Davey had said that Holden rode a paint that toed out in front, so in the beginning the tracks were easily spotted. Soon enough Holden would need a new horse, for the paint’s stride was labored and uneven. The trick was to get close enough to the man, so any change in mounts wouldn’t lose them the trail.
Souter reined in his red dun, let the boy catch up.
“Red, we’re cutting this trail, knowing Holden’s going for Liddell’s bronc’s. You see anything to make you think different?”
Red shook his head, and the pair lined out their traveling horses toward Liddell’s pasture. Red found fresh prints through the broken fence. The bronco tracked up short on the near hind, a flaw Holden wouldn’t have seen when he roped out the gelding.
Eager Briggs liked the ancient palomino he’d picked up in Magdalena. The Mex who sold him the bronco wasn’t clear on ownership, but Eager himself didn’t bother with such niceties. Not many ranchers would care about one useless gelding tired enough so that a broken-legged old man could ride it. He called the horse Gold—he’ddone some prospecting in his time and the deep yellow horse was the closest he’d come to a rich vein of color.
Now that his leg was healed, Eager’d taken to riding north and east every two, three weeks, staying out maybe two days. He told himself there was no reason to his wanderings. Most times he’d not go back home but, instead, would make camp and wrap up in Gold’s saddle blanket and watch the fire he’d set, thinking about all the things that would fit in his curious mind. On these trips he made sure to take extra bacon, beans, coffee, and the makings for a smoke or two. Not his particular habit, but there were some who got struck by the need for that putrid stuff in their lungs. Now Eager, he liked a good cigar, one of those soaked ones that come out of Mexico. Hell, then a man knew he was smoking something with courage. Mornings he rolled up and got out of the blanket, folded it and put it on the palomino’s back. It was too much effort for an old man to pack up the extra food, so he would leave it hanging by a rope from a nearby tree. Keep it safe from varmints until the next time he rode up the same way. Of course it was never there when he would come back, so he always packed more, not wanting to go hungry.
Eager might be old to some folk, but he still did love his victuals. Not like that young one he caught sight of now and then. Riding that big dark colt. The boy had got some manners to the colt now, not like the first time Eager had seen them in Quemado.
And Eager remembered the boy as clear as day—tough, moody just like his pa, old John English. English used to laugh when he told it, the family joke. The family was Welsh, named English, living in Wales, Texas. The boy was the spitting image of his pa, excepting for size.
What food Eager left for English in the trees wasn’t enough to feed a man full up, but the mountains had their own food on the hoof—elk and deer, bear if you were hungry enough. The bits Eager put out were more for variety, the makings of civilization. Although Eager much doubted the English boy had a strong hankering for anything civilized.
This time when Eager got to his camp, he hobbled the palomino and dug a pit for the fire. He found himself talking out loud to himself; there was a lot an old man didn’t know, even coming to the end of his life. A lot he’d forgotten, about being young and going after the whole world.
He sat and chewed on a Mexican cigar and talked about the outlaw, Jack Holden. The word was Holden had taken another Liddell bronco, and that Gayle Souter and the kid, Red Pierson, were tracking him.
If those three met, there would be killing, for Souter wasn’t a forgiving man. Eager stated his feelings about killing, his old voice getting louder, and the palomino looked up from its graze, wiggled its long lip after a choice bit of grass. Holden against the two L Slash men wouldn’t be pretty.
It was a shame to think of Gayle Souter shot down by the likes of Jack Holden. Or Red Pierson dead; the boy was growing up right. “A lot of might-be in the world,” Eager told his horse. His next topic was Davey Hildahl, riding fence on those wire sections. “Looks can deceive,” he said to Gold. “Can’t judge a man by the form he takes, got to see inside a man to know his soul.”
As he guessed on it, a shadow drifted into his fire light. A thinned bay colt led by a man lamed on the offside and leaner than the horse. But the voice came out always the same.
“Thanks, old man. I’ve been out of coffee and beans a while…they’ll taste good with elk.”
