by Paul Bagdon
“What was the last job you lost, and when was that?”
“I was with the Double D way up in Tucson. I came on another hand using a blacksnake whip on a horse, and I hit him some. That was the last time—a little over two years ago. I left Mr. Goodnight on my own.”
The sincerity in Wade Stuart’s voice was conspicuous—just as it would be, Lee thought, coming from a skilled actor ... or liar. “What have you done about this temper of yours?”
“I found I do better if I keep pretty much to myself. And ... well ... I took it to the Lord and asked his counsel. That helped more than anything else.”
“Oh?” It was difficult for Lee to keep the incredulity from her voice.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you a Christian, Mr. Stuart?”
“I’m not sure what I am. I guess maybe I’m a Christian. Either way, I know the Lord has been helping me.”
The heels of Carlos’s boots against the hardwood floor broke the silence that filled the room after that statement. Carlos looked first at Wade and then turned to Lee.
“Rafe picked up a bottle of rotgut the last time he went into Burnt Rock for supplies. He wass drunk today. He claim he don’ really remember much about what happened, ’cept that he wass real jealous of Wade spendin’ all that time with Slick.”
It took a moment for Lee to assimilate what she’d just heard. Then she stood and approached Wade, stopping when she was directly in front of him, looking down into his eyes.
“Carlos and I believe in giving a man a chance to prove himself, Mr. Stuart,” she said. “Rafe’s drunkenness in no way excuses what you did to him. You should have walked away and explained what was going on to Carlos or to me later. Or saddled up Slick and gone for a ride. You didn’t do any of those things.” She turned abruptly from Wade to look at Carlos. “How did you leave things with Rafe?” she asked.
“I put a good scare into heem ’bout the booze, an’ tol’ heem that if it happen again, I would personally chase heem off the Busted Thumb. He been with us over four years with no problems. I don’ think there weel be no more.”
“Good,” Lee said. She turned back to Wade. “You’re a good worker and a fine horseman. I wouldn’t like to lose you, but that fact won’t stop me from cutting you loose if anything even remotely like this happens again. If you raise a hand to anyone on this ranch, you might as well saddle up before the dust settles. That’s how fast I’ll be rid of you.” Lee drew a breath. “Keep that temper in check, Mr. Stuart. That’s all. Now go to bed. It’s been a long day.”
As Wade rose and started to the door, Lee added, “There’s one more thing. I’ll exercise Slick tomorrow morning. Don’t feed him—I’ll be out to the barn early, and I’ll take care of him when I get back.”
Wade stiffened almost imperceptibly, then relaxed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, his voice without inflection or emotion, as calm as it would have been had Lee asked him if he thought it might rain the next day.
After the bronc man left, Carlos sat on the couch and extended his legs in front of him. Lee walked to the window and looked out and around. Wade was gone. She returned to her chair.
“I dunno,” Carlos said. “Rafe admitted he had whiskey an’ that he wass angry at Wade, but the whole thing don’ seem right to me.”
“I talked to Wade about his temper, Carlos. He said he’s working on it. The both of them acted stupidly today, but we’ve given men chances before, and we’ve never been burned.”
“So far,” Carlos sighed. “But I keep on seein’ Rafe’s face in my head. A couple of punches don’ do that much damage. I guess that’s what’s botherin’ me. Wade went at him awful hard an’ awful mean—an’ he knew jus’ what he wass doin’. I know thees.”
Lee sat there for a moment, trying to assemble her thoughts logically in her mind, to sort through her impressions and perceptions of what had happened. What if Wade had killed Rafe? Is it safe to keep the man on, given what he’s done? She closed her eyes, and the battered face of her wrangler appeared in front of her. Should I have fired both of them right then and there? Was I too soft because of the work Wade is doing with Slick?
Carlos broke the silence. “You’ve not ridden Slick since Wade started with heem?” he asked.
“No. I’ve missed using Slick, but I wanted Wade to get well into his conditioning before I got up on him again.” She smiled. “After seeing Slick on that slope, I’m wondering if he’s gotten even faster on flat land than he was before.”
