Stallions at Burnt Rock (West Texas Sunrise Book #1): A Novel

by Paul Bagdon

  Once during the night, she lit the lamp from the table in the parlor and carried it with her up the stairs. Margaret lay on her back, fully dressed, on the bed. Jonas’s hat hung from a peg just inside the door, and two pairs of polished boots were aligned on the floor below the Stetson. A man’s ivory-handled hairbrush, some pocket change, and a tattered Bible were the only items on the top of the long wooden dresser. Lee could see none of the standard grooming aids of a woman, no cut-glass perfume decanters, no cold cream or skin oils, no combs or brushes or ribbons. Next to the bed on a small table, another bottle like the one downstairs stood in the moonlight, a bit less than half full.

  Margaret’s hands were crossed over her chest like those of a corpse ready for viewing. Lee had to hold her own breath and concentrate her eyes on Margaret’s sunken chest to discern the movement that indicated life. The harsh light of the lamp was cruel to Margaret’s face; her skin was flat and pale, and the shadows under her eyes made her head appear skull-like. Lee prayed over the woman before going back downstairs to await the dawn. There was no reason to stay longer. She could do nothing for Margaret or the ranch until she returned to the Busted Thumb.

  The journey back home was seemingly longer than the one she had made the day before. As she drove the surrey in the hot sun, she thought about what Vergil had told her as he readied Meg for the trip home.

  “I dunno what’s gonna happen here,” he’d said. “I’m hopin’ we can sell off some stock at the Harvest Days Festival—maybe take a few dollars less to move horses on out. If the race had went like it was supposed to, it woulda been good for us, but I dunno if Pirate’s owner’s even gonna run him.” Vergil spat to one side as if the words “new owner” left a foul taste in his mouth. “Margaret’s gettin’ worse—I guess you saw that clear enough. What’s gonna happen here without Jonas ... well, I jus’ don’t know. I’ll keep things runnin’ as best I can, but I ain’t no bookkeeper or lawyer. The feed bill is due ’fore long, an’ the men need to be paid in a couple of weeks. I never had nothin’ to do with the money—Jonas, he done all that. Truth is, Lee—” Vergil’s ears reddened and his voice dropped a bit. “I never had no time to learn to read or write very good. I can do some figures, but not a lot.” He cleared his throat. “I’m wonderin’—could you maybe look into this?”

  Lee spent the rest of her trip home composing in her mind the wires she’d send to Jonas and Margaret’s children. She wondered if the two sisters even knew of their father’s death and decided they didn’t. The responsibility of informing them would accrue to her, she knew, and this made her heart heavy. Her decision to send Uriah Daily, her own attorney and financial advisor, to the Dwyer ranch to look after the books made her feel a bit better. Daily’s fees would hurt her own budget, but the Lord had provided for her many times before, and there was no reason why he wouldn’t this time.

  By late afternoon, when Meg perked up as she began to catch the scent of the Busted Thumb, Lee’s mind was buzzing with ideas to help Margaret through the storm she was still suffering under.

  When the man on the tall, rangy buckskin tied up his horse at the hitching rail in front of the Drovers’ Inn, a cluster of men were standing outside, grouped around Pirate, the only other horse at the rail. The range horses and grade stock of the cowhands and drifters in the saloon had been moved down the street to rails in front of other businesses, in deference to Pirate. One of Botts’s men sat on a chair he’d brought out from the saloon, watching over the horse and warning cowboys away when they got too close. Only a couple of the gawkers paid any attention to the buckskin and the man who rode him. Those who did—two men who obviously knew horses—nodded to the rider. “Looks like he can cover some ground,” one of them said.

  The rider grinned. “I ain’t yet found a horse could cover it faster,” he said. The man was built like a cowhand: average height, thin frame, a tan almost as dark as the worn stock saddle he rode and the boots he wore. His hair—brown with some gray—sprouted in bunches and clumps from under his Stetson. His denim pants hadn’t been new in a long time, nor had the work shirt he wore. There was a rifle on his saddle, but he wasn’t carrying a side arm, at least not a holstered one.

  “My name’s Tim,” he said. “I might be interested in runnin’ my horse for money.” He turned and pushed through the batwings of the Drovers’ Inn.

