“That horse bite needs some attention. It could become infected.”
“De nada,” Fisher said. “Nothin’ but a bruise. I’ll have Shaniqua see to it when we get back to the ranch.”
Nathan said no more. Like Ben Thompson, the big Texan was neck-deep in pride, and obviously didn’t want the Mexican riders to know of his ignominious-and painful—retreat from the wild stallion. They rode on to the distant holding pen where the vaqueros held the captured horses.
“Caballos, ready,” Pancho Gomez said.
King Fisher nodded, and the drive began. There were twenty-eight, including the mare with the brand, and to Nathan, they looked as unruly as ever. But the Mexican riders had worked wonders with the white mare, and she took the trail readily. The others followed, and were kept bunched. They stopped occasionally to rest their horses, milling the wild ones, lest they break away.
“We’ll make camp near the first spring,” Fisher shouted.
It was the spring where they had camped that first night after entering Mexico, and after a day under the relentless sun, even the wild horses forgot everything except the cool water at hand. After resting the horses, every man again took to the saddle. Supper, which consisted of jerked beef, they ate as they rode, constantly circling the captured horses.
“If that stallion shows up,” Fisher said, “shoot the varmint. And don’t wait till he’s scattered the herd to hell and gone.”
“The rest of you stay close to the herd,” said Nathan. “Cotton Blossom and me will be a half mile out, riding a circle. If the stallion shows up, we’ll try to spook him before he can reach the herd.”
Fisher said nothing, but Nathan received grateful looks from the Mexican riders. They clearly didn’t want to kill the stallion just to save King Fisher’s captured herd, and Nathan shared their sentiment. It would be a long and tiring night, but another day of hard riding would take them to the Rio Grande. While Nathan said nothing to Fisher, he was weary of the mercenary aspects of wild horse hunting.
Sometime after midnight, Nathan reined up. Some distant sound had alerted him, but he thought it might be Cotton Blossom, for he hadn’t seen the dog in a while. Then somewhere to the south of him, Cotton Blossom barked. The first was a warning bark, but as only a hound can, Cotton Blossom gave full voice to all that followed. Nathan kicked his horse into a gallop. Cotton Blossom hadn’t liked the wild stallion, and Nathan suspected that if the two met, the hound would make a fuss similar to what he was now hearing. The barking continued, diminishing to a series of savage growls, as Cotton Blossom decided to get serious. Finally, lending reality to Nathan’s suspicions, there was the angry squealing of a horse. As Nathan neared the scene, the squealing of the horse changed its tone. Now it seemed in pain. It was the nature of a wolf—or a dog—to hamstring a horse, elk, or deer, and if that happened, the animal so afflicted had to be shot.
“Cotton Blossom!” Nathan shouted. “Here!”
The commotion ceased for a moment, and then there was the unmistakable sound of retreat. Nathan sighed, for the stallion was still able to walk. Eventually a shadow separated itself from the brush. Cotton Blossom had arrived. But so had King Fisher, with his Winchester ready.
“Damn it,” Fisher bawled, “while the dog had his attention, why didn’t you shoot the varmint?”
“I didn’t see the need for it,” said Nathan mildly. “I reckon Cotton Blossom chewed on him some, and he backed off. Let’s leave well enough alone.”
Fisher said nothing, but mounted his horse and rode back to camp. The rest of the night was uninterrupted, and they moved out at first light, chewing on jerked beef as they rode. Nathan looked back occasionally, half expecting to see a thin plume of dust on their back trail.
“If that sneaking varmint trails us, I’ll meet him with a Winchester,” Fisher said.
Nathan said nothing, nor did the Mexican riders. They could only hope the stallion had given up and wouldn’t follow. It was near sundown when they reached the Rio Grande and there they reined up, for the Mexican riders didn’t wish to cross the river. King Fisher paid them in gold and allowed them to take some of the remaining supplies from the packhorses.
“Now,” Fisher said, “it’ll be up to the two of us to get these broomtails on across the river and into the corral.”
It was no easy task, for the horses were still wild enough to balk at the very sight of a corral. Fisher finally managed to lead the white mare in, and the others very reluctantly followed. When the rails were in place, Fisher sagged against the fence and groaned.
