As brave and clever as Fawn’s account had proven Quinn to be, this very steadfastness of purpose in the face of unfavorable odds made me doubt his ability to see life in anything but stark terms of white and black. I feared that shades of gray had no place in his spectrum of values. In Fawn’s case, thank God for it; but if Bazz were hiding at Morning Star, Quinn would not hear it from me. Too much innocent blood had been spilled already at Morning Star; I did not want Basil Cooper’s on my hands.
Chapter Eighteen
When I arrived at the bunkhouse the next morning to help Cookie with the morning meal, I found him elbow-deep in dishwater and the room empty save for one figure sprawled facedown on one of the bunks.
“I saved out some biscuits and sowbelly,” he said, peering at me over a beefy shoulder. “Coffee, too, if you got the stomach for it.”
“Good heavens! Where is everybody?” I asked. “The sun’s only just up.”
“The boss routed us out ‘fore light this mornin’, missy. Him’n Cobby and the saddle stiffs’re already out runnin’ up those ‘Paloosey mustangs of his. Morning Star got a big order for ‘em, and the boss’s ridin’ close herd on all of us. Beats me what the all-fired hurry is,” he added in a mutter.
I could have told him. Bazz was the hurry, for all his being “too soft” to go far on foot.
“They’ll be back midday, mebbe sooner. If you want to watch those bucky horses get broke, best get your chores done early.”
I thrust Quinn’s threatened cat-and-mouse pursuit of Bazz out of my mind. “Are you recommending it as an entertainment, Cookie?”
“It surely is sumpin’ to see—next best to a town blowout, I reckon.”
I nodded to the figure on the bunk. “Looks as if one of you is still recovering from the one you just came back from.”
Cookie wiped his hands on his big soiled apron and folded his arms. “That Jed,” he said with a disgusted shake of his head. “Calls himself a bronco buster, a real flash rider. Mebbe he was once, ‘fore the drink took him. The boss is powerful set against drinkin’ in the bunkhouse, ever’body knows that, but Jed, he thinks he can just keep coastin’ on those fancy spurs of his.”
Jed groaned, and one leg slid to the floor; but he showed no sign of waking. I turned my back on him. “The men’ll be wanting a hearty dinner come noon,” I said. “A couple of Rita’s hens have seen better days; why don’t I pull some onions and carrots from the vegetable patch for a chicken potpie?”
Cookie looked doubtful. “The boys’d like that fine, but I ain’t much of one for pluckin’ chicken feathers.”
“I’ll see to that,” I promised rashly. “All you have to do is mix up another batch of biscuit dough for the topping; that way we’ll both have time to watch the show in the corrals.”
Cookie’s broad face lighted up. “Missy, I sure hope you’re plannin’ to drop your traces and stay awhile.”
Inferring a question in his words, I hesitated. At length, I settled for a noncommittal smile and a brisk departure.
Spotted Fawn was up when I returned to Quinn’s quarters, and as she ate the food I had brought back for her, I repeated what Cookie had told me.
“I go with you?” she asked. “Paloosey horses very fine. Quinn and Sharo very good riders.”
I looked away from her intense gaze. Her pleading dark eyes, the prayerful clasp of her small hands and her hopeful, dancelike circling of me combined to make it all but impossible to reach an objective decision. Clearly, she was physically much improved. Maybe, if she stayed close to me....
“Please?”
Her tremulous whisper did the trick. “All right, Fawn, I’ll take you; but we have chores to do first, and if Quinn says no, you must promise to come back—”
“Oh, Miss S’rena!” she cried, her eyes lighting with pleasure. “I do what you and Quinn say. Cross heart,” she added solemnly.
“Well, the first thing is to stop jumping about like a grasshopper, you’re making me dizzy. The next thing is, how are you at plucking chickens?”
Fawn was, it turned out, very good at plucking chickens. When the cleaning and laundry chores were done, Fawn dispatched the pair of elderly hens with an expert twist of her small hands, plucking them so furiously she was soon cloaked in floating feathers.
I put down my basket of onions and carrots and brushed the white down from her long black hair and the shoulders of her doeskin garment. “You look as if you’d been out in a snowstorm,” I said, laughing.
Fawn proudly held the chickens up for my inspection.