The English boy handed over a rump portion of the elk, and Eager got to slicing thin steaks. Hadn’t had elk in a long time, didn’t know if he could gum his way through any more, but, by God, he would try.
The colt was unsaddled and rubbed down, hobbled, and left next to Gold. The ancient bronco was pleased with company, and the horses nuzzled and nickered some, then went back to eating. Only then did English come in to the fire’s warmth, where Eager could get a look at him.
“It’s good to see you still alive, boy. A sight this old man don’t get to enjoy often. I know where you been, ’cause I been there before you.”
The boy had come a far piece since his tangle with the bob wire. Eager pushed the wrinkles up on his forehead, wished he had his store-bought teeth. That elk was beginning to smell better than good.
English watched him, then spoke. “I know you now, old man. Eager Briggs is what they call you here. That’s a summer name. You come up from Texas.”
He’d known the boy was studying him the lasttwo times or more, but the cut about his name still hurt. It wasn’t the name he was born under, but he’d owned it a long time. He waited. This wasn’t done yet. Then the English boy caught Eager by surprise.
“You think Hildahl’s in trouble, old man?”
It took a moment, then Eager nodded. “Yep, boy. He’s right plumb in the middle.” Then the old man did his own jumping. “The name was Leutwyler when I rode with your pa. Bert, it was. My name. That’s why I called that ugly, no-count mule Bert, so not to forget my mama’s naming me. Your folks was good to me.”
It was downright foolish, two men sitting across from each other, a fire burning between them, charring up good elk rump. The boy’s eyes widened; Eager grinned and wiped his wet mouth.
English spoke quickly. “You rode a big dun. I wanted to ride that bronc’, and I asked you one day. You said the dun was a man’s horse and to come back when I was growed big enough.” That hung quietly. “What’d you think now, old man? I growed big enough for you?”
The gall of those misspoken words rose in Eager’s belly. “A man can say things he don’t mean. I ’pologize now…for what I said then. Old Bert Leutwyler, he died in that Texas country, and a new man rode on up here. A better man, I’m hoping.”
English nodded and parceled out the charred elk steak, took some beans. Eager sliced himself a cut of meat, shoved it between his gums, and worked hard swallowing, all the time grinning and watching John English’s boy.
Burn wiped his fingers around the tin plate,and wished the old man had made biscuits. God, he was hungry, could never get quite full. Where he rode was determined by the mares and foals, and often that meant running off game, forcing him to live on cold water and chewed hide. But he wasn’t going to quit the mares, not after all this time.
“Boy, what you planning to do with winter’s coming? And how come that stallion’s letting you run his band?”
Burn didn’t want to think on it. He’d found the mares, and the stallion, and they remained on his conscience. He shivered, rubbed the healing cut on his arm. He’d found the stallion ribby and infected, cut to pieces amid wire, but still standing, unable to escape the coil circling his front leg. He’d cut the stallion’s throat and had taken on more horses than he could handle. With a lot of hard work he’d caught five of the bachelor colts—broke to ride, he’d sold them only last week over in Springerville. The sale had given him enough cash to buy a bit of land. The dream still could be taken from him. So he sat while the old man looked at him.
Burn ran his tongue over the inside of his mouth
, tasting sweet elk, spiced beans, the fouled coffee. “Briggs, you say you think Jack Holden’s going to end up where Davey is?”
The old man answered quickly, as if he, too, was glad to get away from the more personal talk. “Yeah, I read Holden’s tracks pointing this way, ’stead of to Springerville. He’s got two men coming fast behind him…Gayle Souter and that kid, Red. Only Davey’s in his way. It’d be a shame to lose a man like Davey Hildahl to such as Jack Holden.”
“Hildahl saved my life,” Burn said, “much as any man ever done. Guess I owe him the same.”
It could have been surprise on Brigg’s face that got his jowls to quivering. Burn was set to ride after he slept some. It would be a luxury, knowing nothing would sneak up in his sleep. He trusted the old man that much. Old Briggs seemed to understand as English rolled himself up in a blanket. Looking like his pa a lot then, he was John English’s boy and that man had never quit, had never given in till the illness had taken him. It was a hell of a legacy for a boy to grow into, and it had nothing to do with size.
