The English Horses

by William A. Luckey

  There was no time or distance, only the horse and the air—the motion that she had not ever felt. The bay was beginning to tire; she knew from the slowing strides, the deep, harsh sound of the bay’s breathing. It was how she felt, also, and it was strange to be in silent agreement with an animal that could neither talk her language nor understand her need.

  The horse walked and Katherine leaned down, laid her face on the black mane and spoke all the words she could not say to another human being. The bay tossed its head and moved on.

  Then bay stopped abruptly, throwing Katherine forward, and she sat up, outraged. A horseman came from a narrow draw to her left, and the bay swung its head to watch the stranger approach. It was Jack Holden.

  He reined in his sweaty paint and nodded to her, tipped his hat. “Good day to you, Katherine Donald. This is not where I would expect to find you. Out hunting?”

  Katherine stared at Jack’s face. He had changed—black shadows marred his handsome features. But he still sat his horse with the usual air of grace, one hand on the reins, the other ready to hold a pistol or reach for Katherine.

  He was hurried, that was evident by the rise and fall of the paint’s ribs, the white lather showing under the saddle skirt, along the horse’s neck, between its front legs. The paint was thinned down from too many of these hard runs. Jack definitely looked shabby, but he had not yet been caught and hanged.

  “I thought you were on the mesa, Jack. Surrounded by every man within a hundred miles ormore, and you fighting for your life.” She did not screen her words and did wince after she had spoken them. “You have been fairly identified as a thief, Jack. Why the change…why would you now begin to steal from the ranchers here? They are even linking Burn English with you, and, because of what you have done, they will try to hang him, also.”

  She thought she had spoken the words in a neutral tone, but there must have been a note in her voice, for Holden smiled for the first time in their chance encounter.

  “Ma’am it’s good to see you, too. But I swear English is not counted among my friends or associates, and he is most definitely not on Slaughter Mesa. I’ve never met him, unless you count the time I tried to swap horses with him.” Jack laughed, and there was a dreamy look to his eyes, a memory of something better. He took a long breath. “He stood that mustang broadside and dared me. Offered me a short ride, knowing I wanted his bronc’. There weren’t nothing I could do ’gainst that kind of courage. He couldn’t have weighed more’n a hundred something pounds, like a scrawny cat tackling a bulldog.”

  Then: “Ma’am, I got a favor to ask.” Jack looked directly at Katherine and did not flinch at what he must have read. “Ma’am …I lost a good friend, and word’s come back they finally buried him. Would you get a name put on a cross? Name’s Refugio, that’s all. Refugio.”

  She nodded yes, of course, remembering the sorry tale brought to the ranch by Eager Briggs. This Refugio had been a Mexican bandit and a friend of Jack’s.

  “There’s another favor, a tougher one,” he said, looking away. “I know there’s always a girl. But this one…I wronged her, Kate. It makes me ashamed of what I done. Please.” Here he quit, at a loss for the right words.

  Katherine watched his drained face, and thought of the summer gossip.

  “It’s Rose Victoria, isn’t it, Jack?”

  He nodded, relieved of having to speak the name.

  “Well, I can’t guess what you have done to her. She’s not pregnant, is she? She’s not carrying your child?” This should be a feared subject, too basic to be mentioned between unmarried men and women.

  Jack’s face was white, but he told the truth. “I’ve taken her, Kate. Several times, and she’s come willingly to me. But this last time, I was wrong.”

  Whatever lay on his conscience, Katherine decided she would not make it easier by mouthing those useless, magical words of it not being his fault, of his being blameless in having a girl, a mere child.

  “I took her, Kate. Can you understand what that means?”

  Yes, Katherine thought, I can understand. But she would not condone his doing so. Still the man had been accused of worse, and the girl had been with him of her own accord. It wasn’t fair, she wanted to cry, it wasn’t right for him to take a lovely young thing who had a chance at marriage. He had his pick of the wives and spinsters; it was unfair that he took the pretty girls, too.

  “I won’t be able ever to explain to her. Would you please…?”

