A Coffin for Santa Rosa (8 page)

Brandy looked down from atop the limestone cliffs and surveyed the herd of mustangs in the ravine below him. The only vegetation was a few clumps of mesquite and a lone Palo Verde, the roots of which clung precariously to a dirt overhang along one edge. A chestnut mare was nibbling the bark off the twigs and two young pinto mares were grooming each other; the rest of the herd was gathered around a natural salt lick.

El Tigre
was nowhere in sight.

Brandy, who had chewed himself free of the rope around his neck, now issued a challenging whinny. He wanted those mares. He was willing to fight for those mares. And he didn’t care who knew it. Pawing restlessly at the dirt, he charged down the winding trail leading to the ravine.

The broomtails around the lick heard him coming. Raising their heads, they watched as the coal-black Morgan came barreling down from the ridge and without breaking stride galloped toward them.

All but the youngest had seen this happen before, a stallion, alone and anxious to prove his worth to the mares, appearing out of nowhere and trying to take control of the herd. The result had always been the same: after a fierce fight with their leader, the vanquished usurper limped off to lick his wounds and perhaps die. Nor was there reason to believe today would end differently; so after a curious look at the newcomer, the mustangs lowered their heads and resumed licking the salt from the ground.

Brandy was closing in on the herd when
El Tigre
charged out from behind some rocks. He came at an angle, cutting the Morgan off from the mustangs, and Brandy wheeled to meet him. Teeth bared, ears flattened, the angry leopard stallion hurled himself at his challenger.

Brandy met the herd leader head on.
El Tigre
was taller and rangier than the Morgan but not as solidly built or powerful. Both horses collided and both were staggered by the impact. But unlike previous challengers, Brandy wasn’t knocked sprawling by the leopard stallion’s charge – or intimidated. Quickly recovering his balance, he reared up, snorting, and lashed out at the raging white horse.

El Tigre
responded, dodging the flailing hoofs and lunging in close to bite Brandy on the neck. The Morgan screamed, more from fury than pain and, twisting free, whirled and kicked the herd leader with his back legs. The white stallion went sprawling, the wind knocked out of him. Brandy rushed in to stomp him. But
El Tigre
had been fighting for survival all his life and before Brandy could take advantage of his fallen foe, the wild horse rolled aside, scrambled up and met the Morgan’s charge head on.

Brandy, caught off guard, felt teeth rip his shoulder. He danced away, blood streaming down his gleaming black coat.
El Tigre
lunged at him again. And as Brandy tried to step aside the stallion rammed him with his shoulder, knocking the Morgan down. Instantly
El Tigre
reared up and stamped on Brandy, the hammer-like blows dazing him. He tried to get up but again the white mustang pounded him with his front hoofs.

Unused to this kind of fighting, Brandy desperately rolled on his back and kicked out with all four legs.
El Tigre
was driven back, giving the Morgan time to scramble up and ready himself for the next attack.

El Tigre
reared up and lashed out at Brandy, expecting his challenger to shy away, intimidated. But Brandy avoided the
flailing kicks, reared and kicked back. The herd leader reeled under the blows, recovered and then ripped open Brandy’s flank with a vicious bite. Brandy retaliated, slashing open
El Tigre
’s withers.

Back and forth the battle raged. The ravine reverberated with their whinnying screams and the thudding blows delivered by their hoofs.

Like two fighters slugging it out, both horses refused to give quarter.

Gradually, the Morgan’s weight and power began to wear the leopard stallion down. For the first time since taking over the herd,
El Tigre
found himself backing up. Encouraged, Brandy charged in and rammed the weary herd leader, knocking the white mustang sprawling.

He desperately tried to get up but Brandy was already on top of him, pounding him with his front hoofs.
El Tigre
rolled aside but Brandy kept after him. Again and again the enraged Morgan stamped on the leopard stallion until finally, dazed and beaten, white spotted coat spattered with blood, the exhausted herd leader stopped fighting.

Brandy kicked him a few more times and then backed up, teeth bared, daring the mustang to continue.
El Tigre
got to his feet but just stood there, defeated, legs trembling, chest heaving, head lowered, mouth slathered with foam.

