The English Horses

crop. The men did their work, but Gordon knew by their grim faces that he was not endearing himself to their winter-starved souls.

Souter came in to Socorro early Thursday to report that the wire was strung and he’d given the men off the night of the dance. It was Souter’s first disobedience and a direct flaunting to Gordon’s ownership of the L Slash Ranch. He glared at Souter, who glared back.

A cowboy intent on an early celebration raced a terrified horse down the long street as the townspeople ran for cover. Mrs. Blasingame, a woman of great proportions, tripped and fell in fresh manure, and the cowboy’s horse bolted, depositing the eager horseman at Mrs. Blasingame’s posterior. Gordon laughed. Souter was right—the men deserved their night of dancing.

Thursday afternoon word came in that the money was on its way to Silver City where it would await Gordon’s arrival. It meant a ride to that town for Souter as well as Gordon. When Souter was told, he grinned at Meiklejon as if to acknowledge that he’d been outfoxed.

Mr. Meiklejon approached Rose in the hotel lobby. “My dear child, I had hoped you would understand. The bull is arriving and I must have the cash with which to finalize the purchase.”

What was he talking about? No gentleman would speak of such a matter in front of a lady. She allowed a small smile to grace her features before she walked away. Her mama was calling, she said. There was work to be done.

The dance drew people for seventy miles. Rose laid out white cloths on the tables, placed candles and lanterns where Mrs. Miller pointed, and chewed over Gordon’s defection while she worked.

Rose found she began to enjoy the preparations and didn’t even pout when her sister Hester teased her for not having a beau. Hester was going with Jeb Miller, all spotted face and huge feet. The youngest Blaisdel, Sally, would be with the children. Rose would go unchaperoned.

The dance was, of course, very crowded. Rose did not look for Jack Holden—he would slip in later when the men were mellowed by their liquor. The Littlefield hands were there. Red Pierson caught Rose’s eye and she could not stop blushing. Finally it was Richard Blasingame who asked her to dance. He held her at arm’s length and whirled her much too fast, but they danced two dances and she liked the swirl of her new dress. Heads turned to see her. Then others asked, and it was past midnight. The men’s faces were flushed from their trips to the shed back of Miller’s store. The younger children were asleep, lined in rows with coats thrown over them for warmth. Sally and Hester Blaisdel had been sent home.

Rose danced not caring who her partner was but quick to follow the steps. She was swept into a different world. Then the music quieted, and Rose’s partner slowed. Heads came together in quiet whispers, and Rose witnessed Katherine Donald in the arms of Jack Holden.

Katherine had danced only twice. Both times the man had kept his distance and refused to make conversation. She had watched Orlie Judkins take a half step toward her, but his swollen wife had grabbed his arm and pulled him back. But at least she had danced twice, and it had felt good. Then Jack Holden stood next to her, brushing that lock of hair from his forehead, before formally asking. She glided into his arms, let him spin her away, draw her back, almost touching along his entire length. She heard the gasps—Jack Holden was dancing with Katherine Donald!

Rose smiled bravely as they whirled past, but her Jack did not return the smile. It was painful enough to make Rose push through the crowds and escape outside where she could breathe and didn’t have to see them dance.

Chapter Seven

They had ridden hard. At one point on their return, when Gordon looked up from a half doze, he caught Souter in profile, ahead of him. The man cradled a rifle across his saddle, and only then had it occurred to Gordon how much danger they were in. The purpose of their trip to Silver City had been well known.

They came out of the steep hills around the lights of an unnamed village. There were places where the ponies slowed to pick their path through tumbled shale. The grullo stopped abruptly, bumpinginto Souter’s favored pony. Then Gordon heard the stuttering voice and saw the blurred shadow of Souter’s head swivel as if trying to locate their attacker.

“I say it again, senor. Give me the money.”

Souter’s head moved slightly—Gordon could see that much—but the man said nothing, and his rifle did not shift to focus on a target. Gordon’s heart pounded. A rifle trigger cocked.

“Senor, the money.”

Gordon watched Souter. The voice was close.

“You…not that old man…you have the money, senor. Give it to me.”

Gordon fumbled with the pouch on his saddle.

“I will kill you, senor.

Gordon put effort into his tone of voice. Still it sounded as if he were terrified. “I am trying, sir. But this…pony will not remain still.” While he spoke, he pricked the grullo with one spur. The pony kicked out and Gordon made a great show of grabbing for the reins with both hands.

“Senor, get off that horse.”

The glint off the rifle barrel was close to the pony’s skull, and Gordon stopped his ruse. The pouch slipped back onto the grullo pony’s hindquarters. The pony humped its back. Gordon felt the pony’s head shake through the reins.

“Ah, senor, it is not so difficult, after all.”

Gordon raised the pouch as high as he could, for it was quite heavy, thinking to throw it into the dark and charge the enemy. The act would be futile, but he held the pouch a moment, bearing its precious weight for the last time.

Souter’s pony swung its hindquarters, blocking where Gordon would throw the pouch. Themottled pony’s ear were pricked and the pony let out a short nicker.

Then an almost familiar voice interrupted: “Mister, you get!” The voice was strong, clear.

Gordon could hear and feel more than see anything. Aman cursing—a horse’s irregular gait.

Then Gayle Souter swung his pony around to face Gordon. Souter’s voice was not steady. “What happened?”

Gordon shook his head while he lowered the pouch.

Both men turned at the sound of an advancing horse. Gordon heard a shift from Souter’s mount, saw the barrel of Souter’s rifle raised once more. Such vigilance had just proven ineffective, but it gave a solid feel to the moment.

The rider and animal stopped. The familiar voice again: “I couldn’t catch him, but he won’t be back.”

A hint of amusement colored the words, and Gordon finally recognized the speaker—their mestenero. “Thank you, sir, for your assistance.”

There was a long silence. Gordon had to trust his senses, which told him the horse and rider were still there, had not walked away.

Finally: “It weren’t a Mex…that robber of yours.”

Silence, then Gayle Souter spoke. “Glad you agree. I’d hate to accuse the wrong man.”

“He rode a runt bronc’, not more than thirteen hands, from the stride,” advised the mestenero.

Gordon nodded, although he wondered why the detail would be important.

Souter laughed. “That eliminates one suspect.”