John Layfield and Milton Ferguson were waiting at Dial’s Stable when Royce crossed the road. Layfield looked up and then did a double take. At first he did not recognize Royce. His face registered surprise when he did. Then he noted Royce’s tied down holster. Tinhorns and tenderfoots did not tie down their weapon.
Royce gave Layfield a friendly grin. His green eyes telling the man he understood his dilemma. “Howdy,” Royce greeted using campfire slang.
“How . . . howdy,” Layfield stuttered. He looked Royce over a second time. “You’ve met Milton,” he said indicating the man with him.
“No I haven’t,” Royce replied. He extended his hand first to Layfield then Milton Ferguson. The latter ignored Royce’s friendliness. Without seeming to do so Royce studied Ferguson. The man was a contradiction. His hair was long on his shoulders and appeared unkempt while his face was clean shaven. Great care had gone into his shave. His cheeks and jowls were smooth. Ferguson smelled faintly of flowery toilet water. Another contradiction that was intriguing for the man clothes were wrinkled and soiled. As if he might have slept in them. At a glance Royce took in all of this before turning back to Layfield. “This the horse you brought for me to ride,” he asked casually indicating the chestnut gilding tied to a fencepost.
Layfield grinned. His eyes sparkled with mischief in his sun browned face.
The horse shied when Royce stepped closer. The animal raised his head and pulled on his led. Placing his hand on the horse’s neck Royce made soft soothing sounds in his throat. “I’m a stranger,” he whispered patting the horse’s red coat. “You don’t think much of strangers do you old son,” he continued in the same even tones.
The horse rolled his eyes.
“Let’s see what you are made of,” Royce said as he pulled the reins free. The next instant he was in the saddle before anyone knew what he was doing. The horse reared on his hind legs before back stepping and giving a shrill whinny. Royce was prepared for the horse’s antics. He had seen enough green broke nags to know this mount was barely in that category. The horse landed on his front hooves and shot across the stable yard. Royce hauled on the reins turning the horse around. The animal was humping and back kicking stirring up a dust storm.
Layfield let out a whoop. Taking off his hat he waved it in the air before slapping the hat across his thigh. He ran for the fence when the horse made a wide circle in the yard nearly bumping against him.
Royce clamped his knees around the horse’s middle and settled on the saddle for a rocky ride. It seemed like hours before the horse decided he was not going to dislodge the hated weight. It was more like seconds. Royce took a deep breath into his burning lungs and shook his head. Trees and buildings were still bobbing up and down. His hat rolled around the stable yard before landing against a fencepost.
“That was some ride,” the stableman ejaculated. He stood with his hat in one hand as he scratched the back of his head with the other.
“I thought you said you were a schoolteacher,” Layfield shouted amazement in his voice.
Royce’s smile broadened. “I wasn’t born in a schoolhouse,” he answered.
“Seems so,” Layfield replied with admiration. “This knot head has thrown every man that has had the misfortune to drawn him. He won’t be worth a plugged nickel at next week’s rodeo,” he prophesized.
“Maybe,” Royce replied noncommittal. “He still has plenty of steam left in him.” Royce ignored Ferguson’s narrow eyed stare. He could see the wheel’s inside the man’s head spinning and hoped he had not shown his hand.
“We going hunting or hang around the stables all day,” Ferguson growled.
“Hunting,” Royce replied. “I intend to eat three meals a day. A teacher’s salary makes that next to impossible.”
“You carry a Henry,” Layfield said picking up the rifle Royce had leaned against a fencepost. He admired the leather scabbard holding the rifle. It was decorated with tooling. Brightly colored dyes rubbed into the leather. “Interesting,” he said. “I’d say Kiowa.”
“You would be right,” Royce replied. He took the rifle from Layfield’s hand. The symbols were a Kiowa Prayer. The leather scabbard was a gift from a Kiowa Chief. Royce had returned one of the chief’s daughters home safely after she had been abducted. Royce had not been sent to rescue the young woman. It was the men he was trailing when their paths crossed. He had simply done the right thing in returning the young woman to her family. Part of his job the way Royce saw it. Others, he knew would disagree. What was the life of one more Kiowa Squaw. “As for the Henry, it’s a dependable rifle. Heavier than the new Springfield Rifles. When taking a long shot I find the Henry more reliable. A man that needs a repeater when hunting can’t be much of a hunter. My Pa says one shot should be enough to bring home dinner.”
Ferguson scowled at Royce, the man grumbling under his breath while Layfield’s grin never left his face. Yet, Royce was sure Layfield was the more dangerous of the two men.
“Let’s see how much vinegar you have left,” Royce said turning his attention back to the chestnut gelding. The horse turned his head and nipped at Royce’s shirt sleeve. “So that’s the way it is going to be.” Royce swung into the saddle giving the horse a jab in the ribs with the heels of his boots. The horse leaped into a gallop. Royce took the reins slapping them across the horse’s rump. “Yaw,” he shouted as they rounded the last fencepost. A few moments later Royce hauled back on the reins and the horse slid to a
