The English Horses

by William A. Luckey

  Davey remounted his bay. He pinched his nose, rubbed his eyes. Worry bit into him. He was good at taking orders but not so good on making his own decisions. Maybe he’d made a mistake, maybe warning English was what had got the man riled up and running. If English hadn’t known, maybe he wouldn’t have gone with the horses. And now he wouldn’t be riding a pole bed.

  The procession stopped at a big pine blocking mesteñero the trail. At Souter’s orders Davey roped and dragged the tree clear. The mesteñero’s eyes were open, and, Davey swore to himself, the man’s gaze looked clear. The son was pure iron. When the eyes blinked rapidly as Davey rode back, he got down to listen.

  The cut across English’s throat had swollen and leaked fluid. Each time the jaw worked and the light eyes blinked faster, Davey swore he could see the pain. But the man was determined, so Davey paid attention. Nothing between him and this mustanger was easy.

  “Bay colt.” English got out those two words and the veins on his neck throbbed a deep blue, his mouth pulled white around the drawn lips. Then: “Colt hobbled…turn…loose.”

  So he’d caught at least one. A colt.

  “Hildahl…colt needs branding.” A long wait here, so Davey thought maybe that was all. “Use Donald’s brand.” Then a deep, rough breath. “Dark bay, like his pappy.”

  Ah, Davey thought, that colt.

  A hand on his wrist, no weight or strength, only the warmth of skin, the light heft of bone. He looked down at scarred knuckles, a shallow cut drawn over past scars. There was a hint, a pushing. English wanted more. One word.

  “Please.”

  The eyes closed, and Davey had the odd notion the single word was rough passage. He nodded. But he was promising an unconscious man.

  He looked up to see Gayle Souter, his mouth drawn in that ugly line. Davey let his hand rest on English’s forehead, felt the dry skin, a pulse vaguely working at each temple. Then he made the mistake of lifting the coat off English’s belly. He gagged, swallowed. Pools glistened in the hollow beneath the rib cage; the coat had soaked up a whole lot of the blood but more kept coming. Fresh blood. Davey pressed the coat back in place and looked up pleadingly at Souter.

  The old man wiped his jaw with one shaking hand. He couldn’t meet Davey’s stare.

  When the ranch was in sight, Souter sent Davey to Miss Katherine, waiting on the steps. Bit Haven had gone for the doc, she said calmly. And she’d already started water to boil, had bandages laid out in the small back room. All that was needed was the patient.

  Davey tied up the bay, stood close to Miss Katherine, and found it to be hard breathing for a different reason.

  Red slid off the back of his horse and Souter took the reins to his coyote dun and guided the travois up to the steps. Miss Katherine was quick to draw back the coats and look for herself. Three coats laid on the man, all three thick with blood. She dropped them one by one in the dust and they made a wet sound. Red got sick again. No one noticed.

  Miss Katherine made crooning sounds as she touched her patient. Red and Davey lifted Burn from the travois and carried him into the house, to the back room. Davey knew they carried too light a burden; English didn’t weigh enough to live, even wrapped in clothing and wearing boots. Davey imagined him on a bucking horse, instead of drowning in blood.

  Canvas covered the mattress, and Red and Davey laid the mustanger there. Red looked over to Davey. He was stained down the front of his shirt, and when he raised his hands, they were bloody. Dried flakes rolled off as he rubbed his hands along his filthy pants.

  “Get going, Red. Don’t want you going down in here. There ain’t room.” It wasn’t much, not really a joke, but a few words to leave the boy something.

  Red nodded once, gulped hard, and left the room on his own two feet.

  Good kid, Davey thought absently, might make a hell of a hand.

  “Strip him.”

  It took a woman to be this practical, Davey thought as he began the task. The gear was rags and easily peeled off. Davey blushed when he got to the combinations, for Miss Katherine was looking over his shoulder. His fingers became impossibly clumsy, and she pushed him on the shoulder, but he refused to quit.

  “I’ve seen a man naked before, Mister Hildahl. There are no surprises.”

