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

by Paul Bagdon

  Botts apparently knew better than to delay the start. He raised his pistol and bellowed, “On three! One ... two ...”

  The sound of the .45 had barely punctuated the air when both horses launched themselves forward as if they’d been fired from a gigantic slingshot. Lee leaned low over Slick’s neck, letting him stretch and grab the lead from Pirate.

  The horses ran strong, carried by the awesome power of their legs, their shoulders, their every muscle. Lee allowed Slick his headlong gallop until she heard the receding pounding of Pirate’s hoofbeats and was sure that Juan was at least six or eight lengths behind her. She argued Slick down to a fast lope and settled deeper into the saddle, watching the ground in front of her, afraid to take the time to glance over her shoulder to check on the competition. She didn’t know this ground, and she didn’t know where prairie dogs had decided to establish one of their towns.

  It was then that the first cooling drops of rain began to fall, raising tiny puffs of dust where they struck the ground. A gentle, soothing mist washed the sweat from Lee’s face. Smiling at the sweetness of the rain, she opened her mouth to it as a child does to a snowflake. She reached over to Slick’s neck with her right hand and stroked it.

  Suddenly her eyes were aflame. As an unearthly screech like that of all-powerful hands ripping apart a sheet of steel screamed in her ears, a tall saguaro cactus not thirty feet away exploded into shards of smoking shrapnel. The lightning had been so sudden and so violent that her eyes had no time to protect themselves with a blink.

  Slick scrambled for his footing, intuitively more afraid of falling at high speed than he was of the monster that had attacked from the sky. Lee gave him the reins to let him find his balance, still seeing nothing but a brilliant white burst of intense light.

  Just as quickly as he’d faltered, Slick recovered and was again running hard without command from his rider. Lee frantically rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She felt rather than heard Pirate closing in on her; she could hear nothing but a piercingly painful whine like that of a lumber-mill saw. She turned her face up and forced her eyes open, letting the rain soothe them as best it could. Soon forms were beginning to take shape in front of her, but they were indistinct and glittery.

  She had no choice. She dragged Slick to a hard stop and felt the earth tremble as Pirate and Juan galloped past her. Slick screamed his frustration, reared, attempted to get under himself to run again. The rain, which had picked up in intensity, cruelly slapped at Lee’s face. She held Slick with the reins grasped in her right hand and sluiced water from her face and into her eyes with her left, ignoring the pain. Slowly, shapes began turning into objects. She saw a race trail marker—a blaze of red flaring from the top of a cactus a hundred yards ahead of her. Beyond that, she could see Pirate becoming smaller as he raced away.

  She gave Slick all the rein he needed. She knew that if Pirate got any farther ahead, it might be impossible to catch him.

  Slick halved the distance between himself and Pirate quickly and then halved it again. Lee’s hearing was returning, and the first sound she was able to distinguish was the harshness of Slick’s breathing. She slowed him to a fast lope and took a tight rein on him. As long as he could see Pirate ahead of him, he’d fight her, but she couldn’t afford to use up her horse in the first part of the race. She gave Pirate his twenty yards and kept Slick at a steady pace, neither gaining nor losing ground on Juan.

  The rain had become a wall of water that turned the prairie into soup and drove at the riders and horses like a living force. Thunder reverberated like drumbeats in the sky, and lightning streaked and branched in the churning clouds, skewering tall saguaros and reducing them to hissing globs of pulp.

  Pirate disappeared from Lee’s view as if he’d dropped into the earth—which, in fact, he had. Lee reacted too slowly; her mind told her what had happened, but her hands couldn’t move fast enough. For a dizzying moment, she and her mount were airborne, and then they dropped eight feet to the several inches of water accumulating just below the blind bluff that neither she nor Juan had anticipated. She whispered a prayer as she felt Slick collect himself. They had slammed down hard, but the water and the mud underneath had softened the jolt. Ten yards ahead, what had probably once been a slow, shallow stream was roaring like an enraged beast, frothing and racing with itself.

  Pirate was rearing and spinning, trying to dump Juan and apparently wanting to get far away from the unfamiliar and frightening rush of water. As she and Slick approached the torrent, Lee heard the sharp report of Juan’s quirt against Pirate’s flanks. Slick bared his teeth and again hurled his challenge at the other horse, and Lee used his momentum and her heels to slide her mount in a sloppy circle and out into the water. Slick snorted, spooked by the rush against his legs, and then did what Lee had hoped he would—he hurled himself forward, fighting the strength of the current.

  He barged out of the water at the far side, and Lee stopped him, letting him breathe and drawing deep breaths herself. She turned in the saddle and watched as Juan flailed his crop against Pirate’s sides. When the panicked horse dragged his head around away from the water, Lee gasped as Juan slashed the lash across Pirate’s muzzle again and again, forcing the stallion to face and enter the water. Lee squinted into the rain and gasped again when she saw the bright red on Pirate’s side that was quickly diluted by the downpour. Bile rose in her throat. She screamed at Juan, not in words, but in an almost primal fury that scorched her throat. She watched Pirate begin the crossing, the whites of his eyes seeming as large as dinner plates.

