Work Text:
“Anything else you wanna add to the postscript, Wish?” Rowdy asked as his pencil finally came to a stop on the paper.
Wishbone shook his head. “Nope. That’s all I want to tell him. I’d best get back to cookin’ before the rest of this miserable crew wake up complainin’ about breakfast not bein’ ready yet.”
“Right,” said Rowdy. He unfolded himself from the uncomfortable writing position he’d scrunched himself into, slowly rose from the ground, and stretched his aching back. “I’ll give this one last look over before I send it off.”
Dear Mr. Favor, the letter read,
Not much new to tell you about the crew since the last letter. We ain’t seen Scarlet or Hey Soos lately, though the last we heard of them was good news. Ran into Pete last week. He’s still scouting for the army. Seems well. Didn’t want to talk much, didn’t have a message for you.
As for those of us still driving cattle, we’re doing fine. Wish is still cooking, Quince is still drinking (when he’s allowed), I still ain’t smoking (still ain’t got nobody to teach me how). Been a tough season, especially with this green crew, but having Wish and Quince around sure helps. Had some scrapes and scares, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Nothing you couldn’t have handled, that’s for sure, and for better or worse, I try to remember what you tried to teach me. You know full well I didn't like how hard you were on me, but now I see why you were.
Almost forgot about Mushy. He’s fine too. His mom writes to Wish so Wish won’t worry about him. For a while we thought we'd never hear from Mushy again, the way his mom just marched into camp after she heard about what happened and took him away in the middle of the drive. But she does write now, thank goodness for that. She says Mushy’s finally all grown up and can handle himself now. Taking over the family business. Can you imagine?
I took a break between drives recently to tend to some business out East. Looked in on the girls. Eleanor’s taking good care of them. I send her a little something from time to time, whatever I can spare. (Don’t scold me for doing that, now, Mr. Favor, I really can spare it, and it ain’t nothing to be ashamed of to have someone else care about your family too.) I’m sure Gillian and Maggie will write (?) to you in their own way, but it wouldn’t hurt for me to repeat what they wanted you to know: They love you. They miss you. And they always will.
Kinda wish I had more good news for you. I’m sure Pete will come around and have something to say to you one of these days. Part of me thinks that he thinks it’s weird that I write to you. Another part of me thinks that he’s a still little mad at you. Heck, I’m still a little mad at you, but more and more, I think it could have happened to anyone, and it’s no use trying to blame you for how things turned out. But I get why Pete feels the way he does. I know if it had happened to me, you would have had my hide if it were somehow still physically possible after it was all over.
But I’m talking in circles. Writing in circles. Well, it’s been a nice, quiet morning out here on the trail. Wish you were here.
Faithfully yours,
Rowdy Yates
P.S. Wish just ambled by and wanted to add that when he sees you again—not that he wants to end up joining you particularly soon—he’s going to give you a piece of his mind about the damn fool way you handled that river crossing. You’re the stubbornest cuss he’s ever known and he don’t think he’ll meet the likes of you again. (I think he meant that last bit as a compliment.) (Sorry. He says it ain't a compliment, and he'll never quite forgive you for being so damned stubborn and not listening to your scout.)
Rowdy sighed. He was a little put out by the way the letter sounded now that he'd read it once through, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to add something cheery just for the sake of it.
He picked his way around the still sleeping drovers in the morning twilight and came to the water’s edge. The river was narrower here, and the dry weather of late meant the water wasn’t quite as formidable or frightening as it could be this time of year.
Carefully, he folded the letter into a paper boat and crouched down by the water. He quietly murmured something meant to be lost in the gurgle and rush of the water, then gently released the boat.
He sank down on his haunches and wrapped his arms around his knees, watching the boat get carried away by the current, bobbing up and down and zigzagging haphazardly until it finally disappeared from view.
He stayed by the river for a long, long time.
When he finally stood up again, Wishbone was by his side, looking up at him. Rowdy blinked hard a few times before looking back down at him. Wishbone emitted a disgruntled sound that sounded suspiciously like it was covering for a sniffle, then jerked his chin in the direction of the now bustling camp while thrusting a small bundle of biscuits and jerky for the road into Rowdy’s hands.
Rowdy took a deep breath as he started striding toward the remuda.
“Head ’em up! … Move ’em out!”