Deuces Wild

by Dusty Richards

  “Who are you?” he asked in a voice so hoarse he thought it was someone else.

  “Sooe Sure Day.”

  “What they call you?” Pedro asked, from the foggy state his head was in. Strange name.Who was this little chinaman?

  “Day, my name.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “Carry you.”

  “You carried me?”

  “You no talkee now. Sip some water.” The man had a canvas bag and held the spout to Pedro’s mouth as he half sat up. The liquid felt like ice going down his parched throat.

  “No. No. Drink more in little while. You too thirsty. Have big belly ache.”

  “Where am I?” Dizzy-headed, he rested on his elbows; he felt as weak as he could ever remember.

  “My place.”

  “Oh, good. How did I get here?”

  “Burro come get drink. I follow his tracks. Find you.”

  “Sorry, I said bad things about him,” Pedro mumbled.

  “What you say?”

  “He saved my life.” He shook his head to try to clear it.

  “Yes. Yes. Save life.Where you go?”

  “Arizona.”

  “Big place.”

  “Far away?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I better get there.”

  “No. No. You rest.”

  His head swam before he got halfway up, and he collapsed in a pile on the pallet. His concerned host spoke in Chinese a hundred words a minute to him. Pedro fainted.

  When he awoke, Day was not in sight, and he rose trying to shake the fuzzy vision and dullness from his brain. Out of nowhere, a small brown-faced girl of ten came with her skirts swishing around her calves and held the water bag up for him to drink. This time, he sipped it and nodded in gratitude, before he settled back down. He must get his strength back; he closed his eyes and slept.

  The next three days, he took more water and simple food like soup. His kidneys began to function, he even made a trip outside to relieve himself. The place around Day’s jacal looked like a garden, plants and flowers growing all around.Overhead, some ancient cottonwoods rustled. Then he could see the pastel tan cliffs that enclosed the canyon.

  “Buenos días,” someone said, and he turned to see a green-headed parrot on a perch.

  “Buenos días to you, Señor Parrot.” He took a seat on a bench and studied this new world. Obviously, his host, Day, and the man’s Mexican wife, Bonita, were competent gardeners. Their children had been his main nurses. Bonita must have had them by another husband—they were Mexican.

  His hands on his knees to brace himself, he shook his head. Too weak to do anything, he wasn’t recovering fast enough. He’d heard that heat stroke could do that, but it was a new experience for him.

  “Ah, Pedro, you come outside,” Day said, carrying an armful of vegetables toward the ramada.

  “How did you find this place?” Pedro asked, still in disbelief and half groggy.

  “Several families in this canyon. Use water from the mountains for our crops.”

  “Chinese?”

  “No.”

  “I just wondered. I have little money, but when I get home to Arizona, I will have money to pay you for my care.”

  Day shook his head. “No need to do that.”

  “I will do something for you, anyway. But I need a horse. That donkey—he’s no answer.”

  “We can catch one.”

  Pedro considered the man. “Catch one.What is that?”

  “There are horses that come to water below. We can close the gate.”

  “Wild horses?”

  “Wild,” he agreed with a bow.

  Pedro closed his eyes. He needed a riding horse, not some crazy, head-slinging mustang that would fight till he died. In his condition, all he needed was to try to ride some bucking devil. Surely there was a well-broken horse in the canyon that someone would part with.

  “No one would sell me a horse?”

  “No one has horse. They have burros. They turn them loose and catch when they go to market. No horses.”

  “Do the horses come every day to water?”

  Day shook his head. “Once or twice a week. It rains, they don’t come.”

  “How do you shut the gate?”

  “We must hide and them not see us. They go in.

  Quick, quick, put up bars.”

  Doing anything quick, quick, sounded impossible to him. But that would be the only way to get a horse; he’d better get started on it.

