Miss Katherine stared at the man laid out on the narrow bed. Davey fled from the ranch house, stopped, leaned against a wall, and swallowed twice to keep from fainting.
At the water trough, he worked the hand pump and shucked off the filthy shirt, bent under the pump, scrubbing hands and arms and chest until he felt almost clean. Endlessly he spat and drank and washed his hands, but when he opened his eyes, new blood stained the knuckles and the creases along his wrist. If he closed his eyes, he saw Miss Katherine’s face, and the still form of Burn English.
A weight settling on his bare shoulders made Davey step back until he saw it was Gayle Souter, speaking almost soundlessly like Davey was aspooked bronco. “Son, you ride up to that camp. Seems to me you made a promise. You best keep it.” Then Souter turned away.
Davey went back to washing. His hands were still bloody. When the cold got to him, he walked, sjpg-legged, to the bunkhouse where Red sat on the edge of his thin mattress. Still shamed by his weakness, Red asked: “He gonna live, Davey?” The boy did a man’s work, but in truth he was only a boy.
Davey touched a hand to his own neck, his belly, and chest. “Don’t know, Red. Won’t know till the doc comes.” It wasn’t much to go on and the boy ached for some small truth. “He’s alive now.” Having said all he could, Davey turned to digging through his war bag for a clean shirt, a pair of pants. When he stood up to dress, he was alone. And when he got outside, buttoning up a canvas coat, a big sorrel gelding, saddled with Davey’s rig, was waiting. A blanket roll and empty saddlebags were tied on. Another horse stood close by with halter and lead.
Red Pierson was there to hand the lead up when Davey mounted. Davey felt old, as though he had seen too much. He gulped and shuddered, rode out not saying thanks or see you in a few days.
Gayle Souter raised a hand in half salute. Red drifted in to stand near Souter. They watched, and said nothing.
Davey wished he could explain this to Meiklejon, wished he could set the man down and show him Souter and Red and even English. It was more than a man could talk out, more than a cow pusher could put into words. They knew the facts of money, the reasons for the wire. But more than that, a way of life was disappearing and those like English would not make the change.
Davey gigged the sorrel into a lope and felt the haltered horse set back on the line. The sun began a sliding drift behind Cat Mountain and he welcomed the shadows.
Chapter Twelve
His hands trembled so he forced the instrument down and pushed back from the table that served as his writing desk. In the future he would import a proper desk, but, until life included a defined income, he would utilize what was available from Littlefield’s meager collection.
Such idle thoughts were meant to cover the turmoil and obviously the effort was not enough to prevent panic from settling in. He was scared. This terrible accident was from his decision; he had had the wire strung, he had made those comments, out of curiosity, about the possibility of his being the rightful owner of the horses. Through all this he had discounted the mustanger’s fierce temper.
He went into the kitchen to find it cold and empty. No remains of a cooking fire, no signs of a meal in interrupted preparation. Lighting an oil lamp, he carried it to the back room, where he intended to peek in and see for himself how the patient was doing. Perhaps the doctor was already in attendance. Miss Katherine would be found there, silent and contained, waiting for either life or death. Her vigil was a mute reminder of Gordon Meiklejon’s failings.
Davey let the sorrel pick its way. There weren’t many folks in his life he’d trusted, but he knew and liked the mustanger, and he trusted Miss Katherine. Thirty-one years old yesterday, and no ties except to the brand. Worked since he could climb into a saddle alone, like most of the men he rode with. Youngsters thrown into the world and meant to live or die by chance or fortune.
He had no complaints—the cook fed well, the foreman was solid. The bunkhouse didn’t leak much and a man rarely woke up with snow covering his feet. Miss Katherine was the only problem, and now it was Burn English added to the list. They both made Davey take a good look at himself, and the truth was bitter. He was a bony, long-legged son-of-a-bitch. Like all his parts didn’t fit together. He admired the compact men who were quick on their feet, easy in the saddle, and easy talking with Miss Katherine and other ranch women.
It was one-sided love for him and Miss Katherine. He could look in the cracked bit of glass that served as a mirror and see t he round face with its shapeless nose, the brown puppy eyes, the blond hair that fell in his eyes or stuck to his skull. Man in his dreams didn’t look like that. The man he’d like to be would have her fall in love with him. Not so wi th the real Davey Hildahl.
English was quick in his movements. He shamed Davey by his handling of the broncos, and he raised an instinctive jealousy by his stubbornness. Davey would like to feel t hat strongly about something, but, other than Miss Katherine, nothing was worth the effort. To English, those broncos were everything, to Davey they were horses. Thoughts confused a man, he figured.
It was pitch black now, but the sorrel stuck to the faint trail and Davey let the horse do its job. That’s all he asked—to do his job and live out his life. He’d ridden this trail too often lately. Maybe if he hadn’t come up this way looking for a stray brindle cow, none of t his would have happened.
The sorrel nickered and Davey heard the colt before he saw him. Heard the odd
There was a promise Davey needed to keep; he was tired but the promise had been made. So he laid a cinch ring in a new fire, an act against the law but handy when an off-brand had to be drawn. As the ring heated, Davey played in the dirt with a stick, tracing out Edward Donald’s mark. He hated this, putting that sign on the colt, but it was a promise.
He was pushed from behind, and, looking back, saw the lively eyes and pricked ears of the dark colt. Hard to believe this was a slick mustang, and entire. But English said the colt was caught wild, and, as Davey made an inspection trip around the horse, he saw no sign of previous ownership. English must be some magician with the broncos, to keep this colt friendly and willing, and already saddled. No spur marks on the dark sides, no tears or cuts at the muzzle. Some kind of magic.
He admired the colt and wondered how he would throw and brand it. It was too easy. He slipped a short rope around a hind leg and yanked, and the hobbled colt fell. Davey roped up the legs and laid on the brand. He’d given his word. He undid the hobbles first, then the leg ropes, and let the colt up. The mustang snapped at its scorched flank, struck out at Davey, and then charged the Meiklejon horses before bolting into the dark. It was just as well English hadn’t branded the colt.
He had time to cook up beans and boil coffee. He ate a sour meal before rolling up to sleep.
In the morning he woke wrestling with nightmares. He hustled and it didn’t take long to gather English’s few belongings, pack them on the led horse. Davey swung up on the sorrel, in no great hurry.
He took the west fork, which went the long side of Lightning Valley before opening to the Quemado trail. He tracked left toward the bright strip of grass seen through a stand of tall pine. At the wire fence he got down, tied his horses real tight.
A mustang lay with its skull wrapped in wire. Davey pulled gear from the gray outlaw’s hide. The ground around both horses was dark in too many patches, and Davey fought to do the chore, to see nothing else. He’d done ugly chores before, but none of them stuck deep like this one.
The gear went on the lead horse, and for a moment Davey let his fingers slip over the saddle leather. Old, patched, well-tended, and solid. The latigos were new, the
