The Traherns #1

by Nancy Radke

  He nodded and relaxed, then waited for me to jump on and we rode off, following the track of the killer. I traveled as fast as possible, for I could see Hero was getting in a bad way, staggering from lack of water.

  Cummings could see it too. “He’ll kill your horse,” he said. He turned toward the youngster.

  “George, get down.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Give your horse to Mr. Trahern here. You follow us slow on your pa’s horse. We’re going to hurry and catch this man before he gets away.”

  “Thanks,” I said, swinging my foot over the white horse’s neck and stepping to the ground.

  The youngster glared at me as he got off and handed me his reins. I ignored him, knowing he was still too young to have much sense, and gave him the reins to his father’s horse. I didn’t offer to boost him on. There were plenty of boulders around if he needed help mounting.

  Around noon, we came over a rise and there stood Hero, in the shade of a yucca tree. We stopped and scattered back into cover behind some rocks.

  Hero walked down the trail and right up to me. He still had my saddle on and I noticed that the thief had cinched it too tight. The man had also used his spurs on him. I could see the bloody marks.

  Now I didn’t wear spurs when riding Hero for a reason. He never took too kindly to them.

  “Mr. Cummings, I think my horse dumped your killer up the trail a ways. My rifle is here, which means he’s probably unarmed. And, I think...yes, here’s the money.” I untied a bag and handed it to him.

  That murderer had tore up Hero’s mouth yanking on the bit. I took off the bridle and put on his halter. Then I took off my hat, opened my canteen and poured Hero a drink in it. He drank it all, sucking up the last moisture, and I marveled that he was still standing.

  “You gave all your water to your horse?” one of the younger riders said, making it sound like some strange thing.

  “If he don’t make it, I don’t make it.”

  I pulled my moccasins from behind the cantle, took off my boots and switched footwear. My feet were mighty happy to have those moccasins on.

  James Cummings had been watching, and I called him closer and pulled back my saddlebags so he could see the back of the cantle.

  “In case there’s any doubt,” I said, “here’s my name on my saddle.” It was branded in, my cousin had done it with the tip of a running iron. Trahern

  Nothin’ fancy, but it marked that outfit as mine. Or so they thought.

  He looked and nodded.

  “Give him back his gun, Brandy.”

  I walked over and got my pistol back. With the rifle in the scabbard and my pistol in my holster, I felt ready for battle again. I opened my saddlebags to check my ammunition. That thief had rummaged around in them, making a mess, but all my bullets were there.

  “We should go find your killer while he’s still trying to recover from what Hero did to him,” I said. “He didn’t take any of my bullets, so they must not fit his gun.”

  They mounted up and rode along the trail, single file, with me bringing up the rear, leading Hero, who walked with a limp. About a half mile along, Hero stopped, snorted, his head and tail high, nostrils flared, at full alert. He spun and looked at an area in the brush, quivering.

  This time I had my pistol in my hand. I looked down to where Hero’s tracks came out of the brush. They were next to a long broken track in the dust showing the passage of a sidewinder, a rattlesnake that travels sideways to go forward. Instead of charging straight into the battle, I’d do like that sidewinder and sort of sidle up to it, checking things out as I went.

  I dropped Hero’s reins and slipped around through the bushes, making sure I kept some cover between me and the killer.

  It was him all right. He was pretty beat up. I think Hero might have stepped on him a bit after he threw him off, just to teach him a few things about handling a stallion. And I had guessed right. He had no bullets in his gun. He didn’t even try for it.

  “Cummings! Here’s your man.”

  Cummings and his men rode up and dismounted.

  “That’s the man you want,” the thief yelled, pointing at me. “He stole my horse.”

  I shook my head. “You should never be allowed near an animal.”

  Cummings looked at the man. “You say this is your horse. Where’s the bill of sale?”

  “There ain’t any. He cain’t write.”

  I smiled at him. “Yes, I can. My mother was the schoolteacher until my father liberated her. She just moved the school to our house and taught all ten of us kids to read and write. And calculate.”

  Grabbing him, they hauled him roughly to his feet. “I need water,” he said.

  “Too bad you didn’t think of that before leaving the spring,” I said.

  The kid caught up with us, which meant he’d pushed that white horse way too hard. Cummings didn’t seem to notice. They set the murderer on that bony white horse with his hands tied behind his back and I decided that was fitting justice. I gave Cummings the old Sharps rifle, which he said had been his brother’s.

  I now had my outfit back.

  Cummings looked me over. “You hunting work?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can calculate?”

  “Only if I have to. I’d never make a banker.”

  “He a good cutting horse?”

  “I’ve roped from him. Never tried cutting cows.”

  “I could use a good man. The fellow keeping my books for me says he can’t see the numbers anymore.”

  “I got a hankering for a place of my own,” I said. “But I need a stake. So I could work for you awhile at least. You could look for another man during that time. Where you located?”

  “The C bar C. We’re on the north side of the Brazos River.”

  “You going there now?”

  “After we turn this murderer over to the law at Ft. Smith.”