“Clean as a whistle,” I said. “Now, take them and the vegetables down to Cookie. I’m going up to the big house to see what can be salvaged when the men have the time to take a wagon up.”
Fawn’s eyes widened. “No! You not go there. Miss S’rena. Very bad place. Please, you not go!”
She stuffed the hens under one arm and clutched my sleeve with the other. I gently detached myself. “I can’t stay with you in Quinn’s house forever, Fawn. I must see how much of the furniture is fit for use in Rita’s hut, and...,” I hesitated, “and my sister’s ointments should be returned to the cyclone cellar for storage,” I amended, knowing my speculations about Bazz’s whereabouts would only distress her further.
Although the big order Quinn had received for his Appaloosas was too important to Morning Star’s future to delay, once the breaking of them was under way I had no doubt the search for Bazz would begin in earnest. But suppose I found him first? Wouldn’t I be morally obligated to warn him of his brother’s terrible intention? If I did, Quinn might never forgive me; if I didn’t, I doubted I could ever forgive myself.
Fawn tugged again at my sleeve. “Miss S’rena? You hear? Horses come!”
At first, my mind still tossing on the horns of my dilemma, I was conscious of little more than a sound like wind blowing through the tasseled grasses. But as it grew louder, an ever increasing din comprised of hoofbeats, whinnies and the piercing yips and whistles of the cowboy wranglers, I felt excitement rising within me, that rare and marvelous sense of anticipation a child feels when the circus comes to town. I thought of Quinn, centaur-like on his big black stallion, driving the band of horses before him like leaves before a storm. The house could wait, I decided.
“Take the hens down to Cookie, Fawn, but remember, work before play!” I called after her as she scampered headlong down the slope to the bunk-house, a plump, plucked carcass dangling from each joyously upraised hand.
I descended after her at a more sedate pace with my basket of vegetables, entering the bunkhouse just as Jed stumbled out. His gait was unsteady, and although his bloodshot eyes recognized me well enough, he was clearly intent on getting to the corral before Quinn sent someone after him. His hair was unkempt, his hip-slung pants filthy, but he’d taken the time to polish up the silver spurs that jingled on his boots. The gleaming rowels, a couple of inches in length and filed sharp as knife points, seemed to me more instruments of torture than correction, an impression reinforced by the stout quirt with a yard-long lash dangling from his wrist. Quinn would have something to say about that, I thought.
Cookie, Fawn and I needed no more incentive than the spectacle awaiting us in the corrals to spur us into action. Without a word we sorted out the tasks among us: I sliced the vegetables while Fawn cut up the hens; then I browned the pieces in Cookie’s big iron pot as he rolled out and wrapped in a damp cloth the pie crust to be added later. We grinned at each other as a mighty whooping reached our ears through the open door. Cookie shoved the pot on the back of the stove, slammed on its lid and pulled off his apron.
“Better git a move on, ladies,” he said, “less’n you want your heels stepped on.”
One look at his huge boot-shod feet persuaded me to grab Fawn’s hand and step out smartly. “You stay close, Fawn,” I admonished her. “I don’t think Quinn’s going to be happy to see you here, but maybe, if I act as your chaperone, he’ll—” I broke off, realizing “chaperone” was unlikely to b
e included in Fawn’s vocabulary. Guardian! No, that sounded too much like a jailer. “Think of me as a bossy big sister,” I said.
Fawn smiled up at me shyly. “Yes, Miss S’rena. Sisters.” She squeezed my hand.
I swallowed hard. The Lord surely did work in mysterious ways. “In that case. Fawn,” I said, squeezing her hand in return, “just Serena will do.”
On seeing our approach, Cobby plucked his pipe from his mouth, spat sidewise into the dust from his perch on the topmost rail of the near corral, and beckoned with his pipestem. He reached down to pull us up beside him. In the far corral, twenty-five to thirty Appaloosas milled: bay and chestnut, blue and strawberry roans, all with dot-splotched blankets of white splayed across their well-muscled rumps. They whirled and reared, protesting their confinement, their agile hooves spinning up clouds of dust transmuted to gold by the early-morning sun. The middle corral was empty; below us in the third, his neck through the loop of Sharo’s reata, a striking blue roan pranced.
