by J. T. Edson
There was a laugh at the words, Billy Jack’s offer to ride the fight out of the paint before Ole Devil mounted. Then silence fell as Ole Devil gripped the saddle-horn and swung up, throwing his leg over, finding the stirrup iron and setting his foot firmly in it.
Dusty held the horse, watching his Uncle for the sign to pull off the blindfold then get out of the corral—fast. He could see the paint’s muscles bunching as the big horse prepared to show this impertinent man creature who was boss.
Ole Devil settled himself, gave Dusty a nod and prepared for action. Dusty pulled the blindfold and flung himself to one side, diving through the corral rails and coming to his feet.
The big paint stood for an instant as if planning its campaign. Then it went into its fight. It left the ground in a long jump, going high into the air, then as it started to come down kicked its hindquarters high again. The moment all four feet touched the ground the horse hurled up some more, with another long, high, rump-kicking bound.
‘A straight bucker,’ Red grunted as other hands yelled their approval.
Dusty nodded in agreement. A straight bucker fought in one way and only one way. With long, high jumps, without any rearing, twisting and turning for variety. It was the tactic of a big and powerful horse, very rough in action for the horse went high, then as it started to come down sent its rump up again. The straight bucking horse was either easy to handle or hard and dangerous. The paint was not one of the easy kind. One thing was for sure. The man who came off a straight bucker almost always got hurt, for the horse threw him high and hard.
Ole Devil took five of the high, rump-kicking jumps, pleased the horse was fighting sensibly and was not a blind bucker, hurling itself wildly without watching where it was going.
Then the horse brought off its sixth jump, going even higher and making a more savage rump kick at the end of it. Ole Devil felt his seat leave the saddle as the horse started to drop under him and he was aware of what would come next. He tried to kick his feet free of the stirrups but the right foot jammed for a vital instant. The cantle of the saddle, driven up by the high flung hindquarters smashed into Ole Devil’s seat, sending numbing agony driving through him and almost knocking him unconscious. Then he was thrown high and smashed down on his back, the force of the landing driving the breath from his body. A dull, numbing, raw, aching pain filled Ole Devil, through it he heard the yells of the men and the thunder of hooves as the big paint went on, still throwing the straight bucks, not realizing the rider was gone. The yells and the sound of hooves was growing fainter as Ole Devil felt the pain welling away, he felt sleepy and the sight of the huge horse rearing high over him, slashing iron-shod hooves, appeared half-real and blurred.
Dusty saw what was happening, and realized the danger an instant before any of the others. He snatched the rope from Billy Jack’s hand, ducking between the rails and racing forward. The big paint ran on for a couple of leaps after throwing Ole Devil and that was what saved the rancher’s life.
Disregarding his danger Dusty darted forward. He was on foot and knew the big horse would come for him as soon as it felt the touch of the rope. That did not stop Dusty for an instant, his uncle was down and the horse would come back to stomp Ole Devil to doll-rags unless there was a distraction. Dusty built the loop as he ran, he would make the distraction or die trying.
The rope sailed out, flying loop hurling up towards the paint’s head as it reared above Ole Devil. Dusty braced himself on his high heels and as the loop fell over the horse’s head pulled backwards with all his strength. His weight and the leverage of the rope brought the horse down on to its four feet, the front hooves smashing into the ground scant inches from Ole Devil’s head.
Landing on its feet the big paint let out a scream of rage and came charging at Dusty. He turned and ran for it, hearing the thunder of hooves as the paint came after him. The snubbing post was ahead and Dusty skimmed it, throwing out his free arm to hook it around it and swing himself in a tight circle. The horse could not turn quickly enough and went by. Dusty threw a loop of rope around the post and took up slack as the paint charged again. It was still a dangerous business, trying to avoid the horse and handle the rope.
Red Blaze raced to where a horse stood, saddled and ready for the hands going out to work on the range. He went into the saddle with a flying bound, tearing the reins free and bringing the horse in a tight turn, then hurling it for the corral. He was only a hair’s breadth ahead of Kiowa and they raced their horses forward to where Billy Jack was throwing the poles of the gate to one side. The two men rode forward, ropes in their hands, converging on the paint. The loops flew out and the big horse stood still, snorting and blowing. Dusty let the rope fall from his hands, snapped:
‘Get that hoss into the empty corral there. Take its saddle off and leave it.’