  “They’ll just hang him,” one of the men said. “Seems a shame to waste time taking him there.”

  “I want the law. We’ll do this legal,” Cummings said.

  “They take too long,” another man said.

  “You comin’ along?” Cummings asked me.

  “No. You don’t need me. I’ll go on south to your ranch. I’m going to need to take it slow. His feet hurt.” I nodded towards Hero. “I’ll see you when you get there.”

  “Tell Elmer, he’s my bookkeeper, that you’ve come to replace him. I’ll give him his pay when I get back.” They rode off, and I started walking south, leading Hero along.

  He walked with a limp. I stopped and check his feet. A stone bruise, likely, from being ridden too fast over the sharp rocks. I walked slower, picking the smoothest trail I could find.

  “Poor fellow. You’ve always given me your best, so you tried to do it for that lowlife scum. Take it easy.”

  I had some leather shoes that I’d made for him during the war, to hide his tracks when necessary. I pulled these out of my saddlebag and tied them on his feet. It would give him more protection while the stone bruises healed. They worked fine, but when we eventually reached the sandy valley floor, I removed them, as he fussed about them.

  We crossed the desert area on a narrow trail, very different from the wide stage road that the Butterfield trail had been. This was almost just a direction in the sand. Each step of Hero’s feet in the fine dust sent tiny streams of dirt flowing ahead of each hoof, as if stepping in shallow water.

  My first impression of Texas was that everything bit or stung, and walking along, keeping my eyes open for snakes and scorpions and batting away the bugs did not change that any. There were plenty of animals in the desert, they just hid until you came by.

  Towards evening I saw some bees headed in one direction and I followed those bees to a small watering hole, and on the way shot me a long-eared jackrabbit for supper. I got a drink and let Hero drink, then moved back from the water apiece so that the desert animals and birds could come in for their share.
I found a camp site that allowed me to watch them come in, a bobcat family, a passel of wild hogs, a wolf, and all the little animals, birds, and insects, taking their turns, including several families of quail. An owl nested in a cactus right next to my camp, looking out at me solemnly until it flew away.

  It took me two more days to come into the area where Cummings said he had his ranch.

  Coming down the ridge into the wide valley of the Brazos River, Hero lifted his head and snorted. I stopped and looked more carefully at what had caught his interest. An eagle, soaring on the heat waves rising above the valley floor, searched for a tasty treat like a long-tailed mouse, but that wasn’t what Hero had focused on.

  2

  A young woman, sleek and fine-boned with long blond hair, stood in a small corral just southwest of me. She was enough to stir the spirits of any man, and the filly running in circles around the young lady was enough to stir Hero’s blood. He started forward, pushing at me to hurry up.

  I took my time walking up to the corral, enjoying the lift of her head, the grace of her movements. The filly was good looking too, circling the young woman with head and tail held high and snorting like one of those new-fangled trains I’d seen during the war.

  The lady had a rope in her hand, about six feet long and she let it trail out in front of her. I was trying to figure out if she was attempting to catch the animal, when it suddenly occurred to me that she was taming it.

  Not wanting to distract either one, I led Hero into the shade of a thorn bush and settled down to watch.

  She let that filly keep running around in circles until it suddenly stopped, snorted, and faced her. She still did nothing, although she might have been talking to it, since its ears pricked up and it nodded its head and chewed air like it was talking back.

  She moved the rope a little and the filly ran again, only this time not so long and more reluctantly. Finally it just walked over to where she stood and nuzzled her.

  She walked around the corral a few times, with that horse following like a big dog. She finally stopped where a hackamore and saddle were placed on the lower poles, took the hackamore and rubbed it against the filly’s shoulder, then placed it gently on the horse’s head.

  Next she put the saddle on and cinched it up. The filly looked curious, but not afraid. The lady mounted and I realized her skirt was divided, as she was able to sit astride. The filly looked completely comfortable, and she urged it to move, working at getting it to respond to the reins.

  I watched, amazed, realizing that in the short time I had been there the animal had gone from looking wild to acting like it had been hand-raised.

  So what kind of witchcraft was this? I’d heard of some of the Indian tribes who tamed horses this way. Where had this girl learned the secret of stillness? For that was what it was. She was still while the horse ran around, then gave up and came to her.

  Even when she dismounted and walked across the corral with the filly following, she was a study in stillness. I’d seen it in some older women, but never in one so young.

  I had to get to know her.

  I waited until she was done and had turned the filly loose, then got up and walked over to the corral.

  “Howdy, ma’am. I was wondering if I could get a drink for me and my horse.”

  She looked at me and then at Hero. Her expression changed. She looked back at me like I had just crawled out of a pig wallow. I knew I didn’t look like much, but when she said, “There’s water for your horse, but none for you,” I changed my mind about her. She wasn’t a quiet, gentle sort after all. At least not to humans. Or maybe just not to stray men?

  “Then Hero thanks you,” I said, and led him to the water trough. I had given him all my water and was sufficiently thirsty that after he had drunk, I ducked my head in.

  “I said, not you.” She was right behind me.

