by Paul Bagdon
She looked into her friend’s eyes. “Are you getting any sleep? Are you eating?”
Ben’s smile looked forced. “I’ve been sleepin’ during the day. Nights have been busy. And I’m eatin’ just fine. Bessie’s been bringin’ down meals to my office.”
“Can you stay for dinner? We’d love to have you.”
Maria peeked out from the front door. “I already asked heem, Lee. He says he don’ like my cooking.”
This brought a laugh from the marshall. “I said no such thing, Maria! I said I’d love to, but I need to get back.”
“An’ deal weeth creeminals ’stead of sitting weeth us? Card players an’ gunmen are better than your friends at the Busted Thumb?”
“Not by a long shot,” Ben answered. “Another time I’ll stay.”
“Ahhh, Ben,” Maria said. “You know you’re always welcome, no? I worry about you, mi amigo.” She drew back behind the door before Ben could tell her there was nothing to worry about.
Carlos stood. “I’ll see you before you ride out. I ’ave a foal to tend to right now.”
“Good, Carlos,” Ben said, then turned to Lee. “Let’s put Slick in his stall. I want to give you the good news too.” He took a yellow telegram from his pocket and handed it to her as they started to the barn. Snorty called out a challenge to Slick that brought Slick’s head up quickly, as if to respond, but then he dropped it again.
When they reached the barn, Lee read the page.
Miss Lee Morgan
Busted Thumb Horse Ranch
Burnt Rock, Texas
C/O: Marshall Benjamin Flood
(Start) Dearest Lee:
Thank you for wire concerning Father’s death and for Mr. Uriah Daily (Stop) Did not know how bad Mother has become (Stop) Father did not tell us (Stop) Decided to come to Texas and take over ranch (Stop) I arrive within three weeks (Stop) Basil to arrive later (Stop) I hope to arrive for Harvest Festival and stay two days in town (Stop) You are in our prayers (Stop)
Janice Dwyer Taggart (End)
“Oh, Ben, this is wonderful!” Lee exclaimed. “Did you read this?”
He grinned. “I’m a marshall, not an angel. Of course I did. Maybe havin’ Janice there will make a difference for Margaret. It’s great news.”
“Janice was always the brightest of the Dwyer kids. And her husband is a merchant of some kind and apparently knows business. They’ll be good for Jonas’s ranch.”
“I hope she keeps ol’ Verge on as manager,” Ben said. “He’s a good man, and he knows horses and how to keep them. From what I’ve heard, the hands at Dwyer like him and work well for him.”
“I’m sure she will. I’ll write out a wire to her before you leave, if you would be so kind to drop it at the telegraph office. I’ll mention Vergil in it.” She smiled. “Thank God for this, Ben. Jonas’s people belong on that ranch.”
She began stripping the saddle from Slick and roughing up his coat with a piece of burlap. Ben brushed some grit from Slick’s chest.
“Carlos says you’re having some trouble with this boy.”
“Yeah. He’s like a different animal since Wade left.”
“Speaking of Wade,” Ben said. “He stopped by to pick up his pay.”
“And?”
“And nothing. He came in, walked to my desk, and held out his hand. I gave him his money, and he left. That was it.”
Lee sighed. “Well ... at least that’s finished and over with, then. Do you know if he left town?”
“Not according to what Zach told me. He’s been drinkin’ up a storm at the Drovers’.” Ben changed the subject quickly. “I had an idea about Slick that I mentioned to Carlos when we were talking.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Back before the war, a friend of mine had a great running horse, and his trainer quit on him. The horse acted exactly like Slick is actin’ now. My friend hired on a new trainer—a good one—and what this fellow did snapped the horse right out of his mood.”
Lee stopped rubbing Slick and turned to Ben. “What did he do?”
“Well, he set up a race between that horse and another. The second was a good horse but didn’t have the speed of the first. This was a flat race—maybe two or three miles is all. The thing is, the trainer riding the better horse held him in and let the other get a length on him. Then he went a mile or so with the good horse eatin’ dust. Pretty soon the good horse was just about comin’ apart, fightin’ the bit and tossin’ his head, dyin’ to ram past the horse ahead of him. ’Course, the trainer finally threw that horse all the rein he wanted, and the race was over—the running horse pulled ahead in a heartbeat and beat the other by twenty-five lengths. My friend said his running horse started the race as one animal and finished it another.”