Quinn, lounging across from us, arms folded on the top rail, confined his acknowledgement of our arrival to a pause in his words of instruction to the hands and a long, level stare that made my toes tingle.
“... As I was sayin’,” he continued, “Sharo here’ll show you how its done.”
A low mutter arose from the men who, wranglers or not, had been pressed into horse-breaking duty. Clustered in twos and threes along the rails or straddling them, they shifted uneasily, exchanging comments and sharing complaints.
“Don’t need no breed pup showin’ me nothin’,” I heard someone say. It was Jed, of course. He was sitting, cocky as a bantam rooster, on the top rail only a few feet from Quinn. Considering his condition, I figured only sheer willpower was keeping him from toppling off.
“This breed says you do,” Quinn said calmly, stepping away from the fence, daring Jed to dispute his authority.
“I forgot more’n he’ll ever know.” Although his words were defiant, this time Jed’s voice was barely loud enough to hear, and he kept to his place on the rail as if glued.
“I seen you ride, mister,” Quinn said, “and it ‘pears to me what you forgot prob’ly wasn’t worth knowin’ in the first place.” A few of the hands chuckled knowingly. “Like those spurs of yours. If I was you, I’d take ‘em off now.”
Jed pulled his head into his shoulders and snubbed his toes behind a lower rail. He wasn’t about to give up his fancy silver ornaments.
“Dern fool,” Cobby grumped. “Just keeps diggin’ his grave deeper. Won’t be many mourners at that funeral.”
All attention returned to Sharo as the young wrangler, alert to every nuance of his captive’s movements, gradually pulled the horse toward him, talking quietly all the while, until the trembling roan was within handling distance. Then, with the Appaloosa’s distinctive white-rimmed eyes following his every move, Sharo glided his hand gently down the horse’s neck and flanks, still talking, never raising his voice.
At length, the horse bent his proud neck and began to explore the youth’s head and clothes with his velvety muzzle. Sharo captured it in his hands and exhaled gently into the flaring nostrils, causing the startled horse to throw up his head. Share’s hand resumed its rhythmic stroking. Quieted, the horse snuffled again at Share’s face, then tossed his head, snorted, and stood four-square, ears pricked forward, gazing at Sharo as it to say, “Well, what now?”
The answer was soon forthcoming. Sharo picked up the hackamore bridle lying at his feet and held it up for a thorough sniffing and eye-rolling inspection before slipping it on. Then, after allowing ample time for the animal to accustom himself to the feel of this strange, new contrivance on his head, Sharo eased the saddle brought over by one of the hands onto the roan’s twitching back.
“He keeps on like this, these here cayuses won’t get broke afore the snow flies,” Jed sneered. “Hell’s fire, I seen molasses move faster!”
“I don’t understand,” I whispered to Cobby. “What other way is there?”
“Jed was a contract buster ‘fore he come to Morning Star, missy. Hired out to outfits too small to keep a bronc rider on the reg’lar payroll. Got paid so much a head.”
“And the quicker the breaking, the more money he made.”
Cobby nodded. “Quick and dirty.”
“I shouldn’t think a horse broken like that could be very reliable.”
“Well, they ain’t, and that’s a fact. What you get is half a ton of ornery critter that turns plumb inside out every time he sees a jackrabbit’s shadow, throws you into a thorn bush, then stomps your sorry hide to death.”
Just then, Sharo lightly tossed the reins over the roan’s ears, gathered them in his left hand and vaulted into the saddle as light and quick as a cat. The horse grunted as he felt the unaccustomed weight on his back, then, with arched back and stiffened knees, crow-hopped across the corral.
Cobby chuckled. “See the way Sharo keeps that cayuse’s head up? A horse gotta tuck his head between his knees to do much in the way of fancy buckin’.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Waltz him ‘round again, Sharo!”
The onlookers laughed appreciatively and added a few earthier comments of their own.
“Will you be riding today?” I asked.
Cobby shook his grizzled head regretfully. “My buckarooin’ days are over, missy. Most of my bones been busted by now.” He pulled his pipe from his mouth and used the stem as a pointer. “My horse kicked out both my knees a little while back ... nice, gentle horse, too.”
