Jack always had thanked his ma for her looks that had become his own oft-mentioned handsomeness. This boy was Jack’s pa—pure trouble. Jack removed his off-side boot from the stirrup, introduced himself, and offered the boy a mount up. The youngster climbed on, and Jack let the nervous bay prance through the tangle of shipping pens so familiar to him. At his back he could hear voices and the inevitable sound of a rifle cocked and readied.
“What kind of hell’d you raise back there?”
There was a simple answer, and it came in a familiar twang that brought the full realization of who rode behind him. The voice was his father’s, and no mistaking its irritated tone.
“I asked to be paid, and the man said he owed me nothing. So I hit him.”
“You got a horse, or do we have to find you one, and the outfit to go with it?”
The boy had few graces. He shrugged. Jack could feel the gesture.
“Got a bronc’, and gear. Bought ’em near Salinas. They belong to me.”
The voice rose at the end of the declaration, and Jack knew the kid had been challenged to keep his outfit. Older hands on a drive would chouse a kid, give him the bad jobs, the rough unwanted broncos, the tail end of the drag, meaning to find out the kid’s worth before they had to depend on him.
Jack guided the bay as the thin hand pointed out a small pen holding a sorry yellow mare. The boy slid off the bay without talking, and Jack pulled leather when the horse leaped forward and began bucking hard. When he brought down the bay, there was the boy, holding the saddled mare, watching with bleak eyes at the bay’s antics.
“That bronc’ ain’t much,” the boy said.
They talked some. The boy, who answered to John, said he’d come in three days past. He had slept in the shed, fed the sorry mare from leavings out of the pens, but didn’t think he’d taken enough to equal the $5 he had paid for the mare’s keep. John also had had to fight for his $20 for the drive, which the boss had not wanted to pay. By the boy’s account, he’d won the battle, had the mare and a $20 coin in his pocket.
“How’d you eat, boy?” Jack was curious.
The kid looked at him with contempt. “Ladies to towns…they feel sorry for an orphan kid like me. They feed better’n any company office could. Take me to their bed, iffen I wanted them to.” The last was said in defiance, and Jack looked away, careful not to see too much of himself in that anger.
“You got a last name, boy?” Maybe this would give him a handle he could use.
“Ain’t the same as yours…the one you use. Ma told me I was to keep the family’s name, not change it like you done.”
“You do what your ma says, boy.” The image of his sister birthing out this throwback felt strange. Jack shook and put the bay off stride. The jolt put some sanity back in his thinking. He was stuck with the boy, and there was a job to be done.
The thought that he must change entered his mind briefly—find honest work, not meet up with Refugio. It wasn’t much of a thought and didn’t last long, not past looking sideways at the boy and seeing those odd eyes and the angry mouth. He was nothing more than Jack Holden. The eyes flickered, and Jack knew he was caught.
“I know you’re a thief…Uncle. Heard it in Springerville.”
The harsh wording stung Jack. Uncle. There was a pause in which both parties counted time and held back on temper.
“Don’t expect your ma thought any different when she sent you. Word travels far, and she knew how to find me.” He paused, letting the boy sort through that thought. “Tells me you already got a head start in trouble back home.” A ghost of something hidden in those flecked eyes, and Jack half bowed, mocking the recognition from his wayward kin.
“Ma said you was quick,” John said. Admiration was clear this time but only for a moment. “Got the same thing done to me that the old man done you. I paid him back, the son-of-a-bitch. Sold off his best bull, spent the money on whiskey and women.”
Jack took another good look at the scowling boy. “Well, kid, you ain’t but fourteen yet.”
The boy laughed, his wide mouth stretched thin, but the smile and sound never got to his eyes. Looked something like his ma for a moment, as close as Jack could recall, but she had a sweetness that this kid would never handle.
“Yeah, it took the old man bad that a boy got him. Laid on the belt hard enough, but that bull didn’t come runnin’ back . . . that money already got spent out of a whore’s purse.” The laughter again; Jack winced. “Guess it took me ’bout as long as you to get tired of the whippings. Guess I wanted revenge and you just wanted out.” The child had no mercy.