“Of course!” Lee cried. “Any horse with heart resents being bested in a race. Maybe a simple thing like getting ahead of and beating another horse can shift Slick’s mood.”
“Here’s the thing, though, Lee. My friend said that if the horse being taunted doesn’t show enough heart to fight for his head, he’s probably never gonna come around. He’s lost his fire already, and if a race with another horse doesn’t pull him out of himself, nothing will. His bottom would be gone.”
Lee exhaled through pursed lips.
“I was told it’s the smart ones, the clever, curious horses, that are the hardest on themselves and the hardest to bring back. This boy,” he said, gesturing toward Slick, “is one of those. If he doesn’t really want to win, he won’t try to break away. And you’ll be in bigger trouble than you’re in now.”
Less than an hour later, Ben headed back to town with a message for the Burnt Rock telegrapher in his pocket as Lee and Carlos stood together outside Slick’s stall.
“Lucky’s the one we use, I thin’,” Carlos said. “He’s a strong horse an’ has some speed.”
“But those two were at each other in the paddock a couple of weeks ago. There’s some bad blood between—” Lee stopped herself as the idea caught her. She smiled.
“’Zactly,” Carlos said with a grin. “Already, they don’ like each other. We run jus’ before dinner, no?”
Several hours later, Slick followed Lee out of the main barn, saddled and bridled—and apathetic. In front of the smaller breeding barn, Carlos pulled the cinch on Lucky’s saddle. Lee grinned. Lucky was a handsome stallion, and, of course, he realized it. He stood 15.3 hands, and his coat was a flashy mix of blood-bay body, four white stockings, a white star on his forehead, and a broad white bib over his chest. His tail was full and luxurious, as was his mane, and both were almost black.
Lucky caught Slick’s scent immediately and snorted a challenge. Slick looked toward Lucky for a moment and then looked away without responding. Carlos and Lucky set off at a walk, heading toward a long, semiflat series of acres beyond the Busted Thumb’s south pasture.
The day had started out hot and still, but by midafternoon a cooling breeze had arrived, lowering the temperature and chasing away the humidity. The sun remained high over the western horizon; it wouldn’t be dark for a few more hours.
Lee held Slick back fifty feet behind Lucky, although there was little real holding to do. Slick walked as Lee instructed him to and seemed content with that pace. Lucky, however, spun to face Slick several times, trumpeting challenges.
Lee scratched Slick’s neck, noticing that there was little tension in his muscles. Lucky and his taunts were only a minor distraction, if that. She sighed heavily. This race had seemed like a good idea, but now she wasn’t so sure. If Slick didn’t come alive against Lucky, maybe he never would. He’d be the sort of horse the West was full of: solid and dependable but listless, with the personality of a fence post. She’d have to geld him before she sold him, and that thought brought quick tears to her eyes.
Carlos eased Lucky into a lope. Lee gave enough rein for Slick to follow suit if he cared to. He maintained his walk until she asked for a lope with the pressure of her legs.
Carlos reined
in, and Lee rode behind him and drew rein another ten feet to his side. Lucky tried to rear, snorting explosively, dancing in place as Carlos held him. Slick sidestepped away from Lucky’s antics and kept a watchful eye on him afterward.
“Geeve me a good thirty or forty feet from the start. I’ll let Lucky stretch, and then we see what happens. Ees OK?”
Lee waved at her friend. She didn’t quite trust her voice.
“On tres?”
She waved again and tightened her hold on Slick. At the same time, she cued him to get under himself, to tighten his muscles and to place his hooves solidly for the launch forward. He responded sluggishly. Nevertheless, Lee could feel the tension flooding his muscles.
“Uno ... dos . . .”
Lee used her boot heels lightly against Slick’s sides while still holding him stationary.
“TRES!”
