“I been watching you some the last few days. You got a lot of work done all by yourself. You caught any of them bronc’s yet? By the way, the name’s Davey Hildahl and I ride for the L Slash.”
The bay stretched down for a bite of grass and Hildahl let his boots swing out of the heavy stirrups. His eyes said he was no stranger to the work; they watched Burn carefully. Burn’s mustang hobbled up to greet the visitors, but the bay paid no attention.
Hildahl tried again. “Now my horse, he’s got the right idea. Past noon it is…going to be past the next meal if I don’t keep better time. Some eating don’t look like it would hurt you neither, and it sure would make me good company. Coffee’s always a good place to start.”
Burn raised the Spencer, let it drift before settling on the bay’s chest.
The visitor shook his head. “That ain’t friendly. You got to eat same as me. Even if you sleep out here with the bronc’s. Try letting that Spencer look at the ground again.”
Burn spoke: “No cause to come down on a man doing his job.” He was as surprised by his voice as was the visitor. Hadn’t spoken to a two-legged beast in three weeks, and now he was snapping. “Hildahl, ride on if I don’t suit you.” He allowed the Spencer to point south again, and Hildahl let out that breath.
“All I was asking was about a brindle cow and if you got a biscuit or two I could chew on. I get hungry riding up here . . . never do pack enough grub to last. Besides, you’re on Meiklejon’s land. He owns title to all you can see.”
Burn got angrier. “Not the horses he don’t! I tracked ’em, and I’ll brand and ride ’em. They’re mine!” He tried to settle his temper, but this mealy son-of-a-bitch.…Ah, hell, Burn thought.
The man seemed to understand. “Horse chaser…since you ain’t give me a name yet…maybe I won’t say nothing about the bronc’s and your fencing. Not for a while anyways. In your traveling, you seen this big brindle cow and her calf?”
Burn steadied the Spencer against his thigh as he spat out the words. “I saw sign two days past, going north. Big cow dragging afterbirth. Couldn’t tell if she was brindle.”
“Thanks, horse chaser, for the report. Ain’t been up north…never figured she’d strike out for there…ain’t much graze. But if she’s in trouble…hell, cows ain’t too bright.” Hildahl’s long fingers picked up the reins and instantly the bay was ready. The horse took several steps, then Hildahl stopped it, swung around in the saddle, and stared at Burn. “Now I know you been out here too long, horse chaser, and I know you think you own that band. But I still don’t have a name for you. I’ll set real peaceable, so you don’t have to raise that damned Spencer.”
Burn told the short truth of the matter. “I come up from Texas following these mustangs. The name’s Burn English. You tell your boss these bronc’s’re mine.”
Hildahl wouldn’t let it be. “Now I heard that name before. Seems a man stopped a robbery. That was the boss he saved from being robbed…foreman was with him…and the name was Burn English. Could be you…it ain’t a name too many folks’d use.” Hildahl continued: “I don’t know the boss all that well. He’s an Englishman. The foreman’ll honor the debt, but he won’t take kindly to your using summer graze. You best walk careful, Mister Burn English.”
Burn rubbed his whiskered face hard with his left hand.
Hildahl didn’t stop. “English, listen to me…it’s been a dry winter and spring so far. That grass’ll be needed sooner than usual. You ride careful.” Then he grinned, let his long legs swing free of the stirrups. “Too bad you ain’t one for eating. Other that that, it’s been a right pleasure talking some with you. English, you take care.”
Burn watched Hildahl turn the bay gelding north after the brindle cow. He’d meant to chew on some jerky, take a short rest before he got back to work. Hildahl’s visit left him in a hurry to catch the horses before some fool laid claim to them. He forced himself to saddle and ride to the section of fence he intended as a gate. It was a too-familiar act as he laid fresh-cut juniper over the poles; he’d done this too often, trapped too many good horses.
The mustangs returned while Burn slept. He was out of biscuits, had only one strip of jerky left, so he made do with too much water and small bites of the beef. The roan looked good—grazing on the lush grasses around the lightning-struck tree was keeping him fit and eager.
Burn woke with a strip of jerky in hand, the canteen emptied across his knee, one pant leg soaked. He’d been snoring. Drool stained his chin whiskers from the half-chewed jerky in his mouth. A god-awful picture, he thought, mad at himself for having fallen back asleep.
The band drifted between the empty posts, careful to shy from the fencing across the valley end. They were gaunt and thirsty, yet the stallion made them wait, circling the mares and foals, nipping any mare too eager to drink. Alert despite evidence of exhaustion, the stallion was certain the fence meant harm to him and his harem. Finally he let the mares go down to drink the good spring water.
Burn waited until the mares were full. He was counting on the bloated, water-filled bellies to make his work easier. He’d planned well. The horses had come in over the railings with tired, choppy strides. Now, as they drank their fill and splashed in the pool, Burn eased along the ridge, cursing when he kicked a slide of pebbles loose that spiraled down onto the grass flooring. The stallion’s head came up at the sound; the horse quickly began to drive the mares toward Burn and their last chance to escape.
Burn shouted. The mares kept coming, then the herd swirled back around the stallion and into the valley toward the wider, fenced end. The mares ran the height of the long fence where some slowed to a trot, muzzles scraping the fence’s top rail. Burn dropped the first gate pole in place, threw in two more, trying to keep an eye on the stallion.
The dark bay rushed Burn, but skidded to a stop at the mixture of scents. The horse made a tight circle, came back as Burn kept stacking rails, feeling small and useless alongside the horse’s rage. Burn wrapped a rawhide strip around the top gate pole as the stallion charged. Burn yelled and the horse slowed. Burn slapped his leg, and the stallion reared. Then Burn skidded his battered hat at the horse and the animal sat back on his haunches, pawing at the shapeless hat.
A few mares grazed, some whickered for their foals, some stood quietly, still carrying a foal, too tired to eat. The stallion exploded downhill toward the pool of water and the entrance into the narrow cañon. Burn waited. The mares watched but did not follow. The stallion was gone several minutes, then returned at a slow trot, head high, tail switching restlessly.
The mares lowered their heads to the grass. Nothing would disturb them now, not the angry stallion and especially not the small battered figure, who stood on braced legs near the railed gate.
Burn caught up the roan mustang and rode back to his poor camp. This time he stripped off his clothing and went into the stream, splashed the icy water all over himself and scrubbed off as much dirt as he could with fistfuls of sand. At night, after lighting a fire, he shot himself a rabbit, skinned and roasted it, pulled it apart with shaking fingers, and ate every last bite. Chewed the bones and sucked the marrow. Then he slept, knowing the horses waited.
He woke before sunrise. The roan was edgy, so Burn let him run until the horse easily responded to Burn’s touch. At the edge of the valley, Burn laid down the gate rails. The stallion caught wind of Burn, and rushed forward, stopping only ten feet away. Burn led the roan through the gate, replaced the poles, and mounted cautiously, feeling the roan tremble from the stallion’s presence. He talked to both horses, using his voice to calm the roan.