“Let’s pull over here and make camp.” He pointed toward his choice.
Tough as she was, Alma looked relieved, though she never would admit to being tired. She reined the team into a flat spot above the river. Dry as this country was, flash floods could sweep into all the low places if a rainstorm hit upriver. He took a quick look around and nodded at the choice for camping the night. She tied the reins and hopped down.
Dirty Shirt stayed mounted. “I will look for signs of the band before dark.” He rode off to scout the countryside without waiting for a reply.
The Indian never seemed to grow weary. Mark climbed down to help Alma make camp. To the west, a fingernail moon hung in the silver sky. Along the horizon, mountains cut purple jags.
“It’ll be dark soon. Let’s get this canvas unloaded.” He jumped up in the wagon and tossed out the poles and ropes while she slid one roll of canvas painter’s cloth past the tailgate.
She went to unload the wall tent. “Will we need this?”
“Let’s not use it here. Just the cloths for shelter should be enough. It’s a clear, dark night to look at the stars.” He liked being out in the open with land as far as the eye could see.
She had a shade made from a canvas painter’s cloth and poles with iron pins on the ends to support it. He drove stakes into the ground and tied off some ropes to hold it up.
“Where in thunder did you get all those canvas sheets?” They even had grommets in them for the pins and to tie the ropes too.
She shrugged. “Jeff come home with them one time. Did not say where they came from. He was always gathering things up he thought we might use. I had to get rid of a lot of it. Just junk to me. Guess he saw some good in them. But these I see good in.”
When she talked about her man, even mentioned his name, she got all upset. So, he tried not to bring him up. Mark was fine for her company, but the loss of her husband still strickened her. Jeff’s saddle was a good one and she’d kept it. She took it careful-like to a spot near camp and worked soap into the leather while Mark gathered wood for the fire.
By the time Dirty Shirt returned with no news of signs of the band, a fire crackled out front of the shelter and a pot of beans left from the night before bubbled at its edge next to a gurgling coffee pot.
Mark fast took to having her for a wife. Though to him, they weren’t married. To her, all it took was a small Indian ceremony to make it legal. That was okay with him. Men needed a woman around to keep things on track. She could ably set up camp while they searched for the young horses. The meals were frijoles and fried bacon twice a day. They usually skipped lunch in their searching because they made such wide circles.
One day while staring in all directions, again in vain with no sign of wild horses, Mark hollered at Dirty Shirt. “For all we’ve found, you must’ve seen all those horses in a peyote dream. Or was you just drunk on cheap whiskey or homemade watermelon wine?”
“You will not think that when you see them. Just over that next rise. You are nothing but a crazy white man. What do you know?” The Indian laughed and spurred his horse to run in circles while he whooped.
“Oh, that’s a good idea, you crazy Indian. Scare them all away.”
The following day, Dirty Shirt rode back to Alma’s wagon where Mark had returned to get a drink. This time, he wasn’t hollering.
He pointed. “Just over there, beyond that rise. Several mares and colts, and a stallion that led bands.”
“Not sure we can use them. We need a bachelor party of young horses.”
Dirty Shirt shook his head. “I do know this. Just thought I could prove I have not been drunk or having visions from peyote. We will keep going and we will find what we are looking for.” The two men had been swapping the five horses to ride so as not to wear out any. She fed the ponies Johnson grass hay that she hand-cut each day, so they were stout enough only using them every other day to make their long trips.
Late one afternoon, after he had checked the setting sun, he turned around to the east and spotted a red horse leading some others off the far slopes. They were headed for the cottonwoods along the Verde, coming in the red sunlight. The stallion’s shiny hide looked deeper than blood in the bright reflection above the golden cottonwoods. The trees had only started to turn yellow down there, because it was warmer in the valley than up by Flagstaff.
“There is the red one.” He pointed them out.
The nod of the Indian’s head was all he saw. Then he left, spurring his horse. Mark followed, splashing across the Verde, knee-deep on his mount, then up the sandy bank.
