The English Horses

by William A. Luckey

  Donald looked at the team’s broad backs littered with old harness. He could see two ridged backbones and count the ribs on the near horse. His thoughts must have wandered, for a look passed between Souter and the boy, and it was not a particularly kind look. Donald rubbed the back of his neck that had been burned by the sun.

  “Mister Souter, why are you so concerned about me? I’m not up to any mischief,” Donald said as he tried to turn the wagon, but a wheel stuck on a rock, and no matter how hard he whipped the tired horses, they could not get free.

  Souter stepped down from his saddle horse, moved to the wagon seat, and took the lines. He sat a moment, the lines resting in his enormous hands, and then began to cajole and croon to the team as his fingers sent their message. Two equine heads came up in unison, long ears swiveling to listen, and, with a few light tugs and twists, the animals bent to their collars, surged forward, and began a series of half steps that brought them around and pointed downhill.

  “Donald, why don’t you tell it around,” Souter stated, “that you’ve given up title to those horses belonging to English. Save all us of a lot of trouble…but mostly you.” He gave the lines over to Donald and stepped from the wagon seat onto his waiting bronco.

  Donald thanked the old man, and included the silent Red Pierson with a polite nod. Then he alternated clucking and slapping the lines to guide the team back along their own tracks. He would end the long day with a drink. Then he would begin his campaign to decline ownership of the English horses.

  Red watched the wagon’s bumpy, jolting departure. Donald had a big mouth and a wealth of words, but nothing to say. He didn’t need to empty the bottle to get to the truth.

  When it came to a choice between horses and men, the lines got blurred. One man’s life could be worthless compared to a good horse. Burn English kept pushing the dark bay colt, thinking about Davey Hildahl and the woman. She was part of this—the tension and debt owed between him and Hildahl.

  He found signs of a cold camp outside the wire fence. Reading the tracks, it was obvious Hildahl had slept there. Burn loped the colt some, cameup to the old fence he’d built, and saw where the wire beyond it had been cut and repaired. He led the colt through, made his own hurried repairs, and remounted. The tracks of Davey’s bay were fresh.

  Fresher tracks cut the bay’s prints. Burn put the colt to running, past the bones, past more of the damned wire. The colt shied but kept on. Burn leaned forward to stroke the colt’s neck. He didn’t slow down, or draw out his old Walker, or even put a hand to the Spencer under his leg. The colt wasn’t broke to gunfire.

  The colt skidded to a halt, blew loudly, snorted, and pranced under Burn’s hand, too excited to obey, too keyed up by the running to stand still.

  It was Jack Holden who brought his horse around, staring at Burn with widened eyes. Hildahl was kneeling, crude pliers in hand. The earth around him was ground up and bloody, plowed in wide, useless furrows. A cow had been caught in the wire, Burn guessed. Now it was Davey Hildahl who had gotten caught.

  “Holden.” Burn nodded to the man, paying no attention to the pistol in his right hand. Then: “Hildahl, you look like a nester down there in the dirt. Best stand up, if your guardian will allow it.”

  Hildahl stood up, unrolled was more like it, and Burn was again conscious of the man’s lean height and awkward bones. He had that baby look to him still. Maybe they could play Holden between them and get Davey free.

  The colt took a dislike to Holden’s fancy black. The bay snorted, flattened his ears, and snapped at the bronco. The black arched its neck and swung its muzzle in defiance at the colt, and Holdenabsently smacked the bronco hard on its crested neck. The pistol never left its target. The crack of the blow was startling.

  Burn took a gamble. “Holden, you best not keep a cocked pistol, riding that bronc’. He’s ringy as hell. It could be you’ll shoot yourself…never mind Davey or me. I ain’t much of a gun hand, but I can pull the Walker loose real fast, and Davey’s got a Colt to his side. You can’t get to both of us, not from the back of that god-awful lamed son-of-a-bronc’.”

