The English Horses

by William A. Luckey

  The stallion was a dark bay in his prime. Burn would take only mares. The best ones would be fat and heavy, even after a long winter. He had to make his choice, but in his heart he wanted to race the roan into the center of the herd and chasethem to where nothing could threaten their freedom.

  As if the roan felt Burn’s edginess, the little horse rose quickly on his hind legs, squealing as Burn fought to keep his seat. He needed to concentrate, to pick and choose, to figure out where to build a horse trap. Damn.

  Burn slowly reined the mustang through a break in the rock. It was not yet time to confront the stallion and his mares. More of the miserable hail clattered on Burn’s frozen face and he laughed, a sound that the roan did not hear often. The gelding bucked, almost unseating the rider. Burn slapped his hand against his frozen chaps and the sound rattled the mustang. The horse bolted and Burn let it run. Then Burn reined up; no sense in using energy, not when there was so much work ahead.

  He stepped down from the roan, weary, always hungry. He’d eaten a stale biscuit, drank a few sips of water earlier. Not enough after watching the horse band through the cold blustery night. The horses had slept; he’d kept guard.

  He offsaddled the mustang, rubbing down the wet back with a fistful of dead leaves. Slender icicles frozen under the roan’s chin jingled with the roan’s head shaking. Burn hated the sound. He hobbled the roan and hung his saddle and the wet blanket from a lightning-struck cottonwood. If he didn’t, squirrels or maybe a skunk or a raccoon would come for the dried sweat and he’d own a chewed saddle, ruined reins, a handful of blanket. Without his gear, a mesteñero was useless.

  Chewing on the last of a biscuit, washed down by teeth-jarring cold water, Burn studied theland. No fences, no ranch houses or soddies, only miles of rock and steep cuts, thin streams, and high grass mixed with cactus. Rolling sandhills broke the smooth horizon. It was good country for trapping wild horses, or grazing cattle. Not much good for anything else.

  Burn got up, mindful of the aches and pains he needed to ignore. He checked on his gear, went to the stream, knelt, and splashed water on his face, scrubbed his hands clean with coarse bottom sand. He couldn’t wash all over. For now he could barely tolerate his own company.

  He stretched and put both hands to the small of his back. He was getting old in a young man’s game, but he knew no other way to live. In the past he had ridden broncos for a rancher, and left when the boss tried to stick him with cow work. He’d been seventeen when he struck up a partnership with a mesteñero who knew the old ways. They partnered for three years, until a bronco broke the mesteñero’s neck. Burn buried Enrique, spoke a few words of rough Spanish, and rode on.

  That was five years ago. Now he chased the wild ones—being accepted into their society was easier than mingling with his own kind. The mornings were hard climbing up from sleep, pained by mended bones, recent wounds, scars that ran deep. He was coming to a bad time, when he would be lamed and crippled, too old to do what so far had given him a rough freedom. He needed to claim land and live in some bare comfort. His bones told him it was becoming a necessity.

  The skies spit hail, the clouds rolled overhead like phantom waves, hiding and then revealing the almost full moon. Burn laughed. Burn English, alone since he was thirteen, thinking he could pick out land and build a house, live in the rest of the world, when in truth he couldn’t buy a simple meal or afford a hot bath.

  Burn sat against the old cottonwood and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair, sweeping it out of his eyes like a horse’s forelock. He needed a good shearing, never mind a bath and a meal, a house of his own. He snorted and the red roan snorted back.

  Burn caught and saddled the roan. It was hunger again, and a strangled anger he could not quench. He smoothed out the still-damp saddle blanket and twisted the cincha to flake off caked salt. He couldn’t afford to gall the roan. Anger goaded him. He was being driven out of his familiar haunts by the damned wire fences. He swallowed against a dry throat, hating the weakness. Fences were inevitable. He knew that not making the same choices as other men gave him no special rights. There was no room for blame—it lay on him and no one else.

  When horse and rider slowed at the valley’s entrance, Burn was pleased. The mustangs slept in pairs, one on guard, head hanging, legs locked in readiness; the other tucked neatly on the ground, safe against the high wind and predators.