  The saloon had more customers than usual for a weekday afternoon, and the crowd was different from the place’s usual clientele. Most of the cowboys who’d show up later in the evening were punching cows or stringing fence or digging wells. The men here now were drifters, gamblers, and scammers who crisscrossed the West, seeking an easy few dollars.

  Harley Botts sat at the rear of the saloon, his back to the wall. There were two empty bottles of whiskey and a collection of empty beer schooners on the table. Six men clustered around him, mostly strangers to Burnt Rock. Botts’s hat hung from the back of his chair, and his tie had been pulled apart and hung limply on his chest. Several amber stains sullied his white shirt, and he added another as he laughed loudly at a remark he’d just made.

  “So,” he continued, “I saw this Appaloosa was a goodlookin’ horse, well muscled, strong lookin’, but I knew he couldn’t dust Pirate on the best day he ever had. The sodbuster tol’ me his Appy’d never been beat. Well . . .” Botts paused to down two inches of whiskey from his glass. “I jist love to hear those words. I says to the ol’ coot, ‘My horse can go a bit. I ain’t never raced him ’gainst a real fast one like yours, though.’ See, the bartender had tol’ me that ol’ fool had a bank loan right in his pocket, an’ he’d had a few whiskeys. I says to him, ‘I jist might put my Pirate ’gainst your horse—but I’m gonna need some odds to make it worthwhile.’ Well, the ol’ boy’s eyes lit up like—”

  “That your horse out front?” Tim interrupted. “The bay?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through Botts’s alcohol-drenched narrative as a sharp knife cuts a piece of twine.

  Botts straightened in his chair, and his eyes narrowed. “It’s my horse,” he said. “What of it?” The threat in his tone was dulled by his tongue’s stumbling and slurring.

  “Is he the one going against the Busted Thumb’s Slick in that Harvest Festival race?”

  “I haven’t decided whether or not I’m running Pirate then,” Botts answered. “And either way, I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

  Tim smiled as condescendingly as a teacher would at a child’s foolish answer to an easy question. “Can’t say I blame you. That Slick is pure lightnin’, from what I heard.”

  Botts pushed his chair back from the table. “That’s what you hear, is it? Maybe you know a whole lot about fast horses?”

  “Nah,” Tim said. “I don’t know a whole lot—but I do know one thing: My buckskin out front is faster than your Pirate.”

  Botts sprayed whiskey out his mouth as he convulsed with laughter. The men around him laughed too. Waving an unsteady but dismissive hand at the man standing in front of him, Botts said, “You’re a fool—git away from here. Me an’ my friends are busy.”

  Tim backed up a full step, color spreading across his face. “I guess there ain’t but one way to prove what I said, but I won’t race my horse ’gainst a boozer who’s too drunk to know what he’s doin’.” He turned from the table and walked to the bar, motioning with one hand toward the beer spigot.

  “You!” Botts bellowed, half standing, supporting himself with his hands on the table. “You want a race, do you? Then you got one! An’ I’ll tell you what, ya hayseed—I’ll pay three-to-one odds!”

  One of Botts’s followers stood, moved hurriedly around the table, and grabbed his leader’s arm. “Boss, we ain’t even seen this buckskin horse run yet! Givin’ odds like those is—”

  Botts shoved the man. “You!” he yelled across the saloon. “You got a thousand dollars to back up your big mouth?”

  Tim retraced his way to Botts’s table. He tugged his shirt free of his pants, revealing a fol
ded leather pouch. From it, he carefully counted ten one-hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the table in front of Botts. “Looks like we got us a horse race,” he said with a grin.

  In a moment, twenty or more men on horseback had gathered outside of Burnt Rock, twenty yards away from where the buckskin and Pirate danced in anticipation, raising puffs of dirt. The shortest of Botts’s men—a grizzled older man with knotted, greasy hair and a face as wrinkled as the shell of a walnut—was on Pirate’s back, speaking quietly to the horse. Tim rode his own horse.

  Botts stood between the horses, a quart bottle grasped loosely in his hand. When he gestured with it, whiskey slopped from its neck. “That outcropping—maybe two miles or so out—ya both see it?” The riders nodded. Botts stumbled backward, managed to catch his balance, and went on. “I’ll count to three an’ then say ‘Go!’ You boys round the outcropping an’ come back past me, an’ the race is all over. First horse by me wins.” He sucked at his bottle. “One!” he roared. “Two! Three!”

