Territory (19 page)

“Let’s get it in writing, then.” Jesse hoped that wasn’t going too far.

Earp huffed, but his face relaxed. “Fair enough. Neither of us knows the other. And a man has to make his living.” Earp thrust out his hand again and Jesse shook it. “Come up to my place, and we’ll make a contract.”

A man has to make his living. Jesse’s public reason for remaining in town had just died, but no one would wonder at a man staying to pick up a little work. He could as well be a horse-tamer in Tombstone as in Sonora, until Lung was done with him. Oh, Lord, he’d been on his way to tell Lung about

Ortega. But Earp had already set off across the street. It would have to wait.

The house at Fremont and First was a solid square cabin with a covered front porch and a scramble of corral and outbuildings behind. Earp led the way through a side gate to the kitchen door.

“Bide a minute. I’ll see if Allie thinks the house is fit for company.” Earp ducked in, and Jesse turned to study the corral.

Not the best place to work—a box stall and a big empty barn would be better—but the ground was soft, and the enclosure was big enough to maneuver a horse and cart in. He doubted there was a big empty barn in the territory, anyway. A lean-to at one end of the corral provided shade for two good-looking horses and a burro.

He heard voices in the house, a man’s and a woman’s. Words reached him as they neared the door.

“… for twenty whole dollars!” the woman said.

Earp’s voice rumbled, less clear, but sounding amused. Jesse thought he heard “worth more” and “save a bit of time.”

“And when did we come to have more money than time?”

Jesse decided it would be better, when the door opened, to be out of earshot. He followed the beaten earth path to the corral.

The burro came to the fence, stuck its muzzle between the rails, and lipped at the hem of his coat. “No, I don’t,” Jesse told it, “and you haven’t earned one, anyway.” The burro settled for having its ears stroked.

The two horses stayed under the lean-to. One, a white-faced chestnut mare, stood at her ease, a hind foot cocked, ears slack even in the presence of a stranger. The other was a long-backed bay with black legs. He stood behind the chestnut, looking across her withers at Jesse, his ears pricked forward.

That would be the colt, young enough to shelter behind his lead mare, wary of strangers. Earp was right about his make: he was the picture of a good carriage horse. A good all-around horse, he’d bet, for endurance and short bursts of speed.

The house door banged. Earp came into the yard, but his wife stayed on the stoop, her chin up, not quite frowning. She was a tiny thing next to Earp, a wren in calico and a flour-sack apron.

“Mr. Fox,” Earp said, “this is my wife.”

Wren-sized Mrs. Earp might be, but she was plainly not to be made to flit, by Jesse or anyone. She looked him up and down. “That what you generally wear for horse-breakin’, Mr. Fox?”

Jesse looked down at his coat and waistcoat and smiled. “No, ma’am. I suppose I wasn’t thinking.”

“Oh. I figured that would account for the price you’re charging.”

Earp stiffened. But Jesse coughed with surprise and laughter and replied, “Yes, ma’am. You see, I’m so presentable you can invite the neighbors to watch me work, and charge them two bits a head. Toss in another dollar, and I’ll give ’em a pretty girl in spangles to stand on your horse’s back.”

Mrs. Earp laughed, a whoop that made even her husband smile. “Mr. Fox, if you weren’t the despair of your ma, I’m a Hindoo. And if you was always so careful of your clothes, she must’ve done a smart bit o’ washin’. Give that paper a look, now.”

Earp was holding it out to him, his mouth folded into a wry grin. He took the contract, read it quickly, and tucked it into his pocket.

He shrugged out of his coat and nodded toward the bay. “That’s the colt?”

Earp nodded. “Pure-blood Morgan, bred up in Prescott. Name’s Spark.”

“If someone in Prescott’s breeding horses like that, he must be having to hold the Apaches off with cannon. If you’ll take the other horse and the burro out and hitch them out of sight, I’ll get started.”

“I’ll put your things in the house,” Mrs. Earp said sweetly. “You may as well wear that coat as lay it on the ground like you was about to.”

