Longarm took his pocketknife out and opened it. He felt for the vein at the front of the horse’s neck, and then made a quick slash with his knife.
He had tried it only once before and it hadn’t worked then, but he was willing to make any effort because, if he didn’t, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. The theory was that opening a vein and allowing the horse to bleed a little cooled the animal down. At least that was what the old-timers said. He stood back, watching the blood running down the animal’s neck and dripping on the ground. The smell frightened the black, and he started running back and forth at the end of his lead rope, neighing uncertainly.
Longarm watched. For a second he thought the roan might be getting better, but then the horse started staggering sideways—the blind staggers, they called it—and then he seemed to sigh and sink down by the hindquarters. Before it could get caught under the collapsing horse, Longarm reached out, grabbed his saddle, and jerked it off the animal’s back. He stepped aside as the horse slowly crumpled to the ground, landing on his belly as Longarm’s foundered animal had. He didn’t stay backside-up long. Little by little he leaned over until he toppled onto his left side. He twitched once, and then was still.
Longarm cursed. He cursed for two or three minutes straight. He’d ridden other horses to death, and would probably ride others to death in the future, but he’d always hated it and would continue to hate it even though, in all cases, he’d never really had much choice. This horse had been misused, by himself and by others before him. The poor animal had never had a chance to recover from the nearly two weeks of bad treatment and hard usage he’d undergone. It was criminal to take horses into country where they couldn’t get feed and water, but unfortunately, the men Longarm was usually chasing were already criminals, and a horse here or there didn’t make a damn bit of difference to them.
In the end there was nothing left to do except take his bridle off the roan and put it on the black. He could see that the black had a mouth full of dry spittle also. He wouldn’t last long if Longarm kept riding.
The roan had fallen off the road. As Longarm saddled the black and adjusted his saddlebags and tied them in place, he looked down at the animal. Overhead the buzzards were already starting to circle. At least the horse wouldn’t be a complete waste. The buzzards and coyotes would see to that.
It made no sense to stop. It was just as hot standing as it was moving. But Longarm figured he could at least spare the black the extra effort of his weight. He took one of the two water bags he had, poured as much in his hat as he could, and let the horse drink what he could get down. It wasn’t much, and he spilled as much as he drank.
Longarm had about two gallons of water, and a horse could sweat five gallons in an hour, more under such a sun. A horse couldn’t really carry enough water on his back to satisfy his own needs. It was an odd thing to think about, but it was true. Longarm had seen the proof of it many times.
It was warm work, walking down the uneven road in his high-heeled boots. But there was no help for it. The next time he lost a horse he would be afoot. Even not riding, he glanced back anxiously from time to time to see how the black was doing. The horse was covered with lines of dried sweat all over his glistening black hide. The glistening was caused by fresh sweat and not good health. But at least, Longarm reflected, he still had enough water in him to sweat.
Longarm didn’t know how far he had walked, but he knew it was approaching one o’clock when he and the horse topped a little rise in the road and he saw, in the distance, a small line of three wagons. He stopped and shaded his eyes, peering through the shimmering heat waves.
It was a long moment before he was able to discern that the wagons were heading his way. Only then did he allow himself a drink of water.
Once again he filled the crown of his hat with the liquid and let the black snuffle around in it. He said to the horse, “Maybe, when them wagons get here, we can get some of this stuff in your belly.”
He rode into Douglas at a little past seven o’clock. He had made the trip in one day even though it had cost him a horse. When they arrived it was difficult to say who was the most tired, Longarm or his remaining horse. He went straight to a livery stable and had the black put up in a stall with strict instructions on his watering and feeding.
He wanted the horse to eat hay before he ate anything else such as grain, and he made it clear to the stable hands that he was fond of the animal and that he was a federal marshal, and that it would be in their best interests to give the animal the best care they knew how. He didn’t come out and say it, but he conveyed the impression the best he could that he would arrest the lot of them if anything happened to the horse.
After that, he went down to a hotel and got a room and ordered up a bath. When it came he sat in the tub, ordering the Mexican boys who were fetching the hot water to “keep it coming and make damn sure it’s hot.” After he had washed for a while, he fetched a basin over to the tub and shaved while he was soaking in the hot water. The parts of him that weren’t still sore from lifting the roof were tired and sore from walking the two or three miles he’d trod along in his high-heeled boots. His feet felt like they had blisters all over them, but fortunately, the unaccustomed activity hadn’t gone on long enough to produce any serious harm. His feet were just sore.
Once he’d seen the wagons, he and the black had stood there by the side of the road and let the freighters come to them. They had had water for his horse, and had even sold him some grain mixed with shelled corn to give the animal something solid for his stomach. The feed and the water had revived the black enough so that they had stepped along and made Douglas without camping. Longarm was starting to have a real respect for the tough little animal. He hadn’t looked like much, but he was proving to have a lot of bottom.
Once he’d gotten about four layers of dirt and a week’s worth of whiskers off him, Longarm rustled around in his saddlebags and found a clean shirt and socks, and even a pair of jeans he’d only worn for two or three days—and that had been in town. They were nearly as good as new. After he’d changed clothes and combed his hair, despairing of his hat, he went downstairs and ate in the hotel dining room. Douglas was a border town and border towns, Longarm knew, were pretty much the same from the tip of Texas all the way up the line to California. In a border town you were neither in the United States or Mexico. You were in a border town, and there wasn’t any other way to describe it.
He had beef stew and biscuits for supper that night, and he ate until he was full. After that he sought out the best of the saloons, and drank some brandy and played a little poker. He’d put his badge in his pocket, so the other players treated him like an ordinary citizen and managed to win twenty dollars off him. He didn’t much care. It was pleasant to sit and do something besides chase bandits over barren country. He had no intention of keeping on to Aqua Prieta that night, even though it was only about a half mile away. Shaw could wait. Either he’d be there the next day or he wouldn’t. All Longarm knew was that he was going to sleep all night in a bed. He went down and checked on the black, and then he went to his hotel room. He’d bought a bottle of brandy, and he intended to bite off a piece of that and then wear the bed out.