by Paul Bagdon
“Sí. If the stud, he is a good breeder, we keep him on her two, three times a day. Then, if she gonna take, she weel.”
“She’ll take, okay,” I said. “An’ once she’s in foal we can search out some more horses.”
Armando sighed, sipped at his coffee, and then said, “Ees a long time to get this operation goin’.”
“You got somethin’ better to do, partner?”
“Sheet. Always with the smart-ass answer you are.”
We went to bed that night and in the morning the storm was gone, only the hugely mounded drifts of snow letting us know it had made us prisoners for a few days. That’s the way the West Texas weather runs. A storm will blow like hell for a couple, three, maybe four days, then it’ll be gone as suddenly as it hit.
After our usual overly large breakfast, we decided to ride into Hulberton and visit with Tiny. There was nothing we really needed, but we were both stir-crazy. As it turned out, our horses were as anxious to get out as we were. We saddled up in the barn, led them out, and climbed on them. We had a short rodeo then: both horses bucked, twisted, snorted, and tried to get under the bit. We laughed an’ slapped the silly sonsabitches with our hats, letting them burn off some boredom and energy.
There was a couple of feet of snow all over, and, like I said, massive drifts here and there. Traveling in snow tires a horse—there’s a drag on the feet and legs—but ours were so fired up at being outside that they kept on attempting to run. After a few miles they calmed down some and behaved themselves.
We heard Tiny’s hammer striking his anvil way the hell out from town, just as we almost always did. The sound was good and clean and bell-like, and for whatever reason, it seemed to lift from us the weight of the boredom the storm had generated. We let our horses pick up their pace regardless of the snow.
Tiny had a bucket of beer next to his forge, but there was precious little left in it. “Why I do this shit, I dunno,” he said, holding up a piece of an ornamental door latch he was making.
“You get paid good for it, no?” Arm said.
“A whole lot more than it’s worth,” Tiny said. “Anyway, have some beer.”
“There isn’t enough left there to give a flea a footbath,” I pointed out.
“Not in that bucket—but the one sitting in the snowbank outside is full.”
I went back out, saw the bucket, and carried it in. We each had a couple of coffee mugs full while Tiny’s craftswork cooled. “I got somethin’ real fancy to show you fellas,” Tiny said. “Come on back.”
He led us to one of the rear stalls. In it an Appaloosa colt—maybe five or six months old— stood on spindly-looking legs, his eyes open wide, looking at us not with fear, but out of curiosity. “He’s a strange one,” Tiny said. “He ain’t been weaned much more’n a month or so, or ’least that’s what the fella sold him to me said. He said the mare got a twisted gut an’ croaked. He—the colt, I mean—ain’t stole. I got good papers on him.”
Arm and I stood at the stall gate looking the little guy over. He was near the prettiest thing I ever saw—but I guess I’d say the same thing about just any colt or filly. Arm leaned over the gate. The colt moved a couple of steps to him and put his muzzle up to Arm’s face. Arm breathed into the little guy’s nostrils for a minute or so before the colt stepped back.
“How much you want for him?” Armando asked, already hauling money out of his pocket. Tiny laughed. “I figure you’d want him. Lookit the color—them splotches an’ spots of black against his gray, well a man jist don’t see too often.”
“Havin’ a young ’un around can help bring a mare into heat, even if it ain’t hers,” I said. “Have you had a halter on him yet?”
“The fella sold him to me had a rope halter on him an’ was leadin’ him like a packhorse. He’s been handled a lot, too. You can tell that right off. You seen how he interduced hisself to Arm.”
“Why’d the owner sell off such a fine colt?” I asked.
“He was a farmer—I seen him a couple times in the saloon. He said farmin’ ain’t nothin’ but sweat, debt, an’ disappointment an’ he was sellin’ his place an’ everything on it an’ goin’ to Chicago to live with his brother—gonna work in his brother’s store, is what he said.”
“Well, I’ll tell ya, Tiny,” I said. “This boy, he’s goin’ home with us if we have to tie you up an’ steal him.”