Jesse felt his face heat up. He handed her the coat, and his waistcoat, collar, and tie. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Among the harness and rope hung on the lean-to’s outside wall, Jesse found what he needed. He draped the assorted bits of tack over the gatepost, climbed the fence, and dropped down to the churned earth of the corral.

The bay colt watched, ears hard forward, as he approached. “Sorry, young ‘un,” Jesse told him, “You’d like an excuse to fuss, but you won’t get one from me.” Before Spark could decide to shy off, Jesse had his left palm under the
colt’s nose to smell, and his right hand scratching under his muzzle, his fingers in the halter. When the colt tried to lip at his left hand, Jesse drew it back. The colt stretched his head out to follow, and Jesse pulled gently on the halter. Spark followed Jesse toward the gate. Good—he wasn’t halter-shy.

Jesse fastened a length of rope to the halter and tied the colt to the fence rail, ready to free him immediately if he began to pull against the rope. But he stood quietly.

Jesse moved his hands over the colt’s face, under his jaw, up around his cheeks to fondle his ears, talking all the while. He stayed close, almost pressed against the smooth red-brown hide, as he passed his hands down the colt’s neck and shoulders, rubbed his foreleg and picked up his foot, set it down, reached under his belly, slid both arms over his back. Spark’s ears swiveled to follow his movements, but he didn’t sidle away.

Jesse had moved to Spark’s right side when those ears swung forward, and the colt made a ruffling noise out his nose. Jesse turned to see Earp leaning on the fence rail.

“Mind if I watch?”

“Not a bit. Just don’t do anything sudden.” Jesse finished Spark’s right side, lifting his hind foot and handling his tail. Then he gave him a scratch on the withers and headed for the gear slung over the gatepost.

“What was all that?” Earp asked.

“Just seeing if he’s touchy about anything. Horses are short on reason but long on memory. For all they know, every time something happens, it will be exactly like the time they remember. And they always remember the worst time.” Jesse grinned as he sorted out two lengths of leather rein and the harness surcingle. “Not unlike some people you know, I’ll bet.” Earp snorted appreciatively. Jesse hung the reins over his shoulder and added, “This fellow here doesn’t seem to recall being hurt by anyone.”

“I’d hope not.”

Jesse tried to make his shrug apologetic. “Horse trainers tend to withhold judgment until they deal with the horse.” Men lied; horses couldn’t. He held up the surcingle, let the colt smell it, then rubbed it along the colt’s chest and near shoulder and back, and finally fastened it around Spark’s belly.

“You’re awful patient,” Earp said.

“Mm-hmm.” But Earp was only a shadow. The colt was real: the density of him, the heat of the blood under his skin and the breath out of his nostrils, the weight of heart and lungs and bones. A boulder with legs. Next to Spark he felt as sturdy as a daisy stem.

He looped one end of the shorter rein around the colt’s left foreleg just
above the hoof and picked up the foot. Then he twined the other end in a loop around the upper leg and tied it, so the strap held the colt’s left leg up. He heard Earp make a noise.

Jesse untied Spark from the rail, took hold of the halter rope, and drew the colt’s head to the left. He could feel the colt’s reluctance—one did not walk on three feet; it was bad, unsafe—but Spark’s choices were limited. He could either follow or fall over. An uncertain hop with the right leg; step, step with the hind legs. Hop, step, step.

By the time he got Spark to the middle of the corral, Jesse felt the balance shift between them. The colt was still a large presence at his side. But he’d turned from a boulder to a wheel, and Jesse had only to roll him as he pleased.

He stroked and scratched the colt, and talked to him. He slid the longer piece of rein off his shoulder and gave Spark a good look at it, then rubbed it over the horse’s neck and chest and forelegs. Then Jesse snubbed one end around the colt’s right front foot, and threaded the loose end through the belly band.

“This is going to hurt your dignity,” he told Spark, rubbing the colt’s nose, “but nothing else.” He stood beside Spark’s left shoulder, took the halter rope in his left hand and the end of the long rein in his right. Then he pulled the colt’s head to the left.

