She had disappeared, so he staggered outside to where the gray was tied, still saddled. The bronco lurched into him as he tried to mount and the move shoved him into the saddle. Once mounted he touched the gray with his spurs and the bronco made to buck, but was too worn down. Burn gigged the horse into a slow retreat.
He woke in sunlight, threw up before he could roll over and do it proper. He looked through blurred eyes and saw the dark legs of the gray gelding and felt a tug from the leather that was tied to his wrist. A fool’s trick, and only because the gray was bucked out was Burn still alive. He stared up at the gray horse and shivered, then climbed to his feet. The gray’s flanks were caved in, its eyes half closed. Crusted lather stuck to the gray hide and traces of red were dried on the rib cage. Burn winced, then remembered the terrible power of the fight and knew he’d won the only possible way.
Eventually he reset the rigging and picked up the reins and climbed into the saddle. The gelding still wanted to fight, but Burn held up the powerful head. The gray shook twice before settling into a long trot back into town. No gait of any horse would be smooth enough to stop the explosion going on in Burn’s head. He wasn’t up to talking as he paid a few coins to Quitano for the dark colt’s feed.
He headed back to the valley, and the ride was pure misery. The colt unexpectedly fought being led and the gray tried to take a piece from the colt’s hide at every chance. Burn’s arm felt two inches longer, and his temper that much shorter when the rough trio regained the quiet of the small camp.
The gray had to be bucked out each morning before it settled to work. It seemed a miracle each time Burn wasn’t thrown. He didn’t trust the bronco, but it was strong enough to catch the bachelor colts. The dark colt had time to heal; the circle of pink grainy flesh got smaller each day. The colt remained calm and steady, traits certainly not in the gray’s makeup, yet Burn knew what the gray would give him, and he didn’t trust the colt.
The valley grasses were cropped too short; the mares were foaled out; the stallion leaned down from a frantic need to court and service the harem and fight off any outsider. Burn rode inside the fence each day. The horses watched and kept their distance, but the mares no longer panicked when Burn and the gray rode by.
This day he climbed down, hobbled and sidelined the gray. It was a bright, noisy day in which birds squabbled over new seeds. Burn fitted his back to a sun-warmed rock and shoved the hat back from his face. Where the cuts had healed, he carried an itch to remind him. All else that was left of the wreck was Burn’s dreams each night and a few bones scattered between the rocks. He knew he needed to hurry, but the warmed rock felt good and he was tired. A dream beckoned him. A simple house built well enough that a man could bring a woman to it and be proud. A kitchen with water pumped to the sink, a shiny black cook stove, a bed wide enough to hold two people’s passion. A few mares and foals, a dark stallion as sire. The dream was a long shot, but it didn’t hurt to dream. It only hurt when the dream was stolen.
He knew he had company. He kept his eyes stubbornly closed, but it had to be Davy Hildahl.
“ ’Morning to you, English. You thinking ’bout something?”
There was that cheerful note, that easy humor that hid the tough core. Trouble was coming—the woman in Burn’s dreams was Miss Katherine Donald.
He opened his eyes. True enough, Davey Hildahl sat a bay horse and his shadow covered all of Burn through the crude fence.
“I brought some grub, English. Nothing needs cooking…can’t have you changing that smell you been working on.” Hildahl waved his hand as if to move something along. “Jerky and biscuits, a few airtights, and a fruitcake Meiklejon had sent from home. Says it’s a tradition there. The boys and I say it’s poison, but it don’t have to be cooked.”
Burn crawled through the fence and got on the restless gray.
Hildahl kept talking. “That’s a rough bronc’, English.” There was a bit of silence. “Meiklejon’s beginning to think maybe them bronc’s you prize are his after all. Custom gives him the right, but you got a head start.”
A man wanted what was his. The land—the damned grass—wasn’t the question. That all belonged to Meiklejon. It was claiming the few horses worth catching. Burn raised his eyes to Hildahl.
“Yeah, English, he gave his word and you still got a deadline. But it’s closing in and I thought you better know.”
Burn shook his head. “He claiming this gray ’cause it eats his grass? He want this rank son-of-a-bitch back under his brand? Couldn’t ride the bronc’ the first time, now he wants that damned fool back? He that kind a man?”
Hildahl looked from Burn to the gray. “English, that bronc’s got him a rep. Dumped every ranny said he could ride. So now you got famous…a tough man on a tough horse. Listen to me, he ain’t wanting your horses, he’s just asking questions on what rights’re his.”
Burn spat out his temper, knowing it was wrong, but he felt the edge of meanness. “Your boss has been fencing off the springs, Hildahl. Water other folks been using all these years. There’s a precedent set by use. He can’t change the rules just ’cause he wants to.”
Hildahl’s face contorted in surprise. “I got schooling, mister. I can read and write and talk proper when I need to. Precedent …ain’t that big a word.” The mustanger’s eyes stayed on Hildahl’s face. “English, you been talking to Katherine’s father. He gets on water and wire and forgets he don’t own the land he’s squatting on. Owns the brand but that brand ain’t on too many hides. It sure surprises me that you got took in.”
They watched each other. Burn got squirrelly first.
“You came up here to warn me about something, Hildahl? You gonna tell me, or do I have to poke you in the belly with a tree limb?”
Davey pushed back in his saddle and a grin passed quickly across his face. “You ain’t so dumb for a horse chaser. Yeah. I come to tell you Meiklejon’s stuck in Albuquerque for another week. That gives you extra time.”
“Why tell me this, Hildahl? You ride for the L Slash, you better be loyal to that brand.”
Hildahl came back quick. “English, you’re the fool.” They sat on restless horses, each hearing the other’s truth. Hildahl continued: “I seen you with the wild stock, watched you saddle and ride that colt. Yeah, I been up here before, and I’m telling you now…you’v e earned those bronc’s, and Meiklejon knows it. But I don’t want him making a mistake we all suffer for.”
Burn opened his mouth and out jumped his plans. “There’re a few mares I want, and some of the bachelor colts. Then Meiklejon can have the rest. Hope he knows to let them run. I just want the few I’ve got marked.”
“You better be certain sure that brand’s registered in New Mexico. Otherwise, the boss’ll have right to take the sorry bronc’s.”
Burn got mad. “You ride back and tell Meiklejon the mustangs are mine. I ain’t stealing nothing from him can’t grow back on its own.”
“English, you can’t do all this alone. If you was to ask, I’d stay to help. You can’t rope and brand what you want in the time left.”
Burn wiped his mouth, tasted cotton wool. He couldn’t look straight at Davey. “I ain’t asked for help. I don’t need it. I got the gray and a good rope. You’d be in the way.” He looked away, giving Hildahl room to back off.
“What bronc’s you planning to own?” Hildahl asked. “So if Meiklejon sends a crew, I can slip the bronc’s free. ’Bout all I can do. You ain’t even set up a pen. Those bronc’s’ll run you and the gray flat ’fore you’re done.”