Anger in a boy isn’t natural. Boy’s chase girls, drink beer, and have a regular attendance in most general mischief; an expected scolding from a caring mother follows all of these activities, and often the subtle wrath of a father’s hand to the rear. Jake knew all this, and also knew that his life was not this. Jake’s life was anger, and it was the man that brought it down upon him.
The man was driven, and he drove those around him with a heated tongue that cracked like a bullwhip when contradicted. He had grown up on the ranch, and his father had run it before him. The man disapproved of his father, he was too soft and a sorry businessman, attributes that are worthless in the ranching world. A rancher judges those around him by their skills and honesty, most all of them talk about men in terms of what a hand he is. To be a good hand in the eye of other good hands is what every rancher strives for. The man was a hell of a hand. He was a man on fire, wheeling and dealing, working and ranting; a constructive hurricane striding forth with the foolish confidence of youth. But his growth had stunted, not physically, but internally. It was his greatest attribute, and his worst. He saw the world as if it were molded for his feet to tread upon. This gave the man an uncanny ability to convince those around him that he could light a fire in a rainstorm, without getting off his horse. But, with equal zeal, he could burn a relationship up like a wet haystack in midsummer.
The man angled much of his wrath towards his first son, Jake. The man started in after Jake when he was old enough to walk, scolding the boy with a harsh tongue for crying or whining. When Jake was 9, the man started putting Jake on “fresh” horses. They were the green-broke colts that had received only a hand full of rides in the winter months.
“I don’t wanna ride him yet Dad, last time he bucked hard and my shoulder still hurts.” Jake eyed the big sorrel colt standing in the pen. Mary had named him rocket for the white strip that ran up his nose and expanded at his forehead. He was a tall skinny colt and his withers were hardly enough for a saddle to set on.
“Jake, how do you think you’re ever gonna ride him with that attitude. Get with it boy, I ain’t got all day.”
Jake threw the blanket over the withers and looked back at the man in contempt.
“Go on boy, he’s just a goddamn colt. Them kind don’t have the strength to buck you off even if they want to.”
Jake eased the saddle on and began buckling the front cinch. He had barely finished buckling the saddle when rocket blew. The horse turned away from Jake, jerking the halter from the small boys hands he kicked his hind feet up not half a foot from Jakes chin.
“Goddamn it boy. I told you not to let go of that lead rope and what do you do? You leggo, just like a damn woman. I tell you what, you ignorant kids can’t listen to a single word of advice.”
The horse continued to buck as the man cursed the boy standing in the corral. Then Jake began to cry.
“Quit blubberin and put your chaps on, you’re gonna ride this son-of-a-bitch when I get through torturing his sorry ass.”
The man snatched his rope and leapt into the corral. Without hardly a flick of the wrist he sent it sailing into the back feet of the horse. He caught the left hind foot and pulled the rope tight. The horse bucked harder.
When Jake returned from the barn, chaps in hand, Rocket was standing in the corral shimmering in the light of midsummer. His nostrils expanded and contracted as his great body heaved. At 9, Jake thought him to be very much a monster.
“Get on boy, he’s ready.” Jake walked to the horse and put his hand on his shoulder.
“Easy boy, I’m not lookin for a fight,” Jake spoke to the horse as he lifted his foot into the stirrup. He stood up and swung his foot over the horse. As he sat and reached for his right stirrup, Rocket came alive. He dodged and weaved at first, but the movement of the figure on his back spooked the horse and sent him into a frenzy. The boy clung for all he was worth, but when the horse came down from a high leap, he hit the fence with his head and sent the boy flying high over the corral posts.
“Dammnit Jake, you gotta hold on to the bastard, he’s only gonna be worse on your next ride. Get up and get on again.”
The horse bucked Jake off twice more before he finally rode him long enough to satisfy the man. Jake hated the man for this too.
