The plains were visible as Gordon’s bay lethargically followed Souter’s mustang. Souter’s pony paced smoothly; Gordon’s bay lumbered into a choppy trot. After miles of sand and sun, the grass and soft trees were a blessing. But it was the hint of water that raised Gordon from a half sleep in the saddle.
Souter reined in his eager pony. “Well done, Meiklejon.” For a foreigner wasn’t said. “Sleeping in the saddle’s the mark of a man’s ridden some.”
Gordon licked his dry lips. “There’s water?”
Souter grinned.
As they rode, the smell became intense. A shallow well greeted them around a clump of lush juniper. Beautiful water surged from the ground.
After wetting his lips, spitting out the first mouthful of water, Souter elaborated: “This here’s Datil Wells.”
The two horses were watered, and, with a full measure in the canteens, the men rode out energized. The land erupted in tall grass and high pines where the ground rose and fell in hills bounded by steeps cliffs and rock outcroppings. Several times Souter dismounted and ran knowing fingers through scuffed dirt. Gordon watched, and, when Souter looked out to the land they’d crossed, Gordon listened.
“Ground’s dryin’ too fast.”
They rode from before sunrise into the early night. High up in a chilled meadow, Souter made camp. The fire got built while Gordon cared for his bay. Beans, bacon, coffee. Gordon was content.
“Hey the fire!”
Gordon remained on his log. Souter’s hands moved toward the rifle too far out of reach, then stopped.
Souter spoke: “Come in careful.”
Gordon readied himself. Souter shook his head in warning.
The horse appeared first. Its eyes were red, its forelock tangled. The animal blew slobbers of thick foam as it walked toward them. Aman was barely visible on the horse’s offside. As Gordon stood abruptly, the horse shied and a hand reached for its muzzle. A voice spoke softly and the horse quieted.
“Coffee?”
It was then that the man appeared. The fire’s shadows drew out each spare line. Gordon thought of the tribesmen he’d fought on other continents and figured he was about to see the American counterpart. He had believed the manifestation would be a red Indian, yet this was a white man. A small man, nowhere near Gordon’s six feet and not wide and blocky like Souter. Narrow, face burned by raw winds.
Souter spoke. “You’ll be wantin’ this.” Deliberate movements to pick up a tin cup and pour it full, lace the coffee with canned milk, and extend the cup across the fire.
The man stepped closer, the horse stepping with him. A soft word stopped the horse, a hand took the cup, brought it to a thinned mouth. White teeth glowed briefly, then were covered by the raised cup. The noise of drinking was all Gordon could hear.
The eyes circled the fire and found Gordon. All color was lost in the flames, then a turn of the face, a differing light, and the eyes became a harsh green. The man set the cup down, returning his gaze to Gordon in unsettling inspection. Gordon drew a sharp breath.
Under the shapeless hat, the hair was black. The slight frame was weighed down with an animal-skin coat that dispensed an unpleasant odor. The exposed shirt was stained and badly mended. The pants were hard wool, layered along the inside with leather.
While the horse snorted, the man spoke: “Obliged.” Then he backed the horse, making a clucking sound until the pair disappeared. Souter and Gordon could hear a few hoof steps and then nothing.
“Who was that?” Then Gordon rephrased his question: “What was that?”
“Mustanger. Don’t see many of ’em.” Gordon cocked his head. “Locals call ’em mesteñeros. I heard ’bout this one. He’s been after a small herd.” Souter hesitated. “Not many of the wild ones left. That wire we talked ’bout…it’s takin’ their range.”
Gordon wasn’t certain if “wild ones” related to horses or the singular man.
“You see him…stay upwind of the smoke? Sure smelled ripe. Yep, he’s after a herd. A mesteñero picks a bunch o’ bronc’s and follows close. Don’t wash, don’t cook. Smells like a bronc’…gets the herd use to him. Guess this one got cold and took the risk. Coffee’ll do that to a man if he’s ridden long on cold camps.”
“You mean he follows the animals until he quite literally wears them down? But how could he catch an entire herd by himself? It isn’t possible.”
