“Why tell me this, Hildahl? You ride for the L Slash, you better be loyal to that brand.”
Hildahl came back quick. “English, you’re the fool.” They sat on restless horses, each hearing the other’s truth. Hildahl continued: “I seen you with the wild stock, watched you saddle and ride that colt. Yeah, I been up here before, and I’m telling you now…you’v e earned those bronc’s, and Meiklejon knows it. But I don’t want him making a mistake we all suffer for.”
Burn opened his mouth and out jumped his plans. “There’re a few mares I want, and some of the bachelor colts. Then Meiklejon can have the rest. Hope he knows to let them run. I just want the few I’ve got marked.”
“You better be certain sure that brand’s registered in New Mexico. Otherwise, the boss’ll have right to take the sorry bronc’s.”
Burn got mad. “You ride back and tell Meiklejon the mustangs are mine. I ain’t stealing nothing from him can’t grow back on its own.”
“English, you can’t do all this alone. If you was to ask, I’d stay to help. You can’t rope and brand what you want in the time left.”
Burn wiped his mouth, tasted cotton wool. He couldn’t look straight at Davey. “I ain’t asked for help. I don’t need it. I got the gray and a good rope. You’d be in the way.” He looked away, giving Hildahl room to back off.
“What bronc’s you planning to own?” Hildahl asked. “So if Meiklejon sends a crew, I can slip the bronc’s free. ’Bout all I can do. You ain’t even set up a pen. Those bronc’s’ll run you and the gray flat ’fore you’re done.”
An honest answer didn’t cost much. “Three mares. That sorrel with the off hind stocking…the brown colt she’s trailing. The dun mare with the dun filly, and the solid red mare with that palomino colt. Figure the filly’s not from the bay stallion, so that’ll give me four brood mares and a few to sell. Some of the colts, too.”
“Can’t fault the choices, Burn. But that stallion’s going to hate you taking his best mares. Planning on the colt as a sire?”
Burn shook himself, listening to the easy words. It felt almost right to be setting on the gray and talking about horses with Hildahl. Talking to a half stranger who listened and nodded and all the time worked for the enemy. He weren’t bright, Burn thought, all because a man asked a few damned fool questions. Damn Davey Hildahl.
Hildahl continued like nothing was wrong. “Since you got good taste in horseflesh, got a man you need to know ’bout. Name’s Jack Holden. A handsome kind of fellow, smiles a lot. Always got him a good stepping, pretty mount that don’t carry his brand. He can rope out a horse or point a gun, and smile while he’s stealing you blind.”
Burn stared at Davey. “We’ve met. Gent tried to steal my roan and I changed his mind.”
The two men watched each other, full of private thoughts.
“Remember, English, I’ll help…if you want.”
Burn turned the gray and let it drift toward camp. But then he brought the bronco around, reined in next to Davey’s bay. “Thanks for the offer, Hildahl…Dav ey.”
Burn guided the gray to the high fence, kneed the horse into the rail gate, and leaned over to pull a few rails loose. Reining the gray back several strides, he let the bronco’s head free, touched the gray with his spurs. The big gelding took three strides, jumped the gate, was hauled up in a stop, spun around, and came back to the fence. Facing Hildahl over the lowered rails, Burn leaned down and slipped a pole in place, caught another rail. The end of this pole skidded on the gray’s shoulder and the horse leaped sideways, started pitching. Half out of the saddle, Burn flipped the end of the pole into place.
Davey hadn’t moved. “Maybe you can catch and brand them, English, after all. Any man rides that way, maybe he can.” He raised a hand in salute, and Burn saluted in turn.
It took three days to fence off the water. The horses scattered on the first day and weren’t much trouble, but, toward the end of that third day, they came in driven by thirst. Burn was counting on that need. The morning of the fourth day, the band pressed against the fence, whickering and calling. Occasionally the stallion would stare at Burn as if knowing the horses’ suffering was a human’s fault.
With the last rail in place, Burn built his fire and laid out a running iron. He’d use Donald’s Bench D since he didn’t have a brand registered in New Mexico. Even Hildahl said the brand was good, and Donald had given his word in the company of another man. Donald didn’t scare him. He’d hold the stock at the man’s place, as agreed. Payment of one colt should be enough for Donald.