When Jake was in high school, he began helping out with the calving. In the winter/spring calving months, Jake set the Old Ben steel alarm clock for midnight, and then again at four. These nights in late winter and early spring, Jake would wake in the night and pull his coveralls and overshoes over his slight form, and start the old dodge. He didn’t wait for the truck to warm, a habit that received a solid lecture from the man, if he happened to wake to the slow churn of a diesel that hasn’t had time to warm it’s plugs. But Jake was tired, and waiting for the truck was waiting awake. Jake pulled the truck out from the carport and began the drive down to the barn, shivering in the frostbiting chill of the a.m. Jake’s fingers had numbed by the time he reached the barn and he took turns sitting on either hand as he passed the barn and drove on the feedlots. The cold didn’t make him angry, but the man that drove him out into it was always in his mind. In his mind when he reached the feedlots to find a heifer in mid-birth, struggling hopelessly to free the little creature whose protruding feet were already beginning to freeze.
The boy hurried always. Hurrying is an essential element of the working rancher, and the boys learn early. Springing from the pickup, Jake reached the prod that lay on the flatbed buried in the night’s drift of snow. He unchained the gate with the quick grace that one can only achieve in years of experience and swung it wide, pushing hard enough to send it around to the other fence, but not so hard as to create a ruckus when it arrived. Through the gate Jake transformed. He became elegant, almost catlike, losing the commotion of a hurried man. He slid through the cattle silently, but the life of the calf weighed heavily on his mind.
Jake eased the heifer towards the barn, she was slow, and in pain, and he did not rush her. Once in the barn Jake ran for the dodge to bring the man. The two would spend most of the remaining night pulling that new life form from the heifer. Usually the little ones would survive the strenuous activity, but the occasional poor soul would be extinguished before it ever saw the straw floor of the barn.
If there was time, he would return to his bed, but often he went straight to chores and returned home in time for a cup of coffee and a bite of eggs mom had prepared. Jake had learned to shower, eat and dress himself in a maximum time of about 20 minutes, often 15. He then woke his younger brother John and waited for his old sister Mary to emerge from the bathroom. Joseph was now 11, and Mary nearly grown at 16. Jake was a year younger than Mary, and Joseph was the accident. The three bundled figures piled into the ancient Oldsmobile grandma Ruby had left them and sped for the bus.
Mom was Jake’s savior, but she also was his loss. He was her first son, and like all mothers, she favored him. A first son is a mother’s masterpiece, he is part her, and part the man she married. She didn’t love him more than her other children, but she felt more through him. And, she worried for him. She brooded against the man. She loved the man more than any, but loving the man came with a heavy burden. The man didn’t listen. He was a relentless businessman, but also a spoiled youngest child with a soft-hearted father and an Irish mother. So, the relationship she had with him was hardly different than the mother’s; an exhausting battle to tame the nature of a beast.
But she didn’t do it willingly, and the stress nearly overtook her at times. Often, she would leave the bedroom to watch her children sleep. She watched over Jake the most. She could see his small figure breathing heavily under the sheets. He didn’t rest well, and talked often in his sleep; sometimes yelling and snarling, but other times whimpering and calling.

***
School was school, and all three children made good grades for the most part. Mary made A’s, Jake made B’s without touching a pencil outside of the classroom, and John made B’s and C’s, enduring frequent reprimands from the teachers for his behavior. The three loaded the bus at 3:30 and usually returned to the bus stop by the cemetery around 4:15 or 4:30 if the Johnsons were riding. In the summers the three would walk the mile and a half home, bickering often, but also playing games and trying to relish the moments they had away from work.
Before Mary and John ever had time to set down their books, Jake was upstairs changing clothes, his scrawny figure pulling on 28 in wrangler slim-fits and an old white T-shirt. His arms were sinew ridden and white from the winter clothing, and his ribs protruded, almost visible through his shirt. Weight was always a concern for Jake. At 5’8” he barley tipped a hundred and ten pounds, and it was a sore subject. The boys at school used to tease him about it, and Jake accepted it for a while, but a man can only take so much, and Jake was angry. When he was twelve, an older boy named Curtis Fields told Mary her breasts looked like mosquito bites. Jake fractured the boy’s ribs and broke his nose. Not willing to explain to the man and mother how it happened, he endured a half hour of beating with three feet of rubber hosing in the basement bent over the old pool table. It was worth it as he saw, Mary had saved him from the man more times than he could recall.
Mary was the binder. She had an uncanny ability to talk to the members of her family. She was full of fire like the man, but more importantly, Mary was wise. She was an old soul, full of compassion and understanding.
