by Cotton Smith
“Quite a horse, Sean,” Lockhart said, patting the horse’s neck and rubbing its ears.
“Aye, that’s what Big Mike hisself dun said.”
“Well, he knew his horse flesh, I’ll give him that.”
“There are the makin’s of a good bloodline here,” Lockhart added. “He’d make a lot of stallions mighty jealous.”
“Do ye want him for your ranch?”
“That would be real nice, Sean.” Lockhart looked up. “We’ll have to figure out a fair value. Crawfish can help us.”
“Na. Me want ye to have it. A gift, it be.”
Lockhart pushed his hat back on his forehead. “That is very generous of you, son, but it wouldn’t be right. That stallion could be worth a lot.”
Sean’s face was a sunrise. He couldn’t think of anything to say and finally blurted out a question about what the painted designs on the stallion meant.
“They tell the story of the warrior. Sorta like a soldier wearing his medals. See this handprint? That means the rider killed an enemy in hand-to-hand fighting.”
“Gosh, four times he be doin’ that, huh?”
“Looks that way. This square means he was a war leader. And all these lines are coup marks, times when he touched an armed enemy and rode away. Takes a lot of courage to do that,” Lockhart continued.
“Like horse shoes, those be lookin.” Sean pointed to a cluster of painted marks.
Lockhart explained they indicated the number of horses he had stolen or the number of horse raids he’d been on.
“Hop-a-bunny!” Sean exclaimed, using Crawfish’s favorite expression.
Lockhart grinned and continued the explanation.
Three circles meant the war leader had fought from behind rocks or some kind of protection three times. Another cluster of large dots and a lightning bolt represented the man’s medicine and Lockhart guessed some other strange marks were similarly related. He said the same marks were presented on both sides of the horse and they weren’t to be totaled.
The stallion was quiet; its ears followed Lockhart’s words.
“What be that? It looks like, well, jus’ two blotches, aye, that it does.” Sean stared at two odd-shaped marks.
Lockhart nodded. “That’s a sign he was in mourning.”
A war chief’s horse wouldn’t necessarily be a fit for any ranch horses. Lockhart had realized that from the moment he saw the animal. The big bay had been trained to hunt buffalo, to swerve away from the beast when he heard the release of the arrow so he would not get hurt if the buffalo turned and charged. It had been trained for war, to rush at his master’s enemies and to run until there was nothing left in him to run—and, then, to run more. Trained to stand silently beside the war chief’s lodge at night, he was ready to challenge intruders in an instant, if needed. The great horse had been brought up with the power of paint markings and war medicine adorning his body.
Could this stallion learn to be a part of a herd—or would he be too cantankerous? If he wasn’t trainable, it would be better to let him go now, Lockhart told himself. Stallions were generally regarded as too unstable and fierce to use as working horses. Mares were too sensitive. There were exceptions, of course, but most working horses were geldings. He didn’t think it would be wise to put this great stallion with any herd when another stallion was there as well. That would only encourage a battle for control of the mares.
“Go back to the carriage and get my canteen, will you, Sean? It’s in the back. On the floor.”
“Aye.” The boy spun and ran for the carriage.
When he returned, Crawfish was with him. The red-haired businessman was moving as fast as he could using his cane for balance.
When Crawfish saw the stallion, he pushed the bowler back on his head. “You sure this is what you want to be doing? Right now? That horse isn’t going to take to a white man, you know.” He crossed his arms. “Wouldn’t a nice smoke be a bit more like it? A mite o’ whiskey to boot? It’s been a long day.”
“Later, Crawfish, but you go ahead.”
The stallion’s ears perked up.
“Just you and my friend, big horse,” Crawfish said. “You be good, you hear? Holy stirrups.”
“What ye be sayin’?” Sean asked.
“Nothing. Just mumbling.”
Sean studied his face, then saw Lockhart waving at him to bring the canteen.
Without looking at the boy, Crawfish’s attention remained on the big bay and how it might react to his friend.
“Here ye be.” Sean met Lockhart halfway, holding out the canteen. “Not much water in it, though.” His rapid breath produced bursts of white in the cool air.
