by R. W. Stone
Vicki Marston laughed aloud. “Of course, I’d like to see you again as well. Everyone knows where my family lives if you decide to come to Helena. That’s in Montana. If you find the time, of course. Just don’t take too long.”
Lucas was both taken aback and enthralled by the unabashed directness of this bold young lady. “I won’t. But I don’t exactly know how long it will take, my … business … but I will do all I can to resolve it quickly.”
Vicki Marston looked at the tall Canadian as if she were sizing him up for the very first time. “You mentioned that your brother was a Mountie as well, and that he was killed in the line of duty. This pressing obligation of yours … it wouldn’t have something to do with that, would it?”
She knew immediately by the look on his face that she should never have asked him this question, but she felt so at ease with him, she couldn’t help but be open with him.
“I shouldn’t have asked you that,” she said, clearly uncomfortable. Despite his reaction to her question, she said: “Well, Lucas Donovan, you go get your business done, but be careful. From the little you’ve told me, I don’t believe your quest will be an easy one, and I’m not fond of the idea of you getting hurt. Or worse yet, never seeing you again.”
Knowing he had to get moving, Lucas replied firmly: “Oh, you’ll see me again, I assure you.”
“And be sure to take care of Red for me, won’t you?” Vicki added with a big smile, then she blew Lucas a kiss, and hurried back into the train station.
Donovan shook his head in wonderment and watched her disappear into the crowd.
* * * * *
The border town wasn’t very big, only a dozen buildings or so, but there was a general store, a livery stable, and two saloons. He could get the supplies he needed, including what he had lost in his downhill run to save the train, a horse, and perhaps, if he were lucky, some useful information.
Lucas knew that whatever the town size or location, a local saloon was always the best place to hear the local gossip. Lips that are wet with beer are usually loose, he reasoned, and he had a number of questions that needed answers. For the moment, however, that would have to wait. After getting a sufficient amount of gold out of his money belt where no eyes could see him, Donovan picked up his Sharps rifle and his bedroll pack and headed over to the livery stable, Red faithfully trotting right alongside.
The stable was a large lean-to affair with a pine-log corral out front. Inside the corral were a dozen or so geldings and a few mares. For the most part, the mares looked older, and in Donovan’s opinion had been, as the old saying goes, “ridden hard, and put away wet.”
Lucas ordered Red into a “down and stay” position as he studied the horses. The dog had grown up around horses and was not spooked or even particularly interested in them. Malamutes are sled dogs, not herding dogs. A collie on the other hand, would have immediately busied itself trying to bunch the herd up tighter.
Soon enough, an old man with a long and salt-and-pepper beard came out from the back and approached Lucas. “Seen you admiring this fine stock of mine. Interested in purchasing one, perhaps?” he asked.
“Perhaps, depending on the price,” Lucas replied. “But I get to see them all, and then take my pick.”
The older man nodded. “Shore, shore, no problem. Around here, the price is always negotiable, but o’ course it will depend on which one you pick. They’s all prime, that’s for shore, but some is better than others.”
“These the only ones you’ve got?” Donovan asked, then added: “Anyone else in town selling?”
The proprietor looked insulted. “Sonny boy, iffen they’s any better than mine around here, they shore as shootin’ won’t be for sale. Now you want to pick one or not?”
Before the owner had shown up, a black gelding in the pen had caught Donovan’s eye. It was mule eared, meaning that it held its two ears sideways, like a mule, rather than straight up. People often look down upon horses with this particular characteristic, but Lucas’ father had raised one once, and it was one of the best horses he’d ever ridden. How the animal held its ears might make him look funny to most, but Lucas knew it had absolutely no effect on the horse’s hearing or any other trait necessary in a good riding horse.
The black also looked like it might have some Morgan blood in it, and Lucas favored that rare breed. He had no doubt that the animal was all horse, but, still, he wanted to make sure that he made the best possible purchase. After all, it wasn’t called horse trading for nothing.
