English. You tell your boss these bronc’s’re mine.”
Hildahl wouldn’t let it be. “Now I heard that name before. Seems a man stopped a robbery. That was the boss he saved from being robbed…foreman was with him…and the name was Burn English. Could be you…it ain’t a name too many folks’d use.” Hildahl continued: “I don’t know the boss all that well. He’s an Englishman. The foreman’ll honor the debt, but he won’t take kindly to your using summer graze. You best walk careful, Mister Burn English.”
Burn rubbed his whiskered face hard with his left hand.
Hildahl didn’t stop. “English, listen to me…it’s been a dry winter and spring so far. That grass’ll be needed sooner than usual. You ride careful.” Then he grinned, let his long legs swing free of the stirrups. “Too bad you ain’t one for eating. Other that that, it’s been a right pleasure talking some with you. English, you take care.”
Burn watched Hildahl turn the bay gelding north after the brindle cow. He’d meant to chew on some jerky, take a short rest before he got back to work. Hildahl’s visit left him in a hurry to catch the horses before some fool laid claim to them. He forced himself to saddle and ride to the section of fence he intended as a gate. It was a too- familiar act as he laid fresh-cut juniper over the poles; he’d done this too often, trapped too many good horses.
The mustangs returned while Burn slept. He was out of biscuits, had only one strip of jerky left, so he made do with too much water and small bites of the beef. The roan looked good—grazing on the lush grasses around the lightning-struck tree was keeping him fit and eager.
Burn woke with a strip of jerky in hand, the canteen emptied across his knee, one pant leg soaked. He’d been snoring. Drool stained his chin whiskers from the half-chewed jerky in his mouth.
The band drifted between the empty posts, careful to shy from the fencing across the valley end. They were gaunt and thirsty, yet the stallion made them wait, circling the mares and foals, nipping any mare too eager to drink. Alert despite evidence of exhaustion, the stallion was certain the fence meant harm to him and his harem. Finally he let the mares go down to drink the good spring water.
Burn waited until the mares were full. He was counting on the bloated, water-filled bellies to make his work easier. He’d planned well. The horses had come in over the railings with tired, choppy strides. Now, as they drank their fill and splashed in the pool, Burn eased along the ridge, cursing when he kicked a slide of pebbles loose that spiraled down onto the grass flooring. The stallion’s head came up at the sound; the horse quickly began to drive the mares toward Burn and their last chance to escape.
Burn shouted. The mares kept coming, then the herd swirled back around the stallion and into the valley toward the wider, fenced end. The mares ran the height of the long fence where some slowed to a trot, muzzles scraping the fence’s top rail. Burn dropped the first gate pole in place, threw in two more, trying to keep an eye on the stallion.
The dark bay rushed Burn, but skidded to a stop at the mixture of scents. The horse made a tight circle, came back as Burn kept stacking rails, feeling small and useless alongside the horse’s rage. Burn wrapped a rawhide strip around the top gate pole as the stallion charged. Burn yelled and the horse slowed. Burn slapped his leg, and the stallion reared. Then Burn skidded his battered hat at the horse and the animal sat back on his haunches, pawing at the shapeless hat.
A few mares grazed, some whickered for their foals, some stood quietly, still carrying a foal, too tired to eat. The stallion exploded downhill toward the pool of water and the entrance into the narrow canon. Burn waited. The mares watched but did not follow. The stallion was gone several minutes, then returned at a slow trot, head high, tail switching restlessly.
The mares lowered their heads to the grass. Nothing would disturb them now, not the angry stallion and especially not the small battered figure, who stood on braced legs near the railed gate.
Burn caught up the roan mustang and rode back to his poor camp. This time he stripped off his clothing and went into the stream, splashed the icy water all over himself and scrubbed off as much dirt as he could with fistfuls of sand. At night, after lighting a fire, he shot himself a rabbit, skinned and roasted it, pulled it apart with shaking fingers, and ate every last bite. Chewed the bones and sucked the marrow. Then he slept, knowing the horses waited.
