The English Horses

her, but a thought was lodged in his mind that he could not shake, and perhaps speaking it out loud to a person he believed capable of understanding might relieve him of its unwanted burden.

Miss Katherine acknowledged his appearance but did not cease her labors.

Gordon started hesitantly. “May I have another cup of coffee? Thank you.” It was always best to start any conversation with Katherine Donald on the basis of a request; it seemed to give her a security that mere talk did not offer. “I gather the man has cornered a number of horses on what I understand is my best summer range.” He took another sip, let the words settle, then broached what had begun to trouble him. “I understand the horses are a wild band, without any claim of ownership. Since they are held on my land, and are living on my grass, do they already belong to me, and are they worth the effort of taking them?”

Gordon noted the flinch that stopped Katherine Donald, a bare withdrawal of movement easily missed. Then she continued her work, but allowed him the courtesy of a reply. “Mister Meiklejon, I do know that any interference with a mestenero and his horses would gather you more trouble than any sale of the animals would justify. Legally they are yours…morally I believe you would have a horrible time owning them. I would leave it alone, Mister Meiklejon. The cost in men and time would not be worth the sale price of whatever was left after the war. And the man would fight a bitter war to keep what’s his.”

A clear opinion clearly given, Gordon noted. He rose, leaving his cup on the plank table, eager to get on with his journey and be rid of the superfluous thoughts that sometimes nagged him.

The fever wasted two good days. Burn had managed to hobble the mare outside the valley, and to drag his gear off the stinking roan. The rest had been a nightmare of sweat, heat, hunger, and thirst, with constant pain each time he moved in his filthy blankets.

The third day his head was clear. With a great deal of effort he saddled the mare, who rode short but steady. At the edge of the valley, he got down gingerly and tied the mare securely. The red roan lay fifty feet into the valley, and Burn could still smell the rot. He sat down suddenly. Wolves and coyotes and others in their turn had taken what they could of the roan, leaving ribs and hide, a skull, and memories.

He forced himself to focus. The wounded three-year-old was holding that bad leg off the ground. The colt was easy prey for an eager coyote, or for Burn’s rope. He rubbed his hand along the side of his face, and winced at the touch. Hell, he needed a horse. He couldn’t buy one, couldn’t use the dammed mare, so it was the dark colt or nothing. Burn wiped his face again, careful around the new scar, trying to scrub out the mix of thoughts.

First it was a short meal and some sleep rolled up in his stinking blankets again. No fire, so no hot food or coffee. So he could once again smell like the broncos. Less than an hour later he rode back to the wild horses. The mare tied to a tree well away from the fence, he crawled through the rails with rope in hand. He cursed anything that stabbed him—the bark left on a rail or a stone jutting up from the ground. It was a foolhardy thing he was doing. The colt could half kill Burn on a three-legged charge.

Finally he hunkered down less than twenty feet from the colt and took in steady gulps of air, held them, let them out in short puffs. The colt still paid no mind. Infection ran him like it had run Burn—head low, eyes closed, coat unevenly sweating. Burn crooned mindlessly. At first the colt jumped at the strange sounds, then pretended to lip thin grass.

It was a peaceable half hour except when the colt would forget and lower the hind leg to carry weight. He would jerk the leg and stagger. Burn shuddered with him. When it seemed right, Burn stood and fashioned a loop and dropped it over the colt’s head, with the rope behind his back. Holding on with both hands, Burn swung the colt around. The colt shook his head, clearly annoyed as Burn tugged more on the rope. The colt moved forward. Burn suspected the horse’s intentions, but the colt did nothing but follow Burn erratically. He tied the colt at a low juniper and removed the gate rail before he led the colt outside.

Burn walked around the colt. Aside from the horrible-looking leg, the big youngster was a beauty. Burn realized no wild bronco stood this quietly under human touch. Still there was no sign that any man had tried ownership—no rope burn, no brand, no saddle gall, or spur cuts. Maybe in the doctoring he’d raise some fight, dig some spirit out of the youngster. Astride the red App mare, Burn got the colt to follow with only a few false starts. The mare flagged her tail; the colt arched his neck only for a moment.

Burn dragged the colt into the shallow stream, caught a front hoof, and yanked the colt off balance. The colt knelt and Burn pulled its head back over its barrel until the colt fell. He dug a knife into the wound and drew out yellow pus laced with red as the colt fought and bellowed until Burn clamped a hand over the colt’s nose. The colt lay flat in the healing water.

Two days later Burn saddled the colt. When Burn mounted, the colt humped its back and thought to buck, but then didn’t bother. The colt even turned left or right when Burn pulled on the rawhide hackamore. Burn couldn’t believe what he knew was happening.

The next day Burn headed a small parade to the penned herd, leading the red mare to set her loose in the valley. The old girl galloped off heavily, then stopped to signal interest with her raised tail. Burn laughed. Lame as she was, she’d have a few years before age and the weather wore her down to a pile of bones.

He needed miles on the colt, so he chose a trail and followed it. A good meal, a few bets on a bronco ride, and he’d come back with cash and renewed interest in the mustangs. He’d done this before. His own ribs were sore, but most of the cuts were healed. Burn laughed outright—he must be living a good life.

It was all rock and sandhills where he rode. Red cliffs hung out over weed-filled bowls. Burn let the colt pick its way as a series of canons went to the left and on the right the land smoothed out and folded into a number of low hills, carrying the pale green of spring grass. The trail dropped off a rim of red sand and widened into a double wagon track.

The town wasn’t much. The first building was a livery where a few scrawny horses hung their heads over the fence. The water trough was a carved tree trunk, and the water was green with scum, but Burn figured the colt wouldn’t care. He reined up, and, when a man appeared, Burn asked if he could water his horse.

The man was short and wide, wearing loose pants held up by braces. Filthy hands patted a washed shirt the color of the sandy ground. He looked Spanish, with dark hair and skin, the usualmoustache. When he spoke, his voice was loud enough that the colt backed a few steps.

“That’s a pretty one you ride, senor. The name is Melicio Quitano. And, yes, you may water your good horse. It is a shame that leg scars him so…such a beautiful animal.”

Burn shied from the man’s too friendly tone.

“You, too, senor, if it is water you wish to drink. For myself, I drink whiskey or beer only. The water is for the animals.”

“What’s the name of the town, Senor Quitano?” Burn asked. “I come in for a few supplies, and looking to see if anyone needs a horse or two broke to ride. I can set almost anything a bronc’ can throw.”

The hostler pulled at his nose while he studied Burn. It wasn’t a friendly face now; he’d been judged like this before. “Ah, senor. We do not have many wild horses here. It is mostly sheep, senor. Jose Padilla and his family, they have run sheep here a long time. Jose, he rides a quiet mule. So, senor, there is little need for your…talents.”

It was judgment on Burn, his size and heart, his very being. He’d heard this before with few variations—“Your kind.” Burn felt his belly tighten. The fat man was no different than the rest, quick to judge an Anglo for his wealth. Then he laughed at what he himself was doing.

“He is entire, senor. You will use him as a stallion? Does he have the heart to pass on the qualities needed in a good horse?”

Burn told the truth, knowing it would not be believed, but he was already bored. “I saddled him four days ago, and he ain’t bucked yet.”

Quitano snorted in outrage. “No wonder, senor, that you ride the grub line. For you cannot tell such outright lies and expect to be believed. It is easy to see you ride a mustang,