The Blacksmith

by Bryan A. Salisbury

  Ike handed to one of his friends. “I can’t read too much. Is it right, Bud?”

  “Looks right to me,” he said.

  Ike took the paper back and scrawled his name on it. “Here, let me get my saddle.” He removed the saddle and gave Blake his rope. Blake quickly made a halter and held the horse while Ike took off the bridle.

  Blake handed Ike the money and said, “Pleasure doing business with you.” He turned and started back to the livery. As he walked away he heard Ike yell, “First round’s on me, boys!”

  ******

  The mare had a natural distrust of people because she had been mistreated so badly. She snorted and tried to pull away but Blake held firm and kept his manner calm. He had to stop three times on the way to the livery and just hold tight on the rope. He didn’t hold on up by her head but instead gave six feet of rope between them. He held firm until she stopped straining and the second she stopped he let go of the pressure. Soon, she walked quietly beside him. Caleb gave him a puzzled look and Blake said, “Horses are a fearful animal by nature, they’re always afraid something is going to eat them and they don’t care much for being trapped, that’s when they fight. Most cowboys strong arm them and force them to do what they want but you can do a lot more with them if you let them think they’re making the decisions. Just walking right now she decided it’s easier not to pull on the rope and walk beside me.”

  Caleb wrinkled his brow and considered what Blake said, “M-makes s-sense.”

  “I hope so, because she’s yours,” Blake said handing Caleb the rope. “You’ve done a good job with your schooling and the forge, so here’s a reward.”

  Caleb took the rope very timidly and was nervous because he saw how the horse acted earlier.

  “She can sense it if you’re scared of her,” Blake told him. “I have some ideas why she is acting up, she’s in pain. So you have to let her know that we’re going to try and help. She has to know that you will be a good leader and protect her.”

  Caleb dug deep and faced his fear head on. For the first time he had the face of a man, strong and controlled. He stood calmly as the mare tossed her head and pawed the ground. He simply held out his hand down low and waited for her to settle down. It took some time before she quieted and stuck her nose to sniff his hand. He brought it up slowly and stroked her head, “Good, girl,” he cooed. “I’m going to fix you up.” The mare’s eyes softened a little and she held her head lower.

  “That’s a good start, now let’s get her to the barn,” Blake said. When they got to the livery, Joe came out to meet them.

  “Howdy boys,” he said. “Whatcha’ got?”

  “Just bought this mare from a fella who was going to plug her,” Blake said softly stroking her neck. “I got a feeling I know what the problem is, but I could use some help. Hang on to her Caleb; I want to check her feet.” Caleb stroked her neck and talked softly to her as Blake slowly ran his hand down her leg and gently picked up her hoof. Using his thumb, he began pressing all around the hoof until when he pressed directly on the bottom, the mare’s flesh quivered. He set the hoof down and proceeded to check the other three. When he was done he stepped back and scratched the back of his neck.

  “You think you found a problem?” asked Joe.

  “I haven’t seen this since I was a kid, working with my father,” Blake said. “I think she has a very thin sole on her feet, some horses are born that way and it’s pretty painful for them to walk. Plus, you put the weight of a rider and saddle on them; it makes it a lot worse.”

  “C-can you h-h-help h-her?” Caleb asked.

  “Maybe,” Blake considered. “Joe, do you have boots I can borrow?”

  Boots for a horse were made out thick leather that could be strapped on a hoof. Usually they were used to mask prints so they couldn’t be tracked or to hold medicine on the hoof.

  Joe thought for a second and said, “I think I can scrounge some up, let me have a look.” And he left for the barn.

  “Good, thanks,” Blake said. “Caleb run to the store and fetch me some chamomile and devil’s claw and about twelve plugs of tobacco.”

  “T-t-tabacco?” Caleb inquired.

  “We’re going to pack some in her hoof well and hold it on with the boots from Joe. That will toughen up the soles and allow them to thicken. It’s a trick an old Dutch farmer I knew used to do. The chamomile will quiet her down so she can rest and the devil’s claw will help with the pain. We’ll mix up the herbs in some grain for her.”

