A Coffin for Santa Rosa (9 page)

They rode until darkness made tracking impossible. By then they had covered better than ten miles and still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the Morgan. But just before dusk they did see buzzards circling above an all-white stallion limping across a dry riverbed about a quarter mile to their left. Surprised to see an injured mustang alone in this part of the desert, Gabriel focused his field glasses on it. Realizing its uniqueness, he quickly handed the glasses to Raven and explained what breed it was.

She’d never seen any kind of Appaloosa before, let alone a rare leopard stallion, and was fascinated by the speckling of pinkish-brown spots.

‘Oh, no, it’s hurt,’ she said suddenly. ‘No wonder the poor thing’s limping. Here, take a look,’ she gave him the glasses. ‘It’s covered in cuts an’ there’s blood running down its withers.’

Gabriel focused the glasses on the mustang and realized Raven was right. ‘Most likely been in a fight.’

‘Maybe Apaches tried to kill it for meat.’

‘Uh-uh. Indian gets close enough to use his knife, next step is the cookin’ pot. Nah,’ he said after another look, ‘this fella’s been in a fracas. Over another stallion’s mares, I’ll bet. Got the worst of it, too, or he’d still be with the herd. Shame,’ he added, eyeing the big ugly birds tirelessly circling aloft. ‘Right fine lookin’ horse.’

Raven made a decision. ‘Give me your rifle, Gabe.’

‘If you’re thinkin’ of putting it out of its misery, the buzzards and coyotes will do that.’

‘I didn’t leave
you
to the buzzards,’ she reminded. ‘Or the coyotes. And you ain’t half as pretty as that horse. Now, give me your dang rifle.’

There was a stubborn set to her mouth and jaw and Gabriel knew he wasn’t going to change her mind. ‘You ever shot a horse, scout?’

‘No. But like my Dad used to say: always a first time for everything.’

Admiring her courage at that moment, Gabriel returned the field glasses to his saddle-bag, and said: ‘What do you say we do it together?’

El Tigre
heard them coming. Weak from loss of blood, the mustang still managed to galvanize itself into action and galloped farther along the sandy riverbed. But his stamina was gone and after a hundred yards or so he came to a halt and
stood there, flanks heaving, legs trembling, blood-flecked foam spraying from its nostrils.

Gabriel and Raven dismounted a short distance away. Telling Raven to stay put, Gabriel grabbed the rope hanging from his saddle horn, shook out a loop and slowly approached the
all-white
stallion.

‘Whoaaa, boy,’ he said softly as
El Tigre
shied away. ‘I’m not goin’ to hurt you. Whoa, whoa … easy now … easy….’ With a slow graceful flick of his hand, he tossed the loop over the mustang’s head and pulled it tight.

Instantly, the weary horse reared up, whinnying angrily, and tried to pull free. Gabriel held the end of the rope behind him, under his thighs as if he were sitting on it, and dug his heels into the dirt. The stallion dragged him along the wash for a short distance. Then Gabriel’s weight became too much for him and, exhausted, he stopped and stood there, snorting, pink eyes glaring at Gabriel, pawing at the dirt with his foreleg.

‘Poor baby,’ Raven said. ‘He’s all wore out.’

‘Me too,’ said Gabriel, sweat pouring off him. ‘So forget the hearts an’ flowers music an’ tell me what you want to do with him.’

‘What I want to do?’

‘He’s your horse.’

‘M-My—? You mean that?’

‘Up to me, he’d be coyote bait.’

The magnitude of owning a horse, a wild mustang as magnificent and rare as this one, momentarily staggered Raven and she was lost for words.

‘We’ll take him with us,’ she said finally.

‘Are you loco? Could be days, weeks before we find Brandy. This cayuse wouldn’t make it. Not in his condition.’

‘I meant to the cattle doctor in Santa Rosa. My folks and Dr Pritchard were friends. He used to come out to the farm and have dinner with us all the time. If I want, he’ll fix him up and
keep him for me.’

‘I’m sure he would. But we’re not goin’ to Santa Rosa. We’re trackin’ Brandy, remember? Or ain’t he important anymore?’