Bemused by his matter-of-fact acceptance—Cobby made less of a to-do about his crippling injuries than I would a splinter—I could think of nothing to say. I suspected an expression of sympathy would only offend him.
Fawn pulled at my sleeve. “Sharo, he ride very fine.”
Her dark eyes were fixed on the tall, slim figure that sat the pitching mustang as easily as a rocking horse in a child’s nursery. Fawn’s mesmerized expression made me wonder if my bringing her here was wise. That Sharo was aware of her interest was obvious, to me at least, from the way he edged his mount ever closer so as to display his skills to their best advantage. Youth called to youth, blood to blood. He was courting her, plain and simple, regardless of what Quinn or I or anyone else thought about it.
“Fawn, I think maybe ...” My words trailed off as I looked from this Pawnee Juliet to her Romeo. Their beauty just about broke my heart. One foot each in the red world and white, betwixt and between a century of hard feelings and misunderstandings, what hope of tenderness did they have except with one another?
“Yes, S’rena?”
The trust in Fawn’s huge eyes tugged at my heart. To hell with what Quinn Cooper thought. “I think maybe Sharo’s the finest rider I ever saw!”
As if to prove the truth of my statement, the roan’s hopping, pitching motion gradually smoothed to a broken trot. Sharo circled along the rail once, twice, three times before bringing his snorting mount, its sides heaving, its steel blue coat almost black with sweat, to a halt. Sharo then threw his leg over the saddle horn, slid forward to the ground and, with the reins still gathered in his hand, bestowed a light approving slap on the horse’s neck.
“And that, gents, is how it’s done here at Morning Star,” Quinn said, climbing up to sit astride and easy on the top rail. His deep voice, although pitched low, carried to my place across from him. “We don’t break horses here; we gentle ‘em.” He paused, tipped his hat back on his black shag of hair, and tugged at his ear. “Don’t know as I’d recommend puttin’ your ol’ grandma on that roan just yet, though,” he said gravely. “Might take another few days fer that.” The men laughed.
He sat up straighter; his dark eyes searched through the shifting knots of men. “Anybody taking exception,” he added in a louder, more deliberate tone, “is free to find another outfit to ride for. You’ll get what’s owed you, a horse to ride, and no hard feelings.”
Fair warning, I thought. I glanced over to where Jed slouched,
his long-lashed quirt tapping an angry tattoo on his boot.
“All right, then,” Quinn continued. “Four at a time, two in each corral, pick your own horses. Sharo, Woody, Billy, Jed. Cobby’ll turn your critters out into the holding corral when you’re through, startin’ with the blue roan.”
As Quinn vaulted off the rail and ambled over toward us. Cobby scrambled down to take the roan’s reins from Sharo. Fawn and I waited. I crossed my fingers behind my back.
“You’re sure lookin’ perky, young’un,” Quinn said to Fawn.
She smiled. “S’rena take good care of me.”
“I’m thinkin’ the pink in your cheeks comes from somethin’ other’n S’rena’s good care.”
I drew myself up, bridling, as Fawn lowered her eyes. “She wanted to see the horses ... I don’t see the harm in it.”
Quinn raised his eyebrows. “No harm,” he said mildly. “But it got Sharo’s attention wanderin’, and if that roan’d been less of a gentleman. ...” He sighed heavily in a parody of despair.
Fawn’s mouth curved down in dismay. “I go home now. No want Sharo hurt.”
“Or you neither,” Quinn said gently. “Can’t tell what those wild ‘Paloosas’ll do. Little thing like you, I’d as soon drop a mouse in a herd of elephants.”
Fawn scampered off, her long, dark hair gleaming like satin in the sun.
“She’s right about the good you done her, S’rena.”
“I’ve become very fond of her.” I took a deep breath. “Don’t you think it’s about time you stopped mother- henning her? She may still look like a child, but she’s a grown woman now, with a woman’s feelings.”
Quinn leaned back against the rails of the corral and peered at me from under the wide brim of his hat. “Me? Mother henning?” He sounded incredulous. “Well, if that don’t beat all.” He took off his hat and flicked the dust from its creased crown. “Tell me, S’rena,” he drawled, “when did I leave off bein’ the devil incarnate?” He looked down at me. His eyes danced with teasing lights; his slow, wide grin shallowed my breath.
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