Burn found it hard to keep the man in focus. The round head and hazel eyes got too close to him, then too far away and the mouth flapped more words, looking pleased and mournful at the same time. Burn shook his head, found it wasn’t a good idea.
They watched each other, taking measure. Hildahl grimaced and looked off first. “Told the boss about you. And them mustangs. You got two weeks, then you better get gone.” Burn found he couldn’t move his head fast, or think much at all. Hildahl plodded along. “Good thing I came by, Mister Mustanger.”
“Hell, mister yourself, I don’t need your help,” Burn fumed, angry at the lanky cowboy.
Hildahl grinned. “Didn’t say I’d help, just said it’s a good thing I came along. You ain’t got a horse now…how you plan to catch up those bronc’s?”
Burn stood by himself, took two steps, and fell. It was a struggle to get up again. Burn hated showing weakness to any man.
Hildahl surprised him—didn’t offer help, but kept talking. “Handsome devil, that stallion. Good mares, too. Best of the wild stock I’ve seen in a long time. Too bad about the dark colt…that leg’ll kill him.”
Half listening, furious, Burn got to his feet again and shook his fist at the talk as if the gesture could booger off the man’s interest in the horses. A whole nest of sore woke up—ribs, shoulders, back, and butt. Only his legs spread wide, and his anger, kept Burn standing. He glared at the remains of his chaps—laid clean off his legs, useless to him now. Rocks could do that to leather. Burn shook his head, careful of his balance.
Hildahl must have stepped off the dun. His fist came into Burn’s sight, holding a wad of material. “Here, you might tie off that cut, looks like it could bleed you dry.”
Burn looked down, saw that the dirt at his feet was red-spotted. His thigh was wet. He took the bandanna and twisted it above the wound. The rest of the repairs he could make by himself. Hildahl was unusually quiet. Burn wasn’t going to say thanks. He walked to the dead mustang, intending to yank his gear free of the carcass. He dropped to his knees, and was unconscious as his face rolled in to the churned dirt.
He woke to Hildahl fussing with him, just as he had feared. Water dripped into his mouth. He swallowed some, then spat out the remaining liquid, anger coming back full force. His first word was “No.” Then he asked for the old mare.
“If Meiklejon said for you to get rid of her…I’ll take her off your hands. Give her a few more weeks, and then turn her loose…or shoot her. Depends on how she holds up.” It was a standoff. Burn up now, raging inside as he glared at his rescuer.
Davey recognized that the mesteñero would take nothing but the old mare. Good thing he’d brought her along or the man would try roping a mustang on foot, kill himself for sure. He held out the length of rope. “She’s all yours, son. I’ll be back to bury your carcass along with hers.”
Davey’s report interested Meiklejon. There was still no real comprehension of a world in which men like the mustanger existed. Meiklejon had no basis for understanding the man’s way of living. He deemed Burn English full of false pride, relying on skills that were no longer needed, and determined to retain his calling despite the reality of the world.
Gordon did admire some aspects of the man, and Hildahl and Souter both had asked for an extension to allow the man, injured as he was, time to gather his horses. Gordon gave them his word. Still he was not comfortable with the situation. Finally he sought out Miss Katherine in her kitchen, where she was washing up the last of the blackened iron pans in which she cooked cornbread and fried bacon. He was not in the habit of passing time with her, but a thought was lodged in his mind that he could not shake, and perhaps speaking it out loud to a person he believed capable of understanding might relieve him of its unwanted burden.
Miss Katherine acknowledged his appearance but did not cease her labors.
Gordon started hesitantly. “May I have another cup of coffee? Thank you.” It was always best to start any conversation with Katherine Donald on the basis of a request; it seemed to give her a security that mere talk did not offer. “I gather the man has cornered a number of horses on what I understand is my best summer range.” He took another sip, let the words settle, then broached what had begun to trouble him. “I understand the horses are a wild band, without any claim of ownership. Since they are held on my land, and are living on my grass, do they already belong to me, and are they worth the effort of taking them?”
Gordon noted the flinch that stopped Katherine Donald, a bare withdrawal of movement easily missed. Then she continued her work, but allowed him the courtesy of a reply. “Mister Meiklejon, I do know that any interference with a mesteñero and his horses would gather you more trouble than any sale of the animals would justify. Legally they are yours…morally I believe you would have a horrible time owning them. I would leave it alone, Mister Meiklejon. The cost in men and time would not be worth the sale price of whatever was left after the war. And the man would fight a bitter war to keep what’s his.”
A clear opinion clearly given, Gordon noted. He rose, leaving his cup on the plank table, eager to get on with his journey and be rid of the superfluous thoughts that sometimes nagged him.
The fever wasted two good days. Burn had managed to hobble the mare outside the valley, and to drag his gear off the stinking roan. The rest had been a nightmare of sweat, heat, hunger, and thirst, with constant pain each time he moved in his filthy blankets.
The third day his head was clear. With a great deal of effort he saddled the mare, who rode short but steady. At the edge of the valley, he got down gingerly and tied the mare securely. The red roan lay fifty feet into the valley, and Burn could still smell the rot. He sat down suddenly. Wolves and coyotes and others in their turn had taken what they could of the roan, leaving ribs and hide, a skull, and memories.
He forced himself to focus. The wounded three-year-old was holding that bad leg off the ground. The colt was easy prey for an eager coyote, or for Burn’s rope. He rubbed his hand along the side of his face, and winced at the touch. Hell, he needed a horse. He couldn’t buy one, couldn’t use the dammed mare, so it was the dark colt or nothing. Burn wiped his face again, careful around the new scar, trying to scrub out the mix of thoughts.
First it was a short meal and some sleep rolled up in his stinking blankets again. No fire, so no hot food or coffee. So he could once again smell like the broncos. Less than an hour later he rode back to the wild horses. The mare tied to a tree well away from the fence, he crawled through the rails with rope in hand. He cursed anything that stabbed him—the bark left on a rail or a stone jutting up from the ground. It was a foolhardy thing he was doing. The colt could half kill Burn on a three-legged charge.
Finally he hunkered down less than twenty feet from the colt and took in steady gulps of air, held them, let them out in short puffs. The colt still paid no mind. Infection ran him like it had run Burn—head low, eyes closed, coat unevenly sweating. Burn crooned mindlessly. At first the colt jumped at the strange sounds, then pretended to lip thin grass.
It was a peaceable half hour except when the colt would forget and lower the hind leg to carry weight. He would jerk the leg and stagger. Burn shuddered with him. When it seemed right, Burn stood and fashioned a loop and dropped it over the colt’s head, with the rope behind his back. Holding on with both hands, Burn swung the colt around. The colt shook his head, clearly annoyed as Burn tugged more on the rope. The colt moved forward. Burn suspected the horse’s intentions, but the colt did nothing but follow Burn erratically. He tied the colt at a low juniper and removed the gate rail before he led the colt outside.