Behind him the rest of the herd looked on in shock. For years their leader had been invincible. Now his reign was over. Their loyalty switched immediately. As one they trotted up to Brandy, the mares nuzzling him, the young males showing deference by keeping their heads lowered.

Brandy reared up, pawing at the air and whinnying shrilly, signaling to the herd that he was their new leader. He then bluffed a charge at
El Tigre
. The white stallion shied away and retreated, offering no resistance. Brandy charged him again, chasing the defeated mustang farther away. Then he
triumphantly returned to the lick, clambered onto a flat rock and proudly stood guard over his herd.

El Tigre,
now an outcast, turned and dejectedly limped off.

It was shortly after noon when Gabriel and Raven rode into Valley Verde.

Reining up just inside the entrance that was guarded by towering red cliffs on both sides, they dismounted behind some boulders and found an opening through which they could observe the rustlers.

Favoring his bruised ribs, Gabriel handed his field glasses to Raven. She focused them on the rustlers. All but two of them sat beside the stream, smoking and passing a bottle around. The two stood talking to Lucius Eldon, a tall silver-haired horse rancher in an expensive fringed leather jacket, tan pants,
hand-tooled
boots and a cream-colored Stetson.

‘That’s them,’ Raven said. ‘And those are the same stolen horses. But I don’t see Brandy anywhere. Here, you take a look.’

Gabriel trained the glasses on the herd and nodded in agreement.

‘Where could he be? I know he was with them. I saw two men riding off with him.’ She took back the glasses and focused them on Lucius Eldon. He and the two men were arguing over something. ‘Wonder who that man is – the one with the silvery white hair, I mean. I’ve never seen him before.’

‘Let me see.’ Gabriel focused the glasses on Lucian Eldon in time to see him handing money to the two rustlers. ‘Reckon he’s the buyer.’

‘You think he’s already bought Brandy an’ taken him away?’

Gabriel shrugged and returned the glasses to Raven. ‘Wait here, scout.’

‘Where you going?’

‘Water my horse. Those jaspers don’t know me an’ maybe I can figure a way to find out what happened to Brandy. You want him back, don’t you?’ he said as she started to protest.

‘More than anything.’

‘Then do like I say.’ Handing her his Winchester, he added: ‘Keep watchin’ me through the glasses. You see me scratch my ear, trigger a couple of rounds my way.’

‘You want me to shoot at you?’

‘Not at me. But close enough to show the rustlers you mean business. I’ll handle it from there.’ Mounting, he spurred his horse into the valley.

Raven rested the rifle against the rock and picked up the field glasses. Focusing them on Gabriel, she watched him growing smaller and smaller.

Keeping his horse at an easy lope, Gabriel rode toward the creek. The land was flat. Scattered clumps of sunburned grass and greasewood poked up through the sand. There was no cover except for a few rocks. Gabriel made sure the rustlers saw him coming and kept his hands away from his Colt.

As he drew near the creek he slowed his horse to a walk and casually gestured to the nearest rustlers. They acknowledged him with surly nods. At the same time the silver-haired buyer turned away as if he didn’t want to be identified.

Gabriel rode into the middle of the shallow creek and reined up, allowing his horse to drink. Remaining in the saddle, he took out the makings and rolled himself a smoke. Out the corner of his eye he saw several of the rustlers, all carrying rifles, approaching on foot. Striking a match on the horn, Gabriel lit up, lazily crossed one leg over the saddle and grinned at them.

‘Afternoon, gents,’ he said amiably. ‘Sure is a hot one, ain’t it?’

The rustlers made no attempt to answer. They closed in menacingly, not a friendly face among them. Gabriel showed no sign of tension. But he realized he might have overplayed his hand and prepared to shoot as many of them as he could.

A tall, hatless, scrub-bearded rustler in an old sun-bleached duster separated himself from the others. He looked up at Gabriel with dark, unforgiving eyes. ‘Where you headed, mister?’

‘Santa Rosa.’

‘You won’t find it in this valley.’

‘I know. But first I got to slap a rope on this stallion I’m after … a runaway. Been trackin’ him for more than a week now an’ he’s still runnin’ free as the wind.’ He eyed the herd of stolen horses grazing beside the creek. ‘Could use a fresh set of legs if the price is right. My horse has been run ragged.’