  Then a different tactic leaped to mind. Burn shook his head in apology even as he spoke, but the words were what he had been thinking. “It ain’t like you to kill, Holden. Not like you to shoot that Mex on the mesa like you did, or that boy you buried. Killing ain’t what you do.” He read the startled look in Holden’s eyes and kept banging away. “You must ’a’ put a bullet in that man’s brain ’cause he asked you. You two were good friends. What happened to the boy you put under in the cañon? How’d he come to die?”

  Holden turned red, then dead white, and Burn saw the fingers tighten on the pistol trigger. He slammed his spurs into the edgy bay colt. As Holden’s pistol fired, the colt jumped and hit the black at the shoulder, knocking the horse down, and then leaped over it. Burn stopped the colt, reined in hard, and spun the horse around to find Holden climbing on the black as it staggered to its feet.

  Hildahl stood, his pistol pointed at Holden. Davey was pale, but he spoke calmly. “Now, cattle thief, see how it feels having a man ready to kill you over nothing.” The tremor in Hildahl’s voice gave him away. He could kill right now, but Burn knew that murder wasn’t Davey’s specialty.

  The mesteñero put his own six bits in. “Holden, there’s two of us to check fence, gather them cows. It’s bad odds for the likes of you. So I guess you better turn that fancy horse downwind and ride. If Davey’ll let you go that is, and from the look to him, he’s ready to pull that trigger.”

  Holden rubbed his mouth, spoke as if he hadn’t heard Burn’s warning. “That boy I buried, he was kin. My sister’s kid.” He hesitated, looked away. “Horse bolted, kid broke his neck. Ugly, damned ugly.” Then the old Holden resurfaced briefly—a grin and shining eyes and no care in the world. “It was bad luck, boys. I didn’t come up here to steal…just bad luck runnin’ into Davey. I didn’t even know who it was, and then this thunderbolt rides into the middle of us, and we all shoved out pistols and started bluffin’.”

  Burn ended the standoff. “Holden, fancy words don’t change what needs doin’. You shuck the bullets out of that pistol, then ride out. We don’t want you nearby.” Burn could feel Davey bristle at his words, so he addressed the tall rider. “Hildahl, he may be wanted, but I ain’t going to be the one to take him in. Whole territory’s after his hide, he’s got enough running him.”

  When Holden raised the pistol and spun the empty cylinder to show Burn and Davey, the black raised its head and its eyes rolled white. Lather showed thickly on the shiny neck. Burn patted the now quiet bay colt and watched as Davey let Holden pass. He kept the spooky black to a slow prance until they disappeared into the tight pines.

  Burn let out a hard breath, coughed, and wiped his face. He was shamed by his fear until he saw Davey doing the same thing, adding a tug to his pants in the actions. It wasn’t funny, but there was no stopping them. Burn slid off the colt, leaned against the shoulder, unable to stand on his own two legs, and started laughing along with Davey.

  When Burn cleared his eyes of the tears of laughter, he saw Hildahl was tensed up, pistol in hand. Then Burn listened. Two horses approaching on the same trail that Burn had followed. He slid the Spencer out of its boot, kept the bay’s reins close to him, using the colt as a shield. Sweat dripped inside his shirt. He smelled the fear, felt its tight pull at his belly.

  It was Gayle Souter and the kid, Red Pierson.

  Davey would have laughed but his sides already hurt. He suspected from the look on English’s face that the man was going through the same feeling. Davey did the talking this time; it was his boss’s range.

  Souter never took his gaze off of Burn, except to give the bay colt a good study.

  Davey tried to make his point. “Holden aimed to shoot me, Souter, and Burn stopped him. Last we saw, Holden was headed north on a black Sunday bronc’.”

  Souter surprised them with his answer. “Miss Katherine sent us this way, said Holden
’d been to the ranch. We turned her pa back some time ago. Davey, you finish your chore…gather up what you can. English here’ll help you drive the stuff in …as payment for some of the grass his mares been grazin’. Me and Red, we’re trackin’ Holden,and we’ll get him this time or run him off our range.”