When he dropped the rails and let the horses in to water, it was the mares who spilled around the raging stallion. Burn kept the gray bronco well away from the milling horses. He watched the mares drink, their foals pressing tiny muzzles into the suspicious liquid, taking only small laps with baby-pink tongues and then raising their heads in mimicry of their sire.
He gave them a last hour of peace, and, when they were waterlogged and sleepy, Burn rode the gray among them. Even the stallion showed the effect of Burn’s campaigning—while the horse raised his head and shook it, he made no real threatening move. Too tired, too filled with water, and already used to Burn’s presence, the mares barely lifted their heads to watch as their foals stretched out on the grass, filled bellies rising and shaking with each breath.
The dun was dozing over her sleeping filly when the gray ambled up and Burn dropped the rope over her head where it snugged around her neck. The mare reared and the filly staggered as the stallion charged. Burn slapped the dark head with his hat and the big horse stopped abruptly, shook his head, but did not challenge Burn again.
Choking down the mare was ugly. Burn flipped a loop around her front legs and laid her sideways with a hind leg tied up. The mare sighed and quit fighting. It was even uglier when he pressed the crude brand on her flank; she twitched and cried but couldn’t get up. Burn smelled the stink, and shuddered. Back on the gray, he leaned down and freed the mare, having to slap her on the rump before she would get up. The mare stood slowly. The foal came whickering and nuzzling, first her mama’s head and shoulder, then to the warm bag where she settled in to nurse.
Burn waited to dredge up enough strength before roping out the red mare. The stallion paid no attention at all. The mare fought harder than the dun, even savaged the tired gray, but Burn’s hat worked its miracle and the mare sat back on her haunches, where Burn caught a front leg and brought her down.
When he caught up the third mare, the bright sorrel with the off hind stocking, he found his hands trembled as much as the mare’s heart pounded. The gray was barely capable of holding the sorrel while Burn tangled her in the rope and threw her. The new brand was faint and wavering, but it would do.
It was near dark. Burn stood at the gray’s side. He grabbed for the stirrup and the big gray quivered between its ribs where the tired heart pounded. He knew the gray would give out under much more work. So he led the horse to the pole fence, where it took five tries before he could reach the top pole and slide it free. When the lastpole was added to the untidy pile on the ground, Burn led the gray through. Next he had to put the fence back up. He leaned all his weight on the fence once it was rebuilt. He needed two hands to pull himself aboard the gray that staggered under Burn’s slight weight.
He’d do the bachelors tomorrow. As the gray labored uphill, Burn held himself to the saddle and fought open his eyes, struggling with an immediate need for sleep. Tomorrow, he’d do the colts, tomorrow. Right now he plain didn’t care.
The bay colt woke him well after daylight. Burn rolled over and grabbed for his Spencer, sat up, looking for the trouble. The colt and the tired gray were staring along the east side of the valley.
Burn grabbed his gear and slapped it on the gray. When he drew up the cincha, the gray went to its knees. Burn patted the crusted neck. When this was done, he’d turn the outlaw loose. With Burn aboard, the gray labored into a downhill run, sliding to a ragged stop near the east gate. It opened directly where the approaching
riders would appear.
Burn lowered half the rails, jumped the gray in, feeling the hind legs scrape the rails. He spun the gray around and reset the rails. He rawhided the top rail, spat on the hide for luck. Hell, he needed everything he could get.
He whipped the gray into a run across the valley, uphill to the west gate, where the rails were lashed tightly. He cursed his own thoroughness as he cut through the thongs, dropped rails as fast as he could. And he cursed himself for not having branded the colts yesterday. The gray staggered back to the water hole, and the stallion challenged them over the fence. Here it was easier to cut the rawhide, drop the rails. The band of mares slowly came out, walking at first, then a trot, and finally into a lope.
Burn spurred the gray, wondering about the depth to the horse as it ran past the stallion and scattered the mares. The mares circled, slowed; some of the more curious started toward the hole in their prison wall. Burn let the gray come to a jog while keeping to the back of the band, yelling and slapping his hand on his leg when a mare stopped to graze.
