Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod sat comfortably in the saddle, watching over a herd of kidlets as they milled around on the open field on the first day of school.

Some were bawling for their mothers or for their lost freedom to run around filthy and wild. Others moved silently, grazing on granola bars or French Toast sticks gleaned from the school cafeteria. Dotted in the herd were the wee little ones, noisily suckling on drink boxes and looking around with wide-eyed curiosity. Little tiny packs were strapped to little tiny backs in a myriad of colors and designs.

The early morning sun had risen on a new day with blue skies and wispy, tattered clouds floating lazily across the endless expanse. The dew hadn't yet burned off so from his vantage point, MacLeod could see clearly the rug-rat tracks made by hundreds of tiny feet.

Brand new blue jeans, form fitting yet comfortable, hugged his lower body like a glove. He knew that later, after a hot and dusty day of herding untrained kidlets, he'd go home and find his skin colored a light blue wherever his skin had touched the fabric. Silently he cursed himself for not taking time to pre-wash his just-purchased denims.

Chaps, well broken in and soft as butter covered those jeans, protecting him from sharp little fingernails and accidental pokings of newly sharpened pencils. Over a hundred forty years old, those chaps had seen MacLeod through hard times and good. They were pitted and stained, but the custom hand-tooled design was still easily seen since the lines had been darkened to almost black from dust and trail-grime that had ground deep into the pores of the leather. Running around the edges of each flap was a broken, yet interwoven Celtic design. At the bottom on the outside corner was the MacLeod crest, a braided circle with a long-horned bull decorating the center. Below the head, "MacLeod" was still visible.

Covering his feet were boots meant for hard work and to service the man who wore them. They were black in color and had a slanted heel for catching on a stirrup, or just for looking good when they were cleaned up and polished to a high shine. He'd had them long enough that they were broken in just right and were as comfortable as if his feet were bare.

Eliciting a sharp whistle, Duncan signaled to Connor that a wayward kidlet had strayed from the herd. The young'un, barely dry behind the ears, was wondering dangerously close to the parking lot where cars were moving back and forth in a steady stream, dispatching more kidlets to join their swelling numbers.

Laying his reins across the saddle horn, Duncan rolled up the sleeves on his blue chambray shirt. He was taking a chance that he may not have to leap from his horse and rescue anybody this day.

For late August, it was already in the high 80's and promised to be a scorcher. Peering upward from below the brim of his cowboy hat, he studied the sky as he unbuttoned the top two buttons and opened his vest to allow himself a bit of relief.

Unhooking his canteen, he unscrewed the cap and drank deeply while his eyes scanned the herd continuously.

The nicker of a horse approaching drew his attention as his kinsman approached from his left.

Returning his canteen to its place behind him, Duncan turned and acknowledged Connor's return.

"It's like this every year, isn't it."

"Yeah. Cute aren't they," Connor mused.

Three little boys laughed loudly as one of them slapped a drink box from the hand of a girl standing alone.

"Your turn, cousin. I went last time."

Duncan's nostrils flared in indignation at the taunting the boys were giving to the little girl. There was nothing he hated more than girls being picked on by bullies and ruffians.

"Hyah!" Flicking the reins, Duncan took off down the slope to save the day, chaps a'flying and justice on the way.

SheezaCDC
September 2002

Back to The Playroom

Back to the Library

Home