Dark Horses

by Ralph Cotton

  “I’ve come a long way to deliver them,” Summers said. “I need to get paid.”

  “Of course you do, and I will pay you,” Bailey added quickly. “You can give me your address and I’ll submit a draft to you by mail.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Summers said, back to ma’am now that the talk had turned businesslike. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “But it could,” the woman insisted. “I assure you the draft will be on its way.” She leaned forward. “Oh, please, Will. It would be so very helpful.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Summers said. “I wouldn’t be holding up my end of the deal if I did that. I promised your husband I’d deliver these fillies to him. That’s what I’ll have to do.”

  “I was afraid you’d feel this way,” she said, sounding crestfallen over the matter. She sat back and sipped her coffee, gazing into the low flames as night closed around them.

  Chapter 7

  Summers forced himself to sleep lightly in spite of his weariness from the trail and from being held prisoner. In the night, his saddle pulled back from the light of the low-burning fire, his hat brim low over his face, he awakened and raised his brim enough to see Dallas Tate standing by the fire, his rifle in hand, getting ready to relieve Little Ted from standing guard up in the rocks a few yards away.

  Tate stared over in his direction for a moment. As he did so, Summers tightened his hand around his Colt, which he’d tucked inside his blanket, until Tate finally turned and walked away. Then Summers eased his hand off his Colt and closed his eyes. Yet he opened his eyes again and watched as Little Ted walked into the firelight a moment later. Little Ted dragged his saddle away from the fire and lay down out of the firelight.

  As Summers settled back in his blanket and started to close his eyes again, he caught sight of the woman walking slowly through the firelight and stopping and sitting down on the ground beside him.

  “Are you asleep, Will?” she asked in a whisper, as if knowing he would be watching Tate and Little Ted change guard.

  Summers waited a few seconds before answering. Then he raised himself on an elbow facing her.

  “Dozing,” he said quietly in reply. “I try not to sleep too soundly on the trail.”

  “A good idea,” she said, leaning in a little closer. “I saw your hat brim up. I thought we might talk.”

  All right, Summers thought, knowing she would not have seen his raised hat brim had she not come looking. He let it go.

  “About your husband’s bays?” he asked. “Because I really would rather discuss them with him—”

  “No, I understand that,” she said, getting away from the subject of her husband’s purchase. “I agree that’s better left to you and Mr. Swann when we get to the ranch.”

  Summers nodded and relaxed a little, glad she’d come to see the horse transaction his way.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked quietly.

  “I—I want to apologize for Dallas Tate, the way he acted earlier,” she said. “He works for my husband. I feel a responsibility.”

  “No need, Miss Bailey,” Summers said.

  “He’s a jealous young man,” she said. “Although there is no basis for it, I must assure you. I am a faithful wife to my husband.”

  “I understand,” said Summers. “I would not have thought otherwise. Some men get ideas in their heads for no reason.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” she said. “There has been nothing untoward between the two of us, in spite of how it may look. I am a progressive woman. But I have nothing to hide.”

  “I understand,” Summers said again.

  She fell silent for a moment; she looked off into the night. Then she finally sighed and turned back to him.

  “May I be perfectly honest with you, Will?” she asked. She didn’t wait for a reply. “There was something between Dallas Tate and me. It was a terrible mistake—I saw it, and I ended it.”

  Summers didn’t reply. It was none of his business, and he didn’t want to invite himself into it.

  “It has been over for some time now—for me, that is,” she said.

  All right, here goes. . . . “Not for him, though,” Summers said, getting the picture.

  “No, not for him. He knows our indiscretion is over, yet he still insists on being my protector,” she said, “especially now while my husband is under the weather.”

  “Mr. Swann is ill?” Summers asked.

  “Yes, he’s been ill ever since returning from his trip to Denver City,” she said. “That’s why I’m out here instead of him. I’m trying to hold things together until he’s back on his feet.”

  “Of course.” Summers nodded in the shadowy moonlight.