“He’ll take the young ’uns hangin’ ’round. Young ’uns ain’t got their own bunch yet. It can be good pickin’s. It’s a rough life, but he’s his own boss.” Souter paused, a peculiar light in his eyes. “That ’un looks as old as a mesteñero ever gets.”
Souter retrieved the cups and filled them. Gordon accepted the dollop of canned milk. Then Souter carved out burned beans and bacon. “That horse he was leadin’…mustang. Same’s the pony I ride. Hell, Meiklejon, you know.” Gordon would never dismiss the small local ponies after this arduous trek. “The man’s got a good hand. That roan listened to him, wasn’t feared of us, neither. Says a lot about a man, the horse he rides.” Souter actually grinned. “Best turn in now. More miles tomorrow.”
They had been seeing cattle all morning. As Souter described the qualities in each herd, Gordon marveled at their fine condition despite what he considered an appalling lack of decent grass. A good bull or two put to these hardy cows, and the improvement would be dramatic.
Ransom Littlefield proved to be bowed in the legs and browned to a dark patina. The old man coughed and spat, looked up only when Souter made his introductions. His face was collapsed on a barren mouth. Littlefield talked only to Souter.
“Don’t matter how funny the man talks, iffen the money’s good, we’ll cut a deal.” That sounded as if an agreement were already in place. Littlefield cackled. “Sonny, the word come in yesterday, so I got Miss Katherine to cook up a meal in your honor, seein’s how you been eatin’ Souter’s grub the last day or two.”
A woman appeared at the main door. Gordon surmised she was another pretty Western woman. The country seemed well populated with attractive ladies. As she walked into sunshine, he was forced into a reappraisal. Her features were severe, the eyes unremarkable, the sorrel hair pulled back into an unflattering knot. But her figure was excellent.
Littlefield’s face twisted with glee. “This here’s Miss Katherine Donald. Keeps me from goin’ back to the wild ’fore I die.”
The woman directed her eyes toward Littlefield. She might be a hired woman, but she had her own mind, and her stare quite plainly told Littlefield to watch his manners.
Gordon climbed down from his bay and the woman produced her hand, waiting for Gordon to accept the gesture. He must revise his opinion once again. She was neither plain nor shy; there was high intelligence and sharp wit in her face. This was a woman who looked straight into a man. Her hazel eyes crinkled and softened, and her hand was strong as it gripped his. The scent of soap and fresh bread moved with her.
Littlefield purely cackled with delight. “That’s enough, sonny. Don’t you be courtin’ our Miss Katherine. She’s right persnickety. Given time she might take to you, but don’t go bettin’ on that. She’s smart by damn, our Miss Katherine is.”
She neither demurred to the old man’s frankness, nor blushed at his affection. “Gentlemen, dinner will be ready as soon as you see to the horses. Mister Meiklejon, there is a room for you in the house with hot water and towels.”
A ranch hand took the bay’s reins, saying: “ ’S all right, mister.”
Souter, too, gave up his mottled pony. Walking alongside Littlefield, they entered the house, moving slowly to accommodate the old man’s staggered limp.
After a meal of spiced stew, fresh biscuits, and a yellow cake covered in syrup, Gordon joined his host outside where a group of men were assembling. He recognized the horse handler from earlier. Bit Haven he was named, bandy-legged and smiling. Haven nodded eagerly when introduced.
Next was Stan Brewitt—tall, with sloping shoulders and a protruding
belly, hands as slender as a woman’s. Red Pierson was no more than a boy, seventeen he admitted when Gordon asked, but his eyes were clear and few doubts showed in his face.
The last man was also tall and lean, with straight blond hair thinning at his brow, a small, childishly round face set atop a long, awkward body. There was a calm certainty in the hazel eyes. Davey Hildahl he was called. A man worthkeeping, Gordon decided, and recognized that he had accepted ownership.
He walked with Littlefield while Souter discussed acres and sections, concepts so immense that Gordon struggled to visualize the breadth and width of his purchase.
In the morning he and Littlefield spoke privately. An agreement was reached. Littlefield was to be paid half the purchase price now and the remainder over ten years. It was a deal that benefited both sides.
