Davey saw the white shine of the San Agustin plains in the distance as they started down the slow hill past the Gallinas Mountains, but then the team snorted and shied from a carcass. The hide was white, the flesh half eaten, sinew and bone stretched out, only the thin mane and tail remaining. So the old man lost his mule like he wanted.
He pushed the team till the sorrel up and quit on him. Davey calmed down when he saw the thick white lather between the heavy draft legs, the ribs bellowing up and down to get in more air, and knew he’d been too bent on hurrying. He got out of the wagon, but not before looking around, and walked a mile or two himself, in penance. No self-respecting cowpoke would be seen walking alongside two respectable broncos.
The team dragged him in just before dawn. Every light was on in the house and the men were spread out in the yard. Bare feet, naked chests wrapped in blankets, and not one hat on a head in sight. Their attention was on Burn English in the center—half naked, in loose-fitting drawers, and a thick bandage wrapped across his belly. The men stood watching quietly.
Davey hauled in the team and wrapped their lines around the whip and climbed down very carefully. The team felt his weight move and pulled forward to stop at the corral, waiting expectantly for nothing.
Red Pierson tried to mouth something, but English raised his arms. Red dropped his head, and then Davey saw why. English carried a fancy rifle that Davey recognized from Meiklejon’s collection. A real monster weapon that would put a hole the size of a city hotel through any man trying to get within arm distance of a mighty riled mustanger.
Then Miss Katherine came out, her hair loose and flowing, with a dark wool shawl around her shoulders. Her face turned as white as her gown. English moved at the sound of her voice, but that god-awful weapon stayed steady in his hands. Davey, like the rest of the gathered men, didn’t twitch or chance a sigh. Her voice held concern. English’s hands shuddered and he moved closer to the light. Ugly, blooded eyes a pale fire. Davey raised his hands, took a half step, drawing English’s attention from the woman.
“Hell, I like being noticed, same as any fellow, but this reception’s kind of much, don’t you boys think?”
No one spoke, but English frowned and the big rifle moved a bit, a few inches to the left of Davey’s gut.
Davey addressed English, saying: “Howdy. Weren’t it cold? How ’bout giving me that rifle? Looks heavy…more’n one man can hold.”
Nothing seemed to go through those eyes; they held to Davey, but did not see him.
Then there was a slow change, a shift, as Miss Katherine came in next to Davey. English staggered. Davey saw Red begin to reach out. He shook his head, hoping the kid would get the message. English seemed finally to see Davey, so he asked for the rifle again and it was given up with no effort. Davey took the rifle as well as a deep breath. God, what a monster, it could kill a buffalo from a half-mile stand.
English’s eyes locked on the woman’s mouth, as if by seeing those lips he could understand the words that had been spoken. For it was obvious, the man was out on his feet. Davey wondered what had gotten English riled.
He saw the beginning of English’s collapse before any of them. The frail body shivered, then the wild face drifted from watching Miss Katherine to seeking out Davey. The strangest eyes Davey had ever seen—a pale green shimmer, even in the dawn light, the black rim struck off sparks, the white threaded with bloody lines as the black lashes laid a shadow on close bone.
Red Pierson remained. The others were gone. English’s hands reached Davey and their heat had the feel of dying. Davey’s belly turned over on him and he choked down, swallowed. A hand touched his face, a feather’s touch. Two fingers swept his jaw and English tried to grin.
“Need to shave, Hildahl. Look like a damned mesteñero.”
Davey grabbed for him as the man let go. Red caught an arm as Davey slid his hands beneath the man’s shoulders and kept him from falling. It was tough on Red to carry English back to the house, to see how bad off a man could be and still live. Pierson had to leave once they got English laid out on his narrow bed like a new corpse. Davey didn’t blame the kid.
Davey found Miss Katherine in the kitchen, holding a white cup to her mouth, sipping noisily, watching Davey over the cup’s rim. She said: “My father came here late this evening…to argue with everyone. Father took it to M ister Meiklejon, laid it out…all about the wire and the brand being registered to Edward Donald and not Burn English, not Gordon Meiklejon, and that no man had the right to take anything from him.” She took more of the coffee, motioned to Davey to do the same. He raised the cup to his lips, found there was brandy in the coffee, and took a large swallow, gulping down the heat and letting it calm him. “My father is despicable. When he was gone…after Mister Meiklejon had Mister Souter and Stan Brewitt remove him forcibly…I talked with Burn. I thought he understood. Then, after we all had gone to bed, I heard this terrible noise, and when I got outside.…Thank you, Davey, for helping. I don’t know how else this would have been resolved. My father has made Burn sick again, just when he was beginning to heal.” Her eyes clouded, and she pulled the wool shawl closer to her chin. “There are times when I actually hate my father, Davey. Do you think I will be forgiven for that?”
There wasn’t much Davey could say. He tipped his hat, backed out of the kitchen, and walked to where Red was busy unharnessing the team and trying to dodge the mealy bay’s hind hoofs. Davey helped, absently thanking the kid for knowing what needed to be done.
“Davey…Mister Hildahl? What’s wrong with him? He looks like he’s crazy, like he’s got to kill someone.” The boy wasn’t dumb.
“Red, he’s crazy from the pain. Bad fever runs a mind in circles, keeps a man from knowing right from wrong or enemy from friend.” Davey hoped that was enough for the boy, hoped he’d leave now and let Davey get some sleep. Red finished with the harness, then he was gone. Davey looked at the bank of hay. This time he’d sleep in the bunkhouse, in an honest-to-god bed, or at least something shaped like one.
It was time for the fall chores and chasing rustlers. Davey and old Souter suspected it was Jack Holden gone sour, and so did the law at Silver City, one Ben Stradley. Daily Holden was seen running off some man’s best steers. He was in a bar drinking way over by Mangas, then at Red Hill chasing a dozen cows, and down to Old Horse Springs stealing broncos out of a rancher’s corral while the man was eating supper. And to Gutierrezville, which no one gave much account to. Gutierrezville was mostly sheepherder families and some day riders.
Souter grinned and said outright that no one man could be all the places Jack Holden had been seen, and his orders were to chase rustlers, not ghosts. Davey headed up Stan Brewitt and a new man named Spot, and they went tracking and trailing, following so many split tracks they were seeing double in their sleep. They came on a few camps that were left suddenly—fire smoking, ground warm where the grass was flattened. Even so, they didn’t catch an outlaw and they lost maybe twenty cows and calves, and a few broncos. Word was Son Liddell’s horse pasture had got like a bank—Holden taking out so many of the horses, leaving a worn down bronco in return.
Davey didn’t care. He was willing to take his small crew back to the L Slash headquarters, glad to get off the grullo he rode, stretch his legs, and maybe get a glimpse of Miss Katherine. He hadn’t seen her, literally, in a month of Sundays. Hadn’t seen Burn English, either. Maybe that didn’t matter, but he was curious about the man.