Gordon kept his judgment private.
“Quitano lives a hard ride from here. He runs a livery…a hole full of sorry bronc’s.” The broad hand swept widely and Gordon saw the marks of work and years on the raw knuckles. “Melicio says he’s a businessman, but I don’t trust the son far as I can throw him…one-handed.” He waved his left hand. “There’s times a horse goes through his place with one brand, comes out marked for ’nother. Lame bronc’s come back sound.”
“I shall keep your observations in mind, sir. Your name…?” Direct and simple, Gordon ticked his fingers on his jaw and saw the older man’s eyes follow the maimed hand. Certainly now the inevitable question would follow.
“Name’s Gayle Souter. How do?”
Gordon snorted. It seemed almost necessary to shake hands again and both men raised their arms slightly.
Souter grinned. “Meiklejon, you’ve had your introduction and I hope you ’preciate it. There’s good land here, and good people. This place’ll make any man more’n he thought of himself.”
Was the man a seer, able to speak so directly to Gordon’s desires? A younger son cast from the family with little result from his short life other than to follow orders, first from parent and brother, then the military? Now life was of Gordon’s own choosing, such as the foolish gesture of grabbing a runaway’s bridle. A reckless deed, yet, once done, it earned some small approval.
He matched Souter’s grin. Once begun, the grin became genuine and for a moment Gordon’s heart lightened. “Mister Souter, it is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Pompous as usual, yet Souter’s grin grew even as the man grasped the intended sentiment.
“We shall speak later, Mister Souter. I believe I have a few obligations that must be met, sir.”
When they opened the livery door, sun hit them directly and hard wind scurried dust about their boots as the sound and motion of Socorro returned. Meiklejon left with renewed purpose, knowing he would seek out and listen to Mr. Souter when the time was right.
Chapter Two
A chair against an inside wall in the hotel lobby offered succor. The girl from the morning meal reintroduced herself, and Gordon learned that nothing in this country could be counted upon to behave as it should.
“Mister, you look pale. Let me get you some of Papa’s whiskey.” She was young and pretty, he mused. She handed him a chipped glass half full of amber liquid. “My name is Rose Victoria Blaisdel, Mister Meiklejon. Please call me Rose. Welcome to the Southern Hotel.”
When he glanced at her pleasing features, he was startled by the knowing eyes.
“Mister, you weren’t smart to go catching up Quitano’s pony. That puts you between him and Jack Holden, and it’s no place for a greenhorn. You could have been hurt, and you still might get shot.”
Her observations told Gordon that word of his escapade had spread through town. And here was a female, albeit a very attractive one, expressing doubts on his ability to care for himself. She was questioning his experience, assuming that only those rough men clad in leather and outsize spurs could take care of themselves. The remainder of the masculine population must be at terrible risk.
He had fought the enemy and survived, 9,000 miles or more from here; he had been wounded and crawled to safety; he had killed while bleeding into baked ground; he had fought hand to hand and was still alive. She had no cause to judge him on such flimsy evidence as today’s one act. He must correct her impression.
“Miss, I would not allow you to think so little of me. Neither of those men could out shoot me, if it were to come to that.” A rebuke of slender proportions. His voice carried weight and dignity to ease her concern.
“Mister, you ain’t carrying a handgun.”
Gordon laughed. “Miss Blaisdel, you are correct.” He handed her the empty glass. “Thank you for your concerns, and for the liquor. I shall be fine with a few minutes of peace.” He made a great fuss of folding and returning the disgraced linen to his breast pocket, and, when he again raised his eyes, the girl was gone. Whiskey roared in his nether parts, and he felt a sudden need to use the outhouse.
He returned within the half hour, limping slightly. When no one lurked in the hotel lobby, Gordon struggled up the stairs, seeking his room and its isolation. The journey had been difficult, and, by the time he reached his single room, he was desperate to lie down and stretchhis leg, loosen his clothing, and accept the luxury of rest.
For those moments between being awake and asleep, Gordon’s restless mind presented repetitious musings. He was the frail, stranded younger son, caught now in a wilderness from which there was little chance of escape. He could not return to England.
