Smoketree (17 page)

He grinned. “Sounds as if you’re not too sure.”

“Maybe because I’m not.” I sighed. “What do I know about cowboys, after all? Just what I’ve read, or seen in movies. I’m beginning to think that’s not the whole truth.”

“Not even a part of it,” he said flatly. “Nobody understands a cowboy except another cowboy, no matter how much they think they do. And even
we're
split into little pieces.” He smiled at my frown of incomprehension. “We’re three different breeds of men, Kelly: the ranch cowboy, who makes his living running stock on the spreads that still exist, large and small; the rodeo cowboy, who specializes in roughstock or roping but might come right out of the city without a background in ranch work at all; and the third kind.”

“Which is?” I prodded.

“Drugstore,” he said succinctly. “The kind who puts on a pair of boots, a ten-dollar straw hat, a belt, and calls himself a cowboy. ” He grinned. “Most of ’em never been on a horse in their lives; wouldn’t know the difference between a mare and a gelding.”

“What about the urban style?” I asked, knowing the trend from my tenure in New York City.

Harper shook his head. “Worse than the drugstore variety. A mechanical bronc’s no match for a real one, but you can’t tell them that.”

I waited a moment, and then I turned to look right at him. “Where do
you
fit in? Is there a category for Harper Young?”

The moustache twisted in a crooked smile. “Me? Ah hell, I’m just a broke-down bronc rider who doesn’t know how to leave it in the past. I still smell the arena and hear the crowds. Mostly I’m just caught between two worlds, because you got to deal with modern problems even when you feel more like someone out of another century.” He shook his head. “Hard to put into words, but I doubt there’s a cowboy alive—a
real
cowboy—who doesn’t wish he could chuck all this progress for the grind of the old days. There wasn’t anything romantic about those days—not like Hollywood’s made out—but it was honest work. Something a man could be proud of.” He looked suddenly older. “God knows there’s little of that anymore.”

A brave man, was Harper Young. Merely for being himself, I thought, in a world that was leaving his kind far behind.

“We are so different…” I said sadly.

“Too different,” he agreed.

“Do you care?”

“Cowboys and fashion models don’t mix.”

“Probably not,” I agreed.

His smile was full of weary wisdom; he knew the thing was decided. “Oil and water, Miss Clayton,” he predicted.

“Could be, Mr. Young.” I grinned back. “But maybe not.”

He made a sound midway between a grunt and a snort, and I thought that said it all. 

I did not see Harper again until the next evening on my way to dinner, and when he did appear it was to shout at Cass. She ran down the porch steps, mutinously silent, and Harper stopped at the top of them to yell after her.

“They won’t do it!” he shouted. “Come on, Cassie, do you think I’d let them? Come back and talk sense—Cassie!
Cass!”
But she ran on, unheeding, and I saw she was headed for Preacher’s pen. Harper swore and banged a fist against the nearest post.

I paused at the foot of the steps. “Should I ask?”

“That girl’s got a meaner tongue in her head than I gave her credit for,” he said curtly, then sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. “But I reckon I don’t blame her, right about now. I don’t like it much better. Hell, Preacher’s too good a horse—”

“What is it?” I interrupted. “Harper—what are you talking about?”

He took his hand away and looked down at me. One hand went around the post. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for you to hear it this way. I was going to come down and tell you, but I got tangled up with Cassie—”

“Why?” I asked flatly. “What’s going on?”

He looked tired. “The police called a short while ago with results of the autopsy on your friend.”

Goosebumps rose up on my arms. I felt the skin of my scalp contract, and my face went tight against my skull. “It was Preacher?”

“It’s what they’re saying.”

Almost without volition I finished climbing the stairs. When I reached the porch I turned and sat down awkwardly, and a moment later Harper sat down next to me.

“A stupid, stupid accident,” I said tightly. “And now he’s
dead
—”

“I know.” He set one hand at the back of my neck, massaging gently. “They think he got into the pen somehow and scared Preacher. If he reared, even out of fear, a hoof could have struck your friend. Nobody says the horse did it intentionally.” The fingers eased the tension out of my neck. “I’m sorry. You know that.”

I tried to erase the vivid picture of Drew’s blanketed form lying in the dust. “Then that’s why Cass is so upset.”