Lucky cannonballed forward and was in a full gallop within twenty feet. As he stretched his stride, the power of his legs dug lumps of dirt from the ground.
Slick’s head snapped up as Lucky began to run. For a split second, nothing happened. Lee held Slick even tighter, then contradicted that order by tapping him with her heels and leaning forward in the saddle. She saw the change in the muscles of his neck; they suddenly hardened into thick cords. His body trembled as if with a fever, and a moan turned into the frustrated roar of a caged mountain cat, full of defiance and fury.
Lee let Slick go. His initial charge was so abrupt and so powerful that he almost left her behind. Grabbing a handful of mane, she struggled to regain her seat. Then she whooped with joy, shrieking her exhilaration to Slick, to Carlos, to Lucky, and to the prairie.
There was no contest.
Slick reached ahead for turf in a stretch longer than Lee had ever seen him accomplish. Suddenly, he was next to Lucky, his teeth bared in a snarl, frantic to tear a mouthful of hide from the silly upstart who’d dared to challenge him. The only way Lee could spare Lucky a painful wound was to jerk Slick’s head away, and that’s what she did.
She whooped again and heard Carlos whoop behind her.
The ride back to the Busted Thumb consisted of Slick’s shenanigans to reach Lucky, and Lucky’s attempts to spin and bolt from him. Even on a tight rein and with stern commands from Lee, Slick danced in place, snapping his hooves up almost before they touched the ground.
Finally giving up, Lee let Slick run again, leaving Lucky and Carlos far behind. When she had reined down to a canter and was offering a prayer of gratitude, she heard a gunshot from the Busted Thumb. Again, she asked Slick to run, swinging him in a wide, easy arc toward home.
When she arrived, she saw three men on horseback facing Rafe at the front of the main barn. Holding a double-barreled shotgun across his chest, Rafe had his finger inside the trigger guard. Two other Busted Thumb men held pistols, and several more workers were running toward the group. Lee reined in Slick, handed him off to a ranch hand, and ran to the cluster of men at the barn.
They were gamblers or worse, Lee realized as she looked at the three on horseback. They were dressed as lawyers or bankers, in suits and starched shirts, and although their clothing was clean and well pressed, there was a seediness to them—hair oiled but too long unwashed, eyes weak and reddened, and posture slightly slump shouldered.
“What’s going on here?” Lee demanded.
“Miss Lee,” Rafe said, “these yahoos came ridin’ in here, wantin’ to see Slick. I tol’ ’em we couldn’t give no barn tours and they could see him at the Harvest—”
“Lady,” the gambler in the middle interrupted, “you’d best git your husband out here to talk with us, or some of these farm boys ain’t gonna see tomorra.” He fingered his gun, which was still in the holster.
Carlos arrived just then and dragged Lucky to a sliding stop. Pistol in hand, he was off the horse in a moment and standing next to Lee.
The gambler laughed. “A pretty thing like you married up with a Mex? He musta had a ton of pesos to git a rope on a—”
Carlos fired once, and the gambler’s face went white. A trickle of blood flowed from his temple and down his cheek, then dripped in coin-sized blotches on his white shirt.
“You thin’ I miss? You’re wrong. Next time I fire, you get a new eye. You understan’?”
“Lookit here,” another of the trio said. “We ain’t lookin’ for no gunplay. That fool with the shotgun drew down on us soon’s we rode in! All we want’s a look at that horse Slick ’fore we bet on or agin’ him. Ain’t no crime in that, is there?”
“Get off my property,” Lee said.
“Lookit here—” the man began again. When Carlos thumbed back the hammer of his Colt, the gambler shut up.
“You hear the lady, no? Ride back to where you come from. I see you on thees lan’ again, an’ I shoot to keel.”
Almost in unison, the three men reined their horses around and started off, spurring their animals into a lope after they’d gone a few yards.
“Miss Lee,” Rafe said after the men had ridden off, “I fired over their heads. They come bustin’ in like they owned the Busted Thumb.”
“You did the right thing,” she assured him. “I’m sorry you had to, but I’m glad you did.” She turned to the other hands. “I want you men to continue to be alert for scum like those three. Fire off a couple shots at the sky and don’t let them near any of our horses, not just Slick. We’ll all come running.”