“I said they were here.” Dirty Shirt shouted at him, lashing his horse with the reins.
“Damn, he’s sure pretty.” Spurring the bay horse, he kept up. Saddle leather creaked, and horses grunted.
Wind in his face and headed for a goal at last, he forgot about memories of watery muck trenches along with the rattle of machinegun fire filling the air. He flew with bald eagles, his mount jumping over downed brush and scrambling for his footing in loose gravel, cat-hopping to reach the next bench above them. The flashing hooves of their mounts made rocks and gravel and clods of grass fly. The evergreen sap smell of junipers in his nose, he went right when Jones veered left around some larger ones. Riding flat out, they climbed Four Peaks Mountain from the base toward the sharp points on top.
In two hours of this pressed pursuit, the hard-breathing saddle horses were covered in foamy lather. Jones drew up and Mark followed. In the fading light of day, the loose ones had somehow lost them. But that never mattered. He had already caught the fever of the hunt. Many times, when he caught sight of the animals in the span of the chase, his heart pounded hard in his chest. The red horse looked like a large ruby in a golden ring gleaming in the sun going down over the far mountainside.
Gone again.
But they would catch him. One day soon.
No matter what it cost him, he had to have that sorrel for his own. That horse was going to free him of exploding grenades and incoming artillery rounds killing his buddies only a few yards away. Why had he lived through that when his buddies hadn’t? Maybe his slain comrades were in a better place. He wished he would quit catching glimpses of them all bloody and battered. Following after him. Never speaking, just watching. He had no idea where they had gone on to, but there must be a master plan.
Late that night, under a sky filled with stars, snug in his and her bedroll, Alma whispered in his ear. “Thank you for bringing me and being so good to me. I will try to be worth it.”
Embarrassed, he finally answered her. “You are worth it, just for that good cooking.” And being good company for me, but he didn’t say that aloud for fear of embarrassing her.
The next few days were not so satisfying—always chasing but never catching the bachelor herd. Once more seeing them disappear in the distance. They had to do more to catch the wild horses.
“We have to build two traps and drive the horses into one or the other enclosures,” Jones said.
Mark agreed. With only a hand-ax and small bow, the two set to work. It proved to be hard to assemble fencing from dead trees and tie them together with baling wire to make a corral, but the two catch pens were finally done. If the free horses went right or left at the spooks made from hanging Alma’s long, wild, paint-covered canvas sheets across their route, those wild ones would be caught.
Five days of hard riding and falling into their bedrolls with weary bones, and things finally went right for the kickoff of their drive. The bachelors showed up for a drink of water from the river like the last time. Alma was mounted on one of Jones’s horses as well. She needed no saddle. She rode a horse like a tick anyway. On horseback, each rider moved in slow from three sides to where the wild ones drank knee-deep in the swirling, murky Verde.
Red took a quick drink, then sniffed the air with caution, throwing drops of water in rainbow colors before lowering his head to take another. Even at a distance, the stallion had a wild glint in his dark eyes. Lot
s of white around them. Seemed a shame to throw a rope on such a wild and free animal. But he had to have him. He’d sure be a real bastard to break. Mark knew his kind well, but the fast approaching challenge of owning such a fine horse swelled in his chest till his heart thudded in his throat. It was all he could think about.
He’d heard no enemy or even friendly artillery in the days since they started this chase. No more waking up ready to pick up his weapon when the fight urges came over him. He slept, without all the Battle of the Bulge desperation of earlier nights when he was first back on U.S. soil. Alma had laid, sleeping peacefully beside him, quieting his demons, chasing that other life back into the shadows.
This horse-gathering business had driven away the gawdamn war’s picture. It was clear out of his mind when Jones shouted, “Let’s go!” on that crisp early morning.
The three of them tore off to chase the horses into one of their well-planned traps. Half rearing in shock, the red one slung his body around in a great spray of water and lunged for the sandy bank. The frantic animal lost his footing for a moment and went down in the water, but his head never went under. In a flash of wet horsehide, he leaped for the bank in the wild way that Mark expected from him. His shrill screams mobilized the others against the serious trouble at hand.