He slept. Sweat soaked into his loosened collar and spread dark circles at his folded arms, banded the unbuttoned waist of his woolen trousers. He rolled his head and fought the demons each man brings to his dreams.
Rose Victoria Blaisdel studied the mound of spoiled potatoes. She and her sisters prepared all the meals, laid out the tables, served the customers, and were told to cleanse their thoughts of any man they served. Rose Victoria hated putting a plate in front of the pink-skinned, sweating men who leered and pinched, if only with their eyes.
“Yes, Mama, I’ll hurry. But the potatoes are spoiled and I can’t peel them fast.”
When she married, it would be to a man with servants for all these disgusting jobs. Mama taught her girls that they should be gracious and inviting without making any promises—until they attracted a suitable husband. Suitable, of course, to Mama’s taste. Mama was strict in those choices—no cowboys or mustangers, specifically no drifters. A ranch owner, a salesman if the company was reliable, not a schoolteacher even though Mama said learning gave a finer sensibility. But schoolteachers were too often soft men, unformed and without ambition. Unlike the women who taught, who often grew whiskers. Mama had set opinions and she instilled them in each daughter, until the girls trailed unquestioningly behind their mama. Except for Rose Victoria, who read too many books, thought too many thoughts, and puzzled over ideas far beyond her mother’s reach. These ideas were from her few school days, taught by the spinster Miss Katherine Donald.
The Englishman was presentable. He could not be faulted on manner or money as he had come to buy an established brand. He was not unattractive, with fine light hair that fell across his slender forehead. He was tall and well fashioned in his foreign suits. And physically whole despite a few minor flaws, unlike some of the locals who were crippled and unable to care for a healthy wife.
As the eldest, Rose Victoria had first choice. She sighed as the last of the potatoes were peeled and she swept the remains into the slop bucket. She hated pigs, hated their smell, their noise, and the fact that she must tend to them as she tended to customers. She would marry and there would be no pigs to slop on her wedding night.
Gayle Souter had been a long time in this country, and he liked what played for him this very morning—lines drawn, views exchanged, two men of mettle gauging the other’s strength. He hoped the Englishman stayed. Times changed and a few civilized men could make a difference. Souter rubbed his graying jaw, edging carefully around the broken tooth. He’d been fighting the tooth for a month, had gotten so he couldn’t eat or sleep. He was wishing for soup, and passing by good steak, even pushing off from dried apple pie.
Hell of a thing when a man didn’t want to eat his fill or do his work, not for a man like Gayle Souter. He was in his midfifties, bowlegged from carrying weight all the long years. Sjpg when he walked, slow to talk his mind, but solid and knowing the worth of responsibility.
He rubbed his hands and the smell of horse liniment rose from the friction. Hands pained him in the chilled mornings. He hurt most places a man could name, from breaks and cuts, bones jammed out of place. And he faced another birthday in two weeks. He was plumb getting old.
His boss, Ransom Littlefield, owned 150 sections of the roughest, most unforgiving land Gayle Souter had ever ridden. And Littlefield’s
cattle were like their owner, continually on the prod. Had to be to keep their babies from being coyote dinner. Ten years Souter had worked for Littlefield. Littlefield didn’t like talk, so Souter ordered and the men followed. It was a bargain in both directions.
Two days past, Littlefield had said he was selling out, did Souter want to buy? Souter had glared at the old man, then grimaced as slow comprehension dissolved the anger. Littlefield was ancient, and Souter had never seen it. Face seamed, teeth long gone, shaky hands, neck turkey-wattled. Only the eyes showed a memory of youth. The man was maybe dying, and Souter hadn’t known. But Souter said no, he couldn’t buy.
He had ridden into Socorro, using the broken tooth as the need. Rubbing his bent hands overbits of hair, Littlefield had said it was best Souter got the tooth pulled. “ ’Bout time, son, you been mean all summer.”
Littlefield needed to sell; the Englishman wanted land. 150 sections. Made sense for Souter to sit down at a table and study those pale eyes, see if there was enough backbone.
