Dark Horses

by Ralph Cotton

  DEADLY OATH

  “Hold it!” he shouted at Summers and the two ranch hands. “Don’t shoot!” But his request came too late. Both Little Ted and Kerns saw the wagon driver swing his shotgun into play and fired as one from both corners of the hacienda. The driver fell back into the empty wagon bed. The other two riders grabbed the wagon horses and held them in check. “This wasn’t supposed to turn into a bloodbath!” the man continued. “We’ve got a right to come here and take possession! Our company is owed money! We need to talk about this, for God sakes!”

  Summers noted that the man kept his hand away from his rifle hammer as he spoke. The three remaining horsemen appeared stunned at how Summers had blasted the lead man from his saddle without hesitation.

  Kerns and Little Ted both held their fire. Summers took a step forward on the porch. The three horsemen appeared to be frozen in place, their hands in full view. They didn’t want a fight. They were used to getting their way; they hadn’t expected this.

  Interesting, Summers thought.

  “I warned you that I had no more to say on the matter,” he said in a cool, level tone. In the dirt, the leader groaned and pushed himself up with his palms.

  “You’ll . . . pay for this,” he growled at Summers, blood running down his face.

  PRAISE FOR RALPH COTTON

  “[Cotton’s] works incorporate . . . pace and plot in a language that ranges from lyric beauty to macabre descriptions of bestial savagery.”

  —Wade Hall, The Louisville Courier-Journal

  “Cotton’s blend of history and imagination works because authentic Old West detail and dialogue fill his books.”

  —Wild West Magazine

  SIGNET

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Ralph Cotton, 2014

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  ISBN 978-1-101-63617-6

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise

  Title page

  Copyright page

  Dedication

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  PART 2

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  PART 3

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Excerpt from GOLDEN RIDERS

  For Mary Lynn, of course . . .

  PART 1

  Chapter 1

  Dark Horses, the Mexican hill country, Old Mexico

  The horse trader Will Summers stood with his rain slicker buttoned all the way up to his chin, his wet black Stetson pulled low on his forehead. His boots were muddy and soaked through his socks. His wet gloved hand was wrapped around the stock of his equally wet Winchester rifle. Behind him stood his dapple gray and a string of four bay fillies. The animals held their heads bowed against the rain.

  Summers read a bullet-riddled sign he’d picked up out of the mud. He slung it free of water and mud and read it again as if he might have missed something.

  Bienvenido a Caballos Oscuros . . . , he said silently to himself.

  “Welcome to Dark Horses,” he translated beneath the muffling sound of pouring rain.

  But how far? he asked himself, looking all around. The rain raced slantwise on a hard wind. Thunder grumbled behind streaks of distant lighting. Night was falling fast under the boiling gray sky. The horse trader frowned to himself and looked up and down the slick hillside trail.

  To his right he looked along a boulder-clad hillside to where the long, rocky upper edge of an ancient caldera swept down and encircled the wide valley below. The lay of the land revealed where, thousands of years ago, the lower valley had been the open top of a boiling volcano. Over time, as the belly of the earth cooled, the thin, standing pipe walls of the volcano had weathered and aged and toppled inward and filled that once-smoldering chasm. All of this before man’s footprints had ventured onto this rugged terrain.

  Behind the fallen, honeycombed lava walls, over those same millennia past, dirt and seed of all varieties had steadily blown in and sculpted a yawning black abyss into a rocky green valley—a valley currently shrouded beneath the wind-driven rain.

  On the valley floor, snaking into sight from the north, Summers recognized the Blue River—El Río Azul. The river’s muddy water had swollen out of its banks and barreled swiftly in and around bluffs and lower cliffs and hill lines like an unspooling ribbon of silk. As he studied the hillside and the valley below him, a large chunk of rock, gravelly mud and an unearthed boulder broke loose before his eyes and bounced and slid and rumbled down to the valley floor.

  Whoa. Summers turned his eyes back along the wet hillside above him, knowing the same thing could have happened up there at any second. It didn’t matter how much farther it was to Dark Horses; he had to get himself and the horses somewhere out of this storm—somewhere safer than here, he told himself. Blowing rain hammered his hat brim, his boots, his slicker and the glassy, pool-streaked ground around him. Lightning twisted and curled. Behind it, a clap of thunder exploded like cannon fire.

  “Welcome to Dark Horses,” he repeated, saying it this time to the dapple gray who had pressed its muzzle against Summers’ arm.

  The gray chuffed, as if rejecting both Summers’ invitation and his wry attempt at humor. Behind the gray, the four black-point bay fillies milled at the sound of thunder. Then they settled and huddled together behind the gray. The fillies were bound for the breeding barn of an American rancher by the name of Ansil Swann.

