The stallion lifted his head and raised his upper lip. From a human, it would be an insult. But Burn laughed—human stink, rabbit flesh, hot fire, scrubbed skin. The stallion began a charge, but Burn slapped his hand against his chaps and the stallion veered off toward the complacent mares.
Eventually the stallion grazed, occasionally lifting his head to watch Burn and the roan. Burn headed down the narrow end of the cañon to his woven fence of twisted juniper and light pine. A single horse had fought the fence and managed to break only a few of the junipers. Burn made quick repairs and went back around the pool into the valley.
He and the roan drifted along the east side, the two sections of fence that had been left unchallenged. During the night the band had endlessly circled the valley close to the walls, shying from the fences. They’d run themselves tired looking to escape, but the fencing had held, and now the mares were grazing or sleeping, letting their foals nurse in peace.
A long hour passed, and the stallion kept a restless check on Burn. Burn stayed away from the water and finally the stallion went to drink, standing for a long time in the shallows, head hanging, eyes closed, a mouthful of cool water held tightly in his mouth.
The mares dozed beside their sleeping foals. The stallion barely moved as Burn guided the roan in between the resting mares. He wanted to cut out the injured colt—the hole in his flank drained a yellow fluid that had crusted down the length of his hind leg. Spooked, the colt could run only four or five strides before drawing up to stand on three legs.
The colt was much like his sire, with a fine head, wide ribs, clean legs, and strong hindquarters. The splash of white across the dark face was startling, an uneven blaze much like the markings of a bright sorrel mare in the herd. She had a wobbly filly at her side now, a dark bay with the same uneven blaze.
The colt watched as Burn came in close, but made no attempt to run. Burn sighed—it might work. Unexpectedly, with ears back, mouth open, the stallion charged, scattering the bachelor herd. The roan bolted, and Burn stayed with the horse even as the roan went to his knees, then came up bucking and squalling. Burn imagined he could hear the stallion’s breath, smell the raging hate.
The roan leaped twice, went down again. Burnflew out of the saddle as the roan climbed up and ran. Burn’s boot caught the stirrup; he couldn’t pull free. The mustang ran two strides, felt Burn’s weight, and kicked out, missed, kicked again. The stallion slowed, puzzled by the roan’s new shape. Burn hugged his chest and prayed that, without the stallion’s pressure, the roan would quit.
Then the stallion screamed and the mustang launched into air. Burn’s head and shoulders slammed on the ground, bounced over rock. He groaned, hugged himself closely. The panicked roan ran sideways against Burn’s weight. His ribs were hit, his shirt torn, the sheepskin coat shredded. Rocks scraped him raw. A blow to his head and he saw light, tasted copper. He’d seen a man dragged once, had scraped up the pieces before burying them in a small hole.
He reached for the old Walker Colt, thumbed back the leather thong. He cocked it as the mustang tripped and went down. Burn eased back on the trigger, hopeful for that one moment. The roan heaved up and Burn felt a blow on his side, then, aiming at the mustang’s belly, pulled the trigger once, heard the shot smash into flesh, heard the roan scream as he shot until the Walker was empty, and the roan went down.
A hind leg was twisted under the roan’s gaping belly. The stench flowed out in a steaming cloud. In a final spasm, the roan’s quarters shook and a hind leg flexed, kicked out. Burn felt the hoof pass his face, and knew he’d survived.
Chapter Nine
“Souter, I got to talk to the boss.”
Souter looked at Davey Hildahl and nodded. “He’s up to the house, talking with Miss Katherine.” That would fluster the man—nothing else but Katherine Donald got Davey scared. True to form, Hildahl’s face turned a bright red. “Anything I should know, Davey?”
Hildahl shook his head. “Maybe the boss’ll tell you.” That was good enough.
At the house: “Mister Meiklejon, I got something to tell you.”
“Well, ah…Hildahl, what is it?” The man was still having trouble remembering names. Davey guessed he couldn’t blame him. They only had one new name to remember.
“I found that cow Souter sent me looking for.” He couldn’t get the rest past his tongue. It was almost a betrayal, but he rode for the L Slash and, therefore, for the Englishman, and, as long as he took the pay, he owed his loyalty to the brand. He said: “A fella got some horses up to your summer grass, in Lightning Valley. Next to that old cottonwood got hit bad two years past.”
Meiklejon looked at Davey strangely. He hadn’t been that far up on his northern range, had been too busy at the home ranch, ordering bulls throughthe mail, by God. Doing things Davey didn’t know to understand.
“Yes?”
“He got a lot of horses on your grass…real wild ones. Figures to catch and brand as many as he can.”
Meiklejon seemed to be getting the heart of the matter now. “You mean he is using my graze to feed what he considers his own horses, although they are legally still wild and available to anyone who can brand them?”
Yeah, Davey thought. Range law says one thing, but this time the bronc’s belong to the bad-tempered horse chaser. He hoped Meiklejon could see merit in the unusual argument. Davey nodded. “There’s more to it.” He glanced at Miss Katherine. She smiled and he forgot what he was meaning to say.
“Well, Hildahl?”
Davey choked. “Fella got those horses on your grass…he’s the same one saved your hide this past winter.”
Meiklejon stared, then rubbed his face gently. “A small man, very dark, almost rude, but basically a decent fellow?”
Got him right there, Davey thought. Had to be the same man. “Yeah, something like that. Name is Burn English, and he’s a runt hardcase, and all’round wild one.” Davey risked a glance at Miss Katherine.
“Well, I can’t just let him have the grass.”
Ah, hell, Davey thought.
“And I can’t chase him off. He did save my life, and a great deal of money, and never asked for anything in return.”
So the foreigner weren’t that much a fool.
“Mister Hildahl, you tell the gentleman he has two weeks on the grass. That should give him enough time to catch all the wild ones he can, although I still do not understand how he thinks he can manage alone.”
That was it. Meiklejon turned with a kind of bow to Miss Katherine, and said: “My dear, where were we?” Davey had been dismissed.
Davey caught and saddled a rough dun. The horse was a sorehead, bucking at every touch of the rein, but the son could hit a high lick through brush and rock and never miss a stride. Davey figured to finish two chores, and so roped out the ancient, Appaloosa mare Souter had told him to get rid of. “She ain’t of no use no more…take her off and shoot her,” he had told Davey. An order Davey hated, but it was kinder than turning her loose to starve.
Burn was sitting up, checking the damage, when Hildahl rode in.
Davey stayed on his dun. The App mare was restless. He had planned to turn her in with the stallion, give her one last chance. He watched the mesteñero finger a cut over his eye and saw it needed stitches.
Burn would bet some ribs were cracked, and his chaps were laid out along his legs in strips, plumb worthless now, but they’d saved most of his hide.
Hildahl started talking. “I found that brindle cow a few days back. Standing over a dead calf, close enough to dead herself. I finished the job. Calf had an extra leg. Seen things like that before. I buried the calf real deep. Now I got this mare to get rid of and looks like I need to give you a ride to some place safe.”