The English Horses

by William A. Luckey

The man wiped a hand across his mouth, then he kissed her. It tasted of whiskey and tobacco and a sweeter taste. A chaste kiss, with his mouth gentle on her closed lips. Rose wiggled against him and his mouth went to her neck. He pulled until she was standing up against him. Buttons from his shirt touched her neck, pressed against her jaw, and she could feel him breathe in and out.

  “You’re quite a girl, Rose. Quite a special girl.” His head came down and he used his chin to guide her until he could reach her mouth again.

  When they parted, Rose saw her tall outlaw through blurred eyes. She was pushed back so gently that it was not an insult. Her outlaw grinned, wiped his hands on his pants again and bent down, picked up the tin bucket, and placed it in Rose’s hands.

  “Now you don’t want folks wondering where you are, Rose. You tend to your work, and I’ll take care of mine.” He walked past her and she could hear him say: “You’re quite a girl, Queen Rose Victoria.”

  Rose dropped the miserable bucket and rubbed her hands over her arms where he had pulled her close. She shivered and felt a new ache beneath that place, and she wanted to cry and laugh.

  There was laundry to be done, Mama informedher, once back home. Then Mama took Rose’s face by the chin and laid a hand to Rose’s forehead, bit her lip in concentration. When Rose said she’d run part way and was out of breath, Mama let her go, glad to be relieved of parental concern.

  Meiklejon needed his clothes washed. It was Rose’s job to wash a stranger’s soiled clothing, to ruin her hands on the board, scouring with strong soap. Rose did not avert her eyes as she’d been told to do when she hung up a gentleman’s undergarment. Men were no different than the ugly range bulls, snorting and pawing where females were concerned. Mama made such a fuss about propriety, so Mama should hire a less ladylike town girl. Rose stuck her hand back in the hot water, pulled out a pair of blue cotton drawers with buttons and lacings, and laughed.

  Rose might be seventeen but she knew about men. Mama lectured about the ideals of pure love and motherhood, a woman’s duty to her husband. She never mentioned the tingling heat, the emotions that even now stirred in Rose’s belly.

  Papa was yelling at his wife to hurry and get the gentleman’s bill. She watched Mama scribble on the paper, with Papa leaning over her. There was no touching between them, no shared smile. No love, only commerce.

  The Englishman appeared at the doorway, saw the Blaisdels, and said he would be staying an extra night, would they mind? Papa immediately smiled, his ugly face glowing. Of course, Mister Meiklejon, sir, could stay as long as he liked.

  He stayed another week. The town was slow to accept his ownership of the Littlefield ranch, and Rose saw that this reluctance bothered him. The Englishman rarely spoke to her, but Rose knew he watched her, taking note of her dealings with the customers, probably deciding whether her manner was well suited to his new life.

  When Mr. Meiklejon did leave—well into November—Rose purred as he leaned over her hand, raised it to brush its back lightly with his mouth, and murmured how much joy she’d given him. Rose blushed, knowing it set off her hair and features. A maidenly blush—a phrase she had read in a book from Miss Donald.

  Surprisingly the gentle kiss had the same effect as Jack Holden’s mouth had had on hers. Mr. Meiklejon also kissed her mama’s hand and patted each of the younger girls, thanking the family for their kindnesses. Papa then ordered them all back to work as he marched off to add up the bill.

  They were busy that winter. Twice Gayle Souter had driven into Socorro to pick up wire, which was the talk of the whole area. The Englishman was fencing his land, including several springs. He was shutting off water to cattle and wild horses. Folks were downright mad.

  Christmas morning came with no word from her outlaw or the Englishman. Four customers were in the dining room and Mama was fashioning a hurried meal. The Blaisdel family would share their few presents and a platter of leftovers in the evening when the travelers could want nothing more.

  Rose went outside, stared down the deserted street, and shivered. But she did not return to the stuffy warmth of the hotel for her shawl. A dog trotted sideways toward a dead rabbit. Rose watched the dog circle its prey, sniff, and jump back, then dig at the corpse and jump again when the fur moved. The dog lay down, took the rabbit carefully in its mouth, and chewed slowly, making no holes or tears. Finally the dog rose with the rabbit in its mouth, and trotted toward an alley. Quite unexpectedly Rose wished she had that choice to trot down a street, turn a corner, and disappear.