“She thinks they’ll order Preacher destroyed.”

I looked at him sharply. “But
why?
You yourself said it was an accident. I can’t imagine Preacher would have intentionally killed anyone.” But I knew why almost the moment I asked the question. I’d heard the horror stories about dogs turning on their masters, or killing children. A horse wasn’t the same, but the results might be. “Oh no,” I said softly.

“That’s why Cassie’s upset.”

“They wouldn’t,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” he agreed. “But when Cassie gets an idea in her head, it’s hard to shake it out of her.” He stared out across the flatlands beyond the black skeletal barn. “She’ll ride for hours, working it out. Probably come home later tonight… I hope.”

“You won’t
leave
her out there!”

“Not through choice,” he said dryly, “but I don’t have much. What good would it do to go after her? She’d just run, and there isn’t a horse on Smoketree who can catch Preacher. Not even Sunny.”

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but footsteps hurried to the screen door. I turned as Harper did and we saw the cook, Maria, framed in the doorway.

“Harper!” she cried, face alight with fear. “Come now! It’s Se
ñ
or Reynolds—” Her hands clutched at her chest as if to mimic Nathan’s condition, and the message was perfectly eloquent.

Harper was up at once, reaching to wrench open the door. Then he turned back sharply. “Damn it! I’ll need Cassie—”

“Just go,” I ordered, pushing him. “I’ll get Cass.”

“
You
can’t—” But he broke off, knowing it was not the time for protests. He went into the foyer and through the Lodge at a run.

I ran in the other direction. I was bound for the tack room, and then Hornet.

I grabbed a bridle and went into the pen after the palomino mare, blessing Harper for having spent some time improving my skills. I had yet to catch, bridle and saddle a horse completely on my own, but now was the time to discover if I could. And I was determined to bring Cass back to the ranch.

Hornet was cooperative. I bridled her as I had been shown, sliding the bit between her teeth and feeling the soft dampness of her lips as she accepted it. It dropped into place inside her mouth; I removed my fingers and worked at slipping the headstall up over her ears. I buckled the throatlatch, then led her from the pen and shut the gate behind us. Hornet followed, ears twitching, and waited patiently as I tied her by the tack room.

The hardest part was saddling. I dragged out blankets and saddle, slapped the blankets across her back and tried to thrust the saddle into place upon them. It was a heavy thing, but I was tall enough to find the proper leverage. I settled it down on top of the blankets, then wrestled with cinch and buckles and D-rings, as Harper had shown me. First the cinch, snug around her barrel; then the back-cinch, buckled loosely; then the breast collar fastened across her chest and buckled to the saddle. And finally, when Hornet thought she had been clever, I kneed her in the ribs to startle her into expelling the breath she held to keep the cinch loose, pulled it tighter still and wrapped the final knot. I was done. I threw the reins over the mare’s head, climbed on, and went after Cass at a gallop.

I had seen Cass take Preacher across the high trail that wound through the trees. All trace of her was gone now, but I did see a fainter trail that led toward a portion of the Peaks I didn’t know. When I saw fresh horse droppings I felt certain I had found the proper way.

The sun had dropped low on the horizon. Sunset was only a half hour or so away, and with it would come the cold night air. I wore only a bulky pullover sweater that bunched around my hips, fairly new jeans—
real
jeans, for warmth and protection—and shoes. The shoes were unfortunate because they allowed the stirrups to rub through my socks onto the bare flesh of my ankles, which would be blistered shortly. But I hadn’t come out with the intention of riding at all.

Hornet and I skirted the bottom of the slopes, heading toward the highway, then cut back. The trail began a smooth ascent that gained altitude quickly, then circled back unexpectedly. A fence stretched across the trail, a familiar four-strand wire fence posted with Forest Service signs. But there was also a cattle guard with a gate, and the gate hung open, as if someone had been in too much of a hurry to close it. I knew Cass would never allow a fence to stop her; I didn’t let it stop me, either.

Finally I saw her. She was well ahead of me, above me, leaning forward in the saddle as Preacher climbed straight up the mountain. He was a dark shape in the darker trees, but the setting sun glinted off the metal at his mouth.

“Cass!”

