“If it blows over,” the youth mumbled to himself. He was hungry, shivering, and not, generally, feeling optimistic.
“Ride on back and tell Rowdy,” Ring added. “Town shouldn’t be more than two, three hours ahead.”
The boy, Sandy, nodded and turned his horse back toward the south. Pushed now by the wind, the going wasn’t as hard, and he let his mount move into an easy lope. Within moments he spotted Rowdy’s cook wagon as it bumped along behind his team of patient mules.
Sandy Long was misnamed and he knew it. More importantly, he knew why. Although he stood only five foot two and sported a luxuriant crop of jet-black hair, his daddy had been Sandy Long, so now he was, too. Rowdy, however, was a different story.
Nobody had a daddy called Rowdy. And the old man certainly hadn’t earned his moniker from his behavior. There never had been, Sandy thought, a more taciturn human being in the history of the race. Rowdy hardly ever opened his mouth, never got excited, and sure never seemed to have a good time. He never drank and he didn’t seem to take any pleasure from food, despite the fact he earned his living as a cook. There’d never been any women Sandy knew of. So why the name Rowdy he’d never know.
“Hey, Rowdy,” he shouted when he’d drawn close enough.
The old man neither blinked nor took his watery blue gaze from the trail ahead.
“Ring says we’re gonna make for Prescott, quit there for awhile.”
Still no response. Sandy’s irritation mounted. He’d never gotten used to Rowdy’s silences and guessed he never would.
“We’re stuck in this weather now cuz of those damn pelouses,” he complained loudly. Rowdy didn’t answer, but Sandy hadn’t expected him to. He just felt like grousing. “Ring just had to have ’em, but hanged if I know why. He haggled with them Nez Perce Injuns over the price ’til the weather moved in, and now we’re all gonna freeze our tails off. We probably ain’t even gonna make it to Westport afore hard winter sets in. And for what? Bunch of damn spotted horses?”
The mules plodded along. The wagon bounced over the uneven ground, and Rowdy remained stoically silent. Sandy grimaced. He was never going to figure Rowdy out, and was probably never going to be able to figure Ring either. He was a fair boss, a fine hand with horses, and an all around good, honest man.
But he had a strange streak. Every once in awhile he did something Sandy simply couldn’t understand. Like having to have those funny-looking horses the Nez Perce were breeding. Having to have them so bad they were probably going to spend the winter in Fort Laramie instead of Westport. Hell, they’d be lucky if they even got out of Arizona at this rate.
They were already a year behind because of the detour they’d taken to Nez Perce country, then back to Phoenix, where Ring’s mama was sickly. A year behind and a year’s profit behind, too. They only made money when they sold their string of horses, and Ring only liked to sell them in Westport. He made good money there selling his well-trained animals to the settlers heading out west.
But it looked like they weren’t even going to get out of the west again this year. It was only September. How could there be snow at this elevation in September?
Thoroughly disgruntled, Sandy kicked his horse into a lope. In a few minutes he had caught up with the herd, heads down, struggling along into the wind. He squinted toward the distance, trying hopefully to spot a cabin or a ranch house, something that would tell him they were getting closer to town. There was nothing ahead, however, but brown hills covered in buckskin-colored grass, and the barren, rocky mountains behind them. Scattered snowflakes blew against Sandy’s face.
Sandy’s shivering progressed to teeth chattering, and he hugged his arms to his chest. He had to do something, warm up, get out of the wind, anything but trudge on and slowly freeze to death.
Then Sandy spotted Ring. His head was still bent, long, sun-streaked brown hair falling over the back of his collar, arms still crossed beneath his poncho. Sandy wondered if he even felt the cold. Nothing ever seemed to bother Ring Crossman.
But it bothered Sandy Long.
Ring’s mount shied a little when Sandy galloped his horse up behind him. It didn’t startle Ring. His tall, supple body simply moved in perfect concert with his mare, as if he had known she was going to jump to the left. Sandy grudgingly admired his boss’s almost-instinctive horsemanship.
“Sorry, Ring,” he apologized. “Didn’t mean to spook Duchess like ’at.”
Ring merely shrugged and looked Sandy’s way with a small, patient smile.