Donovan wanted a mount that would go the distance cross country without breaking down. He liked his horses trail-wise, spirited, and sound. Color and ear carriage meant nothing to him. Of course, he chuckled to himself, this owner didn’t need to know all that.
“Sure, let’s have a look at them,” Donovan answered the man, and they entered the corral. For the next half hour, he examined each horse, keeping his eye on the black, but paying close attention to the legs and hoofs of each and every one of the horses. He recalled what he had heard plenty of horsemen say over the years—“No feet, no horse.”—and the Donovans always took that sage advice very seriously.
“Nice gray one over here,” the liveryman offered eagerly.
“You mean the one with shin splints and those quarter cracks over his hoofs? No thanks,” Donovan replied, shaking his head. He spent some time looking over a big chestnut mare. After looking at her teeth, Lucas dismissed her. As he neared the black, he glanced around the pen, as though he wasn’t interested in the horse. Keeping his eye fixed across the pen, he asked: “How much for the chestnut mare, or maybe that buckskin gelding over there?”
The liveryman rubbed his beard while considering his chances at selling a horse or two to this tall stranger. “Well, I might let either one of them go for a hundred dollars cash … each.”
The price wasn’t unreasonable for a horse in fairly sound condition, but neither of these two fit the bill. Donovan was just trying to get a feel for the man’s prices.
“Hmm, I don’t know. I’m not sure yet.” He then pretended to notice the big black for the first time. “What’s this? He half mule? Will you just look at those ears?” He stood there with his hands on his hips and let out a loud laugh. Lucas walked around the horse, looked quickly inside its mouth, then backed off as if this was the last horse on earth he would consider buying.
Lucas was a little surprised at what he had discovered about the black. The teeth indicated the gelding to be only about five years old and that he had a nice, even bite. He was also pleased that the black clearly wasn’t a wood cribber or a wind sucker, traits that can ruin a horse. After all, he knew that biting and chewing on wood, or clamping down and sucking wind are vices that some stabled animals develop. Those traits can lead to feeding disorders and colic. An experienced horseman can detect either problem if the horse’s teeth are excessively worn down or if the bite line has gaps or is crooked.
The old man looked embarrassed, but the salesman in him wouldn’t allow him to give ground.
“Well I’ll admit he ain’t much to look at, but he’s … er … young and strong,” the man pointed out.
“And probably stupid and stubborn as a jack,” Lucas added, not slowing down his criticisms of the horse he really wanted. He ran his hands down the horse’s legs, confirming what he already expected, that the animal was both sound and strong.
“Why is this mule-eared one even for sale?” Lucas asked dismissively.
“Well, sir, looks ain’t everything, ’specially in a horse.”
“Yeah, well, in this case you got that right. Still, I might be able to use him as a backup, if the price is right.”
“Well, I know for a fact he rides real comfortable,” the liveryman said.
“Really?” Lucas tried to act surprised.
“Fact is, the man who sold me this lot of horses said he’ll go all day and all
night without a hitch. No quit in him I was told.”
“And you believed him? This the same man who was trying to sell you all his stock?”
“Believe him? Yes, sir, I did,” the old man answered. He seemed to be getting annoyed.
Although Lucas had no doubt about the horse’s stamina, he shook his head anyway. “Maybe if the mule in him don’t get in the way. Well, let’s see, you want a hundred apiece for those other ones, but I’m tight on funds. So, I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you thirty-five in gold for this black, and twenty-five for that buckskin over there to use as a pack horse.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, huh?” the man rubbed his face for a moment, not wanting to look too anxious to sell either of the horses. “Nope. For the two o’ them … let’s say hundred fifty dollars is the best I can do, unless maybe you want to throw in that big ol’ dog o’ yours?”
“No, sir,” Donovan said hastily, “he’s not for sale, but thanks for the offer.” Lucas reached into his pockets and tipped back on the heels of his boots, pretending to think about the price.
