QOD: How long is a piece of string?

We’re Indians, my cousin Mike and I. We creep around the back of the milk barn, past the silos, peer out around the corner. We can do this together because I’ve agreed to get down on my knees. We watch until the white men come, yawning and ragging each other, their breathing soft puffs in the cold early morning air. We can see them because they walk under the light high up on the pole over by the washhouse. The feeble light can’t reach the corner of the barn.

Dew seeps through my jeans where my knees meet the scraggle of weeds. The white men bang through the barn door, turn on the lights, flip on the radio. Classical music, they call it. It relaxes the cows. Tom toms and war whoops would dry them up in a minute, I bet.

Now that we’ve accounted for the whereabouts of all the white men, Mike and I backtrack, running lightly on our toes to the silo. We crack open the door, reach into the almost empty silo for a handful of grain each, and stuff it in a pocket. Back past the milk barn, and then the first hay barn. We stop here for a moment, listening, watching. Cows are still making their way up from the river bottoms. One white man stands on the fence by the corral gate, hollering encouragement. “Come on, come on. Don’t make us wait all day.” The last cows increase their pace, a couple of them breaking into a heavy trot, round white udders flapping back and forth as they run. When they’re all in, the white man jumps down to close the gate. The cows shuffle around, lowing. One in the middle of the yard puts up her head and bellows.

When the white man goes back into the milk barn, we slip under the fence and into the manger that runs the length of the hay barn. Cows are crowding in, straining to get their heads through the bars to snatch a bite of hay before the cows behind them manage to shove them out of the way. We creep forward. Two cows hastily back out, getting their heads away from us. The next few complain, but do no more than shake their heads as we pass. One butts Mike and he growls, slapping her between the eyes.

We stumble into the big square post sooner than we expect; it’s hard to judge distances in the dark. Then we’re climbing up, up the ladder on the other side. I sneeze. The hay in this barn is getting old. Cut last summer, it pokes and scratches. Luckily, we only need to climb a short way before we can step out on the bales. This barn’s only about a third full now. We make our way slowly, brushing our hands over bales in the darkness. “Found one,” whispers Mike. Frowning, I bump into a higher row of bales, fall forward. I feel the hay poking through my sweater and t-shirt. Rats. That’s gonna itch all day. As I scramble up, something softer brushes my cheek. I feel with my hands and my chest shakes in silent laughter. It’s a whole pile, maybe half a dozen. “Got a bunch,” I whisper. “Let’s go.”

We make our way back to the ladder, overshooting it twice, tripping over each other, in deadly danger of collapsing into a giggling fit. Then it’s back down, my found loops of twine thrown around my neck. The one thing we can’t do is drop a piece of twine in the manger. The last thing in the world you want to do is drop twine where a cow might eat it. That causes enough trouble that the white man they call Uncle Roy will skin you alive. After that, you’d probably get switched.

We make it out of the manger safely, slip through the fence, and grab each other and hop around in the sacred Indian Twine Dance. We stop to count. I grabbed five. I give two to Mike. Even Steven. There are many more white men than Indians, so we have to help each other.

We unknot the twine as we walk between the two huge hay barns, now empty. The sky has begun to lighten. We walk past the bull corral. Mike tiptoes closer as I hiss at him, and when the bull suddenly appears, shoving his nose through the fence, Mike whacks him with his twine and dances away as the animal snorts.

By the time we reach the horse corral, we’ve got the twine all untied. We squat outside the fence and retie it into something new. It’s possible to make an attack with one piece of twine, slipping a noose around a nose and pulling it tight, using the end as a rein. With two pieces of twine, you can keep the nose noose in place with a piece going up over the ears. With three pieces, the ultimate luxury, you can have two reins.

When we’re ready, we arrange the twine just so in a back pocket, slip through the fence, and retrieve the handful of grain. Mike and I never have a problem arguing over which horses to stalk. The big buckskin is still half-wild, the bay is old and sluggish, and the colt is…still a colt. Mike heads for the long-legged gray. I want the small white, enough Appaloosa in her to sprinkle her with freckles all over.

They eye us warily, nicker, take a few steps away. We talk in soothing tones, holding out the grain. “Come on, come on now.” They study us. We’re not carrying bridles, certainly. Those smell of leather and the metal clinks, no matter how carefully you walk. Nope, we’ve just got a handful of grain.

I smile as Whitey lets me walk right up to her. I hold out the grain; she snuffles at my hand, her lips fluttering to catch the tiny kernals. My other hand, meanwhile, is fetching the twine from my back pocket. I have it over her neck a moment later, then I’m fastening it all together properly as she searches for the last bits of grain on the ground. I lead her toward the far gate, the one just a hop from the meadow. Mike meets me there, opens the gate, and then closes it again when I’ve led our horses through. I hold his horse while he tries his new jump. It takes him three tries but he manages to hold onto the mane and swing himself up, one leg going over his horse’s back. I don’t need anyone to hold Whitey as I jump up, get my elbows over her withers, and kick myself up to where I can get my leg over.

The sun is sending hot streaks into the sky by the time we reach the meadow. The horses toss their heads and we dig in our heels. Then we’re running, running through green grass, heading toward the river. We’ll catch a couple of trout, build a fire and cook them on a stick. Then we’ll splash through the river to the other side, making our way to a secret path that leads up into Dutch Canyon. No white men will ever catch us.