He reined in, listening for what he knew was coming. The stallion made several passes in front of the gate before the first mare ducked around him and escaped. The rest of the band followed, leaping the downed rails, disappearing through the natural break in the rock. The stallion turned on the bachelor colts and savaged them, furious that they would dare crowd him.
The first rifle shot came as the stallion leaped the poles. The colts milled in confusion at the break, distracted by the stallion’s charge, terrified by the rifle fire. Burn reined the gray around, looked across the valley. Two men were working together on the rails. A third sat on his horse, holding the other’s mounts. A fourth man held the rifle. He raised it again, and fired.
Burn saw the explosion of grass fifty feet short of him and the gray. He let the gray turn, catching sight of the panicked colts running the rock. More shots echoed behind Burn, and he felt the gray leap forward. If all the horses escaped, Meiklejon would have no more claim to them.
Burn rubbed his dry eyes, thinking of the dark bay colt, hobbled and helpless at camp. He had almost turned back when one of the frantic colts hit the fence. He heard the rail snap, heard the colt scream. Burn jammed his spurs into the gray.
Now the pack of four men rode close together. Then they slowed down and drew into a circle.
The gray bronco eased back. Burn drew out his old Spencer and fired, aiming carelessly. He didn’t care if he hit a man—hoped he didn’t kill a horse. The shot set the gray into a bucking fit, pushing the bachelor colts through the open fence. Two of the colts went down. Burn pummeled the gray, and the big horse shuddered into a gallop, not hesitating at the tangled rail, but jumping, landing, almost losing Burn. The mustanger kicked and yelled and the horse veered toward a patch of bright grass seen through the pines.
Burn saw the dirt ahead of him and to the left kick up in a thick puff. He slammed the gray hard with his spurs and the horse jumped. Two shots in quick succession, even more off target. Burn stood in the stirrups, lifted his hat, and hollered. When he looked back, one of the riders was out ahead of the rest. A skinny hand on a big-running bay. Davey Hildahl. Burn’s throat closed. A shot kicked up near the laboring gray. Damn Hildahl for shooting at a friend.
The colts scattered through the pines. The gray staggered between the trees. Burn’s right leg caught a branch, and he slid in the saddle, grabbed the gray’s mane, and hung on. A clearing showed—sunlight framing high grass. Burn could hear nothing but the outlaw’s harsh breathing.
Ahead, two of the bachelor colts went down. A third disappeared among the dark trees. Burn tried to slow the gray, but the gelding was numbed to the bit. The wire came up fast. The horse hit it chest high and rolled. Wire wrapped around its front legs—wire twisted high above torn hocks. The deep chest was opened. The gray rolled again, hind legs cut to the bone, tendon and muscle exposed. Asingle wire sliced the gray’s windpipe.
The wire tangled around Burn amidst the thrashing legs. Burn’s shoulders were pared, his neck opened. He clawed at the strangling wire. Blood sprayed from the gray’s wounds, blotting the gray’s soaked hide. The horse shuddered. A hind leg kicked back in reflex. Dark blood poured from the gaping throat wound. The gray coughed, blood spewing through bared teeth.
Burn lay tied to the gray carcass. He looked up through the tall pines to the blue sky. He heard the gray die, closed his own eyes, and felt nothing.
Davey Hildahl
Chapter Eleven
Davey yelled at the mustanger as the big gray jumped the fence rail. He yelled a warning about the wire that stretched through the pines, cutting off escape. As he called out, he knew English couldn’t hear him, probably wouldn’t listen. Still he raced ahead of the rest—Meiklejon and Souter, and the kid, Red Pierson. He drove the bay through rocks, across the churned ground. Davey held to his Winchester and hoped for a miracle.
He knew when the bay skidded and stopped. Davey sighted the Winchester and fired. The bullet’s heavy thump startled him and he came off the nervous bay, found he was talking to himself as he walked around the carnage. Talking gave him false courage for what had to come next.
He walked past the dead gray bronco to a mustang caught up in the torn wire. He shot the colt, directly into the brain. The colt sagged in the wire trap. It was all Davey could do to stand. The gray was more than likely dead when Davey’s bullet hit it, bled dry from terrible wounds. Davey walked back, each step digging into the pine-needle earth. Raw pine couldn’t cover the stink of blood.