  A bit of cloth was stuck to flesh, and Davey shuddered as he yanked it clear. Miss Katherine shifted in to work next to Davey with a bowl of hot water and clean cloths. It was a slow and ugly process. There wasn’t much to English, mostly skin and bone, and most of that torn and marked with old battles long forgotten. As he glanced at the mesteñero’s face, inspected the thin nose and closed eyes, then moved to the large-jointed hands heavy in contrast to the narrow body, he wondered what kept the man alive.

  He averted his eyes when Miss Katherine removed the last of the combinations. Davey’d never seen the human body laid out bare, never had tended an injured man, never had much doings with illness or dying. He had to look away from Burn English, but saw the effect on Miss Katherine. Her eyes were shadowed, her mouth tight, still she washed and rinsed and wiped, then had Davey get more hot water, never looking up from the work. Her hands were gentle on English, across his chest, down his belly, and over his groin. Davey’s head ached. He went for more water, furious at himself, jealous of a dead man.

  When he returned, English was still bleeding. Past the great number of minor scratches, there were two major wounds. One sliced diagonally across the belly, exposing gut and rib. The other went from the right leg, above the knee, in a long wrap to the top of the rump. The worst of that was inside the thigh, high up where it bled occasionally. Miss Katherine had tied a cloth over the cut, but there wasn’t much to be done with the belly wound as it kept bleeding.

  A faint blue ringed English’s mouth and the fine skin under his closed eyes was the same milky-blue. Davey sighed and Miss Katherine’s head came up. Tears softened her gaze as she stared past Davey; her hand rose clutching a bloody cloth.

  “He’ll bleed to death from that terrible hole.” Her voice was raspy. Davey flinched. “We’regoing to lose him. I can’t stop the blood!” Hysteria was in the last words and she clamped her mouth shut.

  Davey ran to the kitchen and got a sack of flour, hurried back to the small room, and dumped half the bag into English’s belly. The wound disappeared in white powder, then turned pink, finally a thicker, darker red. He spilled more flour until the bleeding stopped. Davey sagged.

  Miss Katherine touched Davey’s hand. “The leg, Davey. Help me.”

  They rolled the body over and she supported English’s head while Davey poured flour into the raw haunch. It turned ugly as the blood thickened into a muddy paste. They let the body roll back on its own.

  Miss Katherine stared at the man laid out on the narrow bed. Davey fled from the ranch house, stopped, leaned against a wall, and swallowed twice to keep from fainting. Keep busy, keep moving was all he could recite through his fears; he thought of Red throwing up. Keep busy, dammit.

  At the water trough, he worked the hand pump and shucked off the filthy shirt, bent under the pump, scrubbing hands and arms and chest until he felt almost clean. Endlessly he spat and drank and washed his hands, but when he opened his eyes, new blood stained the knuckles and the creases along his wrist. If he closed his eyes, he saw Miss Katherine’s face, and the still form of Burn English.

  A weight settling on his bare shoulders made Davey step back until he saw it was Gayle Souter, speaking almost soundlessly like Davey was aspooked bronco. “Son, you ride up to that camp. Seems to me you made a promise. You best keep it.” Then Souter turned away.

  Davey went back to washing. His hands were still bloody. When the cold got to him, he walked, sjpg-legged, to the bunkhouse where Red sat on the edge of his thin mattress. Still shamed by his weakness, Red asked: “He gonna live, Davey?” The boy did a man’s work, but in truth he was only a boy.

  Davey touched a hand to his own neck, his belly, and chest. “Don’t know, Red. Won’t know till the do
c comes.” It wasn’t much to go on and the boy ached for some small truth. “He’s alive now.” Having said all he could, Davey turned to digging through his war bag for a clean shirt, a pair of pants. When he stood up to dress, he was alone. And when he got outside, buttoning up a canvas coat, a big sorrel gelding, saddled with Davey’s rig, was waiting. A blanket roll and empty saddlebags were tied on. Another horse stood close by with halter and lead.

  Red Pierson was there to hand the lead up when Davey mounted. Davey felt old, as though he had seen too much. He gulped and shuddered, rode out not saying thanks or see you in a few days.

  Gayle Souter raised a hand in half salute. Red drifted in to stand near Souter. They watched, and said nothing.