  “Ma’am?”

  Rose jumped. She had thought herself alone, yet a man had been watching. She turned to inspect her inquisitor and was disappointed. He was small, mostly tendon and bone. She stared rudely, saw a pair of pale green eyes looking back. He had black hair and a dark beard, making his thin face even less respectable. She wondered where had he ridden from, why he was here on Christmas day? His horse was covered with dried sweat, the man’s clothes caked with dirt, boots worn through, hands badly scarred. She kept staring, and he watched her until she became flustered. The eyes widened, then narrowed, and she saw his face twitch, his mouth open slightly as if catching her scent.

  “Ma’am. The name of this town?”

  When he spoke, there was humor in the lift of his mouth. He noticed everything she decided, and hugged herself. He would know all about her. “This is Socorro. Where’re you headed?”

  “What territory, ma’am?”

  Rose’s arms folded directly beneath her bosom. “How could you not know where you are? Don’t you know to ask someone?” Now she was angry.

  He looked at her, his eyes glittering. “That’swhat I’m doing now, ma’am. Asking someone who knows where I am.”

  When she hugged herself, it wasn’t for warmth. Christmas Day on an empty street and she was confronted by a wild man who didn’t know the day or the country he rode. He scared her—those steady eyes, his reddened hands crossed on the saddle horn. He wouldn’t let her go. She cried out: “It’s Christmas Day, don’t you know that at least? It’s Christmas and you’re alone.”

  “Ma’am.” The man tipped his hat, stroked his nervous horse. The horse quieted, those large, scarred hands lay on the saddle horn again, and Rose licked her lips. “Maybe you best get in with your own family. Ma’am. Good day.” He reined the mustang around and rode at a steady, deliberate walk down the long main street, headed toward the mountains.

  Mama’s voice called for potatoes. Rose licked her lips, tasted salt. “Yes, Mama.” New discoveries moved within her, new emotions and feelings. The harsh eyes remained with her; the deep sadness when she spoke of Christmas. Cruel, but the words had been forced from between her lips. She needed to know his name. She could feel those ruthless hands outlining her mouth.

  Her movements as she went for the potatoes were pure memory. The door pushed open, the weighty lid of the vegetable bin raised, the potatoes dug free of their sawdust bed. She watched her hand as it reached and closed the heavy wooden lid. She swallowed and thought of other things. Then she ducked through the low, root-cellar door and blinked as she reëntered sunlight.

  Jack Holden was there, leaning on an old cottonwood trunk. His tall form relaxed as it graced the gnarled tree.

  “Darlin’ girl, you look a picture.” He held out one hand.

  Rose licked her lips as Mama’s voice came through the high window. “Rose Victoria, the potatoes! There’s another guest wanting a meal and I’ve got.…”

  Mama’s voice was gone, buried with Jack’s mouth. The potatoes fell from her arms; his mouth parted her lips with his tongue.

  “Girl!”

  The voice was angry, and Jack moved aside, but his hand grazed her hip when she passed. “Good bye, little girl.” He was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.

  Rose got to the kitchen door and Mama took the potatoes.

  Chapter Five

  The fast-walking sorrel took Jack Holden from Socorro, with Jack laughing at his folly. It had been a stupid th
ing to do on a Christmas day but it had given him great pleasure. It pleased him to tease the caged animals. He knew that these actions would one day get him killed, but there had to be a way of dying—loving with a pretty girl would do him fine. Courting kept him from dwelling on the loss of Katherine Donald. The Blaisdel girl was more his style—flash and little substance—like his choice in horses.

  The sorrel shied at a blowing weed and Jack spurred the big horse back into line. He would not ride one of the small Spanish pacers; they did not suit his wry vanity. It took a blooded horse to carry all of Jack Holden.

  Several hours from town, the sorrel went to its knees. Jack stepped down as the horse buried its nose in soft sand. He grabbed the head and yanked until the horse stood. The right front tendon was thickening. Bowed, he thought. He undid his rigging and pulled off the bridle, then drew his pistol, wavered, and slid the weapon back. He’d leave this horse to fate.

