by Paul Bagdon
Color rushed to Botts’s face as he slid the cigar back into his pocket. “I’m sorry this conversation couldn’t be more civil,” he said. “My reason for being here is to confirm that the race at the Harvest Days Festival will be run as scheduled, regardless of Jonas’s death.”
Lee’s stomach was suddenly queasy, and she felt uncomfortably warm. Sweat sprang from her palms. She knew she was experiencing a physical reaction to Botts. Looking at the man evoked the same sensations that had overcome her when she’d looked at Matthew Brady’s photographs of the carnage of the Battle of Bull Run. She swallowed before speaking.
“My Slick will run in that race for a couple of very good reasons. First, the race was something that was important to Jonas, something he worked very hard to arrange. And second, the town marshall tells me that if the race isn’t run, he could have a riot on his hands. People who don’t belong in Burnt Rock or any other civilized town have been flooding in for weeks. There’s a shooting or two every day. People are afraid to walk Main Street. If the race will get the trash it attracted out of town, it will serve a good purpose.”
Botts stood. “Fine, then. We’re in agreement.” He paused for a moment and then added, “I think you’ll find you’re wrong about me, Miss Morgan.”
Lee stood and led Botts to the door. As he walked past her onto the porch, Lee spoke again. “One other thing. When Jonas owned Pirate, who won the race didn’t mean a great deal to me. Now that you own the horse, the winner is important. Slick will beat you, Mr. Botts, and he’ll wreck whatever plans you have to enrich yourself at Burnt Rock’s expense.”
Botts opened his mouth to reply as Lee firmly shut the door in his face.
While Lee’s body carried out its duties for the rest of the day, her mind whirled and raced. There was a thought—a concept—that eluded her each time she tried to bring it to clarity. It was there, that idea or whatever it was, but it danced just ahead of her, vague and without form or substance. Images of Wade Stuart flickered in her mind for no good reason as well, and several times she saw him speaking the words Harley Botts had spoken to her earlier.
Later that day, Carlos found Lee standing at the corral gate, staring out into the prairie. “Lee, I think you miss a bad cut on Clover when you look her over thees morning.” His liquid brown eyes showed his concern. “Ees a deep cut. I think she need steetches.”
They walked to the barn and down the central aisle to Clover’s stall. Lee went inside, nuzzled the mare for a few moments, and then checked her left rear pastern. The cut was an ugly thing. A flap of flesh about four inches long gaped away from the laceration, and clotted blood had formed a thick, elevated lump the length of the cut. Flies gathered around the wound, landing on it hungrily. Clover too had been worrying it—the blood on her muzzle was evidence.
“I missed it completely,” Lee admitted.
“So, we feex it now. Ees no big deal.” Carlos waited a moment and then went on. “But are you OK? You seem ... I dunno ... lost, no? Can I help you, my friend?”
“If I knew for sure what the problem was, I’d ask for your help. It’s just something I need a little time to work out, I think,” she said. She forced a smile. “Don’t worry.”
“You know where me an’ Maria are if you need us.”
This time her smile was less forced. “I know. Now let’s take care of Clover. We’ll need the grain alcohol, some hot water, my needle, and some of the catgut Doc gave us. And gauze too, and that canvas belt. We’ll need to wrap the cut well or she’ll bother it and stop it from healing.”
As Carlos fetched Rafe and assembled what they’d need to sew up Clover’s leg, Lee sat on a bale of hay at the far end of the barn and closed her eyes. The sweet, summery scent of the alfalfa hay enveloped her and soothed her as a warm blanket would on a cold winter night. She pushed away from her mind whatever it was that had been eluding her. Instead, she visualized the steps the suturing process would require.
A few minutes later, she crouched beside the mare’s injured leg. Carlos had hung a lantern in the rear of the stall. Rafe stood at Clover’s head, applying pressure to her stretched upper lip with a twitch—a few inches of smooth chain through which a horse’s upper lip is pulled. Lee had seen leg bones set and wrapped when anesthetic wasn’t available, all because of the use of a twitch. Without it, the horses would have been panicked with pain.