‘That’s a mean, hateful thing for you to say, Gabriel Moonlight. You know I love Brandy more than anything. It’s just….’ Her eyes strayed to the leopard stallion, which, as if sensing his future was in their hands, was no longer fighting the rope. ‘I hate to see him die when there’s … no reason.’

Gabriel said nothing. But she could tell he wasn’t happy.

Suddenly she dismounted and walked to his horse. ‘You’re right. Brandy should come first.’

‘What’re you doin’?’ he said as she took his rifle from its scabbard.

‘What’s it look like – shooting him.’ She looked at the buzzards still circling overhead. ‘God may not give two hoots about how this horse dies, but I do. And he’s not going to end up desert-kill, that’s for dang sure.’

Gabriel sighed. ‘Hold up,’ he said as she pumped a shell into the chamber. ‘Maybe you got a point.’

Raven, who’d been praying he’d stop her, lowered the Winchester and pretended to be vexed. ‘You saying now you don’t
want
me to shoot him?’

‘I’m sayin’,’ Gabriel said, wearily clinging to the rope, ‘that maybe we should consider our options.’

‘Which are?’

‘We could try to gentle him some – though gentlin’ might cost you a finger or two.’

‘Go on.’

‘Give him water an’ maybe wash his wounds, wrap that leg if he’ll let us get close enough – which ain’t likely – anything, just so he knows we’re tryin’ to help him. Maybe then we’ll win him over … get him to trust us.’

‘Then, what?’ she asked impatiently.

‘Find some high ground to bed down for the night—’

‘High ground?’

‘Storm’s comin’.’ He indicated the thunderheads forming over the distant mountains. ‘Could be a lulu an’ I reckon we don’t want to find ourselves swimmin’ all the way to Santa Rosa, now do we?’

‘Santa Rosa?’ she squeaked. ‘M-Mean we’re gonna…? Oh Gabe, Gabe,’ she exclaimed, hugging him. ‘Thank you, thank you—’

‘All right,’ he grumbled, hiding the pleasure he felt from making her happy, ‘cut it out. No need to act like Christmas came early or somethin’.’

‘But it has, it has! Can’t you see that? And he,’ she said, meaning the leopard stallion, ‘is the best present you could ever give me.’

Later that night, while lightning flashed in the night sky over the foothills outside Santa Rosa, Brandy stood on a ridge overlooking the Box M ranch. Though the big spread was several hundred yards off, the Morgan could smell the broodmares enclosed in the corral. Their musky scent aroused him and he nickered, quivering with anticipation. Except for the teeth marks on his chest and flanks, and the soreness in his neck and ribs from
El Tigre
’s pounding hoofs, the all-black stallion was remarkably unscathed from the fight.

Again the wind brought the scent of the broodmares to his nostrils. He snorted and pawed the ground with his foreleg, his shoe causing sparks as it struck stone. He heard a whinny rising from the darkness behind and below him. Turning, he looked down into a narrow sheltered ravine where the herd was tucked in for the night.

Brandy watched the drowsy mustangs, knowing as he did that he was responsible for their safety, whether the danger came from man or mountain lion; but the smell of the broodmares was irresistible and, tossing his proud head, he started down the
long slope that stretched all the way to the ranch.

The ground was soft and sandy, and the Morgan made little noise as he descended between the scattered scrub-bushes and clumps of Cholla. Reaching the bottom he paused, lifted his head and tested the wind. The air had grown damp and smelled of rain. The scent of man was also strong, as was the smell of tobacco and Brandy alertly pricked his ears and listened for any noises that might warn him of danger.

Nothing stirred.

Brandy cautiously trotted forward. Soon he was close to the outlying corrals and could see the white fences and the buildings rising darkly behind them. Since he was downwind, the broodmares couldn’t smell him, but they heard him coming and stirred nervously. Jostling each other, they nickered softly and flicked their tails.

The night-watch, an old cowboy known as Smoky for the cigarette always slanting from his lips, heard the mares stirring and silently cursed them. Grudgingly, he rose from his chair on the bunkhouse porch, grabbed his rifle and the lamp from the hook above his head, and plodded toward the corral to investigate.