  On “Go!” the horses hurled themselves forward as if they’d been slammed in the rump with a fence post. Clods of dirt and grit spewed in their wakes. A cheer went up from the watchers as bills and silver and gold coins were changing hands among them.

  The buckskin grabbed the lead and stayed a horse length ahead of Pirate when the horses were at full gallop. Both animals broke sweat almost immediately as they pounded toward the jutting shaft of rock in the distance. The buckskin’s chest and flanks turned to a dark, almost mahogany color as he struggled to keep his lead over Pirate.

  Pirate seemed settled in his position, his nose six feet behind the buckskin’s streaming tail. It was impossible to see from where the observers were clustered, but the man on Pirate held a rein so tight that the animal couldn’t achieve his full, breathtaking stretch that he exhibited at top speed.

  They rounded the outcropping in a half circle, wide enough to keep them from having to change lead or gait, but narrow and tight enough to use as little ground as possible. Fifty yards from the outcropping, the buckskin faltered the slightest bit; he seemed to sway slightly and for a quick moment, his head raised from its greyhoundlike position.

  Conversation stopped midsentence in the group of men. Botts, leaning sloppily against the saddle of the horse he’d ridden to the contest, was the only one whose eyes weren’t squinting at the approaching two horses.

  When the buckskin wavered again, it was more obvious. At the same moment, Pirate’s rider gave his horse full rein, and Pirate floated past his opponent.

  The old man was stepping down from his saddle, a smug smile pasted on his face, when Tim brought his sweated Appy across the finish line. Tim ground tied his horse, took the folded bills still laying on the table, and held them out wordlessly.

  Botts snatched the money like a pig grabbing a snoutful of slop. “Looks like you lost a thousand dollars, hayseed,” he gloated. Then his face seemed to harden, and his eyes became those of a snake staring at a cornered mouse. “Now, I’ll tell you what: You an’ that loser pony of yours git outta my sight, an’ don’t let me see you ’round here again.”

  Tim held Botts’s glare for a full minute without speaking. Then he reined his horse around and set out at a walk away from the group of men and horses, and away from Burnt Rock.

  Botts watched the man and his horse move away and then turned to the audience. “All right, fellas,” he slurred, “you come to see a race an’ you seen one. I’m buyin’ at the Drovers’—an’ there’s one more thing. Come that race between my Pirate an’ that horse Slick? I’m payin’ four to one, an’ I’ll start takin’ bets today!”

  “Boss!” Pirate’s rider shouted. “That’s plum crazy. Your booze is talkin’ for ya!” He looked anxiously at the others. “You boys wouldn’t take a man who’s had a couple of sips at what he says, would you? Ain’t nobody in the world gonna pay four to one on a race ’tween such good horses. Why, if—”

  “Shaddap, ya ol’ fool!” Botts roared. “My word is my word no matter when or how I give it! An’ boys, my offer stands! Les’ git back to town—racin’ makes me thirsty!”

  Two hours later, Tim sat on his horse behind the livery barn, rolling a cigarette.

  “You did fine,” Botts said, wearing a fresh shirt with his tie in place. He handed a sheaf of bills to Tim. “Just like you always do.”

  “My pleasure, Harley,” the man said. “You’re playin’ a drunk better an’ better each time you do it.” He pocketed the money. “Say, what’s up with the four-to-one odds? You gone crazy?”

  “Sure—crazy like a fox. That’s why I had the ol’ geezer hold so tight onto Pirate during the run. Pirate didn’t look like a whole lot, and everyone knows that Slick is flat-out fast. Why, Pirate barely beat that ol’ buckskin! These boys’ll bet a lot more when they think of the odds, and when they’re sure Slick can’t tow Pirate.”

  “You sure don’t miss a trick, do you, Harley?”

  Botts smiled. “No. I don’t.”

  * * *

  8

  * * *

  Even after a short trip away from her ranch, Lee felt great joy upon returning to the Busted Thumb. Of course, there were the multitude of annoyances and problems that any animal operation generates, and things periodically went askew for no reason at all. But the problems were her problems, and that made all the difference.