“It’d take more’n you two pissants to do that,” Tiny laughed. “I gotta get forty-five dollars an’ a trip over to the saloon. Hell, I gave almost that much for him.”
“Boolsheet. Still, is a good price.” He handed some bills to Tiny. “You ready for that trip ’cross the street?”
The saloon was, as usual, murky, with dingy clouds of tobacco smoke and the stink of stale beer and spilled whiskey and blood permeating it. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. When they did I noticed that the two riders who’d been at our place before the storm were standing at the bar, along with a half dozen cronies just as low-down and dirty as they were. The original two moved out from the bar and both started flapping their gums to the others. Finally, the largest of them walked over to us. He wore his gun low and he had the shiny, oily-appearing eyes that indicate that a man enjoys inflicting pain. He stood facing the three of us.
“Pancho,” he said, “I heard you an’ your little friend threw a couple of my boys lookin’ for work off your land, an’ didn’t even offer a cup of coffee to them.”
“My name is no Pancho,” Arm said. “An’ that trash wasn’t lookin’ for no jobs.”
“My name ain’t Pancho neither—an’ I’ll stick by what my pard just said.”
Tiny said, “Bring the rest of your litter-mates over here. We’ll take the whole damned bunch of you on. Otherwise, shut the hell up.”
Tiny was standing in the middle, between Arm an’ me. “I ain’t armed,” he said. “But if you slugs want to trade punches, let’s have at it.”
“You got it all wrong,” the big fella said. “Me an’ the boys is jist out here tryin’ to buy some horses for Mr. Dansworth.” He smiled, showing he was missing several front teeth and that the ones he did have were yellow-gray and leaned in all different occasions. He put his right hand out to shake with Tiny. Out of instinct, I guess, Tiny extended his hand. Then the big guy clobbered Tiny with a sucker punch left to the mouth that snapped Tiny’s head back. That was a signal to the men at the bar to join in an’ have some fun kicking our asses. I grabbed up a chair an’ busted it over the head of one of the rushing bunch. Tiny drove his right fist into the big man’s gut and caught his nose and mouth with his knee as the big fella doubled over.
Arm attacked the two who’d been at our ranch, getting between them and then slamming their heads together. The sound was like that of a melon being dropped to a hard floor from about six feet up.
Tiny picked up the big man like he were a sack of grain and pitched him into the crowd of his cohorts. I was using a leg from the chair I busted, swinging it like a club. I connected real solidly with one fella’s chin and he went right on down. Arm threw himself at an opponent, carried him to the floor, sat on his chest, and purely whacked hell outta the guy’s face. The big man was struggling to his feet. Tiny walloped him again with a roundhouse right to the chin and that boy was out of the fight. Arm left the one on the floor unconscious and traded blows with another. He also kicked the new opponent squarely in the balls, dropping him clutching his groin, his scream more feminine than masculine. The couple that were left standing backed off in a hurry. The three of us went to a table and sat. I’d kind of wondered why no guns were pulled until I saw the tender sweeping a sawed-off twelve gauge at the melee. “You boys want your regular set up?” he called to us. I nodded and told him to make everything double.
Dansworth’s men were dragging their wounded to the rear of the bar. I drew my .45 and put it on the table and Arm did the same.
“No need for the iron, boys,” the bartender told us. “Any one of those assholes
grabs a pistol and him an’ anybody near him goes down with a bellyful of double-ought shot.”
We relaxed with our beers and whiskeys after the tender brought his tray over. “Them saddlebums been lookin’ for trouble all day,” he said. “I guess they found some. Ain’t my job to sort out my customers, an’ as long as they were payin’, I was pourin’. But when I see you boys walk in, I knew there was gonna be some grab-ass. They been talkin’ a awful lot ’bout a buckskin mare you got from Tiny that Dansworth wants pretty bad.”
“I guess they don’ know what ‘no for sale’ means.”
“I’ll tell you this,” the tender said. “Don’t think Dansworth doesn’t have some real tough boys— gunfighters—on his payroll. These turds you punched around are his scrub-work losers. You watch yourselves an’ your horse.”
I nodded an’ said, “Thanks—we’ll keep our eyes open.”
