The L Slash crew rode home in the dark, Meiklejon comfortable on his pacing grullo. Once they were gone, Davey made short camp in a pocket of trees near the water hole. In the morning he made a fire, using the rotting poles as fuel, finding them easy to break. He put coffee to boil, opened up a can of beans Souter had left him. He liked the morning silence; he liked knowing he was the only man in the wide valley.
Finally he walked to the rock ledge, to the natural gaps and wire fence. He touched the burrs that raised hell with flesh. Their pricks were a harsh reminder. He looked along the wire’s endless stretch, saw it disappear far ahead of him, and the new day’s glory was spoiled.
Davey wondered what Miss Katherine was doing right then—getting up and boiling coffee, tending to her patient before she got to the morning chores. His throat closed and it got hard to breathe. Davey knew he was jealous of a no-account horse chaser who saw Miss Katherine each morning, while Davey was stuck in a high meadow with a bunch of female bovines and a bull too dumb to know what to do with their willing flesh. He wasn’t pleased with himself, thinking so of Miss Katherine. She was a good woman and he had no right to his thoughts, except he wanted Miss Katherine all to himself, to love her and be loved by her in return.
Midday he got restless, bored with watching the bull follow one or two cows, and he saddled up. He headed his bay out of the fence and up toward the far end of the valley, where it turned to desert, where the old fence marked a line.
The bay climbed the rimrock and stood next to the wood fence. Below, a small band of wild horses saw Davey and turned to run from him. They’d been close to the wire fence, heads hanging, tails moving slowly to distract the flies.
Davey counted as the band moved out—three mares with long-legged foals, three mares carrying Edward Donald’s brand. They showed the effect of the dry spring and early summer—their ribs stood out, their coats dulled. The idea came to Davey.
He put the bay into a lope across the sandy ground to the edge of the wire fence. There he climbed down and pulled out the staples holding the wire and laid down three sections, covering the dammed barbs with rotting pine and rocks, some juniper boughs.
The mares slowed, turned around, judging him with tired eyes. He wondered about the dark bay stallion, how these mares had gotten loose. Back on his bay, he let the horse walk toward the mares. They watched him warily. He watched them in return. Then they bolted from Davey, away from the fenced-in water. Davey kept the bay at a distance. They settled into a loose trot until it was dark, and then the mares walked on, north, into the desert. There was enough light by the low moon and stars to keep Davey on t heir trail. They were mustangs, and a few hours, even a day or so, wouldn’t wear them down. This was the heart that couldn’t be bred into a horse; it was born natural, kept alive by active enemies, the weak culled out before their first full year.
The mares wouldn’t let Davey get around them, but he kept walking, trotting sometimes, enough to keep himself from dozing in the saddle. As the sun rose, Davey saw the distant spire of Escondido Mountain. He reined in the bay, enjoyed the view, thought of the day’s coming heat. The mares stopped willingly, the foals dropped to the dirt and stretched out to sleep. Davey let them rest. His conscience fretted at what he was doing, but he still felt it was right.
He left the bay drift around the mares, to be ahead of them. After a half hour or so, he clucked to the mares. The foals clambered up at a signal from their mamas. The small band went in an orderly procession, Davey bringing up the rear. He herded them back to the wide end of the valley, where they barely stopped to snort and blow at the fallen wood fence rails. Heads high, tails flagging, the mares had scented water.
This time, when they came to the fence line, they jumped where Davey had laid the wire down, and broke into a slow lope toward the inviting water. Davey let them go, watched with pleasure as they stepped gingerly to the pool’s edge, stuck their heads deeply in the water, and drank quickly, raising their heads to check for possible danger.
He let them finish their drink before he got back to work. As soon as he raised the first strand of wire, the band spooked and went into the narrow cañon. They were headed into the fenced ten sections, and the company of Edinburgh Supreme.
He could truthfully report that he had checked the fence, seen to the bull, and that all was well. And he’d find the right time to tell English about the mares. It was English’s business; let Meiklejon think what he would about his imported stock, these mustangs deserved their chance.
He stayed till his beans were gone. The bull had figured out how to court his ladies, for he was puffing and wheezing and eyeing Davey and his bronco. The bull made Davey laugh. Might be a slow learner, but the son-of-a-gun was ready to mount almost anything now. Davey headed south, in no hurry to return to the L Slash.
He got in at dusk, and the men nodded to him as they put up their day horses and cleaned off some of the dirt before they went for the night meal. Davey was slow stripping off the dusty bay, uneasy about speaking the first words he’d said to more than wind and animals in several days.
Gayle Souter found him as the rest went to eat. Souter made a lot of noise coming up to Davey; the old man understood about being in the brush too long. “We’ll get some fancy calves next spring from that big old boy, if he knows what to do.” There was an unasked question waiting.
Davey obliged. “He got it sorted out.”
Souter grinned, nodded to Davey. “You have to teach him much?” Closest the old man ever got to a joke. “Davey, you see them horses of English’s? I saw he’d branded a few mares, and Bit says he saw a dark colt carryin’ a fresh Bench D. Now we got more trouble. Mister Donald says he got a band of mares started and wants the boss to unfence the springs. Figured you might have seen these mares up to where they’ve been runnin’. Fact is you might be the only one knows where they’re grazin’ right now.”
“I seen the mares.” That was the truth.
“How they lookin’?” Souter was playing along.
“Thin…kind of poor. Felt sorry for them.” Then Davey paused, felt a grin half start on his face, one he couldn’t keep in. They each held quiet a moment. Davey thought of Edward Donald, refusing to consider the man’s interest legitimate.
Then Souter set the deal. “Let’s go get us a meal. If those rannies’ve left us more than a bean or a half slice of meat.”
Chapter Fourteen
Davey worked easy chores the next day, mending two halters, plaiting repairs in a long rope, tacking shoes on a new horse, and lacing rails back into a rarely used corral. Simple things that left him with time in mid-afternoon to go back to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, and a visit with Miss Katherine.
Burn English sat at the table. The man looked up, had to see Davey, but nothing showed in the spare face, no pleasure or pain. He remained intent on the difficulties of bringing a loaded spoon from the plate to his mouth. Davey watched—only half the food made the trip.
“It’s right good to see you up, amigo.”
The eyes stared, blinked once, and then nothing. Like talking to a pint-sized wooden doll. Miss Katherine moved across the kitchen to stand by her patient and translate. “Davey, sometimes it’s still bad…but he’s bound to try. You understand.”
Davey wasn’t taken with the intimacy. “Yes’m. Just wanted to tell him the mares are all right. Saw them yesterday in fact.”
English grunted, and laid one hand on the table.
Davey stared. The fingers were long and badly scarred, the wrist thick, the nails a dirty grey.