Lockhart took the canteen in his left hand and shook it. “That’ll be plenty. Thanks.” He draped the canteen straps over his shoulder and returned to the bay, who was now snorting a warning at the advancing man.
He took a few steps and the canteen straps slid down his arm. He grumbled at their disobedience.
“Let me be a’carryin’ such,” Sean volunteered.
“Thank you, son, I’ve got it. You stay with…Crawfish. Please.”
Rebalancing the canteen, he faced the big bay who pawed the ground and snorted again.
Sean walked back to Crawfish, who motioned for him. Reluctantly, the boy scooted to his side and, immediately, was captivated by the challenge at the pond.
Ears flat against his head, the stallion kept pawing the ground and snorting; white puffs of frost-smoke bursting from his widened nostrils. An occasional buck, followed by a fierce kick, was a warning to stay away.
The tall man knew this and smiled. This was a lot of horse.
“Careful, Vin,” Crawfish called out. “He doesn’t like being tied up.”
Lockhart nodded and untied the rope holding the horse and wrapped it around his fist.
“Oh my God! No, Vin, no!”
Holding the rope, Lockhart ran fifteen feet to his right, stopped in the adjoining clearing and dug his heels into the earth. The stallion’s head jerked up and he reared, fighting the air with his powerful front hooves. Whinnying, the great horse bolted, but Lockhart was ready and began to guide the fierce animal in a wide circle around the clearing, held there by the now-taut rope.
The stallion continued his race for freedom, circling again and again. Running easily now, it was not quite a gallop, but more than a fast lope. Gradually, it slowed to canter, then to a trot. Still Lockhart made no attempt to move closer to the powerful mustang. Finally, the animal skidded to a complete stop and snorted. White frost-smoke engulfed its face momentarily and the stallion shook his head as if to rid himself of the strange surroundings and the strange thing in front of him.
Lockhart made no attempt to advance.
Slowly, the stallion turned to face the businessman and took a hesitant step toward him, then another. And another. When the animal was ten feet away, Lockhart stepped back several strides, retreating from its advance. He stopped and faced the horse.
The stallion’s ears stood up and he whinnied.
Lockhart took another step backward.
The war horse stepped forward, closing the gap to five feet.
Smiling to himself, Lockhart retreated again, now only a few feet from the back of the wagon, and waited.
With a snort and shake of his head, the stallion took a step toward him. Lockhart took a corresponding step back and away from the horse and the wagon. The great horse’s ears snapped to alertness and he took two steps toward Lockhart. The businessman matched the response with an equal retreat.
Lowering his head, the stallion walked toward him and, this time, Lockhart didn’t move. The horse nuzzled Lockhart’s chest.
Moving slowly so he would not frighten the stallion, Lockhart reached out his left hand and patted the horse’s neck. Gradually, his hand worked its way across the animal’s face and finally stroked the stallion’s nose. The animal stepped even closer to receive the attention.
Horse and man stood together like th
at for several minutes. Lockhart didn’t even hear his friend say something to Sean or respond to the boy’s question about what Lockhart was doing and why.
After patting the horse’s shoulders and withers, Lockhart dropped the rope and walked back to the center of the open area. The stallion followed, stride for stride. Lockhart glimpsed Crawfish and Sean at the boulder and nodded. Crawfish held up both hands clasped together, to indicate victory. Sean imitated the motion and asked if they should be praying.
“Well, you sure can, if you want,” Crawfish said. “Reckon it’s always a good idea.”
“Were ye?”
Crawfish bit his lip, trying to decide how to respond. “Well, no, not then. I was telling Vin that he was doing good.” He paused. “I, ah, I prayed earlier.”
“What did ye be prayin’ for?”
Shaking his head, Crawfish grinned. “For apples an’ pears an’ stick candy trees.”
Sean laughed.
Lockhart’s voice was soft and soothing. The horse didn’t move.
“You are a good one, boy. You know I won’t hurt you,” Lock hart said. “I know the words sound different, but I don’t know any Cheyenne. I’m betting you don’t know any Lakota either.”
