What food Eager left for English in the trees wasn’t enough to feed a man full up, but the mountains had their own food on the hoof—elk and deer, bear if you were hungry enough. The bits Eager put out were more for variety, the makings of civilization. Although Eager much doubted the English boy had a strong hankering for anything civilized.
This time when Eager got to his camp, he hobbled the palomino and dug a pit for the fire. He found himself talking out loud to himself; there was a lot an old man didn’t know, even coming to the end of his life. A lot he’d forgotten, about being young and going after the whole world.
He sat and chewed on a Mexican cigar and talked about the outlaw, Jack Holden. The word was Holden had taken another Liddell bronco, and that Gayle Souter and the kid, Red Pierson, were tracking him.
If those three met, there would be killing, for Souter wasn’t a forgiving man. Eager stated his feelings about killing, his old voice getting louder, and the palomino looked up from its graze, wiggled its long lip after a choice bit of grass. Holden against the two L Slash men wouldn’t be pretty.
It was a shame to think of Gayle Souter shot down by the likes of Jack Holden. Or Red Pierson dead; the boy was growing up right. “A lot of might-be in the world,” Eager told his horse. His next topic was Davey Hildahl, riding fence on those wire sections. “Looks can deceive,” he said to Gold. “Can’t judge a man by the form he takes, got to see inside a man to know his soul.”
As he guessed on it, a shadow drifted into his fire light. A thinned bay colt led by a man lamed on the offside and leaner than the horse. But the voice came out always the same.
“Thanks, old man. I’ve been out of coffee and beans a while…they’ll taste good with elk.”
The English boy handed over a rump portion of the elk, and Eager got to slicing thin steaks. Hadn’t had elk in a long time, didn’t know if he could gum his way through any more, but, by God, he would try.
The colt was unsaddled and rubbed down, hobbled, and left next to Gold. The ancient bronco was pleased with company, and the horses nuzzled and nickered some, then went back to eating. Only then did English come in to the fire’s warmth, where Eager could get a look at him.
“It’s good to see you still alive, boy. A sight this old man don’t get to enjoy often. I know where you been, ’cause I been there before you.”
The boy had come a far piece since his tangle with the bob wire. Eager pushed the wrinkles up on his forehead, wished he had his store-bought teeth. That elk was beginning to smell better than good.
English watched him, then spoke. “I know you now, old man. Eager Briggs is what they call you here. That’s a summer name. You come up from Texas.”
He’d known the boy was studying him the lasttwo times or more, but the cut about his name still hurt. It wasn’t the name he was born under, but he’d owned it a long time. He waited. This wasn’t done yet. Then the English boy caught Eager by surprise.
“You think Hildahl’s in trouble, old man?”
It took a moment, then Eager nodded. “Yep, boy. He’s right plumb in the middle.” Then the old man did his own jumping. “The name was Leutwyler when I rode with your pa. Bert, it was. My name. That’s why I called that ugly, no-count mule Bert, so not to forget my mama’s naming me. Your folks was good to me.”
It was downright foolish, two men sitting across from each other, a fire burning between them, charring up good elk rump. The boy’s eyes widened; Eager grinned and wiped his wet mouth.
English spoke quickly. “You rode a big dun. I wanted to ride that bronc’, and I asked you one day. You said the dun was a man’s horse and to come back when I was growed big enough.” That hung quietly. “What’d you think now, old man? I growed big enough for you?”
The gall of those misspoken words rose in Eager’s belly. “A man can say things he don’t mean. I ’pologize now…for what I said then. Old Bert Leutwyler, he died in that Texas country, and a new man rode on up here. A better man, I’m hoping.”
English nodded and parceled out the charred elk steak, took some beans. Eager sliced himself a cut of meat, shoved it between his gums, and worked hard swallowing, all the time grinning and watching John English’s boy.
Burn wiped his fingers around the tin plate,and wished the old man had made biscuits. God, he was hungry, could never get quite full. Where he rode was determined by the mares and foals, and often that meant running off game, forcing him to live on cold water and chewed hide. But he wasn’t going to quit the mares, not after all this time.
“Boy, what you planning to do with winter’s coming? And how come that stallion’s letting you run his band?”
Burn didn’t want to think on it. He’d found the mares, and the stallion, and they remained on his conscience. He shivered, rubbed the healing cut on his arm. He’d found the stallion ribby and infected, cut to pieces amid wire, but still standing, unable to escape the coil circling his front leg. He’d cut the stallion’s throat and had taken on more horses than he could handle. With a lot of hard work he’d caught five of the bachelor colts—broke to ride, he’d sold them only last week over in Springerville. The sale had given him enough cash to buy a bit of land. The dream still could be taken from him. So he sat while the old man looked at him.
Burn ran his tongue over the inside of his mouth, tasting sweet elk, spiced beans, the fouled coffee. “Briggs, you say you think Jack Holden’s going to end up where Davey is?”
The old man answered quickly, as if he, too, was glad to get away from the more personal talk. “Yeah, I read Holden’s tracks pointing this way, ’stead of to Springerville. He’s got two men coming fast behind him…Gayle Souter and that kid, Red. Only Davey’s in his way. It’d be a shame to lose a man like Davey Hildahl to such as Jack Holden.”
“Hildahl saved my life,” Burn said, “much as any man ever done. Guess I owe him the same.”
It could have been surprise on Brigg’s face that got his jowls to quivering. Burn was set to ride after he slept some. It would be a luxury, knowing nothing would sneak up in his sleep. He trusted the old man that much. Old Briggs seemed to understand as English rolled himself up in a blanket. Looking like his pa a lot then, he was John English’s boy and that man had never quit, had never given in till the illness had taken him. It was a hell of a legacy for a boy to grow into, and it had nothing to do with size.
Briggs stayed alert most of the night, a rare feat for him. He did fall asleep along toward morning, and, when he woke, he was covered with a damp blanket, with the old palomino standing over him, head drooping, lower lip hanging close. When Briggs snorted and coughed, trying to sit up, the horse flapped that lip, yawned wide enough that the old man could count its back teeth, and went right back to dozing.
The fire was banked. A pot of coffee hot to the touch waited. English hadn’t been gone long, and the first rays of sun came hitting over the rocks, making a pink and red wash on the boulders. Briggs stretched hard, pushed Gold out of the way, and drank the coffee right from the pot. The boy had taken the only cup.
Mama yelled from the kitchen that she needed a meat order from Hargreave’s. Now, Mama said, and come get the money. Old man Hargreave always had to be paid in cash.
Rose let the coins roll in her fingers as shewalked. They felt good, as if she held a sudden power. She passed a number of horses tied to the railings in front of the different stores. A child ran in front of her, clutching a wrapped package. This was the sum of her life, errands, demands, everyone else’s needs but her own.