  When they got on Holden’s tracks, Souter let the boy do the work. He gave him encouraging words when it got rough, but most of the time he sat his red dun and thought about the two men they had left behind. Hildahl would be Meiklejon’s best choice to take over when he himself had to quit. He hated to think that way, but the past few days had told him he was no longer young. Davey Hildahl would do as boss in a few years.

  Red hauled up, pointed to where Holden’s tracks climbed a shale slide.

  Souter patted his bronco’s neck. He couldn’t second guess Holden, even with the information about Holden’s direction. The tracks went straight up. Souter and the boy followed.

  It took a long half day to ride the rest of the section. Pride kept Davey and English from admitting the truth, even when it plain hurt to keep working. Finally they spoke up about the horses, saying the broncos were done in and needed a rest. In the colt’s case it was true; even a greenhorn could see the youngster was worn to a nub.

  They camped outside the bull’s territory, roasted a tough hare and boiled old coffee, even cut open an airtight of peaches and took turns spearing the fruit. No need to talk. The horses grazed. The colt even got down and rolled in the hobbles and got back up with no trouble. In the morning they’d push the market stuff over to the burned cottonwood, leave them for Bit Haven and Stan Brewitt to bring in.

  The last quarter mile, right before they could see the ranch, was hell for both men. Davey cursed under his breath; he was delivering Burn English to Miss Katherine again. Awoman as fine and tender-hearted as Miss Katherine, she found more in a man than was really there. He was the fool, after all—big, dumb Davey Hildahl putting a rival in the arms of the woman they both loved.

  They rode that last quarter mile in silence, full of memories and forlorn hope.

  Katherine was at the kitchen door when they rode in. Their terrible exhaustion was evident, yet they spent time caring for the horses before they took care of themselves. At the door, Katherine watched.

  Bothered by her private thoughts, she fed both men as much as they could eat, marveling at their capacity. Davey was the first to finish, sipping at cooled coffee while Burn ate a second piece of pie. They had not spoken except to ask for more biscuits or another platter of meat. Unless she asked a direct question, they were too busy to talk. She knew the range etiquette—a meal was for eating, talk came later.

  Burn stood up and thanked her while Davey offered to wash the dishes. She stared at them in wonder. There was pride and grace in Burn English, with fiery eyes and temper, the heavy black hair and thin body. Then Katherine moved her gaze to Davey who fiddled with the dishes, holding one up in his long hands. Sweet, child-like, steady, and strong.

  She knew without either of them needing to tell it—they both were in love with her.

  Burn was the first to hear the two horses. Hetensed, glanced out the door. Gayle Souter and the boy, Red. The old man climbed down from his red dun, sjpg as Burn ever saw a man. Souter headed for the kitchen. Burn saw the look on the seamed face and knew it was bad.

  Katherine walked to the door. Souter entered and refused coffee. Katherine backed up until she could almost touch both Davey and Burn.

  “Ma’am.” Souter removed his hat. He looked down at the swept floor marred with boot scuffs. He couldn’t get the words out so he began again. “Ma’am. We found your father, Miss Katherine. Shot through the heart. He died quick.”

  It was as bad as Burn knew it would be.

  Souter droned on, doing his job the only way he knew. “We found Jack Holden nearby.” Souter coughed. “From what we could read off those tracks, Holden met with your pa and…don’t know why, won’t ever know…but Holden shot your pa.” Here Souter faltered before continuing. “It looked like Holden’s horse bolted. The spill broke Holden’s back.” There was a long pause this time. “He was dead…time we got to him.” Souter had finished.

  Katherine took a half step closer to Davey. As Davey put his hand on her arm, a look passed between him and Burn English until Burn had to turn away.

  Epilogue

  When he wrote the final words, Gordon Meiklejon realized the sun was glittering through fast-moving clouds. It had taken him five days of steady writing to come to the end. Now Gordon ventured outside to look up and see the distant blue of the sky. When he raised his face, he could feel the sun’s warmth on his winter skin. He sighed, and a voice called out: “What’d you think, boss?”

