The English Horses

by William A. Luckey

Eventually the stallion grazed, occasionally lifting his head to watch Burn and the roan. Burn headed down the narrow end of the cañon to his woven fence of twisted juniper and light pine. A single horse had fought the fence and managed to break only a few of the junipers. Burn made quick repairs and went back around the pool into the valley.

  He and the roan drifted along the east side, the two sections of fence that had been left unchallenged. During the night the band had endlessly circled the valley close to the walls, shying from the fences. They’d run themselves tired looking to escape, but the fencing had held, and now the mares were grazing or sleeping, letting their foals nurse in peace.

  A long hour passed, and the stallion kept a restless check on Burn. Burn stayed away from the water and finally the stallion went to drink, standing for a long time in the shallows, head hanging, eyes closed, a mouthful of cool water held tightly in his mouth.

  The mares dozed beside their sleeping foals. The stallion barely moved as Burn guided the roan in between the resting mares. He wanted to cut out the injured colt—the hole in his flank drained a yellow fluid that had crusted down the length of his hind leg. Spooked, the colt could run only four or five strides before drawing up to stand on three legs.

  The colt was much like his sire, with a fine head, wide ribs, clean legs, and strong hindquarters. The splash of white across the dark face was startling, an uneven blaze much like the markings of a bright sorrel mare in the herd. She had a wobbly filly at her side now, a dark bay with the same uneven blaze.

  The colt watched as Burn came in close, but made no attempt to run. Burn sighed—it might work. Unexpectedly, with ears back, mouth open, the stallion charged, scattering the bachelor herd. The roan bolted, and Burn stayed with the horse even as the roan went to his knees, then came up bucking and squalling. Burn imagined he could hear the stallion’s breath, smell the raging hate.

  The roan leaped twice, went down again. Burnflew out of the saddle as the roan climbed up and ran. Burn’s boot caught the stirrup; he couldn’t pull free. The mustang ran two strides, felt Burn’s weight, and kicked out, missed, kicked again. The stallion slowed, puzzled by the roan’s new shape. Burn hugged his chest and prayed that, without the stallion’s pressure, the roan would quit.

  Then the stallion screamed and the mustang launched into air. Burn’s head and shoulders slammed on the ground, bounced over rock. He groaned, hugged himself closely. The panicked roan ran sideways against Burn’s weight. His ribs were hit, his shirt torn, the sheepskin coat shredded. Rocks scraped him raw. A blow to his head and he saw light, tasted copper. He’d seen a man dragged once, had scraped up the pieces before burying them in a small hole.

  He reached for the old Walker Colt, thumbed back the leather thong. He cocked it as the mustang tripped and went down. Burn eased back on the trigger, hopeful for that one moment. The roan heaved up and Burn felt a blow on his side, then, aiming at the mustang’s belly, pulled the trigger once, heard the shot smash into flesh, heard the roan scream as he shot until the Walker was empty, and the roan went down.

  A hind leg was twisted under the roan’s gaping belly. The stench flowed out in a steaming cloud. In a final spasm, the roan’s quarters shook and a hind leg flexed, kicked out. Burn felt the hoof pass his face, and knew he’d survived.

  Chapter Nine

  “Souter, I got to talk to the boss.”

  Souter looked at Davey Hildahl and nodded. “He’s up to the house, talking with Miss Katherine.” That would fluster the man—nothing else but Katherine Donald got Davey scared. True to form, Hildahl’s face turned a bright red. “Anything I should know, Davey?”

  Hildahl shook his head. “Maybe the boss’ll tell you.” That was good enough.

  At the house: “Mister Meiklejon, I got something to tell you.”

  “Well, ah…Hildahl, what is it?” The man was still having trouble remembering names. Davey guessed he couldn’t blame him. They only had one new name to remember.

  “I found that cow Souter sent me looking for.” He couldn’t get the rest past his tongue. It was almost a betrayal, but he rode for the L Slash and, therefore, for the Englishman, and, as long as he took the pay, he owed his loyalty to the brand. He said: “A fella got some horses up to your summer grass, in Lightning Valley. Next to that old cottonwood got hit bad two years past.”