  The saddle was a burden, and walking was never good. Jack managed a mile, which ate up the bleak warmth of the afternoon. He put the saddle down, sought out a comfortable tree, and decided to wait. The territory was full of people, and some didn’t know it was Christmas.

  He hadn’t counted on the particular horse and rider that finally approached him. Jack was in full sight of the trail, smoking a cigar. The small horse, a dark roan, was just sturdy enough to carry Jack and his saddle until he got to Son Liddell’s pasture. But as Jack watched the rider, he figured he’d have to share the roan, not steal it. When the horse and rider got closer, Jack saw nothing to change his mind. The man was small but he came at Jack without hesitation.

  Jack saw the watchful eyes, the nerveless hands gentle on the reins. He’d not get the roan by sweet talk or a gun. He’d have to fight, and itcould come to dying. The rider stopped the roan out of reach. It was Jack’s game.

  “Mister, you see my trouble. Got any ideas?”

  “Walk.” That was all.

  “Hell, mister, I done that.” Damned if he’d walk when there was a horse this close. “Give a man a lift?”

  The vivid eyes drifted down Jack’s length, then looked at the mountains, the low sun. The eyes came around to Jack. “Tomorrow.”

  Didn’t want company, didn’t like folks much. Hell, Jack had felt it many a time when he had been threatened with a rope. The man was a mustanger—he knew by the intense smell. Best to keep upwind of his company. It would be a cold camp. Damn but he was hungry.

  Before daylight, Jack slid from his blankets and approached the roan. He wiggled his fingers under the pony’s nose. The roan shifted his head so Jack couldn’t reach him. Jack persisted and the roan bowed his neck, touched Jack’s cold fingers with a dry muzzle, and blew warmed air across Jack’s palm.

  “You ain’t gonna steal him, mister. Get back to your sleeping.” The voice came from an undetermined direction.

  The son-of-a-bitch had moved his blankets. Jack lied, knowing it would make no difference. “Thought I’d make friends since he’s goin’ to carry double, come morning.”

  The knowing voice answered: “Yeah, and I just needed a softer place for my bedroll. Lie back down, mister. That roan ain’t your friend.”

  Jack had given his name maybe three times last night, and still he got called “mister”. He eased away from the roan and lay down. The blanket felt good; he was shivering from the new-dawn chill. Jack rolled up tight, cursing softly.

  Cold beans, hard biscuits—at least the fellow wasn’t against sharing. Cold camps didn’t set well, but a mustanger couldn’t risk the breath of fire on his hide. And this one was the pure quill.

  The roan watered out of the rider’s punched hat. This was a tough pair. It was going to be hard separating them. Jack got his saddle in one hand and came up next to the mustanger. It wasn’t till then that he saw how small the man was. Not even up to Jack’s chin. Yet the man didn’t shrink from the threat of Jack’s presence.

  The mustanger pulled the cinch tight on the roan, slipped a ring bit in the horse’s mouth, and buckled the headstall, held on to the split reins. Each move was spare. Then the man turned to him, eyes going up to Jack’s face. Hard green eyes. Jack didn’t like what burned there, knew the mustanger saw the same thing in Jack’s face.

  “You leave your gear, come back for it.” He nodded at Jack’s heavy saddle. “Ain’t asking the roan to carry that thing.” Jack’s rig was real pretty; he’d never felt nothing but pride for the gear before. The man paused. “Bring a bridle.”

  Jack Holden was a lot of bad things and most he’d admit to, but he wouldn’t kill a man over one horse. Not when the man looked into Jack and understood and still doled out cold beans, made the offer of a ride.

  The mustanger swung up on his horse, kicked out one stirrup. Jack let his saddle drop and slid his leg over the mustang’s rump. The pony squatted, ears flat back. The mustanger touched the roan’s neck, spoke a few words, and the roan ears swiveled rapidly. Then Jack settled on the slippery rump and grabbed the saddle’s high back. The mustanger allowed the roan to step forward. The pony half jumped, stopped, shook violently, loosening Jack. Both men laughed; the pony’s ears went back again.

  After a morning’s ride, they climbed a small hill, and below them a band of horses grazed in a narrow cañon. Jack slid down as the mustanger spoke.