“One fifty, huh? Well, I’ll tell you what. In that case, things being as slim as they are, I guess I’ll have to split the difference with you. I offered sixty for both and you want one hundred fifty, so how about I take the bay mule and the buckskin for the same thirty-five each.”
The liveryman rubbed his beard, cocking an eyebrow at Donovan. He knew how hard it would be to unload that mule-ear for a decent price, but he also remembered how much he’d paid for the whole lot and he needed to recoup his costs at the least. The man shook his head. “Nope, sorry, sonny, but I can’t go down that low. And besides, he ain’t a mule. Shore you don’t wanna sell that dog?”
After his examination of the horse, Donovan would gladly have paid a full hundred for the big black horse alone, ears or no ears. He reached into his pocket and counted out seventy in gold. “Nope, not for sale, and this is all I will pay. If you’re not amenable to the deal, maybe you can sell them to a trapper who’s hard up for something cheap to eat.”
The liveryman bristled at the remark. “Yeah? And then what would you ride?” he said. The old man looked back at the black, who was munching on some hay. That downward position made his floppy ears seem even larger. The horse trader shook his head in despair. “Eighty dollars fer both and that’s final.”
“Fine. Eighty dollars it is,” Donovan replied as he reached into his pocket where he had put one hundred in coins earlier. But then he dropped his hand, saying: “I’ll need a bill of sale and I want them shod before I leave.”
“Cost you extra,” the old codger continued to dicker.
Lucas jingled the coins in his hand and shook his head firmly. “Oh, no, it won’t, not for a half mule who’s probably not even worth the thirty-five and a run-down pack horse.”
“Fine, you win. Come back in two hours, and they’ll be ready.”
Lucas handed the man the forty dollars. The liveryman looked puzzled. “You’ll get the rest after I check the new horseshoes myself,” Donovan explained.
“Sonny, you shore do drive a hard bargain. You shore you never ran a livery yourself?”
Donovan laughed and patted the bay horse. “I think I’ll call him Handsome Harry. See you in two hours. Thanks, mister.”
“Yeah, right,” the old man mumbled angrily.
Chapter Thirteen
“Next stop, the general store,” Donovan said to Red. “Come on, boy.” Red’s ears perked up, and he bounded after his master.
“No sense having a horse without a saddle, now is there?” Lucas said aloud to the dog. He found what he was looking for at the end of the street. The rolls of barbed wire and the assorted shovels and brooms leaning against the wall outside the door were a dead giveaway.
The sign above the door read: northern supply company. It didn’t look big enough to be an actual company, so Lucas surmised that it might be part of a conglomerate of small stores owned by some rich banker, back east, maybe. On the other hand, it could be that the store owner was merely trying to make his place sound more important than it was in actuality.
There were two men leaving the store just as Donovan walked in; another was finishing up at the counter, counting out his money. The place seemed typical of almost any small town general store. It was rectangular and long. Hundreds of items hung down from the ceiling on hooks or wires. There were lariats, lamps, canteens hanging from their straps, and just about anything else that could be strung up. A long wooden counter stretched down along the side of the store, and behind it were dozens of little cubbyholes filled with things like tobacco jars, cigars, all kinds of candies, boxes of bullets, and other assorted small items.
Behind the counter stood a middle-aged, balding man in a white shirt and a black bow tie. At the moment, he was looking impatient as the man slowly counted out his money, starting over several times.
Toward the back of the store, just past some tables that had clothing laid out on them, were a few wooden sawhorses with new saddles thrown over them. There were a few older saddles in a pile on the floor next to them.
Donovan had always loved stores like these. As a kid, he would stare at the glass jars full of jawbreakers, sticks of licorice, and lollipops, and hope that his father would have a couple of pennies left over for his two sons.