As Gordon accepted the reins of a horse chosen by Hildahl, he felt the effect of his decision. His life now depended on luck, weather, cattle, and the loyalty of his men.
The new horse was an animal of fourteen hands, a clay color with a black mane and tail, a black stripe down its back. As Gordon settled into the saddle, the pony plunged forward and kicked out. Gordon hauled up the big head and steadied the excited animal. Then he turned to Souter, who sat on his mustang.
“I’m ready now. Lead on, sir.”
Katherine Donald would have a job, or she would not. Ransom Littlefield rarely let her clean the ranch house. He wanted only her company and her cooking. Now, watching the English gentleman move among the hands, she knew she had to decide whether or not she wanted the job before being asked.
She had seen Jack Holden at her father’s cabin. Jack was a gossip by nature and had talked incessantly about the Englishman. Her papa, Edward Donald, had been out making rounds. It usually took him a week or more as he sold horses to the poorer ranches and sheepherders. But it was due to Katherine’s hard work and persistence that she and her father had been kept from debt. Consequently she kept her friendship with Jack Holden a secret. Furthermore, if the good women knew of Katherine’s involvement with Jack, they would brand her indecent.
Jack didn’t often come to Quemado. He and Melicio Quitano were enemies, and Jack rarely invaded the man’s home territory. Despite his reputation, Jack owned a rare delicacy and chose to leave Quitano some pride.
Katherine decided that if she began scouring the place, she might create a need for her services in the Englishman’s transition from itinerant lord to local rancher. She would be surrounded by men and left alone by her unassailable virtue. And Jack Holden would not venture here. By making the decision, she would force herself into solitude while retaining a worthless dignity.
She opened her eyes, closed by her thinking, and found Davy Hildahl watching her. Katherine glared at him. “Mister Hildahl, you must get back to work. I do not care for idle men.” With that she returned to the Littlefield house, and started putting into effect her plan for insured employment.
On the return journey, Gordon asked well-intentioned questions. He had bought the ranch, now he needed to gather as much information and as many facts as he could process.
Souter’s blunt fingers pointed out distant landmarks, ticked off sections of the land named after physical oddities. Each section was used for a certain length of time. They passed a water hole, and, when asked, Souter replied that the water hole was on Littlefield graze, and then proceeded to name the varying ranchers whose stock were enjoying Littlefield largesse.
Introducing the wire could cause a war. Gordon, having just purchased the ranch, would begin by breaking all traditions. If he was successful, he would become a hero. If he failed, he’d be disgraced. Forcing change marked a man, isolated him from his less venturesome neighbors.
Horses harnessed to a creaking wagon interrupted his thoughts. Behind the wagon a string of horses trotted to keep up. The crack of a whip over this ensemble sent the grullo pony into frenzied bucking. Gordon rode out the storm with ease.
The team came to a ragged halt. After the dust settled, the foreman made his introductions, saying to Gordon: “This here’s a neighbor. Lives up by Quemado.” That was all, and Gordon could tell nothing from Souter’s expression.
The gentleman himself explained: “Edward Donald, sir, at your service.” There was an air of faded gentility about Donald’s person—a stained tie, a white shirt with soiled sleeves and cuffs, clerk’s hands holding the lines. The man could talk, however, and Gordon traded a grimace with Souter.
“My daughter cooked your meals…up to Littlefield’s…begging your pardon, Mister Meiklejon…your place now. When she has a mind to, Katherine works for the old gent. She was teaching school till that fellow started his academy. His own boys burned the place, but Katherine wasn’t asked back, no, sir. Too proud to admit they made a mistake.”
He paused and Gordon thought they’d escaped, but it was only to get a second wind. “I’m all for education…got myself one back East. My Katherine works more to be doing something. Now, Mister Meiklejon, it is a pleasure, sir, to meet you. And when you get tired of riding that bronc’, let me know, and we can find you a suitable mount. Señor Quitano and me, we got some fine animals to sell or trade, and a gentleman deserves better than that Spanish pony.”
Gordon laughed, an unseemly response. It was impossible to purchase the necessary qualities in one horse. Vanity urged the acquisition of a handsome saddler and common sense led to the Spanish ponies. And here was a horse trader telling Gordon what he needed to suit his station.
