Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

  “Yes. We’ll watch them for a few days,” Lockhart said, “then we’ll see about letting them out on the grazing land. You up to standing nighthawk?”

  “What be a nighthawk?”

  Lockhart explained it was a term used originally by drovers on a cattle drive to describe the guards watching the herd at night. He was using it to describe watching the horses during the night.

  “Ye kin count on me.” He repeated “nighthawk” to himself and looked again at the five mares and three young colts meandering in front of them.

  They were all chestnuts or bays, except for one strawberry roan colt and one dun mare. The roan colt’s mother was definitely a chestnut and Sean wondered what the foal’s father looked like, until Lockhart pointed out a handsome roan stallion on the far side of the rancher’s pasture.

  Each horse purchased was a well-formed animal with a short straight back and good ribs. Lockhart had told Sean that most cowmen preferred “close-coupled” horses like that. He had pointed out a horse whose back end tapered too severely from its hip to its tail; that was called “goose-rumped” and was to be avoided. No staying power.

  The back muscles of the selected horses were short and heavy. Their chests were full, but none were barrel-chested, as Lockhart said this was an indication that the horse might not give a comfortable ride. He favored horses with large nostrils because it meant they would run well and long. Sean had listened in awe.

  The colts were spring foals, something Lockhart told Sean to look for. A spring birth meant the youngster had the advantages of warm sunshine and good grass. A winter foal always needed more handling—and, likely, a long stay in the barn.

  Lockhart’s observations about picking horses swirled in Sean’s head. Stay away from blue-eyed horses; they would be weak. Always dark brown eyes. “Hazel” was the word Lockhart liked to use. Hazel. Avoid buying a foal with a small head because it meant the animal wouldn’t have the size and strength needed. Like children, their heads should be larger in proportion to their small bodies, and grown into. Watch out for front legs that were too far apart; the horse would be slow. Nobody liked a horse with a long, thin head or a short, heavy one. He couldn’t remember all that Lockhart had shared, only knew he wanted to learn more—and stay close to this strange man so many seemed to fear.

  Lockhart’s advice about selecting horses filled the young Irishman’s thoughts. The older man’s zeal had been contagious and Sean could think of nothing greater than being in the horse business. Nothing. Always pick a horse with a straight head, one with good distance between the eyes. The back should also be straight, not “roached” or “sway-backed.”

  He watched a bay mare nibbling on an interesting clump of grass. The shoulder blades should be long and slope smoothly to bring long and powerful strides. His gaze moved to the mare’s hind legs. Straight. Again that word. They weren’t “cow-hocked” with bent-in knees. Not “sickle-hocked” either with back legs bent outward. He examined the mare, then the chestnut a few feet away. Withers. Fetlock joints. Pasterns. Words he had never heard just a few days ago—and now they seemed comfortable to evaluate and discuss.

  The withers, according to Lockhart, should be prominent. That was the area just behind the crest of a horse’s neck. If they were thick and not as visible, it would mean the horse wouldn’t have free motion and wouldn’t naturally take long strides. He smiled and muttered “hands.” That was the measurement used with horses. So many hands high. A hand was four inches. About the width of a man’s hand. The point of measurement was the tallest part of the withers.

  His gaze took in both horses’ rear legs again. That’s where the two pasterns were. One long; one short. They shouldn’t look low, close to the hoof, when a horse was still. Here was a place where “straight” wasn’t good. Real straight pasterns meant the ride would be hard. Of course, if the pasterns curved too much, the animal was said to be “coon-footed” and it would be slow.

  These horses had been bought from three different ranches Lockhart had visited during the last year, as his idea had taken shape in his mind. Now it was turning into reality.

  Sean had been drawn to the idea of a horse ranch immediately, finally getting up the nerve to ask if he could help there, instead of washing dishes and glasses at the saloon. He had been surprised when Lockhart told him that he was going to be a partner in the effort, along with Crawfish and the Rhymers. Sean’s initial contribution was the great war horse. The rest would be helping Lockhart. That night—at Crawfish’s house—Sean wouldn’t sleep; he was too excited to get back to work. At breakfast, Crawfish had told him that he hoped Lockhart would change the name from “The Broken R” to “The Silver R.” Sean liked that idea, too. Neither brought it up to him, though.