  Katherine had been too deep in her own thoughts and not listening to him, for she had no idea what he’d requested. But she nodded, looked straight at him.

  “I need her to know it was wrong. She needs to know men can be better than I ever was.”

  Katherine would try to explain to Rose Victoria, but she was not convinced the girl even knew she had been wronged.

  They watched each other, two lonely people, and each saw the hurtful truth.

  “Kate, enough of all this. It’s only years and time…it is of no importance to anyone but me. Come here…please?” It was the first time he had ever asked.

  His kiss was sweet and gentle, not demanding, simply offering tenderness, and pain. They drew apart, their horses shuffling to accommodate the shift.

  Jack tipped his hat to her, said the last few words left to speak. “Ma’am, I stole that kiss from you…my last act as a thief. Now you ride home. It ain’t safe for a lady to be ridin’ alone, not with all the riff-raff coming through.”

  She would have spoken, but he touched his hand to her mouth, and against her lips she felt the weakness spill from him.

  “Ma’am, you are always a lady. I’m a gentleman no longer. Please, Katherine, go home. You’ll be needed soon enough.”

  The bay was content to walk and that gave Katherine too much time to think. She cried, shedding tears, the nodding bay gelding as her witness. Davey’s bay gelding took her to the corralof the L Slash headquarters and stopped. Once the horse was turned out, Katherine was alone. There was no one at the house, and for the first time ever Katherine was afraid.

  She forced herself to approach the house. She entered the kitchen quietly, suspecting all manner of invasions. But the room smelled of stewing hens and rising bread and nothing else. She had been gone on her rampage less than two hours.

  After changing back to a prim dress and washing up, she returned to work. But she was altered inside, where it did not show. She moved easily, yet her legs ached from the unaccustomed riding, and each bruise and reddened patch of skin was a welcome reminder.

  As she peeled the carrots, a different scent warned her and she spun around, knife in hand. It was Burn English, more ragged than ever, a softly curling beard shading his thin face. He was bloody, of course; one hand held the other arm at the wrist. She would have tended to him immediately but for the eyes, which stared directly at her, with no sign of deference or longing. Even Jack had only glanced at her, unwilling to insult her with a stare. English was different; he was always different.

  “Ma’am, you call off your pa,” Burn English said. “If he don’t remember we’re partners, then he’s dead. I ain’t got much left to lose.”

  Katherine responded the only way she knew. “You are the thief…using the ranchers’ good winter grass. What do you call that but thieving?”

  He grinned unexpectedly, and it made him almost handsome. “Ma’am, I’d call it investment. None of these boys’ll give me peace enough to find my own graze so I use theirs. They’ll get a chance to buy good stock, so they’re sort of paying now for what they’ll want to buy later.”

  Katherine hadn’t expected him capable of such devious thinking. It was hard not to smile at him and the calculated charm of his words. He took away her need to say something, anything in response, by letting his arm hang at his side. Immediately it leaked blood droplets onto the kitchen floor.

  “You clean up that cut, Mister English…so it doesn’t stain my floor.”

  He couldn’t grin any more; the effort p
ut a bleak grimace on his face. “Ma’am, I run out of clean a while back. Ain’t had much chance to do a wash lately or find time to take my Saturday bath. I need your help for this one.”

  She offered him a large rag soaked in cool water.

  He wrapped the arm, licked his dried lips. “Thanks again, ma’am, for the rescue. Can I get a drink of water…maybe a few biscuits? I’ve been riding hungry too long. Seems folks think I’m a cattle thief.”

  She poured him coffee and put out old, cold stew, biscuits, molasses, and half of a leftover pie. He ate everything she put in front of him and looked like he could eat more. She took her chance to lecture him while he ate, figuring he would remain only as long as there was food. “The outlaw life doesn’t suit you, does it? You’ve damaged what took so long to heal. You might well have killed yourself this time.”

  He dropped a biscuit onto his plate. “Ma’am, I ain’t no outlaw. Even your boss admitted his wrong and pulled off the law. It’s your pa, wanting what ain’t his, doing this to me. I ain’t no outlaw.”