Briggs stayed alert most of the night, a rare feat for him. He did fall asleep along toward morning, and, when he woke, he was covered with a damp blanket, with the old palomino standing over him, head drooping, lower lip hanging close. When Briggs snorted and coughed, trying to sit up, the horse flapped that lip, yawned wide enough that the old man could count its back teeth, and went right back to dozing.
The fire was banked. A pot of coffee hot to the touch waited. English hadn’t been gone long, and the first rays of sun came hitting over the rocks, making a pink and red wash on the boulders. Briggs stretched hard, pushed Gold out of the way, and drank the coffee right from the pot. The boy had taken the only cup.
Mama yelled from the kitchen that she needed a meat order from Hargreave’s. Now, Mama said, and come get the money. Old man Hargreave always had to be paid in cash.
Rose let the coins roll in her fingers as shewalked. They felt good, as if she held a sudden power. She passed a number of horses tied to the railings in front of the different stores. A child ran in front of her, clutching a wrapped package. This was the sum of her life, errands, demands, everyone else’s needs but her own.
She went to Billy’s livery and told the old man she needed to rent a quiet horse. Billy nodded and grinned, showing his few remaining teeth. “You in a hurry, huh, little lady?”
Rose accepted the quaint leer and comment with no hint of disquiet, for she was bent on following her desire.
Out of sight of town, Rose let the horse amble at an easy pace. She had little idea of where, exactly, she was going, but she knew Jack was out there somewhere, running for his life. All those men were chasing her Jack, but she would be the one to find him. She knew that in her very being; she would find her love and stay with him, protect him.
Three hours later unbidden tears drenched her face. She was exhausted, and alone, night was coming, and she was nowhere that she recognized. The horse climbed up a steep hill, following a narrow track that went on indefinitely. Rose wiped at her tears and yanked on the pinto’s mouth as the animal turned to go down a particular trail. They would go where Rose wanted, not where the stupid horse chose.
Black night through early morning and then mid-morning with its searing, shimmering heat. Rose was crying when the Mexican found her.
“Buenos días, señorita.”
A polite greeting, but Rose knew better than to trust the man—her mama had taught her well. She quickly wiped her face clean; it would not do for this Mexican to know she was lost and crying.
“Here, señorita, let me offer you some water.”
He was still being very polite and was not that ugly, she rationalized. She let her tired horse drift in closer. “Well, I guess a small sip would be all right. Thank you.” She took the canteen and hurriedly opened it, dropping the cork but not caring as she poured the delicious water into her mouth. It spilled down her chin, soaked into her dress, but she didn’t stop drinking.
“Señorita, it is not good you drink so much. You will become ill, please, señorita.”
Finally she was done, and the pinto horse she rode shivered and swung its ugly head around and licked its lips. Rose politely handed back the empty canteen, ignoring that she had lost its stopper. Her head was swimming now, and her stomach felt odd, heavy and bloated. She dropped the reins carelessly, and pressed both hands to her belly, noting that the Mexican had gotten off his horse and was running his fingers over the ground, looking for something. Good, she thought, he won’t bother me. Then bile filled her mouth and she leaned over the pinto’s side and vomited. The watery liquid spewed from her and she could neither speak nor sit up as the fouled water spilled on the animal’s legs and stained her once pretty dress.
The Mexican said nothing, but took the pinto’s reins and began to walk. Rose Victoria had no voice to complain.
The humiliation was complete when, in a clearing in front of a sturdy adobe and stone hut, she tried to dismount and fell instead, landing heavily on the stone-carpeted ground, legs wide, skirt pulled above her knees. The Mexican had done this to her. Rose fussed and cursed and wiped her wet, stinking mouth. She needed Jack Holden now. Where was he, why couldn’t she find him?
Chapter Twenty-four
Davey Hildahl’s bay showed no interest in hurrying, so Davey let him wander while trying to count up what cattle he saw, guessing where the others might be hidden. When the bay spooked, he was ready. Bones were scattered around or still caught in old wire. He patted the bay’s wet neck and let the horse stand and blow, felt it quiver under him. He was spooked, too, but finally the bay settled.
