But it still swelled, and soon became feverish. Through the remainder of the day and into the night, Jennings had tended the bay, a gentle animal that his pa had given him when he was still in his teens. He’d ridden him to the schoolhouse and town dances, then during his days as a Confederate soldier. He was the only horse Jennings had ever owned and he refused to consider the idea that it might become his responsibility to put the animal down and relieve him of his misery.
The only time he had left the horse’s side was to walk to a nearby spring for water and to whisper a prayer. Lord, you know I’m not one for asking favors. Likely as not, I’m not deserving of any. Last time I recall reaching out to you was when that Union soldier shot me in the leg and you saw to it I didn’t die. What I’m asking this time is if you could see your way clear to do the same for my horse. Rodeo’s his name and he’s lived a good and honorable life. More than me; that’s for sure. I’d thank you kindly for anything you can do to help him get better.
* * *
On the third morning he woke long before sunup to find Rodeo standing, chewing on mesquite beans. Though he wasn’t putting weight on the affected leg, the swelling had gone down. The horse’s eyes were clear as he looked down at his owner.
“Appears you’re feeling better,” Coy said, climbing to his feet to stroke Rodeo’s flank. He filled his hat with water from his canteen and held it for the horse to drink. “Let’s rest for another day or so, then see if you can walk the rest of the way. Maybe we’ll find someone who can provide you proper doctoring.”
The going was difficult, Rodeo slowly trailing his owner, who carried his saddle over his shoulder. Neither could travel more than a mile before stopping to rest. It was well past noon before they reached Phantom Hill and located the livery.
The blacksmith, shirtless with tobacco juice caked in his graying beard, eyed them as they approached. “Can’t rightfully figure out which of you two looks worse,” he said before bursting into a thundering laugh. “Name’s Giles Weatherby. Welcome to Phantom Hill, Texas, such as it is. I call it the Gateway to No Place.”
Jennings said, “Ya’ll got a doctor in this town?”
“You ailing?”
“My horse is.”
Weatherby glanced at the Colt holstered on the visitor’s hip. “You wouldn’t be some gunslinging outlaw come to stir up trouble, would you?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t really think so. If you’ve got fifty cents you can board him inside. There’s hay and oats and a watering trough. Looks like you could do with some time out of the sun yourself. Get settled while I go see if I can fetch Doc Matthews. He tends man, beast, and babies . . . when he’s sober enough.”
He was chuckling to himself as he turned to hurry down the only street in the dusty little settlement.
In the cool darkness of the stable, Jennings filled a bucket with oats as Rodeo drank from the trough. Every muscle in his body ached as he let the saddle slip from his shoulder onto a bale of hay. Pushing his hat high on his head, he sat against the wall as the horse ate and was asleep and snoring loudly when the doctor arrived half an hour later.
“Much louder and the rafters of this fine establishment would be falling in,” Doc Matthews said. One hand was on Jennings’s shoulder, shaking him awake. In the other he held a small leather bag.
Coy rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “My apologies. You a doctor?”
“Son, I’m the doctor. Only one for miles around. It’s my understanding that you’ve got a horse needing some manner of attention.”
He was already peeling away the bloodstained wrap as Jennings explained about the snakebite and what he’d done in an attempt to halt the spread of the venom. “I’d say you’ve done a good job,” the doctor said. “Aside from a bit of infection in a couple of the places where you took a knife to him, I’d say he’s doing as well as could be expected. ’Bout all I can do is clean the leg, do a little sewing up, and put some salve on the wounds. Then we’ll give him time to rest and see how things look.”
“He going to be okay?”
“Yes, sir, that’s my professional judgment.” The doctor rose and looked at Jennings. “You, on the other hand, are another matter. Seems to me if you don’t get yourself a hot bath, some food, and a considerable amount of rest, you’re not gonna be worth shooting.” He sniffed. “Wouldn’t hurt to have those clothes you’re wearing laundered either.”
Standing nearby, the blacksmith broke into another of his booming laughs.
“Tell you what,” the doctor said. “You go get cleaned up and something to eat, and I’ll take care of what needs to be done here. I ’spect Mr. Weatherby or his stableboy can give me a hand, if needed.
“Oh, and I’ll be requiring a dollar in payment before you go.”
For the first time in days Coy Jennings smiled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin.
After a pat to Rodeo’s muzzle he took the short walk past a small general store and a saloon that appeared to have been so hastily built that it still had stitched-together tent canvases serving as a roof toward Miss Mindy’s Fine Eatery and Bathhouse. A small hand-painted sign near the entrance displayed a sparse menu that included venison stew, cold-water corn bread, and collard greens.
A small dog lying in the doorway lifted its head only slightly, apparently too tired or disinterested to bother to growl or bark. Jennings stepped over him and entered a room where there were four empty tables.