  So Day took him to where he could look off the bluff and see the great pen of crooked mesquite posts planted upright in a stockade fashion. The whole area covered a couple of acres, and the stream’s flow was gathered in stone-walled watering tanks. From where he sat on the rock outcropping, he could see where the river that watered their valley disappeared into the ground beyond the last tank.

  “Whose pens?”

  “We built them for the cattlemen who drive herds up here. Then they don’t stampede our crops and fields for their herds to get water.”

  “Good trade-off. How will we know when the horses will come?”

  “You can hear stallion scream for long ways. Children listen for him.”

  “Good,” he said, feeling weaker than he planned and dreading the short walk back to his pallet.

  The horses didn’t come for two days. Pedro met the others who lived in the canyon as they came to Day’s house for supper and a dance, quiet people and their children who nodded as if unsure how to talk to him, an outsider. An older woman, her face framed by a shawl, was not so shy and quickly took a place beside him and asked him about his wife. Did he have family? He explained about Juanita and how someday they planned to have children.

  Then she dug in her purse and brought out a ten-centavo piece. “Buy a candle for me, and burn it at the shrine when you get to a church.” Quickly, she crossed herself.

  “I don’t need your money to do that,” he said, and tried to give it back.

  “No, it will be my candle if you use that coin to buy it.

  I need no charity.”

  “I will do it when I return to Tucson.”

  “God bless you,” she said, and patted his shoulder.

  “The horses are coming,” Day’s bright-eyed stepdaughter shouted, running into the crowded yard. “I heard the man horse.”

  “Stay there,” Day said to him when he started to rise.

  “I have two young boys to bar the gates when they’re inside.”

  Though his strength was returning, Pedro still dreaded the days ahead.

  “We will help you,” a short, handsome-faced man said, stepping forward. “We will help you catch one and break it.”

  “Somehow I will repay you,” he said, feeling very emotional at all their attention.

  Soon the music began, the food was spread out, and the fandango began. He watched the couples shuffling to the guitar and fiddle. Lord, give me the strength to ride this new horse. He looked to the stars overhead and wondered about his Juanita and Burt.

  The next morning, the shrill sounds of the lead stallion shattered the predawn quiet. The horse was angry and distressed by the confinement of its harem, and its complaints carried in the early-morning light, where the men began to gather their ropes.

  The village men were all there to help. Carmen, the short one with the broadest shoulders, nodded to him. Juan, with the scar above his eye. A man of thirty,Tomás, the handsome one. Rafael was the older one, and five young boys looked ready for the charge. Along with Day, they went down into the canyon to check on the captives.

  The blue roan stallion, its arched neck crested, single-footed around in the first light that shone across the posts. Pedro and others looked over the mares, colts, and yearlings standing about, acting unconcerned while the fiery stud protectively paced in a circle around them, making vocal sass.

  “If we can cut him out and some of the others,” Carmen said, waving his brown hands to show how they must separate part of
the herd.

  Everyone agreed, and they quickly went inside the corral. Pedro felt as strong as he could remember. The several days of rest had helped. Men had sticks with flags to deter and separate the herd. The plan was to let the stud out and some of the mares and colts. Then they’d select a horse for him.

  He wondered how these farmers would do under fire. Thundering hooves could make men lose their nerve quickly, especially when charged at by stampeding horses. The danger would be that they could lose all the horses but the crippled ones. He didn’t want a crazy brood mare that had been free all of its life. It would never tame down. A three-or four-year-old horse would be fine. There would be no horses that age, or the stud would have run them off. So his choice had to be a young mare. Good enough.

  “Everyone spread out,” Carmen said, waving his arms to make them move apart.

  The stallion had gone to the rear, watching them with caution. About the time that Pedro spotted the leggy lead mare, Pablo pointed it out.

  “If we can let her and him out, we should be able to catch one,” Carmen said, taking charge.

  Pedro felt better. This man knew horses, and if all the horses didn’t get past them in one charge, they might catch one.

  “You see one you want?” Carmen asked as they eased their way across the pen.

  “A line back over there. The dun mare looks okay.”

