Lingering on the boardwalk, Clyde spotted the table where a trail boss was taking cowboys’ signatures.

A cowpuncher since the war, Clyde Fulton had no notions to ever set foot in a city again; seeing California didn’t hold any allure for him either. His soul belonged to sprawling prairies and wide open skies although, for the last year, circumstances had led him to hang up his spurs at a warm little ranch a far cry outside of Laramie, WY.

He was in town with the ranch foreman to fetch supplies when the general store’s gabby proprietor told them about all the excitement around a big cattle drive sign up. Upon receiving a nod from the foreman, Clyde stepped away to see for himself.

Clyde had cowboyed with the same clever fellows year after year and together they had defied the elements and the miles with one mind. He still felt the drum of thousands of tramping hooves in his bones, the weight of a looped lariat in his palm like it was a part of his arm, and the cold earth at his back under endless stars with a sea of slumbering beef bedded down in the darkness. On a cattle drive, or returning from one, was the only place where he ever truly experienced the menacing vastness of the Big Open which inspired both awe of being in its presence and gratefulness for being allowed turn his back to it and live. Gradually, the old cowboys faded away, from either battered bodies or tied knots, and were replaced by boys with down feathers on their chins.

The bearded trail boss at the table was familiar, but only vaguely so. Most of the milling cowpokes were strangers. Clyde couldn’t put his finger on it. Something about seeing the table and not craving to make his mark pleased him. It was still out there, after all. The Big Open. He didn’t need a trail boss or to breathe weeks of trail dust to know it. Somehow that really was enough.

The foreman appeared beside Clyde, thumbs hooked in jean pockets and black hat with a sweat-crusted crown pressed on his head. “You gonna sign up?”

Folding his arms, Clyde frowned to hide a grin. “You tryin’ to get rid of me?”

“Get rid of you?” The foreman scoffed. “If you take time away, I’m goin’ with ya.”

“We can’t be away that long, unless you want the ranch owners lookin’ out for your boy. He’s a good kid but what if he starts actin’ like them?” The comical fright that darkened the foreman’s ocean blue eyes earned a laugh from Clyde. He clapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “We got no choice, George. We gotta go home.”