Jack’s voice echoed inside his head. “I got business ahead. Man I got to see. You ride with me, you work. No questions . . . no talking ’bout what you see. You take orders, you’ll get a decent horse, get enough to eat. Won’t offer more’n that.”
“No matter to me…Uncle. Guess I’m your boy now.”
The words were straight, but Jack heard an disturbing undertone. Nothing this boy did would be for less than his own gain. But right now it was necessary for him to work for his Uncle Jack. Jack shivered. “You keep your mouth shut, boy. Do as you’re told and we’ll get along.”
They went looking for Refugio in one of the many unnamed cañons of the back country. Jack’s eyes moved quickly as they entered the narrow file. The rock walls, up too close, suggested the confines of a prison cell. The boy rode behind Jack, forced into silence by the pressing rock. Jack didn’t trust the boy at his back. Refugio was far more honorable.
He reined the bay left around a fallen boulder, canon and the cañon opened up to a surprising valley, with lush graze ringed by a flowing stream. Cattle bawled and stamped and grazed like everyone’s cattle. The dumb beasts knew nothing about ownership or stealing. They only knew the indignant pain of altered brands and the eventual knife across their blood-drenched throats.
Refugio separated himself from a low fire and walked to greet his new partner. Two other men, indistinct except for the vague shadows of their moustaches, looked up, shrugged, and went back to their chores. Irons stuck out from the fire like an angry porcupine. “Ah, mi amigo! You have brought a friend?” Refugio stared at the boy, then studied Jack’s face. “He is of your family, señor. I did not know the outlaw Jack Holden had kin in these parts.”
The kid’s words were bitter, but not much of a surprise. “I ain’t workin’ for no Mex, Uncle Jack. Ain’t never workin’ for no gr easer.”
The air chilled. Jack felt the itching wind across his back.
Refugio maintained his steady smile and waved a thick, work-stained hand. “We are all of the same color here, niño. Outlaw. You will do to mind your manners for we have more weapons than the one rifle and pistol of your sainted uncle.” The words came laced heavily with scorn but did nothing to quiet the boy.
“You say what you want, Mex. I ain’t listenin’.”
Jack pulled his horse around and back handed the boy across the mouth. The blow knocked him clean off the horse, hands flailing, grabbing for anything. The yellow mare moved sideways, dropped her head to graze. The boy lay out on the ground, and his pale, flecked eyes found the face of his uncle.
“You learned a lot from the old man, didn’t you, Uncle?”
The boy had a way of saying “Uncle” with equal parts derision and bitterness. The thin face bore a red handprint across the cheek, but the eyes never blinked or cried.
“Boy, you work or ride on. Don’t matter to me,” Jack said, calming his bay, watching the kid try to figure things out.
The boy’s eyes went to the grazing yellow mare, saw the ribs and bony quarters, the white hairs around the muzzle and above the eyes. They took in the patched saddle, the lack of rifle or scabbard, the thin bedroll tied on with mended strings. Then those eyes came to rest on Refugio, the still grinning man, before moving on to Jack.
“I’ll work, Uncle.”
Jack nodded. “Keep your miserable thoughts to yourself.”
The boy nodded
, hate right there in his eyes.
Jack shrugged, uncaring. He’d seen that very hatred before in his own father’s face.
Preparing the cattle took two days because Refugio was in no hurry. And the boy kept getting in the way, dropping things at the wrong moment. Testing, Jack thought, deliberately acting dumb,setting the steers running, chousing a mama cow from a vaquero’s long rope. Around the largest of the two stolen bulls, the boy was quiet and competent, yet, whenever Refugio or one of the other men had a steer caught by its heels and on its way to the fire, the boy lost the iron in the dust, or the knife jumped from his hand.
Refugio knew what had to be done. Jack nodded his agreement, then stepped back. The rope from Refugio’s hand went over the boy’s thin chest. The boy spun in anger, helpless, and caught sight of the grinning Mex who had roped him, and began to rant and curse with words even Jack did not often use. Refugio laughed, and touched his spurs to the sturdy pacing roan. The animal jerked back, the boy came plunging forward, landing hard on his face and chest.