Hop, step, step. But as the colt lifted his right foot again, Jesse took up the slack in the strap that was tied to it. When Spark came down from his hop, his right foot was pulled up under him, just like the left. Jesse could almost feel the colt’s shock as he slumped to his knees in the loose earth.

The colt’s hindquarters bunched as he tried to rise. Jesse kept the strap tight, the colt’s knees bent. Spark got his hind legs under him and reared, eyes rolling. Jesse moved to stay at his left shoulder and kept his grip on the strap. But he let the halter rope slip easily in his hand. Spark could have his head and welcome; as long as Jesse had his forelegs, he was helpless.

Spark came down again, and to his knees; reared again, staggered back on his hind legs. Jesse stayed with him. Sweat blackened the hair on the colt’s neck and flanks and legs. Jesse talked to him, his voice gentle, while he kept the strap tight in his right hand.

He hated this part. He hated the fear the horse felt, the way that fear grew as the animal learned that nothing it did could win this fight. If he’d handraised Spark as he had Sam, this wouldn’t be necessary. But Sam had been made to believe since before he’d first stood up that Jesse was stronger than he was. Spark still had to be convinced. The more of his strength he used, the more of it there was for Jesse to turn against him.

Humans expected horses to think like humans. Jesse knew better—but it troubled him that, in a horse, wisdom could grow out of fear.

At last Spark came to his knees and stayed there, sweat white on his hide. Jesse caressed his ears, stroked his neck, and sweet-talked him. Then he drew the colt’s head to the left again and leaned into his shoulder. For a minute, two minutes, five, he felt the horse tense against the pressure. But leverage and exhaustion won. Spark collapsed onto his right side and lay still.

Wheels roll because they’re round. Horses yield to fear and kindness because they’re born to, blood and bone and breath. Jesse looked down at the the colt, flanks rising and falling with each pant, and saw himself.

This thing that he had, that Lung had forced him to admit to, was his master. It was his own strength he struggled against when he fought it. He could deny it, but the power in him would only bring him to his knees again.

He’d tamed horses that required days of this work, that had gone back to fighting as soon as they got their wind back. They were the ones who’d known cruelty, mostly, the ones angry at the whole species of Man. What was his, Jesse’s, excuse? Why did the thought of that unreasonable, inexplicable force make him want to strike out or run even when he knew it would win in the end?

Lily, of course. Lily weeping in a cold white room.

The light stopped stabbing his eyes and beating at his brain. The change was so sudden it was itself almost painful, like ice water on a burn. He was awash in the blaze of the Arizona sun, but no more than that.

Jesse let go of the strap in his right hand, and unbound Spark’s left foot as well. He straightened the colt’s front legs out on the ground and rubbed them, then worked his way up and all over the horse, caressing and talking. Spark had no vice or anger in him; Jesse knew this lesson would be enough.

Jesse lay down and pillowed his head on Spark’s front hooves. It looked like showing off, and it was, a little. But it also told Spark that human mastery didn’t depend on the human standing on two legs.

“I’ll be damned,” Earp said softly from the corral fence, and Jesse smiled up at the sky. Yes, it was partly showing off.

When Spark breathed easier, Jesse stood up and went to his head. “Up,” he said, and tugged gently at the halter. Spark got his feet under him and scrambled up. Then he stood quietly, head at shoulder level, as if he didn’t want the lead horse in the herd to think he was feeling uppity. Jesse pulled a handful of weeds and rubbed Spark down with them. “You won’t believe this,” he assured the colt, “but I know just how you feel.”

The hard work was done; now he could address Earp’s complaint. He left
Spark to rest while he fetched the harness from the lean-to. The headstall had blinders, of course. He took out his pocketknife and began to cut the stitching that fastened the leather squares to the cheek pieces.

“Hey!” Earp said.

Jesse kept cutting. “Don’t use these.”

“To hell with that. A horse’ll spook if he sees things off to the side of him.”

“Horses spook at what they can’t see or can’t understand. Let a horse have a good look at anything, and he’ll see that it won’t hurt him. A horse wearing blinders starts off nervous.”