  “I know I should more firmly discourage Dallas Tate. I shouldn’t have him riding beside me. I know how that must look.” She paused for a moment, then added, “But I dare not push him to a point that he would do something hotheaded and foolish—maybe go to my husband.” She sighed again. “I’m afraid I am at the mercy of a foolish, angry man.”

  Summers just looked at her.

  “I should have known better,” she continued. “Dallas has been more jealous and possessive of me than Mr. Swann ever has. Perhaps that was part of what drew me to him. But by the time I saw his dark nature, it was too late. Now I am stuck in a mess of my own making.”

  “That’s too bad, ma’am,” Summers said.

  “Yes, it is.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the guard post up the rocks a few yards above them. Then she looked back at Summers and gave a short lilting laugh. “Look at me, Will,” she said. “Even now, I’m worried, hoping he didn’t see me come over here to you. If he saw me I know he would think the wrong thing.”

  Summers glanced at the low firelight he’d watched her walk through, then looked back at her, seeing her eyes in the shadowy moonlight.

  “He is standing watch over the camp, Miss Bailey,” Summers said in a knowing voice. “He must have seen you in the firelight.”

  “Yes . . . yes, you’re right,” she said. “I should have waited until morning to talk to you. I just wanted to warn you about him. It was silly of me. With poor Ansil ill, I must not be thinking clearly. I have never felt so alone. . . .” She let her words trail. “Please don’t think I’m some foolish woman.”

  “Not at all, ma’am,” Summers said. “I’m obliged you warned me about Dallas. I saw the jealousy. Now I know why.” He fell quiet and waited, knowing the awkwardness of silence would prompt her next move, her next words. After a moment it did.

  “Well, then,” she said finally, “enough of my troubles. I’ll let you get to sleep.” She stood and dusted the seat of her trousers. She gave a short nervous giggle and added, “I’ll just see myself out.”

  “Night, Mrs. Swann,” Summers said. He smiled, touched his hat brim. He watched her walk away into the shadowy darkness, not taking the same path back though the light of the campfire.

  Curious . . . Then he lowered his hat brim over his closed eyes.

  • • •

  At dawn, as the first glow of sunlight mantled the eastern hill line, Summers was awakened from his light sleep by the tip of a rifle barrel jammed into his side. He tried instinctively to roll away from it, but the iron barrel came down onto the center of his chest as if to pin him in place. Behind Tate at the fire, the other two men stood up staring, coffee cups in hand. Bailey Swann was on her way toward him. Summers saw a rifle in her hands.

  “Wake up, you son of a bitch!” Tate growled, standing over him. Summers’ eyes sprang open, his blanket still wrapped around him. He looked up at Tate.

  “What did you do to her?” Tate demanded. In his rage, he flipped Summers’ blanket open with his rifle barrel as if doing so would prove his accusation. But when the blanket flipped open, Summers’ Colt came up cocked and pointed into his face.

/>   “Back off,” Summers warned.

  But Tate was having none of it. He stood as if frozen in place, his finger on the trigger of his cocked rifle.

  “Stop it, Dallas!” Bailey screamed as she quickened her steps, her rifle in both hands, ready to use. “He didn’t do anything to me!”

  “I saw you come over here in the night,” he said to Bailey, not taking his eyes off Summers. “Don’t lie! You lay down with him. I heard you giggling, the two of you having a gay ol’ time!”

  Summers thought Tate’s anger was at the point of no return. So be it, he told himself, his hand tightening around the butt of the Colt, his finger already squeezing back on the trigger. He wasn’t going to wait for Tate to make the next move. Once that happened it would be too late.

  “I didn’t sleep with him, Dallas,” Bailey said. She jerked to a halt. “I only talked with him.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Tate. “I suppose you lost this in the conversation, then,” he said. He pulled his left hand away from the front stock of his rifle and held up a thin, ornate hair comb, which he’d held clasped in his palm. “I found this here beside his blanket. That’s why I’m here. He’s going to answer for what he’s done.”

  Summers had eased back on his trigger finger, seeing Tate look away from him, at Bailey. But at the slightest move, he had resolved himself to still pull the Colt’s trigger and kill Dallas Tate where he stood.

