good price on the Arab because the dealer, who had a reputation for honesty and no wish to be later accused of foisting bad horseflesh, said the animal was prone to outbreaks of mean temper and he himself had been duped when he bought it. They were a demanding breed, Arabs, but a mean one was a rarity unless the horse had been mistreated as a colt, and perhaps this one had been. Whatever the case, the dealer said, it was the strangest Arabian he’d ever set eyes on. When it got in a temper it turned ornery as a mustang. It was a change that had to be witnessed to be believed, much like a gentleman of good breeding all of a sudden carrying on like a drunken dockworker. But John Samuel had seen no indication of bad disposition in the horse, and he anyway believed that even if the Arab was ill-tempered, the trait was an acquired one and would not be transmitted in breeding, and so the horse still had great stud value. Maybe yes, maybe no, the dealer had said. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Everybody on the hacienda had since heard what followed. The first man at Rancho Isabela to try to saddle him was Bruno Tomas—and the black rammed him into the stable wall so hard Bruno thought he’d never be able to draw breath again. Rogelio Mendez was the next to approach the black with a saddle and it bit him in the shoulder so hard he still couldn’t lift his arm over his head these four days later. When they finally did manage to get a saddle on the Arab, it threw off one rider one after another and each time tried to stomp the man while he was crawling away for his life. None of the wranglers had ever seen an Arabian exhibit such wild-horse malice. One try on it was enough for most of them—the rest wouldn’t try the horse even once. “According to Bruno, that black nearly wiped out the ranch roster,” John Samuel told his father. Not a man who had tried to ride the horse was unbruised or unsprained, at the least. When John Samuel heard that Bruno had put the Arab in the main corral with the other horses rather than isolate it in a smaller corral, he thought his cousin was foolhardy to put the other mounts at such risk. But when he rode out to the ranch he was stunned to see the Arab in easy mingle with the other horses, docile as a cart pony. Watch this, Bruno said, and went into the corral and saddled the black without meeting resistance and mounted it and hupped it out the gate. Bruno rode the Arab two miles out and back and reported that the horse had been a model of Arabian conduct. The problem seemed solved. Keep the black with the other horses and its demon was pacified.
That was two days ago. Then yesterday one of the other hands had tried to saddle it in the corral and the Arab knocked him down and started stamping on him as the other horses formed a circle around the action like spectators at a street fight. The bloodied wrangler was barely conscious when some of his fellows at last managed to drag him out of the corral. Somebody suggested that maybe Bruno was the only one the black would abide. But when Bruno entered the corral and picked up the saddle, the Arab bared its teeth at him and growled like a guard dog, and Bruno quick-stepped out of there. That settled it for John Samuel. No more trying to ride the black, not by anybody. The horse would be strictly for stud.
At the corral, the twins were talking with Bruno and Rogelio, who by turns gesticulated toward the Arab, no doubt relating the whole calamitous tale. Then one of the twins—not John Roger nor even anyone at the corral could know it was James Sebastian—took a hackamore bridle off a post and swung himself over the top rail into the corral.
John Samuel leaned forward in his chair. “What’s he think he’s doing?” John Roger was wondering the same thing.
The other horses shied from the twin as he went up to the Arab with his hand raised to it. The black lowered its head to his hand and he stroked its nose. Then ran the hand along the horse’s flank and then rubbed himself against the horse and patted its neck and spoke into its ear. He slipped the hackamore over its muzzle and sprang onto its back as lightly as a cat. Jesus, John Roger thought. The other twin opened the gate and the rider hupped the Arab out and went loping toward the open country. Then heeled the horse into a gallop and bore directly for a rise some five hundred yards from the corral and vanished over it. Now everyone was aware that one of the twins was riding the crazy black and they were all giving their attention to the distant rise. John Roger saw Vicki Clara and Roger Samuel join the other twin by the corral gate. The twin picked up Roger Samuel and stood him on the top rail for a better view.
John Samuel was slumped in his chair. “If he harms that stud. . . .”
“He won’t,” John Roger said. “You know that.”
