Then Gayle Souter swung his pony around to face Gordon. Souter’s voice was not steady. “What happened?”
Gordon shook his head while he lowered the pouch.
Both men turned at the sound of an advancing horse. Gordon heard a shift from Souter’s mount, saw the barrel of Souter’s rifle raised once more. Such vigilance had just proven ineffective, but it gave a solid feel to the moment.
The rider and animal stopped. The familiar voice again: “I couldn’t catch him, but he won’t be back.”
A hint of amusement colored the words, and Gordon finally recognized the speaker—their mesteñero. “Thank you, sir, for your assistance.”
There was a long silence. Gordon had to trust his senses, which told him the horse and rider were still there, had not walked away.
Finally: “It weren’t a Mex…that robber of yours.”
Silence, then Gayle Souter spoke. “Glad you agree. I’d hate to accuse the wrong man.”
“He rode a runt bronc’, not more than thirteen hands, from the stride,” advised the mesteñero.
Gordon nodded, although he wondered why the detail would be important.
Souter laughed. “That eliminates one suspect.”
The mesteñero laughed, too, and it took a few moments for Gordon to get the joke—it could not have been Jack Holden.
Gordon pushed his horse until the animal greeted the roan mustang. “Sir, I am grateful to you for your rescue. Please, if there is ever anything I can do…ah.…” He expelled a hard breath, having come close to offering money, a terrible breach of ethics. “Gordon Meiklejon, sir.” He knew never to ask a name, for it could be written on a poster or nailed to a wall.
The answer—“Burn English.”—was spoken quietly.
“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”
No response other than the sound of crackling branches and clipped rocks.
“I do believe he’s gone, Mister Meiklejon,” Souter said.
Gordon expelled a repressed sigh, and stroked his pony’s neck. The animal warmth reassured him, and he was able to find enough saliva in his mouth to form the words: “Let me retie the saddle pouch, and then we will be going.”
Meiklejon and Souter reached Socorro before dawn. They rode up the middle of the empty street, up to a crowd of tied saddle horses and harnessed teams that reminded them of the dance they had missed.
Gordon turned in the saddle, feeling every movement of the bones in his seat and legs. Music came from Miller’s General Mercantile, half tones awkwardly tapping a ragged beat. Souter’s face registered dismay when Gordon spoke.
“Just one dance, Mister Souter. To celebrate oursuccessful return. I shall see you when the bank opens, which I suspect will not occur on time this morning.”
He allowed Souter to lead the clay-colored pony beside his mottled cream pacer, and noted, as if from a great distance, that he had no qualms in trusting Souter with the hard coin packed in the saddle pouch. That money was as safe as if it were ensconced in the Bank of England.
He spent time at a water trough wetting back his hair, washing his eyes and hands. Finally he buried his face in the icy water and came up refreshed. Water dribbled inside his shirt and tickled his back and ribs. It felt good to be among the living.
Inside the mercantile, the musicians pulled at their instruments by reflex. Dancers spun awkwardly on the floor. Gordon paused, looking for his partner. He walked directly to her through the path of dancers, and bowed as he came within her gaze. Cautious lest his sudden appearance might upset her, he held out his hand.
She slipped into his arms, and it was a distinct pleasure, as light-headed, exhausted, dirt-stained, and sore as Gordon Meiklejon was, to be dancing with Miss Katherine Donald.
Mama was already busy when Rose walked in the kitchen. Rose took a deep breath and released it, congratulating herself when Mama barely looked up at her eldest child.
“Did you dance all night, Rose Victoria? I saw you with that Red Pierson. I don’t think he’s suitable. Now the Blasingame boy.…” Mama went on while turning the potatoes expected by the Southern’s guests. Almost everyone in town had attended the dance and hopefully there would be few who would rise early to savor Mrs. Blaisdel’s cooking.
Rose knew what men and women did now. Jack had played with her outside where no one was watching. She studied her mother. It wasn’t possible that Mama and her father had done what she’d done tonight.
“Mama, let me help.” Rose picked up a knife and went to peeling, and her mama came close to her and sniffed. Rose’s heart beat hard as she prayed Mama would not smell what her precious daughter had been doing with her sweet outlaw. But it was only Mama’s winter cold, which would last until the warmth of mid-April, that made her sniff.
“I knew we could trust you at the dance. Missus Miller said she would keep an eye on you, but that she had to leave early and it wouldn’t be right for a girl as pretty as you to be out by herself. She was worried.”
Later, when the revelers had recovered from their festivities and the town streets and businesses began to see some activity, Gordon Meiklejon entered the Southern dining room and asked Mrs. Blaisdel for a meal for himself and Gayle Souter, as they had a long ride back to the ranch.
It was two meals at double cost, because of the extra work, but it was requested by Mr. Meiklejon. Rose was sent in to serve, and she saw the change. Gordon’s hands seemed steadier despite the missing fingertips, and his mouth was set in a constant smile. She found herself looking at him quite differently.
Now that she knew what men wanted, Rose couldn’t help but wonder what each would be like with his pants around his ankles. Such a picture did not leave much dignity to the males; they would all be equally silly when they wanted a woman. How could her mother take it so seriously when the act was such a foolish, awkward plunging.
While she was in the dining room folding napkins, repeating the chore that took up a good part of her long days, a man entered and headed directly to Meiklejon’s table. She kept folding and refolding a particular napkin while she listened.
The man was compressed into a hard woolen suit. Rolls of fat burst above his shiny collar. His hands thickened across the backs where tufts of hair decorated each knuckle. Rose was called to bring over another cup and more coffee. The man’s name was Ben Stradley.
Rose fussed with the coffee, pouring while the men talked. Mr. Stradley was the law from Silver City and had ridden in on a tale of an attempted robbery. Stradley tipped his head in silent questioning.
The Englishman’s voice carried well, so, even as she retreated, Rose could hear the details.
“Yes, we were held up. But the would-be bandit did not get anything. I think he was more terrified by what happened than we were.” Here Meiklejon looked at Mr. Souter, and the man nodded, pushed his chair back, and picked up his coffee cup.
Still Stradley did not ask questions, but Rose saw the fat along his jowls tremble.
Meiklejon continued: “Aman came to our rescue, although I can’t imagine what he was doing in such inhospitable terrain.”
Rose watched Stradley’s face. It wrinkled and frowned as Meiklejon raised his hand and continued.
“I realize you did not come here for opinions, sir. Please let me gather my thoughts. I’ve had little sleep and yet feel quite revived. Our savior rode up and told the so-called thief that he would be killed if he continued. The thief evidently was not so stupid that he mistook these words for a casual threat. He ran. That is all, Mister Stradley. An uninspired, though melodramatic, event.”