  “I didn’t drink,” I said, straightening up, the water dripping off my head and face. “But I’ve got to ask, why won’t you let me have any water?”

  She didn’t answer, just pointed at Hero and walked away.

  Something had riled her up. She had a manner that blocked me out. It wasn’t arrogance or pride, I’d seen that too many times. It was as if she had seen enough life, somehow so early, that nothing new surprised her.

  I took Hero and started leading him down the road.

  “Wait. I’d like to buy your horse,” she said.

  “Sorry, ma’am. He’s not for sale.

  “Not even for ten dollars?”

  “Ma’am, he’s not for sale.” The fact that she would offer ten for him, in the bad shape he was in, just showed how well she could judge horseflesh. I’d been offered fourteen for him when he was in good condition, from a man who almost cried when I wouldn’t sell.

  I started walking, Hero limping behind.

  “Ten fifty,” she said.

  “No.” I kept walking.

  “Twelve.”

  I stopped and looked at her. Shrugged and walked on. My feet were sore, I was thirsty, and I had a lame horse. I didn’t want to argue with anyone.

  “It’s over eighty miles to town,” she said.

  It figured. I kept walking. Maybe I should have gulped in some of that water while my head was in the trough. Hopefully I’d find some along the way.

  “Mister, come back here. My pa would skin me if he found out I turned a man away from water. Even one such as you.”

  I stopped. I was actually too weary to turn around, but I did it. I know I looked trail-worn, but lots of folks did now-a-days.

  I took me a step, then Hero shoved me from behind. He evidently didn’t want to leave the watering trough, and prodded me all the way back.

  “That horse has more sense than you,” she said.

  “I know it. And he knows it. And he’s not for sale.” I moved my feet, one in front of the other back to the watering trough. A tin cup lay next to the trough and I picked it up, took hold of that pump handle and give it a few pumps. Water came out, perfectly clear, and I filled that cup six times before I figured I wouldn’t blow away with the next dust storm.

  Hero thrust his nose in the water and splashed it around, then drank some more.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I reckon we can do those miles now.”

  I turned to lead Hero down the road. I took two steps before I realized Hero wasn’t budging.

  She laughed when I turned back and tried to get him to move.

  “Is that horse of yours part mule?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve wondered that myself. He saved my life twice during the war. One of those times it included the life of my whole regiment.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were ordered to check out an area that had a pretty deep ravine, hard to cross except for a long narrow bridge. I decided to cross the bridge rather than take my men down into what could be a death trap if we got caught down there. We could cross the bridge in no time at all.”

  “And?”

  “And Hero refused to go. He put two feet on the bridge and then just backed off and refused to move. He’d never acted like that before, so I sent two scouts on foot across the bridge. They came back and said it was fine. But Hero still refused to set foot on it. So I sent two other men down streams a ways to work their way down into the ravine, then come back towards us. When they returned, they said they could see Union soldiers lined up on the other bank, ready to fire. The bridge itself had been cut, so the weight of men and horses would have collapsed it, dumping us all into the ravine. I think Hero could feel the damage they’d done.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We rode downstream for around for two miles, found a place to cross, then cut that troop off from their battalion. They couldn’t cross the bridge—I’d left a few men to guard the other side—so we had them trapped.”

  “And the other time?”

  “It was while I was escaping after being captured. They chased me and he outran them. I thought I’d gotten away
and tried to slow him down, but he refused and kept running. Then I spotted a soldier coming in from the side. If I’d have slowed down, he’d have had me. He was shooting, but Hero kept the distance far enough, he didn’t hit me.”

  “Is that smarts or speed?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked Hero in the eye. “Don’t be stubborn, now. We’re leaving. Come on.” He wouldn’t budge.

  “Wait,” she said.

  Now what? I looked at her. She appeared puzzled.

  She pointed at my moccasins. “Where did you get those?”

  “At an Indian village. Cherokee.”

  She was looking me over good now. “And the rest of your outfit?”

  “The war, ma’am. I traded off my uniform for clothes that’ll stand this country. I’ll get me a rawhide lariat, first pay.”

  “They didn’t pay you for soldiering?”

  “My side lost. No pay. I’m just glad I have Hero.”

  She frowned. “You fought to keep slaves?”

  “No, ma’am. States’ rights. I fought for the right of each state to plot its own destiny. I don’t believe in letting the federal government get too powerful. Which it is now. So in a way both sides lost. I figured Christian folks in our southern states would start freeing the slaves on their own accord. Many of the plantation owners were already doing so. There just wasn’t enough of them soon enough.”

  “I’ve never heard of states’ rights.”

  “The Constitution. ‘The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people,’” I quoted. “The tenth amendment. You should read it sometime. Those writers really knew how to say a lot in a few words.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “It limits the power of the federal government. After dealing with King George, they were afraid of it getting too strong.”

  She frowned. “How come you know it?”

  “My ma was a school teacher. She made all of us memorize the entire constitution. And the Bible. Large parts of it anyway. And we had to know the meanings of all the words and what the writer meant.”