By Pamela Love

My lasso sped toward the last bull in the devil’s herd. Its cursed hooves struck sparks as it thundered across the sky.

While my ghost rope started to drop over the brute’s head, I let myself hope that this time I’d catch him, though I’d always failed before. Would’ve held my breath, if I had any.

Didn’t matter. At the last second, a gust of wind knocked the lariat aside. I groaned. My ghost mount let out a horselaugh as it galloped through the clouds.

Like always, Clem howled with fury, his freckles standing out like an Appaloosa’s spots. “Jed, you couldn’t rope a three-legged calf with three men holding it still!” I mouthed the words as he spoke them.

“Dagnabbit, any greenhorn could do better.” Disgusted, Zeke slapped his Stetson on his knee. “Watch me do it.” As if he could.

I rolled my eyes, feeling like Sisyphus, the man doomed to spend his afterlife pushing a boulder up a mountain. Whenever he neared the top, the rock would tumble all the way back down. He’d have to start all over again.

Sisyphus didn’t know how good he had it.

In life, Zeke, Clem, and I were rustlers, splitting our takings fair and square. Then we got greedy. Each of us double-crossed the other two, using our six-shooters to try and keep all the loot from some stolen Texas Longhorns.

Stealing’s bad enough. Betraying your partners is worse. But murdering your friends? That made the devil take a personal interest. His eyes glowed scarlet as he judged us. “Your fates are tied. You’ll spend eternity chasing my cattle, trying to rope one. If any of you can, you’ll all find everlasting peace.”

He’d disappeared like locomotive smoke. The hope he gave us was fake as fool’s gold, since there was always a breeze at just the wrong moment, a toss of the horns, a slackening of the lasso, to keep us from snaring one. We were trapped on the devil’s horses, sore-armed, saddle-weary, and worst of all, together, forever.

At least Sisyphus didn’t have people lambasting him for how he shoved the stone.

Not that I was any better. “Zeke, you clumsy ox! You missed again!” I shook my fist.

Suddenly, something zipped past my face, whistling. Startled, my horse reared slightly, ears pinned back. I’d scarcely recognized it as a broom before a second one followed, which I instinctively snatched. It twisted and tugged in my clutch. I was flabbergasted that I could grab hold of anything that wasn’t a phantom like me.

Clem squinted for a better look, not easy when all of us were still riding hell for leather. “What in tarnation’s that, Jed?”

“A witch’s broom!” Zeke’s mouth opened so wide a buzzard could’ve climbed in. “Where’s the witch? Fallen off?”

“Look.” I pointed at the whistling broom overhead, which had no witch either. It kept pace with us, just out of reach. I spotted a few holes in its broomstick. That explains the whistle. Sounds like a scream. No wonder it spooked my horse. “One might’ve fallen off, but two? Horses run away. Guess brooms do, too.”

My dead heart started pounding. Don’t ask me how. The broomstick kept trying to pull away. My grip tightened. “Fellas, there’s a name on this thing. Selina. Maybe she’d do us a favor to get it back.”

Clem’s eyes widened. “Bet a witch could break our curse.”

Zeke nodded. “We’re doomed anyhow. Might as well try it.”

“Yep, can’t make things worse.” I snapped my fingers at the whistler. “You! Get the witch. Get Selina!” It arrowed downward, its whistle growing fainter.

Though there was nothing good about our gang, honest-to-goodness grins spread over our faces. A slim chance is better than none.

Soon a powerful witch would be in my debt for returning her property. Saving me would save the others too, our fates being tied. Might be as simple as flying ahead and putting that rope around the bull’s neck herself. I’ll wager the devil didn’t count on her. I chuckled. Couldn’t remember the last time I’d done that.

Hours passed. We were patient. Finding Selina would take time. We kept on trying to rope that bull, for it was part of our doom so we couldn’t stop. I had the worst of it, since the broom felt like it was trying to rip the calluses off my hand.

The three of us quit shaming each other. Instead of insults, shouts of “Almost had it!” and “Next time, for sure” filled the air. Real hope had that effect.

Then my horse went mad.

It reared so high I thought it was going over backward, hoofs slashing as it screamed. Then it plunged forward, no, downward, while I desperately tried to hang on, though I was already dead. I grabbed for the reins with both hands, which meant losing the broom. It raced away, with two others hot on its trail: the whistling one and another. Instead of holes, this one had skinny cracks. Air was hissing through them. Although my mount belonged to the devil, it was still horse enough to be terrified of snakes. It bucked hard, and its panic spread to Zeke and Clem’s horses. We tumbled to earth like Sisyphus’s boulder.

***

We still chase the devil’s herd, but on foot. The herd’s in the sky. We get a glimpse of it now and then. Turns out being saddle-weary isn’t nearly as bad as being footsore.

Before, we divided our hate fair and square. Now Zeke and Clem both despise me, spitting at the sight of my shadow.

Turns out, things could be worse. I didn’t know how good I had it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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