Burn walked around the colt. Aside from the horrible-looking leg, the big youngster was a beauty. Burn realized no wild bronco stood this quietly under human touch. Still there was no sign that any man had tried ownership—no rope burn, no brand, no saddle gall, or spur cuts. Maybe in the doctoring he’d raise some fight, dig some spirit out of the youngster. Astride the red App mare, Burn got the colt to follow with only a few false starts. The mare flagged her tail; the colt arched his neck only for a moment.
Burn dragged the colt into the shallow stream, caught a front hoof, and yanked the colt off balance. The colt knelt and Burn pulled its head back over its barrel until the colt fell. He dug a knife into the wound and drew out yellow pus laced with red as the colt fought and bellowed until Burn clamped a hand over the colt’s nose. The colt lay flat in the healing water.
Two days later Burn saddled the colt. When Burn mounted, the colt humped its back and thought to buck, but then didn’t bother. The colt even turned left or right when Burn pulled on the rawhide hackamore. Burn couldn’t believe what he knew was happening.
The next day Burn headed a small parade to the penned herd, leading the red mare to set her loose in the valley. The old girl galloped off heavily, then stopped to signal interest with her raised tail. Burn laughed. Lame as she was, she’d have a few years before age and the weather wore her down to a pile of bones.
He needed miles on the colt, so he chose a trail and followed it. A good meal, a few bets on a bronco ride, and he’d come back with cash and renewed interest in the mustangs. He’d done this before. His own ribs were sore, but most of the cuts were healed. Burn laughed outright—he must be living a good life.
It was all rock and sandhills where he rode. Red cliffs hung out over weed-filled bowls. Burn let the colt pick its way as a series of cañons went to the left and on the right the land smoothed out and folded into a number of low hills, carrying the pale green of spring grass. The trail dropped off a rim of red sand and widened into a double wagon track.
The town wasn’t much. The first building was a livery where a few scrawny horses hung their heads over the fence. The water trough was a carved tree trunk, and the water was green with scum, but Burn figured the colt wouldn’t care. He reined up, and, when a man appeared, Burn asked if he could water his horse.
The man was short and wide, wearing loose pants held up by braces. Filthy hands patted a washed shirt the color of the sandy ground. He looked Spanish, with dark hair and skin, the usualmoustache. When he spoke, his voice was loud enough that the colt backed a few steps.
“That’s a pretty one you ride, señor. The name is Melicio Quitano. And, yes, you may water your good horse. It is a shame that leg scars him so…such a beautiful animal.”
Burn shied from the man’s too friendly tone.
“You, too, señor, if it is water you wish to drink. For myself, I drink whiskey or beer only. The water is for the animals.”
“What’s the name of the town, Señor Quitano?” Burn asked. “I come in for a few supplies, and looking to see if anyone needs a horse or two broke to ride. I can set almost anything a bronc’ can throw.”
The hostler pulled at his nose while he studied Burn. It wasn’t a friendly face now; he’d been judged like this before. “Ah, señor. We do not have many wild horses here. It is mostly sheep, señor. José Padilla and his family, they have run sheep here a long time. José, he rides a quiet mule. So, señor, there is little need for your…talents.”
It was judgment on Burn, his size and heart, his very being. He’d heard this before with few variations—“Your kind.” Burn felt his belly tighten. The fat man was no different than the rest, quick to judge an Anglo for his wealth. Then he laughed at what he himself was doing.
“He is entire, señor. You will use him as a stallion? Does he have the heart to pass on the qualities needed in a good horse?”
Burn told the truth, knowing it would not be believed, but he was already bored. “I saddled him four days ago, and he ain’t bucked yet.”
Quitano snorted in outrage. “No wonder, señor, that you ride the grub line. For you cannot tell such outright lies and expect to be believed. It is easy to see you ride a mustang, señor. And they cannot be ridden the way you speak of this one.”
Quitano drew in a deep breath, and Burn watched the impressive rise and fall of his girth. As the fat hostler shifted his weight, Burn felt the colt slide under him. It was a woman, tall and severe, walking toward them. Behind her stood a fat and shiny sorrel harnessed to a light wagon.
“Buenos días, Señor Quitano.” Her accent was perfect. She stopped, looked at Burn. “That is a fine horse. Are you Burn English?”
Sweat trickled down inside Burn’s shirt. There was no malice in the woman or her question. She was generous as she smiled at Burn, and he was shamed by his poor manners. He sat on the colt, his battered hat yanked over dusty hair. He’d been better trained but it had been a long time since any of the niceties mattered. He swung down from the colt, held tightly to the reins, and raised his hat.
“Yes ma’am…how’d you know?”
Her voice was quick, clear. “Mister Hildahl described you quite well, and he mentioned you were badly injured, and that he’d left the lame mare as your mount. You must be a genius with senor horses.” She extended her hand. “Katherine Donald, Señor English.”
The feel of her cool palm eased him as he did his best. “Good day, ma’am.” The dark colt nudged him at the small of his back and Burn had to step too close to the woman.
The woman studied the colt. “I trust you didnot trade the mare for this colt, Mister English. Therefore I am curious as to how you are riding an animal as fine as this one?”
He told her about the mare, choosing his words carefully. She listened with a glint to her eye that let Burn know she was no innocent.
When he finished, she laughed with delight. “I am certain the mare is pleased with your generosity, Mister English.”
“Ma’am, I’m catching the wild horses now.”
The woman hesitated. “There has been talk of the stallion. Several of the hands have seen him and said how wild he is. You be careful, Mister English. This is not a simple matter.”
She was pretty when she talked, with light in her eyes and expression easing her face.
“Ma’am, you seem to know the folks around here. Maybe you got a rancher who’d pay to get bronc’s ridden.”
She smiled gently. “I saw Eager Briggs with my father not long ago. Eager was leading a big gray brute, just your kind of horse, Mister English.”
He scratched at the sore on his arm and rubbed his face, then ran a hand through his hair.
She didn’t let the gestures go without comment. “You are rougher than your horses, Mister English. And despite the wound in your colt’s side, I suspect he is healed more than you.”
The colt reared, drawing Burn up with him. Burn clung to the reins, letting his weight bring the colt back down. The terror was caused by a gray horse tied to a burro being led by a fat man on an ancient white mule. The gray kicked and squealed, infecting the colt.