The English Horses

The air chilled. Jack felt the itching wind across his back.

Refugio maintained his steady smile and waved a thick, work-stained hand. “We are all of the same color here, nino. Outlaw. You will do to mind your manners for we have more weapons than the one rifle and pistol of your sainted uncle.” The words came laced heavily with scorn but did nothing to quiet the boy.

“You say what you want, Mex. I ain’t listenin’.”

Jack pulled his horse around and back handed the boy across the mouth. The blow knocked him clean off the horse, hands flailing, grabbing for anything. The yellow mare moved sideways, dropped her head to graze. The boy lay out on the ground, and his pale, flecked eyes found the face of his uncle.

“You learned a lot from the old man, didn’t you, Uncle?”

The boy had a way of saying “Uncle” with equal parts derision and bitterness. The thin face bore a red handprint across the cheek, but the eyes never blinked or cried.

“Boy, you work or ride on. Don’t matter to me,” Jack said, calming his bay, watching the kid try to figure things out.

The boy’s eyes went to the grazing yellow mare, saw the ribs and bony quarters, the white hairs around the muzzle and above the eyes. They took in the patched saddle, the lack of rifle or scabbard, the thin bedroll tied on with mended strings. Then those eyes came to rest on Refugio, the still grinning man, before moving on to Jack.

“I’ll work, Uncle.”

Jack nodded. “Keep your miserable thoughts to yourself.”

The boy nodded, hate right there in his eyes.

Jack shrugged, uncaring. He’d seen that very hatred before in his own father’s face.

Preparing the cattle took two days because Refugio was in no hurry. And the boy kept getting in the way, dropping things at the wrong moment. Testing, Jack thought, deliberately acting dumb,setting the steers running, chousing a mama cow from a vaquero’s long rope. Around the largest of the two stolen bulls, the boy was quiet and competent, yet, whenever Refugio or one of the other men had a steer caught by its heels and on its way to the fire, the boy lost the iron in the dust, or the knife jumped from his hand.

Refugio knew what had to be done. Jack nodded his agreement, then stepped back. The rope from Refugio’s hand went over the boy’s thin chest. The boy spun in anger, helpless, and caught sight of the grinning Mex who had roped him, and began to rant and curse with words even Jack did not often use. Refugio laughed, and touched his spurs to the sturdy pacing roan. The animal jerked back, the boy came plunging forward, landing hard on his face and chest.

Refugio coiled the rope as he guided his roan in toward the yelling, struggling boy. Refugio leaned down, keeping the rope taut, never letting the boy have a chance, and said: “Nino, you are no more than a fool, and a very young one at that. You make more work for yourself and your esteemed uncle. I will show you the way, nino. I will take you out into the world and you will find what awaits you there. For your words and your hatred are nothing against my rope.”

With that he swung the roan in a tight spin and kicked the little horse, which quickly hauled the boy across the rough ground. Jack was still, relaxed even; Johnny had asked for this and deserved it. Jack trusted Refugio would not deliberately kill the boy. The boy bounced and jumped until he got lost in the dust, but Jack took note that the roan bucked against Refugio’s hand on the rein, and that most of the cactus and rock were missed. In a few minutes the lesson was over. The roan halted, the rope shook loose and coiled up against Refugio’s saddle. The boy lay still. Jack did not go to help him. Refugio turned his back, after nodding to Jack, who saluted in return. It was easy with the Mex. Words were not necessary, only quick glances and shrugs. Their lives ran parallel, the boy an unwelcome irritant.

Johnny crawled to his knees, shook like a sweaty bronco, stood carefully, and rubbed at his face, wiping dust from his shirt and pants. And still Jack did nothing but sit on his bay and wait. It was inevitable. The boy caught Jack’s gaze with his hot eyes. There was an exchange—a rapid fire of hate and fury. Jack smiled. The boy would not be with Jack too long.

The remaining steers were cut out and the brands reworked quickly, easily, with the aid of a bruised and torn young boy, whose face was tracked with muddy tears, but whose mouth was blessedly silenced. Only the eyes showed a fury, but eyes did not kill a man.

In ten minutes or so the herd was gathered and readied. The boy did his job, saying nothing. Jack gave him the same courtesy. They rode out, Johnny Thackery to the left drag, punishment for his sin of hatred, for the wind blew from the east, lifting a cloud of dust and dried manure over anything in its path.

Four days later the cattle were sold, south of Gallup, to an Army gent who’d forgotten he knew how to read a fresh brand. It didn’t matter, the government’s hard cash was good, and Refugio with his two amigos rode off, counting their shares. No parting words were said; none was expected. Jack would see the man when they needed each other. Till then it was “Adios”. Jack liked and trusted the man. But he had a shadow riding too closely—one Refugio would not risk his life in saving. Jack could hate his nephew, he thought, if he studied on it long enough.

Chapter Eighteen

Out on open grass, thunder told them they were in trouble. Jack kicked the bay as he picked out a shallow depression in the ground ahead and went to it at a run. The kid followed, mostly because he didn’t care where he rode, and the yellow mare was too herd-bound to leave the bay.

They’d come from Red Hill, headed south, near the soft contour of the hill that gave the little settlement its name. Jack always suspected this land—it rolled and turned green fast, but hidden underneath was red dirt and rock, and the green wasn’t the green of grass but a thin useless weed. Bush and scrub, but still, if a man didn’t expect much of beauty, the area was pleasing. Except when a storm came hurrying across the hills, blasting thunder and rain, digging into the ground with shots of lightning. There were no caves or gullies where a man and horse could wait out the fury. It was too wide open which was why Jack pushed the bay into a gallop. He could see the outline of a depression too far away, the lightning hitting too close. Hail made the bay reluctant to face the wind, and Jack needed to spur and beat the gelding to keep it running.

Jack did a skidding dismount and dragged the horse with him, caught the bay’s head at the bit, and drew it around to touch the saddle. The bay staggered. Jack threw his weight into the horse’s shoulder and the terrified animal went down hard. Jack lay across the horse’s neck, and prayed.

A shape rose up in the rain; a voice called out with its bitter taunt. “You scared, Uncle Jack?”

Damn fool boy. “Only idiots don’t fear these storms. Get down, kid!” His last words were drowned out by thunder. Close on its heels came a flare of light. Jack saw the blue-white streak cut through the dark sky over Red Hill, and the accompanying sulphur smell overwhelmed him. The ground under him shuddered with the blow. The bay screamed, tried to throw Jack, but suddenly quit struggling as Jack twisted a tender ear. Then fire hit Jack on his left wrist where it touched the buckle of the bay’s headstall. The fire traveled through him, crackling and searing his insides. He smelled burned hide, felt pain travel his left arm, then his heart stopped beating, and his eyes no longer closed against the driving rain.

It was his heart that let him know he was living. That area of his chest rose and fell painfully where the heart tried beating. Jack counted each labored pump, could hear the driven blood pulse in his ear, could almost feel it run through the ends of his fingers, down his legs, and back across his thighs, deep into his groin, his belly, and back into his overworked heart.

No rain, no clouds, no more lightning. Not even a whimper of distant thunder. He lifted one arm above his head and saw the fist open and close, felt the deep pain travel to his shoulder and back. The shirt sleeve was torn. The flesh beneath it streaked red and charred. He gently rested the arm on the ground and he rolled back, saw the corpse of the bay gelding about ten feet from him. His last memory was of the bay’s rolling eye close to his own face. Hell of a storm.

He came to his knees, then slowly fought to get up from the ground. He saw the legs of a pale yellow horse