With that he ran to his uncle’s side and dropped to his knees. The other men of the ranch crew came crowding forward. Dusty felt relieved to find his uncle was still breathing and made no attempt to move the rancher. Dusty did not know how much or how little damage was done by the fall and he would not take the chance of aggravating the injuries by unnecessary movement.
‘How is he, Dusty?’ a hand asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Dusty replied. ‘Keep back all of you. Tex, go to the house and fetch some blankets, tell Tommy what’s happened and he’ll give you what you need.’ He looked to where Red was turning the paint loose in the empty corral. ‘Red!’ he yelled.
‘Yo!’ Red called back and returned, leaving Kiowa to shove the gate poles back into place.
‘Throw a saddle on that claybank of yours and head for town. Don’t go to sleep on the way. Get Doc Gorman and Pappy out here.’
‘Is it bad?’ Red asked, hesitating for a moment before obeying Dusty’s orders.
‘Looks that way. Stay on in town and I’ll send word as soon as I know. Happen it is bad you’ll have to send Cousin Betty a telegraph message and let her know. I’d not want her bothering, so you’d best wait until you hear.’ Red turned and went, taking a hand with him to help saddle the horse with as little wasted time as possible. ‘Billy Jack,’ Dusty went on, ‘take the best harness horses from the stable and lead them out halfway to Polveroso, relay teams for the Doc when he comes.’
Red and the cowhand made a record for speed in saddling and bridling a horse. The big claybank stallion, a horse of yellowish mixture of dun and sorrel, was of little use for cattle work. It was held in the stables behind the house as Red’s go-to-town horse and it could eat distance, run like a scared pronghorn antelope. Red was pleased he’d taken it as his own mount when his brothers offered him the pick of their horses on his return from the War.
With the saddle on Red went a’fork the claybank in a bound and headed out of the stable. The horse was running at a mile-eating half-gallop, a pace it could hold to Polveroso with no trouble at all.
Even as he urged the horse on Red was worried. It was all very well for Cousin Dusty to talk about not letting Cousin Betty know until they were sure how bad Ole Devil was. Betty Hardin was Ole Devil’s granddaughter and along with Dusty the apple of the rancher’s eye. She was an orphan, a black-haired, beautiful, small and vivacious girl who, when not at school in Memphis, ruled on OD Connected with an iron hand. She was hot-tempered, as her grandfather, and Red knew Betty would be considerably riled if she did not hear straight off about Ole Devil’s accident. If Betty got riled Red was going to be the one who caught most of her temper and that he did not want. Betty Hardin could command a flow of invective as blistering as Dusty’s most inspired utterances and almost catching up to Ole Devil’s violent flow, Red did not want it piling on his head. He decided to send Betty a message as soon as he’d seen Hondo Fog and the doctor. He could tell Betty of the accident, that he did not know how serious it was and promise to notify her as soon as there was something definite known. That way he would keep himself safe and both his impulsive cousins happy.
Back at the ranch Dusty was rol
ling a blanket to make a pillow for the rancher’s head. Gently pillowing Ole Devil’s head, Dusty used the rest of the blankets to cover the rancher. Ole Devil’s breathing was shallow now but Dusty made no attempt to move him. Looking up, Dusty told the men to get on with the work they’d been allocated the previous night. The new horses must be ridden and have the bedsprings worked out of their bellies, then they must be put up for a choosing match, allowing the cowhands to pick their mounts.
Kiowa took the other hands to where the remuda was held by the OD Connected wrangler and they moved the bunch of horses some distance from the house so the noise would not disturb their injured boss. Dusty stayed with his uncle and Tommy Okasi came from the house. The two men stayed on either side of the rancher, neither moving any more than was necessary, watching for some sign.
Time dragged by on leaden feet. Dusty knew how long it was likely to take Red to reach Polveroso and for the doctor to make the ride out to the ranch. He was pleased that he’d thought to send a team of horses to relay the doctor’s buggy halfway from town. Even with the time to change teams, the buggy would make a far better speed with fresh horses.