“My God, of all the horse hunts we’ve ever done, this was the worst. I’m tempted to give up on horses and take to sticking up banks, if I wasn’t such a big target.”
Nathan laughed. “You’d have to get shot pretty low down to equal the pain from this horse hunt. I’d say you bottomed out.”
“You won’t never let me forget that, will you?”
“Probably not,” said Nathan, “but at least I didn’t tell your Mejicano riders.”
They went on to the house and found Shaniqua had supper ready. It was the first decent meal they’d had since leaving the ranch. The Mexican cook fed Cotton Blossom in the kitchen, after which the hound curled up behind the stove.
“We’d better stand watch near the corral tonight,” Nathan said. “I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if that stallion don’t come after his mares.”
“He can try,” said Fisher. “It’s a five-rail fence, double-lashed with green rawhide. A bull buffalo couldn’t break it down. I’m ready for a decent night’s sleep.”
“I can put Cotton Blossom outside,” Nathan said.
“Hell, he’s been without sleep as much as we have,” said Fisher. “Leave him be.”
The first rays of the rising sun were just painting the eastern sky when Nathan got up, got dressed, and made his way to the kitchen. Shaniqua always had the coffee ready, and she poured Nathan a cup. Cotton Blossom still drowsed behind the stove, and opened one eye for Nathan’s benefit. Nathan put down his coffee cup and went to the kitchen window from which he could see the barn and the distant corral. Unbelieving, he rubbed his eyes and looked again. The corral was empty!
“God Almighty,” he said aloud, “I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t believe what?” King Fisher asked.
“The corral’s empty.”
King Fisher dropped his boots and sprang to the door in his sock feet. He paused on the porch, his eyes on the empty corral. He finally sat down on the steps, buried his face in his hands, and Nathan thought he was going to cry. Instead, he began cursing. Starting at the time of the flood, he cursed horses in general and wild stallions in particular, and when he ran dry, he started over.
“Here,” Nathan said, dropping Fisher’s boots on the step beside him, “we might as well go see how he did it.”
Choosing one of the posts where the five fence rails had been secured with a double lashing of rawhide, the resourceful stallion had chewed through the iron-tough rawhide. As a result, the rails had fallen free, leaving a sufficient gap for the horses to escape.
“Damn him,” Fisher shouted. “I should have shot the sneaking varmint when I had him behind a fence.”
“No,” said Nathan, “you shouldn’t be relying on rawhide for a permanent corral fence. You made it easy for him. What do you aim to do now?”
“I’m riding to town for some nails. Spikes, maybe. Then I’ll rebuild this damn corral six rails high. Then I’m goin’ on another horse hunt, and then if that black varmint knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay shy of rifle range.”
“I think I’ll pass on the next hunt,” said Nathan. “It’s about time I was ridin’ on.”
“Ah, hell. I won’t be goin’ until the middle of July,” Fisher said. “I’m considerably bent, but I ain’t broke. Stick around for the horse races on July fourth. With your luck, I’d like to just lay my bets alongside yours. What’s the most you ever won on a horse?”
“Ten th
ousand,” Nathan said, “but I had to shoot my way out of town.”
“By God, I wish I’d been with you. That kind of money’s worth fightin’ for. If I had your luck, I wouldn’t lift nothin’ heavier than a deck of cards.”
“There are times,” said Nathan, “when I wish I’d never seen a deck of cards. Take a man’s money—even in an honest game—and you may have to shoot him to keep it. How many men do you kill before they begin to haunt you?”
“I can’t figure you,” Fisher said. “You got the golden touch with a pistol and with the cards, yet it bothers you to shoot them that’s needful of it, and I get the feelin’ you don’t really like to gamble.”
“Some questions are best left unanswered,” said Nathan. “I reckon I’ll stay for the race on July fourth. Maybe we’ll both get lucky.”