  Burn guided the roan past the water hole, where the moon’s twin floated in the icy pool. An owl spread out its wings and drifted above the reflecting surface. He listened for night sounds—the owl’s cry, a coyote’s call, small rodents brushing through tall grass.

  He pushed the roan to follow a faint trail behindthe pool into the cañon’s maw. The trail looped and twisted, presenting many places where he could cut off the possibility of escape. He returned past the pool, checking the different breaks in those high rock walls. He’d have to fence those escapes, a section or two of high rails would keep the wild band in the valley. Dead junipers lay among the rock, a few straight pines that had fallen. He hated building fence.

  Burn guided the roan among the sleeping mares. The stallion raised his head in exhausted challenge. Burn rode back to the crude camp, tired enough maybe to sleep. The moon disappeared behind quick clouds. Burn once again hobbled the roan, hung up the gear, rolled in the smelly, wet blanket, and went to sleep quickly, a thin smile on his tight face.

  The band was gone for four days and it rained the whole time. Burn shivered in his wet slicker, barely alive inside the saddle blankets and his stinking sheepskin coat. When the horses returned, a mare was in heat and the stallion came courting. As the stallion caught and mounted the mare, Burn had to look away.

  He saw the stallion slide off the mare. When she turned her head, whickered, and touched the stallion’s wet muzzle, Burn felt an old ache pulse in his belly, and he wanted to frighten the band and let them run far from his plans.

  The next morning they were gone—he guessed for two or three days again. He pulled out a number of dead trees, dug holes with a crude shovel. Had an axe, too—tools of a mesteñero’s trade. He planted posts at three breaks in the rock wall. The band had gone out past the pool, and before that they had come back on the west side. So he put up a five-foot barrier at one of the eastern breaks, and left the two western breaks open, with only the posts to mark his intentions. The horses would return from the west, balk at the posts until the stallion determined the odd objects were no threat, then they would spill into the valley and get back to grazing.

  Time worked for him now, time and the harsh spring winds that dried up what winter snow remained. The spring-fed pool was a constant. The stallion knew it, returned his band to it when other water was sucked dry.

  The band returned in three days. The lead mare quit at the posts, refused to let the band pass. The stallion came up snorting, pawing at the posts, canon and, when they did not fight or run, he swept past them into the cañon, arrogant in his victory.

  The bachelor colts came in from the east. At first they came to the new fence and stopped in a tight group. A dark colt, colored much like his sire, came forward to do battle. Striking wildly, the colt rattled the fence rails but could not move them. He retreated, and, as disciplined as a flight of birds, the bachelors turned and ran to the valley’s wide end. They swept down onto the ripening grass, the dark colt bucking and kicking.

  As the colts raced through the grazing herd, the dark colt strayed too close to the stallion, who charged the youngster and caught him on the flank, tore a wide, bloody hole before letting go. The band stayed one day and was gone. Burn tracked sign, read that one horse limped badly.

  He worked doggedly on the fence, built a secondpanel, five feet and solid with rails he could bully into place. Blisters covered his palms and fluid seeped into his ragged shirt cuffs. He slept through the night and into the next day. The horses returned to the water, then left two days later. The mares went to the east side and found themselves trapped. The stalli
on pawed at the rails but there was no escape, so the mares spilled down the sandhills, dodged the furious stallion, and went out through the west gate. The trap was closing.

  Burn drove himself to finish fencing the mouth of the valley, sleeping in brief naps when he could no longer carry a railing. He had to rely on the roan’s instinct to warn him. He kept the mustang hobbled in close and studied his attentiveness.

  The horse herd came back but the new fence canon galled the stallion. The herd moved past the pool through the narrow cañon. After the horses were gone, the roan whinnied, and a single horse answered. Burn jerked the Spencer from the roan’s saddle, jacked a shell in place, then backed up until he felt a boulder behind him.

  “You…I got a Spencer and it ain’t on you yet.”

  “Friend, the boss sent me looking for strays,” came an answering voice. “This’s our summer range. I lost track of a few cows …one a big brindle should have a week-old calf with her.”

