When Lucas returned to the table with a tray of six beers he had a frown on his face.
“You’re lookin’ worried,” Will said.
“Well, maybe I am a tad. See, the thing is VanGelder has a pair of gunhands workin’ for him an’ they’re both bad news—a Mex an’ a Anglo. Both killers. The Mex is the one who gunned the sheriff a while back.” He paused for a moment. “You’d best watch yourself, Will.”
“I always do.” Will grinned. “C’mon—let’s have at those brews.”
Slick was gaining weight and strength daily. Out in the pasture now, he’d established himself as the top gun, and the other horses kept their distance from him, moving away from the water as he approached the trough and grazing with a good bit of ground between themselves and the Appaloosa.
One morning, as Will and Lucas leaned on the pasture fence, Lucas said, “I guess I might owe you a stud fee.”
“How’s that?”
“Yesterday, when you was out shootin’, my bay mare come into strong heat, struttin’ ’round with her tail up, drippin’ like a leaky roof durin’ a rainstorm. Slick, he figured he’d calm her down some—humped three times that I saw an’ probably a couple more times I didn’t see.”
Will laughed. “Slick likes the ladies OK,” he said. “That mare is a real good looker, built nice, handy an’ quick on her feet. If she took, you’ll end up with a hell of a foal.”
“That’s how I see it.” Lucas smiled. “An’ I got no doubt she took, after all the times Slick climbed on her.”
Will rolled a smoke, eyes still on his horse. “I’m gonna bring Slick in today, look him over. If he’s back in shape I’ll ride him out to Hiram’s place.”
Lucas nodded. “I figured that was comin’,” he said. “I guess I can’t talk you outta it.”
“Nope.”
“Gettin’ a li’l weary of pumpin’ lead at rocks an’ suckin’ beer like you done the last week or so?”
Slick, standing in the crossties in the barn, was rock hard and twice as feisty, stomping his hooves, snorting, ready to feel Will’s rig on his back. The new brand was crusted over nicely with no moisture weeping from it. Will filled two of his new canteens and secured them with latigo strings around his horn and saddled the Appaloosa up, slipped the low port bit in his mouth, and led the horse out of the barn. Lucas stood by the pasture fence, chewing on a blade of grass, waiting for the show he was pretty sure would come.
Will stepped into a stirrup, swung aboard—and Slick sunfished, all four hooves off the ground, all his pent-up energy released. He went up again like an unbroken bronc and Lucas yelled out, “WHOOOO—EEEE! Ride ’em, Will!”
Will waved his hat, face showing his joy. “Mr. Blacksmith,” he yelled, “you tol’ me this horse was broke when I bought him off ya!”
“Well,” Lucas called, laughing, “kinda green broke. Give him eight, ten years an’ he’ll calm right down.”
Will allowed Slick to play for a few more moments and then reined him in. He waved to Lucas and set out at a quick jog toward what had been his brother’s home—and that of his brother’s wife and twin daughters.
Slick shook his head, trying to get under the bit. Tired of wrestling with him, Will gave him all the rein he wanted. The Appaloosa surged ahead as if he’d been fired from a cannon and was in a full gallop within a bit of a second. Chunks of dirt and grass leaped into the air from under all four hooves as Slick stretched out and poured on all the power and speed he had. As it always did, the rush of pure strength and willingness of the animal at speed cleared Will’s mind of everything but the hot wind whipping his face, the smooth pumping of Slick’s shoulders, and the sensation of flying rather than riding.
Will checked the horse after most of a mile, tapping lightly at his mouth with the bit to slow him from the headlong gallop. Slick, initial burst expended, slowed to an easy lope, his chest and flanks breaking sweat.
The West Texas sun beat down on man and horse as if it had a personal vendetta against them. Will shared his first canteen with his horse and rode on.
The first indication Will had that he’d come upon his brother’s ranch was a tall pile of rough-cut fence posts and two coils of barbed wire. One of the top posts had an arrow sticking in it, surrounded by a dinner-plate-sized scorch mark. Maybe because the posts were too green, the intended fire never got started. In the distance Will saw a stone fireplace and chimney standing guard over the rubble around it.
The house hadn’t been large—probably two bedrooms and a loft above. There’d been a porch around the front, and part of an overturned rocker lay on the burned surface. Pieces of glass sparkled in what would have been the inside of the house, no doubt from Sarah’s canned fruits and vegetables exploding in the conflagration. There was no discernable furniture: all the wood and fabric must have been consumed by the fire. A singed arm and hairless head of a rag doll protruded from under a collapsed, burned-through loft beam. A cluster of wires and burned wood confused Will at first. Then he saw the few piano keys that had partially survived. A lump rose in his throat, making breathing difficult. He wiped his face on a sleeve and swung Slick to the barn, a couple hundred feet from where the house had stood. There was next to nothing left of it. Will figured Hiram must have had his first cutting of hay in for the summer—and hay burns as readily as gunpowder.
Grass was already growing well on the six mounds off to the side of the wreckage of the barn—four large mounds and two small ones. Will sat and stared at the overgrown little hills until Slick began to dance nervously, not understanding the strange, choking sounds coming from his owner.
Will swung his horse away from the barn and house and rode toward Dry Creek.
Lucas was whacking away at a horse shoe on his anvil. When he was satisfied with the shape he looked up at Will.
“I’ll be headin’ out in the morning,” Will said. “I figure to buy you one of them steak dinners an’ all the beer you can drink as a send-off tonight.” He held out five gold eagles to the blacksmith. “This oughta take care of your work on Slick an’ his feed an’ the rent on the room.”
“Bullshit,” Lucas said. “I don’t take money from friends—an’ that’s what you are, Will. A friend. Plus, looks like I got a prime foal outta the deal if my mare took good, an’ I think she did. So put your money away.”
Will had anticipated just such a reaction. Five gold eagles rested on the table next to the bed in the hayloft, along with a note that read, “Thanks, Lucas. See you soon, my friend. Will Lewis (of the H&W Cattle Ranch).”
The steaks that evening were prime—thick, juicy, and perfectly cooked. The beer was bitter cold and tasted sharply of hops—the kind of beer a man could drink all night and thoroughly enjoy each and every glug. When they’d finished their meal, Lucas handed over a bill of sale with a crude map drawn on the blank side, showing a few towns and the spot he figured One Dog would swing across the river and into Mexico. Will studied it carefully. “What’re these round things?” he asked.
“Water. Ain’t much of it out there. Far as I know, these here got at least a trickle year-round.”
“Good. Thanks.” He folded the map carefully and put it in his shirt pocket. “What say we belly up to the bar? This brew is tastin’ awful good.”
They’d barely slurped the snow-white foam off their first beers at the bar when a voice cut through the saloon chatter and the drunken laughter.
“Weeel Leweees!”
Will turned slowly, stepping away from the bar. There were two men facing him from about eight feet away. The speaker was Mexican, with long, greasy hair and a drooping mustache that hung two inches below his jaw. He was tall for a Mex—maybe five feet ten—and his holster, tied low on his thigh, held a Colt .45. “You have someteeng my fren’ Meester VanGelder wants. Meester VanGelder, he always gets what he wants.”