‘They ain’t for sale.’

Gabriel shrugged, flipped his butt into the creek and rested his hand casually on his thigh, inches from his Peacemaker.

‘Don’t suppose you or your men have seen my runaway,’ he said quietly. ‘A purebred, black as a raven’s wing an’ mean as spit.’

Though the tall rustler didn’t answer right away Gabriel saw the other men swap uneasy glances and knew he’d struck pay dirt.

‘What makes him your horse, mister?’

‘Won him in a poker game. Aces an’ eights.’

‘Dead man’s hand.’

‘Only if your name’s Hickock. Me, luckiest hand I ever had. Well,’ Gabriel uncrossed his leg and slid his boot into the stirrup, ‘better be ridin’. I caught a glimpse of that black bonehead this mornin’, but since then—’

‘Mister,’ the tall wrangler said softly, ‘you’re a damned liar.’

Gabriel frowned, as if surprised by the slur, and scratched his ear.

‘That’s a word I take offense to.’

‘Then I’ll say it again. You’re a damned—’

Two distant shots rang out. Bullets whined off the nearby rocks, causing Lucius Eldon and the rustlers to hit the ground. The tall rustler ducked behind Gabriel’s horse and looked off toward the entrance.

He only looked away for an instant but when he turned back he found himself looking into Gabriel’s .45. The tall rustler froze and then slowly, grudgingly raised his hands.

‘It’s one against twelve, mister.’

‘Three,’ corrected Gabriel. ‘That rifle didn’t fire by itself. An’ then there’s my Uncle Cass up there on the cliffs’ – he indicated the mesa to his left – ‘He can shoot a fly off your ear with that Sharps of his.’

The tall rustler looked uneasily about him. ‘You’re bluffin’, mister. There ain’t nobody—’

Gabriel scratched his ear again and instantly Raven fired another shot, the bullet kicking up dirt near the tall rustler’s boots. He jumped, cursing, and before he could speak again Lucius Eldon came walking toward Gabriel.

He was a handsome, refined man with a neatly clipped mustache as silver as his wavy hair. ‘Tell your men to stop shooting,’ he said as if he were accustomed to giving orders.

Gabriel held one hand up, hoping Raven would understand his signal.

‘What exactly is it you want?’ Eldon demanded.

‘My horse back.’

‘Go ahead,’ Eldon gestured at the herd. ‘Cut it out. Then go on your way.’

‘Be happy to, mister, but he ain’t there.’

‘Then why are you harassing us?’

‘Ask him,’ Gabriel nodded at the tall rustler.

‘He’s lookin’ for that black stud I told you about,’ the tall rustler explained, ‘the purebred that stomped Owens an’ then run off up there somewhere.’ He thumbed toward the closed end of the basin.

‘Is that true?’ Eldon asked Gabriel. ‘Does that fit the description of the animal you’re looking for?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Then you’re out of luck. Zach is telling the truth. The black was gone when I arrived. By now he’s probably ten miles from here.’

Gabriel looked at the impenetrable wall of rocks. ‘My horse is nimble, mister, but he’d have to be part goat to climb over them cliffs.’

‘He wouldn’t have to climb over them, friend. There’s a natural cut in the base there,’ Eldon pointed to the brush and rocks hiding the pass. ‘Mustangs have been using it for years. I know. I’ve spent many long days in the saddle trying to catch their leader,
El Tigre.
’

Sensing he was telling the truth Gabriel holstered his Colt. ‘Reckon I’ll be on my way then,’ he said. Wheeling his horse around, he spurred it into a lope and rode back to Raven.

Raven was thrilled to hear that Brandy had escaped the rustlers, but not so thrilled when Gabriel told her the Morgan was running loose in the desert beyond the north end of the basin, an area that covered hundreds of square miles with little water or vegetation, but plenty of marauding mountain lions.

Alarmed, she insisted they search for Brandy right away. And
when Gabriel warned against rushing off half cocked without a plan, she lost her temper and called him mean and selfish and uncaring and said if he didn’t want to help her, fine, then she’d go find the Morgan on her own.

‘Calm down,’ he said, trying to be patient. ‘Caution’s the way.’