“Most folks, they own a pony for distance, a stout bronc’ for roping, and a Sunday horse for the neighbors. You see, Mister Meiklejon, no one horse can satisfy a man’s needs, just like no one woman can.”
It was an unpleasant moment. Gayle Souter reined his pony into its running pace. Gordon lifted his hat in politeness, a gesture that Donald tried to return but Gordon was already gone.
A good ten minutes down the trail, and Souter reined up. “Donald, him and Quitano, they only know one end of a horse.” Gordon agreed, and Souter continued. “The daughter’s hardheaded and some of the boys tried courting her, but she turned them down. If I was younger…hell, Meiklejon, you best watch yourself. Ain’t many women out here like Katherine Donald.”
They camped in the hills before Magdalena. The fire offered comfort as Gordon watched the sky. His mind unfolded around the people he’d met—smiling, frowning, waiting for orders. There was Gayle Souter, and the redoubtable Katherine Donald. The ranch hands, especially Davey Hildahl. He’d met Edward Donald, yet could not sense more than rudeness. He envisioned Rose Victoria Blaisdel—her father an unlikely sire of her beauty. Jack Holden was amusing—the stalwart virtue of an honest outlaw. But it was the eyes and hands of the mesteñero that stayed with him as he drifted into sleep.
Rose Victoria Blaisdel
Chapter Four
She preferred plain Rose. Rose Victoria was a little girl with china eyes. There were times she felt like that doll, but she would not be called by the silly name. The town boys called her Rosie and lingered wherever she was, pushing each other while they tried to ignore her. Rose usually tossed her head, knowing the effect of such an action.
Today Mama brought the news: the Englishman had purchased Littlefield’s ranch. Rose purred. She had already scolded Mr. Meiklejon for the tired lines around his eyes, and he had listened. It had been an intimate exchange, standing so close. The lump in her throat, the beating of her heart. Rose was honest with herself if no one else. It was the thought of freedom that had her heart pounding.
Rose could read—magazines, old newspapers, ladies’ journals loaned to her mother by friends. Reading gave you more places than you could otherwise see. Learning from Miss Donald had left Rose aching. It hurt to cry quietly, it soured in the mouth, burned the eyes, flooded the heart. Rose would not be hurt, not even by her dream.
Mostly Rose did chores: new sheets for the drummer in Room 4, a bucket of milk from the Swede who kept three cows at the edge of town. Rose
particularly disliked going to fetch milk. It made her hate the town, her mama, even the patient cow. The Swede would pull at that great udder and grin while she waited.
It came by chance, her first brush with loving. Mr. Meiklejon needed fresh milk for his tea. She let the bucket swing beside her, felt the metal bail shift in her hand. The wind twisted and wove her dress between her legs despite heavy petticoats. She was conscious of the rubbing between her thighs.
She came around the corner into an unmoving object. Rose dropped the empty pail, a strong hand picked it up.
“Here, miss, I think this is yours.”
Looking through her loosened hair, she saw him. Tall and straight, dark hair curled under his hat, eyes that laughed. Rose frowned; no one laughed at her.
“Aren’t you a pretty one? I bet you’re Queen Victoria.”
She giggled. “I’m sure I don’t know you, sir. Please let me pass.” She shoved at him.
He laughed and stepped aside. “Good day, Miss Rose, or do they call you Queenie?” He bowed and removed his hat with a grand sweep and Rose could see his mass of curly hair. She reached to touch that hair, but he replaced the hat. She bit her lip with wanting.
“Miss, you’re too pretty to be mad.” He winked one blue eye and she knew who he was. Talk was all over town but the law never arrested him.
“You’re nothing but an outlaw.” Rose spat out the last word. She said it again: “Outlaw!”
A funny expression passed over his face. “You do speak your mind, girl. Wouldn’t have thought it of a youngster like you.”
She lashed back: “I’m seventeen!” She took a deep breath. “You haven’t any manners.” He laughed and Rose congratulated herself. Men liked fire in a girl. In their women, she silently amended.
The English Horses Page 3