  Caleb handed Blake the rope and took off running for the store. Shortly after Joe came out holding the boots with Avery following him. Avery looked at the mare with a suspicious eye, “Ain’t that Ike Smullen’s hoss?”

  “Was,” Blake said. “I just bought her.”

  Avery cackled, “What the hell fer? That nag ain’t no good. Ike played hell with her forever. She ain’t right in the head.”

  “I don’t think he spent the time to figure out why she was acting so badly. I’m going to try and help her.”

  “Waste of your dad-burned time,” Avery said waving his hand.

  Blake stopped stroking her neck and turned to Avery. “People said the same thing about you.”

  Avery opened his mouth like he was going to say something but nothing came out. Joe laughed and said, “I do believe he is at a loss for words, I never thought I’d see the day.” The expression on Avery’s face was priceless and Blake joined in with Joe laughing.

  “The both of you can take a sweet bite of my ass, I’s got horseshit to pitch,” he said as he stomped back to the barn.

  Caleb returned with items Blake requested and he fed the mare the herbs while Blake packed the feet and put on the boots. Then they led her to a nice cool dark stall in the back of the barn to let her rest.

  ******

  The day was drawing to a close at the MacIntyre ranch. The sky was a light shade of purple with orange streaks from what was left of the setting sun. Ian MacIntyre and his three children were sitting on the front porch of their house. Ian was swabbing out the bore of a Henry rifle and his two daughters were working on cross-stitch doilies. Tom was sitting in a rocking chair with feet up on the railing smoking a cigar. He drew deeply on the cigar and blew out a large cloud of smoke. Being downwind of Tom, the two girls took the brunt of the plume and coughed.

  “Move to the other end of the porch with that foul thing,” growled Ian. “The smoke is bothersome to your sisters.”

  “Why can’t they move?” Tom said lazily. “I’m right comfortable.”

  Ian stopped working on the rifle and glared at Tom. “Because a gentleman always moves for a lady, Boyo.”

  “Whatever,” Tom said, dropping his feet hard onto the floor and got up slowly. He moved so his smoke would blow away from his sisters and leaned against a post. Three riders were coming down the road to the ranch toward the bunkhouse. Tom called out to them, “Hey Bud, c’mon over here.”

  The three veered their horses toward the house and stopped at the hitch rail. “What’s up, Boss?” Bud Hanley asked.

  “Where the hell is Ike?”

  Ian barked, “Language boy, your sisters are present.”

  Irritated, Tom drew a deep breath. “Where is Ike? Did that fool get himself tossed in jail?”

  Leaning on his saddlehorn, Bud said, “Naw, nothing like that, he sold his horse. I’m going to take him another one in the morning.”

  “Sold his horse,” Tom exclaimed. “Why would that d…,” Tom stopped and caught himself, “Why did he do that?”

  “He was ridin’ that crazy roan mare, and she was givin’ him fits. Bucked him off right in front of the saloon and he was about to feed her some lead when this feller offered him fifty dollars for her.”

  “What feller?” Tom asked impatiently.

  “I think it was that new blacksmith in town,” Bud said looking at the other two to collaborate his story. “Thorton, I think his name is.”

 
; Tom threw his cigar in the dirt and said between gritted teeth, “That son-of-a-bitch again.” Ian grunted at him for cursing. “Sorry, Pa, but that man is getting to be a burr under my saddle.” Tom looked hard at Bud. “You never mind about going to town tomorrow. I’ll ride in and get Ike and that confounded horse back.”

  Bud pursed his lips. “I don’t know boss, Thorton paid him more than she was worth and had him sign a bill-of-sale. It was all real legal.”

  “I’ll get it back, if I have to beat it out of him,” insisted Tom.

  Ian stood up and leaned the rifle against the wall, “You’ll do no such thing, Thomas. Bud, take Ike another horse come morning. I want every one of you working on time tomorrow.”

  Bud touched the brim of his hat. “Sure thing, Mr. MacIntyre,” and the three left for the bunkhouse.

  Smiling sweetly at his daughters, Ian said, “Sure an’ there’s not enough light for you to be workin’ on your sewing. Why don’t you turn in so not to harm your pretty eyes.”