‘Keee-rist,’ he grumbled, ‘why can’t you ladies behave y’selves?’

Reaching the corral he peered between the bars, squinting to see what was agitating them. Seeing nothing threatening, he clucked his tongue and made soothing noises, trying to calm the mares. When that didn’t work he talked softly to them, as if they could understand what he was saying, asking them if they could smell the storm coming or if they had gotten wind of a lion. As he spoke he rubbed the necks, flanks and muzzles of the mares that brushed against the fence, all the while reminiscing about the good old days when there were no fences and he and other young cowpokes drove herds of wild, woolly longhorns up from Texas all the way to Wichita, where at the railhead there were
often so many steers the pens couldn’t hold them all and the rest had to wait outside of town, turning the grassland into a sea of beef.

Finally, worn out from talking and satisfied the mares were safe, Smoky ambled back to the bunkhouse.

Halfway there he heard thudding hoofs and turned, just in time to see the all-black Morgan charging toward him. Old and stiff-jointed as he was, he dropped the lamp and his rifle and dived aside, rolling to safety under the fence of an empty corral. When he looked back, the lamp was out and the stallion had vanished like a nightmarish shadow into the darkness.

Heart pounding, Smoky crawled to the fence and peered between the bars. The lamp lay two feet away. As he was reaching for it, he heard the mares whinnying … followed by the sound of their departing hoofbeats.

Fumbling for a match, he lit the lamp and stood up, lamp held high so he could see the barn-corral. It was empty. Cursing, he ducked through the fence, collected his rifle and fired twice into the air. Then he ran to the corral, saw the gate was open and stared off into the darkness.

He could hear the mares galloping away, but couldn’t see them. Then suddenly lightning lit up the sky and for a fleeting second he saw – thought he saw – a black shadow racing in and out of his vision. Then it was gone and he was left wondering if he’d imagined it.

Behind Smoky, men dressed in various stages poured out of the bunkhouse. Lights came on inside the ranch house.

‘What in Sam Hill’s all the shootin’ about?’ someone yelled.

‘Smoky, you ol’ fart,’ another hand shouted, ‘I’m gonna pound your ears if you fell asleep an’ dropped your rifle again.’

Smoky turned and faced the angry ranch hands gathering about him. Some wore long johns, others just Levis, others were hopping as they pulled on their boots, and everyone was yawning and rubbing sleep from their eyes.

Unperturbed, Smoky dug a half-smoked butt from his shirt pocket, stuck it between his lips, struck a match on his gold tooth and lit up – each movement slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time to make sure he had the full attention of his audience before speaking. Then, when the men were about to explode with impatience, Smoky spit out a stream of steel-blue smoke, and explained what happened.

Before he could finish their boss, One-Arm Charley Devlin, a Civil War veteran, stormed up and demanded to know what was going on. When no one answered him, but kept their eyes lowered and shuffled their feet, he grimly eyed the empty corral then stabbed his forefinger at Smoky.

‘Goddammit, Forster, did you forget to close the gate?’

‘No, Mr Devlin, sir,’ Smoky said, ‘I surely did not.’

‘Then who the hell did?’ Devlin glared at the other men. ‘Somebody better speak up,’ he warned when no one answered, ‘’cause nary a one of you is moving from this spot till I get an answer.’

‘Shadow Horse,’ piped up one of the hands.

‘What?’ said Devlin. ‘What was that you just said, Harv?’

‘Smoky, here,’ another hand chimed in, ‘says this wild,
half-crazed
black mustang come bustin’ in an’ damn near stomped him to death. Then, ’fore Smoky could stop him, it disappeared like a shadow—’

‘Taking the mares along with ’im,’ Smoky reminded. ‘Don’t forget that, boys. That’s the most important part.’

Devlin erupted. ‘A wild mustang opened the gate all by hisself an’ let the mares out, is that what you ’pokes are asking me to believe?’

‘Yes, sir, Mr Devlin,’ Smoky said. ‘I reckon it is.’