  A verbal contest was a waste of time. She rested her hand on his shoulder, and he winced. Her voice was sharp. “Mister English, if you are running only from my father, stop and clear it up. Or are you running more from habit than circumstance?”

  He shook his head and the shaggy hair covered his eyes, rolled over his filthy shirt collar. “Ma’am, your pa and I had a deal, witness and all. As for me reasoning with the law, I got a killing to my name. Two men down in Texas.” He waited, seemed to know how she would react.

  Katherine went to the stove and stirred the boiling hens, appalled that he would speak so easily of killing.

  “There, ma’am, you’re doing it again. Not knowing why or how, you only know I was wrong, whatever I done. Like those ranchers up there wanting to hang me with Jack Holden. I killed when I was sixteen. Two men who tried to rob me. My family were dead by then, so it was up to me.” His eyes were hot now, his voice harsh and strong.

  She rested her hand on the knife handle, finding comfort there.

  “Being called a thief by your pa seems small next to what you think of me.” He stood, and it was an awkward series of movements. “Ma’am?” This time the word was gentle and she shuddered. “We knew each other those months while I healed. You know me well, yet you judge me wrong.” He was a gentleman; she saw in his face how carefully he chose his words. “Ma’am…I’m beholding to you for the meal. Add that debt to the ones I already can’t pay.” His breath came out in short gasps, smelling of stew and coffee, and sickness. “I won’t go after your pa, ma’am. Not like I would any other man. That’s the best I can give you to pay off my debt.”

  She put a hand on his ribs and felt the raw structure of muscle and bone. He shifted, and she leaned against him as his good hand stroked the back of her neck. She gasped in pleasure. At her sound, his heartbeat quickened and she could feel the race inside him.

  Suddenly Burn pushed away from her, and Katherine could not stop a small cry.

  “Ma’am, I can’t come to you like this. You be more careful you don’t let men like me around you. It ain’t safe.”

  Before she could reach for him, he put out a hand to stop her. It was the arm wrapped in the now bloody rag and again droplets of blood stained her floor. “I’m a damned horse breaker, ma’am.” He grinned that wonderful, unexpected grin. “I keep swearing at you, ma’am, to get you to listen.”

  “Sit down, and don’t pretend you’re all right,” Katherine ordered. “Let me doctor that arm…and pack you some food.” She used the words and the act of running water into a pan to recover. When she looked back, he was sleeping lightly, his head cradled on his good arm. Left alone, he began to snore.

  A horse came into the yard. She peered out the window. It was Davey Hildahl. He dismounted and began tending his mount. Katherine waited. No other riders came in with him. Returning to Burn, she gently unrolled the reddened cloth, and still Burn did not wake. The cut was long and ugly, stinking of infection—most likely a wire cut. As she began her work, she found herself strangely pleased. She glanced at the back door, where she knew Davey would appear. And she touched the back of Burn’s neck, threading the soft hairs around her fingers. Harsh words had been spoken, warnings given, but for now, with the man needing her and another about to return, she was content.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Davey knocked on the door. Beneath her fingers Katherine felt Burn’s body tighten. She kept washing the deep cut, focusing on the marvel of human muscle and bone, and did not look up when Davey entered.

  He nodded at Burn as if expecting to find him there. Of course, she thought, he saw the tracks of Burn’s horse.

  “You been riding that colt rough, English. Be too damned…darned bad to ruin another good ’un.”

  Burn’s reply was filled with anger. “So you got a bronc’ to lend me, huh? A nice big steady bay gelding…or maybe a fine-legged grullo that’ll do the work of that gray.” Davey’s head jerked as Burn kept talking. “Two bronc’s killed under me. Remember?”

  “Ah, hell…heck. You can’t lay the death of that roan on me.”

  Burn flinched as if the words had drawn more than blood. “Hildahl, I ain’t blaming you for neither bronc’. You’re the one placing blame. I’m doing what has to be done. That colt’s a tough one and he’s all I got.”