Now, as an adult, he still enjoyed slowly perusing the aisles of such stores, looking for some new kind of gadget that he might never have seen before. He recalled the first time he saw an apple peeler. A traveling salesman was demonstrating it to the store owner, and Lucas and Jamie had watched in fascination as the salesman stuck an apple on a small spike in the center of the device. He lowered the cupped top, which held the apple in place, and then began turning a hand crank that was located on the side of the peeling device. The customers in the store at the time, both women and men, let out little ahhs as they watched the apple turn. In no time at all, the sharp blade had peeled the skin off the whole apple, leaving it intact, but naked as Adam and Eve. The store owner had ordered five of them on the spot. Several women stepped up to put in an order, thinking how much time they could save when making apple pies and wondering if there were other fruits and vegetables they could use with the newfangled machine.
Lucas smiled at the memory and headed to the back of the store, toward the pile of saddles on the floor.
“Don’t much like dogs in my store,” the clerk behind the counter said firmly. Red growled in answer to his comment.
“Behave, Red,” Lucas commanded. He walked the big dog back to the front door and had him sit. “Stay Red.” Lucas wagged his finger at the dog for emphasis.
Turning to the store owner, Donovan explained: “If I tied him up outside, he’d just chew through the rope and scratch at your window. I promise he’ll behave as long as he can see me.”
The clerk didn’t seem very convinced.
“I’m looking for a saddle,” Lucas added.
“Got some nice new ones over here,” the clerk said, as he stepped out from behind the counter. The prospect of a sale of a saddle appeared to suddenly outweigh his concern about the dog.
It wasn’t that Lucas couldn’t afford a new one or that he was by nature tightfisted. He wasn’t. However, what he had learned through the years, is that a new saddle takes a while to break in, during which time the rider’s behind suffers the consequences. Furthermore, after the first week or two, a new saddle is no better or worse than an old saddle that has been properly maintained. Good leather will almost last a lifetime, if its cared for by its owner. As far as Lucas was concerned, it made little sense to pay ten times the price for the same long-term value.
Donovan sifted through a couple of saddles, discarding them due to worn out padding, rusted metal, a cracked tree, or degrading leather. The last thing he wanted was to ruin a good horse by causing fistulous withers or an abscessed back from riding with
a defective saddle. Lucas was beginning to think he might have to buy a new one, when he turned over a saddle from the bottom of the pile.
To the average Yankee, that saddle might have seemed strange, or perhaps even been confused for a pack saddle, but to a Canadian Mountie it was perfect. At first glance, it appeared to be an altered McClellan Army saddle, named after the Army general who had designed it. Donovan had heard its nickname a number of times—the ballbuster. It differed from the usual roping saddles, or even the English-style saddle used for pleasure riding, in that the center portion of the seat was open, which alleviated the problem of the saddle seat rubbing the horse’s back, and was more useful to the cavalry. The US military appeared to appreciate horses more than soldiers.
The saddle Lucas was looking at, however, differed from other McClellans in several ways. This one had two long wooden skis on which the saddle seat rested that were covered with leather. There were also two flat metal bars reaching up from the middle of the skis in a crossed-arm pattern that attached to the bottom of the saddle seat. This raised the seat higher up off the horse than that of a regular saddle. Like the roping saddles from Texas, this saddle also had the wide skirts and fenders that hung down low under the seat to protect the inside of the rider’s legs. Two leather straps ran down opposite sides, ending in hooded stirrups, called tapaderos, which are favored by Mexican vaqueros because they keep thorns from penetrating one’s shoes and boots when riding the open range. When everything was put together on a saddle like this, the finished product was one highly favored by the Mounties, especially since it was remarkably comfortable.
Pulling the saddle from the pile, Lucas noticed that although it was dusty, the leather was still in great shape and all that was missing was a girth strap. Donovan had noticed that there were plenty of those in the store that would do the job nicely.
“How much you want for this saddle here?” Lucas called to the store clerk. “The dirty one missing the girth strap.”
