The Dark Horse (29 page)

At least, I hoped so.

I took another hop-step and raised my left hand again, but this time with the palm up and fingers flat. She was standing near the stake that had been hammered into a fissure in the rocky surface of the mesa, and she didn’t move. Neither did I.

The wind rocked against me with the silence of the high desert, and the ghosts whined their way past but were unable to resist a touch on their way. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature and wondered if they would be for me or against me.

Maybe it was because I didn’t have anything to lose and she could sense my need, maybe it was the keening of the spirits, or maybe it was because she had been starved almost to death, but she took a step forward—what my friends who knew about such things called a try. I took a breath but still didn’t move.

She turned her head sideways just a bit, the way horses always do when they really want to see you, and took another step. Another try.

In my life, I have been kicked by horses and bitten by them. I’ve been stepped on, crushed against gates, and thrown to the ground, but I have also been nuzzled, rubbed against, carried by, nickered at, and warmed by the great beasts. I thought of all the horses I’d known and couldn’t think of a bad one. My father had said the beasts of the field didn’t feel pain like we did, but I never saw him mistreat one, ever.

You learn by experience, and from my father I learned patience. So, I waited.

She took another step forward, stretched her neck, and tried to smell the grain and sorghum treat without coming closer.

My eyes watered and not just because of the wind. Humans can go for weeks without food, according to size and weight, but all of us perish in about seventy-two hours without water.

Another step, another try.

My arm was getting tired, but I didn’t move. The old me voice was back, telling me that horses don’t think like us, they don’t hold grudges, and they respond to release rather than pressure.

“Is this going to take long?” I shifted my eyes to him and then back to the mare. “I mean, I’m just asking.”

A number of thoughts and responses sprang to mind, but I didn’t want to startle Wahoo Sue.

Her neck strained forward, and the prehensile lips with the dark hairs touched the biscuit. You could see the damage the stiff, blood-coated harness had done to the horse’s tender nose and cheekbones. The noseband was bloodied and the galled skin around it was seeping fluid. The crownpiece had worn the hair from the poll section of her mane, and what was left was crusted with dried blood and serum. Along with skinning her sides, the unforgiving chain had damaged her legs, gaskins, hocks, and pasterns.

I took a few deep breaths and fought against the chemicals deadening every system in my body.

Her weight shifted, and she took the treat.

Hard to get, but not homicidal, the old me voice said.

I tried to remember what Mary had said when she had been sleepwalking in the jail. I spoke in the softest voice I could muster. “So-o-o girl, so-o-o girl . . .” I watched as Sue took a couple of guarded steps, then aligned her body, and considered me and the second offering.

I could feel myself wavering with each breath, every exhale pitching me forward just a bit. Maybe she could see it, too. Maybe she could tell I wasn’t in any shape to do anything, especially hurt her.

Mary’s voice prompted again, and I repeated. “S-o-o girl, so-o-o . . .”

Another try, then another.

This time she didn’t stretch her neck out but rather took that extra step. I placed the rifle barrel against my side, then rolled my hand up around the treat and only let her nibble on the end.

I raised my hand and touched under her chin. The big mare started in slight outrage, but then settled. I allowed her most of the treat from my hand and ran the other under her jaw line and readjusted the halter in a casual manner.

She lowered her head to me, and the old me voice said something about Hershel’s horse at the burned house and at the corral on Barton Road.

I leaned in very slowly and exhaled.

Wahoo Sue stuck her big, velvety nose out to me and inhaled, just as the old cowboy’s horse had. We stood there like that, exchanging breath, and I could feel the anxiety start to leave her.

It was as if I’d thrown a switch, and she stood there, stiff-legged but in a small way compliant. I slipped the rest of the treat into her mouth and took hold of the logging chain, careful to hold it away from her skinned and scabbed body. Slowly, I took a step in close, trailing the hated attachment to my left and turning toward the trunk of the mare’s body. She twisted to look at me but held still.

I was only going to get one shot at this, and even in my doped state, I knew it wasn’t going to feel good. I had to do it smoothly and quickly, neither of which were catchwords in my physical repertoire, even without a broken foot and a drug overdose.

It was almost as if she knew my intention, but I wasn’t sure if she pawed the ground in anticipation or warning. I took hold of the Henry rifle and then reached up to her withers, spreading my one hand over her spine, set my good foot, and leapt.

My weight caused her to shift slightly to the right and then she stood on stiff legs as I clambered for a seat. I waited and, to my surprise, absolutely nothing happened.

Almost adding insult to embarrassment, Wahoo Sue turned and looked at me with a large, soulful brown eye. Just to be sure, I stroked her neck, careful not to touch her wounds, and repeated the magic words. “So-o-o girl, easy girl . . .”

Cly called out from my left. “Hey, Sheriff, how are you going to get that stake out of the ground?”

Bureau boys.

I kept stroking her black neck, and it was like the wind was blowing inside me. I slumped forward with one of the waves of fatigue, which knocked my hat back. Somehow, I held the rifle across her withers with one hand and, with the other, I held Wahoo Sue’s mane. “Good girl, so-o-o good.” I took a few breaths and leaned back, kicking my heels down and gigging her toward the center stake to gain some slack.

I looked over the horse’s shoulder to the wounded man on the ground and kept my voice in the same soft tone as I had used with her. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but I’ll be back for you, so don’t go out crawling around and don’t lose my sidearm.”

