The English Horses

by William A. Luckey

  Thursday afternoon word came in that the money was on its way to Silver City where it would await Gordon’s arrival. It meant a ride to that town for Souter as well as Gordon. When Souter was told, he grinned at Meiklejon as if to acknowledge that he’d been outfoxed.

  Mr. Meiklejon approached Rose in the hotel lobby. “My dear child, I had hoped you would understand. The bull is arriving and I must have the cash with which to finalize the purchase.”

  What was he talking about? No gentleman would speak of such a matter in front of a lady. She allowed a small smile to grace her features before she walked away. Her mama was calling, she said. There was work to be done.

  The dance drew people for seventy miles. Rose laid out white cloths on the tables, placed candles and lanterns where Mrs. Miller pointed, and chewed over Gordon’s defection while she worked.

  Rose found she began to enjoy the preparations and didn’t even pout when her sister Hester teased her for not having a beau. Hester was going with Jeb Miller, all spotted face and huge feet. The youngest Blaisdel, Sally, would be with the children. Rose would go unchaperoned.

  The dance was, of course, very crowded. Rose did not look for Jack Holden—he would slip in later when the men were mellowed by their liquor. The Littlefield hands were there. Red Pierson caught Rose’s eye and she could not stop blushing. Finally it was Richard Blasingame who asked her to dance. He held her at arm’s length and whirled her much too fast, but they danced two dances and she liked the swirl of her new dress. Heads turned to see her. Then others asked, and it was past midnight. The men’s faces were flushed from their trips to the shed back of Miller’s store. The younger children were asleep, lined in rows with coats thrown over them for warmth. Sally and Hester Blaisdel had been sent home.

  Rose danced not caring who her partner was but quick to follow the steps. She was swept into a different world. Then the music quieted, and Rose’s partner slowed. Heads came together in quiet whispers, and Rose witnessed Katherine Donald in the arms of Jack Holden.

  Katherine had danced only twice. Both times the man had kept his distance and refused to make conversation. She had watched Orlie Judkins take a half step toward her, but his swollen wife had grabbed his arm and pulled him back. But at least she had danced twice, and it had felt good. Then Jack Holden stood next to her, brushing that lock of hair from his forehead, before formally asking. She glided into his arms, let him spin her away, draw her back, almost touching along his entire length. She heard the gasps—Jack Holden was dancing with Katherine Donald!

  Rose smiled bravely as they whirled past, but her Jack did not return the smile. It was painful enough to make Rose push through the crowds and escape outside where she could breathe and didn’t have to see them dance.

  Chapter Seven

  They had ridden hard. At one point on their return, when Gordon looked up from a half doze, he caught Souter in profile, ahead of him. The man cradled a rifle across his saddle, and only then had it occurred to Gordon how much danger they were in. The purpose of their trip to Silver City had been well known.

  They came out of the steep hills around the lights of an unnamed village. There were places where the ponies slowed to pick their path through tumbled shale. The grullo stopped abruptly, bumpinginto Souter’s favored pony. Then Gordon heard the stuttering voice and saw the blurred shadow of Souter’s head swivel as if trying to locate their attacker.

  “I say it again, señor. Give me the money.”

  Souter’s head moved slightly—Gordon could see that much—but the man said nothing, and his rifle did not shift to focus on a target. Gordon’s heart pounded. A rifle trigger cocked.

  “Señor, the money.”

  Gordon watched Souter. The voice was close.

  “You…not that old man…you have the money, señor. Give it to me.”

  Gordon fumbled with the pouch on his saddle.

  “I will kill you, señor.

  Gordon put effort into his tone of voice. Still it sounded as if he were terrified. “I am trying, sir. But this…pony will not remain still.” While he spoke, he pricked the grullo with one spur. The pony kicked out and Gordon made a great show of grabbing for the reins with both hands.

  “Señor, get off that horse.”

  The glint off the rifle barrel was close to the pony’s skull, and Gordon stopped his ruse. The pouch slipped back onto the grullo pony’s hindquarters. The pony humped its back. Gordon felt the pony’s head shake through the reins.