For the first time in his life Dusty felt helpless. He could have handled the setting of a broken leg or arm, at a pinch he might even have chanced digging a bullet out, but this was beyond his capabilities. He looked across the range to where the cowhands were riding the new horses. This should have been a wild and hilarious time, good fun to be shared by all, serious business treated in a light-hearted way. There was no fun or enjoyment this day. Not with Ole Devil laying seriously injured. Even a man being thrown in a wild bucking fit did not bring the customary friendly jeers and impracticable advice usually given.
At the first sight of the distant buggy Dusty sent Tommy Okasi to fetch four cowhands from the remuda, four men of the same height. Then Tommy went to the house ready to prepare Ole Devil’s room.
The other hands drifted back from the remuda as they saw the approaching buggy and Dusty did not object. He knew he was going to need some more help and the men all wanted to know how Ole Devil was. He told Kiowa to fetch a shutter to carry Ole Devil into the house on.
~*~
The buggy came nearer. Dusty was relieved to see his mother sitting beside the doctor and his father riding with Billy Jack just behind the fast rolling buggy. He’d not expected Doc Gorman to make such good time and saw that sending this relay team made all the difference.
‘Kiowa,’ Dusty called as the lean, Indian dark hand came back with the shutter. ‘Take a couple of men and tend to the doc’s buggy. Walk the horses until they cool, then put them in a stable.’
‘Yo!’ Kiowa replied and told the men he wanted. There was no argument or discussion of his right to give orders. Not when Dusty told him to make the orders.
The buggy came to a halt. Doc Gorman, lean, tanned and wearing range clothes, swung down, reaching for his bag while Hondo Fog left his horse and helped Mrs. Fog to get down.
Dusty’s mother was a tall, good-looking woman whose hair, what showed from under her sunbonnet, was still black, untouched by gray. Her eyes were the Hardin black, but they were gentler than Ole Devil’s. Right now her face was showing anxiety, for she was very fond of her brother, Ole Devil.
The doctor was looking grim as he came forward. He’d been friend, drinking, hunting, fishing and lie-swapping companion for more years than he cared to remember and only stayed on in the Rio Hondo during the War because he lost a cut of the cards on whether he should go with the Texas Light or stay on at home. He was known from one end of the Rio Hondo country to the other as a fine hound dog handler, a .44 caliber coon hunter, a fisherman who would take a bass when no bass could be taken—and a real good doctor.
‘Haven’t moved him, have you, boy?’ Gorman growled as he came up.
‘Nope, just pillowed his head and covered him with a blanket,’ Dusty answered, feeling no annoyance that the doctor should think he’d make such an elementary mistake. ‘What can I do now, Doc?’
‘Nothing, boy. Just pull back to the corral edge with the rest of the hands. Keep them out of my hair,’ Gorman replied, then looked at Mrs. Fog. ‘Bessie Mae, you come and lend a hand.’
Dusty withdrew, allowing his mother and the doctor make an investigation of the possible extent of the injuries. Hondo Fog joined his son and jerked a head towards the still form on the ground:
‘What happened, boy?’
‘Uncle Devil tried to ride the paint there. It fought bucking straight away and piled him.’
That was all Hondo Fog needed to be told. He’d seen the big paint in passing and knew the danger of being thrown from a straight bucker. He looked at Ole Devil and shook his head, that looked like a real bad pile-up.
Gorman came to his feet, his face set in hard lines as he called for the shutter. He nodded in approval as he saw the men Dusty selected to carry the injured rancher. The boy was real capable, he must have been worried almost sick over his uncle, but he still acted coolly and did everything right. Carefully Gorman and the men lifted Ole Devil’s still form on to the shutter, then, under growled warnings to make sure they kept it even, the men lifted.
‘Walk easy, damn you!’ growled Gorman. ‘Don’t shake the shutter.’
‘How is he, Doc?’ Dusty asked.
‘Bad, boy. I don’t know for sure how bad. One thing I do know, you’ll be handling the spread for a long time.’