  Gordon turned, watching as the man walked toward him, long legs pumping through the drifts. Davey Hildahl stopped next to Gordon, and the two men exchanged pleasantries.

  “This will do for the spring grasses, won’t it?”

  Davey nodded at the boss’ statement. “It’s what Souter would have called ‘poor man’s fertilizer.’ A spring snow’ll melt quick and that pretty green we been waiting for’ll grow up fast.”

  They’d come a long way since that terrible fall. Davey and his wife lived in the old house, the one Littlefield built in ’84. Gordon had offered to build them a new home, but Katherine said her husband liked the place and that she’d grown fond of it, also. Several rooms had been added to accommodate the Hildahl children as they were born. First was Henry, born in ’94, and then little Gordon. And Edward, who had lived only a month. Fanny and her sister Elizabeth shared a large room.

  It was a full house, one Gordon and his wife envied. Roberta was unable to bear children, but she shared some of the child-rearing work with Katherine. Only on very rare occasions did Meiklejon catch her gazing at the Hildahl children with sorrow in her fine eyes.

  Once Hildahl left him, Gordon sat down at the cluttered desk and reread the final words of his story, thinking of all the events that had followed. He would not record these, for it had been his purpose to write his impressions of that first year, since it had served as his introduction to New Mexico.

  Rose Victoria Blaisdel had never recovered from her ride. She had laid, semi-conscious, for days until word filtered back to Socorro of Jack Holden’s death. The child had then gone through the hotel shrieking, and it had taken Dr. Lockhart several hours and a bottle of laudanum to quiet her. She had been sent East “to visit an aunt,” as the family told the story. By the following spring, no one spoke of her at all.

  Both her sisters married. One lived on the L Slash with her husband, Red Pierson. The boy had thickened as he matured into his promise, and was a good hand on the ranch. The other sister was in Socorro with her second husband, running the Southern Hotel.

  Gayle Souter was buried on the ranch. He died simply—a horse shied, stumbled, and Gayle came off, lay stunned for a moment, then got up, remounted, and never said a word. But he’d been busted inside, and it was Burn English who brought him in. He had packed the old man’s corpse on a horse like a side of meat, but therewas no other way. English said he’d found Souter up by the burned cottonwood, head propped on a rotting log, bowed legs sprawled out with the boots still on.

  Burn English. Here Gordon looked out through the window. He was still puzzled by the man. Neither Katherine nor her husband would talk about English. The last time Gordon had tried, about three years ago, there had been a look shared between them that promised much but gave up nothing.

  English had stayed in the area for a number of years. He had bought land, put in piped water, and built sturdy corrals. He raised excellent stock from the wild mares, using the dark colt as the sire. No man ever complained that an English-bred mount lacked stamina, speed, or good sense.

  Eager Briggs still leered toothlessly at the world when he would tell his tales. He lived in Gutierrezville, where he’d found a widow to take him in. Briggs didn’t ride any more, but he could and would tell his
stories, except if asked about Burn English.

  It had been Red Pierson who rode in four years ago, saying Burn English was gone, his cabin destroyed, his horses set free. No one saw the mustanger again. Not around Magdalena or Socorro, over to Quemado or Springerville, or even near Horse Springs. He had disappeared, leaving behind only the legacy of good horses and a lot of embroidered speculation.

  About The Author

  William A. Luckey was born in Providence, Rhode Island, but later went West to work with horses. “I’ve spent the past forty years dealing with rogue horses using my own methods to retrain and make them useful—I’ve evented, shown dressage, fox-hunted for twenty seasons, worked cattle, gone on five-day trail rides. I’ve owned over 150 horses personally, going back to when I was seven. I’ve actually been riding now for almost sixty years, and have taught riding for over forty years.” High Line Rider appeared in 1985, the first of many Western novels published to date.

  Copyright

  A LEISURE BOOK®

  April 2008

  Published by special arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency.

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2007 by William A. Luckey

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.