  So, he was on some rancher’s summer grass. It was spring by the months and winter by the cold, so Burn waited, but the rider was shy about making an appearance. Burn thought to shoot, but, with his luck, he’d hit something. He tried again.

  “Mister, I ain’t seen a cow, but I seen tracks.”

  Burn heard the horse start walking, and pointedthe Spencer down—a friendly gesture, but he could raise and fire quickly. He needed a few more days, a week or two, until the band was trapped and branded.

  The horse appeared. A good-headed bay that started when it saw Burn. The rider himself wasn’t as much as his horse—long-legged, curled boots hanging to the bay’s knees, long arms folded across a lean chest, with a round face more like a child’s sitting under a too-big hat. The man looked straight at Burn. Burn drew back his shoulders and thought to raise the Spencer, but it would be a fool gesture of faint pride. The rider wasn’t as young as his round face indicated and he carried deceptive muscle on his lanky frame. He could step down and break Burn in two.

  “I been watching you some the last few days. You got a lot of work done all by yourself. You caught any of them bronc’s yet? By the way, the name’s Davey Hildahl and I ride for the L Slash.”

  The bay stretched down for a bite of grass and Hildahl let his boots swing out of the heavy stirrups. His eyes said he was no stranger to the work; they watched Burn carefully. Burn’s mustang hobbled up to greet the visitors, but the bay paid no attention.

  Hildahl tried again. “Now my horse, he’s got the right idea. Past noon it is…going to be past the next meal if I don’t keep better time. Some eating don’t look like it would hurt you neither, and it sure would make me good company. Coffee’s always a good place to start.”

  Burn raised the Spencer, let it drift before settling on the bay’s chest.

  The visitor shook his head. “That ain’t friendly. You got to eat same as me. Even if you sleep out here with the bronc’s. Try letting that Spencer look at the ground again.”

  Burn spoke: “No cause to come down on a man doing his job.” He was as surprised by his voice as was the visitor. Hadn’t spoken to a two-legged beast in three weeks, and now he was snapping. “Hildahl, ride on if I don’t suit you.” He allowed the Spencer to point south again, and Hildahl let out that breath.

  “All I was asking was about a brindle cow and if you got a biscuit or two I could chew on. I get hungry riding up here . . . never do pack enough grub to last. Besides, you’re on Meiklejon’s land. He owns title to all you can see.”

  Burn got angrier. “Not the horses he don’t! I tracked ’em, and I’ll brand and ride ’em. They’re mine!” He tried to settle his temper, but this mealy son-of-a-bitch.…Ah, hell, Burn thought.

  The man seemed to understand. “Horse chaser…since you ain’t give me a name yet…maybe I won’t say nothing about the bronc’s and your fencing. Not for a while anyways. In your traveling, you seen this big brindle cow and her calf?”

  Burn steadied the Spencer against his thigh as he spat out the words. “I saw sign two days past, going north. Big cow dragging afterbirth. Couldn’t tell if she was brindle.”

  “Thanks, horse chaser, for the report. Ain’t been up north…never figured she’d strike out for there…ain’t much graze. But if she’s in trouble…hell, cows ain’t too bright.” Hildahl’s long fingers picked up the reins and instantly the bay was ready. The horse took several steps, then Hildahl stopped it, swung around in the saddle, and stared at Burn. “Now I know you been out here too long, horse chaser, and I know you think you own that band. But I still don’t have a name for you. I’ll set real peaceable, so you don’t have to raise that damned Spencer.”

  Burn told the short truth of the matter. “I come up from Texas following these mustangs. The name’s Burn English. You tell your boss these bronc’s’re mine.”

  Hildahl wouldn’t let it be. “Now I heard that name before. Seems a man stopped a robbery. That was the boss he saved from being robbed…foreman was with him…and the name was Burn English. Could be you…it ain’t a name too many folks’d use.” Hildahl continued: “I don’t know the boss all that well. He’s an Englishman. The foreman’ll honor the debt, but he won’t take kindly to your using summer graze. You best walk careful, Mister Burn English.”

  Burn rubbed his whiskered face hard with his left hand.