He patted the stallion’s head. The great horse pawed the earth once and was calm. With its head raised and ears erect, the stallion shifted its hooves and reexamined the strange man beside it. After a minute of evaluation, its head lowered and his ears righted themselves.
“Easy, Vin,” Crawfish said, more to himself than to his friend.
Shaking his head, the red-haired businessman watched in amazement as Lockhart opened his canteen, poured water on his fingers and drew lines and circles with his fingers on the horse’s neck, back and upper legs, replicating the dried markings.
Of course, Crawfish thought, tugged his bowler and grinned.
“What be hisself doin’?” Sean watched, his mouth remained open.
Crawfish explained, “Well, Vin wants the horse to feel real comfortable, The horse is used to having a warrior paint on it—before riding. Kinda like puttin’ on old clothes, I reckon. Something comfortable.”
Once more, Lockhart stepped away to let the stallion absorb all the new things that were happening to him. The lead rope remained loose, dragging on the ground.
Sean asked what he was doing now and Crawfish said, “I believe he’s making the horse…ah, feel safe.”
“Aye, safe.”
“Did either of your, ah, friends ride that pony?”
“Na. Big Mike, he be sayin’ it were a devil hoss.” Sean shook his head. “Sellin’ it to a rancher soon as we could. That was his plan.”
Lockhart had mounted with the lead rope in his hand and the stallion was walking uneasily around the open area. The stallion crowhopped once, then again. He assumed it was nothing more than the horse greeting the day as many horses did. He smiled and told the stallion again that everything was fine. The horse’s head dropped and his walk became smooth. A nudge of Lockhart’s boots produced a trot.
“Well, it looks like we’ll be heading back to town soon. I’m hungry. How about you?” Crawfish pointed at the wagon. “Can you handle the buckboard? I think Vin wants to ride the stallion back.”
“Aye. Better’n Big Mike an’ Lightnin’, me could.”
“Hey, Vin, can we head back now?” Crawfish yelled. “Sean can take the buckboard.”
Lockhart waved and hollered back, “You’ve got quite a horse here, Sean.”
“Aye, that we do.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
They left the Cheyenne war horse and the wagon and its horses in McNair’s livery. Henry McNair wasn’t happy about stabling a stallion, let alone one painted with strange Indian symbols, but agreed to do so for a few days.
Lockhart went alone to the marshal’s office while Sean and Crawfish went to the Silver Queen Saloon to make certain things were all right there.
“Afternoon, Marshal.” Lockhart stepped inside the combined office and jail.
Only one of the five cells was occupied; a drunken miner was asleep in the farthest cell. A coffeepot was chugging its boiling brew atop a cast-iron stove that was casting off as much smoke as it was warmth. Marshal Benson looked up from his desk and the fistful of papers resting there.
“Well, afternoon, Mr. Lockhart. What can I do for you?” Marshal Benson’s smile was forced.
“Two things. First, if you’re through with them, I’d like to have the guns of those two Irishmen.”
Marshal Benson frowned, trying to let the request sink into his mind. What did Lockhart want with them? He tried to bring the weapons to his mind once more. A long-barreled Colt .45 and an open-top Merwin & Hulbert revolver. Neither one special in any way; both in need of cleaning. Did he dare ask?
Rubbing his chin, Lockhart saved him the trouble. “Mr. Crawford’s been talking about having a handgun. For home protection, you know. Thought I’d save him a few bucks. Figure I have as much right of ownership as anyone. Right?”
“Well, sure. There’s not gonna be any trial, so there’s no need for ’em.” Marshal Benson leaned over and pulled on the handle of a low, right-hand drawer. “Here, ya go. They need cleanin’.” He held out both guns to Lockhart, holding them by their barrels in his right hand.
“Thanks. My partner will be pleased.” Lockhart accepted the weapons, taking one in each hand and pushing them into his coat pockets.
“You said there was a second thing?”
“Oh, yeah. Out riding today, I came by a buckboard with two horses. Just outside of town. Looked like it had been there for a day or two. Judging by the tracks.” He explained the location and his thought that the wagon belonged to the Irishmen, based on some clothes and supplies in the wagon. He said the rig was now at the livery and he thought the marshal’s office would want to do some checking around to see if it was stolen.