Uvalde, Texas. July 4, 1874
Uvalde, only a fraction of the size of nearby San Antonio, outdid itself in preparation for the Fourth of July festivities. Indeed, it seemed as though all of San Antonio had turned out for the celebration. Pits had been dug two days before, and several tons of beef and pork was being barbecued. Two wagonloads of watermelons were on hand, as well as a coopful of roosters for a planned carrera del gallo.13
“I’ve never seen the like, for so small a town,” said Nathan, as he and King Fisher rode in.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Fisher replied. “Every saloon, hotel, cafe, livery—even the whorehouses—throws money in the pot toward first-, second-, and third-place winners of the horse race. First prize has been as much as a thousand dollars. The fourth bein’ on Saturday, the town will be roarin’ all night tonight, all day tomorrow, and maybe most of tomorrow night. There’ll be some high stakes poker games, too.”
Cotton Blossom normally shied away from crowds, but the odor of roasting meat was tempting, and he followed his nose to the source. Nathan and King Fisher went to one of the saloons where bets were being taken on the Saturday afternoon horse race. There were fifteen horses entered.
“I don’t like to bet on anybody’s horse until I’ve seen it,” Fisher said.
“I do,” said Nathan. “They’ll generally be one as good as the other, or they wouldn’t be in the race. It’s the long shot that pays.”
There was a hand-printed poster on the saloon wall, near the bar. On it were names of the horses and the odds.
“Jumping Bean,” Fisher said. “Dead last on the list, and that’s likely how he’ll finish.”
“Maybe not,” said Nathan. “With a name like that, he sounds like a cow horse. Look at those odds. Twenty-to-one!”
“Yeah,” King Fisher said, “and there’s likely a reason.”
“Pardner,” said Nathan to the man taking bets, “I’m layin’ a hundred on Jumping Bean at twenty-to-one.”
“Your money,” the barkeep said, “but no payoff on second or third place.”
“I’m aware of that,” said Nathan. “Make it two hundred.”
“Place me a bet just like it,” Fisher said.
That drew some attention, wiping the grins off the faces of some, causing others to wonder if these two big spenders knew something others did not. After he and Nathan had left the saloon, King Fisher laughed.
“You could be a mite early with that,” said Nathan. “My horses don’t always win.”
“Yeah,” Fisher said, “but when they win, they do it big time. With those odds, a win would put four thousand dollars in my pocket. I could lay off horse huntin’ for another year.”
The race didn’t begin until two o’clock. Nathan and Fisher took the time to load up on barbecue and watermelon. While Cotton Blossom didn’t readily take to strangers, he was willing to make exceptions when they offered him food. Many of the diners were very young, and delighted in feeding the dog.
“After the race,” said Fisher, “there’ll be some serious poker games in the saloons.”
“We may not be able to afford them,” Nathan said, “if Jumping Bean lives up to what everybody seems to expect.”
The horses were brought to the starting line almost an hour before the race was to begin, so that those placing bets could see the animals. Even though he already had his money on Jumping Bean, Nathan wanted to see the horse, and when he did, he wasn’t disappointed. The horse was a bay, maybe fourteen hands, and even King Fisher was impressed.
“You was right about one thing,” said the Texan. “He’s a cow horse, born and bred, stocky, deep-muscled, and sturdy-legged. I like that deep chest, low withers, and powerful hindquarters. He’s got a thick neck, while his head’s broad and short. He’ll hold his own in a quarter-mile run.”14
Suddenly there was a commotion where the barbecue was going on and a yelp from Cotton Blossom. When Nathan and Fisher reached the scene, Duro Ellison stood with his hand on the butt of his Colt, while Cotton Blossom inched closer, snarling.
“Cotton Blossom, no!” Nathan said.
Cotton Blossom ceased growling, but that wasn’t enough for Duro. He forgot his Colt and turned on Nathan.
“Stone, your damn dog near took my leg off. What do you aim to do about it?”
“Nothing,” said Nathan, “unless he attacked you without cause. Did he?”
“No,” somebody shouted. “He kicked the dog. It wasn’t botherin’ him.”
“In that case,” Nathan said, “if the dog comes to any harm, Ellison, you’ll answer to me. Comprende?”
Duro Ellison said nothing. Nathan and King Fisher returned to the scene of the horse race, as the animals were being lined up according to their numbers. Jumping Bean was in the tenth position.
