The English Horses

Chapter Nine

“Souter, I got to talk to the boss.”

Souter looked at Davey Hildahl and nodded. “He’s up to the house, talking with Miss Katherine.” That would fluster the man—nothing else but Katherine Donald got Davey scared. True to form, Hildahl’s face turned a bright red. “Anything I should know, Davey?”

Hildahl shook his head. “Maybe the boss’ll tell you.” That was good enough.

At the house: “Mister Meiklejon, I got something to tell you.”

“Well, ah…Hildahl, what is it?” The man was still having trouble remembering names. Davey guessed he couldn’t blame him. They only had one new name to remember.

“I found that cow Souter sent me looking for.” He couldn’t get the rest past his tongue. It was almost a betrayal, but he rode for the L Slash and, therefore, for the Englishman, and, as long as he took the pay, he owed his loyalty to the brand. He said: “A fella got some horses up to your summer grass, in Lightning Valley. Next to that old cottonwood got hit bad two years past.”

Meiklejon looked at Davey strangely. He hadn’t been that far up on his northern range, had been too busy at the home ranch, ordering bulls throughthe mail, by God. Doing things Davey didn’t know to understand.

“Yes?”

“He got a lot of horses on your grass…real wild ones. Figures to catch and brand as many as he can.”

Meiklejon seemed to be getting the heart of the matter now. “You mean he is using my graze to feed what he considers his own horses, although they are legally still wild and available to anyone who can brand them?”

Yeah, Davey thought. Range law says one thing, but this time the bronc’s belong to the bad-tempered horse chaser. He hoped Meiklejon could see merit in the unusual argument. Davey nodded. “There’s more to it.” He glanced at Miss Katherine. She smiled and he forgot what he was meaning to say.

“Well, Hildahl?”

Davey choked. “Fella got those horses on your grass…he’s the same one saved your hide this past winter.”

Meiklejon stared, then rubbed his face gently. “A small man, very dark, almost rude, but basically a decent fellow?”

Got him right there, Davey thought. Had to be the same man. “Yeah, something like that. Name is Burn English, and he’s a runt hardcase, and all’round wild one.” Davey risked a glance at Miss Katherine.

“Well, I can’t just let him have the grass.”

Ah, hell, Davey thought.

“And I can’t chase him off. He did save my life, and a great deal of money, and never asked for anything in return.”

So the foreigner weren’t that much a fool.

“Mister Hildahl, you tell the gentleman he has two weeks on the grass. That should give him enough time to catch all the wild ones he can, although I still do not understand how he thinks he can manage alone.”

That was it. Meiklejon turned with a kind of bow to Miss Katherine, and said: “My dear, where were we?” Davey had been dismissed.

Davey caught and saddled a rough dun. The horse was a sorehead, bucking at every touch of the rein, but the son could hit a high lick through brush and rock and never miss a stride. Davey figured to finish two chores, and so roped out the ancient, Appaloosa mare Souter had told him to get rid of. “She ain’t of no use no more…take her off and shoot her,” he had told Davey. An order Davey hated, but it was kinder than turning her loose to starve.

Burn was sitting up, checking the damage, when Hildahl rode in.

Davey stayed on his dun. The App mare was restless. He had planned to turn her in with the stallion, give her one last chance. He watched the mestenero finger a cut over his eye and saw it needed stitches.

Burn would bet some ribs were cracked, and his chaps were laid out along his legs in strips, plumb worthless now, but they’d saved most of his hide.

Hildahl started talking. “I found that brindle cow a few days back. Standing over a dead calf, close enough to dead herself. I finished the job. Calf had an extra leg. Seen things like that before. I buried the calf real deep. Now I got this mare to get rid of and looks like I need to give you a ride to some place safe.”

Burn found it hard to keep the man in focus. The round head and hazel eyes got too close to him, then too far away and the mouth flapped more words, looking pleased and mournful at the same time. Burn shook his head, found it wasn’t a good idea.

They watched each other, taking measure. Hildahl grimaced and looked off first. “Told the boss about you. And them mustangs. You got two weeks, then you better get gone.” Burn found he couldn’t move his head fast, or think much at all. Hildahl plodded along. “Good thing I came by, Mister Mustanger.”

“Hell, mister yourself, I don’t need your help,” Burn fumed, angry at the lanky cowboy.

Hildahl grinned. “Didn’t say I’d help, just said it’s a good thing I came along. You ain’t got a horse now…how you plan to catch up those bronc’s?”

Burn stood by himself, took two steps, and fell. It was a struggle to get up again. Burn hated showing weakness to any man.

Hildahl surprised him—didn’t offer help, but kept talking. “Handsome devil, that stallion. Good mares, too. Best of the wild stock I’ve seen in a long time. Too bad about the dark colt…that leg’ll kill him.”

Half listening, furious, Burn got to his feet again and shook his fist at the talk as if the gesture could booger off the man’s interest in the horses. A whole nest of sore woke up—ribs, shoulders, back, and butt. Only his legs spread wide, and his anger, kept Burn standing. He glared at the remains of his chaps—laid clean off his legs, useless to him now. Rocks could do that to leather. Burn shook his head, careful of his balance.

Hildahl must have stepped off the dun. His fist came into Burn’s sight, holding a wad of material. “Here, you might tie off that cut, looks like it could bleed you dry.”

Burn looked down, saw that the dirt at his feet was red-spotted. His thigh was wet. He took the bandanna and twisted it above the wound. The rest of the repairs he could make by himself. Hildahl was unusually quiet. Burn wasn’t going to say thanks. He walked to the dead mustang, intending to yank his gear free of the carcass. He dropped to his knees, and was unconscious as his face rolled in to the churned dirt.

He woke to Hildahl fussing with him, just as he had feared. Water dripped into his mouth. He swallowed some, then spat out the remaining liquid, anger coming back full force. His first word was “No.” Then he asked for the old mare.

“If Meiklejon said for you to get rid of her…I’ll take her off your hands. Give her a few more weeks, and then turn her loose…or shoot her. Depends on how she holds up.” It was a standoff. Burn up now, raging inside as he glared at his rescuer.

Davey recognized that the mestenero would take nothing but the old mare. Good thing he’d brought her along or the man would try roping a mustang on foot, kill himself for sure. He held out the length of rope. “She’s all yours, son. I’ll be back to bury your carcass along with hers.”

Davey’s report interested Meiklejon. There was still no real comprehension of a world in which men like the mustanger existed. Meiklejon had no basis for understanding the man’s way of living. He deemed Burn English full of false pride, relying on skills that were no longer needed, and determined to retain his calling despite the reality of the world.

Gordon did admire some aspects of the man, and Hildahl and Souter both had asked for an extension to allow the man, injured as he was, time to gather his horses. Gordon gave them his word. Still he was not comfortable with the situation. Finally he sought out Miss Katherine in her kitchen, where she was washing up the last of the blackened iron pans in which she cooked cornbread and fried bacon. He was not in the habit of passing time with