He woke before sunrise. The roan was edgy, so Burn let him run until the horse easily responded to Burn’s touch. At the edge of the valley, Burn laid down the gate rails. The stallion caught wind of Burn, and rushed forward, stopping only ten feet away. Burn led the roan through the gate, replaced the poles, and mounted cautiously, feeling the roan tremble from the stallion’s presence. He talked to both horses, using his voice to calm the roan.
The stallion lifted his head and raised his upper lip. From a human, it would be an insult. But Burn laughed— human stink, rabbit flesh, hot fire, scrubbed skin. The stallion began a charge, but Burn slapped his hand against his chaps and the stallion veered off toward the complacent mares.
Eventually the stallion grazed, occasionally lifting his head to watch Burn and the roan. Burn headed down the narrow end of the canon to his woven fence of twisted juniper and light pine. A single horse had fought the fence and managed to break only a few of the junipers. Burn made quick repairs and went back around the pool into the valley.
He and the roan drifted along the east side, the two sections of fence that had been left unchallenged. During the night the band had endlessly circled the valley close to the walls, shying from the fences. They’d run themselves tired looking to escape, but the fencing had held, and now the mares were grazing or sleeping, letting their foals nurse in peace.
A long hour passed, and the stallion kept a restless check on Burn. Burn stayed away from the water and finally the stallion went to drink, standing for a long time in the shallows, head hanging, eyes closed, a mouthful of cool water held tightly in his mouth.
The mares dozed beside their sleeping foals. The stallion barely moved as Burn guided the roan in between the resting mares. He wanted to cut out the injured colt—the hole in his flank drained a yellow fluid that had crusted down the length of his hind leg. Spooked, the colt could run only four or five strides before drawing up to stand on three legs.
The colt was much like his sire, with a fine head, wide ribs, clean legs, and strong hindquarters. The splash of white across the dark face was startling, an uneven blaze much like the markings of a bright sorrel mare in the herd. She had a wobbly filly at her side now, a dark bay with the same uneven blaze.
The colt watched as Burn came in close, but made no attempt to run. Burn sighed—it might work. Unexpectedly, with ears back, mouth open, the stallion charged, scattering the bachelor herd. The roan bolted, and Burn stayed with the horse even as the roan went to his knees, then came up bucking and squalling. Burn imagined he could hear the stallion’s breath, smell the raging hate.
The roan leaped twice, went down again. Burnflew out of the saddle as the roan climbed up and ran. Burn’s boot caught the stirrup; he couldn’t pull free. The mustang ran two strides, felt Burn’s weight, and kicked out, missed, kicked again. The stallion slowed, puzzled by the roan’s new shape. Burn hugged his chest and prayed that, without the stallion’s pressure, the roan would quit.
Then the stallion screamed and the mustang launched into air. Burn’s head and shoulders slammed on the ground, bounced over rock. He groaned, hugged himself closely. The panicked roan ran sideways against Burn’s weight. His ribs were hit, his shirt torn, the sheepskin coat shredded. Rocks scraped him raw. A blow to his head and he saw light, tasted copper. He’d seen a man dragged once, had scraped up the pieces before burying them in a small hole.
He reached for the old Walker Colt, thumbed back the leather thong. He cocked it as the mustang tripped and went down. Burn eased back on the trigger, hopeful for that one moment. The roan heaved up and Burn felt a blow on his side, then, aiming at the mustang’s belly, pulled the trigger once, heard the shot smash into flesh, heard the roan scream as he shot until the Walker was empty, and the roan went down.
A hind leg was twisted under the roan’s gaping belly. The stench flowed out in a steaming cloud. In a final spasm, the roan’s quarters shook and a hind leg flexed, kicked out. Burn felt the hoof pass his face, and knew he’d survived.