Refugio coiled the rope as he guided his roan in toward the yelling, struggling boy. Refugio leaned down, keeping the rope taut, never letting the boy have a chance, and said: “Niño, you are no more than a fool, and a very young one at that. You make more work for yourself and your esteemed uncle. I will show you the way, niño. I will take you out into the world and you will find what awaits you there. For your words and your hatred are nothing against my rope.”
With that he swung the roan in a tight spin and kicked the little horse, which quickly hauled the boy across the rough ground. Jack was still, relaxed even; Johnny had asked for this and deserved it. Jack trusted Refugio would not deliberately kill the boy. The boy bounced and jumped until he got lost in the dust, but Jack took note that the roan bucked against Refugio’s hand on the rein, and that most of the cactus and rock were missed. In a few minutes the lesson was over. The roan halted, the rope shook loose and coiled up against Refugio’s saddle. The boy lay still. Jack did not go to help him. Refugio turned his back, after nodding to Jack, who saluted in return. It was easy with the Mex. Words were not necessary, only quick glances and shrugs. Their lives ran parallel, the boy an unwelcome irritant.
Johnny crawled to his knees, shook like a sweaty bronco, stood carefully, and rubbed at his face, wiping dust from his shirt and pants. And still Jack did nothing but sit on his bay and wait. It was inevitable. The boy caught Jack’s gaze with his hot eyes. There was an exchange—a rapid fire of hate and fury. Jack smiled. The boy would not be with Jack too long.
The remaining steers were cut out and the brands reworked quickly, easily, with the aid of a bruised and torn young boy, whose face was tracked with muddy tears, but whose mouth was blessedly silenced. Only the eyes showed a fury, but eyes did not kill a man.
In ten minutes or so the herd was gathered and readied. The boy did his job, saying nothing. Jack gave him the same courtesy. They rode out, Johnny Thackery to the left drag, punishment for his sin of hatred, for the wind blew from the east, lifting a cloud of dust and dried manure over anything in its path.
Four days later the cattle were sold, south of Gallup, to an Army gent who’d forgotten he knew how to read a fresh brand. It didn’t matter, the government’s hard cash was good, and Refugio with his two amigos rode off, counting their shares. No parting words were said; none was expected. Jack would see the man when they needed each other. Till then it was “Adiós”. Jack liked and trusted the man. But he had a shadow riding too closely—one Refugio would not risk his life in saving. Jack could hate his nephew, he thought, if he studied on it long enough.
Chapter Eighteen
Out on open grass, thunder told them they were in trouble. Jack kicked the bay as he picked out a shallow depression in the ground ahead and went to it at a run. The kid followed, mostly because he didn’t care where he rode, and the yellow mare was too herd-bound to leave the bay.
They’d come from Red Hill, headed south, near the soft contour of the hill that gave the little settlement its name. Jack always suspected this land—it rolled and turned green fast, but hidden underneath was red dirt and rock, and the green wasn’t the green of grass but a thin useless weed. Bush and scrub, but still, if a man didn’t expect much of beauty, the area was pleasing. Except when a storm came hurrying across the hills, blasting thunder and rain, digging into the ground with shots of lightning. There were no caves or gullies where a man and horse could wait out the fury. It was too wide open which was why Jack pushed the bay into a gallop. He could see the outline of a depression too far away, the lightning hitting too close. Hail made the bay reluctant to face the wind, and Jack needed to spur and beat the gelding to keep it running.
Jack did a skidding dismount and dragged the horse with him, caught the bay’s head at the bit, and drew it around to touch the saddle. The bay staggered. Jack threw his weight into the horse’s shoulder and the terrified animal went down hard. Jack lay across the horse’s neck, and prayed.
A shape rose up in the rain; a voice called out with its bitter taunt. “You scared, Uncle Jack?”