  “Ah, señor, it is not so difficult, after all.”

  Gordon raised the pouch as high as he could, for it was quite heavy, thinking to throw it into the dark and charge the enemy. The act would be futile, but he held the pouch a moment, bearing its precious weight for the last time.

  Souter’s pony swung its hindquarters, blocking where Gordon would throw the pouch. Themottled pony’s ear were pricked and the pony let out a short nicker.

  Then an almost familiar voice interrupted: “Mister, you get!” The voice was strong, clear.

  Gordon could hear and feel more than see anything. Aman cursing—a horse’s irregular gait.

  Then Gayle Souter swung his pony around to face Gordon. Souter’s voice was not steady. “What happened?”

  Gordon shook his head while he lowered the pouch.

  Both men turned at the sound of an advancing horse. Gordon heard a shift from Souter’s mount, saw the barrel of Souter’s rifle raised once more. Such vigilance had just proven ineffective, but it gave a solid feel to the moment.

  The rider and animal stopped. The familiar voice again: “I couldn’t catch him, but he won’t be back.”

  A hint of amusement colored the words, and Gordon finally recognized the speaker—their mesteñero. “Thank you, sir, for your assistance.”

  There was a long silence. Gordon had to trust his senses, which told him the horse and rider were still there, had not walked away.

  Finally: “It weren’t a Mex…that robber of yours.”

  Silence, then Gayle Souter spoke. “Glad you agree. I’d hate to accuse the wrong man.”

  “He rode a runt bronc’, not more than thirteen hands, from the stride,” advised the mesteñero.

  Gordon nodded, although he wondered why the detail would be important.

  Souter laughed. “That eliminates one suspect.”

  The mesteñero laughed, too, and it took a few moments for Gordon to get the joke—it could not have been Jack Holden.

  Gordon pushed his horse until the animal greeted the roan mustang. “Sir, I am grateful to you for your rescue. Please, if there is ever anything I can do…ah.…” He expelled a hard breath, having come close to offering money, a terrible breach of ethics. “Gordon Meiklejon, sir.” He knew never to ask a name, for it could be written on a poster or nailed to a wall.

  The answer—“Burn English.”—was spoken quietly.

  “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  No response other than the sound of crackling branches and clipped rocks.

  “I do believe he’s gone, Mister Meiklejon,” Souter said.

  Gordon expelled a repressed sigh, and stroked his pony’s neck. The animal warmth reassured him, and he was able to find enough saliva in his mouth to form the words: “Let me retie the saddle pouch, and then we will be going.”

  Meiklejon and Souter reached Socorro before dawn. They rode up the middle of the empty street, up to a crowd of tied saddle horses and harnessed teams that reminded them of the dance they had missed.

  Gordon turned in the saddle, feeling every movement of the bones in his seat and legs. Music came from Miller’s General Mercantile, half tones awkwardly tapping a ragged beat. Souter’s face registered dismay when Gordon spoke.

  “Just one dance, Mister Souter. To celebrate oursuccessful return. I shall see you when the bank opens, which I suspect will not occur on time this morning.”

  He allowed Souter to lead the clay-colored pony beside his mottled cream pacer, and noted, as if
from a great distance, that he had no qualms in trusting Souter with the hard coin packed in the saddle pouch. That money was as safe as if it were ensconced in the Bank of England.

  He spent time at a water trough wetting back his hair, washing his eyes and hands. Finally he buried his face in the icy water and came up refreshed. Water dribbled inside his shirt and tickled his back and ribs. It felt good to be among the living.

  Inside the mercantile, the musicians pulled at their instruments by reflex. Dancers spun awkwardly on the floor. Gordon paused, looking for his partner. He walked directly to her through the path of dancers, and bowed as he came within her gaze. Cautious lest his sudden appearance might upset her, he held out his hand.

  She slipped into his arms, and it was a distinct pleasure, as light-headed, exhausted, dirt-stained, and sore as Gordon Meiklejon was, to be dancing with Miss Katherine Donald.