  “Yes, Papa,” they said in unison and started gathering their sewing.

  “You, boyo,” he said to Tom in an unkind voice. “Come to my study.” He snatched the rifle leaning against the wall and walked heavily into the house.

  “Tommy’s gonna get in trouble,” Kate teased as she scooted by a very embarrassed Tom.

  “Shut up,” he snarled.

  Tom took his time getting to the study; he stopped at the heavy door, drew a deep breath and knocked. “Enter,” a booming voice said and he went in the room which was magnificent. It was his favorite room in the house. There was a large ornate oak desk with soft leather chairs in front and a larger leather chair in back of it. Many paintings adorned the walls, along with several antique firearms and powder flasks. The walls were solid cherry boards that glistened in the firelight from a large stone fireplace. Ian was sitting behind the desk underneath a pair of longhorns the must have spread seven feet. Tom often snuck in that room and sat at his father’s desk and envisioned that someday it would all be his but, for now, he would have to settle for the other side of the desk. He strolled over to the table with several crystal whiskey decanters and pulled the glass stopper and went to pour himself a drink. “You’ll not be needin’ any of that,” Ian said without looking up. “Sit down, lad.”

  Tom replaced the stopper and strode confidently over to one of the chairs and sat. He was Ian MacIntyre’s son and to show anything less than total confidence would be a mistake. Weakness, in any form, would not be tolerated. Having been called to his father’s study many times before, he knew better than to speak first. Ian finished making entries in his ledger, closed it and sat back. “Now tell me, what is the problem with this Thorton fellow?”

  Tom sat back and crossed his legs and, looking straight into his father’s eyes, he began. “He drifted into town a couple months back and has been making a lot of changes. He seems to be flush with money, where he got it I have no idea, probably stole from somewhere and has himself a real smartass attitude. This is our town, Pa, and he thinks he’s the big dog around here.”

  “Our town?” Ian said with a strange light in his eyes. “I named this town when it was a few tents and you were suckling your fair mother’s breast, lad. I wouldn’t be forgettin’ that.”

  “I know, Pa; I just don’t like him trying to take over.”

  “I’m not thinking buying a blacksmith shop and a house is takin’ over.”

  “It’s more than that, a lot more,” Tom was already losing ground and knew it. “He’s got Weatherby on his side and the sheriff, too, just because he stopped that robbery. He cleaned up those fools Hap and Avery and got them jobs. He took that stuttering kid in and is teachin’ him smithing. Plus, that big bastard in the saloon married one of the whores and is gonna open a dress shop … all on the count of him.”

  “I’m thinking he is sounding like a good man to have around,” Ian replied placing his fingers in a steeple in front of him.

  Frustrated, Tom started grasping at straws. “Well, I would just like to know where he’s getting all this money and why he seemed to know those men who went after the bank. It all sounds pretty fishy to me.”

  Ian dropped his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Tis many a man who is not wantin’ someone prying into his past. I canna fault him there. Now tell me why Mr. Weatherby is askin’ my permission to sell properties in town.”

  Tom was showing signs of being nervous, trying to relax he said, “Because I told him to. I don’t want Thorton buying the whole town up.”

  “Are you thinking he has enough to do that?”

  “I don’t know, Weatherby wouldn’t say.” Tom felt like he was getting some footing with his father and pressed further. “He’s also got that Chrissy O’Bryan woman batting her eyes at him and I know you have always fancied her.”

  “Aye, I have thought she would be fitting substitute for your mother, God rest her soul.”

  Tom was gaining ground now. “Remember that girl, Bonnie? The one who said I raped her? Well now she’s playing school marm to that stuttering asshole he’s got working for him.”

  Whatever ground Tom thought he had gained he lost tenfold with his last comment. Lightning flashed in his father’s eyes, and looked like an earthquake was building inside him. Ian rose from his chair slowly and glared at Tom. Ian knew the truth about what happened to Bonnie. He tried to write it off as a crime of passion and his youthful son had made a terrible mistake. Wanting to protect him, Ian had done his best to cover the whole ordeal up and, in the back of his mind, he knew Tom had murdered Bonnie’s parents by setting the fire. It had been a burden that weighed heavy on his mind. To have Tom act like he had not committed this atrocity heaped him far worse.