Lee’s suturing needle was made of brass, almost three inches long and slightly curved. Purchased from a veterinary school in upstate New York, it had cost the Busted Thumb twenty-two dollars. But Lee knew it was worth every penny of that exorbitant price. Its tip was sharper than the most carefully honed razor, and it slid through tough horsehide with almost no resistance and very little pressure on the user’s part.
She cleaned the laceration with a strong solution of grain alcohol and warm water, probing as gently as possible with a flat-ended surgeon’s tool to remove any dirt from the area. With the same tool, she removed all of the clotted blood and then washed the length of the cut again after adding more alcohol to the solution.
When Lee first eased the needle through Clover’s flesh, the mare moaned deep in her chest. It was a heart-wrenching, pitiful sound—and Lee paid no attention to it. She knew there was more fear than pain behind the sound, and her job was to close the wound, regardless of her horse’s discomfort.
Lee’s fingers moved as gracefully and as smoothly as those of an experienced surgeon. She took her time, setting each individual stitch equidistant from the one before and tightening each with an almost imperceptible motion of the wrist. Carlos fed the catgut to her, keeping it straight and free of tangles. When Lee had secured the final knot, Carlos cut off the excess suture material with his pocketknife. Lee then applied a thin coating of a dark, thick, stringy paste of petroleum gel, wrapped the area with several layers of gauze, and attached a wide canvas belt over the dressing.
Lee stood and faltered for a moment, her knees protesting the half hour she’d spent crouching. After she stood, Rafe released the twitch, and Clover pushed at him with her muzzle, negotiating for a treat.
“How about a half scoop of sweet feed for the patient?” Lee said with a smile.
Rafe grinned as if he were getting a treat, not the mare. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, slipping out of the stall. “Comin’ right up!”
Carlos grinned too. “Ees very good job, Lee,” he said. “Clover weel be good as nuevo.”
That evening, Lee’s private place on the hill overlooking the Busted Thumb seemed to be an oasis. The day had cooled. The power of the sun, which for several months had kept the nighttime temperature almost as high as that of the day, had abated—a sure sign autumn was approaching. She left Dixie grazing in a lush patch of grass that had been spared much of the killing wrath of the sun because of the shade of a few shrubs and four stunted desert pines.
In the soft light of the sunset, the Busted Thumb looked like a child’s toy farm. A pair of geldings argued briefly in a pasture below her, then danced apart, snorting and posturing, rearing as if ready to do battle. Lee grinned. She knew both horses well, and a fight between them was about as likely as a fistfight between a pair of nuns. In a matter of moments, the horses stood together, head to tail, shagging flies from each other’s faces and pulling lazily at the grass, their disagreement forgotten.
A happy peace washed over Lee. She walked to where Dixie was grazing and stroked the mare’s neck. She didn’t mount up; she wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. Instead, she sat, leaned back against a boulder, and replayed the entire conversation with Harley Botts. She doubted anything the man said was true, and his claim of friendship with Jonas sounded as absurd in the replay as it had that morning.
Still, she was committed to the race—to Ben Flood and to Jonas and to the honor of her farm. To have Jonas Dwyer’s horse beat Slick in a fair race would be a quick disappointment, but a proud moment too, in a way. Both animals were superior, stronger, more intelligent, and faster than other horses. But t
o have Slick lose to a horse owned by Harley Botts was absolutely unacceptable.
She pictured Wade on Slick clambering up that rock-littered slope. Then she remembered when Wade had called on her after Jonas’s death ... and she felt a quick flash of embarrassment at how Wade’s eyes had affected her. Must have been my grief, she thought. And the light wasn’t good in the parlor. Shadows could’ve caused what I thought I saw. I’d just gotten up from a nap when we’d talked.
Suddenly, the day came back with almost stunning clarity. As her own words that day rang through her mind, the physical sensations returned momentarily as well. She felt the hot, solid knot in her throat and the slight dizziness she’d experienced. She remembered the words she’d said. Ben, I don’t want how Jonas died to become common knowledge just yet. Can you hold back the part about him being murdered? And Carlos—don’t tell the men about it either—just tell them Jonas died ...