  The woman looked stunned. She raised one hand from her rifle and felt her hair.

  “It—it must have come loose while we were talking,” she said, looking astonished at the silver hair ornament.

  “Yeah, I bet,” said Tate. “It came loose while the two of you rolled around in the blanket—”

  “Stop it, Dallas!” Bailey shouted. “Nothing happened. We talked. Now put down that rifle before Will decides to shoot you dead. None of us would blame him if he does.” Her eyes flashed to Summers, then back to Tate. Summers held the Colt level, ready, yet he waited.

  “Will. . . .” Tate sneered. He said Summers’ name as if it created some bitter terrible taste in his mouth. He glanced down at Summers, then back to her. “You’d like that wouldn’t you, Bailey?” he said in a low, level tone. “Seeing me dead would solve a lot of problems for you, wouldn’t it?”

  Summers waited, watched, kept ready to fire at the slightest sign of Tate’s finger twitch inside the rifle’s trigger guard.

  “But I’m not going to do that, not this time,” Tate said, suddenly pulling his rifle away from Summers and holding it one-handed, pointed down at the ground. “Last night was free, Summers,” he said with a dark twisted grin. “Call it on the house.”

  “Watch your mouth, Tate,” Summers warned, coming to his feet now that the rifle was aimed away from him. “She told you nothing happened. . . . Nothing did.” He still held the Colt aimed at Tate, only more loosely now.

  “I’m not a fool, Summers,” Tate growled. Pitching his rifle away in one direction, the ornate hair comb in another, he brought a hand back and knocked Summers’ Colt away from his belly. Summers saw he had changed his mind. He’d wanted a killing; now he would settle for a straight-up fistfight.

  Suits me, Summers told himself. He pitched the Colt aside onto the blanket just in time. He caught Dallas Tate as Tate lunged, fists flying, hammering at him. Summers took a glancing blow to the side of his head, another to his shoulder.

  Charging forward recklessly, the enraged Tate gave regard to his balance. All he wanted was to get his blows in on Summers, spill blood, break bones. But Summers, still coolheaded, kept his balance and took a stance. As Tate charged, Summers pivoted, allowing the man’s weight and anger to propel him forward and down. Summers stuck out a boot, worsening Tate’s fall by tripping him. Tate hit the ground on his face and chest in a puff of dust and a loud grunt.

  But he wasn’t through; neither was Summers. Tate hurled himself upward onto his feet. Summers aimed and delivered a solid straight punch to his face. Tate’s face came up, giving Summers a perfect target for a long right cross. Summers swung and connected, sending Tate sideways and back onto the ground. Tate landed in a position that offered Summers a perfect kick to his exposed ribs. Summers didn’t take the kick. Instead he stepped back and stood ready for whatever move Tate made when he got to his feet.

  “I’ll kill you!” shouted Tate, blood streaming from his lips, his nose. He staggered in place for a moment, his head unclear.

  Summers didn’t respond. He circled slowly, five feet away, his fists tight, his hands spread in low guard, waiting for Tate’s next move.

  Instead of charging again, Tate rocked on his feet unsteadily. Realizing he’d taken on more than he could handle, he slapped his hand against the gun in his holster. He started to raise it. Yet, before he could, Summers moved in suddenly, as if he had already anticipated Tate reverting to gunplay. His hand wrapped around Tate’s gun hand, Colt and all, as it came up from the holster.

  “Jesus!” said Little Ted. He and Lonnie Kerns were a few feet away. They watched Summers swing Tate’s arm out and up high. Then he stepped forward under Tate’s upraised arm and twisted his gun hand hard. Tate screamed as he turned a forward flip and landed hard, flat on his back. Summers stood holding Tate’s twisted wrist in one hand and his discarded Colt in his other. Tate floundered and wallowed and gasped for breath in the dirt at Summers’ feet.

  “Jesus!” Little Ted repeated.

  He and Lonnie stood staring in awe. Summers stooped a little over Tate’s chest, took a fistful of his shirt and raised him up and down on the ground, helping him catch his lost breath.

