The Smartest Horse in Texas (The Traherns #2) (2 page)

Cummings could see it too. “He’ll kill your horse,” he said. He
turned toward the youngster.

“George, get down.”

“What? Why?”

“Give your horse to Mr. Trahern here. You follow us slow on your
pa’s horse. We’re going to hurry and catch this man before he gets away.”

“Thanks,” I said, swinging my foot over the white horse’s neck
and stepping to the ground.

The youngster glared at me
as he got off and handed me his reins. I ignored him, knowing he was still too
young to have much sense, and gave him the reins to his father’s horse. I
didn’t offer to boost him on. There were plenty of boulders around if he needed
help mounting.

Around noon, we came over a rise and there stood Hero, in the
shade of a yucca tree. We stopped and scattered back into cover behind some
rocks.

Hero walked down the trail and right up to me. He still had my
saddle on and I noticed that the thief had cinched it too tight. The man had
also used his spurs on him. I could see the bloody marks.

Now I didn’t wear spurs when riding Hero for a reason. He never
took too kindly to them.

“Mr. Cummings, I think my horse dumped your killer up the trail
aways. My rifle is here, which means he’s probably unarmed. And, I think...yes,
here’s the money.” I untied a bag and handed it to him.

That murderer had tore up Hero’s mouth yanking on the bit. I
took off the bridle and put on his halter. Then I took off my hat, opened my
canteen and poured Hero a drink in it. He drank it all, sucking up the last
moisture, and I marveled that he was still standing.

“You gave all your water to your horse?” one of the younger
riders said, making it sound like some strange thing.

“If he don’t make it, I don’t make it.”

I pulled my moccasins from behind the cantle, took off my boots
and switched footwear. My feet were mighty happy to have those moccasins on.

James Cummings had been watching, and I called him closer and
pulled back my saddlebags so he could see the back of the cantle.

“In case there’s any doubt,” I said, “here’s my name on my
saddle.” It was branded in, my cousin had done it with the tip of a running
iron. Trahern

Nothin’ fancy, but it marked that outfit as mine. Or so they
thought.

He looked and nodded.

“Give him back his gun, Brandy.”

I walked over and got my pistol back. With the rifle in the
scabbard and my pistol in my holster, I felt ready for battle again. I opened
my saddlebags to check my ammunition. That thief had rummaged around in them,
making a mess, but all my bullets were there.

“We should go find your killer while he’s still trying to
recover from what Hero did to him,” I said. “He didn’t take any of my bullets,
so they must not fit his gun.”

They mounted up and rode along the trail, single file, with me
bringing up the rear, leading Hero, who walked with a limp. About a half mile
along, Hero stopped, snorted, his head and tail high, nostrils flared, at full
alert. He spun and looked at an area in the brush, quivering.

This time I had my pistol in my hand. I looked down to where
Hero’s tracks came out of the brush. They were next to a long broken track in
the dust showing the passage of a sidewinder, a rattlesnake that travels
sideways to go forward. Instead of charging straight into the battle, I’d do
like that sidewinder and sort of sidle up to it, checking things out as I went.

I dropped Hero’s reins and slipped around through the bushes,
making sure I kept some cover between me and the killer.

It was him all right. He was pretty beat up. I think Hero might
have stepped on him a bit after he threw him off, just to teach him a few
things about handling a stallion. And I had guessed right. He had no bullets in
his gun. He didn’t even try for it.

“Cummings! Here’s your
man.”

Cummings and his men rode up and dismounted.

“That’s the man you want,” the thief yelled, pointing at me. “He
stole my horse.”

I shook my head. “You should never be allowed near an animal.”

Cummings looked at the man. “You say this is your horse. Where’s
the bill of sale?”

“There ain’t any. He cain’t write.”

I smiled at him. “Yes, I can. My mother was the schoolteacher
until my father liberated her. She just moved the school to our house and
taught all ten of us kids to read and write. And calculate.”

Grabbing him, they hauled him roughly to his feet. “I need
water,” he said.

“Too bad you didn’t think of that before leaving the spring,” I
said.

The kid caught up with us, which meant he’d pushed that white
horse way too hard. Cummings didn’t seem to notice. They set the murderer on
that bony white horse with his hands tied behind his back and I decided that
was fitting justice. I gave Cummings the old Sharps rifle, which he said had
been his brother’s.

I now had my outfit back.

Cummings looked me over. “You hunting work?”

“Yes.”

“You can calculate?”

“Only if I have to. I’d never make a banker.”

“He a good cutting horse?”

“I’ve roped from him. Never tried cutting cows.”

“I could use a good man. The fellow keeping my books for me says
he can’t see the numbers anymore.”

“I got a hankering for a place of my own,” I said. “But I need a
stake. So I could work for you awhile at least. You could look for another man
during that time. Where you located?”

“The C bar C. We’re on the north side of the Brazos River.”

“You going there now?”

“After we turn this murderer over to the law at Ft. Smith.”

“They’ll just hang him,” one of the men said. “Seems a shame to
waste time taking him there.”

“I want the law. We’ll do this legal,” Cummings said.

“They take too long,” another man said.

“You comin’ along?” Cummings asked me.

“No. You don’t need me. I’ll go on south to your ranch. I’m
going to need to take it slow. His feet hurt.” I nodded towards Hero. “I’ll see
you when you get there.”

“Tell Elmer, he’s my bookkeeper, that you’ve come to replace
him. I’ll give him his pay when I get back.” They rode off, and I started
walking south, leading Hero along.