  Davey wished he could explain this to Meiklejon, wished he could set the man down and show him Souter and Red and even English. It was more than a man could talk out, more than a cow pusher could put into words. They knew the facts of money, the reasons for the wire. But more than that, a way of life was disappearing and those like English would not make the change.

  Davey gigged the sorrel into a lope and felt the haltered horse set back on the line. The sun began a sliding drift behind Cat Mountain and he welcomed the shadows.

  Chapter Twelve

  His hands trembled so he forced the instrument down and pushed back from the table that served as his writing desk. In the future he would import a proper desk, but, until life included a defined income, he would utilize what was available from Littlefield’s meager collection.

  Such idle thoughts were meant to cover the turmoil and obviously the effort was not enough to prevent panic from settling in. He was scared. This terrible accident was from his decision; he had had the wire strung, he had made those comments, out of curiosity, about the possibility of his being the rightful owner of the horses. Through all this he had discounted the mustanger’s fierce temper.

  He went into the kitchen to find it cold and empty. No remains of a cooking fire, no signs of a meal in interrupted preparation. Lighting an oil lamp, he carried it to the back room, where he intended to peek in and see for himself how the patient was doing. Perhaps the doctor was already in attendance. Miss Katherine would be found there, silent and contained, waiting for either life or death. Her vigil was a mute reminder of Gordon Meiklejon’s failings.

  Davey let the sorrel pick its way. There weren’t many folks in his life he’d trusted, but he knew and liked the mustanger, and he trusted Miss Katherine. Thirty-one years old yesterday, and no ties except to the brand. Worked since he could climb into a saddle alone, like most of the men he rode with. Youngsters thrown into the world and meant to live or die by chance or fortune.

  He had no complaints—the cook fed well, the foreman was solid. The bunkhouse didn’t leak much and a man rarely woke up with snow covering his feet. Miss Katherine was the only problem, and now it was Burn English added to the list. They both made Davey take a good look at himself, and the truth was bitter. He was a bony, long-legged son-of-a-bitch. Like all his parts didn’t fit together. He admired the compact men who were quick on their feet, easy in the saddle, and easy talking with Miss Katherine and other ranch women.

  It was one-sided love for him and Miss Katherine. He could look in the cracked bit of glass that served as a mirror and see t he round face with its shapeless nose, the brown puppy eyes, the blond hair that fell in his eyes or stuck to his skull. Man in his dreams didn’t look like that. The man he’d like to be would have her fall in love with him. Not so wi th the real Davey Hildahl.

  English was quick in his movements. He shamed Davey by his handling of the broncos, and he raised an instinctive jealousy by his stubbornness. Davey would like to feel t hat strongly about something, but, other than Miss Katherine, nothing was worth the effort. To English, those broncos were everything, to Davey they were horses. Thoughts confused a man, he figured.

  It was pitch black now, but the sorrel stuck to the faint trail and Davey let the horse do its job. That’s all he asked—to do his job and live out his life. He’d ridden this trail too often lately. Maybe if he hadn’t come up this way looking for a stray brindle cow, none of t his would have happened.

  The sorrel nickered and Davey heard the colt before he saw him. Heard the odd thump of a horse traveling on hobbles. Davey climbed down and took care of his own horse before he approached the colt. It was a mustang with little experience of strangers. Yet the colt humped up to Davey and stuck out its nose, snuffled at Davey’s hand, and then nipped his arm. Evidently the colt was glad for company, as it stayed near camp and watched Davey set up a few comforts. Surprisingly the colt did not wander over to the sorrel gelding, now hobbled and chewing grass.

  There was a promise Davey needed to keep; he was tired but the promise had been made. So he laid a cinch ring in a new fire, an act against the law but handy when an off-brand had to be drawn. As the ring heated, Davey played in the dirt with a stick, tracing out Edward Donald’s mark. He hated this, putting that sign on the colt, but it was a promise.

  He was pushed from behind, and, looking back, saw the lively eyes and pricked ears of the dark colt. Hard to believe this was a slick mustang, and entire. But English said the colt was caught wild, and, as Davey made an inspection trip around the horse, he saw no sign of previous ownership. English must be some magician with the broncos, to keep this colt friendly and willing, and already saddled. No spur marks on the dark sides, no tears or cuts at the muzzle. Some kind of magic.