The race was on. Mark checked on Alma coming from his left side to ford the river he was halfway across. They formed a line, with Jones in the lead. His unblocked black hat set hard on his head and the eagle feather attached to it whipped his brim. Mark rode fast after them. Slanting his head, he caught sight of Alma on the brown gelding hot on his pony’s heels.
The whole secret of a trap was to fool them into entering it, get them inside, then slap the gate shut. When the wild ones spooked, not expecting the crazy paint-stained canvas to be strung up in their way, they never hesitated and went left. Headed, at full speed, right for that enclosure.
Jones jumped off his horse and ran faster than Shaw ever would have believed he could. Dust puffed from under his boots, his arms whirl-winding in a race to pull the wire gate shut. He slumped down before it, out of breath.
Alma pointed, clapping her hands. “I really like to see Jones run.” Joyous laughter broke through her words. “He wouldn’t run that hard to catch a good-looking woman.”
It was true. The dash Jones made would have beaten any track team’s efforts. In that moment of pure excitement, Mark could have whipped the entire German army singlehanded. The six young horses were captured and in the pen.
Whew!
The next morning, Alma woke him to say breakfast was ready. She did not look as if she liked such wild horse captures. Though the worse for wear, she looked so pretty with her hair down and the colorful dress of blues, reds, and greens. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, but he didn’t. It was not yet time to do so. Let her be the first to make such a declaration.
She went to the fire to fix him a plate, her bare toes showing when the long dress swished. How had he found such a beautiful woman who cared so much for him? He was no longer alone, and it felt so good to have her. He stood on top of the bedroll and pulled on his pants. Too many stickers and burrs for him on the gravely ground to expose his own bare soles.
“Are you sorry about all the hard work?” He sat to pull on his boots.
“No. I am as proud as you are to have them caught, but—” She winced at her own movements to walk. “Perhaps we should wait a while before we have another such roundup.”
He wrapped her up in his arms and she threw back her head to laugh. His mouth smothered her with kisses. He couldn’t help hisself, she was so danged pretty. Afraid how she might act, he held his breath, and then let it out when her powerful small arms clutched him, her strength unbelievable. She’d used it for everything they did. He now had the big Red and this small, sweet Indian woman. How did a man like him dare be so happy?
“What will you do now?” she asked.
“We need to break them and have us some stout ranch horses to gather wild cattle on and build us a ranch.”
“I thought you were going to try to get the war out of you?” She frowned.
“I plan to do that too. We’re going to look over a ranch we may own some day on what I call our vacation or leave, whatever you call it.”
“You say us, over and over. Does that mean I can go, too?”
Shocked that she should wonder such a thing, he studied her hard. “You’re already part of this deal. A big part.”
She screamed with joy and tackled him.
There were some hot springs up on the Verde. Maybe a day or two in them might loosen her sore back and muscles. Though he hated to admit it, his, too, needed a good hot soaking. It would be good for the both of them. His Injun woman. They both needed someone, and they should be able to solve lots of challenges in the future by working them out together.
He released her. “We have to halter break the new ponies to lead. Then there are full grown horses that have probably only been handled as yearlings that need to be gelded.” He pointed out one of them—a big, strong bay. “That one is still a stallion. See the scars from him challenging stallions with bands of mares? They can be handled, but they’re all powerful, head-slinging, fear-filled critters to tame. You bet.”
Roped, the ponies fought for their lives. Mark wished for boot heels instead of his combat boots—skiing around on the gravelly ground and holding on to the lariat to snub each horse was no fun. He had a bay on the line, number three to tie up. A star in his forehead gave him his name.
