“What?” Matt asked, jerking around in surprise as he stared at Smoke. “Did you say he’s never been ridden?”
“He’s as spirited as he was the day we brought him in.”
“How’m I going to ride him, if he has never been ridden?”
“Well, I reckon you are just going to have to break him,” Smoke said, passing the words off as easily as if he had just suggested that Matt should wear a hat.
“Break him? I can’t break a horse!”
“Sure you can. It’ll be fun,” Smoke suggested.
Smoke showed Matt how to saddle the horse, and gave him some pointers on riding it.
“Now, you don’t want to break the horse’s spirit,” Smoke said. “What you want to do is make him your partner.”
“How do I do that?”
“Walk him around for a bit so he gets used to his saddle, and to you. Then get on.”
“He won’t throw me then?”
“Oh, he’ll still throw you a few times,” Smoke said with a little laugh. “But at least he’ll know how serious you are.”
To Matt’s happy surprise, he wasn’t thrown even once. The horse did buck a few times, coming down on stiff legs, then sunfishing and, finally galloping at full speed around the corral. But, after a few minutes he stopped fighting and Matt leaned over to pat him gently on the neck.
“Good job, Matt,” Smoke said, clapping his hands quietly. “You’ve got a real touch with horses. You didn’t break him, you trained him, and that’s real good. He’s not mean, but he still has spirit.”
“Smoke, can I name him?”
“Sure, he’s your horse, you can name him anything you want.” Matt continued to pat the horse on the neck as he thought of a name.
“That’s it,” he said, smiling broadly. “I’ve come up with a name.”
“What are you going to call him?”
“Spirit.”
As Matt lay alongside the track he continued to think about his two horses named Spirit. He had given them good lives, treated them well, always making certain they were well fed and cared for, but in the end, both had died before their time. By being his horses, they had been subjected to more danger than most.
He thought about the expression in Spirit II’s eyes, just before he had pulled the trigger. It was as if Spirit II knew what was about to happen to him. Was he blaming Matt? Was he telling Matt he understood it had to be done?
Before he could sink any deeper into the morass of melancholy, he heard a distant whistle. Pushing the gloomy thoughts away, he got up from his impromptu bed and looked south, toward the train. When first he saw it, it seemed to be creeping along, though Matt knew it was doing at least twenty miles per hour. It was the distance that made it appear as if the train was going much slower. That same distance also made the train seem very small. Even the smoke pouring from its stack seemed but a tiny wisp against a sky which had been made gold by the setting sun.
Matt could hear the reverberation of the puffing engine, sounding louder than one might think, given the distance. When the train came close enough for him to be seen, Matt stepped onto the track and began waving. After a few waves, he heard the train braking so he knew the engineer had spotted him and was going to stop. The train which had appeared so tiny before, appeared huge. It ground to a squeaking, clanking halt with black smoke pouring from its stack. Tendrils of white steam, escaping from the drive cylinders and limned in gold by the rays of the setting sun, wreathed the huge wheels.
The engineer’s face appeared in the window. “What do you want, mister? Why’d you stop us?” he called down to Matt, raising his voice over the rhythmic sound of venting steam.
“My horse stepped in a prairie dog hole and I had to put him down,” Matt said. “I need a ride.”
The engineer stroked his chin for a moment, studying Matt as if trying to decide whether or not he should pick him up.
“What’s going on here? Why did we stop?” another man asked, approaching the engine quickly and importantly from somewhere back in the train. The man was wearing the uniform of a conductor.
“This fella needs a ride,” the engineer said. “His horse went down on him.”
“I’m not in the habit of giving charity rides to indigents,” the conductor said.
“I can pay,” Matt said. “I need to get to Pueblo.”
“You can pay, can you? Well let me ask you this. Does this place look like a depot to you? Do you think you can just flag down a train and board it anywhere you wish?” the conductor asked in a self-important and sarcastic voice.
“I don’t know about you, Mr. Gordon, but I wouldn’t feel right just leavin’ him out here,” the engineer said. “I mean, him losin’ his horse and all, kind of makes it like an emergency, don’t it?”
The conductor stroked his chin and spent a long moment studying Matt. All the while the pressure relief valve continued to vent steam, giving the engine the illusion of some great beast of burden, breathing heavily from its exertions. Some distance away a coyote barked, and closer in, a crow called.
“Hey! What’s going on? Why have we stopped?” a passenger called, walking toward the engine.
“Get back in the cars, sir!” the conductor shouted.
“You’ve got a trainload of people wondering why we stopped. We’ve got a right to know what is going on,” the passenger said.
“Please, sir, get back in the cars,” the conductor repeated. “I will take care of the situation.” The conductor waited until the passenger re-boarded the train, then he looked up at the engineer.
“All right, Cephus, have it your way,” the conductor said. He turned to Matt. “I don’t like unscheduled stops like this, but I don’t want it said that I left you stranded out here. It is going to cost you two dollars to go to Pueblo.”
“Thanks,” Matt said, taking two dollars from the poke in his saddle bag and handing it to the conductor.
“Sorry about your horse, mister,” the engineer called down from the cab window.
“Yes, he was a good horse.”
In an elaborate gesture, the conductor pulled a watch from his vest pocket, popped open the cover, and examined the face. The silver watch was attached to a gold chain making a shallow U across his chest.
“Cephus, we are due in Pueblo exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes from right now,” the conductor said to the engineer as he snapped the watch closed and returned it to his vest pocket. “I do not plan to be late. That means I expect you to make up the time we have lost by this stop.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Gordon, don’t worry. If Doodle keeps the steam up, we’ll be there on time.”
“Don’t you be worryin’ none about the steam,” Doodle, the fireman said, stepping onto the platform that extended just behind the engine. “You’ll have all the steam you need.”
“Come along,” the conductor said to Matt. “You can ride in any car. There are seats in all three of them. They are all day coaches.”
“I’d rather ride in the express car, if you don’t mind,” Matt said.
“No, I’m sorry, I can’t let you in there,” the conductor replied.
“Maybe you haven’t heard,” Matt said, “but the bank in Pueblo was robbed this morning.”
“Yes, I heard. What does that have to do with anything?”
Matt held up the canvas bag he had taken from Cyrus Hayes’ body. “This is the money that was taken from the bank.”
“What? What the hell, mister? Are you telling me you are the one who held up the bank?”
“No,” Matt said. “I’m the one who is taking the money back to the bank. I would just as soon not be riding in one of the passenger cars, while I’m carrying this.”
“Oh,” the conductor said.
At that moment the door to the express car slid open, and the express messenger looked down on them. “He can ride in here with me, Mr. Gordon. It will be all right.”
“I’ll let him in there, but remember, it was your idea, not mine,” Go
rdon replied.
“I’ll remember. Hi, Matt,” the messenger said.
Matt smiled up at a friend with whom he had played cards many times. “Hi, Jerry,” he greeted.
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
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Copyright © 2011 William W. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-2342-4
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