“Some free advice, amigo,” said Fisher. “Don’t go turnin’ your back on Duro Ellison. He’s a bad apple, and his brothers, Paschal and Haynes, ain’t no better. Any one of them would kill a dog—and likely anything else—just to see it die.”
“Thanks,” Nathan said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
There was some confusion at the start of the race. Accidentally or intentionally, the horse in ninth position broke to the left, colliding with horses seven and eight. As some of the other entries paused, Jumping Bean surged ahead. The rider—Mexican or Indian—was only a boy, and he rode without a saddle. The other riders spurred and quirted their horses, trying to box Jumping Bean, but the sturdy little bay was too quick for them. His rider gave him his head, using neither spurs or quirt, and the horse quickly took the lead. First by a head, by a length, then two lengths. Clearly a winner, he crossed the finish line to the cheers of a few and the anguished groans of many.
“By God,” King Fisher shouted, “you know how to pick ’em! Let’s go collect our winnings.”
Reaching the saloon, Nathan and Fisher were greeted by good-natured shouts of congratulation. But some of the heavy losers were contesting the victory of Jumping Bean, and one of them was Duro Ellison.
“Somethin’ went wrong at the start of that race,” Duro shouted, “an’ I say it’s got to be run again. Are we gonna let some Mex kid and his nag just ride away with a thousand dollars of our money?”
“Hell, no!” a dozen voices shouted. “Run the race again.”
But all their shouting died away with the roar of a gun. King Fisher stood with his back to the wall, a Colt in each hand. Just loud enough for them all to hear, he spoke.
“Mexican, Indian, or Chinese, the kid won the race fair and square. He earned the money, and I aim to see that he gets it.”
“You and who else?” somebody shouted.
“Me,” said Nathan, taking his place beside Fisher.
“They’re right,” said one of the three judges, “and we’re sticking to our decision. The winner had nothing to do with the fracas at the start of the race. If there’s anybody of a mind to make trouble, we’ll call in Sheriff Ward.”
“I’m already here,” the lawman said. “The race is over and the decision of the judges is final. If there’s trouble, them that’s the cause of it gets thirty days free room and board in the juzgado. Now bre
ak it up.”
The protesters left the saloon, and while there was no more talk, Duro Ellison cast a murderous look at Nathan and Fisher.
“Come on,” Fisher said. “There’ll be one hell of a poker game goin’ on at the Plains Saloon. We got a stake, and with your luck, maybe we can double it.”
“Or lose it,” said Nathan.
Fisher had been right. There were no less than three poker games in progress, with a line of men waiting their turn. Not of a mind to wait, Nathan and Fisher went on to the Eagle Saloon. There they sat in on a game, only to be interrupted an hour later by Sheriff Ward.
“Stone,” said the lawman, “you’d better come along. Your dog’s near dead.”
Without a word, Nathan slid back his chair, and King Fisher started to follow.
“No, King,” Nathan said.
CHAPTER 15
Sheriff Ward led Nathan to a big poplar tree near the area where the barbecue pits were. Beneath the tree lay Cotton Blossom, and at a distance, people had gathered. Nathan saw none of them. Cotton Blossom’s lean body was wracked with convulsions.
“Some varmint poisoned him,” Sheriff Ward said. “Coyote poison, I reckon.”
Nathan said nothing, kneeling beside the stricken dog, and Sheriff Ward left them there. His eyes glazed with pain and the knowledge of approaching death, Cotton Blossom tried to drag himself to Nathan, but his hindquarters seemed paralyzed. Nathan knelt and placed his hand on the dog’s head and Cotton Blossom closed his eyes. They didn’t open again. Tears blinded Nathan’s eyes, and when he finally got to his feet, a sympathetic woman he didn’t know brought him a blanket. He nodded his thanks and spread it over Cotton Blossom. He then turned and walked toward the crowd that had gathered, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and his pale blue eyes colder.
“I want the two-legged snake that poisoned my dog.”
Nobody said anything. Duro Ellison was there, and he met Nathan’s hard eyes with no expression in his own. Finally Sheriff Ward spoke.
The Killing Season Page 20