“I been thinking, Ring,” Sandy continued. “Maybe I should ride ahead, scout the town, you know. Make sure we’re on the right track. I’d hate to miss Prescott in this.” He looked up, deliberately catching a face full of snowflakes.
Ring’s smile never faltered. Year after year he had ridden this trail, catching the wild ponies, or buying and trading horses from the Indians, breaking and selling them to the settlers who traveled west in an apparently ceaseless stream. He had long ago memorized even the smallest, most insignificant landmarks. Across hundreds and hundreds of miles of mountains and wilderness he had never been lost, and seriously doubted he ever would be. At any given moment in time, he knew almost exactly where he was. He knew where he was now. He also knew Sandy needed to ride.
“Go on, go ahead.” Ring nodded into the distance. “When you get there, find someone who’ll put on a pot of hot coffee for us.”
“No problem, boss.” Without further hesitation, Sandy put his spurs to his horse’s sides, leaned forward in the saddle, and headed off into the wind.
Ring chuckled as he watched the boy disappear into the horizon. Sandy was impatient, but he was a good hand. He’d make dang sure that somewhere in town there was a pot of coffee brewing just for his boss. Then maybe he’d start to thaw a bit. Beneath his poncho Ring rubbed his nearly numb hands together.
Yessir, it was going to be a mighty long, cold winter.
It wasn’t a blizzard, but neither was it a light dusting. The flakes flew against Sandy’s face faster and faster as he galloped into the storm. The heavy material of his trousers dampened, along with his jacket. Only his flannel shirt and long johns were still dry, but he no longer cared. Straight ahead he was finally able to see a puff of smoke that meant civilization.
Sandy’s pony also seemed to sense the journey’s end was near. He extended his gallop, neck stretched and ears flat to his head, mane and tail streaming banners, legs pumping rhythmically. The cowboy on his back rode lightly, completely in sync with his mount. When the valiant cow pony stumbled, therefore, his rider went down with him, gracefully, still in perfect harmony with his mount. There was a sharp crack, like a breaking stick, and a forward roll, both yet together. Then they started to tumble.
It all happened slowly in Sandy’s mind. He felt his horse break his stride, knew he was going to stumble. Heard the animal’s leg fracture. Experienced the forward motion of their fall. There was one primary thought in Sandy’s mind as everything occurred quickly yet sluggishly.
Jack had been a good horse. He’d liked him the first time he’d ridden him. They’d been of one mind since the first. It happened that way sometimes, when the horse knew the man and the man knew the horse, right off like that. But it didn’t happen often, and he was sad. He was going to miss Jack.
Then the wind was knocked out of him, and he rolled violently through the grass. He heard Jack squeal. He felt an extraordinarily sharp, bright pain in his thigh, another in his head. He saw a sunburst.
And blackness.
Ring knew something was wrong, but it didn’t register right away. He was thinking about his hands, unfeeling chunks of ice, yet not too unhappy about it. They’d be warm soon. He’d hold them out over a stove, turn them one way, then the other. He’d cradle a steaming mug of coffee, too hot at first to drink, then just right. The liquid would sear a line down his gullet, into his belly, and spread out eventually through his entire body. Hell, he wasn’t even upset about those spotted horses anym
ore. He liked them. He was glad he’d taken the time to parlay with the Nez Perce. Everything seemed all right now with warmth on its way.
Trouble was, Ring realized at last, that what he was looking at up ahead was not an unusual couple of rock formations. He kicked his mare into a slow lope and picked up the reins as she moved into her rolling gait. The herd also picked up its pace as he moved around its south side. But they soon dropped back to a trot, then a walk. Ring galloped ahead.
It was the horse, Jack, he spotted first. The animal was still trying, vainly, to get up. Ring saw why as soon as he pulled to a halt by the stricken pony.
It would have been the front leg that broke first, Ring knew, sending man and mount to the ground. Sometime during their tumble and fall, the left pastern had snapped. Jack would never get up again.
Ring drew his pistol as he dismounted. “Good old Jack,” he murmured. “Good horse.” He stroked the animal’s long, blazed face until the horse calmed and lay still on the ground. Ring fired a single bullet into the pony’s brain. He strode quickly to the fallen rider.
Sandy lay unconscious, sprawled at an unhealthy angle. At a worse angle was the boy’s thigh, bent halfway up like an extra knee. Ring knelt and felt for his pulse.