He gave a good battle, hoofs kicking high in the sky, head tossing and mane flying. His screams sounded near human. But men won out over animals. Star was finally snubbed and fitted with a halter. Mark slipped a rope around his flank, threaded it between his front legs and through his halter ring. Despite kicking and snorting, he was soon tied close to a nearby stout juniper tree. In one last effort to get away, Star jerked his head high. The rope around his flank closed on his back and soon put an end to his head-slinging and fighting himself.
For a moment, Mark rubbed the sweaty neck, spoke soft words to the animal. Soft brown eyes settled and gazed at him. “Don’t worry, it will be good, the place we’ll take you to.” He felt sorry for an instant that this wild and beautiful animal could no longer run free. Then he patted him. “You will be a good friend.”
They took the exhausted animals one at a time to the river between two of their saddle horses to water. The morning was a wild rodeo arena-like event with flashing teeth and attempts to kick both handlers. So far, he and Jones had avoided those full hoof impacts. No surprise it took several hard-working hours just to start their training.
But the pen was not a good place to work horses. It was sloping and tough ground to work on foot. They needed to take the captives back to Jones’s place to be better handled. But two riders and one wild horse would be a slow way to move all of them there over thirty miles one way.
“I can go get some Indian boys with horses to help you take them back.” Alma kept busy, dishing out bowls of frijoles from the pot on the fire.
Hot and sweaty from the day’s work, both men were seated on the ground in their camp.
Mark turned to Jones. “What do you think?”
He nodded. “I think we should do that.”
Mark turned to her. “I guess we better do that.”
Everyone grinned. It was a relief to have the hardest part with these horses done with.
“I’ll ride one of the saddle horses. I may not be back until tomorrow or the next day. Can you men find yourself food?” She looked up from under the well-worn straw cowboy hat for their reply.
“We can. Not well, but we can. Do we need you to get some things for us to eat?” Though Mark assured her, Jones kept quiet. Women were supposed to cook for their men, in his mind.
She nodded. “But if we are going back to Lehi, it can wait.”
Jones nodded hard. “We got too damn many horses at one time.”
“Na
w. We’ll need them to round up those mavericks.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Hey, we’ve got the horse flesh to do it.”
“That may be too damn much work, too.”
“Aw, come on.” Worried about losing Jones, he scooted closer to him. “You aren’t going to give up on me.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Maybe?” He hated to think of doing this without Dirty Shirt.
Jones’s nod looked encouraging, but he had no way to tell what the man was really thinking. Before then, Jones’d sounded real interested in the business of finding a way to get ahold of that abandoned ranch. But their job of snubbing these horses had become a tough chore and might have been more than the Indian wanted any part of.
Busy eating his beans, Mark told Alma to be careful on her trip.
She sat beside him, spread out her skirt, and agreed she would before she began to eat. “I can stay and help you two this afternoon, if you want.”
“No, getting us some help to move them would be better than if you stayed.”
“That would break them good. Dragging them that far.” Jones chuckled.
“It would be interesting.” Mark’s lunch complete, he rose, bent over, and kissed her. At last it was the right and proper thing to do.
She smiled at him. “I will do my best to bring you back some men.”
“I’d saddle you a horse, but we need both of them.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That is okay. I can go bareback.”
He looked at Jones. “Well, shall we try to water some more of them?”
Jones nodded, straining to get on his knees, then rose. “Oh, big job.”
Mark laughed and headed for the corral, still a bit worried Jones would quit on him. He needed him bad. Dragging the captives one at a time between their two saddled mounts was no easier with one than any of the others. Every one of the horses put up a battle, like they were trying to make sure the men knew who was boss. That would not last.
The sorrel balked the minute they started him down the steep mountainside. Kicking and struggling to get away from his handlers, the horse fell on his side twice just getting to the bottom and the river. All that dumb jughead wanted was loose from his handlers. Not even the idea of a drink tamed him down. By the time he sucked up his fill and they headed him back to the pen, he was behaving a little better. One after the other, he and Jones dragged each pony to water. One thing they didn’t have to do was make them drink. The blamed animals were more thirsty and wore out than the two of them.
Blue Roan Colt Page 3
