The English Horses

senor. There is nothing more to him than to any growing boy. You are not, perhaps, used to the role, senor? I have three daughters, and their mama and I know something of a child’s mind.”

Jack thought about that, thought about Refugio as a father, watching the boy slap the yellow mare when she pushed to get into the stream. He shook his head. “No, Refugio, he is not just a growin’ boy. Some of them come up to be killers, remember that.”

Refugio’s thick hand clapped Jack’s shoulder. “Let us ride to those fine cattle that wait impatiently for us. There the boy will find enough action and excitement to keep him busy.” Refugio looked away from Jack as he continued. “I know hatred, senor. I have felt it many times. It does not come from you. Your sister was right to send him to your care. You are good for him, senor. Although I suspect that having the boy in your camp sometimes spoils a good night’s sleep. You do not think in color, senor. You think only of stealing cattle, and horses, and women.” The man glanced slyly at Jack. “It is not much for a man’s days, is it, mi amigo? But it is better than hate.”

He wasn’t living a high moral life, Jack thought, and Refugio was right, and knowing it was a scalding tonic. Jack swallowed hard. “Senor Refugio, I thank you.” He extended his hand.

Refugio laughed. “Let us ride to our cattle, senor.” And then he shook Jack’s hand.

It was well after dark when they made camp on the mesa. Refugio told the boy to set up a picket, cut grass, and portion out handfuls of the precious grain for the horses. They would need the extra strength in the coming day, and it could not be risked to hobble the broncos and turn them loose.

Jack laid his left hand on a bleached pine log and stared at his long fingers, raising each oneand feeling the strain of each particular tendon. Since the lightning strike, his hand hadn’t worked right. It puzzled him to see his fingers fail to respond to simple commands.

When the boy was done eating and had fallen asleep, Jack and Refugio sat together companionably. Refugio gave Jack more of the crumbled herbs to spread over the burn. It looked better than it had this morning, and Jack nodded his thanks.

Refugio talked, more to hear something than for any reason. “This rancher we are to visit, he had ranged his herds up on the mesa on grass that was claimed by another man. His cattle have been driven off, so he will be an easy target for us. The others will not come to his side and fight. This will make our life easier, eh, senor?

It was simple with Refugio, no need to play any role, no need to be more than a lazy thief.

Well before dawn they saddled up. Refugio led them to the mesa that ended abruptly, the rim scarred with flat shale, slab rock, small prickly pear, and stunted juniper. The roan casually headed over the edge, flipping its tail high as its rump disappeared over the ridge. All Jack could see at one point was the top of Refugio’s faded hat.

The boy followed Jack, fretting with the yellow mare. Jack headed the paint downhill. Halfway down, there was a small bench, and he caught up to Refugio.

“See, senor, there is Slaughter Mesa. We have saved more than a day’s ride.”

Jack followed the motion of Refugio’s hand and saw in the newly breaking sun a glittering shaft of light on a boulder set precariously into a straight run of shale and trees. It inspired awe, how the boulder clung to that hillside.

“Believe me, senor. You can ride from the top of that mesa straight into that rock and there is a trail that follows its base, which brings a rider down to the bottom. It is not a trail to be used lightly, but a man with nerve and a good horse can make the trip.” Then Refugio laughed. “Of course the steady horse is important.”

Refugio lifted his reins when the yellow mare came puffing and blowing in beside them. Time was wasted letting her recover. Refugio covered the time by talking. “It is beautiful, is it not, senor?

”

The boy’s face was drawn white; his hands barely kept their hold on the reins. The two men ignored these signs of nervousness; there was no other way off the small mesa.

Jack agreed with Refugio. It was truly beautiful to look out and see into the distance. The sun was against the top of Slaughter Mesa now, turning the flat expanse blood red. Small dots could be seen—cattle moving, bawling for their sleeping calves. The sound carried lightly on a quick breeze. Refugio sighed contentedly.

Below them the trail turned back on itself. Refugio’s roan gathered its hind legs underneath to jump a fallen pine, and Jack watched as Refugio leaned back slightly to help balance the horse. The roan easily evaded a series of tangled branches and walked out to a smoother section of the trail. Jack let his paint have a go at the treacherous descent.

Something floated past Refugio’s head, slowly at first, then picking up speed with the wind. Floating out over nothing, it caught a current and dropped quickly, sliding down the roan’s shoulder, flapping between the horse’s front legs. The spooked horse threw up its head, tried to swing about on the narrow trail. Refugio’ face turned up to Jack—the dark skin was pale, the eyes wide. Then the roan buck-jumped over the object—John Thackery’s hat— stumbled, and one hoof slipped from the trail. The animal snaked its heavy neck, staggered, fought to stop sliding. Refugio threw his weight with the roan, but the slick-shod hoofs could catch on nothing but mud, wet pine, and moss. The roan tumbled off the trail’s edge.

Jack hauled back on his trembling paint. He thought he could see the side of Refugio’s face; he thought he could feel the terror and fear as horse and rider tumbled into aspen and pine.

The faded hat lay in the trail. Jack urged his paint forward, spurring the horse over fallen logs and tangled branches, but the horse would not pass by that hat. Jack rammed in his spurs, and the paint backed up from the signal, responding more to panic as Jack called out but heard nothing in response.

He scrambled from the saddle, falling to his knees on the slippery hillside, catching hold of a shaky pine. Listening for Refugio’s voice, for any sound. Nothing. So he stuck out his feet and skidded them downslope, following the deep gouges of the roan’s fall. He looked up once and saw the yellow mare’s underbelly as she too leaped from the trail.

Jack could barely protect himself from the branches that slashed him, the rocks that pounded his legs and backside. He dug in his boot heels, planted his spurs, and rode the slick hill. His fall was broken by the half-buried rump of the roan. Jack fell forward, grabbed a tree, yanked himself upright.

A call drew him to a clump of tangled aspen, young trees that had given way to a stronger force. A boot was caught between two slender trunks. Gently Jack knelt and freed the boot, laying Refugio’s leg carefully on the mossy ground. He heard the accompanying groan. He made himself crawl closer. He had smelled the smell before in a gutted horse, a wounded bear, a deer taken with a bad shot.

“Senor?” The voice was weak.

Jack braced one trembling hand on an aspen and lightly touched the undamaged side of the man’s face. “Mi amigo.” He choked out the words. “I didn’t know you wanted to fly.”

“It seems, amigo, that in truth I cannot fly at all.”

Jack did not flinch or betray his horror, for it was Refugio and not a broken animal. He had never seen an eye torn from its socket before. The ruined face made an effort at a one-sided grin.

“It is good I was not handsome before, senor. Not like you. For now, indeed, I would be very angry.” Refugio tried to lift one arm, but it was broken at the wrist and again above the elbow. Even so, the weak effort caused a spasm through the body.

Jack sank back on his heels and closed his eyes. When Refugio coughed, he opened them. A dark stain widened around Refugio’s shoulders, more blood soaked into the ground by his hips.

“Mi amigo, you have a task ahead that is not often asked of one friend by another. But it is necessary. I will die. Nothing and no one can help. But you…you can let me know I have had one good