  As she stood in her parlor, sipping at her morning mug of coffee, a motion outside caught her attention. She walked to the window and parted the curtains.

  Lee didn’t recognize the well-muscled Appaloosa tied to the hitching rail adjacent to her house. She looked at the animal for another moment before responding to the soft knock at her front door. The stranger on the porch was dressed almost formally, she noticed as she pulled the door open.

  “I’m Harley Botts, Miss Morgan. I’m the owner of Pirate.”

  “So I’ve heard, Mr. Botts,” Lee said, unable to keep the chill from her voice. “What is it you want from me?”

  Botts fidgeted a bit, his hat clutched in both hands. “I wonder if we could talk inside for a moment?”

  “I don’t know that we have anything to discuss.”

  “Ahh—but we do.” A quick spark of what appeared to be irritation flashed in the man’s eyes and then was gone. “I’d appreciate a few moments of your time.”

  Lee studied the man for a moment and then stepped back from the door. “I’ll give you a very few minutes,” she said. He followed her into the parlor and stood until she asked him to have a seat.

  All the snakes in the West don’t crawl around in the brush. Lots of them wear fancy suits and talk real pretty. And they’re as deadly as an eight-foot rattler. Lee wasn’t sure who’d given her that warning, but it’d stayed with her and often tempered her dealings. She’d found that, along with the good and honest people, the frontier had more than its share of grifters, liars, and smooth talkers who preyed on those who trusted them. She knew it wasn’t fair to judge a book by its cover or a man by his clothing, but experience had taught her to be cautious of men with soft white hands and liquid words that flowed easily off the tongue.

  Only a month ago, a fellow who could have been a brother to this Botts had appeared at the Busted Thumb in a surrey, representing himself as a veterinarian and offering a line of medications guaranteed to cure any equine ailment. Lee had sniffed the contents of a couple of bottles from his sample case and then briefly quizzed him on some of the more basic diseases and injuries to which horses were prone. The medicines had smelled like concoctions of alcohol and kerosene, and the drummer’s knowledge of horses was abysmally nonexistent. So Lee had stood from her chair in the parlor, crossed the room, and picked up the Winchester next to the door. The shyster had left hurriedly, without a word.

  Botts settled in at the end of the couch as Lee sat on the chair near the window. “What is it you want from me?” she asked.

  “Ma’am, I think I owe you an explanation. You probably don’t know a whole lot a
bout me, and I’d like you to know a bit more.” He grinned at Lee, showing white teeth. “The fact is, I’ve known and been good friends with both Margaret and Jonas for several years. I’m a horseman, and I’d had my eye on Pirate since the day he was foaled. I made several offers to Jonas—very generous offers—but he always refused.”

  “Jonas never mentioned you to me, Mr. Botts. Don’t you find that a little strange?”

  Botts looked perplexed. “Why, yes, ma’am—I surely do find it strange. Jonas and I got together a couple of times a week to gab about horses and simply enjoy one another’s company. Why he didn’t mention our friendship to you is beyond me.”

  “I understand you paid two hundred dollars for Pirate. That horse is worth at least two thousand. How do you account for that?”

  “The agreement had long since been made, Miss Morgan. Jonas knew how I felt about that animal, and he promised that if anything happened to him, I would be allowed to purchase Pirate for a token price. Jonas said I should give the money to the church building fund, which I did. I didn’t have to do that, but I did—out of the kindness of my heart, and just like I told Jonas I would. I also gave two hundred dollars to Margaret when I paid my regrets about Jonas’s death. I have a witness to that. My friend, Judge Luke Tryon, was with me.”

  Lee looked for signs of duplicity in Botts’s eyes. What she saw there wasn’t so much deceit as a cold hardness, a lack of human warmth. “I’m not quite sure I believe you,” Lee said. “And I don’t think you rode out here to square yourself with me. You don’t seem like the type of man who would do that. So let me ask you again: Why are you here? And what do you want?”

  Botts took a long, dark cheroot from his inner jacket pocket and a wooden match from his side pocket. He glanced up at Lee before lighting the cigar. “You don’t mind if I smoke,” he said.

  “I do, actually. Please answer my questions.”