“Well, darn you, Sandy,” Ring muttered. “Leastwise you’re still breathing.”
Ring stood up slowly and ran his thumb along the hard edge of his jaw. His mare nudged him, and he absentmindedly stroked her neck. Mind made up as to what he was going to do, he pulled his rifle from its saddle sheath and emptied it of ammunition. On the left front of his saddle he’d tied a pair of hobbles; on the right was a lariat. He unloosened it and knelt again at Sandy’s side.
“Good thing you’re out cold, boy.”
Ring didn’t even look up as the herd slowly passed, stopped, heads lowered to pull at the dry, brown winter grass. Moments later the rattle and clatter of the cook wagon ceased and Rowdy appeared at his side. The wind had let up, and the snow fell softly downward.
“Hold his shoulders,” Ring ordered quietly. As Rowdy moved into his position, Ring took his place at Sandy’s feet. He straightened the boy’s leg, got a good grip on the broken one, and yanked.
Sandy groaned and his eyelids fluttered. “Go back to sleep, son,” Ring said. “You’re not going to like this next part much better.” He aligned the rifle along the outside of Sandy’s leg and wrapped it with the rope.
“Now what?” Rowdy asked when the leg had been secured in its makeshift splint. The brim of his battered black hat was white with snow.
“Now you help me heft him into the wagon, and then make a fire and put on a pot of coffee. I’ve been dreaming about hot coffee for too long now, Rowdy. It’s about time I had me some.”
The snow didn’t last long after the wind fell. During the night, however, the temperature dropped sharply. Ring woke to a world coated in a frozen crust of white.
Rowdy, who always seemed to be up first no matter what time a man woke up, had already made a pot of coffee and was heating bacon and beans over the fire in a cast-iron skillet. His morning greeting consisted solely of casting his gaze momentarily in Ring’s direction.
It was so cold Ring’s buckskin leggings were stiff, and he rolled out of his blanket with reluctance. He hadn’t removed his boots the night before, and all he had to do to prepare for his day was run a hand through his long, streaked hair and pull his hat down to his head. He stood up and straightened his poncho.
“I slept real soundly,” he remarked, and stamped his feet to hurry their circulation. “You hear anything from Sandy?”
“He was restless,” Rowdy replied without elaboration. “Here, eat before you go,” he added, and shoved a plate toward Ring. “I’ll wake and feed him, too.”
Ring’s brows arched slightly. “How’d you know I was going?”
“What choice you got?”
None. Sandy needed a proper splint and shelter. Both he and Rowdy knew that the sawbones in Prescott, assuming he still lived there, wasn’t fit, or sober enough, to doctor a dog. He’d have to go back the way they’d come. And bouncing along in a cook wagon was no way to go. The pain would kill the boy. Ring turned away from the sight of Sandy’s frightening pallor and faintly bluish lips.
“There’s a horse doc back in Bumblebee that’s as good as any in these parts.”
Rowdy’s response was a single, brief nod.
“Sorry, Rowdy. You wanna go on and wait for me with the horses in Prescott?”
“I’d best follow you. That boy ain’t goin’ anywhere this winter.”
Ring sighed heavily. It was another setback he didn’t need and couldn’t afford. Still, as Rowdy had said, he had no choice. He saddled a horse for Sandy and tried to put the thought of the boy’s pain out of his mind, for it would be almost unimaginable, he knew. Hopefully, the boy would lapse in and out, mostly out, of consciousness.
For an old man Rowdy was surprisingly strong. He helped Ring lift Sandy onto a muscular buckskin gelding, a horse Ring liked for his particularly smooth gaits. Sandy gritted his teeth, but a groan escaped him and sweat popped on his brow in spite of the cold.
“Sorry, son,” Ring apologized softly. Rowdy handed him a lariat dug from the jumble of supplies in the back of the wagon. “And I’m sorry to do this, too, but you sure as hell don’t want to take another fall.”
Sandy held his breath as Ring looped the rope around his waist and upper body several times, and secured it tightly to the saddle. He tied a knot in the split reins and handed them to the boy.
“Hold on to ’em if you want. If you don’t, don’t worry. Buck’s going to follow along real nice.”
