A Tale Out of Luck (12 page)

By leaning on the stick, he was able to rise to his feet and look around him. His vision blurred the distant landscape, but he could see the ground under him well enough, and the rising sun gave him his bearings. He began walking, using the stick like an old lady, keeping the sun over his right shoulder. He didn’t know what else to do. He was not going to just lie there and die, in shame and defeat.

Before the fight, Crazy Bear had told everyone in camp that if they were attacked, and had to scatter, they would meet up again where the two big rivers came together—the ones named the Colorado and the Llano by the Spaniards who had come long before the Americans. He knew that campground was to the northwest, so he plodded along in that direction.

Neither time nor distance meant anything to him anymore, and so he could not say how far he had walked when he tripped. In straining, trying to catch himself upon his walking stick, he tore open the wound where the bullet had ripped out of his body over his right hip bone. His knees hit and he pitched forward onto his face. He felt the warmth of his own blood running down his side.

Was this how he would die? Bleeding to death, facedown in the dirt, too weak to sing his own death song? Father Sun’s glare drilled mercilessly into him, and the Wolf knew that any hope he had of surviving would have to come from the spirits now, for he was no more able to help himself than a motherless infant. He felt very thirsty, and his eyes closed.

“Hey,
Jefe
, when do I get my next raise?” Policarpo asked, riding along at a trot beside Hank on the road to Fort Jennings. Tonk was riding ahead, as if he was still scouting for the Texas Rangers. They had stayed in town last night and had ridden home to the Broken Arrow Ranch after dawn. Failing to find Jay Blue and Skeeter there, they figured they’d better ride on over to Fort Jennings to inquire after the boys.

“A raise?” Hank said, scoffing at the idea. “I defy you to find another ranch foreman in Texas as well paid as you.”

“But I need more whore money.”

Hank appreciated the honesty, but didn’t buy the argument. “You ended up with that plump gal from Flora’s last night, didn’t you?”

“No,” Poli insisted. “She ended up. I was standing flat-footed.”

Hank grinned, and shook his head. “You’re liable to rot something off proddin’ around in the wrong place. Then you damn sure won’t need a raise.”

“I’m serious,
Capitán
,
I ain’t so young anymore. I gotta make hay while the sun shines, if you know what I mean.”

“You got plenty of time. Look at me.” He shot a grin at his foreman, and felt the twinkle in his eye from last night at Flora’s.

“Ah-ha!” Poli blurted.

“Ah-ha, what?”

“Forget about the raise, you just told me what I wanted to know.”

“I didn’t tell you a damn thing.”

“How was it?”

“How was what?”

“Come on,
Capitán
, is the prize as good as the wrapping paper looks?”

Hank frowned. “None of your business. Let’s lope on into Fort Jennings.”

They caught up with Tonk and the three of them hit a canter that lasted until they came to the sentry on the road. Gaining entry to the post, they rode to the officer’s quarters and found First Sergeant July Polk sitting in his favorite chair, leaning back against the porch in the sun. He was out of uniform, shirtless, his left arm bandaged and in a sling.

“Hello, Captain Tomlinson,” he said as Hank and his two ranch hands trotted up. “I’ve been expectin’ you.”

Hank nodded a greeting. “Have we met?”

“Not exactly,” Polk explained, “but I know who you are. I saw you here on the Fourth of July, for the festivities, but we didn’t get a chance to howdy and shake.” He rose from his chair as Hank dismounted. He offered his hand to the retired Ranger. “First Sergeant July Polk.”

“Pleasure,” Hank said, shaking the man’s massive hand. “Why would you be expectin’ me?”

“Your son was here yesterday. Thought you might be on his trail, with the Indian trouble and all.”

“I don’t exactly consider just one corpse full of arrows Indian trouble.”

Polk frowned. “So you haven’t heard?”

Hank felt that simmering feeling of dread trying to come to a boil. “Maybe you better enlighten me.”

“We had a fight with the Comanches yesterday on Flat Rock Creek. . . .”

Hank listened intently to the account of the skirmish. According to the first sergeant, who painted a clear picture of what had happened, the Indians had suffered the worst of it, although Major Quitman and two troopers had been killed. Polk seemed neither proud nor ashamed of any of this, and Hank felt inclined to believe his story.

“What about the boys?” Hank asked.