His camp would be simple. He stripped down the bay, and fed out a cup of oats. Then he rolled himself up in an extra blanket, pulled his hat down over his face, and slept. Come morning it was jerky and coffee, a small fire almost enough to warm him. By mid-morning he’d found a cow. He had first heard her bawl, and then the bay had gone to the sound. Damned fool cow was rolled in wire, cut right up to the hock. Her calf grazed on nearby grass. Ten sections of graze and the cow had had to have that blade of grass over the fence.
Davey slipped from the bay, uncoiled his rope, and got ready. Once he had one leg roped and tied to a tree, one snagged up to the good bay, he was able to doctor the cow’s cuts. The calf got curious and ambled over to watch, decided the bay was its new mama and tried to nurse, and got a hard bite on the rump for the insult.
It was tricky sliding the cow loose while keeping away from her swinging horns, but with Davey back in the saddle and the bay alert and ready, it wasn’t so hard, after all. After the cow trotted off, the bawling calf following, Davey got back to work.
It was a tangled mass of wire, so he dismounted and hobbled the bay, slipped the bit to let the horse eat while he worked. The fence needed to be spliced before the bull found the exit and left for higher country. His fist was wrapped in a coil when he sensed the approach of a rider. He didn’t recognize the fancy black, which was traveling short on the left hind. It had to be Jack Holden, though—and that meant trouble.
Gayle Souter caught himself rubbing his upper lip again, and frowned. He and Red Pierson had stopped at a settlement near Datil Wells. A man there had told them a town girl’d been found on the plains. The man described the girl, and Souter knew immediately it was the oldest Blaisdel child, Rose Victoria. The man’s wife spoke of Jack Holden, saying the girl had been crying for him. Souter and Red had watered the horses, filled their canteens, and asked a few more questions about Holden before they left.
Now they were headed north as Red caught thescent of new tracks and climbed off his bronco. The boy was trembling as he picked at the dirt.
“Look here, Mister Souter. It’s that barefoot colt the mustanger rides. You figure he’s riding to meet Holden…or chasing him?”
A short hour later they hit more tracks. A team and wagon far off any decent trail. Souter thought: Edward Donald. No other fool would drive a wagon this far up in the mounta
ins. Souter shook his head. A country was too settled when a man couldn’t ride five miles or more without crossing fresh tracks.
It was a long run, so Red and Souter held their broncos to a slow gallop, gathering them for the downslopes, urging them up onto the next rise. These two broncos were no good on the end of a rope, no good chasing cows, but, by God, they could run.
Katherine burned two loaves of bread. The other three were thin in the middle and scorched on one side. Meiklejon had returned from his overseas jaunt full of energy about the impending arrival of his bride. He asked Miss Katherine for news and she gave him an edited version.
This morning she had climbed out of bed quickly, tingling from a dream and knowing the day could bring nothing but bad news. She forced herself to work, but her hands rebelled, and the last of the dried apples flew onto the floor. Tonight it would be half-baked bread, steaks, and canned peaches again.
Two men approached the wagon from the rear and Edward Donald reached for his whiskeybottle, but it had rolled under the wagon seat, glistening in the sun. He slapped the lines against the rumps of his team and, in reaction, got one twitching tail but no actual response. When he got hold of good horseflesh, like the mares that English had branded for him, he’d have a fine team that would move out in a steady trot.
Donald spared a glance over his shoulder, thinking he recognized Souter and some boy. The old fool will meddle and lecture with that superior look and calm, level way he talks, thought Donald. So he slapped the team again and pretended he didn’t see them riding up closer.
“Mister Donald, you haul in those horses!”
The voice was an unwanted intrusion into Donald’s world consisting only of sky and trees, sandy red hills and tufts of high, swaying grass.
Gayle Souter wanted his say. “Where you figuring to go, Donald? There’s no way that team can drag you much into those trees.”
The English Horses Page 19
