
    I had reached the wilderness, an area into which I had seldom ventured during my career—and for good reason. Here, I was unknown and unwanted; a stranger, an intruder into an ancient rhythm of which I was not a part. Of which.
    I hurried along. Suddenly a twig snapped. I whirled to my left and faced . . . not much, just a clump of brush. Perhaps I had stepped on the twig myself, but my nerves were on edge, don’t you see, and . . . it was kind of spooky, and I’ll admit that I was feeling a bit uneasy.
    Nervous.
    Alert to danger.
    Okay, scared, but if you’d been there, you would have been scared too. A guy never knew what manner of creature or monster he might encounter in this part of the ranch.
    I continued my journey. I knew where I was going: to Madame Moonshine’s cave in those bluffs just west of the Parnell water gap. If you recall, Madame Moonshine was a wise little owl who claimed to have magical powers. I’d never been entirely convinced that she had “magical” powers, but she had gotten me out of a few scrapes in the past, and I hoped she might help