“I’d hoped they’d do as the major ordered, and go home,” Polk said. “But I asked around to make sure. A couple of privates who stayed behind at the fort yesterday remembered seeing your boys ride off to the west. It looked like they were on the trail of that mustanger.”

“What mustanger?” Hank asked. He spent the next few minutes listening to what First Sergeant July Polk knew about one peculiar individual by the name of Jubal Hayes. This was a bit harder to swallow than the story about the Indian skirmish, but Hank still tended to give credence to Polk’s account.

“Who’s in charge with the major killed?”

“I guess I am,” Polk admitted. “The colonel is way up on the Brazos. The captain took sick and was sent to San Antone. The lieutenant is on leave.”

“You look like you can keep order among the men.” Hank smiled.

“I can handle ’em, sir.”

“Which way did the boys go?”

First Sergeant Polk pointed. “That way. To the right of the corrals. But the trail’s a day old, and it’s been windy.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Hank stepped back up on his horse. “Between me and Tonk, we’ll find ’em.” What concerned him was
how
he might find them, but he didn’t intend to bother Polk with his worries. “I thank you for your information, First Sergeant.”

18

J
AY BLUE
eased his borrowed mustang pony up to the brink of the overlook, Jubal indicating with minuscule movements of his gloved fingers that the boys should approach with all possible caution.

“There they are,” Jubal said in a whisper.

Jay Blue’s right stirrup brushed Jubal’s left as Skeeter stepped up to the mustanger’s off side. Jay Blue removed his hat, stood in the stirrups, and peeked over the rimrock through the thorny-leaved cover of an agarita bush clinging to the precipice. Along the unnamed creek that took the form of a series of pools—like a string of pearls haphazardly cast aside—wild horses grazed and drank, meandering in and out of the cover, which included oak and elm trees, and several large, onion-shaped cedar bushes.

The sight filled Jay Blue’s heart with more hope than he had been able to cling to for the past two days. Yet, there was still one lingering doubt. “Where’s the mare?” he whispered.

“She’s down there in the timber somewhere.”

“You sure it’s the right bunch of mustangs? I don’t see her, or the Steel Dust Gray.”

“There!” Jubal said in a whisper. “Comin’ out of the trees.”

Jay Blue caught sight of the motion, and the Thoroughbred mare trotted into view. His heart thumped as if he were walking into Flora’s Saloon to attempt a flirtation with the lovely Jane. Then, from the same opening in the creek-side undergrowth, the Steel Dust Gray stepped into view with his neck bowed and his head high, the morning sun painting a sheen on the ripples of his musculature. His tail switched with every step of his strut. He came sniffing up behind the mare, but she squealed and kicked at him, dodging toward the water, where she paused to take a good long drink.

“He still hasn’t had time to have his way with her,” Jubal whispered.

“Hey,” Jay Blue said, almost too excited to keep his voice down, “are y’all thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

The dark lenses of Jubal’s glasses turned on him. “Son, I wouldn’t bet that you and me have
ever
had the same thought in our heads at the same time.”

“Since when did you start thinkin’?” Skeeter added.

Undaunted, Jay Blue motioned for his two trail mates to follow him back down the slope a way where they could talk out loud.

“Mr. Hayes, she’s filling up on water right now.” Jay Blue grabbed the coiled lasso lashed to the right fork of his saddle. “I can catch her easy when she’s full of water. I can ride around downwind, come through that draw, sneak through the cover, and get within fifty yards of her before she ever sees me.”

“Are you as good with a rope as you are with a banjo?”

“Music is just an avocation, Mr. Hayes. Cowboyin’ is what I do for a
livin’
! I can swing a rope a whole lot better than I can play a banjo.”

“Now, Jay Blue,” Skeeter said, “don’t sell yourself short on that banjo. I’ve seen you rope.”

“I’m serious, Skeeter.”

“I am, too. He’s a damn fine banjo picker, Mr. Hayes, but he can barely hit the ground with a loop.”

“Shut up, Skeeter. Mr. Hayes, I can rope that mare out of that herd, and you’ll be shed of us.”

Jubal nodded his agreement. “Skeeter and I will ride further to the west, and come up the canyon. That’s the way Steel Dust will try to escape.” He looked at Skeeter. “We’ll need to get two ropes on that killer. You ain’t scared, are you?”

Skeeter grinned and shook his head. “No, sir. I live for this shit.”