Lee shifted her mind to the conversation she’d had with Wade later that afternoon. She remembered what Wade had said to her. I’m sorry about Mr. Dwyer. I didn’t know him, but the boys say he was a fine man. I know you were good friends, and I just kinda wanted to say ... well ... I’m sorry he got killed ...
I’m sorry he got killed.
Lee felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Carlos’s word was as good as, or better than, a legal contract. He’d told the men about Jonas’s death, but he’d mentioned nothing about murder. And Ben’s word was as good as Carlos’s.
How could Wade have known Jonas had been killed? Lee took several deep breaths to calm herself. By the time she’d mounted Dixie and was on her way down the hill, she’d made her decision. Her instincts had always been good before, and she was sure they were now.
Wade Stuart was a figure in the ambush killing of Jonas. She just didn’t know why.
She saw the light from the lantern hanging in Slick’s stall as she approached the barn, walking Dixie. She handed the reins to one of the men and asked that he put the mare in her stall and give her a bucket of fresh water. Then she entered the barn.
Wade was brushing Slick in the stall. His saddle was draped over the closed gate, a stirrup on each side. The familiar aroma of neat’s-foot oil hung in the still air, and the fenders, cantle, seat, and fork looked freshly treated, glistening slightly in the lantern light. She watched him for a few moments before speaking.
“Mr. Stuart,” she said, “I want you off Busted Thumb property immediately—which means right now. Get your horse and gather up your things and ride out of here. And never set foot on my property again.”
Wade turned to her, his facing showing confusion and surprise. “Miss Morgan, what are you talking about? Why should I leave? I’ve got Slick in better condition than he’s ever been in, and I’ve—”
“I’m not going to debate this with you,” Lee interrupted. “Do as I said, and do it now.”
Wade’s eyes were slitted now, and a choleric red was creeping into his face. “I got pay coming to me, and I deserve to hear a reason for this,” he said. The words were quiet, but the same sort of quiet that precedes a storm.
“I’ll figure your pay to date and have one of the men bring it to Burnt Rock tomorrow. You can pick it up from Marshall Flood. Maybe then you’ll take the opportunity to tell him how you knew Jonas was killed, rather than simply dying of natural causes.”
Wade’s laugh was like the snarl of an animal. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I’ll tell you this, Miss Rich Lady Ranch Owner—I’m sick of your stupid rules and your religious ways and how you slide around in the barns all day like you were a man, giving orders and checking up on me.”
He moved to his saddle and untied the slicker. After taking out his gun belt and pistol, he tossed the slicker aside. Then he buckled on the belt and tied down the holster before he stood straight and spoke to Lee again.
“You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are,” he said. “Seems like you missed a big point here: Who’s gonna ride Slick in the race? You expect to find someone who’s as good as I am before the Harvest Festival? If you do, you’re plumb crazy. Ain’t nobody within a thousand miles who can ride like I can, and you know it.” He laughed. “Maybe you’re gonna put your fat Mex pal on Slick—I’d pay good money to see that. Tell me who’s gonna be on Slick’s back that day, and then I’ll think about leaving.”
Lee struggled to keep her voice even. “You greatly overvalue yourself, Mr. Stuart. Greatly. Who rides my horse in that race is none of your business. I want you out of here and off the Busted Thumb right now. If you don’t go, I’ll send for the marshall.”
“Flood?” Wade sneered. “He’s an old man who’s living on a rep he got twenty years ago, when he was still worth somethin’. What’s he gonna do? Throw his Bible at me?” Wade opened the gate to Slick’s stall, stepped out, and then lifted his saddle. He started out of the barn but turned back to face Lee. “You might better stick with women’s stuff. You play in a man’s world, you’re gonna get hurt.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Lee answered curtly. “Now get off my ranch.”
A quick crackle of hatred appeared in Wade’s eyes and then disappeared. This time, Lee knew she hadn’t imagined it.
The moon was huge in a cloudless sky as Lee stood at her kitchen window, watching Wade ride out of her line of vision. The kettle of water on the stove began to boil, and she busied herself preparing a cup of tea. Carlos and Maria had ordered her a pound tin of Earl Grey, her favorite, for Christmas last year. She used it sparingly; the tin was still half full. After the leaves had steeped, she sat at the table and sipped slowly, hoping that the calming properties of the tea would soothe her mind as it generally did.
