The English Horses

A horse split the bush, a light roan with a long Roman head, and a quick, pacing gait. Jack shook his head as the man rode in, and his gesture was understood, accepted.

His new partner had a brand of humor. “Ah, senor, I have heard of your fondness for t hese fine animals. That one, he is a beauty, but look, he is trembling and afraid. Is that the mount for a professional thief?”

Jack responded in kind. “Well, senor, I see you choose your mounts by their ugliness. Does this make you a better thief? The one you ride…it must be of the very finest, for I have rarely seen an uglier bronc’.”

The dark-skinned man frowned, then leaned back and patted the roan on its rump. The horse twitched its tail, as if spanking a nuisance fly, then returned to its interrupted nap. “Yes, senor, it is an ugly animal, but it does not waste time and effort on jumping from that which will not hurt it.”

The man’s English was definitely superior to Jack’s Spanish, so they agreed, with a shrug, to continue in that unmusical tongue.

The two rode a half mile off the trail, into one of the many narrow canons that crossed through the mountains. As they rode, Jack was conscious of towering over the man and his pacing roan, and often had to check his bay’s nervous trot. But when they found the most suitable place and dismounted to discuss their future together, Jack saw that it was the horse’s size that was deceptive, for the man was almost as tall as Jack, and much wider in the belly and shoulders, much stronger through the span of his hands.

The Mex spoke: “You are Jack Holden. I am Refugio.”

Jack could hear the doubt in those few words, and nodded casually as he extended his hand and the Mex responded. Refugio looked to be in his thirties, with the usual dark hair and eyes of his breed. A scar across his face—from his right eye to the corner of his mouth—marked the journey he had taken to manhood. Jack watched Refugio’s eyes, saw their black reflection as they traveled up and down Jack’s own frame, taking a similar inventory. When the man’s face opened in a dazzling grin, Jack found he could not keep himself from the same gesture. Never mind their opposing colors, they were matched where it counted.

Refugio began: “It was whispered to me in Springerville that you know to speak with those who would buy cattle branded, but with no bill of sale. I have a small herd, gathered slowly through this long winter. Many cows, several steers, even two bulls that I know will bring much money. But I cannot trail them, or sell them to the gringos who have the money. This is why I come to y ou.”

It was hard reading Refugio’s face. The dark eyes smiled, but no pleasure framed the mouth, the head was half turned. He did not know his man, so Jack squatted, leaned his back against a convenient rock, and stared out at nothing, leaving room for Refugio to do his own thinking. The man watched the sky a bit, then looked down at his own hands, spread them wide and low, squatted next to Jack. In no hurry, confident, the Mex waited a few moments, then brought his hands together, rubbed them dry.

“I know, senor, that I am but a man not always right, wanting only to do his work and get by. More than that, to be a judge of who lives or dies…I do not wish such things for myself.”

Jack spoke. “Have you changed any of the brands?”

“No, senor, I was waiting.”

Jack shrugged. “Well, let’s get it done.”

They rose together. Refugio nodded. He laughed a few moments later when Jack got on the bay and the horse jumped sideways, scraped the side of Jack’s boot before he could settle in the saddle.

“You ride a better horse for work, yes?”

Jack nodded. “Whenever I can.”

It was a lie, but Refugio laughed. “Then I have taken the right partner, senor.”

They parted company at a narrow fork. There was no dust, no sign of the man’s visit. Jack sighed and slapped the bay, felt the explosion of air from the horse’s gut. “Amigo, we are both great fools.” Then it came to him. He’d angle over to Gutierrezville and pick up whatever mail might have accumulated for him over the past month or so.

There was one letter for him at the Gutierrezville post office, written in a hand he did not immediately recognize. It was obviously that of a lady, which he knew through long familiarity with such letters. The envelope was frayed and stained, and held no scent, although it could have started its long journey sprinkled with lilac or rose water.

Dear Jack, the letter began, and he smiled as he read the most ordinary greeting, still not knowing the scribe’s identity. We have not seen each other in many years, but I am asking this favor of you as the only member of our family in which I may place my trust. These words stopped him cold, froze the smile on his face, and seethed in his heart. He had no family. He had ridden away from them more than thirteen years ago, when he was only fourteen.

My son, John, named after you and our father, is proving himself to be a young man in need of guidance. Through inquiries I have determined that you often reside in the southwest New Mexico Territory, which is well known even here for its wildness and the severity and hardship of its life.

Jack reinspected the letter wrapping, which bore any number of faint markings across its front. It had been a long trip from Kansas, detouring in Chihuahua and San Antonio before finding Silver City and then Gutierrezville. He pondered briefly on the whys of such misdirection, as the printed address boldly stated Jack Holden, New Mexico Territory.

John is much like you, dear Brother, in wanting to see the world and in caring little about the feelings of those who love him. Jack paused here to retaste the hurt and anger that had driven him from the home he had once shared with a sister, a tired mother, and a hated father. His “feelings” had been bruised by his final departure; he had left carrying the distinct and bleeding marks of his father’s rage and anger across his young back. There had been no one to ask about young Jack Holden’s “feelings”. The pity inside him, quick to find a raw opening, swelled up and out, and Jack felt the rising pain, fought to crush and stamp it down, where it must lie dormant and banked, let out only upon rare occasion.

I would ask you to take the boy, start him with the knowledge you have won through these separated years. He is not a bad child, not in the way his grandfather speaks of him. But he is wild and ready, and will not stand for such treatment as is often meted out. Jack fought a heavy breath that choked in his throat and wanted to strangle him. I know you too fought this same battle. Therefore, I am sending John Thackery to you, with a few dollars to be used to purchase the clothing and gear necessary for his new life. He has signed on with a herd of cattle being driven to Springerville in Arizona, which I hope is close enough to where this letter finds you. I do not wish him to be a burden for you, dear Brother, but I am no longer capable of standing between my son and my father.

I wish you all my love, and hope that your life is what you had sought it to be so many years ago. Thank you before you even know what is to be asked of you. Thank you for taking in your kin to shape his young life.

It was signed yours truly, and with her name. The same last name that Jack no longer used.