  Lockhart eased his horse to the left, encouraging the dun mare to keep up with the others. “We’ll let them get settled first, then we’ll try putting Magic with the mares. Easy does it, as Crawfish likes to say.”

  “Me thinks he likes to say, ‘Hop-a-bunny’.”

  Lockhart laughed. “True. True. Or name everything ‘silver’ something.”

  “Magic would like being with the mares, me be thinkin’.”

  The boy had called the stallion “Magic” once and the name had stuck; even Lockhart referred to the stallion as Magic now. Sean had ridden the stallion twice—once inside the corral and once outside—with Lockhart nearby. It had gone well both times; the boy was a natural, Lockhart thought, and told him so. He didn’t say that the boy could learn much from Touches-Horses, but he felt it.

  Conversation drifted into thoughts about what they would eat for dinner. Sean hoped Martha Rhymer would ask them to stay; her cooking was better than Crawfish’s. They moved through a narrow draw with a trickle of water that became a definite stream. About forty yards from its opening, a scruffy sentinel of stubby post-oak, blackjack and redbud shouldered its way against the growing stream that had formed the land crease long ago.

  Lockhart was drawn to a pair of cardinals, male and female, resting on a redbud branch. Their colors were reinforced by the dark, magenta leaves. Without hesitation, he greeted the birds in Lakotan, referring to them as “spirits of the morning,” then caught himself. His mind found Morning Bird where he had seen her first, upon returning to the village with Touches-Horses last year. He first thought it was Young Evening herself, but he soon learned they were very different women. They spent many sweet hours together. Just as quickly, his thoughts whirled to his dream at Dr. Milens’s house. He shook in the saddle.

  “What’s the matter? You see something? A ghost?” Sean asked, his head on a swivel to see what had bothered the intense businessman. He didn’t dare ask about the strange words he had used. Guessed they were Indian.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Sean. Seeing the cardinals made me think of my old Indian friends. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Lockhart said and pointed toward the clearing. “Just on the other side of this thicket is Broken R land.”

  Sean’s face tightened with growing courage as he asked, “Are you going to go an’ be gettin’…Touches-Horses?”

  They rode in silence for awhile. The only sounds came from the grunts and squeals of the horses, mixed with the padding and squishing of their hooves on the soft earth and the shallow water.

  “This is a horse he trained. Touches-Horses gave it to me. Last year,” Lockhart finally said. “You’ve ridden it. What do you think?”

  “ ’T’would be a good thing, me be thinkin’.” Sean straightened in the saddle, proud to be asked such an important question. “We will be needin’ such a fine hossman as he.”

  They rode on a little farther in silence, stopping while the horses drank from the deeper part of the stream, where it gathered itself. Lockhart looked over at the boy and smiled.

  “We’re going to have to get you some chaps and spurs, if you’re going to become a horse man.”

  “Aye, me be wishin’ hard for that. To become a hossman,” Sean said and then pointed, “Look! That colt
, isn’t he somethin’?”

  “He is yours, Sean.”

  “Mine? He be mine? Really?”

  Lockhart grinned and nodded. “But you will have to take good care of him. I think he just might grow to be a stallion.”

  “Like Magic be?”

  “Yes, like Magic.”

  “May I be namin’ him?” Sean asked excitedly.

  “Well, unless you want to call him ‘Six,’” Lockhart laughed.

  “Aye,” Sean laughed. “Me be givin’ it some thinkin’.”

  After the horses finished drinking, they cleared the draw and left the scrub trees behind as the stream hurried toward a pond on their land and the ground flattened into open grassland. Eight cows watched them pass, mildly curious, before returning to their grazing. From that distance, they could see the windmill, and the top of the farm house and barn.

  “Study the horses’ ears, Sean.” Lockhart pointed at the closest bay mare. “They’ll tell you a lot about the horse. If its ears are always moving, always flickering, you’ve got a nervous horse. Or you’ve got one with bad eyesight.” He motioned toward the strawberry roan colt. “If it never moves its ears, most likely you’ve got a slow horse on your hands. Or a lazy one.”

  “What do ye be thinkin’ of…Strawberry there?”

  “Strawberry, huh? That’s a good name,” Lockhart said. “I think ol’ Strawberry is going to be a good one. Strong and tall. Kinda like you.”