  Pedro hurriedly tried to point it out in the bunch milling around, but dust began to boil up. Someone gave him a riata. He nodded.

  “Try to rope one first,” Carmen said to him and the other men with lassos. “Whoever catches one, we must all go to him and get on the rope.”

  Pedro moved in closer, making a loop as he went. The head of the dun was above the herd; then they whirled in mass and broke to the right. The dust blinded him. He could see nothing. He hurriedly glanced down at his loop; it was big enough.

  The herd in a group collided against the corral, whirled back, split, and tore past him. At a dead run, he swung the loop over his head, threw it, and his lariat fell on the mare’s back. It bolted out from under it. Men were running about. The stallion challenged them, and the dust curtain blinded them.

  Amid the boiling dirt and confusion, he heard them shouting for everyone to come. A frightened mare flew past his face.Where were the others?

  In a moment of clearing dust, he spotted a red roan shaking its head on the end of a rope. Good catch. He ran in to help them and grasped the rope in front of two others on the end. They had it.

  A loop soon was tossed around its front legs, and they tripped it. The horse rolled and hit hard on its side. Everyone rushed to hold it down. Pedro reached it. He could read the fear in its brown eyes, but he pinned its head to the ground. Throaty snorts came as the men tied its four feet together. At last with it four-footed, the younger boys rushed to open the gates to let the upset herd out of the pen before they trampled someone.

  The lead mare skirted them, racing hard along the wall. Quickly, it hit the opening, followed by the colts and others in a mad dash for freedom. Behind them, the single-footing stallion fled after the last loose one escaped. Slowly, the fog of dust began to settle, and everyone nodded in approval as they sat upon the roan mare and rolled cigarettes.

  “Close the gates, boys,” Carmen said, then he turned to Pedro. “We will fashion a halter and tie a post to the end of a riata for her to drag. There is no grass here. You should feed her. Make her come to you to eat.”

  Pedro agreed.

  “What will you call her?”

  “Rojo,” he said, without any imagination to help his choice.

  “Today she drags a rope. Tomorrow we put a saddle on her. Then the third day you must ride her.”

  With a sigh, Pedro agreed. The men seated on the mare smoked their cornshuck cigarettes. He refused their offer of one. Post first to drag, saddle her, then him. He had the order of events clear in his mind.

  The third day, he felt ready. Rojo had been taught to tie. He had fanned her with blankets to take her fear away, saddled and unsaddled a hundred times with one foot tied up, he’d even sat on her back several times.

  So, with a long lead on her halter for a catch rope and him speaking softly to reassure her, he eased himself into the saddle. Aboard, he continued talking and petting her, and he nudged her easy-like, and she took two steps. She tried to flip away the bosal on her nose. He urged her out again. She began to walk. He relaxed. Trailing the long rope to her side, she went around the pen in a tense walk. He hauled her up, she stopped and blew. The silence of the onlookers was close to unnerving for him. In a few minutes, they began to nod in approval as he worked her around the pen again. Then he plow-reined her about, and she began going the other way.

  Then she gathered up as if she had discovered someone was on her back. Her stiff-legged hops grew more intense as he held her head up as tight as he dared. Unable to get her nose down, Rojo began to dance about under him as if ready to buck.

  “What can we do?” Carmen asked, moving along beside the horse, but at enough distance to be safe.

  “Take the lead off. It worries her,” Pedro decided, as the mare shied from it going sideways.

  “Can you stop her?”

  “Yes.” And he did, then patted her neck and reassured her. She blew rollers out her nose at Carmen as he quickly untied the lead rope and stepped back. The mare began to dance, and Pedro let her have some more rein. She started to trot hard. Then she lunged forward and began to buck. He hit her on both sides with the rope reins, and she broke into a run. Distracted, she set into a smooth lope around the pen. He let her run until she acted tired, and then he booted her and made her go one more lap. When he skidded her to a stop, everyone cheered.