* * *
“Lemme guess, mister. You’ll first be needing something to eat, then considerable time in a tub to wash all that trail grime away.” The small woman stood less than five feet, with red hair that was a tangle of curls. She wore overalls and a flannel shirt and was smoking a cigar. “I’m Mindy. The stew’s still hot on the stove and has plenty of potatoes and beans mixed into it. I’ve got corn bread, but all the greens are gone. Does that tempt your appetite?”
“Ma’am, just about anything that don’t bite back does,” Jennings said.
“Then take yourself a seat next to the window and enjoy the view—what there is of it—and I’ll be off to the kitchen.”
She soon returned with his food and a tin cup filled with coffee, pulled up a chair across the table from him, and took a seat without asking for an invitation. “Not that I’m the nosy sort,” she said, “but it isn’t often we get strangers visiting. What brings you to this godforsaken part of Texas?”
“Looking for work,” Jennings replied as he dipped a slice of corn bread into the sweet-smelling stew. “I heard there was a ranch hereabouts that’s hiring.”
“That, I suppose, would be Lester Sinclair’s spread,” she said, “being as it’s the only ranch we’ve got. Just about everybody else—them not employed by Sinclair—tries to farm.”
“And what can you tell me about Mr. Sinclair?”
“Not much aside from the fact that he’s not one of my favorite people. Truth is, I also work for him. He’s the actual owner of this place despite the fact that it bears my name. The saloon down the street is his as well.”
With that she rose and wiped her hands on her apron. “This ain’t a hotel, mind you, but I do have a couple of rooms out back if you’re needing a place.”
“I reckon I’ll be staying down at the livery,” he said, “but I could do with that hot bath you mentioned.”
“In that case, I’ll go out back and start heating up the water. While you’re waiting, feel free to help yourself to the coffee. No charge, since it’s likely getting a bit bitter. You’ll find the pot on the stove behind that door. I s’pose you’ll be wanting your clothes washed as well.”
Jennings nodded.
“Then plan to soak in your bath for a considerable time.”
* * *
Sitting in the tub of hot water did wonders for his tired and aching muscles, and he took another nap. The clean smell of h
is sunshine-dried clothes lifted his spirits almost as much as the doctor’s having said that Rodeo was going to be fine. He was hardly limping as he left Miss Mindy’s, and he decided on a walk through the town before returning to the livery.
There wasn’t much to see and only a few people were moving about. A couple of wagons slowly passed, loaded with provisions, and one driver waved. When Jennings tipped his hat in return, he realized that Miss Mindy had dusted it clean while he bathed.
He briefly considered visiting the saloon for a beer but decided his dwindling finances spoke against such an indulgence. Instead he stopped into the general store and purchased a small pouch of tobacco to replace what he’d used doctoring his horse.
The blacksmith was waving as he approached. “My, my, don’t you look a sight better? You could go courtin’, all cleaned up as you appear to be. Did Miss Mindy offer you some of that sweet-smelling lilac water to put in with your bath? If so, I’d better put out a warning to the womenfolk.”
Coy responded with a slight smile.
“Your horse is in the far stall, all mended and doing well,” Weatherby said. “I hung your saddle on the wall next to him.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Just part of the friendly service. Course, I must inform you that if you’re gonna be bedding down here tonight it’ll cost you another twenty-five cents.”
Jennings paid him and walked inside to check on Rodeo.
As he entered the dimly lit stable, he was aware of someone speaking in a low voice near his horse. He approached to find a young man combing burrs from Rodeo’s mane, talking gently as he did so.
Jennings stood watching and listening awhile before he spoke. “Who might you be?”
The young man jumped, then turned to face him. “My . . . my name’s Ira. Ira Dalton. I help Mr. Weatherby some. I been talking with your horse.”
Jennings nodded. “And what is it you two have been talking about?”
“Just things, you know. Gettin’-acquainted talk. Best I can figure, he’s right proud you doctored his leg and brung him to shelter. I’m of a mind that ’cause you treat him so kindly he must admire you greatly.”
“He told you that, did he?”
“In his way, yeah, he did. He’s a mighty handsome animal.”
“His name’s Rodeo.”
“Seems a fine name to me. Did I tell you I’m Ira . . . Ira Dalton?”
Jennings extended his hand. “That you did,” he said. “Pleased to know you, Ira Dalton. My name’s Coy . . . Coy Jennings.”
As they shook, Dalton smiled. “That seems a fine name too. I’m gonna be sure to remember it. Mr. Coy Jennins . . . Coy Jennins . . .”
“Just Coy will do.”
At the sound of his owner’s name, Rodeo lifted his head and placed his muzzle beside Jennings’s face, causing his freshly cleaned hat to fall to the hay-strewn floor.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Coy Jennins,” the young man said, “I’d say he likes you a lot.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ralph Compton stood six foot eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for Best Debut Novel. He was also the author of the Sundown Riders series and the Border Empire series.
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