  Meiklejon looked at Davey strangely. He hadn’t been that far up on his northern range, had been too busy at the home ranch, ordering bulls throughthe mail, by God. Doing things Davey didn’t know to understand.

  “Yes?”

  “He got a lot of horses on your grass…real wild ones. Figures to catch and brand as many as he can.”

  Meiklejon seemed to be getting the heart of the matter now. “You mean he is using my graze to feed what he considers his own horses, although they are legally still wild and available to anyone who can brand them?”

  Yeah, Davey thought. Range law says one thing, but this time the bronc’s belong to the bad-tempered horse chaser. He hoped Meiklejon could see merit in the unusual argument. Davey nodded. “There’s more to it.” He glanced at Miss Katherine. She smiled and he forgot what he was meaning to say.

  “Well, Hildahl?”

  Davey choked. “Fella got those horses on your grass…he’s the same one saved your hide this past winter.”

  Meiklejon stared, then rubbed his face gently. “A small man, very dark, almost rude, but basically a decent fellow?”

  Got him right there, Davey thought. Had to be the same man. “Yeah, something like that. Name is Burn English, and he’s a runt hardcase, and all’round wild one.” Davey risked a glance at Miss Katherine.

  “Well, I can’t just let him have the grass.”

  Ah, hell, Davey thought.

  “And I can’t chase him off. He did save my life, and a great deal of money, and never asked for anything in return.”

  So the foreigner weren’t that much a fool.

  “Mister Hildahl, you tell the gentleman he has two weeks on the grass. That should give him enough time to catch all the wild ones he can, although I still do not understand how he thinks he can manage alone.”

  That was it. Meiklejon turned with a kind of bow to Miss Katherine, and said: “My dear, where were we?” Davey had been dismissed.

  Davey caught and saddled a rough dun. The horse was a sorehead, bucking at every touch of the rein, but the son could hit a high lick through brush and rock and never miss a stride. Davey figured to finish two chores, and so roped out the ancient, Appaloosa mare Souter had told him to get rid of. “She ain’t of no use no more…take her off and shoot her,” he had told Davey. An order Davey hated, but it was kinder than turning her loose to starve.

  Burn was sitting up, checking the damage, when Hildahl rode in.

  Davey stayed on his dun. The App mare was restless. He had planned to turn her in with the stallion, give her one last chance. He watched the mesteñero finger a cut over his eye and saw it needed stitches.

  Burn would bet some ribs were cracked, and his chaps were laid out along his legs in strips, plumb worthless now, but they’d saved most of his hide.

  Hildahl started talking. “I found that brindle cow a few days back. Standing over a dead calf, close enough to dead herself. I finished the job. Calf had an extra leg. Seen things like that before. I buried the calf real deep. Now I got this mare to get rid of and looks like I need to give you a ride to some place safe.”

  Burn found it hard to keep the man in focus. The round head and hazel eyes got too close to him, then too far away and the mouth flapped more words, looking pleased and mournful at the same time. Burn shook his head, found it wasn’t a good idea.

  They watched each other, taking measure. Hildahl grimaced and looked off first. “Told the boss about you. And them mustangs. You got two weeks, then you better get gone.” Burn found he couldn’t move his head fast, or think much at all. Hildahl plodded along. “Good thing I came by, Mister Mustanger.”

  “Hell, mister
yourself, I don’t need your help,” Burn fumed, angry at the lanky cowboy.

  Hildahl grinned. “Didn’t say I’d help, just said it’s a good thing I came along. You ain’t got a horse now…how you plan to catch up those bronc’s?”

  Burn stood by himself, took two steps, and fell. It was a struggle to get up again. Burn hated showing weakness to any man.

  Hildahl surprised him—didn’t offer help, but kept talking. “Handsome devil, that stallion. Good mares, too. Best of the wild stock I’ve seen in a long time. Too bad about the dark colt…that leg’ll kill him.”

  Half listening, furious, Burn got to his feet again and shook his fist at the talk as if the gesture could booger off the man’s interest in the horses. A whole nest of sore woke up—ribs, shoulders, back, and butt. Only his legs spread wide, and his anger, kept Burn standing. He glared at the remains of his chaps—laid clean off his legs, useless to him now. Rocks could do that to leather. Burn shook his head, careful of his balance.