“You watch Slick, yes? Maybe he’s no so much a pussycat no more. Don’ let heem—”
“Oh, hush!” Lee laughed as she stood up. “I’m not going to do anything silly with him. I’m just curious is all.”
Carlos walked Lee to the door and opened it for her. “You know what thees curiosity done to meester gato—the cat,” he said with a grin.
The next morning held the slightest bit of a chill in its still, predawn air—a hint to early risers that autumn was no longer such a long time away. As ever, winter skulked about the corner, waiting impatiently.
Lee preferred to saddle and bridle Slick herself. She hung the lantern she’d carried from her house on a hook outside the stallion’s stall and was pleased—as always—to hear Slick huff wetly through his nostrils. His greeting to Lee hadn’t changed from the time he first recognized her as a friend and mistress. She fetched her gear from the tack room, breathing in the rich, fresh scent of well-cared-for leather that permeated the small enclosure.
Lee stepped into her horse’s stall and latched the gate behind her. She worked Slick’s ebony coat with a rough brush, bringing a grunt of pleasure from him. Even at rest, Slick’s muscles were long and solid, as if he were a soldier standing at attention.
After placing her saddle blanket carefully on Slick’s broad back, she gently smoothed away any wrinkles that could cause abrasions or galls. She tugged the blanket slightly forward to cover his withers and checked once again for wrinkles. Then she hefted her stock saddle onto Slick’s back.
Lee felt a stirring of pride for her riding equipment. Her saddle had been crafted by an aged Apache man who’d required almost six months to make it. The price Lee had paid for his work still caused her to swallow hard when she thought about it.
She set the front cinch, waited a moment for Slick to exhale, and then drew the cinch an inch or so tighter. She knew that some horses sucked enough air to launch a dust storm as soon as they saw a saddle approaching them, but Slick wasn’t one of those horses. Lee brought the rear cinch together and left an inch of space between it and Slick’s belly. The rear cinch wasn’t meant to hold the saddle on the horse—its purpose was to keep the saddle from pitching up during rapid turns or sharp descents.
Slick’s bit was a low-port, cutting-horse type, with the bar made of brass, which helped generate saliva in his mouth. He accepted the bit readily and without the argument some horses felt compelled to present when being bitted.
Lee swung into her saddle just as the sun was announcing that another day had started. Slick danced a bit, nodding his head, wanting to get moving, while Lee took in the palette of earthy, subdued pastels that were a part of the dawn in the prairies of Texas. Slick snorted impatiently, and Lee turned him toward the trail leading to Burnt Rock, easing him into a canter to let him stretch his muscles and burn off a bit of energy.
When, with her spurless heels, Lee asked Slick to pick up a lope, he stepped into the faster gait with no transition—he flowed into his lope as naturally and as effortlessly as water cascades down a mountainside. The impact of his hooves on the soil sounded strangely hollow in the quiet of the morning, and once they were beyond sight of the house and barns, she felt as if they were the only living creatures on earth.
Lee watched Slick’s forelegs reach out in front of him and sweep lengths of ground underneath him. His reach is longer, she marveled. I don’t know how Wade did it, but he’s extended Slick’s stride by almost a foot!
The stallion snorted at Lee,
asking for permission to run. Instead, she held him in the lope for another mile until he snorted again, more insistently this time. When Lee gave Slick the loose rein he wanted and leaned slightly forward in the saddle, the stallion threw himself into a gallop. The rush of unleashed power forced Lee to catch her breath in a sensation very close to pure awe.
Her mind flashed on an image that had been with her since she was a child—that of a mountain cat at full run, crossing a valley with the sound of gunfire chasing him. The tawny pelt of the cat had seemed twice its normal length as he covered ground, stretching himself, his belly only inches above the valley floor. Both Lee and her uncle Noah had cheered when the cat made it to the shelter of the trees across the valley as the hunter’s last round dug a spout of dirt harmlessly from the earth, yards behind the animal.
