Only one thing was known for certain. The doctor in Ingalls had confirmed that he’d treated Doolin for a gunshot wound to the foot. The wound, as near as Tilghman could piece it together, had been suffered in the running gunfight with the Beaver County posse, two days before the raid on Ingalls. Edith Doolin, the outlaw’s new bride, refused to confirm or deny any part of the story. Yet the wound, to some small degree, explained the month-long absence of the Wild Bunch. Doolin would stick to cover until his foot was healed.
“Consarn it,” Brown grumbled. “You got to where you just drift off, don’t you?”
Tilghman realized he’d been staring into space. “Only now and then,” he said lightly. “What’d I miss?”
“I asked you when we was gonna buy some more mares. We got land enough for a herd four or five times this size.”
“Well, I thought we might hold off till spring. I’d like to take a look at brood stock up in Missouri, or down south. Maybe improve our bloodlines.”
“Time’s a-wastin’,” Brown said. “Why wait till spring?”
“Unfinished business,” Tilghman replied. “You know I can’t leave.”
“You’re talkin’ about Doolin and his bunch, aren’t you?”
“Who else?”
Brown took a final drag on his cigarette. He dropped the butt and ground it underfoot. “So you’re stuck here,” he said. “I’m a pretty fair judge of horseflesh. Why don’t I go?”
“You’re stuck, too,” Tilghman said. “I wouldn’t trust anybody else to run the place.”
The Sac and Fox tribesmen were reliable workhands. Under Brown’s supervision, they cleaned out the stables, fed and watered the stock, and saw to it that the horses were exercised regularly. But Tilghman was wary of entrusting the brood mares, or Steeldust, to outsiders. He relied solely on Neal Brown.
“Helluva note,” Brown said, kicking at a clod of dirt. “We’re markin’ time till Doolin pops up again. Somebody oughta shoot the bastard.”
“Somebody will,” Tilghman observed. “His kind always gets it, sooner or later.”
“Trouble is, sooner’s already past. We’re workin’ now on later.”
Tilghman caught the disgruntled tone in his voice. Off and on, they’d had similar conversations several times over the last few months. Brown never stated it openly, but his opinion on the matter was hardly in question. All the more so since the vitriolic newspaper articles and editorials following the Ingalls shootout. He thought the job of federal marshal was a thankless task, often drawing criticism but seldom praise. Horses, in his view, were of far greater consequence than outlaws.
Before Tilghman could reply, a buggy rolled into the compound. Zoe waved gaily, gently hauling back on the reins, and brought her team to a halt. Tilghman walked forward as she scooted across the seat. He assisted her down from the buggy.
“Welcome surprise,” he said, grinning. “What brings you over this way?”
“Oh, just passing by,” she said, smiling past him at Brown. “Hello, Neal.”
“Howdy, ma’am.” Brown touched the brim of his hat, shy and curiously tongue-tied in the presence of a pretty woman. “Bill, I’d better check on things down at the stables. Nice seein’ you, Miss Zoe.”
“Nice seeing you too, Neal.”
Brown bobbed his head and walked off. Zoe stared after him a moment. “After all this time, he still runs whenever he sees me. Am I that forbidding?”
“You’re a woman,” Tilghman said simply. “And Neal’s not exactly a ladies’ man. He’s lots more comfortable with horses.”
“And you?” She looked at him, amused. “Are you a ladies’ man?”
“Common knowledge that I hold the title in Lincoln County. ’Course, I limit my attentions to one lady.”
“How gallant of you, Mr. Tilghman.”
“Believe me, it’s my pleasure.”
She laughed, touching his arm. Then, a startled look in her eyes, her gaze went past him. On the opposite side of the fence, Steeldust charged toward them, suddenly pulled up short, and whinnied a shrill blast of greeting. He was barrel-chested, standing fifteen hands high, his hide glistening in the sun. He watched them, pawing the earth as though he spurned it and longed to fly.
Tilghman smiled. “I think Steeldust likes you, too.”
Zoe nodded, her gaze abstracted. The stallion came on at a prancing walk, moving with the pride of power and lordship. Always protective of his mares, who returned his whinny from the stables, he halted a few paces short of the fence. Then he stood, nostrils flared, like a statue bronzed by the sun. He tested the wind, staring directly at Zoe.
The stallion fascinated her. Whenever he came this close, she always felt a curious sensation in her loins. Oddly enough, Tilghman and Steeldust were somehow intertwined in her thoughts. On occasion, when she looked at Tilghman, a fleeting image of the stallion flashed through her mind. The feeling she experienced made her skin tingle and left a sweet aftertaste in her mouth. Almost as though she’d bitten into a moist peach.
“Goodness,” she said softly. “He’s a handsome brute, isn’t he?”
“King of the mountain.” Tilghman chuckled. “Thinks he owns everything between here and St. Louis.”
“You certainly made a good choice. Father says you bought the best the Sac and Fox had to offer.”
“I reckon we’ll find out come spring. His foals will tell the tale.”
Tilghman’s breeding program centered on Steeldust. The stud had the spirit of his noble ancestors, the Barbs, the forerunners of all Indian horses. From generation upon generation of battling to survive on the plains, an almost supernatural endurance had been passed along to Steeldust. From this fusion with his Kansas mares, Tilghman hoped to breed colts and fillies with the speed for racetracks.
The brood mares he’d bought from the Sac and Fox were another matter entirely. By culling them, continually breeding up, he planned to breed the ultimate range horse. With Steeldust as the original sire, the offspring would have the stamina and catlike agility necessary for working cattle. Some would fall
