Davey was only half listening, so tired he could barely see through swollen eyes, but, at least, the team was pulling half decently now, the mealy bay doing his share. Eager Briggs’s words became a lullaby. Until Briggs got back to a bitter name. Then Davey came up awake.
“Yes, sir, I seen that mesteñero before. Thought so the night he and Donald, they got to drinking, and ole Donald he got to talking. Mesteñero did some bragging of his own ’bout where he’d been, where he’d come from. Yes, sir, I knowed that boy when he was a young ’un.”
Davey’s head snapped up, but Briggs talked on like he never knew Davey had almost been asleep. “Down in Texas, when he was a button. He was working ’longside his pa, fighting with his two sisters. Had him a pretty ma, real pretty.” Here the old man sighed, the explosion of hot breath stunning Davey. “It was right sad.”
Davey looked over. His passenger was wiping tears from his eyes, then pulling at his long, reddened nose and mumbling something from the folds of his mouth. “Yes, sir, he looked just like his pa back then. Eyes and such, that black hair. Now men used to say John English was part Indian. I never believed it, so I asked John, plain as could be. And he said his family was Welsh, come from a long line o’ these Welsh…a thick-headed lot he called them. He laughed, said his boy waslike him at that age. He was a tough one, John English. Big son, more’n six feet, and only got one arm, lost it in that damned war.”
“Burn English is a runt, Mister Briggs. You’re thinking about someone else you knew…said it was a long time ago.”
Briggs shook, like maybe he was laughing, instead of crying. “There’s more to it, son. Sorry, I was there when it happened.” He choked off, wiped his eyes, and then the corners of his mouth, and Davey was glad he didn’t have to be staring at Eager Briggs all this time.
“It took the whole family. The boy got terrible sick with the fever. He lived, but never grew much after. Couldn’t have been more’n thirteen when he got sick. Big as he is now…never got much bigger. He was a tough one, that boy. After his folks. …He worked horses and kept to himself. Local ranchers hired him. Not like his pa, friendly and such. Took me in one time I was poorly. His ma…she was a pretty thing. He ain’t much like neither of them…they was good people, though, and they taught their boy well.”
Davey thought of English. What Briggs was saying, it all made sense.
“Yes, sir, heard tell of the boy after that. Shot two men for stealing his bronc’. Got shot his self, but went after the bastards. He were only a kid, but that pistol made him full-sized. Killed one man in a cantina, other died later. Boy disappeared. Guess he thought the law wanted him.”
Maybe that was what Davey felt—a kinship, from looking over his shoulder. Kept a man lonesome and even downright unfriendly.
Eager Briggs rubbed the leg that was broke, above the knee, squeezing the swollen flesh. The wattles along his sagging jaw flipped sideways and made Davey think of an old rooster. He clucked to the team, found his mouth dried out. His eyes burned and were sore.
He stopped at the doc’s office. It was dusk and Davey was tired. Briggs came partway around to Davey’s side to deliver a final opinion. “You watch…Mister Donald’s going to make a try for those mares. There’ll be hell to breakfast when that boy finds out. Donald ain’t got the heart to keep his word. He don’t know the English boy like I do. Them Englishes fight for what’s theirs.” The old man rubbed his damp, toothless mouth before spitting out the rest of his thinking. “You pay attention, Davey. That boy killed two men when he was sixteen, for taking one horse. You think much of him, you’ll keep watch, keep him outta the same trouble here. Go ’long now, I got me a doc to see.”
Chapter Fifteen
Davey put the team up at the livery, careful of Billy McPhee’s temper and the mealy bay’s heels. He made a deal with Billy to bed down in the hay; in exchange he gave up his matches and would feed out come morning. Finally he checked in at Miller’s General Mercantile, telling Miller he’d be back early the next morning.
That left getting a meal, for his belly was snapping his backbone. On that errand he passed Dr. Lockhart’s office and saw a light, and, without thinking, he knocked hard. The doctor brought him into a bright room stinking of spoiled meat and disinfectant and Eager Briggs, who had his leg propped in a chair and was chewing a chicken leg big enough to feed three men. Briggs sucked on the skin, smacked his lips, and made a great show of enjoyment. Davey was pleased enough to see the old man wrapped in clean bandages. He said “Good Night” to the two men, but Briggs wouldn’t let him go.
“Son, you set and eat. I already told doc how you brung me in when that blessed mule was making my life a pure misery. Doc’s willing to share out more o’ this chicken while you tell him how our friend English fares.”
Lockhart nodded. “Good of you to help, Davey. Heard you boys been busy this summer. How’s our patient doing? Wouldn’t have given him a chance, two months past. A tough one for all there’s so little to him. Cured buffalo hide and nails. Men like him, they’re hard to kill.”
Davey winced at the word “kill”, thinking too clearly on Briggs’s earlier comments. That chicken was beginning to smell awful good as he answered Lockhart. “Doc, he’s walking, but not talking much. He’s wasted down to ’most nothing. If iron nails hold him together, they’s sure as hell gone rusty.”
Lockhart nodded absently and passed Davey a chicken wing, a plate with two slices of stale bread, a mess of refritos, and green chile. Davey ate under the doc’s watchful eye, feeling bribed for more talk about English with a second helping of the chicken. But he had nothing more to say, at least not about the mustanger.
At the livery stable, Billy wasn’t around to bother a man with all his unsaid words. Davey burrowed into soft hay. The horses stamped and snorted, so he wasn’t alone. He could forget all he’d left behind at the L Slash, and he slept hard, woke in exactly the same place where he’d lay down.
Past sunrise he had the team harnessed and standing in front of Miller’s. It was a waste of a good new day. Miller arrived at 7:30 to unlock the doors. With the sun already past the false fronts and shining into the street, Davey was fretting, anxious for the wire to get loaded, so he could get out of Socorro.
Before he settled in the wagon, he bent down and picked up a handful of rocks, some no more than the size of beans. He put them in a pile by his boot, then sucked on bitter coffee while Miller and his boy loaded the wagon. When they were done, Davey, lines in his hands, picked up the whip and nodded to Miller and his boy. The kid was growing; Davey remarked on that fact. Miller nodded, the kid turned red, and Davey started up the team.
The mealy bay hadn’t improved with feed and a stall for the night. The horse plain refused to pull, so Davey tickled it along the ribs with the whip, then threw one of the small rocks at the bay quarters, to convince the horse that pulling was easier than Davey’s temper. The bay leaped forward, and for two miles or more the sorrel was in agreement on Davey’s choice of speed. Full-outbolt, heads high, tails slapping in Davey’s face. He kept the lines soft and let the pair run. When the heat and sun got to them, and they wanted to slow, Davey wouldn’t let them and the bay went to sulling. Davey used more of his rock supply to keep the bay moving, and once he hit the sorrel by mistake. The gelding looked back at Davey, clearly annoyed. Davey tipped his hat, and the sorrel nodded like it understood. Then the big horse bit the mealy bay on the underside of its neck, and the horse squealed, tried to bite back. Davey’s whip got between them and caught the bay hard on the lip. The bay surged forward, then settled into working. The rest of the trip was easy.