  Sean beamed.

  “Remember a horse may be strong and fast, but he isn’t smart,” Lockhart said, clucking to the horses to keep them moving. “Has a long memory though. You train him by repeating things. You build habits. Most horse men do it by hurting them. Touches-Horses does it by rewarding them.” He pushed his horse closer to the dun mare to give it an extra sense of urgency. “Now, if he saw something scary behind a certain rock, it’ll be a long time before he decides it still isn’t there. He’ll jump every time he passes that rock. That’s why they’ll jump sideways sometimes at nothing. They survived by being quick.”

  “Me can see that.”

  As they crossed the open land, they could see Magic with his ears up, pressed against the poles of the corral. The stallion whinnied.

  “Looks like we’ve got a welcoming committee,” Lockhart said and pointed toward the big horse.

  “Aye. An’ a fine one he be.” Sean waved and yelled, “Hiya, Magic. Be bringin’ye some lady friends.”

  Lockhart shielded his eyes with his hand. “Looks like Crawfish has joined us. Isn’t that him standing next to Harry?”

  “Aye, ’tis,” Sean replied. “That’s his fancy rig. Next to the house.”

  “Good eyes.”

  “Thank ye.”

  “A smart man sees what he’s riding into.”

  “Aye.” Sean’s eyes widened. “Vin, I know what I wanna be namin’ the colt.”

  “Already? What?” Lockhart leaned forward in the saddle, his arms resting on the saddle horn.

  “Kola. I be namin’ him Kola, if that be fittin’ with ye,” Sean asked, staring at the businessman.

  “Hey, I like it. Kola.” Lockhart looked over at the frisky colt. “All right, Kola, you’ve got a lot to live up to.” He grinned.

  As soon as the new horses were introduced to their new corral home, Lockhart swung down from his horse and flipped the reins over a corral pole. Sean did the same and immediately sought the new colt to watch. Lockhart patted his horse on the neck and wondered if his thoughts about going after his Indian relatives were motivated by caring— or by his desire to build up the horse ranch—or by wanting Morning Bird to be at his side. Was there something wrong with feeling some of all three?

  Lockhart and Sean stood by the corral, watching his new colt, as Harry Rhymer hurried over to them, as fast as his bowed legs would carry him. The new arrangement had brought new life to him and he was quite excited about their progress and their plans. Right now, though, his face carried serious worry.

  “Vin, thar’s bad news from up north. Injun trouble. Crawfish dun come to tell ya.” It was like the old man not to be able to keep a secret or wait for Crawfish to tell.

  “Indian trouble?” Lockhart stared past him at Crawfish.

  “I knew you’d want to know. Word just came over the telegraph office. Everybody in town is talking about it.” Crawfish walked toward him, waving his walking stick as he moved. “Battle of the Rosebud, they’re calling it. Crazy Horse and his warriors whipped General Crook. He had to retreat. Sounds like his troops were shot up some. All Crook’s Injun scouts dun quit on ’im. Word is it’ll be awhile before Crook can go at it again.”

  Lockhart swallowed. “At the Rosebud? How many were in this?”

  “Crook had about a thousand troopers and, maybe, two hundred and fifty Indian scouts, and a bunch of miners,” Crawfish related. “Crazy Horse attacked somewhere along Rosebud Creek.”

  “Do you know how many warriors were with him?”

  “No. Hundreds, I suppose. Some folks in town are scared the Sioux will come riding down our way,” Crawfish said. “Can you believe such stupid stuff?”

  Sean watched Lockhart who looked like he was watching something in the horizon, toward the north. Sean glanced that way, but could only see rolling hills.

  The news of the fight hit Lockhart in a way he hadn’t expected. He should’ve been proud of his adopted people, fighting and winning against terrible odds, fighting when there was no chance of winning in the end. One fight they might win. Maybe two. Ultimately, they will lose. Even Crazy Horse knows that. Has to. Overriding dread crowded his mind and turned it black. Were his friends at the Rosebud? With Crazy Horse?

  Crawfish studied his friend and knew the anguish within him. It may have been a victory for the Sioux, but the whites were now screaming for blood. Indian blood.

  Indians everywhere would be hunted and killed in the name of revenge. What would Lockhart do? Finally Crawfish could hold back no longer.

