big enough to feed three men. Briggs sucked on the skin, smacked his lips, and made a great show of enjoyment. Davey was pleased enough to see the old man wrapped in clean bandages. He said “Good Night” to the two men, but Briggs wouldn’t let him go.
“Son, you set and eat. I already told doc how you brung me in when that blessed mule was making my life a pure misery. Doc’s willing to share out more o’ this chicken while you tell him how our friend English fares.”
Lockhart nodded. “Good of you to help, Davey. Heard you boys been busy this summer. How’s our patient doing? Wouldn’t have given him a chance, two months past. A tough one for all there’s so little to him. Cured buffalo hide and nails. Men like him, they’re hard to kill.”
Davey winced at the word “kill”, thinking too clearly on Briggs’s earlier comments. That chicken was beginning to smell awful good as he answered Lockhart. “Doc, he’s walking, but not talking much. He’s wasted down to ’most nothing. If iron nails hold him together, they’s sure as hell gone rusty.”
Lockhart nodded absently and passed Davey a chicken wing, a plate with two slices of stale bread, a mess of
At the livery stable, Billy wasn’t around to bother a man with all his unsaid words. Davey burrowed into soft hay. The horses stamped and snorted, so he wasn’t alone. He could forget all he’d left behind at the L Slash, and he slept hard, woke in exactly the same place where he’d lay down.
Past sunrise he had the team harnessed and standing in front of Miller’s. It was a waste of a good new day. Miller arrived at 7:30 to unlock the doors. With the sun already past the false fronts and shining into the street, Davey was fretting, anxious for the wire to get loaded, so he could get out of Socorro.
Before he settled in the wagon, he bent down and picked up a handful of rocks, some no more than the size of beans. He put them in a pile by his boot, then sucked on bitter coffee while Miller and his boy loaded the wagon. When they were done, Davey, lines in his hands, picked up the whip and nodded to Miller and his boy. The kid was growing; Davey remarked on that fact. Miller nodded, the kid turned red, and Davey started up the team.
The mealy bay hadn’t improved with feed and a stall for the night. The horse plain refused to pull, so Davey tickled it along the ribs with the whip, then threw one of the small rocks at the bay quarters, to convince the horse that pulling was easier than Davey’s temper. The bay leaped forward, and for two miles or more the sorrel was in agreement on Davey’s choice of speed. Full-outbolt, heads high, tails slapping in Davey’s face. He kept the lines soft and let the pair run. When the heat and sun got to them, and they wanted to slow, Davey wouldn’t let them and the bay went to sulling. Davey used more of his rock supply to keep the bay moving, and once he hit the sorrel by mistake. The gelding looked back at Davey, clearly annoyed. Davey tipped his hat, and the sorrel nodded like it understood. Then the big horse bit the mealy bay on the underside of its neck, and the horse squealed, tried to bite back. Davey’s whip got between them and caught the bay hard on the lip. The bay surged forward, then settled into working. The rest of the trip was easy.
Davey saw the white shine of the San Agustin plains in the distance as they started down the slow hill past the Gallinas Mountains, but then the team snorted and shied from a carcass. The hide was white, the flesh half eaten, sinew and bone stretched out, only the thin mane and tail remaining. So the old man lost his mule like he wanted.
He pushed the team till the sorrel up and quit on him. Davey calmed down when he saw the thick white lather between the heavy draft legs, the ribs bellowing up and down to get in more air, and knew he’d been too bent on hurrying. He got out of the wagon, but not before looking around, and walked a mile or two himself, in penance. No self-respecting cowpoke would be seen walking alongside two respectable broncos.
The team dragged him in just before dawn. Every light was on in the house and the men were spread out in the yard. Bare feet, naked chests wrapped in blankets, and not one hat on a head in sight. Their attention was on Burn English in the center—half naked, in loose-fitting drawers, and a thick bandage wrapped across his belly. The men stood watching quietly.
Davey hauled in the team and wrapped their lines around the whip and climbed down very carefully. The team felt his weight move and pulled forward to stop at the corral, waiting expectantly for nothing.