  Mama was already busy when Rose walked in the kitchen. Rose took a deep breath and released it, congratulating herself when Mama barely looked up at her eldest child.

  “Did you dance all night, Rose Victoria? I saw you with that Red Pierson. I don’t think he’s suitable. Now the Blasingame boy.…” Mama went on while turning the potatoes expected by the Southern’s guests. Almost everyone in town had attended the dance and hopefully there would be few who would rise early to savor Mrs. Blaisdel’s cooking.

  Rose knew what men and women did now. Jack had played with her outside where no one was watching. She studied her mother. It wasn’t possible that Mama and her father had done what she’d done tonight.

  “Mama, let me help.” Rose picked up a knife and went to peeling, and her mama came close to her and sniffed. Rose’s heart beat hard as she prayed Mama would not smell what her precious daughter had been doing with her sweet outlaw. But it was only Mama’s winter cold, which would last until the warmth of mid-April, that made her sniff.

  “I knew we could trust you at the dance. Missus Miller said she would keep an eye on you, but that she had to leave early and it wouldn’t be right for a girl as pretty as you to be out by herself. She was worried.”

  Later, when the revelers had recovered from their festivities and the town streets and businesses began to see some activity, Gordon Meiklejon entered the Southern dining room and asked Mrs. Blaisdel for a meal for himself and Gayle Souter, as they had a long ride back to the ranch.

  It was two meals at double cost, because of the extra work, but it was requested by Mr. Meiklejon. Rose was sent in to serve, and she saw the change. Gordon’s hands seemed steadier despite the missing fingertips, and his mouth was set in a constant smile. She found herself looking at him quite differently.

  Now that she knew what men wanted, Rose couldn’t help but wonder what each would be like with his pants around his ankles. Such a picture did not leave much dignity to the males; they would all be equally silly when they wanted a woman. How could her mother take it so seriously when the act was such a foolish, awkward plunging.

  While she was in the dining room folding napkins, repeating the chore that took up a good part of her long days, a man entered and headed directly to Meiklejon’s table. She kept folding and refolding a particular napkin while she listened.

  The man was compressed into a hard woolen suit. Rolls of fat burst above his shiny collar. His hands thickened across the backs where tufts of hair decorated each knuckle. Rose was called to bring over another cup and more coffee. The man’s name was Ben Stradley.

  Rose fussed with the coffee, pouring while the men talked. Mr. Stradley was the law from Silver City and had ridden in on a tale of an attempted robbery. Stradley tipped his head in silent questioning.

  The Englishman’s voice carried well, so, even as she retreated, Rose could hear the details.

  “Yes, we were held up. But the would-be bandit did not get anything. I think he was more terrified by what happened than we were.” Here Meiklejon looked at Mr. Souter, and the man nodded, pushed his chair back, and picked up his coffee cup.

  Still Stradley did not ask questions, but Rose saw the fat along his jowls tremble.

  Meiklejon continued: “Aman came to our rescue, although I can’t imagine what he was doing in such inhospitable terrain.”

  Rose watched Stradley’s face. It wrinkled and frowned as Meiklejon raised his hand and continued.

  “I realize you did not come here for opinions, sir. Please let me gather my thoughts. I’ve had little sleep and yet feel quite revived. Our savior rode up and told the so-called thief that he would be killed if he continued. The thief evidently was not so stupid that he mistook these words for a casual threat. He ran. That is all, Mister Stradley. An uninspired, though melodramatic, event.”

  Stradley took a gulp of coffee, then beckoned Rose to refill the cup. His voice was wet. “Mister Meiklejon, do you have any idea who would know you carried that money, and do you know who your savior actually was?”

  Rose took her time pouring the refill.

  “Well, sir, I do know that the erstwhile thief was not one particular man.”

  Stradley wrinkled his face at the odd statement and stuck out the tip of his tongue. There was a long pause. Rose held the pot above the filled cups.

  Meiklejon smiled, looked at Souter, and said: “It was not Jack Holden.”

  At the name Rose’s hand skipped and she spilled coffee on Mama’s white tablecloth. The men paid no attention.

