The English Horses

Briggs seemed to understand as English rolled himself up in a blanket. Looking like his pa a lot then, he was John English’s boy and that man had never quit, had never given in till the illness had taken him. It was a hell of a legacy for a boy to grow into, and it had nothing to do with size.

Briggs stayed alert most of the night, a rare feat for him. He did fall asleep along toward morning, and, when he woke, he was covered with a damp blanket, with the old palomino standing over him, head drooping, lower lip hanging close. When Briggs snorted and coughed, trying to sit up, the horse flapped that lip, yawned wide enough that the old man could count its back teeth, and went right back to dozing.

The fire was banked. A pot of coffee hot to the touch waited. English hadn’t been gone long, and the first rays of sun came hitting over the rocks, making a pink and red wash on the boulders. Briggs stretched hard, pushed Gold out of the way, and drank the coffee right from the pot. The boy had taken the only cup.

Mama yelled from the kitchen that she needed a meat order from Hargreave’s. Now, Mama said, and come get the money. Old man Hargreave always had to be paid in cash.

Rose let the coins roll in her fingers as shewalked. They felt good, as if she held a sudden power. She passed a number of horses tied to the railings in front of the different stores. A child ran in front of her, clutching a wrapped package. This was the sum of her life, errands, demands, everyone else’s needs but her own.

She went to Billy’s livery and told the old man she needed to rent a quiet horse. Billy nodded and grinned, showing his few remaining teeth. “You in a hurry, huh, little lady?”

Rose accepted the quaint leer and comment with no hint of disquiet, for she was bent on following her desire.

Out of sight of town, Rose let the horse amble at an easy pace. She had little idea of where, exactly, she was going, but she knew Jack was out there somewhere, running for his life. All those men were chasing her Jack, but she would be the one to find him. She knew that in her very being; she would find her love and stay with him, protect him.

Three hours later unbidden tears drenched her face. She was exhausted, and alone, night was coming, and she was nowhere that she recognized. The horse climbed up a steep hill, following a narrow track that went on indefinitely. Rose wiped at her tears and yanked on the pinto’s mouth as the animal turned to go down a particular trail. They would go where Rose wanted, not where the stupid horse chose.

Black night through early morning and then mid-morning with its searing, shimmering heat. Rose was crying when the Mexican found her.

“Buenos dias, senorita.”

A polite greeting, but Rose knew better than to trust the man—her mama had taught her well. She quickly wiped her face clean; it would not do for this Mexican to know she was lost and crying.

“Here, senorita, let me offer you some water.”

He was still being very polite and was not that ugly, she rationalized. She let her tired horse drift in closer. “Well, I guess a small sip would be all right. Thank you.” She took the canteen and hurriedly opened it, dropping the cork but not caring as she poured the delicious water into her mouth. It spilled down her chin, soaked into her dress, but she didn’t stop drinking.

“Senorita, it is not good you drink so much. You will become ill, please, senorita.”

Finally she was done, and the pinto horse she rode shivered and swung its ugly head around and licked its lips. Rose politely handed back the empty canteen, ignoring that she had lost its stopper. Her head was swimming now, and her stomach felt odd, heavy and bloated. She dropped the reins carelessly, and pressed both hands to her belly, noting that the Mexican had gotten off his horse and was running his fingers over the ground, looking for something. Good, she thought, he won’t bother me. Then bile filled her mouth and she leaned over the pinto’s side and vomited. The watery liquid spewed from her and she could neither speak nor sit up as the fouled water spilled on the animal’s legs and stained her once pretty dress.

The Mexican said nothing, but took the pinto’s reins and began to walk. Rose Victoria had no voice to complain.

The humiliation was complete when, in a clearing in front of a sturdy adobe and stone hut, she tried to dismount and fell instead, landing heavily on the stone-carpeted ground, legs wide, skirt pulled above her knees. The Mexican had done this to her. Rose fussed and cursed and wiped her wet, stinking mouth. She needed Jack Holden now. Where was he, why couldn’t she find him?

Chapter Twenty-four

Davey Hildahl’s bay showed no interest in hurrying, so Davey let him wander while trying to count up what cattle he saw, guessing where the others might be hidden. When the bay spooked, he was ready. Bones were scattered around or still caught in old wire. He patted the bay’s wet neck and let the horse stand and blow, felt it quiver under him. He was spooked, too, but finally the bay settled.

His camp would be simple. He stripped down the bay, and fed out a cup of oats. Then he rolled himself up in an extra blanket, pulled his hat down over his face, and slept. Come morning it was jerky and coffee, a small fire almost enough to warm him. By mid-morning he’d found a cow. He had first heard her bawl, and then the bay had gone to the sound. Damned fool cow was rolled in wire, cut right up to the hock. Her calf grazed on nearby grass. Ten sections of graze and the cow had had to have that blade of grass over the fence.

Davey slipped from the bay, uncoiled his rope, and got ready. Once he had one leg roped and tied to a tree, one snagged up to the good bay, he was able to doctor the cow’s cuts. The calf got curious and ambled over to watch, decided the bay was its new mama and tried to nurse, and got a hard bite on the rump for the insult.

It was tricky sliding the cow loose while keeping away from her swinging horns, but with Davey back in the saddle and the bay alert and ready, it wasn’t so hard, after all. After the cow trotted off, the bawling calf following, Davey got back to work.

It was a tangled mass of wire, so he dismounted and hobbled the bay, slipped the bit to let the horse eat while he worked. The fence needed to be spliced before the bull found the exit and left for higher country. His fist was wrapped in a coil when he sensed the approach of a rider. He didn’t recognize the fancy black, which was traveling short on the left hind. It had to be Jack Holden, though—and that meant trouble.

Gayle Souter caught himself rubbing his upper lip again, and frowned. He and Red Pierson had stopped at a settlement near Datil Wells. A man there had told them a town girl’d been found on the plains. The man described the girl, and Souter knew immediately it was the oldest Blaisdel child, Rose Victoria. The man’s wife spoke of Jack Holden, saying the girl had been crying for him. Souter and Red had watered the horses, filled their canteens, and asked a few more questions about Holden before they left.

Now they were headed north as Red caught thescent of new tracks and climbed off his bronco. The boy was trembling as he picked at the dirt.

“Look here, Mister Souter. It’s that barefoot colt the mustanger rides. You figure he’s riding to meet Holden…or chasing him?”

A short hour later they hit more tracks. A team and wagon far off any decent trail. Souter thought: Edward Donald. No other fool would drive a wagon this far up in the mountains. Souter shook his head. A country was too settled when a man couldn’t ride five miles or more without crossing fresh tracks.

It was a long run, so Red and Souter held their broncos to a slow gallop, gathering them for the downslopes, urging them up onto the next rise. These two broncos were no good on the end of a rope, no good chasing cows, but, by God, they could run.