  “You’re going to find your friends, aren’t you?”

  Lockhart’s eyes seared the red-haired businessman’s face.

  “You can’t save them all, Vin. They’ve got to get to the reservation. Fast. It might already be too late.”

  Lockhart’s shoulders rose and fell. He looked at the horses milling in the corral, then at Magic now prancing in his own space, and his arm slowly rose and formed a fist.

  “No damned bunch of soldiers better bother them.” The words snarled from his tightened mouth.

  Crawfish shook his head, glanced at the frowning Harry Rhymer, then at the quiet Sean. “You don’t know where they are. Your friends. Not for sure.” He paused, unsure if he should say more, then decided he must. “They might be nowhere near there. The Rosebud. Your friends. Your tribe.” He licked his lips and waved his arms. “They might be clear on the other side of the Black Hills, you know. Maybe they’re already on the reservation. Might be.” His face betrayed his real feelings.

  “What were they supposed to do? They’ve been lied to. Over and over. That’s their land. Theirs.” Lockhart gritted his teeth to hold back the anger.

  “They were supposed to go to the reservations.” Crawfish knew he had gone too far the moment the words popped out. “Red Cloud has already gone there. The great Sioux leader.”

  The fury that had controlled Lockhart’s gaze vanished. In its place was disappointment. “I thought you would understand, Crawfish. But you’re just another white man.” He spun toward his horse.

  “I didn’t deserve that, Vin,” Crawfish said, without moving. “I do understand. You know I do. It isn’t good, but this land is changing—and it won’t change back.”

  With his hand on the saddle, Lockhart stopped and spoke into the leather. “I shouldn’t have said that. I am sorry.” He turned toward his friend. “What do you think I should do?” His face was laden with worry.

  Surprising himself, Crawfish answered succinctly that Lockhart should leave as soon as possible and try to find his o
ld tribe and convince them to go to the reservation, to leave Crazy Horse and the certain terrible ending that would ultimately occur.

  “You should invite Touches-Horses…and Stone-Dreamer…and Morning Bird…to return with you. Here,” Crawfish added and put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry and Sean…and me…we’ll keep everything in order around here until you get back.” His face jerked slightly. “Crystal-and-brandy, the restaurant’s coming along just fine—and so are the hotel rooms. All of the four-poster beds are in. Only a few rooms left to be all fancied up.”

  Biting his lower lip, Harry blurted, “Ya know’d they’s welcome, Vin. Martha an’ me, we tolt ya that. A’fer.” He folded his arms. “An’ when ya gits back, it’ll be the Silver R. How’s that sound?” He looked at Crawfish, who grimaced. This wasn’t the time.

  Lockhart tried to grin, and glanced at Crawfish. “Should’ve seen that coming. What’s wrong with the Broken R? It’s a name with honor.”

  Harry’s face brightened with pride.

  Crawfish nodded. “The Broken R is a good name.”

  “Will ye be back in time for In depen dence Day?” Sean asked, wide-eyed. “It’ll be on July fourth.”

  Crawfish responded first. “That’s not likely, Sean. Vin has to find his friends first and they won’t be leaving any forwarding addresses. He’ll be gone…a few months, I suppose.”

  “But that be such a grand day o’ it,” Sean said, his voice pleading. “Crawfish be tellin’ me o’ it all. There be a rodeo, an’ fireworks all over the sky, aye, an’ a big parade, an’ picnics…an’ speeches all long an’ grand…an’ ice cream. Lots o’ stuff, there be.”

  Lockhart nodded and swung into the saddle. “All of you will just have to celebrate extra hard to make up for my not being there. I’ll take the stage tomorrow as far as Cheyenne.” He turned to Crawfish. “I’m leaving you with a lot of work. It’s not fair. Finishing the hotel. Getting things going here. What about your bank idea?”

  Pushing his eyeglasses back in place and running his fingers through wild strawberry hair, Crawfish smiled. “Work-and-wishes, Vin. You know I like doing lots of things at the same time. I’m having second thoughts about the bank anyway. Could be boring. The idea of an orchestra in the hotel restaurant’s growing on me, though. Fiddles-and-firecrackers! There would be room. Plenty of room.” He held out his hand. “Besides, this ranching stuff gets in your blood. Doesn’t it, Harry? Sean?”