The English Horses

by William A. Luckey

  THE ENGLISH HORSES

  WILLIAM A. LUCKEY

  To Katherine Osgood, with thanks to Janice Scarpello

  DEATH OF THE OPEN RANGE

  The first rifle shot came as the stallion leaped the poles. The colts milled in confusion at the break, distracted by the stallion’s charge, terrified by the rifle fire. Burn reined the gray around, looked across the valley. Two men were working together on the rails. A third sat on his horse, holding the others’ mounts. A fourth man held the rifle. He raised it again, and fired.

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  DEATH OF THE OPEN RANGE

  Author's Note

  Prologue

  October 1889

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Rose Victoria Blaisdel

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Burn English

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Davey Hildahl

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jack Holden

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Katherine Donald

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Barbed wire was introduced in the mid-1870s. By trial and perseverance, the sharp wire traveled into the cattle regions of the West and Southwest, and its use forever changed the lives of the numerous men who babied, doctored, and branded the free-roaming herds.

  Open range was effectively ended by the wire’s introduction, and the blizzards of 1886–87 were terrible examples of the need for ranchers to monitor their stock more closely. Thousands of cattle in Montana and Wyoming drifted before the winter storms, only to be caught up against long miles of wire fence and frozen in their tracks.

  During the period after the American Civil War, stories of the vast fortunes to be made from cattle on the endless Western plains induced a number of European gentlemen, most notably the English and Irish second sons of titled families, to venture into the American wilderness.

  In the southwestern part of the New Mexico Territory, several English and Irish sons came to ranching. These men were articulate and well schooled, and wrote of their experiences with great excitement. Their stories have been told and retold, and the accounts are still highly entertaining.

  Prologue

  He wished he had kept a journal. The facts were simple and easily remembered. It was in trying to commit them to paper that he began to see how little he knew for certain about the important matters.

  He’d come to this country a scarred veteran of an ugly war. As a young man he’d entered into military life vigorously. That he’d been successful surprised both his elder brother and their parent. His career had been assured until a Sudanese marksman shot off the tips of two fingers on his right hand and placed a bullet in the long muscle of his left thigh in such a manner that the leg healed without full mobility. Thus his service in Her Majesty’s forces had ended.

  In the summer of 1889, Gordon Arthur Charles Meiklejon sailed from England aboard the Rockingham. He carried with him promises of financial assistance from an anxious older brother, as long as he remained away from the British flag.

  This year, 1912, the Territory of New Mexico would become a state, a public declaration of civilization despite the irascible nature of its inhabitants. Gordon Meiklejon had played a minor part in the land’s taming, but he wished to keep that part clearly delineated. He was in neither form nor content a coward. He had medals and scars to prove his valor, yet he’d been shaken by the complete separation from the laws and regulations of other worlds that most clearly defined the New Mexico frontier. The men and women, whose faces appeared upon reflection, had known their own law, bowed to their own rules, and thus lived lives worthy of the greatest philosophers and scoundrels.

  Meiklejon had time now. His English wife had returned to her homeland on her annual pilgrimage, since New Mexico winters were too severe for her constitution. He would sit and write, perhaps only to scratch out the raw story that still puzzled him. In writing down long-ago occurrences, he might finally reach an understanding of the events that at the time had completely eluded him.

  Meiklejon sat at the desk. The kerosene lamp flickered mute encouragement. There was wood beside the library stove, more wood stacked outside within reach. He had endless time facing him, enough time to outline the bones of an intriguing, basically unsolved mystery.

  October 1889

  Chapter One

  Normally time meant little to Gayle Souter. His cattle herds told him what was needed, so he worked from their bovine calendar. But he knew this day’s date, October 16th, and even the day of the week, Tuesday. It said so in the barber’s window right next to where it said the doc would pull teeth after three.

  Souter was waiting out his misery at Billy McPhee’s stable, trying to interest himself in watching the street fill with too damned many folks. The inbound train was whistling its business. Souter paid attention; he wasn’t used to empty time.

  “Next stop Socorro!”

  Gordon Meiklejon woke up disoriented but only for a moment. “Socorro…next stop!” The conductor’s loud words were what he’d traveled a long way to hear. Meiklejon stared out the window and found he did not care for what greeted his burning eyes. It was a land thinly soiled, mostly sand, with a covering of dark green brush. Yet he’d been told Socorro was good ranching country.

  He was the last person off the train, and a small boy grabbed for his bag. “Mister, I can take you to the good hotel. It ain’t far…I can carry thembags. Good food and not many fleas. Best place in town I promise you, mister.”

  It was simple enough to accept the urgent recommendation. “Fine, child, you take the bags. But go slowly, please, I wish to study your town.”

  Such a request should not be confusing, but the boy stared openly at Gordon and cocked his head when Gordon continued to speak.

  “I gather this town exists for the ranches which surround it. I cannot help but notice the pens, constructed for what I would assume would be large numbers of cows.”