The slight body was torn, covered with pineneedles and clods of dirt; flesh showed through fragments of cloth; blood shimmered in pools at the man’s neck, along his arms. Davey forced himself to kneel and close the obscene eyes. Those eyes blinked, shut, opened again. Filled with dirt and more blood, focusing on Davey’s face. The lips opened, tried to mouth words. Davey leaned in, shaking from the stench.
Then: “…Why…?”
Davey defended himself. “I tried to warn you, English…’bout the wire.” Here he shivered. “Tried to catch you before …this.” No more words; instead he sat back on his heels and swallowed hard. Helpless, the first time since he’d grown up. Never seen anything like this.
The mustanger’s eyes closed, and his small frame convulsed into the scarred ground.
Then Meiklejon and Souter and the kid rode up. Even Meiklejon was quiet. No man could see this wreck and be untouched, no man Davey would ever work for or call friend. Meiklejon flinched as English’s harsh eyes opened, staring at his accusers. Souter told Red to drop a rope on the gray’s head. The boy leaned over the side of his sorrel and vomited, then wiped his mouth, uncoiled his rope, and did as Souter told him. Souter caught the hind legs and backed his coyote dun, signaling to Pierson to back his sorrel.
Davey held English’s head as the bulk was pulled off him. Those eyes fastened on Davey, mesteñero forced him to stay calm. Davey used a bandanna to wipe the mesteñero’s face, revealing no cuts—the blood must have come from the horse. English didn’t look bad, until his right hand pickedat Davey’s sleeve and Davey saw the deep tear across the inside of the hand up to the elbow. Blood thickened, began to drip, a nd Davey heard a sound, looked up; it was Meiklejon. Man’s mouth was open, his eyes blank.
Davey spoke in fury, damning the Englishman. “This is what your wire does! Kills what it touches, that wire…look what it done.” The voice came from inside where he rarely ventured. Burn English was a good man, and he was dying.
Meiklejon choked as he tried to explain. “Mister Hildahl, this is indeed terrible, I agree. But he ran from us when we came only to talk. I am truly sorry, Mister Hildahl. What can I do?”
Davey began to straighten out Burn’s twisted legs. The man groaned lightly, and Davey bit his lower lip. He watched his own hand reach out to brush at the stained front of Burn’s shirt and saw blood smear his hand, saw the bleeding spread quickly across the one clean piece of material on the shirt, then drip down along
the ribs and soak into the ground. Mesteñero blood. It was everywhere now, bubbling out of each cut and tear.
His palm was red with another man’s life. He wiped that hand carefully on his pant leg, took a closer look. A long tear on the man’s neck spilled blood. Davey wadded up a bandanna and pressed it against the wound. English’s mouth lifted in what could be called a grin. Davey grinned back, awed by the force left in the mustanger.
Gayle Souter kneeled next to Davey and inspected the injuries. He ignored Meiklejon. “Hildahl, rig a travois. Miss Katherine will know what to do.”
Davey looked up, caught the edge of Souter’s pale blue eyes. They’d both seen wrecks not this bad, and still the man had died.
“Mister Souter, I will ride in ahead to tell Miss Katherine and send a man to bring back the doctor.”
Davey watched the old man tell the boss to get riding—“Hurry dammit.”—without ever taking his eyes from English.
As Red gathered tree limbs and cut a rope to fashion a travois, Burn lay with his head resting on Davey’s arm. Sliding him onto the travois was brutal. Covered with Davey’s canvas jacket and Red’s torn sheepskin, lying on Souter’s old coat and his own hide jacket, English stayed awake for the entire trip, his eyes studying a world he might leave. Souter’s big coyote dun carried most of the travois’s weight. Souter rode the boy’s mount and Red doubled behind him. Souter kept looking straight ahead, refusing to glance at Davey or stare down at the fragile body.
Davey thought too much in the silence. Burn English was important and he didn’t know why. He’d never thought much before why one person was a friend, another was just someone to know. He couldn’t bear riding and thinking, so he climbed off his horse and walked beside the travois.
Souter spoke back at Davey. “Hildahl, get on your bronc’. You ain’t doin’ the man no good walkin’ and lookin’ like a mourner come early to the buryin’.” A long speech for Souter.
The English Horses Page 9