He started back to the bar, stopped, and looked at me. “You owe me for a perfectly good chair, Jake.”
I put a bill on the table.
We spent another hour in the saloon and then went back to Tiny’s shop. He fit a halter—a nice one, leather, not rope—over the Appy’s snout. That little colt followed us like a boy’s puppy follows him to school.
When we got back to the ranch our mare was gone.
Arm and I stood at the open stall door as if in shock.
“Won’ be hard to track weeth the snow. We take some jerky an’ set out, no?”
“Yeah. But how could someone be stupid enough to steal a horse when a blind man could track up? I think we’re bein’ set up for an ambush—an’ once we’re dead, Dansworth will have the mare without having to worry about us taking her back or even goin’ to the law.”
“These rustlers, they would no go toward town. We know that much. We leave now, ride at night, catch up, fight rustlers, get our mare back, no?”
“Looks like that’s the only choice we have, Arm.”
We put the colt in a stall with hay, grain, and water, filled our saddlebags with jerky, and a bottle of half coffee, half whiskey, and moved out. The trip from Hulberton to the ranch was a slow one because of the colt, so our horses weren’t fatigued—they were as ready as we were.
The tracks told us there were four men and that one of them, riding a bit to the side, was leading the mare. Nothing indicated that there were outriders with a plan to somehow catch us in the middle from cover and shoot hell outta us.
Darkness fell quickly but there was a three-quarter moon and no cloud cover. The prairie was easily light enough to follow the tracks. We kept our speed down but we covered ground well.
After a couple of hours of riding we reined in and loosened our saddles to let our horses blow.
“This ees too easy,” Arm said, after a long drink from our bottle. “It don’ make no sense.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I said. “We gotta split up, Arm. Come at these men from two sides ’stead of riding square into an ambush.” Arm scuffed at a hoofprint in the snow. “We are getting closer to them,” he said. “Look, see how clean these track is? It ain’t a hour old— maybe a lot less.”
“You have plenty of ammo, right?”
“Sí.”
“Me, too. Good. How about you swing out left and I’ll go out right?”
Arm was quiet for a moment. “Not far ahead—a few miles, maybe—there’s a bunch of out-croppings, no? Ees excellent cover. I was ridin’ one day an’ came upon them.”
“Sounds like where they might try to take us out,” I said. “Let’s ride out wide an’ then close in. If we’re wrong, it won’t take a minute to pick up the tracks again.”
I went out about three quarters of a mile and then picked up the direction in which Arm and I were originally headed. The out-croppings my partner had spoken of were new to me; I hadn’t done nearly as much exploring as he had. But, with the natural light, I didn’t think I’d have too much trouble finding the spot. Even so, I rode past the rocks and had to look back over my shoulder to make certain I was seeing what I was looking for. The snort of a horse told me I was past where I’d planned to be—but that offered me a hell of an advantage.
I ground-tied my horse and eased my rifle out of the saddle scabbard. I jacked a round into the chamber and then began walking very slowly back toward the rocks and boulders.
I figured Arm would be coming in from the side, and I didn’t care to have him plug me, assuming I, too, was moving in from the side I’d taken. I got close enough to where I could hear conversation and some laughter and fired a shot into the air. “You’re surrounded!” I bellowed. “Mount up and ride out and leave the mare right where she is and you won’t die!”
Arm immediately picked up on the “surrounded” bit and fired a couple of rounds, one of which hit a rock and sang its ricochet whine. I couldn’t see the outlines of the men or the horses and I was afraid to shoot at where I thought the rustlers would be; I could easily plug our foundation mare. My partner didn’t seem to have the same problem. He fired again and I heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet striking flesh and then a long, gurgling moan.
A barrage of lead erupted from the rocks. Nothing came close to me and each shot gave me a target: a muzzle flash. I shot, apparently took down a man from the scream I heard, and then I rolled like hell to avoid giving the rustlers the same advantage they’d so kindly given me.
Armando was shooting fast—the reports of his 30.30 were constant. He was on the other side of the outcropping, so I couldn’t see his muzzle flashes. A slug hit a foot from me and I cranked several rounds at the bright light of the rustler’s rifle. He yelled in pain and then was quiet.
