Katherine stopped reflecting as another horse raced into the yard. She opened the kitchen door and went outside. No man who rode for Gayle Souter treated a horse in such a manner unless something terrible had happened.
Red Pierson’s face was flushed, his voice high. “They’ve cornered Jack Holden on Slaughter Mesa, near Indio Canon. He ain’t been in Arizona…he’s holed up with a lot of cattle got changed brands.” He spat, took a drink from an offered canteen. “They sent for Lawman Stradley. Word come down English is with Holden. He’s thrown in with the rustlers and been stealing cattle all summer.”
Katherine’s hands shook and she held them together.
Then Stan Brewitt appeared on a spent horse. Behind him came the new man, Spot, on an equally tired mount.
In less than ten minutes the men had roped and saddled fresh mounts while Katherine prepared food. Now she sat at the kitchen table, cradling her hands around a cup of warmed coffee, taking an occasional small sip to keep herself occupied. These men, who had talked shyly to her of their dreams and their distant families, their small hopes, would ride out and kill two men she loved.
She buried her face in her hands, tipping the coffee. She was close to crying, something Katherine Donald did not ever do. The sack of supplies waited on the table, a plain, matter-of-fact token of what was about to happen.
It took her several moments to realize Davey Hildahl stood next to her, dusty hat clenched to his belly, fingers turning the brim endlessly.
“Miss Katherine, I don’t believe it’s English neither. I know the man…not like you maybe…but he ain’t that kind. Holden and him, they couldn’t get along. Ain’t nothing in English that’d let him steal another man’s cows. You take heart, ma’am, I’ll make sure they don’t hang English…if they even find him to the mesa, and I don’t think they will. Don’t you worry, it won’t come to hanging the man.”
She smiled to thank him. He’d promised nothing about Jack Holden. No one could stop that massacre once he was caught. Jack lived the life, now he would die the death.
Davey half opened the door, held it, and found the courage to say the rest that had been on his mind. “You know, Miss Katherine …you heard ’bout some horses loose-herded on good grass…kind of stealing graze from all the ranchers. Me, I think that’s the only kind of stealing Burn’d ever do. Getting his mares fat on other folks’ graze now that we got good rains . . . stealing something that’ll grow back.”
The men left in a tight bunch at a long trot, and Katherine felt the edge of despair again. She would like to ride with these men to Slaughter Mesa and the craggy, rugged depths of Indio Canon. She would like to hold off the rustlers and chase the bandits, herd the bawling cattle. Any work a man could do, she wished to try. But she had been hired as a housekeeper, a civilizing woman on a ranch full of men, and she must do what was expected.
Katherine returned to the table and stared at the coffee stains, studied the shape they took as they soaked into the scoured wood. She rested her head in her cupped hands and watched the sun’s reflection on the glass window disappear, saw the light day air turn to dark.
The rebellion was growing, and she reveled in its bitter freedom.
Chapter Twenty-one
The new man called Spot rode in two days later. Katherine warmed him a plate of stew and poured out fresh coffee. Spot ate fast, then packed a lot of ammunition in two saddlebags and caught out a fresh horse for the return ride to the mesa. He offered no new words on what was happening.
Spot’s quick departure left Katherine alone and more aware of the ranch’s isolation. Few visitors came by on their way to another place. She tried to concentrate on cutting up the old hens and setting them to stew, then she attacked the few vegetables she’d grown in the poor summer garden.
Next she set bread to rising, covered with a heavy cloth, and placed it near the stove, as out of drafts as she could manage. The hens were well seasoned and started in their broth, simmering more slowly now, cooking into a semblance of tenderness. The knowledge weighed on Katherine. The men on Slaughter Mesa would shoot or hang a man, and return to her kitchen hungry and tired, expecting her to feed them even though they had become killers. She would fulfill her duties, knowing these ranch hands turned killers were children under the guidance of older but not wiser men. She would not think about the consequences, she would make her pies and cakes to please them, she could not envision murder. It was a hard land, a hard way of life. Survival here was insured by measures that were strict, sudden, and of necessity without mercy.
What she did after the hens were boiling and steaming on the stove, the bread was covered and rising, was something she had only dreamed of doing. She went to the corral and the only animal that came up to her was Davey’s bay. She petted the bay’s face, and slipped on a neck rope, then twisted the end around the long nose, spending far too much time fashioning a way to lead the horse. Men had always caught and saddled an animal for her. She put her hands on the bay’s neck and spoke firmly until the horse was quiet. Her courage returned, and she laid the blanket on the horse, lifted the saddle to her thigh, then heaved it up and over. The bay accepted the familiar burden with a deep sigh.
She had witnessed the rigging of saddles, so, when she pulled on the latigo and the bay distended its belly, Katherine brought up her knee into the animal’s gut and the bay blew air that smelled of fresh grass and sweet grain. Katherine laughed, and patted the bay neck. Success.
The bridle was another matter, but in the end she was satisfied that, if the bay tried to run away, she would have some control. The metal hunglow in the bay’s mouth but the animal could not spit out the bit. She decided it was time to climb aboard, after retightening the cinch as she had seen the men do.
Katherine pulled, and heaved, and cursed, and eventually found herself in the middle of the saddle before the horse walked away from the fence. Having been witness to the many contests between horse and rider, she was delighted that the bay was so quiet. This happened, she supposed, from its having been ridden hard over the past days. She would not ask much from the horse; this ride was meant solely for pleasure.
A side-saddle held a woman captive, left her awkwardly hanging to what was called a leaping horn, legs dangling, supported while strangled by the saddle’s confinement designed to insure her female safety. Riding astride was forbidden, unmentionable, a daring act no respectable woman would consider. For visits and chores, a woman more often chose the utility of a sensible horse and a fine wagon, harnessed and brought to her, of course, by one of the ranch hands.
Eventually, finding her balance easier with legs placed on both sides of the horse, Katherine began to study her surroundings. She was already well away from the ranch, seeing only grass and tall trees, the shadowed mountains, the overwhelming sky. This was a freedom she had longed for. She let the reins slide loose and kicked the bay, and it was as if a force propelled her backward. She needed to open her mouth wide to inhale gulps of air. Her eyes watered and the tears blinded her, but she was fearful of loosening her grip on the saddle horn to wipe them away.
There was no time or distance, only the horse and the air—the motion that she had not ever felt. The bay was beginning to tire; she knew from the slowing strides, the deep, harsh sound of the bay’s breathing. It was how she felt, also, and it was strange to be in silent agreement with an animal that could neither talk her language nor understand her need.
The horse walked and Katherine leaned down, laid her face on the black mane and spoke all the words she could not say to another human being. The bay tossed its head and moved on.
Then bay stopped abruptly, throwing Katherine forward, and she sat up, outraged. A horseman came from a narrow draw to her left, and the bay swung its head to watch the stranger approach. It was Jack Holden.
He reined in his sweaty paint and nodded to her, tipped his hat. “Good day to you, Katherine Donald. This is not where I would expect to find you. Out hunting?”
Katherine stared at Jack’s face. He had changed—black shadows marred his handsome features. But he still sat his horse with the usual air of grace, one hand on the reins, the other ready to hold a pistol or reach for Katherine.
He was hurried, that was evident by the rise and fall of the paint’s ribs, the white lather showing under the saddle skirt, along the horse’s neck, between its front legs. The paint was thinned down from too many of these