  Stradley’s voice deepened. “How could you know such a fact?”

  “Because the robber rode a small horse, Mister Stradley, as our savior pointed out.”

  The men laughed. Rose wiped at the spreading coffee stain.

  “Well, then your robber could be anyone but Holden.” The fat man looked directly at Rose. “Miss, do you have any fresh milk? I like fresh milk with my coffee.”

  When she returned with Stradley’s request, Meiklejon was telling the lawman how he had first encountered the mustanger, and his voice was excited. “The first time I saw him was in the light of a campfire and I could not now swear to his individual features. He is a small man…that much I know…and at the time he smelled quite badly, which Mister Souter informed me is the mark of a true mesteñero.”

  “Why do you think he intervened?” Stradley asked.

  “That he stepped in and confronted the thief is all that matters to me, but, to answer your query, I believe it is that we shared our coffee with him last fall.”

  Stradley nodded.

  “Did he give any indication as to his direction?”

  Meiklejon snorted, then took a long sip of his cold coffee. “Mister Stradley, we did not discuss itineraries. The gentleman made his intentions known to the robber, who then fled. That is all I can tell you. We were saved by his generosity and offered him our gratitude.”

  But Stradley was not to be silenced. “Did this man tell you his name?”

  The Englishman sighed deeply and placed both of his hands on the white tablecloth, a gesture calculated to draw attention to his maimed fingers. He was using what he had to make his statement more important. Rose recognized the act. It was what she did with her deep breaths and hair-tossing.

  “Mister Stradley, I did ask his name in accordance with your range etiquette. And he answered me with no rancor. I cannot imagine a man who would so simply pass on his name would then lie about it. And as the name is unusual, I do not think it a false one.”

  “Well, sir, tell me and we both will know.”

  Stradley’s jowls quivered as Meiklejon answered, his voice abrupt and tired. “His name is Burn English.”

  Burn English

  Chapter Eight

  It was good range. Where the grass changed abruptly to desert, the dark mouth of a cañon opened behind a spring. Around the resulting pool, rock walls shaped a small valley. Burn English and his roan kept watch from a high bench. The gelding’s small ears swiveled endlessly; the shaggy body quivered under its rider’s hand.

  The mustangs grazed as Burn judged them. Finding the v
alley had been pure luck. He’d dogged the band for six months when he could endure the loneliness. Until he lost them south of Springerville. There were a thousand miles of tracking to the heart of these hills. He’d ridden east by instinct, following greening grass and the scent of water.

  The valley where he found the herd fanned out, then abruptly narrowed between rock walls. Burn could make out a number of well-defined paths that disappeared into the cañon itself. Lush grass, water bubbling from the spring—sanctuary for the mustangs and Burn.

  Burn coughed and spat. The red roan jumped and then settled. The sturdy gelding had been captured as a long yearling, and Burn had ridden him four years. Only the slightest of trembling along the deep rib cage, the wet hide on the rigid neck betrayed the roan’s excitement.

  Wiping his mouth, Burn felt the brush of his sparse whiskers, and the growth brought home to him the endless isolation he’d endured. In the past months he’d met up with more humans than he was used to seeing in a year, but he’d been driven by a tormenting ache. He still cursed himself for riding into town on Christmas. The girl’s words had hit hard. He’d violated his own rules by needing coffee, giving a drifter a ride, and he dismissed his good citizen act in stopping a robbery.

  He studied the wild horse band. There were maybe fifteen horses scattered in small groups, with the few two and three-year-olds bunched together. Most were mares heavy with foal; two early foals clung to their mamas.

  It was bitter cold in late March. Caught in the plains between Datil and the Gallo Mountains, the wind blew hard ice that stiffened in the roan’s thick mane. The valley might offer shelter to the mustangs, but for Burn and the roan there was no warmth or safety. Wind lifted strands of Burn’s frozen hair across his face. He had to concentrate on the horses, he had to pay close attention and make a decision based on instinct and knowledge. But he was damned near too frozen to think.