“What makes you think it was stolen?” Marshal Benson glanced down, saw that the drawer was still open and leaned over to slam it shut.
“Nothing, really. Might not be. I shouldn’t be trying to tell you how to do your job,” Lockhart said. “Might belong to somebody in town and I just don’t recognize it. Don’t think so. Mr. McNair, he didn’t know it either.”
“I see.” Marshal Benson licked his lower lip. He was always uncomfortable around Lockhart. The man seemed to see right into people. “I’ll check it out. Tomorrow.” He glanced at Lockhart, but let his eyes find the coffeepot in the corner. “If I can’t find an owner, we’ll put it up for sale. Or do you want it?”
“No. Just the guns. Any money should go to Mr. McNair to help pay for the stabling, don’t you think?”
“Sure.”
“You have a good day, Marshal,” Lockhart said, turned and left.
The lawman watched him through the barred window, feeling a strange sense of relief.
After a quick meal at the Silver Queen, they moved Falling Leaf to Crawfish’s house and Sean seemed pleased to stay with her. He agreed with Lockhart that the two guns should be cleaned and put away. Lockhart promised to teach him how to shoot, but only after he learned to read and write.
It was a few minutes after eight when Crawfish and a reluctant, and tired, Lockhart arrived at the small, wood-framed house Dr. Hugo Milens was renting from the mayor.
“Mr. Crawford. Mr. Lockhart. How good to see you.” Dr. Milens greeted them warmly at the door. “Come in. Come in. Everyone else is here.”
They entered the formally decorated house and were led to a small room in the back. A lone lamp sat on a French-made table with ornate legs; the lamp was wrapped in a blue cloth that gave the room an otherworldly appearance. Lockhart thought it had once been a parlor, but now it looked like a forbidden cave.
Crawfish had shared what he knew about seances, mesmerists and spiritualists earlier. The idea was popular in various parts of the country. He said it was basically magicians and charlatans, usually interested in taking money from their guillible audie
nces. Fascinated by anything new, he was eager to participate, however. Magic itself had always been a curiosity. He assured his friend that his interest this evening lay in learning the techniques of the spiritualist, not in seeing or hearing spirits.
The air was alive with a strange smell.
“What is that…I smell? It’s sort of sweet. Sort of musty,” Crawfish said as he entered the room. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“No need to apologize.” Dr. Milens turned toward him, smiling. “The odor has been growing all day.” He inhaled dramatically. “It is the presence of spirits.” He looked past the red-haired businessman to a stone-faced Lockhart. “There is one spirit who especially wants to talk with you, Mr. Lockhart. It is a young woman, I believe.”
Lockhart’s response was clearly one of annoyance. At being there. At being addressed in this way. He should have stayed with Sean and Falling Leaf.
Seven chairs were huddled around a black table; four were already occupied by Mayor McCormick and his wife, and Earnest Wilcox, a wealthy merchant, and his wife.
“Well, gentlemen and ladies, I believe you know each other—and no introductions are necessary.” Dr. Milens made a wide sweep with his arm toward the table and back to Lockhart and Crawfish.
Both McCormick and Wilcox stood and held out their hands for a proper greeting.
“I’m sure you heard the second Irish thug departed this world earlier today,” McCormick said as he shook Lockhart’s hand. “You did our town a great favor in relieving such a threat. Yes, indeed, a great favor.”
Lockhart nodded and turned to Wilcox as Crawfish greeted the mayor.
“Hope that Mick’s ghost don’t show up here,” Wilcox said and laughed.
With a trace of hostility, Dr. Milens advised that such a ghost would not be present to night. He made no attempt to explain why.
Cleta Wilcox, heavy-faced and wearing similarly applied makeup, looked up at Lockhart. A woolen wrap about her shoulders magnified her large face. Her long eyelashes flitted interest.
“Oh, I’m so excited, Mr. Lockhart. I’m hoping to hear from my dead departed sister. She passed three years ago, you know.” She held out her hand, like a man, for him to shake.