And Mary stood up to the man, never winning initially, but she wore on him down. The man once tried to get after Jake for forgetting to feed the fattening sale cattle. He had been drinking, as he did often in the evenings. A beer prior to dinner, and a double bourbon and water afterwards were a regular routine. The drinks were fun when the man and Mom had married, but when the times became stressful or cattle prices dropped, the drinks affected him differently, and he drank more of them. He could become a raging bull arguing for entertainment, or a complimentary blubbering sentimental, but never the latter with Jake. This night had become a raging bull night. Mary stood trembling between the man and her brother, as the man reddened. Saliva fell from his lips as they quivered at the height of his rage, but still Mary stood. The man was a bull, spears protruding from his sides; horns down he swayed and finally stumbled from the room in quite defeat.
Another time, the man had taken Jake and Mary out to gather two bulls from the hills. He had Jake saddle a little filly named Quick Sue, she was notorious for biting her riders and would spook at the shadows on the ground, often blowing up and bucking. Mary rode a nice old mare named Nancy, that had been her mother’s.
“Alright you two, grab your bridles.” Mary and Jake walked around the pickup to grab their tack.
“Shit,” Jake whispered.
“What?”
“I forgot my friggin bridle, the old man’s gonna kill me.”
“Use mine.” She whispered back.
“You know that wont work. He’ll notice, he always does.”
Jake saw the man eyeing him as he and Mary whispered.
“You forgot it, didn’t you? You dumb son-of-a-bitch, I’d think you were razed by cavemen. You’re ridin’ her anyways so get on.”
Jake walked to the back of the trailer, not about to argue with his fate. He grabbed the mares lead rope and brought her to were Mary and Nancy stood.
“I’m on. Hand me your lead rope and I’ll haze for you until we get the juice out of her.” Jake handed Mary the lead rope and eased gently on to the mare. The man looked at the two in disgust, but didn’t argue with Mary.
Always, Mary was there to reassure Jake when the man hurt him. But still, Jake was tortured. He was tortured with the discontentment of the man that was his father. His sides hurt at night when he felt his soul pressing against his ribs. Mary helped though; she made things better, and soothed his thoughts. And, she was on his side.
***

In January, just days away from Jake’s 16th birthday, Mary caught a sickness. She was helping mom in the kitchen when she fell for the first time. Mom helped her up into a chair and called the doctor from the phone in the utility room. Doc Acey couldn’t find any explanation for Mary’s condition, but told her to rest and drink some juice to try to increase her blood sugar. Mary rested, and drank the juice. The man was unmoved. Mary was just a woman, what she needed was a good spoon full of LA 200, an antibiotic made for cows, and some exercise.
The man rose Mary early the next morning and put her to work forking the old straw and afterbirth from the cold barn. Mary worked for most of the morning before she fell again, Jake saw her this time. He watched her slight figure tremble and drop to the floor. He ran to her and righted her body against the wall of the barn, but she did not revive. He pressed her chest and put his ear against her mouth to feel for breath. She did not breath, and he knew she wouldn’t. Mary was a buffer, and she had held Jake’s anger for several years, and saved him from the man.
The anger welled from his chest like the water spitting from an overfilled teakettle. Jake saw the man by the door, and his eyes glazed with the heat as he stood over Mary’s body. Jake rushed the man, a mere 100 pounds of fury. He was upon him before the man had time to take his hands from his coat. The two tumbled from the door and out into the snow. The man was far bigger than Jake, but the anger inside of the boy far overpowered the muscle that any man could possess.
He swung his fists like pistons, aiming at anything the man exposed.
“I’ll kill you… goddamn you. I’ll kill you.” He spoke between breaths. Jake could not be calmed and it had taken John, mother, and the Mexican hand to pull the boy from the man. The man survived, but suffered facial disfiguring, the loss of 4 teeth on his left side, and a disconnected retina.
***
Mom would have left the man, but couldn’t. A ranch wife is tied to her husband, and will cling to him no matter the circumstance, even if she must become cold in the heart. The man was reserved after the incident. He chose to let his work enslave him, and kept his whiskey company more often than he looked at his wife. He couldn’t, he had lost big in a hand that he had rigged himself. Mary may not have lived anyhow, but he had set himself up to take the blame, and the man took it.
Jake ran away. And John grew up alone.