When the procession arrived in Socorro, they first visited the rail yard where the magnificent Red Durham stood in its reinforced pen. The bull swayed impassively, chewing massive amounts of old hay, occasionally blowing long strings of mucus from its nostrils, bellowing, eyes closed, head back, as if proclaiming its potency to an indifferent world.
Well satisfied with the purchase, Gordon waited while Souter took a closer look. Gordon watched his foreman—would Souter find the generosity to admit that Gordon had done the right thing in buying this animal? Souter took his time, but finally said it was a magnificent beast, indeed. Ought to make quite a change with the range cattle they were now running.
Later, when he was settled in his room at the Southern, Gordon realized the crafty old foreman had not said anything approving Gordon’s choice. For that maneuver, Gordon smiled to himself, delighted with Souter’s gambit.
Souter set Red to putting up the horses at Billy’s livery while he returned to the rail yard and the Red Durham bull. If he went into Billy’s, there’d be drinking and cursing and stories to swap with his old friend. Let Red deal with the hostler’s sour nature. But first he paid Red some of what the ranch owed him, warning the boy to keep out of trouble, especially to stay away from the liquor. “This ain’t a night on the town, son. We got hard work tomorrow and you best be ready. Find yourself a nice girl and talk to her, maybe buy you both a piece of pie.” He watched Red’s face, read the embarrassed anger, and grinned. Some t hings never changed.
Souter cursed his own self. It was having the mesteñero on the ranch that had gotten to him, like he had gotten to the rest of the men. Meiklejon showed signs of the strain, but it was Davey’s hurt that hung on. Souter could almost see Davey coming to a wrong conclusion about blame and guilt. It was a wrong conclusion, but no one could tell Davey. The truth was that, whatever drove Burn English, it was the mesteñero who had sent the herd into the wire. It had been him and no one else, not Davey, not Meiklejon, that had acted in haste and killed the horses, and maybe himself.
Souter rested a boot on the bottom rung of the fence and the red bull turned its enormous head, shook it violently against the spring gnats, and glared at Souter out of fiery eyes. Ugly son, but if that sac of his were any hint of potency, let the cows line up and put the ugly son to them. Souter wasn’t going to give his approval in any way Meiklejon would understand yet, but if the fancy red bull did its job and the calves carried that bulk of meat and bone, then Gayle Souter wouldn’t mind playing nursemaid to a slow-moving, mean-tempered son-of-a-bitch like Edinburgh Supreme.
He sighed, spat, and watched dust rise and settle. Damned dry too soon. Always too dry or too damned wet…full of too much and too little. Souter hoped he had learned something in his fifty plus years, and change was part of that learning. He didn’t like the wire fence, but it was here, cutting off the range, and none of the change would go away, so he might as well stare at the ugly red bull and pretend he liked what he saw. At least until Edinburgh Supreme proved his worthlessness. Or sired a whole herd of ugly, fat, red sons-a-bitchin’ steak-carryin’ offspring.
Constant work kept Davey tired, almost let him sleep. Redhazed anger followed him while he worked. He and two hands restrung the broken wire in the valley. Davey started calling it Skull Valley for the piles of bones. Remains of meat and hide still clung to the skulls, but the wire had been restretched and the rest of the ten sections had gotten fenced. It had taken more than a month of hard work and a lot of knuckle hide and cursing to get the job done.
Right now Red, Davey, and Souter were trailing after the bull—had a name to go along with his fancy pedigree, Edinburgh Supreme. Davey thought naming a bull was dumb. They got born, serviced their cows, and died from old age or a deep wound, and a new bull took over the job. It was the nature of animals, and naming them didn’t make them into anything more than what they were.
He was content to ride drag. The selected cows moved too quickly sometimes, kept the boys busy. But old Supreme, he walked like each step declared his majesty. Watching that heavy rump spring up and down could make a man think on all those future steaks. Ahead, Meiklejon rode his easy-gaited grullo. Souter hung to the left, out of the dust but ready for trouble.
Riding in the wake of those massive hindquarters, Davey let his thoughts wander. Summer would fill out early spring’s promise—hot, dry, dusty. About usual for these mountains. Davey watched the great motion of the bull, and wondered where English’s horses watered now. The ten sections they’d fenced off included that watering hole. But Davey didn’t think the band would go back to their old prison.
English was still to the ranch—weak, pale, even thinner if possible, but alive. Didn’t talk much, walked half bent. At least Miss Katherine no longer had a grim set to her. She even teased Davey about small things, and he’d enjoyed her laugh. She trusted him, looked to him for help. Maybe English’s accident held something of value after all.
He thought about the mares. Maybe they had figured out the wire. Maybe they were all right. But with the dry winds, little rain, no storms to fill up the streams and gullies, the water hole would look awful good. Maybe they’d moved on. The dark stallion now leery of these mountains…maybe they’d gone where no wire crossed their tracks.
Davey knew he was thinking wishes and not facts. Horses were just that, horses, and the stallion would see water across a fence and hang around, wanting a drink. The foals would weaken as their mammy’s milk dried up. The mares would turn ribby and poor.
He’d heard Meiklejon’s talk about the “necessity of preserving the bloodlines” and he hated the man for his callous misunderstanding. An animal that couldn’t survive the range without help had no business eating and shitting and sleeping and growing. It made no sense to breed hot-house stock. Not in southwest New Mexico.
They guided the bull and its harem up the west side of the valley, not wanting to risk Supreme’s tender hoofs on the hard rock and flinty ground of the eastern trail. So they had to ride past the depression where the scattered bones and the new wire blended together, leaving Davey to keep score. He choused the bull into a labored trot, saw the huge sac swinging between the distended hind legs.
Souter’s pale eyes said everything, and Davey reined in his bay, letting the bull come back to a walk. Souter knew. Souter counted the bones, hated the wire, but they both took the man’s wages, they owed him their loyalty.
They entered the valley between high wooden posts once laced with thin railings that had now tumbled down the steep slopes. The cows scattered easily in the valley. The bull took its great ponderous time making the downhill trail, and finally stood, raising its head and bellowing an announcement of its evident intent.
Davey laughed, and Souter joined in. Meiklejon looked on disapprovingly.
After the cattle were scattered, Souter asked, too politely, if Davey would stay on a few days, keep track of the bull, and an eye out for rustlers. Jack Holden, in particular. Someone had been getting greedy. Holden had to be part of it. Davey said he didn’t much care. So Souter pulled out his good Winchester, handed it over to Davey with a pouch full of bullets. Guarding Edinburgh Supreme was serious business.