“I’m going after the Bass gang in order to rescue Miss Hathaway.”
Blue looked pained. “In that case, you’ll have to buy a horse, and I can’t sell you anything worth anything for no piddling thirty-eight dollars.”
“Damn!” Longarm swore in frustration. “There must be some way we can work something out. I really need a horse.”
“Yeah,” Blue said, “but the only way he’ll come back is with you draped over his saddle. And most likely, he won’t come back at all.”
Longarm could see that he wasn’t getting anywhere so he started off down the street with his mind in turmoil. Thirty-eight dollars wasn’t much but it ought to be enough to buy him some kind of horse. Enough of one to do what needed to be done.
“Hey, mister!” Blue called.
Longarm turned around. “Yeah?”
“I bought a scrub Indian pony yesterday. He’s a rank, wicked little son of a bitch, weasel thin and ugly as a possum. But, if you can handle him, he’s sound and tough as rawhide.”
“What about a saddle, bridle, and blanket? I’m not paying you thirty-eight dollars to ride out of here bareback.”
“He came with an Indian saddle and blanket. Ain’t nothing more than a pad and some old stirrups on pieces of rope.”
“No thanks.” Longarm started to walk on, but Blue called out again.
“All right! You win. I’ll throw in a decent saddle, bridle, and blanket. Even a pair of saddlebags, halter, lead rope, and a sack of oats.” Longarm suspected that the Indian pony was a real hellion. Then again, he doubted that he could get a better deal. It was quite likely that Joe Blue had bought the pony dirt cheap and wanted to get rid of him quick.
“Let’s see the pony,” Longarm growled, coming back to the livery.
“He’s out back,” Blue said as they walked through the barn to some rickety corrals. “Like I said, he ain’t much for looks, but the Indian that sold him to me swore that he was a runnin’ fool. Real fast, tough, and sound as a silver dollar.”
The moment Longarm’s eyes landed on the pony, he knew the horse was an ill-tempered, badly beaten, and mistreated outlaw. The bay gelding was thin, missing part of one ear, and his hide was covered with bald patches where he’d either been bitten by other horses or laid into with a board by his former owner.
“Not a chance,” Longarm said, turning to leave.
“Aw, come on! At least give me a chance to show him off to you,” the liveryman pleaded. “I’ll ride him first. Then you can ride him and I’ll make you a hell of a deal.”
“How much?”
“Thirty dollars with everything included.”
“Twenty.”
“Hell no! The saddle is worth near that much!”
“Then shoot the little bugger and sell the saddle to someone else,” Longarm announced as he picked up his bags and prepared to walk away.
“Twenty-five for everything and I’ll throw in a quirt and pair of spurs. You’ll need ‘em.”
Longarm thought, What the hell. If he could ride the pony and leave Prescott with thirteen dollars still resting in his pockets, he’d be getting off very well indeed. It was, he decided, at least worth a try.
“Tell you what, Joe. Go ahead and saddle him up and let’s see what he can do.”
The liveryman gulped. “All right. But he don’t much care for people so it may take a few minutes. You could come back in say … oh, an hour.”
“I’ll stay and watch.”
It did take an entire hour for Joe Blue to rope then subdue the fighting pony and get him saddled. When he mounted the gelding, it didn’t buck but instead charged out of the corral like its tail was on fire. The Indian pony raced up the street, scattering pedestrians in every direction like a flock of squawking chickens.
Longarm almost laughed out loud, but he did have to admit that the pony was very fast. Fifteen minutes later, Joe Blue came storming back down the street. Longarm was astonished to see that the pony was barely winded.
“See! I told you he was fast and sound!”
“And out of control. No thanks.”
“Twenty dollars! Please!”
“All right,” Longarm finally agreed. “If you will throw in a couple of rifle scabbards.”
“What?!”
“Just fix me up something out of a gunnysack or a piece of canvas to carry this rifle and my big shotgun.”
“Damn, you are tough to deal with! I’m losing my ass on this deal.”
“I doubt it,” Longarm replied without a shred of sympathy. “You probably bought this pony for a jug of whiskey. Has it a name?”
“I call him an ornery son of a bitch. You can call him anything you want.”