  Hildahl must have stepped off the dun. His fist came into Burn’s sight, holding a wad of material. “Here, you might tie off that cut, looks like it could bleed you dry.”

  Burn looked down, saw that the dirt at his feet was red-spotted. His thigh was wet. He took the bandanna and twisted it above the wound. The rest of the repairs he could make by himself. Hildahl was unusually quiet. Burn wasn’t going to say thanks. He walked to the dead mustang, intending to yank his gear free of the carcass. He dropped to his knees, and was unconscious as his face rolled in to the churned dirt.

  He woke to Hildahl fussing with him, just as he had feared. Water dripped into his mouth. He swallowed some, then spat out the remaining liquid, anger coming back full force. His first word was “No.” Then he asked for the old mare.

  “If Meiklejon said for you to get rid of her…I’ll take her off your hands. Give her a few more weeks, and then turn her loose…or shoot her. Depends on how she holds up.” It was a standoff. Burn up now, raging inside as he glared at his rescuer.

  Davey recognized that the mesteñero would take nothing but the old mare. Good thing he’d brought her along or the man would try roping a mustang on foot, kill himself for sure. He held out the length of rope. “She’s all yours, son. I’ll be back to bury your carcass along with hers.”

  Davey’s report interested Meiklejon. There was still no real comprehension of a world in which men like the mustanger existed. Meiklejon had no basis for understanding the man’s way of living. He deemed Burn English full of false pride, relying on skills that were no longer needed, and determined to retain his calling despite the reality of the world.

  Gordon did admire some aspects of the man, and Hildahl and Souter both had asked for an extension to allow the man, injured as he was, time to gather his horses. Gordon gave them his word. Still he was not comfortable with the situation. Finally he sought out Miss Katherine in her kitchen, where she was washing up the last of the blackened iron pans in which she cooked cornbread and fried bacon. He was not in the habit of passing time with her, but a thought was lodged in his mind that he could not shake, and perhaps speaking it out loud to a person he believed capable of understanding might relieve him of its unwanted burden.

  Miss Katherine acknowledged his appearance but did not cease her labors.

  Gordon started hesitantly. “May I have another cup of coffee? Thank you.” It was always best to start any conversation with Katherine Donald on the basis of a request; it seemed to give her a security that mere talk did not offer. “I gather the man has cornered a number of horses on what I understand is my best summer range.” He took another sip, let the words settle, then broached what had begun to trouble him. “I understand the horses are a wild band, without any claim of ownership. Since they are held on my land, and are living on my grass, do they already belong to me, and are they worth the effort of taking them?”

  Gordon noted the flinch that stopped Katherine Donald, a bare withdrawal of movement easily missed. Then she continued her work, but allowed him the courtesy of a reply. “Mister Meiklejon, I do know that any interference with a mesteñero and his horses would gather you more trouble than any sale of the animals would justify. Legally they are yours…morally I believe you would have a horrible time owning them. I would leave it alone, Mister Meiklejon. The cost in men and time would not be worth the sale price of whatever was left after the war. And the man would fight a bitter war to keep what’s his.”

  A clear opinion clearly given, Gordon noted. He rose, leaving his cup on the plank table, eager to get on with his journey and be rid of the superfluous thoughts that sometimes nagged him.

  The fever wasted two good days. Burn had managed to hobble the mare outside the valley, and to drag his gear off the stinking roan. The rest had been a nightmare of sweat, heat, hunger, and thirst, with constant pain each time he moved in his filthy blankets.

  The third day his head was clear. With a great deal of effort he saddled the mare, who rode short but steady. At the edge of the valley, he got down gingerly and tied the mare securely. The red roan lay fifty feet into the valley, and Burn could still smell the rot. He sat down suddenly. Wolves and coyotes and others in their turn had taken what they could of the roan, leaving ribs and hide, a skull, and memories.

  He forced himself to focus. The wounded three-year-old was holding that bad leg off the ground. The colt was easy prey for an eager coyote, or for Burn’s rope. He rubbed his hand along the side of his face, and winced at the touch. Hell, he needed a horse. He couldn’t buy one, couldn’t use the dammed mare, so it was the dark colt or nothing. Burn wiped his face again, careful around the new scar, trying to scrub out the mix of thoughts.

