Jack McCready's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

Jack saddled his tired horse at dawn and rode toward town. The animal's faded coat showed every hard mile, but it kept a steady walk across the cracked flats. Jack needed posts and rails strong enough to hold wild horses. A town meant a store, and a store meant lumber. He patted the horse's neck and pushed on through the Texas heat. By midmorning the shop rose out of the dust. Sun-faded timber siding. A front porch with worn boards. A painted sign hung crooked above the door. Jack tied his horse to the rail and climbed the steps. Through the windows he saw stacked lumber, coils of wire, and kegs of nails. Everything he needed sat inside that weathered building. He pushed the door open and breathed in sawdust and oil. Posts leaned against the far wall. Thick rails lay stacked in neat rows. Jack ran a hand along one and felt the solid weight of it. This wood would hold a hundred panicked horses. He gathered an armload and carried it to the counter. Then he reached for his pocket. Empty. He checked the other. Empty too. He stood still and understood. He had ridden out with rope and grit and nothing else. Back home he had no coins buried in a jar, no bills folded in a drawer. He had built his corral from desert plants because he could not pay for wood. Nothing had changed. He had simply forgotten the plain truth until he stood here with his hands full. The shopkeeper watched him from behind the counter. Jack met the man's eyes and found no softness there, only waiting. "How much for all of it?" Jack asked. The shopkeeper named a price. It was more money than Jack had ever held. Jack lowered the rails back onto the stack, one at a time. His face burned. He had crossed the whole desert to reach exactly what he needed, and he could not take a single board of it. He thought of asking for credit. One look at his dusty clothes and swaybacked horse told him the answer. "Thank you kindly," Jack said. He turned and walked out. The porch boards creaked under his boots. His horse lifted its head and waited. Jack untied the reins and stood a moment in the glare. Near the steps grew a clump of prairie flowers, faded orange petals on woody stalks. The same plants he had cut to build his first flimsy fence. Free for the taking. Worthless against wild horses. Jack swung up into the saddle. He had no wood and no money to buy it. But the ride had shown him something sharp and clear. If he wanted real supplies, he needed real money first. And a man with one tired horse had only one thing worth selling: the horses he had not yet caught. He turned his mount toward the open range and rode.