  “Breathe,” he told Tate calmly. “Come on, take it easy. In and out. . . . That’s it.” He turned Tate’s wrist loose and let his arm flop to the ground.

  “My—my arm is broken?” Tate managed to ask in a raspy voice, starting to catch his breath.

  “No,” Summers said, “but it will be, and so will your neck, if you try a stunt like that again.” He stepped back, opened Tate’s Colt and let the bullets fall to the ground.

  “He won’t,” Bailey said firmly, “not around here anyway.” She stepped forward, her rifle in her hands. “On your feet, Dallas. Gather your gear and ride out. Don’t let me see your face around here again.”

  Tate struggled to his feet, his right arm still numb and weak, hanging useless at his side. He looked back and forth between Summers and the woman, his eyes still filled with hate, but it was hatred now kept in check. He stooped and picked up his hat with his left hand and slapped it against this leg. Summers reached out and stuck his empty Colt into its holster. Tate walked away toward his horse, his back covered with dirt, his right arm held against his side.

  Lonnie and Little Ted stood in silence, watching until Tate stepped up into his saddle and rode his horse away at a walk, a blanket trailing from his bedroll, down the horse’s side.

  “Jesus,” Little Ted said again as Tate rode out of sight over a rise in the trail.

  “Will you stop saying that?” said Lonnie Kerns. “We ain’t in church here.”

  “I know, but, Jesus!” said Little Ted, still stunned by what he’d seen. He looked at Summers. “What was that you did to him?”

  “Nothing,” said Summers, “just something I learned from my pa a long time ago.”

  “Was your pa a magician or something?” asked Little Ted.

  “No,” said Summers, still staring ahead the trail. “He was a lawman—one of the good ones. He taught me a lot of things.”

  Little Ted considered it for moment, then asked quietly, “Think you could teach a fellow my size how to do that?”

  “Size wouldn’t stop you from learning,” Summers said, a little surprised. He considered it for a moment himself.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Little Ted.

  “Nothing,” said Summers. “Nobody’s ever asked me to teach them how it’s done.”
He looked Little Ted up and down. “You’re not wanting to learn it just so you can shove people around, are you?”

  “Look at me,” said Little Ted. “Do I look like I’m ever going to be able to shove anybody around?” He spread his thin arms and turned a full circle. “I’d like to know how to put some bullyboy in his place if I have to—if I can learn how, that is.”

  “You can learn,” said Summers. “The question is, will you remember it when you need it?”

  “Then—then you’ll do it, you’ll teach me?” Little Ted said, sounding excited at the prospect.

  Summers nodded and looked off in the direction of the Ansil Swann Ranch.

  “Sure, I’ll teach it to you,” he said, “soon as we get where we’re going and Ansil Swann tells everybody I’m all right.” He looked at Bailey Swann as if for approval.

  “Don’t worry, Will,” she said. “I’m certain my husband will confirm everything you’ve said.”

  “Good,” said Summers. “I want to get there as soon as I can and get things settled once and for all.”

  PART 2

  Chapter 8

  In the late afternoon, Summers led his string of fillies into the front yard of the Swann hacienda. The woman rode beside him. The two ranch hands, Little Ted and Lonnie Kerns, rode a few feet behind. Summers and the others stopped their horses at a row of iron hitch rings attached along a waist-high stone wall. The two ranch hands remained in their saddles; Summers and the woman stepped off.

  Summers looked all around, impressed. The stone wall enclosed an elaborate two-story Spanish-style main house overlooking a flat stretch of terraced land on a wide hillside.

  “You have a beautiful home, ma’am,” he commented, tying off the string’s lead rope. From the house a thin, elderly Mexican came trotting with a limp.

  “Thank you, Will,” Bailey Swann said coolly, an authoritative tone coming into her voice. Standing beside her horse, she took off her hat and touched her fingers here and there, fluffing and arranging her hair as best she could. “Perhaps you’d like Lonnie and Ted to show you to the bunkhouse. You can wash up and relax awhile while I have Bedos and Rena prepare dinner for us.” She turned away from Summers to the thin Mexican as he stopped and took her horse’s reins from her.