apportioned should know the world in an ugly manner.
“I won’t tell you my story ’cause folks’ll tell you. All about Jack Holden and his outlaw ways.”
Gordon held his breath at the man’s honesty.
“Don’t fret now. They’re likely to drive me to my death with words, Mister Englishman. You take note and tell me sometime who speaks up and what story they tell.”
Gordon Meiklejon could not doubt that the townspeople were wise to fear the young man, and wiser still to let him ride on. Holden tipped his hat and reined the sorrel around Gordon and the yellow pony. Horse and rider reached the main street, turned left, and walked down the exact center of that broad path while the town held its breath.
It was the man with the swollen face who took the pony’s reins and led it inside the stable. Gordon followed, curious as to what questions would be asked.
The older man was decisive. “There here’s Melicio’s bronc’. How’d you come by it?”
“Sir, there was an unplanned meeting between this beast’s owner and the gentleman, Jack Holden.” He waited. “Holden has now ridden from town and the pony’s owner lies in the dust. As Mister Holden and I exchanged words, I could see Mister Quitano, down the alley, recovering his senses, and it was apparent he was not interested in continuing the quarrel. I believe the pony will be picked up when its owner is so inclined.”
Unexpectedly his voice wavered and he was familiar enough with battle and its aftermath to recognize he was suffering an attack of delayed fear. The trembling was a reasonable result of the circumstances. He only hoped the man he now faced did not question his courage or honor.
“I come in from the ranch ’cause I got a bad tooth.” The voice was muffled. “Been waitin’ for the doc or the barber. Fella owns this place’s a friend. He’ll be wantin’ cash for holdin’ Quitano’s bronc’.”
He smiled and Gordon found the smile allowed him to relax. He extended his hand. “Sir, my name is Gordon Meiklejon.”
The proffered hand was mostly thick fingers attached to a callused palm. Gordon bowed slightly, careful not to give offense. His hand was pumped twice and let go. The man spat into straw piled high in a corner.
Gordon spoke cautiously. “What can you tell me about Mister Holden? He’s quite interesting.”
“Holden’s a known cattle thief, no worse than most, better’n some. He don’t take too many. He ain’t likely to hurt a man for defendin’ his herd. And he’s been known to take on work for a ranch needs the help. Keeps his stealin’ over to Arizona or Texas.” The man’s voice slowed. “ ’Ceptin’ for Son Liddel. Them two feud over horses, and the rest of us watch.”
Gordon kept his judgment private.
“Quitano lives a hard ride from here. He runs a livery…a hole full of sorry bronc’s.” The broad hand swept widely and Gordon saw the marks of work and years on the raw knuckles. “Melicio says he’s a businessman, but I don’t trust the son far as I can throw him…one-handed.” He waved his left hand. “There’s times a horse goes through his place with one brand, comes out marked for ’nother. Lame bronc’s come back sound.”
“I shall keep your observations in mind, sir. Your name…?” Direct and simple, Gordon ticked his fingers on his jaw and saw the older man’s eyes follow the maimed hand. Certainly now the inevitable question would follow.
“Name’s Gayle Souter. How do?”
Gordon snorted. It seemed almost necessary to shake hands again and both men raised their arms slightly.
Souter grinned. “Meiklejon, you’ve had your introduction and I hope you ’preciate it. There’s good land here, and good people. This place’ll make any man more’n he thought of himself.”
Was the man a seer, able to speak so directly to Gordon’s desires? A younger son cast from the family with little result from his short life other than to follow orders, first from parent and brother, then the military? Now life was of Gordon’s own choosing, such as the foolish gesture of grabbing a runaway’s bridle. A reckless deed, yet, once done, it earned some small approval.
He matched Souter’s grin. Once begun, the grin became genuine and for a moment Gordon’s heart lightened. “Mister Souter, it is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Pompous as usual, yet Souter’s grin grew even as the man grasped the intended sentiment.
“We shall speak later, Mister Souter. I believe I have a few obligations that must be met, sir.”
When they opened the livery door, sun hit them directly and hard wind scurried dust about their boots as the sound and motion of Socorro returned. Meiklejon left with renewed purpose, knowing he would seek out and listen to Mr. Souter when the time was right.
Chapter Two
A chair against an inside wall in the hotel lobby offered succor. The girl from the morning meal reintroduced herself, and Gordon learned that nothing in this country could be counted upon to behave as it should.
“Mister, you look pale. Let me get you some of Papa’s whiskey.” She was young and pretty, he mused. She handed him a chipped glass half full of amber liquid. “My name is Rose Victoria Blaisdel, Mister Meiklejon. Please call me Rose. Welcome to the Southern Hotel.”
When he glanced at her pleasing features, he was startled by the knowing eyes.
“Mister, you weren’t smart to go catching up Quitano’s pony. That puts you between him and Jack Holden, and it’s no place for a greenhorn. You could have been hurt, and you still might get shot.”
Her observations told Gordon that word of his escapade had spread through town. And here was a female, albeit a very attractive one, expressing doubts on his ability to care for himself. She was questioning his experience, assuming that only those rough men clad in leather and outsize spurs could take care of themselves. The remainder of the masculine population must be at terrible risk.
He had fought the enemy and survived, 9,000 miles or more from here; he had been wounded and crawled to safety; he had killed while bleeding into baked ground; he had fought hand to hand and was still alive. She had no cause to judge him on such flimsy evidence as today’s one act. He must correct her impression.
“Miss, I would not allow you to think so little of me. Neither of those men could out shoot me, if it were to come to that.” A rebuke of slender proportions. His voice carried weight and dignity to ease her concern.
“Mister, you ain’t carrying a handgun.”
Gordon laughed. “Miss Blaisdel, you are correct.” He handed her the empty glass. “Thank you for your concerns, and for the liquor. I shall be fine with a few minutes of peace.” He made a great fuss of folding and returning the disgraced linen to his breast pocket, and, when he again raised his eyes, the girl was gone. Whiskey roared in his nether parts, and he felt a sudden need to use the outhouse.
He returned within the half hour, limping slightly. When no one lurked in the hotel lobby, Gordon struggled up the stairs, seeking his room and its isolation. The journey had been difficult, and, by the time he reached his single room, he was desperate to lie down and stretchhis leg, loosen his clothing, and accept the luxury of rest.
For those moments between being awake and asleep, Gordon’s restless mind presented repetitious musings. He was the frail, stranded younger son, caught now in a wilderness from which there was little chance of escape. He could not return to England.
He slept. Sweat soaked into his loosened collar and spread dark circles at his folded arms, banded the unbuttoned waist of his woolen trousers. He rolled his head and fought the demons each man brings to his dreams.
Rose Victoria Blaisdel studied the mound of spoiled potatoes. She and her sisters prepared all the meals, laid out the tables, served the customers, and were told to cleanse their thoughts of any man they served. Rose Victoria hated putting a plate in front of the pink-skinned, sweating men who leered and pinched, if only with their eyes.
“Yes, Mama, I’ll hurry. But the potatoes are spoiled and I can’t peel them fast.”
When she married, it would be to a man with servants for all these disgusting jobs. Mama taught her girls that they should be gracious and inviting without making any promises—until they attracted a suitable husband.