  Hildahl didn’t stop. “English, listen to me…it’s been a dry winter and spring so far. That grass’ll be needed sooner than usual. You ride careful.” Then he grinned, let his long legs swing free of the stirrups. “Too bad you ain’t one for eating. Other that that, it’s been a right pleasure talking some with you. English, you take care.”

  Burn watched Hildahl turn the bay gelding north after the brindle cow. He’d meant to chew on some jerky, take a short rest before he got back to work. Hildahl’s visit left him in a hurry to catch the horses before some fool laid claim to them. He forced himself to saddle and ride to the section of fence he intended as a gate. It was a too-familiar act as he laid fresh-cut juniper over the poles; he’d done this too often, trapped too many good horses.

  The mustangs returned while Burn slept. He was out of biscuits, had only one strip of jerky left, so he made do with too much water and small bites of the beef. The roan looked good—grazing on the lush grasses around the lightning-struck tree was keeping him fit and eager.

  Burn woke with a strip of jerky in hand, the canteen emptied across his knee, one pant leg soaked. He’d been snoring. Drool stained his chin whiskers from the half-chewed jerky in his mouth. A god-awful picture, he thought, mad at himself for having fallen back asleep.

  The band drifted between the empty posts, careful to shy from the fencing across the valley end. They were gaunt and thirsty, yet the stallion made them wait, circling the mares and foals, nipping any mare too eager to drink. Alert despite evidence of exhaustion, the stallion was certain the fence meant harm to him and his harem. Finally he let the mares go down to drink the good spring water.

  Burn waited until the mares were full. He was counting on the bloated, water-filled bellies to make his work easier. He’d planned well. The horses had come in over the railings with tired, choppy strides. Now, as they drank their fill and splashed in the pool, Burn eased along the ridge, cursing when he kicked a slide of pebbles loose that spiraled down onto the grass flooring. The stallion’s head came up at the sound; the horse quickly began to drive the mares toward Burn and their last chance to escape.

  Burn shouted. The mares kept coming, then the herd swirled back around the stallion and into the valley toward the wider, fenced end. The mares ran the height of the long fence where some slowed to a trot, muzzles scraping the fence’s top rail. Burn dropped the first gate pole in place, threw in two more, trying to keep an eye on the stallion.

  The dark bay rushed Burn, but skidded to a stop at the mixture of scents. The horse made a tight circle, came back as Burn kept stacking rails, feeling small and useless alongside the horse’s rage. Burn wrapped a rawhide strip around the top gat
e pole as the stallion charged. Burn yelled and the horse slowed. Burn slapped his leg, and the stallion reared. Then Burn skidded his battered hat at the horse and the animal sat back on his haunches, pawing at the shapeless hat.

  A few mares grazed, some whickered for their foals, some stood quietly, still carrying a foal, too tired to eat. The stallion exploded downhill toward the pool of water and the entrance into the narrow cañon. Burn waited. The mares watched but did not follow. The stallion was gone several minutes, then returned at a slow trot, head high, tail switching restlessly.

  The mares lowered their heads to the grass. Nothing would disturb them now, not the angry stallion and especially not the small battered figure, who stood on braced legs near the railed gate.

  Burn caught up the roan mustang and rode back to his poor camp. This time he stripped off his clothing and went into the stream, splashed the icy water all over himself and scrubbed off as much dirt as he could with fistfuls of sand. At night, after lighting a fire, he shot himself a rabbit, skinned and roasted it, pulled it apart with shaking fingers, and ate every last bite. Chewed the bones and sucked the marrow. Then he slept, knowing the horses waited.

  He woke before sunrise. The roan was edgy, so Burn let him run until the horse easily responded to Burn’s touch. At the edge of the valley, Burn laid down the gate rails. The stallion caught wind of Burn, and rushed forward, stopping only ten feet away. Burn led the roan through the gate, replaced the poles, and mounted cautiously, feeling the roan tremble from the stallion’s presence. He talked to both horses, using his voice to calm the roan.

  The stallion lifted his head and raised his upper lip. From a human, it would be an insult. But Burn laughed—human stink, rabbit flesh, hot fire, scrubbed skin. The stallion began a charge, but Burn slapped his hand against his chaps and the stallion veered off toward the complacent mares.