As soon as her cup was empty, however, she was up and pacing the room. Had Wade threatened me, or were his words just the talk of a bitter man? Will he try to make trouble in Burnt Rock or take out his venom on the Busted Thumb’s buildings, horses—or people? Is he a danger to Ben?
Lee chided herself for using Ben’s name as a scare tactic to get Wade moving. Was Wade angry or crazy enough to pick a fight? She didn’t know the answer to that question, but she remembered the undiluted hate in his eyes and shivered.
After a while, her mindless pacing began to grate on her nerves, so she sat at the table again, lightly fingering her empty teacup. Then, with a sigh, she carried the lantern to her office and opened the payroll ledger. She figured Wade Stuart’s wages to that day, checked her figures, and then worked the combination to the small safe that rested next to her desk. The steel box wasn’t much larger than a small packing crate, but it had taken five strong men to haul it from the freight wagon into the house. Carlos had built a support directly under it, in the storm cellar, to keep it from going through the floor.
Lee closed the door of the safe, as always enjoying the secure sound of the well-lubricated “snicksnicksnicksnick” as she spun the combination dial. She placed the bills into an envelope, which she then folded and put into her culottes pocket. After writing a quick note for Carlos, she took the lantern and went to her bedroom to fetch her 30.06, then headed outside.
The barn was filled with the late-night calm that somehow always appears where well-fed and well-cared-for animals sleep. Lee carried the lantern to the tack room, stopping just inside to breathe in the aroma of leather and wood and neat’s-foot oil. She slid her rifle into a leather scabbard and tied it behind the cantle of her saddle, lacing the opening of the scabbard securely. She then hefted the saddle and went back out into the barn to select a horse.
Carlos and his men had been checking and trimming hooves that day, so there were several good geldings and mares available for the ride to Burnt Rock. Lee had decided on a lanky paint gelding she’d ridden several times before, when she noticed the lantern light reflecting in Slick’s eyes as he stood at his stall gate. If he hadn’t nickered a greeting, she’d probably have taken the paint.
Slick huffed and shifted about as Lee swung her blanket and saddle onto
his back. When he nudged at her with his snout, she spoke sharply to him, and he settled down a bit. Patience was something Slick had never had. He’d no doubt been worked hard that day, yet he couldn’t wait to be out again, stretching his muscles for the pure joy of doing so. Lee scratched the stallion’s neck for a moment, then let her hand slide to the teak-hard muscle of his shoulder.
The rich scent of fresh-cut hay the crew had put up that day perfumed the air. Lee mounted the horse and eased him into a quick canter. By the time she turned in the saddle to look back over her shoulder, the Busted Thumb had disappeared. She and Slick were alone on a landscape softly lighted by the moon and countless stars like diamonds gently scattered on black velvet.
Lee could tell that Slick wanted to run. So did she, for that matter. She wanted to experience the exhilaration of his power and his speed. But she knew horses too well to allow the horse much more than a lope. The moonlight was as good at concealment as it was at illumination. Just as it revealed one prairie dog hole, it hid another in an inky shadow. Slick sulked a bit, much like a child commanded not to splash in a mud puddle, but he eventually resigned himself to the pace Lee demanded. Still, he shook his head every so often.
As she approached Burnt Rock, the only lights showing on the main sweep of the town were those of the Drovers’ Inn and the marshall’s office. She stayed on the dark side of the street as she rode past the saloon, but even then the stink of tobacco smoke and beer and the coarse, drunken shouts and baying laughter assaulted her like a foul wave from a stagnant sinkhole. When a gunshot sounded, Lee tightened her grip on the reins, waiting for Slick to bolt—or at least flinch in fear. He did neither, and for a moment she wondered at his lack of reaction. To the best of her knowledge, he had never heard the sound of a rifle or pistol shot.
The door to Ben’s office was locked, a situation Lee had never encountered before. She knocked and heard the bolt being slid on the other side of the door.
“Lee!” Ben exclaimed.