He watched a young girl cross the street and rubbed his jaw, felt pain branded on inflamed bone. It was one of the younger Blaisdel girls. Growing up nice and sunny, not like the older girl, Rose Victoria. Couple a times he’d found himself eyeing that oldest girl with indecent thoughts. She moved slow, looked up through long lashes, and stared sweetly. The younger girls weren’t that way at all.
Old man rickety and bowlegged, hands sprung wide and bent from work. Old man was a fool for thinking like a young buck. The oldest Blaisdel girl did that; man had his nature, couldn’t change now.
He could fancy the Donald woman. She paid her bills while her old pappy left behind gambling debts and whiskey bottles and more promises than any man could collect. The Donald woman could do as a wife. A man with sense, he could see her refusal to be judged by her pa. She was a woman warm at night, clever all day. But even she was too young for Gayle Souter, and he’d had his share of wives. Still the oldest Blaisdel girl got a man to thinking.
He watched the Blaisdel youngster cross the street, carrying a package that leaked thin blood. Souter chomped down on a chaw that reminded him why he was standing in the livery door watching the doc’s window. Then the doc’s buggy made its appearance. Souter spat out the chaw, wiped his mouth, and felt the tooth rise in protest.
The following morning Gordon Meiklejon drank deeply of bitter coffee and winced at the scalding taste. Souter entered the dining room, stared at each occupant before heading straight to Gordon’s table. Souter’s face was lopsided but no longer swollen, and his recent affliction did not prevent him from speaking clearly.
“ ’Mornin’.” The head tilted briefly but there was no “sir” following.
“Good morning, Mister Souter. Please join me.”
The old man put on quite a show. One large hand was placed on the table’s edge, and the rest of his considerable weight leaned on that hand while the body was lowered into the chair. “Had a horse turn on me ’bout a month past.”
Gordon empathized with the terse explanation. The Blaisdel girl served more of the bitter coffee, which Souter drank in great gulps.
The Englishman was a good listener, his narrow face white, his pale eyes steady on Souter’s face. Souter put the end to his selling and sat back, laid both hands on the table. He saw their knots and scars, and shook his head, blaming any failure of his yarn on coarse words. But Meiklejon was interested; Souter read that much in the slender face. Souter sat quietly, knowing a whole lot rested on a few words.
“I will want to talk with your Mister Littlefield. When do you think we might leave?”
Souter grinned to slow it down. “Mister Meiklejon…ah…sir.” He swallowed some onthe last word but it was right this one time. “There’s a horse Billy’ll let you use. We can ride when it suits you.”
Within a half hour Gordon emerged from his room and began his descent, eager to step into the lobby where he found Souter waiting. He anticipated the ride, fresh air, and exercise. It would be a treat after his confinement in the train car.
The eldest Blaisdel girl held out her hand to Gordon. “Mister Meiklejon, please be careful. I will worry until you return.”
A pretty speech for a pretty girl. He was touched by what he read as genuine distress. “Please, miss, don’t fret on my account. I will be with Mister Souter.”
At the hitch rail, Souter held the reins to a solid bay gelding of some quality. The animal wore the usual contraption of leather and wood, all of which sat on two folded blankets. Souter took possession of a squat horse with the head of an elephant on a mottled body. A canvas bag of food hung from the saddle’s horn. The man pointed to a similar bag tied to Gordon’s saddle. Behind the cantle were tied a blanket and what looked to be an oilcloth. “For sleeping out,” Souter remarked. Gordon looked into the endlessly clear sky.
Another ten minutes was wasted in the local emporium purchasing one of the ubiquitous broad hats. That being accomplished, the two men rode out single file. Immediately the land climbed and evidence of mining corrupted its beauty, but Gordon could not prompt Souter into speaking on anything but cattle.
Magdalena was reached well after noon. It appeared to be a highly industrious town, surrounded by miles of pens clustered near new railroad tracks. Gordon wished to stop, but Souter showed no inclination to do so and Gordon remained wisely silent about his needs.