He walked with a limp. I stopped and check his feet. A stone
bruise, likely, from being ridden too fast over the sharp rocks. I walked
slower, picking the smoothest trail I could find.

 “Poor fellow. You’ve always given me your best, so you
tried to do it for that lowlife scum. Take it easy.”

I had some leather shoes that I’d made for him during the war,
to hide his tracks when necessary. I pulled these out of my saddlebag and tied
them on his feet. It would give him more protection while the stone bruises
healed. They worked fine, but when we eventually reached the sandy valley
floor, I removed them, as he fussed about them.

We crossed the desert area on a narrow trail, very different
from the wide stage road that the Butterfield trail had been. This was almost
just a direction in the sand. Each step of Hero’s feet in the fine dust sent
tiny streams of dirt flowing ahead of each hoof, as if stepping in shallow
water.

My first impression of Texas was that everything bit or stung,
and walking along, keeping my eyes open for snakes and scorpions and batting
away the bugs did not change that any. There were plenty of animals in the
desert, they just hid until you came by.

Towards evening I saw some bees headed in one direction and I
followed those bees to a small watering hole, and on the way shot me a
long-eared jackrabbit for supper. I got a drink and let Hero drink, then moved
back from the water apiece so that the desert animals and birds could come in
for their share. I found a camp site that allowed me to watch them come in, a bobcat
family, a passel of wild hogs, a wolf, and all the little animals, birds, and
insects, taking their turns, including several families of quail. An owl nested
in a cactus right next to my camp, looking out at me solemnly until it flew
away.

It took me two more days to come into the area where Cummings
said he had his ranch.

Coming down the ridge into the wide valley of the Brazos River,
Hero lifted his head and snorted. I stopped and looked more carefully at what
had caught his interest. An eagle, soaring on the heat waves rising above the
valley floor, searched for a tasty treat like a long-tailed mouse, but that
wasn’t what Hero had focused on.

A young woman, sleek and fine-boned with long blond hair, stood
in a small corral just southwest of me. She was enough to stir the spirits of
any man, and the filly running in circles around the young lady was enough to
stir Hero’s blood. He started forward, pushing at me to hurry up.

I took my time walking up to the corral, enjoying the lift of
her head, the grace of her movements. The filly was good looking too, circling
the young woman with head and tail held high and snorting like one of those
new-fangled trains I’d seen during the war.

The lady had a rope in her hand, about six feet long and she let
it trail out in front of her. I was trying to figure out if she was attempting
to catch the animal, when it suddenly occurred to me that she was taming it.

Not wanting to distract either one, I led Hero into the shade of
a thorn bush and settled down to watch.

She let that filly keep running around in circles until it
suddenly stopped, snorted, and faced her. She still did nothing, although she
might have been talking to it, since its ears pricked up and it nodded its head
and chewed air like it was talking back.

She moved the rope a little and the filly ran again, only this
time not so long and more reluctantly. Finally it just walked over to where she
stood and nuzzled her.

She walked around the corral a few times, with that horse
following like a big dog. She finally stopped where a hackamore and saddle were
placed on the lower poles, took the hackamore and rubbed it against the filly’s
shoulder, then placed it gently on the horse’s head.

Next she put the saddle on and cinched it up. The filly looked
curious, but not afraid. The lady mounted and I realized her skirt was divided,
as she was able to sit astride. The filly looked completely comfortable, and
she urged it to move, working at getting it to respond to the reins.

I watched, amazed, realizing that in the short time I had been
there the animal had gone from looking wild to acting like it had been
hand-raised.

So what kind of witchcraft was this? I’d heard of some of the
Indian tribes who tamed horses this way. Where had this girl learned the secret
of stillness? For that was what it was. She was still while the horse ran
around, then gave up and came to her.

Even when she dismounted and walked across the corral with the
filly following, she was a study in stillness. I’d seen it in some older women,
but never in one so young.

I had to get to know her.

I waited until she was done and had turned the filly loose, then
got up and walked over to the corral.

“Howdy, ma’am. I was wondering if I could get a drink for me and
my horse.”

She looked at me and then at Hero. Her expression changed. She
looked back at me like I had just crawled out of a pig wallow. I knew I didn’t
look like much, but when she said, “There’s water for your horse, but none for
you,” I changed my mind about her. She wasn’t a quiet, gentle sort after all.
At least not to humans. Or maybe just not to stray men?

“Then Hero thanks you,” I said, and led him to the water trough.
I had given him all my water and was sufficiently thirsty that after he had
drunk, I ducked my head in.

“I said, not you.” She was right behind me.

“I didn’t drink,” I said, straightening up, the water dripping
off my head and face. “But I’ve got to ask, why won’t you let me have any
water?”

She didn’t answer, just pointed at Hero and walked away.

Something had riled her up. She had a manner that blocked me
out. It wasn’t arrogance or pride, I’d seen that too many times. It was as if
she had seen enough life, somehow so early, that nothing new surprised her.

I took Hero and started leading him down the road.

“Wait. I’d like to buy your horse,” she said.

“Sorry, ma’am. He’s not for sale.

“Not even for ten dollars?”

“Ma’am, he’s not for sale.” The fact that she would offer ten
for him, in the bad shape he was in, just showed how well she could judge
horseflesh. I’d been offered fourteen for him when he was in good condition,
from a man who almost cried when I wouldn’t sell.

I started walking, Hero limping behind.

“Ten fifty,” she said.    

 “No.” I kept walking.

“Twelve.”

I stopped and looked at her. Shrugged and walked on. My feet
were sore, I was thirsty, and I had a lame horse. I didn’t want to argue with
anyone.