time.”
“Why tell me this, Hildahl? You ride for the L Slash, you better be loyal to that brand.”
Hildahl came back quick. “English, you’re the fool.” They sat on restless horses, each hearing the other’s truth. Hildahl continued: “I seen you with the wild stock, watched you saddle and ride that colt. Yeah, I been up here before, and I’m telling you now…you’v e earned those bronc’s, and Meiklejon knows it. But I don’t want him making a mistake we all suffer for.”
Burn opened his mouth and out jumped his plans. “There’re a few mares I want, and some of the bachelor colts. Then Meiklejon can have the rest. Hope he knows to let them run. I just want the few I’ve got marked.”
“You better be certain sure that brand’s registered in New Mexico. Otherwise, the boss’ll have right to take the sorry bronc’s.”
Burn got mad. “You ride back and tell Meiklejon the mustangs are mine. I ain’t stealing nothing from him can’t grow back on its own.”
“English, you can’t do all this alone. If you was to ask, I’d stay to help. You can’t rope and brand what you want in the time left.”
Burn wiped his mouth, tasted cotton wool. He couldn’t look straight at Davey. “I ain’t asked for help. I don’t need it. I got the gray and a good rope. You’d be in the way.” He looked away, giving Hildahl room to back off.
“What bronc’s you planning to own?” Hildahl asked. “So if Meiklejon sends a crew, I can slip the bronc’s free. ’Bout all I can do. You ain’t even set up a pen. Those bronc’s’ll run you and the gray flat ’fore you’re done.”
An honest answer didn’t cost much. “Three mares. That sorrel with the off hind stocking…the brown colt she’s trailing. The dun mare with the dun filly, and the solid red mare with that palomino colt. Figure the filly’s not from the bay stallion, so that’ll give me four brood mares and a few to sell. Some of the colts, too.”
“Can’t fault the choices, Burn. But that stallion’s going to hate you taking his best mares. Planning on the colt as a sire?”
Burn shook himself, listening to the easy words. It felt almost right to be setting on the gray and talking about horses with Hildahl. Talking to a half stranger who listened and nodded and all the time worked for the enemy. He weren’t bright, Burn thought, all because a man asked a few damned fool questions. Damn Davey Hildahl.
Hildahl continued like nothing was wrong. “Since you got good taste in horseflesh, got a man you need to know ’bout. Name’s Jack Holden. A handsome kind of fellow, smiles a lot. Always got him a good stepping, pretty mount that don’t carry his brand. He can rope out a horse or point a gun, and smile while he’s stealing you blind.”
Burn stared at Davey. “We’ve met. Gent tried to steal my roan and I changed his mind.”
The two men watched each other, full of private thoughts.
“Remember, English, I’ll help…if you want.”
Burn turned the gray and let it drift toward camp. But then he brought the bronco around, reined in next to Davey’s bay. “Thanks for the offer, Hildahl…Dav ey.”
Burn guided the gray to the high fence, kneed the horse into the rail gate, and leaned over to pull a few rails loose. Reining the gray back several strides, he let the bronco’s head free, touched the gray with his spurs. The big gelding took three strides, jumped the gate, was hauled up in a stop, spun around, and came back to the fence. Facing Hildahl over the lowered rails, Burn leaned down and slipped a pole in place, caught another rail. The end of this pole skidded on the gray’s shoulder and the horse leaped sideways, started pitching. Half out of the saddle, Burn flipped the end of the pole into place.
Davey hadn’t moved. “Maybe you can catch and brand them, English, after all. Any man rides that way, maybe he can.” He raised a hand in salute, and Burn saluted in turn.
It took three days to fence off the water. The horses scattered on the first day and weren’t much trouble, but, toward the end of that third day, they came in driven by thirst. Burn was counting on that need. The morning of the fourth day, the band pressed against the fence, whickering and calling. Occasionally the stallion would stare at Burn as if knowing the horses’ suffering was a human’s fault.
With the last rail in place, Burn built his fire and laid out a running iron. He’d use Donald’s Bench D since he didn’t have a brand registered in New Mexico. Even Hildahl said the brand was good, and Donald had given his word in the company of another man. Donald didn’t scare him. He’d hold the stock at the man’s place, as agreed. Payment of one colt should be enough for Donald.
When he dropped the rails and let the horses in to water, it was the mares who spilled around the raging stallion. Burn kept the gray bronco well away from the milling horses. He watched the mares drink, their foals pressing tiny muzzles into the suspicious liquid, taking only small laps with baby-pink tongues and then raising their heads in mimicry of their sire.
He gave them a last hour of peace, and, when they were waterlogged and sleepy, Burn rode the gray among them. Even the stallion showed the effect of Burn’s campaigning—while the horse raised his head and shook it, he made no real threatening move. Too tired, too filled with water, and already used to Burn’s presence, the mares barely lifted their heads to watch as their foals stretched out on the grass, filled bellies rising and shaking with each breath.
The dun was dozing over her sleeping filly when the gray ambled up and Burn dropped the rope over her head where it snugged around her neck. The mare reared and the filly staggered as the stallion charged. Burn slapped the dark head with his hat and the big horse stopped abruptly, shook his head, but did not challenge Burn again.
Choking down the mare was ugly. Burn flipped a loop around her front legs and laid her sideways with a hind leg tied up. The mare sighed and quit fighting. It was even uglier when he pressed the crude brand on her flank; she twitched and cried but couldn’t get up. Burn smelled the stink, and shuddered. Back on the gray, he leaned down and freed the mare, having to slap her on the rump before she would get up. The mare stood slowly. The foal came whickering and nuzzling, first her mama’s head and shoulder, then to the warm bag where she settled in to nurse.
Burn waited to dredge up enough strength before roping out the red mare. The stallion paid no attention at all. The mare fought harder than the dun, even savaged the tired gray, but Burn’s hat worked its miracle and the mare sat back on her haunches, where Burn caught a front leg and brought her down.
When he caught up the third mare, the bright sorrel with the off hind stocking, he found his hands trembled as much as the mare’s heart pounded. The gray was barely capable of holding the sorrel while Burn tangled her in the rope and threw her. The new brand was faint and wavering, but it would do.
It was near dark. Burn stood at the gray’s side. He grabbed for the stirrup and the big gray quivered between its ribs where the tired heart pounded. He knew the gray would give out under much more work. So he led the horse to the pole fence, where it took five tries before he could reach the top pole and slide it free. When the lastpole was added to the untidy pile on the ground, Burn led the gray through. Next he had to put the fence back up. He leaned all his weight on the fence once it was rebuilt. He needed two hands to pull himself aboard the gray that staggered under Burn’s slight weight.
He’d do the bachelors tomorrow. As the gray labored uphill, Burn held himself to the saddle and fought open his eyes, struggling with an immediate need for sleep. Tomorrow, he’d do the colts, tomorrow. Right now he plain didn’t care.
The bay colt woke him well after daylight. Burn rolled over and grabbed for his Spencer, sat up, looking for the trouble. The colt and the tired gray were staring along the east side of the valley.
Burn grabbed his gear and slapped it on the gray. When he drew up the
Burn lowered half the rails, jumped the gray in, feeling the hind legs scrape the rails. He spun the gray around and reset the rails. He rawhided the top rail, spat on the hide for luck. Hell, he needed everything he could get.
He whipped the gray into a run across the valley, uphill to the west gate, where the rails were lashed tightly. He cursed his own thoroughness as he cut through the thongs, dropped rails as fast as he could. And he cursed himself for not having branded the colts yesterday. The gray staggered back to the water hole, and the stallion