  He admired the colt and wondered how he would throw and brand it. It was too easy. He slipped a short rope around a hind leg and yanked, and the hobbled colt fell. Davey roped up the legs and laid on the brand. He’d given his word. He undid the hobbles first, then the leg ropes, and let the colt up. The mustang snapped at its scorched flank, struck out at Davey, and then charged the Meiklejon horses before bolting into the dark. It was just as well English hadn’t branded the colt.

  He had time to cook up beans and boil coffee. He ate a sour meal before rolling up to sleep.

  In the morning he woke wrestling with nightmares. He hustled and it didn’t take long to gather English’s few belongings, pack them on the led horse. Davey swung up on the sorrel, in no great hurry.

  He took the west fork, which went the long side of Lightning Valley before opening to the Quemado trail. He tracked left toward the bright strip of grass seen through a stand of tall pine. At the wire fence he got down, tied his horses real tight.

  A mustang lay with its skull wrapped in wire. Davey pulled gear from the gray outlaw’s hide. The ground around both horses was dark in too many patches, and Davey fought to do the chore, to see nothing else. He’d done ugly chores before, but none of them stuck deep like this one.

  The gear went on the lead horse, and for a moment Davey let his fingers slip over the saddle leather. Old, patched, well-tended, and solid. The latigos were new, the cincha woven with gray hairs and pine needles. The bridle was a broken ring bit and long-plaited reins. Davey wondered how English ever rode the gray with such a rig. Even the blankets were worn, mended by a craftsman’s hand. The gear told English’s story.

  Katherine watched the doctor climb in his buggy and hurry along. Had other patients he said, and was still angry with Mr. Meiklejon’s messenger, who had bullied and threatened the good doctor into leaving a sick man to come to the L Slash. The doctor admitted to Katherine that he did not know how English had survived.

  The belly wound was infected, he said, although the liberally applied flour had been the only remedy for uncontrolled bleeding. If the patient were not on the verge of starvation, then he might hold out some encouragement. As it stood, there was little hope.

  With instructions to keep the wound clean, the man quiet, so the bleeding would not restart, the doctor drove away, to deliver a baby ten miles downcañon and then patch up a driver who got drunk and shot himself in the foot. “Pray, Miss Katherine. Like I am certain you have been praying. For it will take a miracle.”

  Katheri
ne did not have to be told about infection. Bathing him was one thing she could do. So she washed his face and hands with cool water, and wiped at the edges of the belly wound, even gently sponging along the deep cut on the leg and buttocks where she could reach. As she gingerly manipulated him, the mustanger seemed to help. His body twitched, an arm rolled out of the way. It was impossible, but she was certain, as she washed his face again, that he touched his tongue to the side of his mouth where she laid the damp cloth, and even once tried to speak. All of this was her imagination, yet she believed he was aware of her presence.

  She fell asleep in the rocking chair and didn’t see the closed eyes open, the head move against the suffocating pillow. The feverish eyes searched until they found Katherine in her chair. Then the head dropped back into its cradle, using the last of a dimming energy.

  The doc had come and gone when Davey returned. No one was in the ranch yard, so Davey put up his two mounts and hung English’s gear from the stable rafters, stuffing the few clothes and camp gear into a burlap sack that he stored in a tin-lined chest. Mice around here would eat almost anything.

  He knocked at the kitchen door. No one answered, so he pushed in, sure that English was dead. He was quiet as he walked back to the small room. She was there, curled in her familiar rocker, hair fanned over the chair railing and around her face, reaching her shoulder. Davey knelt beside her, let his fingers reach toward but not touch her. He couldn’t believe the hair’s richcolor—light from a ray of sun streaked the long threads. His breath caught in his throat; he pulled back, stood up slowly.

  On another impulse he put his fingers to English’s jaw, near the joining with his neck. He didn’t know why it was important the man lived. Everything died, some sooner and harder than others. But he wanted this one man to live. Davey was tired of being the philosopher; he counted Burn English a friend.