  “Best think ’fore you pick out your next horse.”

  Jack grunted: “I got a supply some miles from here. Only needin’ a lift. I’m thankin’ you for the ride.” He couldn’t resist. “And the fine company.”

  Hell, Jack thought as he slid down into the cañon where the horse band grazed, I still don’t know the son-of-a-bitch’s name.

  Chapter Six

  Jack Holden rode into Socorro once more that winter. Rose heard the horse’s footsteps come around the root cellar where she was cleaning up a spilled pickle jar.

  The buckskin horse Jack rode was skittish and he had his hands full as he leaned over and put his hand on her. Then he was down from the buckskin, kissing her, and Rose kissed him back. She clung to Jack, and there was nothing else inthe world—until Mama’s voice came from the back door.

  “Rose Victoria, you get away from that man.” Then it was a wail. “It’s Jack Holden!” Mama’s desperation was proof; Rose was no longer a child.

  Jack slipped back onto his horse, looked down at Rose with those wonderful eyes. “Darlin’, your ma’ll bring the whole town here. I’ll be ridin’ on, but you keep that place warm.” He smiled, and she tried reaching him but the skittish horse bolted.

  Rose swept the remains of the pickle jar into a corner of the cellar and ventured out, passing by her family with a knowing smile.

  Meiklejon returned to the Southern Hotel in late February. The whole town knew he had wired for more money. He spent his time at the dry goods store where Harnett would order anything for cash up front. They discussed the merits of wire while waiting for the cash to appear.

  Rose didn’t care about the wire or any of the talk that went with it. She only wanted Gordon Meiklejon, the suitor. He appeared lonely but that was impossible, for daily he talked with the banker and even saw the town doctor several times. Words went back and forth to England, the telegraph operator told her father. Couldn’t say names for it was against company policy.

  Occasionally she glimpsed him in the stuffy room Mama called a parlor, seated in a worn chair, holding a book. Those soft eyes looked out a shuttered window without blinking. She was curious to know what he thought, guessing it would be men’s business.

  He stopped her one evening and asked if he had offended her, for she seemed distant of late. Could he be of help? He had come to depend on her smile, he said, to brighten his days while he waded through the drudgery of finance.

  Rose tucked back her hair in that practiced gesture, and smiled. It was fine, she murmured. He was busy and had little time, so much to consider, she reassured him. This pleased him, so he returned to the parlor in command of another book, with a sweater around his shou
lders. An odd man, she thought. Still he was kind and owned a big ranch.

  Then Jenny Miller’s pa decided they best have a dance. He owned Miller’s General Mercantile, where he’d started carrying newspapers and weekly magazines. Mr. Meiklejon went to the establishment daily. The dance was to be held Saturday night. Mama allowed Rose to make a new dress, and Rose chose a bright yellow, for spring. She made the dress low in front, and it was lovely.

  Now all Rose needed was an invitation.

  Gordon enjoyed the Southern. He even appreciated sharing a table with one or more of the hotel guests. He learned about the land, that there were places neither man nor horse could penetrate, yet cattle thrived under these deplorable conditions. Gordon listened and made his own decisions.

  He should ask the Blaisdel girl to the dance. She expected such. But she was seventeen, marrying age, a child not to be trifled with unless his intentions were honorable.

  It was only mid-week and word had gone out, by what means he did not understand. Outlying ranch families began to appear in town already. Gayle Souter and the hands were stringing wire and cursing their new boss. They’d been promised a bonus when they finished fencing, as Gordon wanted to insure the paternity of the next calf crop. The men did their work, but Gordon knew by their grim faces that he was not endearing himself to their winter-starved souls.

  Souter came in to Socorro early Thursday to report that the wire was strung and he’d given the men off the night of the dance. It was Souter’s first disobedience and a direct flaunting to Gordon’s ownership of the L Slash Ranch. He glared at Souter, who glared back.

  A cowboy intent on an early celebration raced a terrified horse down the long street as the townspeople ran for cover. Mrs. Blasingame, a woman of great proportions, tripped and fell in fresh manure, and the cowboy’s horse bolted, depositing the eager horseman at Mrs. Blasingame’s posterior. Gordon laughed. Souter was right—the men deserved their night of dancing.