  First it was a short meal and some sleep rolled up in his stinking blankets again. No fire, so no hot food or coffee. So he could once again smell like the broncos. Less than an hour later he rode back to the wild horses. The mare tied to a tree well away from the fence, he crawled through the rails with rope in hand. He cursed anything that stabbed him—the bark left on a rail or a stone jutting up from the ground. It was a foolhardy thing he was doing. The colt could half kill Burn on a three-legged charge.

  Finally he hunkered down less than twenty feet from the colt and took in steady gulps of air, held them, let them out in short puffs. The colt still paid no mind. Infection ran him like it had run Burn—head low, eyes closed, coat unevenly sweating. Burn crooned mindlessly. At first the colt jumped at the strange sounds, then pretended to lip thin grass.

  It was a peaceable half hour except when the colt would forget and lower the hind leg to carry weight. He would jerk the leg and stagger. Burn shuddered with him. When it seemed right, Burn stood and fashioned a loop and dropped it over the colt’s head, with the rope behind his back. Holding on with both hands, Burn swung the colt around. The colt shook his head, clearly annoyed as Burn tugged more on the rope. The colt moved forward. Burn suspected the horse’s intentions, but the colt did nothing but follow Burn erratically. He tied the colt at a low juniper and removed the gate rail before he led the colt outside.

  Burn walked around the colt. Aside from the horrible-looking leg, the big youngster was a beauty. Burn realized no wild bronco stood this quietly under human touch. Still there was no sign that any man had tried ownership—no rope burn, no brand, no saddle gall, or spur cuts. Maybe in the doctoring he’d raise some fight, dig some spirit out of the youngster. Astride the red App mare, Burn got the colt to follow with only a few false starts. The mare flagged her tail; the colt arched his neck only for a moment.

  Burn dragged the colt into the shallow stream, caught a front hoof, and yanked the colt off balance. The colt knelt and Burn pulled its head back over its barrel until the colt fell. He dug a knife into the wound and drew out yellow pus laced with red as the colt fought and bellowed until Burn clamped a hand over the colt’s nose. The colt lay flat in the healing water.

  Two days later Burn saddled the colt. When Burn mounted, the colt humped its back and thought to buck,
but then didn’t bother. The colt even turned left or right when Burn pulled on the rawhide hackamore. Burn couldn’t believe what he knew was happening.

  The next day Burn headed a small parade to the penned herd, leading the red mare to set her loose in the valley. The old girl galloped off heavily, then stopped to signal interest with her raised tail. Burn laughed. Lame as she was, she’d have a few years before age and the weather wore her down to a pile of bones.

  He needed miles on the colt, so he chose a trail and followed it. A good meal, a few bets on a bronco ride, and he’d come back with cash and renewed interest in the mustangs. He’d done this before. His own ribs were sore, but most of the cuts were healed. Burn laughed outright—he must be living a good life.

  It was all rock and sandhills where he rode. Red cliffs hung out over weed-filled bowls. Burn let the colt pick its way as a series of cañons went to the left and on the right the land smoothed out and folded into a number of low hills, carrying the pale green of spring grass. The trail dropped off a rim of red sand and widened into a double wagon track.

  The town wasn’t much. The first building was a livery where a few scrawny horses hung their heads over the fence. The water trough was a carved tree trunk, and the water was green with scum, but Burn figured the colt wouldn’t care. He reined up, and, when a man appeared, Burn asked if he could water his horse.

  The man was short and wide, wearing loose pants held up by braces. Filthy hands patted a washed shirt the color of the sandy ground. He looked Spanish, with dark hair and skin, the usualmoustache. When he spoke, his voice was loud enough that the colt backed a few steps.

  “That’s a pretty one you ride, señor. The name is Melicio Quitano. And, yes, you may water your good horse. It is a shame that leg scars him so…such a beautiful animal.”

  Burn shied from the man’s too friendly tone.

  “You, too, señor, if it is water you wish to drink. For myself, I drink whiskey or beer only. The water is for the animals.”