Dusty followed the stretcher-bearers to the porch and watched them start to carry Ole Devil upstairs to the bedroom. Then he sat down in a chair on the porch to wait out the long time until he could learn how badly Ole Devil was injured. He watched the four cowhands come from the house, followed by Tommy Okasi. In all the time he’d known the little Oriental Dusty could not remember ever seeing Tommy show so much emotion. Dusty came to his feet and laid his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, they did not speak, there was no need, both knew how the other felt. Telling Tommy to fetch Hondo a drink Dusty turned back to his duty as ranch segundo.
It was night before Gorman made more than a brief appearance from the sick room and Dusty’s mother had never come out, her meals being taken in to her. The ranch crew gathered down by the corrals, standing in silent groups. There was none of the usual rowdy fun in the air. The OD Connected men, like most cowhands, liked their fun to be uninhibited, raw and rowdy, but not with their boss laying in bed and not knowing if he would live or not. A pall of gloom hung over the ranch house, the very silence a tribute to the respect Ole Devil inspired among his men.
Dusty rose from his seat on the porch and Red Blaze swung down from the rail of the porch. He couldn’t stand being in town and not knowing, so returned after telegraphing the news to his Cousin Betty. The redbone bitch rubbed up against Dusty and tried to wag her tail, it was almost as if she knew things were bad wrong. He dropped his hand to rub the bitch’s long ears then looked at Gorman and asked:
‘How is he?’
‘Bad. Dusty. Bad. He’ll live, but he’ll never walk again. His back’s broken.’
Dusty stood rigid, his face fighting down any emotion. By his side he heard Red suck his breath in and let it out again in a long gust. The two men tried to fight down their distress at the news and the two redbones, as if knowing the tragic news, rubbed up against Dusty and Red for sympathy. Dusty could hardly believe it was possible, that Ole Devil Hardin would never walk again, never lead his men to work or war again.
‘There’s no way we can get him back on his feet again?’ Dusty asked.
‘If there was I’d be doing it right now.’
‘How about in the east?’ Red inquired. ‘In one of those big city hospitals, there might be—’
‘No chance of it, Red boy,’ Gorman replied, not annoyed at the words. He knew there was no slighting of his ability as a doctor. It was just the two young men wanted everything possible to be done for their uncle. ‘Even if we could get him to one alive—and that’s not likely—it wouldn’t do any good.’
; ‘Is he conscious?’ Dusty asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Does he know about it?’
Gorman shook his head. ‘I haven’t told him yet, boy. I want you to tell him.’
‘Me!’ Dusty spat the word out. ‘Doc, you can’t ask me to go in there and tell Uncle Devil he’ll never walk again?’
Before Gorman could answer to this the ranch door opened again and Mrs. Fog came out. She knew what Gorman was asking Dusty and knew her brother would rather get the news from Dusty than from any other living soul. It was a hard thing for her son to do, but she knew Dusty would do it.
‘Devil’s asking for you, Dustine,’ she said. ‘You’d best go up and see him.’
Reluctantly Dusty went into the house, across the large entrance hall and up the stairs. He paused at the top of the stairs but Gorman gently laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. Dusty took a deep breath and went to the door of Ole Devil’s bedroom. He opened the door and stepped inside, his eyes going to the bed, lit by a lamp set on the bedside table.
Ole Devil lay stiff and rigid in the bed, the blankets drawn up almost to his chin. His body was wrapped tightly in bandages to prevent any movement which might further injure his spine. For all that his eyes were open and despite being dulled with pain they focused on Dusty. There was some of the old fire left in the voice as Ole Devil barked:
‘I want to know how I am, Dusty.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dusty replied, standing at a rigid brace, his hands clenched so tight that the knuckles showed white. He tried to speak but could not bring the words out.
‘Captain Fog!’ Ole Devil’s voice took on a note Dusty knew all too well. ‘I want you to tell me now. I’d rather have it from you than anybody.’
‘You’re hurt bad, sir,’ Dusty said huskily, fighting to keep any sign of emotion out of his voice. ‘Wouldn’t you rather wait until morning, sir?’
‘Would I be any different then?’’
Once more Dusty did not answer immediately. He saw Ole Devil’s eyes flash in sudden annoyance and knew any delay in answering would bring to a boil that hot and irascible temper. It would not be advisable in Ole Devil’s state to allow him to get angry.