They could track the horse by the dust plume, which widened and thinned as the horse drew farther away. And then the plume began to regain form and density and they all knew the horse was heading back. When it came galloping over the rise, James Sebastian was standing on its back. Standing with his hands in his pockets and his hat flapping behind him on its chin thong. Standing on that speeding horse with the ease of a man on a rocking railcar platform. The witnessing crowd raised a great cheer. James Sebastian dropped astride the horse and took up the rein and slowed the animal to a canter, then to a trot as they approached the corral. The ranch hands gathered around him, yelling congratulations while being careful not to get behind the horse or within biting lunge of it.
John Roger saw Vicki Clara blow the rider a kiss. Saw Juanito Sotero push through the men to run up beside the horse and hop up and down, his hands raised to his uncle. The twin reached down and took the boy’s hand and hauled him up to sit astraddle before him.
John Samuel stood up. “God
“Oh come, John,” John Roger said. “You were no older the first time I took you for a fast ride.”
“You’re my father. And it wasn’t bareback.”
Now little Roger Samuel was tugging at the rider’s leg. And now Vicki Clara was speaking to the mounted twin. The rider said something to Juan Sotero and then eased him down off the horse and pulled Rogerito up to replace him. Holding the boy against his chest with one arm, his other hand on the rein, the twin hupped the Arab into a canter and headed off. And again roused the horse to a gallop before going over the rise. As before, they were gone for some minutes before booming back into view and still at full stride. It would hardly have been a wonder to anybody in the crowd if the rider had again been standing on the horse and this time with the child on his shoulders—but they were seated as before, though even at this distance they could see the boy pumping his arms in the air like an exulting Comanche. They could not hear, as could James Sebastian, the boy whooping like an Indian too. James was just about to rein the horse down from its gallop when it dropped from under them.
He felt himself airborne in a slow somersault. Felt the boy detach from him as weightless as if they were underwater. Lost sight of him. Saw his own feet against the sky. His next awareness was of lying on his back in the settling dust and staring at bright thin clouds. He felt himself breathing but had no pain. Then tried to sit up and pain exploded in his right forearm. He cursed and gasped and struggled one-armed to his feet.
The Arab was on its side and trying to get up on broken front legs, its head lunging up repeatedly as if it could will the rest of its body up after it, shrilling its agony with every try. Beyond the horse lay the boy. A wee form huddled on his side as if in nap. Unaware of the rider bearing toward him at full gallop and the others far behind him, James went over to the boy. He saw blood in his ear. Hooves came pounding and a cloud of dust rolled over him—and then John Samuel was screeching, “Get away from him!” and slammed both hands into James Sebastian’s chest, staggering him and jarring such pain through his arm he nearly threw up.
John Samuel knelt beside his son. He gingerly raised him to a sitting position and James Sebastian saw the unnatural tilt of Rogerito’s head. John Samuel pushed the hair from the boy’s eyes and then eased him back down. Then stood up and looked at James Sebastian with tears coursing from eyes gone mad. He stalked stiffly to his horse, which sensed his rage and shied, but he lunged and caught the reins and pulled himself to the horse and drew the carbine from the saddle sheath. James Sebastian had no defense but to run at him, holding his broken arm to his chest, thinking to ram him with a shoulder and somehow grab the rifle. But John Samuel sidestepped and James struck him only a glancing blow and fell down on his arm and bellowed. He struggled to regain his feet, hearing more horses closing fast but keeping his eyes on John Samuel, who thumbed back the rifle’s hammer and aimed squarely into his face. And even as their father’s voice carried through the rumble of hooves —“
The hammer dropped on an empty chamber. John Samuel howled his rage and ran at James Sebastian, swinging the carbine one-handed from side to side like a cumbersome sword amid another upheaval of dust, screaming “You kill everything! You
Blake threw John Samuel to the ground and kicked him in the face, ripping his cheek to the bone. He dropped astraddle of him and grabbed him by the hair and began punching him in the face like he was driving nails. A clutch of men converged on him and grabbed him by the arms and collar and wrested him off John Samuel and dragged