  A mile ahead, an outcropping stood like a monolith shrouded by shifting clouds and sheets of rain. She knew there was nothing she could do for Pirate right now. She urged Slick toward the outcropping.

  Holding Slick to a slow lope, she let him pick his own way through the muck that grabbed at his hooves with each stride. When she rounded the shoulder of the outcropping, she gave it lots of distance because she was concerned about stones and rocks that had rolled down to the prairie floor over the years. Then she stopped and stepped down from the saddle, holding a rein in one hand as she walked around Slick. She looked him over, touching his legs and pasterns and watching the pattern of his breathing. It was evident to her that he was tired. She gazed at the hill directly ahead of her. If we can climb this side and make it down the other side without a wreck, I’d cut at least two or three miles from the ride. Maybe I’d be far enough ahead of Pirate that Juan would see he couldn’t catch us, and he’d give up the contest.

  She didn’t think he would try the climb. Anyone who’d quirt a horse’s face couldn’t ride well enough to make such an ascent. And the descent would be even more treacherous.

  She stood directly in front of Slick. His eyes hadn’t lost an iota of their fire. He was ready. Was she?

  She closed her eyes and let the rain sweep over her for a minute as Slick nudged at her to get moving. After climbing into the saddle, she pointed Slick at the hill. She realized that she would be excess baggage on this part of the trip, so she gave all her rein to Slick and left the path to him. He’d proven his agility and his heart many times before, and she trusted him completely to do so now.

  She flinched at the crack of Juan’s whip against Pirate’s hide. Behind her, she heard Pirate splashing through the mud. Slick picked his way upward, his nose close to the rocks and the sloppy, rushing mud that was cascading down the slope. He snorted nervously several times as he climbed, but he never halted. Lee knew that his instinct was telling him that if he stopped, he’d probably not be able to get started again. He needed his momentum, and he used it wisely.

  Slick badly stumbled only once, going down on his front knees with his rear hooves digging for traction. Lee leaned back, giving Slick whatever benefit her slight weight could over his rear quarters. Long strands of spittle hung from his mouth, and his breath rasped in his chest as he dug himself out of trouble. As Slick freed himself, Lee took a breath, realizing she’d been holding it in alm
ost to the point of dizziness.

  The wind was stronger at the top of the outcropping, and the rain was driving harder. The thunder, now receding, continued to growl as Lee looked down at what seemed to be a straight-down incline a thousand miles long. Stepping stiff legged into the rocks and mire, Slick snorted and braced himself. He held his head high to counterbalance the slide his thirteen-hundred-pound body wanted to fall prey to.

  Lee swallowed and then closed her eyes. It was up to the horse to get the both of them down—she knew she must leave the descent to him. Slick placed his hooves so rigidly that the impact traveled up his legs and into her body with each step. She welded her hands to the saddle horn as Slick scrambled down a face of flat rock.

  Then, miraculously, they were at the bottom.

  Slick’s breathing was fast and labored, and he hung his head for a long moment, his body trembling with released tension. Lee slid down from his back and hugged his neck, thanking God and thanking her horse. Just then, Pirate scrambled past them, and Slick’s head snapped up. Lee held him with the reins, watching his chest, and waited until his respiration had slowed from the pace it’d taken on during the ascent. Then, as Lee stepped into a stirrup, the stallion danced as if he’d just stepped out of his stall after a night’s sleep.

  Pirate and Juan weren’t much more than a dark spot visible only when the rain relented for a moment. Lee put Slick into a splashing lope and peered along with him at the ground ahead. Spotting prairie dog holes was impossible because of the mud and water, but at least she was able to guide Slick away from the larger rocks that were scattered around them.

  The dark spot ahead was growing larger. Slick swept past another red trail marker, fighting Lee for his head. She could tell he wanted to launch a full-power assault on Pirate. But she argued him down and demanded he stay at the lope.

  Even at that speed, Slick continued to eat the distance between his opponent and himself. Lee could see that Pirate was weaving back and forth. The horse was exhausted, used up, and he was running on heart now—heart and fear of the whip. She leaned forward in the saddle and gave Slick a free head.

  Juan must’ve heard them coming, because he lashed at his mount frantically, quirting Pirate’s neck and hindquarters. Slick had pounded up next to Pirate and had started passing him when Lee felt fire across her face and then a sudden, salty taste of blood in her mouth. Juan leaned again to swing at her, and she raised her arm to deflect the blow. The sleeve of her shirt ripped as the whip struck, and a bloody welt appeared on her forearm. For a moment, her eyes met with Juan’s.

  He raised the whip and swung again. Her hand flashed toward it and locked down at the same moment she tapped her heels against her horse’s sides. Slick reacted instantaneously with a surge of speed, and Juan cursed as the loop around his wrist dragged him from his saddle.