Red Pierson tried to mouth something, but English raised his arms. Red dropped his head, and then Davey saw why. English carried a fancy rifle that Davey recognized from Meiklejon’s collection. A real monster weapon that would put a hole the size of a city hotel through any man trying to get within arm distance of a mighty riled mustanger.
Then Miss Katherine came out, her hair loose and flowing, with a dark wool shawl around her shoulders. Her face turned as white as her gown. English moved at the sound of her voice, but that god-awful weapon stayed steady in his hands. Davey, like the rest of the gathered men, didn’t twitch or chance a sigh. Her voice held concern. English’s hands shuddered and he moved closer to the light. Ugly, blooded eyes a pale fire. Davey raised his hands, took a half step, drawing English’s attention from the woman.
“Hell, I like being noticed, same as any fellow, but this reception’s kind of much, don’t you boys think?”
No one spoke, but English frowned and the big rifle moved a bit, a few inches to the left of Davey’s gut.
Davey addressed English, saying: “Howdy. Weren’t it cold? How ’bout giving me that rifle? Looks heavy… more’n one man can hold.”
Nothing seemed to go through those eyes; they held to Davey, but did not see him.
Then there was a slow change, a shift, as Miss Katherine came in next to Davey. English staggered. Davey saw Red begin to reach out. He shook his head, hoping the kid would get the message. English seemed finally to see Davey, so he asked for the rifle again and it was given up with no effort. Davey took the rifle as well as a deep breath.
English’s eyes locked on the woman’s mouth, as if by seeing those lips he could understand the words that had been spoken. For it was obvious, the man was out on his feet. Davey wondered what had gotten English riled.
He saw the beginning of English’s collapse before any of them. The frail body shivered, then the wild face drifted from watching Miss Katherine to seeking out Davey. The strangest eyes Davey had ever seen—a pale green shimmer, even in the dawn light, the black rim struck off sparks, the white threaded with bloody lines as the black lashes laid a shadow on close bone.
Red Pierson remained. The others were gone. English’s hands reached Davey and their heat had the feel of dying. Davey’s belly turned over on him and he choked down, swallowed. A hand touched his face, a feather’s touch. Two fingers swept his jaw and English tried to grin.
“Need to shave, Hildahl. Look like a damned
Davey grabbed for him as the man let go. Red caught an arm as Davey slid his hands beneath the man’s shoulders and kept him from falling. It was tough on Red to carry English back to the house, to see how bad off a man could be and still live. Pierson had to leave once they got English laid out on his narrow bed like a new corpse. Davey didn’t blame the kid.
Davey found Miss Katherine in the kitchen, holding a white cup to her mouth, sipping noisily, watching Davey over the cup’s rim. She said: “My father came here late this evening…to argue with everyone. Father took it to M ister Meiklejon, laid it out…all about the wire and the brand being registered to Edward Donald and not Burn English, not Gordon Meiklejon, and that no man had the right to take anything from him.” She took more of the coffee, motioned to Davey to do the same. He raised the cup to his lips, found there was brandy in the coffee, and took a large swallow, gulping down the heat and letting it calm him. “My father is despicable. When he was gone… after Mister Meiklejon had Mister Souter and Stan Brewitt remove him forcibly…I talked with Burn. I thought he understood. Then, after we all had gone to bed, I heard this terrible noise, and when I got outside.…Thank you, Davey, for helping. I don’t know how else this would have been resolved. My father has made Burn sick again, just when he was beginning to heal.” Her eyes clouded, and she pulled the wool shawl closer to her chin. “There are times when I actually hate my father, Davey. Do you think I will be forgiven for that?”
There wasn’t much Davey could say. He tipped his hat, backed out of the kitchen, and walked to where Red was busy unharnessing the team and trying to dodge the mealy bay’s hind hoofs. Davey helped, absently thanking the kid for knowing what needed to be done.
“Davey…Mister Hildahl? What’s wrong with him? He looks like he’s crazy, like he’s got to kill someone.” The boy wasn’t dumb.
“Red, he’s crazy from the pain. Bad fever runs a mind in circles, keeps a man from knowing right from wrong