  The boy grinned. “Sure we got cattle comin’ through. They ain’t cows though. Them’s kept up to the houses…women say they needs the cows”—he breathed in—“for givin’ milk to babies. Cattle use them pens, mister.” The boy hefted one of Gordon’s bags that weighed half as much as the child himself. “This way, mister…said I’d do you right.”

  Meiklejon’s room at the Southern was perhaps excellent considering its surroundings. An ugly little man had brought him to the room, a man who would not cease talking. “Good to see new faces in town, sir. Yes, sir, Socorro’s growing, and growing fast.” Gordon had taken the front room, which was wide and spacious and offered a fine view of the town’s main thoroughfare. He unpacked his stale clothing, and, with the scent of frying meats and freshly boiled coffee in the air, he began to feel an enormous hunger. It was early, not quite eight o’clock, on what was promising to be a hot day.

  In the dining room, an older woman, dowdy and well-padded but of good cheer, greeted him. “Yes, sir, yes, Mister Meiklejon. My husband said we had a distinguished new lodger and I saved you our finest
table.” The woman, too, promised to talk forever until Gordon raised a hand.

  “Thank you kindly, madam. I am quite tired, and rather hungry.”

  She spoke no more while leading him to the table of honor. A full breakfast quickly manifested itself.

  Quite unexpectedly an enormous loneliness overwhelmed him; he wished to feel a human hand, the safety of a gentle arm, the touch of loving fingers along his jaw. Fear gripped him, intertwined with the gaping loneliness, but any stir of emotion among strangers would be most shameful.

  “Mister, you want more coffee? Or a piece of pie? Mama bakes the best pie in town. Lots of travelers have a piece to finish off their breakfast.” A new barbarity couched in words from a pretty mouth intended to gorge him. But these same words gave him distance from his feelings and allowed him the grace of patting his emotion back into place.

  “Thank you, miss, but…no. I have taken in all the sustenance my long-abused body may absorb.”

  He rose from the table to wander out of doors. He had come here on impulse; he had chosen to place faith in this one town. He would purchase land and settle. Now he needed to learn about his proposed home. In furtherance of this challenge, he approached a supposedly unoccupied gentleman.

  “Sir, could you tell me the hour?” It was said politely and Gordon received an ill-tempered look.

  “ ’Bout nine.”

  That was all he garnered before the man moved to a circle of other men beginning to form. Careful to avoid the widening group, Gordon set an even pace along a boarded street, curious to look in each window and know the business within. He was careful, easy on his stiffened leg, and after some time found himself returned to the same spot where he had previously learned the time.

  A deep, full voice spoke harsh words: “Damn him for ridin’ in like we ain’t nothin’ to him. Damn him for all the trouble he’s gonna cause.”

  Gordon looked where men were pointing. A horseman had appeared at the edge of town, and the group, surrounding Gordon, drifted apart, faces turned to the approaching rider.

  It was the first riding animal Gordon had seen in several weeks that he thought worthy of notice. Most of what was available had been scrub stock, such as usually found in hot climates. Heads too large, ewe necks, narrow-chested, and goose-rumped. Indeed, the most redeeming features of these animals were the ease with which they covered unyielding ground.

  This horseman rode a tall, long-legged sorrel marked with too much white for Gordon’s taste, but the animal was well formed and sturdy. The rider’s gear was of the local variety, but its construction and decoration were exceptional. The rider himself possessed a grace not seen in many men, perched as they were on their scrawny mounts. The usual wide-brimmed hat shadowed much of the face, withholding the eyes from Gordon’s study. The head bent down, the eyes appeared too briefly, a light shade of blue startling in the darkened face.

  “ ’Mornin’, mister. Nice day…for buzzards and weasels.”

  Gordon wisely said nothing. Although the rider’s clothes were mended and patched, the bridle held medallions of silver and the saddle was carved with ornate flowers. Even the handgun was nestled in its scrolled holster. Gordon noted that the rider’s free hand rested near the pistol at all times. As horse and rider proceeded, Gordon recognized a marked change in the group of men—their sound had muted, their hands had stilled. It became difficult to draw in a breath. Gordon’s heart raced, his pulse thumped as he watched the sorrel horse strut. He waited. Still nothing happened, no one moved.

  Then a voice crackled and stopped the prancing horse.

  “Well, there, Mister Holden. You come to be miserable with me or to make the misery worse? Sure can use the company while I wait.”

  An older man, heavy-set and in some obvious discomfort, had emerged from a building marked Livery Stable. One hand was set tentatively against the swollen side of his reddened face. This sudden presence knocked air into Gordon’s lungs and stirred the group of silent men.

  “Hey there, Souter. Ain’t seen you since I got this bronc’. You had some strong opinions on my choice, I remember.”

  The two men laughed, even Gordon smiled, and the endless traffic around them resumed. Words were exchanged between the two men that Gordon could not hear. Then the sorrel horse became agitated, shifting its weight, stamping a front hoof to paw the dirt. Sweat showed thick and white between the animal’s hind legs as its tail slapped wet hide.

  The man addressed as Holden nodded to his older companion, then touched long legs to the horse’s sides. Nothing else seemed to move as the big horse skittered down a convenient alley. Even Souter remained watchful until Holden disappeared, and then he went inside.