  Juan sluiced along behind them for several feet, face down in the mud. Then he stood and waved his fist at Lee—and at the rump of Pirate, who’d veered far off to one side and was putting muddy ground between himself and the rider who’d abused him. Lee swung back and followed Pirate for a few moments—there wasn’t much reason to hurry now—and saw that the horse was marked on his flanks and muzzle but hadn’t suffered severe damage. Carlos or one of her other men would easily be able to get a rope on Pirate the following day, when his panic subsided.

  She slowed Slick to a canter and splashed along with him until they were a half mile from Burnt Rock. Then she asked him for speed, and they swept into town at a gallop.

  The race was over.

  Lee had never been in a saloon before and doubted she ever would be again. But when Carlos had carried Ben’s invitation to her and promised her a surprise, she’d agreed.

  Even before she approached the batwings, the eye-watering stench of alcohol reached her. She pushed through the doors tentatively, as if she were entering a lion’s den.

  “Come on in, Lee,” Ben called from the back of the room, where he sat at a table with a metal strongbox of money in front of him. “This slop pit is perfectly safe now.”

  Lee glanced over toward the long bar and noticed there were no bottles resting on it, only shattered glass. A six-inch-wide river of beer flowed from under the bar to the side wall of the saloon, where it was pooling into a sizable lake.

  “What in the world happened here?” she asked.

  Carlos came in behind her, smiling widely. “My shotgun misfired, an’ I thin’ some of the bottles may have been ... well ... slightly damaged, no?”

  Ben laughed. “Funny thing is, it misfired each time Carlos loaded it—nine rounds in all.”

  “Ees sad,” Carlos said. “But what can a man do with a shotgun that don’ work?”

  Ben stood up behind the table. “It’s a strange thing,” he said. “My Colt misfired at the same time Carlos’s shotgun got silly.” He looked around the room. “Doesn’t seem like there’s a drop of whiskey or beer left in the Drovers’ Inn.”

  “But, Ben ... you can’t ... wait! Sure you can, and you did! You and Carlos!”

  “Wass a terrible accident,” Carlos said, shaking his head.

  “Awful,” Ben agreed. He motioned toward the box of money and the pile of slips with names and numbers on them. “The boys from around here who bet on the race will get their money back, along with some hard words from me. I’m afraid the gamblers and the other scum left as soon as the bottles and barrels started busting. The money they put down will go to the church and to Doc for medical supplies.”

  Lee nodded. “But what about—”

  “Botts ees in jail,” Carlos said. “As soon as Ben accused heem of planning Jonas’s execution, the rest of hees gang saddled up an’ headed out. Murder ees a hanging offense in Texas. They din’t wan’ no part of stretchin’ a rope as ... how do you say it, Ben?”

  “Accomplices.” He looked at Lee. “I may have given the law a bit of a slant, but nobody stuck around to question it. We even cornered one of Botts’s men and got some information out of him before we let him leave town.”

  “But what about Zach? The clerk at the hotel said he was hurt.”

  “Zach will be fine. He’s at Doc’s place now, on a cot. Doc wanted to watch him for a day or so. He’s got a doozy of a headache and a smashed nose, but he’s a strong man. He’ll be on his feet in a couple of days.”

  A feminine voice startled everyone. “Lee Morgan in a common saloon! I never thought I’d see the day! Next thing, you’ll probably dress in men’s clothes and ride in a horse race! Shame on you!”

  Lee laughed and turned to hug Janice. “I’m sure that’ll never happen,” she said. “It wouldn’t be ladylike.”

  Janice and Lee moved closer to Ben, arm in arm. “What about that man who rode Pirate, Ben?” Lee asked. “Has he shown up?”

  “No, he hasn’t. And if he does, he’ll wish he hadn’t. I doubt we’ll see him around here again. Living down being beaten by a lady in a horse race is hard to do in Texas, ma’am.”

  Janice held Lee’s arm a bit tighter. “Carlos told me while you were cleaning up that one of Botts’s cronies gave him up to buy himself the freedom to ride out of town. He said that Botts ordered my father’s death, and that Juan had been instructed to disable or kill you or Slick—or both. The race was supposed to be a sure thing. Botts couldn’t lose—except that he did.”

  Lee struggled with her voice for a moment. “Yes, he did lose—exactly as he deserved to.” She hugged Janice again, then took a step toward the marshall.

  “Ben—thanks so very much. I know I’ve put you through a lot. But I’m sure God will bless you for everything you’ve done.”

  He smiled and the dark sacs under his eyes and the tension in his face seemed to disappear. “If he does one day, I’ll be real grateful. Right now, though,” he said, “I’d sure settle for a hug like you gave Janice.”

  Lee rushed to him, ignoring Carlos’s shrill, teasing whistle and Janice’s warm laugh. She’d never been in a saloon before—and she’d never
been in love with a lawman before either.

  Paul Bagdon, a lifelong horseman and former rodeo competitor, reflects his keen understanding of the horse/rider relationship in his writings. Twenty-four of his action-adventure novels have been published in the general market, and he is the author of 250 short stories and articles. Bagdon is currently an instructor for Writer’s Digest School and lives in Rochester, New York.