The Vaquero’s Quite Farewell

Sitting on the back of a tired old horse, looking in all directions, there was only the vast, undulating embrace of the prairie, where the horizon kisses the sky in a never-ending line. That’s where the Vaquero found himself, nothing but horizon, and very little to break up the view. The very definition of alone, but that’s not how he felt. He was not young in years but rich in the solitude of the plains. At 68, he found himself the guardian of a substantial herd, not by choice but by the necessity of circumstance. His companions were few: a loyal dog whose eyes sparkled with an understanding beyond words, and a horse, old, steady, and true, who had carried the weight of his dreams and sorrows without complaint for nearly a decade.

Their home was nothing more than a lean-to, a makeshift shelter strung between two large mesquite bushes that whispered the tales of the prairie with every gust of wind. Near this humble abode ran a stream, its waters dammed for the cattle, though the Vaquero had to venture upstream for miles to quench his own thirst with water not muddied by the needs of the herd.

He was to be their sentinel for at least 60 days, a challenge not of the body, for his had long since told the tales of time, but of spirit. Six days had passed in the rhythm of the prairie, a testament to the enduring dance of life and solitude.

On the seventh, a shadow began to fall over his duties, not of clouds or the setting sun, but of illness that crept upon him like a thief in the night. His conversations, once filled with the mundane yet comforting exchanges with his horse and dog, began to take on a tone of introspection and weariness. “Seems like the prairie’s testing me, eh?” he’d chuckle to his horse, patting its mane as it flicked its ears in silent understanding. To his dog, he’d muse, “You keep me company, amigo, in ways words can’t fill.”

By the tenth day, the Vaquero could no longer mount his horse, the fever chaining him to the earth that he had roamed so freely. His once robust frame succumbed to the relentless assault of dehydration, each sweat-soaked night drawing him further away from the world he knew.

In his delirium, conversations with his companions became his anchor to a reality that seemed to drift further away with each passing moment. “We’ve seen many suns rise and set, haven’t we, Viejo?” he’d whisper to his horse, his voice a ghostly echo of its former strength. To his dog, nestled by his side as if to ward off the creeping chill of his condition, he’d murmur, “You’ve been a good friend. The best, I reckon.”

By the twelfth day, pain had replaced his beloved animals as his constant companion, its presence overshadowing the vast expanse of the prairie that had been his home. His thoughts, tangled and frayed, wandered to the days of youth, to the dreams that had galloped like wild horses across the plains of his mind.

As the sun started to dip below the horizon, painting the sky with magnificent strokes of yellow, orange red, and a touch of purple on the far corners, the Vaquero’s spirit began to drift away, leaving behind the pain and the fever, the loneliness and the longing. His final thoughts, carried on the whisper of the wind, were not of regret but of peace, a conversation with the prairie itself and it’s unseen inhabitants , a silent acknowledgment of a life lived in the embrace of its vastness.

At the early twilight of his final journey, the prairie sky stretched infinite above, the beginnings of a covering blanket of stars, the Vaquero’s world began to blur the lines between the physical and the ethereal. Fevered and fading, he found solace in visions of his past, conversations with those who had once been the pillars of his world.

His mother, long since passed, appeared to him in the clarity of his delirium, her image as vivid as the memories they shared. She was there, beside the lean-to, her presence as comforting as the embrace he remembered from his youth. “Mamá,” he whispered, the word a lifeline tethering him to a time of warmth and security. “I’ve kept your lessons close, lived a life as best I could.” He told her of his loves, the fleeting moments of connection that had sparkled briefly in his life but left her without his grandchildren gift, and of his work, the constant that had defined his days. These confidences, once shared through letters, now flowed freely into the prairie wind, a final testament to the bond between mother and son.

His sisters, too, danced at the edges of his fading consciousness, their laughter a balm to his weary soul. They were as he remembered: vibrant, always seeking to lighten his burdens, even if only through the words on a page. “You always knew how to make me smile,” he told them, a smile touching his lips despite the pain. He recounted stories of their requests for help, not with bitterness but with a fondness for their reliance on him, a tie that bound him across the miles to the family that remained in Mexico.

In these last days, his lean-to became a nexus of past and present, the veil thinning as he conversed with the visions of his loved ones. He thanked his mother for her strength and wisdom, for being his confidante in a world that often felt too vast and indifferent. To his sisters, he expressed his love and pride, his regrets for the distances that life had imposed upon them.

The had sun set on his final day, the prairie around him seemed to listen, a silent witness to these conversations that transcended the boundaries of life and death. The Vaquero’s voice, though weak, was full of emotion, a poignant blend of gratitude, love, and a hint of sorrow for the time lost.

His companions, the horse and the dog, remained by his side, their presence a comfort in the face of his journey’s end. They, too, seemed to understand the significance of these moments, the closing of a chapter that had spanned decades, marked by the hard work of the plains and the tender memories of a family cherished from afar.

As the darkness totally enveloped the prairie, the Vaquero’s conversations with his mother and sisters became whispers, then silence. His final thoughts were of home, not the physical place he had left behind, but the emotional sanctuary he had carried within him. In the end, it was this sense of home, of love and belonging, that guided him gently into the night, leaving behind a legacy of resilience, affection, and an enduring connection to the lands and loved ones that had shaped his life.

In the morning the Vaquero’s horse and dog walked slowly back to the Ranch where they came from. The substantial herd stood and watched them till they passed over the horizon.