She half-turned in the saddle, though Preacher continued to climb. Her face was a blur in the shadows, too distant for me to make out her expression, but I saw the motion of her hand as she halted the horse. She swung Preacher around to face me as I urged Hornet upward.

“What do you want?” she demanded curtly.

“It’s Nathan,” I said breathlessly, somewhat winded by the exertions of the ride. “You’d better come back to the ranch right now.”

She sat rigidly in the saddle. “Uncle Nathan?” she asked on a startled note.
“What's wrong?”

“I don’t know. Cass—you’d better come.”

She cast a quick, frightened glance at our surroundings. Her escape had suddenly become her prison; I could see it in her eyes. Then she shook her head. “Come on, then—we’d better take the short-cut.” She hesitated a moment longer. “Can you keep up?”

I urged Hornet further up the mountain, guiding her toward Preacher. “I’ll keep up. Just go.”

She went, urging Preacher quickly through the trees. We left the trail behind entirely; I followed as best I could, but Preacher moved like a wraith. Hornet, chugging along at a slower pace, grunted with the effort. I hung on and urged her to go faster yet.

I was completely lost, until I realized what Cass was planning. She was taking a higher route through the trees, then would drop straight down off the mountain onto the meadowlands below. No switch-backs to slow us down; we would shoot directly for the ranch. It was a more treacherous route, perhaps, but it would undoubtedly save time.

“When we get to the short-cut,” I called, “you go on. I know my way down from there.”

Cass half-turned in the saddle. “Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you behind.”

“Nathan’s more important,” I told her. “I know the trail down from the short-cut; I’ll be fine. You just go.”

She started to say something more but Preacher suddenly stumbled, caught himself awkwardly, then stumbled again. I saw Cass’s body whipped forward in the saddle; like Preacher, she caught herself, but as he stumbled again she jumped down from the saddle.

“No,
no!”
she cried. “Oh no, baby, not n
ow—
”

I knew at once the horse was injured. The note in Cass’s voice was enough to shoot cold apprehension through me, but the stance of the horse also told the story. As I pulled up beside him I saw the lowered head; the trembling right foreleg.

Cass knelt by the leg, gripping it with both hands. She worked her fingers into the flesh, eyes huge and frightened in her face. Preacher stood quietly, but I saw the leg caused him pain by watching the restlessness in his attitude. Each time Cass probed his leg his head bobbed lower, as if to ask her to stop.

Oh God, I thought, if that leg is broken…

“Oh, baby…” Cass whispered.
“Please
don’t be broken—” She rose, urging Preacher to walk a few steps. He put the leg down firmly enough, as if he meant to walk normally, but it was obvious the thing was very painful.

Cass stopped him, sighing. “No,” she said. “I think it’s whole. It looks like a pulled tendon to me.” She scrubbed a forearm across her forehead in an effort to remove some of the tension from her face. “I think he’ll be okay. But I don’t dare ride him…”

“Why not climb up behind me,” I suggested. “We could lead him down from here.”

“It would take forever,” she said wretchedly, “and I want to get to Uncle Nathan.” She tried to keep the trembling from her voice. “Oh you big, clumsy fool, why
now?”

“Then take Hornet,” I said. “I can walk Preacher down.” Cass stared up at me from the ground, one hand stroking Preacher’s face. “Do you know where we are?”

I looked around. “No,” I admitted. “But you can give me directions, can’t you?”

“Not to the ranch,” she said abstractedly. “It’s too treacherous from here. Preacher could do his leg permanent damage.” She stopped. “There
is
another way…”

“Just tell me what it is,” I said firmly. “You need to get home. Let me worry about your horse.”

“Hah!” she said, mostly under her breath. Then she shook her head. “Okay. Look, it’ll take a while for you to get there.

He’ll be going very slowly. You don’t dare rush him, or he’ll hurt the leg even more. ” She pointed. “That hill there; go over it, then straight down. Keep walking. You’ll come across Snow Crest.” She smiled grimly. "It’s a little hard to miss a ski resort, even at night. ”

“Then what?”

"There’s a parking lot, and relatively easy access for a horse trailer. We can haul him down from there.” She rubbed his face again. “I’ll send someone up as soon as I can.” Her face was a mixture of tension, fear and impatience. “Oh God, do you think you can do it?”