Devlin eyed him angrily. ‘Smoky, it’s a damned good thing you’ve worked for me a long time, ’cause right now loyalty’s all that’s saving you from pickin’ up your wages. Get ready to ride,’ he added to the hands. ‘We’re going after those mares.’

The storm hit shortly after midnight, bringing thunder, lightning and torrential rain that flooded the desert, turning gullies and dry washes into churning rivers.

Earlier that evening, Gabriel and Raven had made camp in a cave halfway up on a rocky hillside. Unsaddling their horses, Gabriel led them to the back of the cave where he fed them each a handful of grain. Raven tried to do the same with the leopard stallion. But though he’d quit fighting the rope and seemed calmer and stronger after drinking water from Gabriel’s hat, he was still too wild to let them wash his wounds or feed him by hand. Finally, after he’d viciously lunged at her a few times, she left the grain on the ground in front of him and retreated. But that didn’t win him over either. Ignoring the grain,
El Tigre
stamped the ground and aggressively flicked his flowing tail as if warning Raven not to come near him.

Watching them testing each other as he spread out the bedrolls, Gabriel couldn’t help thinking how alike the two were.

Frustrated, Raven finally gave up and helped Gabriel cover their bedrolls with their slickers. The cave wasn’t very deep and there was no way to cover the entrance. Both knew that once the wind really got to blowing it wouldn’t be a matter of if they were going to get wet, but how badly. Meanwhile, her eyes never left the white mustang and when they’d finished and were sitting with their backs against the wall, eating jerky, Raven wondered aloud if the horse would ever trust her.

‘That depends,’ Gabriel said.

‘On what?’

‘How much effort you’re willin’ to make. Takes time to build trust. Time, patience, and respect.’

‘Reckon that lets me out,’ she said with surprising candor. ‘Comes to patience, I’m worse than an armadillo diggin’ for grubs.’

Gabriel chuckled and fondly ruffled her hair. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, scout. Set your mind to it an’ you’d be surprised what you can do. Take us for instance. We banged heads early on. But once we learned to respect one another … to understand each other’s ways … everything turned out fine. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Raven nodded.

‘Remember, anything worth having is worth waitin’ for.’

‘Caution’s the way, huh?’

‘No one’s said it better.’

Raven didn’t argue but she wasn’t convinced. She chewed her jerky in silence, the beef so tough and stringy she almost gagged. Spitting it out, she grabbed her slingshot and announced she was going to kill something for the pot. Gabriel didn’t try to stop her. He didn’t have to. No sooner had she stepped outside when lightning lit up the sky, followed by rumbling thunder.

Though the eye of the storm hadn’t reached them yet, Raven jumped back into the cave and plopped down on her bedroll. ‘Just ’cause I don’t like lightning,’ she said as Gabriel grinned, ‘don’t mean I’m scared of it.’

‘I’m scared of it. Don’t mind admittin’ it, either.’

‘Phooee. You’re just sayin’ that to make me feel better.’

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m scared of it all right.’ He lit the cigarette he’d been rolling and leaned back against the cave to enjoy it. ‘Once when I was a young’un in Colorado, Pa and me were ridin’ up a mountain to one of the gold camps when we got caught in a thunderstorm. The mule I was ridin’ got skittish an’ bucked me off. As I was cussin’ it, a bolt of lightning come down
an’ hit the mule ’tween the eyes an’ killed it.’ Gabriel paused, spit out a smoke ring and poked his finger through it. ‘Been scared of Mr Lightning ever since.’

Raven giggled. ‘Know what, Mr Moonlight? You are the world’s biggest liar, bar none. But I love you anyway.’ Leaning her dark head on his shoulder, she yawned and was asleep before he finished his cigarette.

Though he never would have admitted it, having her pressed against him warmed him better than any fire. Slowly, so he didn’t wake her, he eased his arm up and put it around her shoulders. Let it thunder and rain all night, he thought. He didn’t care. He knew Raven was the closest he would ever come to having a daughter. Just like he knew he’d never find another woman like her mother, Ingrid. But that was all right. Now he had Raven. And knowing she loved him, trusted him, respected him was like … well, like owning a little piece of heaven.