  “What will you do now?” Carmen asked, taking her by the bosal.

  “Get a canteen of water and ride for Arizona,” he said, and dismounted.

  “God be with you,” the man said.

  He turned to everyone and gave them his thanks.

  Day fixed him a water bag. Pedro hugged his wife, Bonita, and the children.

  “I’ll be back and bring candy,” he promised them.

  The mare buggered at the sight of the water bag, but he soon looped it over the horn and swung into the saddle. Carmen let loose of her hackamore, and she walked, trotted, and then kicked sideways with a squeal before she settled down and went through the gate. He dared not wave to them, his grip so tight on the rope reins. But the mare turned north at his pull, his stomach filled with gut-eating apprehension, and they were on their way.

  Would Marshal Green be back at the ranch when he got there? The mare shied at something in the greasewood, but he found some control and sent her on her way. He shook his head; first he must get back to the ranch.

  Chapter 15

  MARVEL HATFIELD QUIT HIS HORSESHOEING AND came over to greet Burt when he rode up the driveway. A tall man in overalls, he put up a suspender strap and smiled at Burt and his entourage.

  “You must be the law?” he said, appraising them.

  Faucet made quick introductions, and they shook hands.

  “U.S. Marshal Burt Green,” Burt said, releasing the man’s callused hand. “Folks tell us someone stole a saddle and a horse here last Sunday?”

  “Sure did, and never left a sign. She plumb vanished.”

  “You mind if my tracker One-Eye goes and checks things out?” Burt asked.

  “No, sirree. That’s the barn where they got the saddle from, and the mare was in that small pasture out back.”

  The scout nodded to Burt and went over to check it out.

  “You got any idea who took it?” Hatfield asked, wiping his sweaty face on a rag from his pocket.

  “Marshal Green and the tracker are looking for that Apache prisoner who jumped off the train,” Faucet said.

  “An Apache got my mare?” Hatfield made a face at the notion.

  “Hard to say,” Burt said, wishing Faucet wasn’t so forthcoming about their purpose. “But th
e fugitive is definitely still somewhere in this country.”

  “Why, they said he probably got injured from the fall off the train and crawled away somewhere and died. There ain’t been nothing about him turned up in over two weeks.”

  “But someone stole your mare?” Burt looked hard at the man’s suntanned face.

  “Right, but I figured some drifter came passing through and got her. Fact, there were a couple of cowboys herding some hosses through here a couple of days or so ago.” The man shrugged. “Guess they had business, though.”

  One-Eye returned and nodded to Burt privately.

  “You think that Apache got my mare?” Hatfield asked the threesome. The man’s eyes narrowed with a serious look of concern on his face.

  “Was Deuces in that barn?” Burt asked the tracker.

  “Yes.” One-Eye nodded solemnly.

  “Well,” Hatfield said with a sigh. “Glad he took her and rode off. Whew, he might have killed us all if we’d been here.”

  “I doubt it,” Burt said, ready to remount. “He’s not hurt a soul so far.”

  “Where did he go from here?” Hatfield asked, looking bewildered.

  “We’ll have to pick up his trail,” Burt said, and they got on their horses. “Thanks, Hatfield.”

  “You could stay for lunch.Wife’s got plenty of food.”

  “No, thanks again, we better ride.”

  “I wish you luck. He must be a wisp on the wind.What did you reckon that tracker of yours saw that I missed?”

  “Hard to say.” Burt reined his horse around to face the man. “But before I’ve seen other Apaches see things I’d overlooked.”

  They headed into the canyon country when they left Hatfield’s place. One-Eye stripped down to his loincloth, going on foot, searching for signs. Burt led the scout’s horse, and they made their way up the dim wagon tracks that sliced the dried brown grass carpet.

  “We better make camp before it gets any darker,” he finally said to Faucet.

  “He finding anything?” Faucet tossed his head to where they last saw the scout disappear.

  “I wouldn’t bet against him.”