  Ian stepped around the massive desk and Tom rose up out of his chair. He was tempted to run from his father but to show that much cowardice would go far worse on him. Deep in his bowels Tom felt true terror now. His father grabbed him by the front of his shirt and brought his face close to his, Ian’s voice sounded like an enraged bear. “I am fully aware of what happened to that poor lass, you sniveling, black hearted bastard. And to say you had no hand in it would be a crime against God.”

  “She acted like she wanted to, but then she changed her mind. It wasn’t right, Pa,” Tom said, his voice shaking.

  Ian’s gigantic hand came crashing down on Tom’s face. Fireworks erupted in his head and his knees buckled. His father’s other hand held him up as he brought his hand back and delivered another bone crushing blow. Tom fell to the ground and tried regain his footing. Ian was now in a full rage and brought down his fist on Tom’s back driving him to the floor. He kept striking Tom as he yelled, “You have brought shame to my house and it tasks me to call you my son. I rue the day your mother birthed you and the sight of you makes me wretch.”

  As Ian stood back up his massive chest was heaving trying to get enough air. Tears filled his eyes and he began to sob. “I never taught you to defile women, where did learn such a terrible thing?” Tom could not answer because he was barely conscious. Ian stepped over his quivering son and opened the door. “Jethro,” he yelled in a commanding voice. A large black man who was a servant in the house came running up the hall. He entered the study and saw Tom lying on the floor. Ian said, “Take my son to his room and tend to him.” As Jethro picked him up and left the study Ian poured himself some whiskey and collapsed in his chair, “I donna want to be disturbed.”

  ******

  Tom woke the next morning feeling like he had been hit by a train. His lower lip was swollen and his right eye had a deep purple bruise. Tom’s back also bore deep bruising that his father had given him and some of his ribs felt cracked. He moved slowly getting up and hobbled over to the water pitcher on the dresser, wetting the towel he dabbed the sore areas on his face and examined the damage in the mirror. Tom had been in fights before but, being a rich man’s son, before they got too far out of hand someone stepped in and stopped it
. As he got older he always had another hand around to do his snake stomping for him. He pressed a particularly sore spot on his face and could feel a rage building inside him. How dare that old man embarrass him in front of his men, let alone his sisters? He was Tom MacIntyre and when his father was old and dying in his bed, Tom would inherit the old man’s ranch, drink his whiskey and smoke his cigars. He would run things how he saw fit and if a man like Thorton got in his way, he would be shot down like the dog that he was.

  When Tom looked in the mirror he no longer saw Ian MacIntyre’s son, he saw a new man, one who would take control of his life and do as he damn well pleased. His anger exploded inside him and he swept the ceramic pitcher and bowl off the dresser against the wall. Grabbing some saddlebags he began stuffing clothes and various other things into them. Getting dressed was painful to him but the surge of adrenaline helped him ignore it. He stomped on his boots and buckled on his gun belt adjusting the fit and tying it down securely to his leg.

  Taking the saddlebags, he headed out of his bedroom door and down the hall half hoping to see his father so he could shoot him on the spot. When he reached the bottom of the staircase he glanced at the grandfather clock in the foyer. It was ten o’clock and he knew the house would be empty because everyone else had chores to do. Stopping at the glass faced gun cabinet in the hall he removed one of his father’s prized Winchesters and three boxes of shells. Tom slammed open the front door and started for the barn. The two toughs that normally rode with him, Tug Pearson and Jimmy Rocco, saw him and came out of the bunkhouse.

  “Christ almighty Tom, what happened to you?” Tug asked.

  “I’m ridin’ out,” Tom said dodging the question. “I’ll be gone for a while. If you two want a change of scenery, you’re welcome to come.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Jimmy said. “How long we goin’ to be gone?”

  “Until I say,” Tom replied sharply.

  “Hoo wee,” Tug said excitedly. “No more chasin’ cows. I’m in, boss. Just let me get my gear.”