Lee cheered again this day—a yell of uninhibited joy at the agility and strength and heart of the fastest horse she’d ever ridden. And her shriek brought even more speed from Slick. He coursed rather than ran, slicing the morning air as a spear would.
When Lee reined Slick in, easing him down from gallop to lope to canter, her face felt scrubbed raw by the air she and her horse had assaulted for the past few miles. Her vision was strained by the flow of wind-generated tears.
She stroked the side of the stallion’s neck. He was lightly sweated, and his hide was warm under her fingers. His breathing was regular and not a great deal faster than it had been when Lee first came to his stall that morning. Walking alertly with his ears flicking about, he was interested in everything around him. And when he snorted and tossed his head, Lee realized something that truly amazed her.
Slick was asking to run again.
* * *
4
* * *
Ben Flood halted just inside the swinging batwing doors of the Drovers’ Inn, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the murky, smoke-laden light in the saloon. The reek of spilled and sour beer and the sharp, harsh smell of whiskey hit him as if a foul blanket had been tossed over him. The voices of the men at the bar were loud and their laughter raucous. Ben glanced at the card players at the scattered tables, then gazed at the bar. The eyes of the men with schooners of beer and bottles and shot glasses in front of them gleamed drunkenly.
A black man in a suit and a white shirt that was almost blindingly white, even in the feeble light, sat at a piano. Moving effortlessly over the keys, his hands formed chords and rhythms as if it were a natural and uncomplicated process. The musician, freed from the horrors of slavery by the War Between the States, earned a meager living providing what amounted to background noise to the men in the saloon.
The bartender—a huge man built much like the beer barrels he worked with—caught Ben’s eyes and raised an empty mug in his direction. “Set ya up, Marshall? On the house, ’course.”
“My answer’s the same as it is every time I walk into this cesspool. If I wanted to drink swill, I’d go to another pigsty. I don’t like this one.”
The bartender looked as if he wanted to respond, but when he met Ben’s eyes, he obviously decided against it. Instead, he grinned, revealing yellow and broken teeth.
Ben walked through the haze to the piano. “Zach,” he said to the musician. “I haven’t seen you around much lately.”
The man smiled. “I’ll tell you, Ben, since I’ve been playing both shifts in this dump, I haven’t had time to do anything I like to do—or should do.”
Zach dropped the song he’d been playing and began a lively spiritual Ben was fond of. He smiled as the music rolled out into the surroundings of the saloon. None of the clientele appeared to notice the change in tempo or melody, and no one gave Ben another glance. There was nothing illegal about a saloon, or drinking in one, or playing cards in one—nor, Ben knew, about getting drunk and betting the spring seed money on the turn of a card. But perhaps there would be one day. He hoped so.
Zach then began a muted love ballad that allowed him and Ben to speak without being overheard. Ben casually leaned against the piano, appearing to be watching Zach’s dancing fingers on the keyboard. “Anything special going on I should know about?” he asked.
“Lots of money on the race at the Harvest Days Festival. A couple of new cardsharps have drifted in too. Sleazy pair—I’d say they feed each other cards when they get in a game with a few of the boys who’ve been drinkin’ too much. I can’t swear to it, mind you, but I’m sure that’s what they’re doin’.”
Ben nodded. “Keep an eye out. If you see anything you can be sure is cheatin’, let me know.”
“Just like always,” Zach said. “They trimmed Danny Morse pretty bad a couple of nights ago. Better than a hundred dollars, all his seed and tool money, is what I heard.”
Ben sighed. “Danny’s daughter’s still sick, isn’t she?”
“Part of the money was supposed to go to Doc. He’s been riding out to Danny’s place every day to tend to the girl. Danny got to drinking in here . . .”
Ben’s face and neck showed the rising of his temper, as did a throbbing vein at his right temple. “Are the cardsharps we’re talkin’ about sittin’ in back, at the big table?” he asked.
“That’s them,” Zach said. “But Ben ...”
Zach’s plea came too late. Ben was already walking to the rear of the saloon. Sitting side by side, the two gamblers had their backs to the wall, a whiskey bottle and a pair of glasses in front of them. Both men had the pallor of those who rarely felt the sun on their skin.