Sandy smiled weakly. “He’s a good horse,” he replied, voice cracked and strained. “Jack was a good horse, too. I’m … I’m sorry, boss.”
“I’m sorry, too.” Ring clapped Sandy lightly on his good leg. “But not about the horse. You ready?”
Sandy nodded, tight-lipped. Ring adjusted over his shoulder a powder horn and bullet sack, and Rowdy slung a double saddlebag, fully packed with food, flint, and steel, over the back of Ring’s bay mare.
“Thanks, Rowdy,” Ring said as he climbed into the saddle. The leather creaked. He gathered his reins. “We’ll see you in a day or two.”
Rowdy touched the rim of his hat in reply. Ring turned his mare and set off at once into a slow lope. The buckskin followed.
The pain was immediate and excruciating. Sandy fought it, but his body was far too weakened by shock. His hands went limp, and his head lolled. He swayed, but the rope held him firmly astride his mount.
Ring winced, and turned his gaze to the frozen horizon. It wasn’t too far to Bumblebee. But it might just be too far for Sandy.
CHAPTER FOUR
TWO DAYS PREVIOUSLY IT HAD SNOWED, AND THE temperature dropped. The herd of mustangs had grown their winter coats, however, and did not mind the cold. Nor did they mind when, a mere twenty-four hours later, the mild fall weather returned. In fact they welcomed the runoff from the melted snow to the north, and galloped down the riverbed to drink their fill. Only the stallion, a rangy chestnut, held back to keep watch over his harem. When one of his mares got too close to a now-leafless cottonwood tree, he took off toward her at a gallop.
Ears flattened and teeth bared, the stallion charged the mare. Her head came up sharply, and she wheeled with a snort. She avoided the stallion’s teeth by mere inches, and took off at a gallop down the riverbed.
Startled, the rest of the small band of mares also took flight. The entire herd galloped south, splashing through the streams of runoff. The stallion brought up the rear and bucked occasionally with the joy of the run.
Soon, however, his cautious nature overrode his playfulness, and the chestnut horse slowed to a trot. This far down the river, the summer floods had cut deeply into the earth. The walls of the riverbed rose ever more steeply. The stallion did not like the feeling of vulnerability; neither the sensation of being closed in, nor the fear of a predator
leaping on them from a high place. Too often in the past month some wild thing dropped from trees onto one of his band.
The mares eased their pace as well. Two or three bent their heads once more to drink from the small, diverging streams of water. Then there was a scream.
The bay mare’s head jerked up, and she bucked with another squeal of terror. But she was unable to dislodge the thing on her back. She took off at a run, the rest of the herd at her heels.
An icy hand had clamped around Ring’s heart. He glanced back at Sandy one more time.
The boy was unconscious again. His flesh was as white as yesterday’s snowfall. The last time Ring had stopped to check on him, he’d felt Sandy’s pulse and it was erratic. He feared the worst.
Bumblebee was still a couple of hours away. He was pretty certain Sandy wouldn’t last that long. He could pick up the pace, sure, but that would just kill the boy quicker.
Ring considered stopping and trying to do something himself. But he didn’t know what. Doctoring wasn’t his strong suit. He scrubbed a fist along the edge of his jaw.
There was only one thing to do, he decided at last. Keep on moving. Like Rowdy had said, what choice did he have? Keep on moving. And pray.
Ring resisted the urge to look back at Sandy again. It would just make him feel bad, and he was already doing everything he could. He looked ahead instead, at the riverbed they approached, the path of the Agua Fria. It was generally dry in winter and only ran in summer following summer storms to the north. It was a good thing, because the Agua Fria ran straight into Bumblebee, and it would be an easier, faster ride for Sandy. The only trouble was, the banks were too steep. They’d have to ride farther along until he found a place where the bed was more shallow. It was less than a mile, Ring figured.
The landscape, what there was of it, was colored a wintry, dry brown. At this elevation there wasn’t much cactus, just sage and mesquite, sand and rock. An occasional hawk soared overhead, keen eyes searching out snakes, lizards, or jackrabbits, none of which Ring had been able to spy. He found himself so lulled by the monotony of the ride he came upon the river, where it ran level with the ground, unaware. Surprised, he reined in his mare. And became aware of the thunder of hooves.
Blaze of Lightning Roar of Thunder Page 3