The shooting stopped and the silence seemed louder than the battle had. “Anybody alive in there drop your weapon an’ walk out with hands up!” Arm shouted. Nothing happened. I stood— still crouched a bit—and began walking toward the outcropping. It was possible we’d gunned all four men—but it was also possible one or two were playing possum on us.
Arm reached them before I did and shouted, “There’s four down here, Jake. Looks like the horses are up ahead fifty yards or so. I count five horses—our mare is okay.”
We both advanced to the cluster of what we thought were dead or dying rustlers. As it turned out, we were wrong. One man, splayed on the ground, jerked around and lowered a pistol at me. I’d kept a round in the chamber and so had Arm. We fired together and both hit the man—he didn’t have a chance. Another of them moaned. Arm shot him and I saw the fellow’s head jerk up and drop back down. A large piece of his skull skittered off into the prairie.
“Thass it,” Arm said. “Les’ get our mare an’ go home.”
We took the saddles off the rustlers’ horses and dumped them right there—they were cheap Mexican junk. The horses weren’t much better: all were far underweight and the breathing of a couple of them sounded like they had gravel in their lungs. We removed their bits and slapped them on their rumps. They’d find a bunch of mustangs to run with before long. Our mare was standing calmly, eyeing us, a too-tight rope halter over her head and muzzle. I loosened the halter and used the outlaw’s lead rope to bring her with me to where I’d left my horse. She followed me with no problem. I took a wrap around my saddle horn with the rope and was mounting when Arm rode up. He must have left his horse closer than I did mine. I could see the whiteness of his teeth in a broad smile as he approached. “We done good, no?” he called.
I swung into my saddle. “Yeah, Arm, we done good. You got that bottle of booze an’ coffee?”
“Was left of eet, anyway. I had a snort or dos.” He handed me the bottle. I drank the couple of inches that remained in it and tossed it toward the dead rustlers. It smashed against a rock and the pieces glittered in the moonlight.
We headed for home, the mare following nicely.
We rode side by side, close enough to each other to talk in a normal tone of voice. Nevertheless, it was some time before any words were exchanged.
“Them s
tars up there,” Arm said, “were right there when we killed the rustlers, no?”
“Sure. Far as I know, stars don’t change no matter what goes on down here.”
“Thass the thing. When a man’s life, it is ended, nothing changes—nothing big, anyway.”
“Maybe it depends on the man who dies. The way I see it, those rustlers needed to be shot an’ killed. But, if you died, well, I’d be awful busted up about it. See what I mean?”
“No. Could be the rustlers, they had families or somethin’.”
“Could be,” I agreed. “But the fact remains that they was stealin’ our horse.”
Armando was quiet for some long moments. I looked up at the stars again and was doing so when he asked, “How many men you kill, Jake?”
“I dunno. Maybe ten, twelve—I dunno.”
“I don’ know how many I keel, either. More’n twelve, I think.” He waited a bit. “It ain’t right, Jake. Maybe with this Busted Thumb Horse Ranch we will no longer keel men, no?”
“Maybe not.”
“Be good if we keel no longer.”
“I s’pose it would, Arm. But to tell the truth, I can’t see it happening that way.”
“Sí. Sounds nice, though.”
Arm had picked up a pack of playing cards on his last trip to the mercantile. Neither of us were big on gambling, but we decided we could play “21” for matchsticks. The first time Blanca came through the kitchen as we sat holding cards, she swept the deck from the table, jerked the cards out of our hands, gathered up the whole mess, and tossed it in the trash. She hollered at us in Spanish, which Arm later translated for me. “Cards,” she said, “are tickets to hell! Satan loves to see men holding them because then he knows that those men will roast and scream in the eternal fire for all eternity. Teresa and me will not stay in a house where cards are played!”
That ended our pastime quite effectively. If we had to go back to our own cooking, we’d probably rather be in hell.
Winter drags on forever in West Texas. The sun we cursed during the summer rarely showed its face, and each day was a gray, dreary, and arctically cold repeat of the one that came before it, interspersed with storms.