  Once dry, the fillies’ coats shone a lustrous winter wheat red, highlighted against black forelegs, mane and tails. But the animals hadn’t been dry all day. Summers intended to rub them down and let them finish drying overnight in a warm livery barn. Get them grained and rested before the new owner arrived in Dark Horses to take the delivery. But so much for his plan, he thought, realizing the storm would no doubt pin him down out here for the night.

  “Let’s find you and these girls some shelter,” he murmured to the gray. The gray slung
water from its soaked mane.

  But where?

  Summers looked around more as he gathered his reins and the lead rope to the fillies. Swinging himself up across his wet saddle, he reminded himself that he’d seen no sign of a cliff shelter anywhere along the ten or so miles of high trail behind him.

  “We’ll find something,” he murmured, nudging the gray forward. The fillies trudged along single file behind him, their images flickering on and off in streaks of lightning.

  He rode on.

  For over an hour and a half he led his wet, miserable procession through the storm along the darkened hillside trail. Twice he heard the rumble of rockslides through the pounding rain ahead of him, and twice he’d had to lead the horses off the blocked trail around piles of stone wreckage. But what else could he do? he reasoned. Stopping on this loose, deluged hillside was out of the question.

  Find shelter or keep moving, he told himself. There was no third choice in the matter.

  Beneath his wet saddle the gray grumbled and nickered under its breath at each heavy clap of thunder. Yet the animal made no effort to balk or pull up shy, even with its reins lying loose in Summers’ hand. Following the gray’s lead, the four fillies stayed calm. For that Summers was grateful.

  Good work. He patted a wet hand on the gray’s withers as they pushed on.

  Moments later, at a narrow fork in the trail, he spotted a thin glow of firelight perched on the hillside above him.

  “Thank God,” he said in relief. He reined the gray and pulled the string of fillies sidelong onto the upward fork.

  During brief intervals between twists of lightning, his only guide through the pitch-darkness came from the sound of rain splattering on the rocky trail in front of him. Three feet to his left the trickle and splatter of rain against rock fell away silent. So did the trail itself. The caldera valley lay swaddled in a black void over three hundred feet below.

  Summers had no idea what might lay in store around the firelight above him, but whatever situation awaited him there could be no more perilous than this trail he was on. Or so he told himself, pushing on blindly in absolute darkness, water spilling from the brim of his hat.

  • • •

  Another hour had passed before Summers had worked his way up the rocky trail through the storm and the darkness. High up where the slim trail ended, he stopped and stepped down from his saddle at the entrance to an abandoned mining project. Following the glow of firelight that had drawn him like a moth, he led the horses out of the rain and under a stone overhang trussed up by thick pine timbers. Wet rifle in hand, he tied the five animals to an iron ring bolted to one of the timbers and stood in silence for a moment listening toward the flicker of fire along a descending stone wall.

  Hearing no sound from within the hillside, he ventured forward into the mouth of the shaft.

  “Hello the fire,” he called out. He waited, and when no reply come back to him through the flickering light along the stone walls, he called out again. Still no reply. “Coming in,” he announced.

  He looked back at the shadowy horses standing in the dim, sparse light. Then he walked forward, his rifle lowered but held ready in his hand.

  Twenty feet into the cavern he heard a horse nickering quietly toward him, the animal catching the scent of an encroaching stranger.

  “Hello the campfire,” Summers called out again. But he did not stop and wait for a reply. He walked on as the flicker of firelight grew stronger. He stopped again when he came to a place where the shaft opened wide and smoke from a campfire swirled upward into a high broken ceiling. A smell of cooking meat wafted in the darkness. A small tin cooking pot sat off the flames on the edge of the fire. A spoon handle stuck up from it. Having not eaten all day caused Summers’ belly to whine at the scent of food.

  Looking all around, he heard the chuff of the horse and saw the animal standing shadowly among rocks on the far side of the campfire. Then he swung his rifle quickly at the sound of a man coughing in the darkness to his right. The cough turned into a dark, raspy chuckle as Summers saw two red-streaked eyes glint in the flickering fire.

  “Bienvenue . . . mon ami,” a weak, gravelly voice said in French from the dark corner outside the firelight. Then the voice turned into English. “Do you bring . . . a rope for me?”

  Summers heard pain in the voice. He stepped closer.

  “I’m not carrying a rope,” he said, already getting an idea what was going on here. “I saw your fire. I came in out of the rain.”

  “Ah . . .” The voice trailed.

