by Len Levinson
‘Hampton Brigade.’
‘I served on the headquarters supply train of General Joe Johnston.’
‘Supposed to be a good officer.’
‘I always thought he was plumb loco, but war makes you that way after a while.’
Stone gazed at a heavily muscled stallion, who looked him over with equal interest. Intelligent eyes. Good lines. Stone peered into his mouth, checked his shoes, tapped his withers. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Warpaint. They say he was owned by injuns. He’s the best I got, and I wouldn’t cheat a man who rode with Wade Hampton.’
They dickered over blanket, saddle, bridle, and accessories. Stone prepared Warpaint for the trip, and Warpaint wondered where he’d end up this time. He’d been up the trail twice, nearly run into the ground by Comanches, owned for a spell by a road agent, and now was in Frisco, won in a card game by a gambler with no need for a horse.
Stone climbed into the saddle and walked Warpaint back and forth. Smooth well-measured movements, nothing broken, no gimps. Stone tossed money to the stable manager.
Muggs followed Stone and Warpaint into the street. Warpaint plodded steadily, happy for the chance to stretch his limbs. He’d been two weeks in the narrow stall. Stone ran his fingers through the horse’s mane. ‘Warpaint, you look after me, and I’ll look after you. I’m not the best person in the world, but I’ll do my best.’
Warpaint raised and lowered his head, solemnizing the deal. Muggs ran ahead, scouting for the expedition. They climbed Russian Hill. Stone tied Warpaint to the front gate of the hotel .
Slim snored noisily on his bed, and Stone didn’t wake him. Stone lifted Marie’s blouse out of a drawer and raised it to his face. Her delicious aroma reminded him of a carpet of leaves on Wade Hampton’s estate so many lifetimes ago. He touched his lips to the blouse, dropped it into a saddlebag.
In the hallway, a short bony figure loomed out of the darkness. ‘Where to, pard?’
‘The peak country.’
‘Comes a time when pards go their separate ways. It’s the law of the trail. I’ll see ya when I see ya.’
They shook hands. Stone came to attention in the darkened hallway, and threw a West Point salute to his comrade in arms. Rosie swept out of the shadows and blessed Stone with a kiss.
He descended the stairs and out the front door. Muggs jumped with excitement, eager for adventure. Warpaint pawed the ground. The trio were on their way to the open country they loved, where spirits could breathe free.
Stone climbed into the saddle and steered Warpaint toward the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The horse quickened his pace as they descended Russian Hill. Stone looked in the direction of the Barbary Coast. On the third floor of the Comstock Saloon, the golden goddess lay in the arms of the Sydney Duck.
It made no sense, but neither did the war or life in general. I'll dream of her till the day I die, and never know why.
He opened his shirt pocket and pulled out the picture of Marie. He imagined her living in opulence, wearing haute couture, smiling bravely through every empty social occasion, crying in her loneliness for a young West Pointer who died valiantly in battle so many years ago. But I’m alive, and I’ll never stop looking for you. Our paths will cross again.
They came to the outskirts of San Francisco. A distant gunshot followed by a piano tune traveled the breeze rustling through pine needles. The sweet smell of the forest rose to Stone’s nostrils, clearing smudge from his mind. Muggs ran ahead, barking happily. Warpaint shook his head from side to side and snorted, carrying his new boss into the foothills.
John Stone had no idea where he’d sleep, or what he’d eat. Tiny nocturnal eyes watched from perches and burrows as the old soldier adjusted his cavalry hat to the appropriate military angle. Once I was a rich man, engaged to marry the woman I loved. Now all I have are a stray dog, a gambler’s horse, and a trail.
The full moon became the face of Marie, leading him through the tenebrous forest of night.
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