‘Caution’s
not
the way!’ she said angrily. ‘While you’re being cautious Brandy could be wandering around lost or dyin’ of thirst or … or being eaten alive by a lion or a bear!’

‘No bears around here, black or griz’. They’re mostly in the woods an’ the high country to the north.’

She was in no mood to quibble. Mounting, she demanded to know if he was coming with her or not. He shrugged, stepped into the saddle and told her to lead the way.

Raven kicked her horse into a gallop and rode on around the base of the towering horseshoe-shaped mesa. Gabriel followed at an easy gait and after a mile or so caught up with her laboring horse. Embarrassed, she refused to look at him. But she grudgingly slowed her horse to match the pace of Gabriel’s mount and together they rode to the north end of the mesa. There, confronted by a seemingly unbroken wall of rock, they dismounted and searched for the pass through which Brandy had escaped. The lower slopes were steep and covered with scrub-brush and eons of fallen rocks.

They had a large area to search and climbing was difficult, especially for Gabriel who was nursing his sore ribs. But after an hour of scrambling up and down over loose shale that constantly caused them to lose footing, Raven finally found the pass.

Though both were exhausted and soaked with sweat, she immediately wanted to start looking for Brandy’s tracks. But Gabriel insisted they get out of the broiling sun and rest for a spell. Despite her impatience, this time Raven didn’t argue. They found some shade under a rocky overhang and sat there for a while, sipping warm, iron-tasting water from their canteens.

The wait drove Raven crazy. Restless as a fire ant, she kept
fidgeting around, changing positions, grumbling to herself, until she realized Gabriel couldn’t be hurried. Then she settled down and sat with her tanned arms clasped about her upraised knees, staring out across the arid, sun-scorched wasteland, trying to imagine which direction the Morgan had taken.

‘If you were Brandy,’ she asked Gabriel, ‘which way would you go?’

Hat covering his eyes, hands folded behind his head, he was silent so long she thought he’d fallen asleep. Southeast, he said finally, adding but that was because he knew where the Rio Grande was and where the grass was sweetest. Brandy would know that too, wouldn’t he, Raven said. When Gabriel shrugged, she pinned him down, saying that since he had ridden Brandy for years it only made sense that any place Gabriel went the Morgan went too. Which meant Brandy knew as much as he did.

Gabriel raised his hat and scowled at her. ‘You sayin’ that dumb horse is as smart as me?’

‘I’m saying,’ Raven said, ‘that Brandy’s smart, a lot smarter than you give him credit for, and he’d remember something as important as good grass and plenty of water.’

Either because he’d had enough of her yapping or because he felt they were rested, Gabriel suddenly got up, brushed the dirt from his backside and descended the slope to the horses. Caught off guard Raven chased after him, sliding, stumbling, and finally slithering on her backside down the loose shale to the bottom.

Scrambling to her feet, she brushed herself off and hurried after Gabriel. He didn’t say anything but the look he gave her made her mad.

‘I’m warning you, Gabe. You tell me “caution’s the way” one more time and by all that’s holy, I’ll shoot you.’

The wasteland was baked hard by the relentless sun, and constant winds kept much of it covered with a fine layer of sand, making it almost impossible to spot any hoofprints. But as a
young outlaw hiding out in Mexico, Gabriel had learned tracking from the Raramuri, a tribe of reclusive Indians living in the Copper Canyon area of the Sierra Madre. Famous for pursuing their prey on foot until it collapsed from exhaustion, The Runners, as the Raramuri called themselves, were the finest trackers in the world.

Raven looked on in amazement as Gabriel, walking hunched over, carefully examined the ground. Scraping sand away here, spotting a bent blade of scorched grass there, finding a crumpled cactus spine or crushed yellow petal from a flowering Cholla, it didn’t take him long to pick up Brandy’s hoofprints. And when Raven wanted to know how he knew the prints belonged to Brandy and not some wandering broomtail, he pointed out two different hoofprints and explained that the Morgan’s shoes left a more distinct imprint than those of an unshod mustang. Thoroughly impressed, she didn’t argue when he told her to get mounted. He then stepped into the saddle himself and together they slowly rode alongside the trail of hoofprints, heading in the direction taken by Brandy.