“Let’s go,” Jay Blue said. He turned his mount toward the draw. He could already feel the tug of the mare on the business end of his rope. He picked his way quickly, but as quietly as possible, across the slope, to the head of the draw he had spotted from the overlook. The wind, the angle of the draw, and the timber all covered his approach toward the herd of wild horses. He built a loop as he eased through the woods.

Coming out of the draw, the trees became more widely spaced. His mount began to get excited, and Jay Blue knew the cow pony could smell the mustangs. He heard the grunts, the snorts, and the nickers of the animals interacting. Then, coming around a cedar bush, Jay Blue caught sight of the Thoroughbred, not sixty yards away.

He did not hesitate. He raked his spurs across a rib or two and his mount shot forward. The mare threw her head up and ran away at half speed, trying to gain an understanding of this new arrival. She seemed to gather the fact that a rider was coming for her, and she appeared to desire capture.

Jay Blue gained on her quickly, but now he sensed the panic that had electrified the entire herd of mustangs. He heard limbs snapping, rocks clattering, and hooves drumming. From the corners of his eyes, he detected all shades of horseflesh scattering every which way, but he kept his gaze focused on his target. The commotion spooked the mare to three-quarter speed, but she continued to run across an open stretch on the creek basin, and the roper closed in, his loop still in waiting at his right side.

Jay Blue squeaked a smooching sound out between his recently busted lips, and his roping pony responded with a burst that pressed his hip pockets hard against the high cantle. He could feel the space closing between him and the mare, who now angled to her right, giving him a sure shot at her head. There had been no need to whirl the loop above his head until now. Instinctively, he could feel that he would circle it twice to build momentum, and release it on the third revolution forward. Gracefully, the way a chef might grasp a serving ladle, his right hand swung forward over his mount’s ear, sending the large loop he had built swinging far out in front of his pony’s muzzle.

Two revolutions overhead, and he was there. He released the loop the third time around and saw it hit behind the mare’s right ear and flip perfectly over her regal nose. He yanked the slack, and had her, just shy of some brush that might have spoiled his throw.

Then the flash of silver appeared. It swooped past with the speed of a diving hawk, glinting briefly in the sun like a huge bass being hauled up from a clear pool. With it came a shriek of equine rage—a shrill whistle, a guttural roar, and a shuddering scream all rolled into one.

Now flashes of steel dust gray seemed to come from everywhere. Feathered fetlocks cut between Jay Blue’s black eye and his cow pony’s mane. Hard hooves hissed through the air. Teeth ripped at the roping pony’s mane, tearing hair and flesh. The muscled chest of the stallion slammed against Jay Blue’s mount, staggering him sideways. Only the tightening of the rope attached to the Thoroughbred prevented the cow pony from falling.

There was a whirlwind of mane and tail swapping ends, and the sharp edges of two hind hooves shot toward Jay Blue and his mount as if fired from a cannon. The cow pony was still stumbling to the right from the recent collision, and the Steel Dust Gray just barely connected, missing the saddle pony altogether, but tapping Jay Blue on the left thigh, about as hard as a sledgehammer would hit a railroad spike.

Reeling from the pain of the kick, Jay Blue saw a hell of a wreck coming on, considering that he was still tied to the powerful Thoroughbred, his cow pony was terrified, and the Steel Dust Gray wanted him dead.

Relief came in the form of Skeeter Rodriguez, who appeared out of nowhere to get a loop on the stallion. Steel Dust turned on Skeeter for committing such an outrage, but Jubal was in position with a second lasso just in time to secure the famous wild stud between two stout roping horses.

“The pen’s up the canyon!” Jubal cried. “Lead that mare. He’ll follow.”

Jay Blue understood that logic, and the Thoroughbred was well trained to lead, so he trotted her upstream and soon spotted the high cedar rails of the mustang trap Jubal had built. He led the mare inside through the open gate.

Keeping the lunging mustang stud between them, trying their best not to choke him senseless, the ropers managed to coax Steel Dust to the opening of the pen. Jubal rode in first and, with a final exhaustive effort, dragged the crazed wild thing inside with him.

Skeeter knew to stay outside of the pen and throw his loop over the top of a rail so he could pull Steel Dust to one side of the pen, allowing Jubal to slack his lariat and ride back out through the gate. By the time this was accomplished, Jay Blue had led the mare out of the pen and closed the gate on the Steel Dust Gray.