The bay gelding had a quick trot, which Gordon would have enjoyed had the saddle been more comfortable. He rode more like a child aboard its first pony than an officer from Her Majesty’s forces. At times he envied Souter on the mottled pony. The old man sat the animal’s singular pace with no apparent effort. Gordon Meiklejon felt abraded pain in his knees and backside after several hours and began to wish for another method of travel.
By mid-afternoon, Gordon was aching to set foot on firm ground, needing greatly to relieve himself. Souter showed no such signs of distress and Gordon would not be outridden by an older man. At dusk they came to the downslope of a long hill; beyond them was a great expanse of flat, treeless plain. White patches were visible among sparse grass. There was nothing else for any appreciable distance.
Souter wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. “Them’s the plains o’ San Agustin. We’ll ride out’fore sunrise.”
Camp was reached none too soon. After tending to the bay, Meiklejon saw to his pressing needs in the dubious privacy of brush oak. He had misgivings about his mount; salty foam had been under the saddle pad when he removed it. Perhaps Souter would be more tolerant tomorrow. As Gordon passed close to Souter’s pony, he noticed that the horse showed few signs of fatigue. It tore into the thin grass eagerly.
“You know ranching, Meiklejon?” Now that something bubbled and smelled intriguing over the camp’s fire, Souter would talk.
Gordon edited his response. “My family has run cattle for several hundred years, Mister Souter. I am familiar with keeping records and using the best bloodlines. Does that answer your question, sir?” All his English displeasure was in that last word.
Souter picked over the words. “I don’t think you got the idea of what we’re ridin’. It ain’t polite to ask a man how big his spread is, but Littlefield’s got title to some hundred ’n’ fifty sections. Here a section is six hundred ’n’ forty acres.”
Gordon would not accuse the man of lying. “How do you keep track of the cattle, Mister Souter? And the bloodlines…so you know which bulls are producing the best stock?”
Souter opened a can of thick milk. “We let ’em breed, brand the calves, push the mamas onto new range, and let the bulls do their job. Then we gather the crop come fall and sell ’em. Keep back a few promisin’ bulls and start again.”
Gordon was aghast at the laxity of methods. “Do you not use fencing to maintain certain lines?”
Souter snorted. “Think o’ fencin’ this much land, findin’ the trees big enough to hold back a longhorn bull. Hah!”
“Surely there must be some way.…I intend to bri
ng in Red Durhams. Our family has used them for several generations.” Gordon hoped to introduce sanity into the absurd conversation. Mr. Souter confounded him.
“The only way I know is barbed wire. A beef hits that, stays on its side of the fence.” Souter paused. “ ’Course you lose stock, and good men.”
“Mister Souter, could it be effective here?”
Souter looked up from rotating the pan. “Meiklejon, I’m an old man been ranchin’ one way all his life. You’re askin’ me ’bout a fence that tears man and beast apart, causes wars, some of them deadly. Ain’t no one tried the wire down here. The land’s too rugged.” He allowed a long pause. “Me, I hate the wire for what it does.” The anger was real. Meiklejon had his answer, until Souter surprised him, saying: “If it were me, I’d wire a few sections, buy a damned good bull. If it were my spread. …”
Gordon admired Souter. He was above all practical. But there was a second note to the speech—Souter wanted to own the place and said as much by his comments. Later that wish could color his judgment, but, for now, when Souter spoke, Meiklejon intended to pay attention.
“Meal’s ready. You hungry, you better eat.”
Over a second cup of coffee, Gordon asked his question: “Why do the ranchers tolerate Jack Holden? If you banded together, you could stop him and put him in jail, and your Mister Liddell wouldn’t lose any more stock. No one would.”
Souter looked over the rim of his fire-blackened cup. “Well, now, Meiklejon, it’s early yet, but I figured you’d be tellin’ us what to do.”
That stung. Gordon half raised his right hand, let it drop. Souter was absolutely correct.
Chapter Three
Gordon woke before dawn and all his effort went into getting up. Leaning down to his gear, he was convinced he couldn’t raise any item high enough to slide it on the horse’s back. He knew better than to ask for Souter’s help.
The English Horses Page 2