  Gordon’s leg trembled, his eyes fluttered, and he could feel that thump inside his chest. He would try a café across the street for a glass of something cold. Then he would resume his quest. But a commotion behind him forced him to look back as a thin horse ran past him. A scrub barely thirteen hands, ears flat, tail high, the pony responded frantically to the lashings of its fat rider. Horse and rider skidded into the same alley that minutes before had received the sorrel gelding and its commander. Gordon hurried in a painful run, determined not to miss the inevitable confrontation with Holden. Short of breath, he stopped, wiped his wet eyes with the back of his sleeve.

  Mouth gaping, reins flying, the thin, yellow pony now raced toward him. Freed of the rider’s bulk, the saddle rose and fell with each stride, its heavy stirrups unnecessarily goading the pony’s flight.

  When the pony was close, Gordon jumped to catch the bridle. His fingers felt the wet muzzle, the pony’s breath close on his face. The ponyslowed, then reared against Gordon’s grip. Yanked off balance, Gordon caught the saddle horn and righted himself. His heart and breath roared, but he heard the words.

  “Now that’s not the smartest thing I’ve seen a man do. Jumpin’ out to catch that scrub could get a man killed.” It was the rider on the sorrel.

  Gordon shrugged as he drew the reins over the pony’s head. He used his damaged right hand to withdraw his last linen handkerchief to wipe his face.

  The man continued: “That bronc’ belongs to Melicio Quitano. Obliged if you’d take it to Billy’s stable. Melicio don’t need it right now, but when he wakes up, he’ll be wanting to ride on.” Derision laced the words.

  This Quitano was alive or he would have no further need of the yellow pony, Gordon surmised. Choosing carefully to exhibit himself as a thoughtful man despite such risky behavior, he said: “I shall see to the pony, sir.”

  Laughter made the retort barely comprehensible. “ ‘Shall’ is it? You’re that Englishman.” The laughter stopped. The sorrel’s horseman leaned back in his ornate saddle, rubbing a place high on his arm. “I commend you, Englishman, for catchin’ that pony.”

  Gordon passed the stunted fingers across his jaw. It was his ruse for stalling.

  The rider hesitated, then spoke: “It’s not likely Señor Quitano would enjoy seeing my face right now. He spoke hard words and paid for them. Some kind citizen will be glad to tell him where his pony’s gone…since we’re gatherin’ an audience…and you can be sure these boys’ll be eager to talk. Once I’m gone.” A bitter note tinged the last words.

  Gordon’s instinct as he looked directly into the handsome face was one of pity. That a man so young and well apportioned should know the world in an ugly manner.

  “I won’t tell you my story ’cause folks’ll tell you. All about Jack Holden and his outlaw ways.”

  Gordon held his breath at the man’s honesty.

  “Don’t fret now. They’re likely to drive me to my death with words, Mister Englishman. You take note and tell me sometime who speaks up and what story they tell.”

  Gordon Meiklejon could not doubt that the townspeople were wise to fear the young man, and wiser still to let him ride on. Holden tipped his hat and reined the sorrel around Gordon and the yellow pony. Horse and rider reached the main street, turned left, and walked down the ex
act center of that broad path while the town held its breath.

  It was the man with the swollen face who took the pony’s reins and led it inside the stable. Gordon followed, curious as to what questions would be asked.

  The older man was decisive. “There here’s Melicio’s bronc’. How’d you come by it?”

  “Sir, there was an unplanned meeting between this beast’s owner and the gentleman, Jack Holden.” He waited. “Holden has now ridden from town and the pony’s owner lies in the dust. As Mister Holden and I exchanged words, I could see Mister Quitano, down the alley, recovering his senses, and it was apparent he was not interested in continuing the quarrel. I believe the pony will be picked up when its owner is so inclined.”

  Unexpectedly his voice wavered and he was familiar enough with battle and its aftermath to recognize he was suffering an attack of delayed fear. The trembling was a reasonable result of the circumstances. He only hoped the man he now faced did not question his courage or honor.

  “I come in from the ranch ’cause I got a bad tooth.” The voice was muffled. “Been waitin’ for the doc or the barber. Fella owns this place’s a friend. He’ll be wantin’ cash for holdin’ Quitano’s bronc’.”

  He smiled and Gordon found the smile allowed him to relax. He extended his hand. “Sir, my name is Gordon Meiklejon.”

  The proffered hand was mostly thick fingers attached to a callused palm. Gordon bowed slightly, careful not to give offense. His hand was pumped twice and let go. The man spat into straw piled high in a corner.

  Gordon spoke cautiously. “What can you tell me about Mister Holden? He’s quite interesting.”

  “Holden’s a known cattle thief, no worse than most, better’n some. He don’t take too many. He ain’t likely to hurt a man for defendin’ his herd. And he’s been known to take on work for a ranch needs the help. Keeps his stealin’ over to Arizona or Texas.” The man’s voice slowed. “ ’Ceptin’ for Son Liddel. Them two feud over horses, and the rest of us watch.”