Ben picked up the edge of the table and moved it back. Then he stood in front of the men, looking down at them.
“You boys new in town?” he asked.
“No law against passing through your fine little town, is there, Marshall?” The gambler’s smirk said as much as his words did. His partner laughed.
“The reason I stepped over to talk to you is because I want to ask you for a donation for a sick little girl. Her father’s name is Danny. I figure a hundred dollars would be about right.”
The card players sitting at tables nearby scrambled out of the line of fire, leaving their cards and money behind.
“We ain’t payin’ you nothin’,” one gambler sputtered. “That sodbuster sat down to play cards—”
The other gambler grabbed his partner’s shoulder. “Hush up, Bill. I’ll take care of this.” He reached into his vest pocket and removed two fifty-dollar gold pieces and held them out to Ben. “There’s your donation, Marshall. I take it you won’t bother us again as long as we’re in town, correct?”
Ben accepted the coins and dropped them into his pocket. “This’ll go right back to the man you cheated.”
The gambler waved his hand dismissively. “Sure, Marshall. You do what you think is best.”
“I will,” Ben answered. “Now, I want both of you to stand, and I want you to keep your hands away from your weapons.”
“We ain’t—”
“You’ll walk out of here right now, or someone will carry you out. The choice is yours.”
After a moment, the gamblers stood and started to walk to the front of the saloon, the marshall a short stride behind them. A few cowboys along the bar watched the parade, smirking, but none was foolish enough to say anything. The gamblers shoved their way through the batwings and out onto the sidewalk. Their faces were scarlet, but neither man spoke.
“You ride out right now. If I see either of you in my town again, it’ll be hard on you.”
An elderly woman on the wooden sidewalk flashed a toothless smile at the marshall. “Thank you, Mr. Flood!” she called.
Ben tipped his hat to the woman and crossed the street, heading to Doc Palmer’s office. On his way there, he glanced into the café and saw Doc sitting at a table with a mug of coffee. He walked in, waving to Bessie, who immediately poured a cup of coffee for him.
The doctor greeted Ben with a warm smile. After the men shook hands, Ben sat across the table from the physician. He tugged the golden eagles from his pocket and handed them to his friend
.
“This is against Danny Morse’s account,” he said.
A look of confusion crossed Doc’s face. “But, Ben—Danny lost his money in a card game. I heard all about it. He doesn’t have—”
“The cardsharps who robbed him decided to return the money,” Ben said, grinning. “I offered to bring it to you.” He paused, and his grin widened. “Nice fellows,” he said, “but I don’t think you’ll have an opportunity to thank them. Seems they’re leaving town.”
Doc Palmer guffawed loudly. “That’s a shame. A terrible shame.” He pocketed the money. “This’ll be a big help. My medical supplier in Chicago cut off my credit again. They don’t seem to understand that most of my fees come as a bushel of potatoes, or a couple of chickens, or a fat shoat, when I get lucky.”
“I don’t guess either of us are going to die rich men,” Ben said.
“It’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle . . .” Doc quoted.
“Well, I guess we’re in good shape in terms of eternity, then.”
Both men laughed.
Just then, Bessie set Ben’s coffee in front of him and added an inch to Doc’s cup. As Ben sipped appreciatively, he looked around the café. There were a couple of old-timers at a table, and Missy Joplin, a feisty and beloved ninety-year-old widow who’d won the love and respect of the town, sat alone at a table near the window, reading the Burnt Rock Express and slurping a cup of tea in the European fashion—through a pair of sugar cubes lodged behind her front teeth. The uncomplicated peace in the little restaurant relaxed Ben, gave him a bit of what he called “room to breathe.”
After a moment, Doc said, “Lots of furor about the Harvest Days Festival. Maybe too much, to my way of thinking. I’m seeing faces on the street I’ve never seen before, and they’re not good faces. I’m seeing too many guns worn on a man’s leg in gunfighter rigs—and the festival’s still a month away.”