The English Horses

“That he stepped in and confronted the thief is all that matters to me, but, to answer your query, I believe it is that we shared our coffee with him last fall.”

Stradley nodded.

“Did he give any indication as to his direction?”

Meiklejon snorted, then took a long sip of his cold coffee. “Mister Stradley, we did not discuss itineraries. The gentleman made his intentions known to the robber, who then fled. That is all I can tell you. We were saved by his generosity and offered him our gratitude.”

But Stradley was not to be silenced. “Did this man tell you his name?”

The Englishman sighed deeply and placed both of his hands on the white tablecloth, a gesture calculated to draw attention to his maimed fingers. He was using what he had to make his statement more important. Rose recognized the act. It was what she did with her deep breaths and hair-tossing.

“Mister Stradley, I did ask his name in accordance with your range etiquette. And he answered me with no rancor. I cannot imagine a man who would so simply pass on his name would then lie about it. And as the name is unusual, I do not think it a false one.”

“Well, sir, tell me and we both will know.”

Stradley’s jowls quivered as Meiklejon answered, his voice abrupt and tired. “His name is Burn English.”

Burn English

Chapter Eight

It was good range. Where the grass changed abruptly to desert, the dark mouth of a canon opened behind a spring. Around the resulting pool, rock walls shaped a small valley. Burn English and his roan kept watch from a high bench. The gelding’s small ears swiveled endlessly; the shaggy body quivered under its rider’s hand.

The mustangs grazed as Burn judged them. Finding the valley had been pure luck. He’d dogged the band for six months when he could endure the loneliness. Until he lost them south of Springerville. There were a thousand miles of tracking to the heart of these hills. He’d ridden east by instinct, following greening grass and the scent of water.

The valley where he found the herd fanned out, then abruptly narrowed between rock walls. Burn could make out a number of well-defined paths that disappeared into the canon itself. Lush grass, water bubbling from the spring—sanctuary for the mustangs and Burn.

Burn coughed and spat. The red roan jumped and then settled. The sturdy gelding had been captured as a long yearling, and Burn had ridden him four years. Only the slightest of trembling along the deep rib cage, the wet hide on the rigid neck betrayed the roan’s excitement.

Wiping his mouth, Burn felt the brush of his sparse whiskers, and the growth brought home to him the endless isolation he’d endured. In the past months he’d met up with more humans than he was used to seeing in a year, but he’d been driven by a tormenting ache. He still cursed himself for riding into town on Christmas. The girl’s words had hit hard. He’d violated his own rules by needing coffee, giving a drifter a ride, and he dismissed his good citizen act in stopping a robbery.

He studied the wild horse band. There were maybe fifteen horses scattered in small groups, with the few two and three-year-olds bunched together. Most were mares heavy with foal; two early foals clung to their mamas.

It was bitter cold in late March. Caught in the plains between Datil and the Gallo Mountains, the wind blew hard ice that stiffened in the roan’s thick mane. The valley might offer shelter to the mustangs, but for Burn and the roan there was no warmth or safety. Wind lifted strands of Burn’s frozen hair across his face. He had to concentrate on the horses, he had to pay close attention and make a decision based on instinct and knowledge. But he was damned near too frozen to think.

The stallion was a dark bay in his prime. Burn would take only mares. The best ones would be fat and heavy, even after a long winter. He had to make his choice, but in his heart he wanted to race the roan into the center of the herd and chasethem to where nothing could threaten their freedom.

As if the roan felt Burn’s edginess, the little horse rose quickly on his hind legs, squealing as Burn fought to keep his seat. He needed to concentrate, to pick and choose, to figure out where to build a horse trap. Damn.

Burn slowly reined the mustang through a break in the rock. It was not yet time to confront the stallion and his mares. More of the miserable hail clattered on Burn’s frozen face and he laughed, a sound that the roan did not hear often. The gelding bucked, almost unseating the rider. Burn slapped his hand against his frozen chaps and the sound rattled the mustang. The horse bolted and Burn let it run. Then Burn reined up; no sense in using energy, not when there was so much work ahead.

He stepped down from the roan, weary, always hungry. He’d eaten a stale biscuit, drank a few sips of water earlier. Not enough after watching the horse band through the cold blustery night. The horses had slept; he’d kept guard.

He offsaddled the mustang, rubbing down the wet back with a fistful of dead leaves. Slender icicles frozen under the roan’s chin jingled with the roan’s head shaking. Burn hated the sound. He hobbled the roan and hung his saddle and the wet blanket from a lightning-struck cottonwood. If he didn’t, squirrels or maybe a skunk or a raccoon would come for the dried sweat and he’d own a chewed saddle, ruined reins, a handful of blanket. Without his gear, a mestenero was useless.

Chewing on the last of a biscuit, washed down by teeth-jarring cold water, Burn studied theland. No fences, no ranch houses or soddies, only miles of rock and steep cuts, thin streams, and high grass mixed with cactus. Rolling sandhills broke the smooth horizon. It was good country for trapping wild horses, or grazing cattle. Not much good for anything else.

Burn got up, mindful of the aches and pains he needed to ignore. He checked on his gear, went to the stream, knelt, and splashed water on his face, scrubbed his hands clean with coarse bottom sand. He couldn’t wash all over. For now he could barely tolerate his own company.

He stretched and put both hands to the small of his back. He was getting old in a young man’s game, but he knew no other way to live. In the past he had ridden broncos for a rancher, and left when the boss tried to stick him with cow work. He’d been seventeen when he struck up a partnership with a mestenero who knew the old ways. They partnered for three years, until a bronco broke the mestenero’s neck. Burn buried Enrique, spoke a few words of rough Spanish, and rode on.

That was five years ago. Now he chased the wild ones—being accepted into their society was easier than mingling with his own kind. The mornings were hard climbing up from sleep, pained by mended bones, recent wounds, scars that ran deep. He was coming to a bad time, when he would be lamed and crippled, too old to do what so far had given him a rough freedom. He needed to claim land and live in some bare comfort. His bones told him it was becoming a necessity.

The skies spit hail, the clouds rolled overhead like phantom waves, hiding and then revealing the almost full moon. Burn laughed. Burn English, alone since he was thirteen, thinking he could pick out land and build a house, live in the rest of the world, when in truth he couldn’t buy a simple meal or afford a hot bath.

Burn sat against the old cottonwood and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair, sweeping it out of his eyes like a horse’s forelock. He needed a good shearing, never mind a bath and a meal, a house of his own. He snorted and the red roan snorted back.

Burn caught and saddled the roan. It was hunger again, and a strangled anger he could not quench. He smoothed out the still-damp saddle blanket and twisted the cincha to flake off caked salt. He couldn’t afford to gall the roan. Anger goaded him. He was being driven out of his familiar haunts by the damned wire fences. He swallowed against a dry throat, hating the weakness. Fences were inevitable. He knew that not making the same choices as other men gave him no special rights. There was no room for blame—it lay on him and no one else.