The men nodded their agreement and then drifted off, talking among themselves.
“One more week and this will all be over,” Lee said to Carlos, who still stood beside her.
“It can no come soon enough. The men, they’re ranch hands, not pistoleros. They’re scared, Lee.”
“You know something? So am I.”
* * *
10
* * *
Janice Dwyer—now Janice Taggart—had been a quiet, introspective child. The brightest of the Dwyer youngsters, she’d spent most of her free time between the covers of a book. She liked horses—loved them, in fact—but was far more interested in them as creatures of their Creator than as drudges to be run hard or used for transportation
Janice remained childless after three years of marriage. She confided to Lee that she hoped that situation would change soon. She wanted very much to raise children where she herself had been raised.
Now, in the Merchant’s Rest Hotel in Burnt Rock, where they shared a room with a pair of beds constructed with the newfangled springs rather than shuck material and wooden boards, Janice and Lee renewed their friendship.
Lee sat on a bed in the hotel room, trying to hold her nervousness at bay. She hated to be away from the Busted Thumb even for these two days. Slick was under twenty-four-hour armed guard at the livery stable on Main Street, but even so, she couldn’t help but worry about his safety. She knew that she and Slick needed to be here the day before the race, but this didn’t make her any less uncomfortable.
Lee flinched as another gunshot sounded along Main Street. Although the Merchant’s Rest Hotel was at the opposite end of the street from the Drovers’ Inn, the racket from the saloon sounded as if it were coming from next door.
Janice looked up from the Ned Buntline novel Gunfighter’s Trouble on Boot Hill that had been left by the previous tenant of the room. “You need to relax,” she said. “Nothing we can do is going to stop those men from being the louts and drunks they are, and you need sleep for tomorrow.”
“I know,” Lee sighed. “But I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight. I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.”
Whoops, shouts, and the drumming of hooves interrupted the conversation. Lee moved to the window and watched three men on horseback blast past below, their mounts at full gallop. She looked as they passed the “Welcome to the Burnt Rock Harvest Days Festival” banner that was strung across the street—the same banner that would serve as the start/finish line tomorrow morning. The cloud of dust the trio of horses put in the air
reached the second floor, and Lee lowered the window a bit.
“I’m going over to the livery stable to look in on Carlos and Rafe,” she said.
“Give ol’ Slick a kiss behind his ear for me,” Janice replied. “Make him promise to win tomorrow.” She paused. “Isn’t that strange? I’m hoping another horse beats my father’s prime stallion. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
“It makes a lot of sense—because your dad doesn’t own Pirate anymore. That good horse is owned by a thief, a gambler, and a liar.”
“I know that. I just wish you weren’t going to be riding tomorrow.”
“We’ve been over this before,” Lee said quietly.
“No, we haven’t. You have! Every time I bring up the subject, you go on and on about what a tremendous rider you are, and how the race isn’t dangerous, and a bushel of other nonsense!”
“Janice ... please—”
“Don’t please me, Lee Morgan! You’re just being prideful and pigheaded about this whole thing!” She slammed her book shut. Then, after a long moment of strained silence, she said, “I’m afraid for you, Lee, out there on the prairie all alone.”
“I won’t be riding alone tomorrow,” Lee said. “A power far greater than you or me will be with me.”
After she gave Janice’s shoulder a squeeze, Lee walked quickly from the hotel, her eyes sweeping the darkened streets. She chided herself for being nervous, but nevertheless, another gunshot caused her to jump as if she’d stepped on a snake. She felt immense relief when she approached the blacksmith shop and livery stable, which cast light from each of its windows into the darkness of Burnt Rock. The stable’s interior was brighter than day. Five or six lanterns were needed to illuminate the inside of the stall and forge areas; ten were lit and turned up high.
Cradling a shotgun, Rafe was walking the periphery of the building. He waved to Lee but didn’t slow his pace. Inside the barn, Carlos stood at the forge, a mug in his hand. The blacksmith’s fire was down to red coals, and a kettle of coffee hung from the crosspiece.