for what I would assume would be large numbers of cows.”
The boy grinned. “Sure we got cattle comin’ through. They ain’t cows though. Them’s kept up to the houses…women say they needs the cows”—he breathed in—“for givin’ milk to babies. Cattle use them pens, mister.” The boy hefted one of Gordon’s bags that weighed half as much as the child himself. “This way, mister… said I’d do you right.”
Meiklejon’s room at the Southern was perhaps excellent considering its surroundings. An ugly little man had brought him to the room, a man who would not cease talking. “Good to see new faces in town, sir. Yes, sir, Socorro’s growing, and growing fast.” Gordon had taken the front room, which was wide and spacious and offered a fine view of the town’s main thoroughfare. He unpacked his stale clothing, and, with the scent of frying meats and freshly boiled coffee in the air, he began to feel an enormous hunger. It was early, not quite eight o’clock, on what was promising to be a hot day.
In the dining room, an older woman, dowdy and well-padded but of good cheer, greeted him. “Yes, sir, yes, Mister Meiklejon. My husband said we had a distinguished new lodger and I saved you our finest table.” The woman, too, promised to talk forever until Gordon raised a hand.
“Thank you kindly, madam. I am quite tired, and rather hungry.”
She spoke no more while leading him to the table of honor. A full breakfast quickly manifested itself.
Quite unexpectedly an enormous loneliness overwhelmed him; he wished to feel a human hand, the safety of a gentle arm, the touch of loving fingers along his jaw. Fear gripped him, intertwined with the gaping loneliness, but any stir of emotion among strangers would be most shameful.
“Mister, you want more coffee? Or a piece of pie? Mama bakes the best pie in town. Lots of travelers have a piece to finish off their breakfast.” A new barbarity couched in words from a pretty mouth intended to gorge him. But these same words gave him distance from his feelings and allowed him the grace of patting his emotion back into place.
“Thank you, miss, but…no. I have taken in all the sustenance my long-abused body may absorb.”
He rose from the table to wander out of doors. He had come here on impulse; he had chosen to place faith in this one town. He would purchase land and settle. Now he needed to learn about his proposed home. In furtherance of this challenge, he approached a supposedly unoccupied gentleman.
“Sir, could you tell me the hour?” It was said politely and Gordon received an ill-tempered look.
“ ’Bout nine.”
That was all he garnered before the man moved to a circle of other men beginning to form. Careful to avoid the widening group, Gordon set an even pace along a boarded street, curious to look in each window and know the business within. He was careful, easy on his stiffened leg, and after some time found himself returned to the same spot where he had previously learned the time.
A deep, full voice spoke harsh words: “Damn him for ridin’ in like we ain’t nothin’ to him. Damn him for all the trouble he’s gonna cause.”
Gordon looked where men were pointing. A horseman had appeared at the edge of town, and the group, surrounding Gordon, drifted apart, faces turned to the approaching rider.
It was the first riding animal Gordon had seen in several weeks that he thought worthy of notice. Most of what was available had been scrub stock, such as usually found in hot climates. Heads too large, ewe necks, narrow-chested, and goose-rumped. Indeed, the most redeeming features of these animals were the ease with which they covered unyielding ground.
This horseman rode a tall, long-legged sorrel marked with too much white for Gordon’s taste, but the animal was well formed and sturdy. The rider’s gear was of the local variety, but its construction and decoration were exceptional. The rider himself possessed a grace not seen in many men, perched as they were on their scrawny mounts. The usual wide-brimmed hat shadowed much of the face, withholding the eyes from Gordon’s study. The head bent down, the eyes appeared too briefly, a light shade of blue startling in the darkened face.
“ ’Mornin’, mister. Nice day…for buzzards and weasels.”
Gordon wisely said nothing. Although the rider’s clothes were mended and patched, the bridle held medallions of silver and the saddle was carved with ornate flowers. Even the handgun was nestled in its scrolled holster. Gordon noted that the rider’s free hand rested near the pistol at all times. As horse and rider proceeded, Gordon recognized a marked change in the group of men—their sound had muted, their hands had stilled. It became difficult to draw in a breath. Gordon’s heart raced, his pulse thumped as he watched the sorrel horse strut. He waited. Still nothing happened, no one moved.
Then a voice crackled and stopped the prancing horse.
“Well, there, Mister Holden. You come to be miserable with me or to make the misery worse? Sure can use the company while I wait.”
An older man, heavy-set and in some obvious discomfort, had emerged from a building marked Livery Stable. One hand was set tentatively against the swollen side of his reddened face. This sudden presence knocked air into Gordon’s lungs and stirred the group of silent men.
“Hey there, Souter. Ain’t seen you since I got this bronc’. You had some strong opinions on my choice, I remember.”
The two men laughed, even Gordon smiled, and the endless traffic around them resumed. Words were exchanged between the two men that Gordon could not hear. Then the sorrel horse became agitated, shifting its weight, stamping a front hoof to paw the dirt. Sweat showed thick and white between the animal’s hind legs as its tail slapped wet hide.
The man addressed as Holden nodded to his older companion, then touched long legs to the horse’s sides. Nothing else seemed to move as the big horse skittered down a convenient alley. Even Souter remained watchful until Holden disappeared, and then he went inside.
Gordon’s leg trembled, his eyes fluttered, and he could feel that thump inside his chest. He would try a cafe across the street for a glass of something cold. Then he would resume his quest. But a commotion behind him forced him to look back as a thin horse ran past him. A scrub barely thirteen hands, ears flat, tail high, the pony responded frantically to the lashings of its fat rider. Horse and rider skidded into the same alley that minutes before had received the sorrel gelding and its commander. Gordon hurried in a painful run, determined not to miss the inevitable confrontation with Holden. Short of breath, he stopped, wiped his wet eyes with the back of his sleeve.
Mouth gaping, reins flying, the thin, yellow pony now raced toward him. Freed of the rider’s bulk, the saddle rose and fell with each stride, its heavy stirrups unnecessarily goading the pony’s flight.
When the pony was close, Gordon jumped to catch the bridle. His fingers felt the wet muzzle, the pony’s breath close on his face. The ponyslowed, then reared against Gordon’s grip. Yanked off balance, Gordon caught the saddle horn and righted himself. His heart and breath roared, but he heard the words.
“Now that’s not the smartest thing I’ve seen a man do. Jumpin’ out to catch that scrub could get a man killed.” It was the rider on the sorrel.
Gordon shrugged as he drew the reins over the pony’s head. He used his damaged right hand to withdraw his last linen handkerchief to wipe his face.
The man continued: “That bronc’ belongs to Melicio Quitano. Obliged if you’d take it to Billy’s stable. Melicio don’t need it right now, but when he wakes up, he’ll be wanting to ride on.” Derision laced the words.
This Quitano was alive or he would have no further need of the yellow pony, Gordon surmised. Choosing carefully to exhibit himself as a thoughtful man despite such risky behavior, he said: “I shall see to the pony, sir.”
Laughter made the retort barely comprehensible. “ ‘Shall’ is it? You’re that Englishman.” The laughter stopped. The sorrel’s horseman leaned back in his ornate saddle, rubbing a place high on his arm. “I commend you, Englishman, for catchin’ that pony.”
Gordon passed the stunted fingers across his jaw. It was his ruse for stalling.
The rider hesitated, then spoke: “It’s not likely
Gordon’s instinct as he looked directly into the handsome face was one of pity. That a man so young and well