Damn fool boy. “Only idiots don’t fear these storms. Get down, kid!” His last words were drowned out by thunder. Close on its heels came a flare of light. Jack saw the blue-white streak cut through the dark sky over Red Hill, and the accompanying sulphur smell overwhelmed him. The ground under him shuddered with the blow. The bay screamed, tried to throw Jack, but suddenly quit struggling as Jack twisted a tender ear. Then fire hit Jack on his left wrist where it touched the buckle of the bay’s headstall. The fire traveled through him, crackling and searing his insides. He smelled burned hide, felt pain travel his left arm, then his heart stopped beating, and his eyes no longer closed against the driving rain.
It was his heart that let him know he was living. That area of his chest rose and fell painfully where the heart tried beating. Jack counted each labored pump, could hear the driven blood pulse in his ear, could almost feel it run through the ends of his fingers, down his legs, and back across his thighs, deep into his groin, his belly, and back into his overworked heart.
No rain, no clouds, no more lightning. Not even a whimper of distant thunder. He lifted one arm above his head and saw the fist open and close, felt the deep pain travel to his shoulder and back. The shirt sleeve was torn. The flesh beneath it streaked red and charred. He gently rested the arm on the ground and he rolled back, saw the corpse of the bay gelding about ten feet from him. His last memory was of the bay’s rolling eye close to his own face. Hell of a storm.
He came to his knees, then slowly fought to get up from the ground. He saw the legs of a pale yellow horse first, then a boot swinging endlessly in the stirrup. He finally lifted himself high enough to see the rest of the apparition. Johnny Thackery. The boy grinned. Jack winced at the realization.
“Hell, Uncle Jack. Guess we got to ride double now.”
The mare was poorly built for a passenger. Her quarters sloped badly, giving Jack nothing to sit on but a raised spine and a tail held to one side in a delicate, almost feminine gesture. The mare plodded—the only gait she could manage with the double burden. Jack clung to the saddle, cursing under his breath.
The boy knew enough to keep his mouth shut, which was a rare blessing. They managed to quarter back to Son Liddell’s horse pasture. He cursed, thinking about his omission. His saddle was tied to the dead horse. It would get eaten by critters drawn to the fried meat. He had removed the bridle. The bit had been melted, but the crown and cheeks were intact, and one rein only lightly scorched. He could twist a hard nosepiece into acrude bosal. Liddell had good, broken stock; one of them was likely to be a bosal horse. Hell, he thought, he’d come out alive. What more could a man ask of such a storm.
The odd trio drifted over the edge of one more red hill. The mare slipped to her knees twice in the greasy mud, and then quit and no spur or whip would move her. Jack reached for his pistol on instinct and found it gone.
Now it was a matter of
getting into Liddell’s pasture, and catching up a horse, a good one this time. Not flash and color, but some heart and ability. Liddell had to own at least one horse matching that description.
Jack roped out a blocky paint. The animal’s back was wellrounded. It was a long ride to his saddle and gear, so the smoothed back was important. He fashioned a bosal on the paint’s nose. The patient animal showed it wasn’t keen on being ridden bareback, but would accept the humiliation if Jack insisted. After a brief discussion, the paint stood quietly and let Jack make a fool of himself climbing aboard.
Once up, it still was an uncomfortable trip back to the red hills and the dead bay. Jack and the boy rode mostly at a slow jog, a gait the paint kept to easily. They cut through the smooth wire fence again, taking too short a time to repair the strands. Jack didn’t want the horses out, didn’t want to lose his free stock to the land’s endless miles of grass.
The boy obviously struggled to keep from asking the question, but finally broke down and spoke bitterly to his kin. “Why you botherin’ with all this work?” The boy’s thin, colorless hand waved over the twisted strands of wire. “They ain’t your bronc’s.”
“Liddell and I, we play our game. If I step too far, then the old man’ll have the law on me. But we kind of agree…I steal and return, he complains and don’t do nothin’. It’s a matter of pride, boy. Simple matter of pride.”
He could tell by the eyes, restless and unfocused, that the boy didn’t get the point, maybe couldn’t understand. Jack found a cut tree and used the stump to get back on the paint. Hell, maybe he hadn’t explained right. He wiggled on the paint’s back to find that one comfortable spot. He’d vowed not to climb down again, but he also hadn’t trusted the boy to fix that fence properly.
The English Horses Page 15