  Summers waited for more. When nothing came, he stepped in close enough to look down at the drawn bearded face. “Are you hurt?”

  “I am dying, thank you . . . ,” the voice said wryly, ending in a deep, harsh cough.

  Summers looked around at the fireside and saw a blackened torch lying on a rock. He stepped away from the man, picked up the torch and stuck the end of it in the flames, lighting it. Then he stepped back and held the light out over the man lying on a bloody blanket on the stone floor. The man clutched a hand to a blood-soaked bandage on his chest.

  “Are you shot?” Summers asked.

  “Oui . . . I am shot to death,” the man said with finality. He stared up at Summers. “Are you not with them?” He gave a weak gesture toward the world outside the stone cavern walls.

  “Them?” said Summers. “I’m here on my own.”

  “The man with the bay horses?” the man asked.

  Summers gave him a curious look.

  “We saw you,” the man said.

  We? Summers looked around again into the darkness beyond the circling firelight. Nothing.

  “Yes, that was me,” he said. “Is somebody hunting you, mister?”

  The wounded man shook his head slowly.

  “Never mind,” the man said. He seemed stronger; he tried to prop himself up onto his elbows, but his strength failed him.

  “Why don’t you lie still?” said Summers, stooping down beside him.

  “Water . . . food,” the man said weakly. “There is liver stew. . . .” He collapsed onto the blanket; he cut his eyes toward the fire, where a canteen stood on the stone floor.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Summers said.

  He laid the torch on the floor, went to the fire, rifle in hand, and brought back the small tin pot and the canteen. The smell of the hot food tempted him. But he set the pot on the floor by the blanket and uncapped the canteen. He helped the man up onto his elbows and steadied the canteen while he drank. When he lowered the canteen, he capped it, laid it aside and picked up the small tin pot.

  “This will get your strength up,” he said, stirring the spoon in a thickened meaty broth. He held out a spoonful, but at the last second the man turned his face away and eased himself back down on the blanket.

  “You eat it, mon ami. I will need . . . no strength in hell,” the man sighed, and clutched his chest tighter.

  Summers wasn’t going to argue.

  “Obliged,” he said, even as he spooned the warm, rich stew into his mouth. “Who shot you?”

  “It does . . . not matter,” the man said. He paused, looked Summers up and down, then said, “What are you doing . . . in this Mexican hellhole, mon ami?”

  “Delivering the four bay fillies you saw me leading,” Summers said. He spooned up more liver stew; he chewed and swallowed hungrily. “Taking them to a man named Ansil Swann.” He spooned up more stew, held it, then stopped. “Are you sure you don’t want some of this?” he asked, just to be polite.

  The man shook his head. He looked away toward the darkness and gave a dark chuckle.

  “What a small and peculiar world . . . I have lived in,” he said, as if reflecting on a life that would soon leave him. He chuckled again and stifled a cough. “I know this man, Swann.”

  “You do?” said Summers.

 
; “Oh yes, I know him . . . very well,” said the dying man. “It is his viande de cheval . . . you are eating.”

  “His what?” Summers asked. He looked down the pot in his hand.

  “Viande de cheval,” the man said.

  “Speak English, mister,” Summers said, getting a bad feeling about the conversation.

  “Horse meat,” the man said in a laughing, rasping cough.

  “Horse meat?” Summers said, staring at the rich meaty broth in the pot.

  “Yes, my friend,” said the chuckling, dying man. “You are eating Ansil Swann’s . . . prize racing stallion.”

  Chapter 2

  Summers stuck the spoon back into the pot and set the pot aside. He wiped a hand across his lips and looked down at the pot. Prize stallion or no, it was some tasty stew, he had to admit. He looked away from the pot and all around the shadowy cavern as if making sure he hadn’t been seen.

  “You killed the man’s prize racing stallion?” he asked drily.

  The wounded man’s weak laughter fell away into a cough. Summers watched the man as he collected himself and clutched tighter at his chest.

  “I—I did not . . . kill him,” he said brokenly. “He suffered a leg break. We . . . butchered and boned him.” He cut his dark eyes toward the pot and said, “Is damn good racehorse stew, eh? I cooked it myself.”

  “I have to say, it is,” Summers replied, resisting the smell of hot liver stew rising and wafting around his face.

  “Then, bon appétit,” the man said, his strength seeming to come and go. “He is . . . horse steak and spick roast now.” Again his dark chuckle.

  “Obliged, but no,” Summers said. “I don’t make a practice of eating horse.”

  “What?” the man said. “It is a matter . . . of your religion?”

  “No,” Summers said, “it’s a matter of principle. I’m a horse trader.”

  “So?” the man said.