  Davey Hildahl sneezed, a loud and blustering intrusion that startled Katherine. Burn’s body twitched, then resettled, but Davey grinned like a little boy. “English, it ain’t bad seeing you setting quiet. I’ve been hearing summer tales about you. About some ranny put his mares on other folk’s pasture. That’s close to stealing.”

  Burn turned his head, focused his gaze steady on Davey’s form. “How can a bite be stealing grass left to grow?”

  It sounded like a Chinese riddle to Katherine, but Davey’s round face puffed out in a laugh.

  Katherine began to ask questions. “Mister Hildahl, how far behind you are the rest of the men? Have they found the outlaws they sought? Are any wounded…what do I need to know?” By calling him “mister” she had withdrawn their tentative friendship, and it was obvious from the tightening in his face that he understood.

  Burn stood, and by that act drew both onlookers into his world of suffering and deprivation. It took time and a tightening of his body to rise from the chair. His torso swayed as if a wind blew through the kitchen walls.

  “Davey, I’ve got to ride,” the mesteñero announced. “Ma’am, thanks for the cleaning up.”

  Both waited for his next move, fearing a harsh breath or a quick turn and he would collapse.

  “I never rode with Holden. You know that. Ah, hell…Davey.” Burn turned slightly. “Ma’am, you tell your pa my debt to you is the reason that I don’t go after him.”

  Burn held up his arm, nodded again to Katherine, and made his way to the door. He hesitated, then looked back at the two silent people who watched him.

  “If I ain’t careful,” he said, “I’ll get used to having friends.”

  Davey’s head jerked back as if yanked. Katherine felt her pulse quicken within her breast and throat.

  Burn opened the door, paused again. “You take care, Hildahl. We’ll cross trails again. Ma’am, it’s been mostly a pleasure. Thanks.” Then he was gone.

  The silence held as they watched Burn disappear. Then Davey coughed and Katherine wiped her forehead.

  “Mister Hildahl, you must be hungry. May I fix you some dinner?”

  “Ma’am, I came off Slaughter Mesa when I found Holden’s tracks heading this way. I followed them till they mixed with other prints, tracks I know well.” He stared at her knowingly, and she dropped her eyes.

  “It is a fine animal, and, yes, I met up with Mister Holden, who suggested I return to the L Slash where I would be protected. There were outlaws and killers on the loose, he said, and I would be much safer here.”

  “Ma’am, that’s what worried Burn and me…the change in Holden. Still we k
now he ain’t a killer.”

  Katherine would not look at him. “Mister Hildahl, how about some reheated stew and fresh biscuits?”

  While they ate a good meal in the Meiklejon kitchen, Jack Holden stole the flashiest bronco out of Son Liddell’s pasture—a sixteen hand black gelding with high stockings and a star, a small eye hidden under a thick forelock. He left the worn-out paint in trade.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  They were one day off the mesa, and, when Gayle Souter got up from breakfast and walked out to the corrals, the men followed. He parceled out the chores quickly. Despite the useless siege, the fall work had still to be done. In ten minutes each man knew what the day held. The young stuff needed to be choused out of the upper range. Souter ticked off the landmarks, reminding Bit Haven it was a tall, burned cottonwood, not the puny aspen hit last summer, he was to sight on and turn before. And if any man didn’t know the difference between a cottonwood and aspen, he ought to quit his riding job and work for a shopkeeper.

  Souter sent Davey Hildahl riding north to the fenced sections where the red he-devil patrolled his wire kingdom. Davey’s orders were to ease into the herd, cut out those meant for market, and leave the breeding stuff alone. Souter might send help later, but, for now, Davey and his snip-nosed bay would do.

  Souter and Red Pierson would trail Jack Holden. Souter hated setting out to ride a man down, but the hole-up on Slaughter Mesa hadn’t caught the outlaw, and Holden knew the unwritten laws. He’d stolen from neighbors; now he would be hunted and killed, like any animal that turned on its own.