His voice was still strong, and my hopes were that he’d hold out. He was tough, I knew that; the question was going to be how tough. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“If Barsad comes back, don’t take any chances, and do what you need to do.”

I saw him reaching with his far hand and pulling the weapon up and onto his chest. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to let him have another crack at me.” I could see a light spot in the darkness where his face must’ve been. “You’re talking like this is our last conversation.”

I rubbed my hands up the mare’s neck. “Just for now, because once I unbuckle this harness, I don’t think I’m going to have time to say anything.”

“What do you think she’s going to do?”

I stretched my eyes in an attempt to get a clearer view of the harness buckle. “I think she’s going to go for water, and that’s off the mesa and toward town.”

“Do me a favor?”

The nylon was stiff with blood, but I finally got it loosened enough so that I could move the flap under the keeper and through the buckle. “What’s that?”

“Don’t run over me.”

I nodded and slipped the rest of the strap out, and the harness dropped about an inch on Wahoo Sue’s long muzzle. I leaned in close and spoke softly into her ear. “I know you’re sick, I know you’re tired, but if you don’t get us both out of here, an awful lot of bad things are going to happen. They say you can run, so you show me.”

The halter fell away, and it was all she needed. She dropped her head, lunged back and to the side away from the chain, and was out of the circle. I felt the lift as my chest crashed against her withers, and I clutched the rifle and the big mare’s mane.

She crow-hopped to the right, then gathered her big haunches and launched in one great leap. And she was like a missile. I held on as we veered to the right and away from Cliff Cly. He screamed after us as we rushed by.

“Hi-yo Silver, away!”

Two quick strikes, and we were at speed.

I’d been on fast horses or, what I thought were fast horses, but nothing like Wahoo Sue. I felt like my ears were going to touch behind my head.

We’d veered back west and had collided with the road like it was a wall, the big mare’s hooves hammertoeing into the hard surface of the mesa like twelve-pound sledges. I had never been on a horse whose pace was so ferocious, yet whose gait was like a twenty-dollar shave. I could feel the blood and energy that passed between us like an electric current, and it was almost as if the poison was being pulled from my body and cast to the dirt and dust flying behind us. I was enhanced and could feel the wind on my skin unlike I had for some time.

I had never succumbed to the idea of a horse as transportation and was always quick to point out that machines, when you turned them off, stopped eating.

But they didn’t have a heart.

As I’d slung my two-hundred-forty-odd pounds onto the mare’s back, I’d been worried about her weakened state, but I shouldn’t have been concerned. Feral and unfettered, Wahoo Sue was doing what she did best, what came natural to her—running within an inch of her life and mine.

I could see the road stretching to the horizon north like the tensioned string on a gigantic basalt banjo. I slipped my heels in and down, and I rode close, like some grotesque jockey, and dipped my head at her withers to catch my breath—she was that fast.

We galloped past a smattering of rocks that were scattered across the surface of the two-track where something had run into them; I only hoped that it was Barsad and not Benjamin. The road canted slightly to the left, and I assumed that in less than twenty minutes we would be heading into the final furlong with the horse trailer as the finish line.

I became aware of something breaking trail across the gnarled brush of the mesa to my right. I had a brief twinge of panic, thinking it might be Barsad in the truck, and thought about trying to raise the Henry rifle, but there wasn’t any way he’d be off the road. I thought it could be Benjamin, but there were no lights, and finally, in the slight sliver of moonlight, I could see it was another horse.

My horse with no name.

He was doing his best, and you could see the stirrups, reins, and even the canteen bouncing with a comic effect. He tried to close the apex of our trajectory, but she was just too fast. I was glad to see he was still alive and unhurt, but the last I saw of him, he had joined the road but was falling away. Wahoo Sue must’ve been aware of him also, because she shifted into an even higher gear, and I thought about the old cowboy and how happy he’d be if he could see her now. I settled in for the straight shot to the trailer.

The voices were back again, the old me and everyone else; as fast as Wahoo Sue was, she couldn’t escape my anxieties. Where would Benjamin go?. Where could he go to escape the truck? He’d have to stay off-road; it was the only advantage he’d have in avoiding the much faster vehicle, but how could he when there was only one way down?

A quick jarring as Sue stumbled for a single hoof strike, and I almost dropped the heavy rifle. I had to pay attention so that when we got to the main road, I’d be able to steer her to the water buckets at the trailer.

As near as my rambling mind could tell, we’d been at a full gallop for miles, so I tried to pull her back into a canter. At first she wouldn’t hear of it, lunging forward whenever I pulled on her mane and repositioned my feet. Wahoo Sue had two speeds—fast and damn-well faster.

I tried a second time and could feel her relax a little and finally loosen into a comfortable lope, but after a few more minutes I saw the four-wheeler in the middle of the road. I could only hope that the damn thing had run out of gas. I pulled the dark horse up as close as she’d go and looked down.

There were truck treads beside the ATV, but also a pair of miniature boot tracks leading off into the sagebrush. There were no other footprints, especially ones from running shoes, and it looked like Barstad hadn’t even bothered to get out of the truck when he had passed.

That cagey kid had gone to ground and had been smart enough to get away from the road. His Cheyenne half was showing.

Now, where would he go?

I could see the regular shape of the horse trailer. I knew there wouldn’t be any feed left, but I was hoping that the grulla and the packhorse hadn’t gulped all the water. As we made the turn onto the main access road leading to the cliffside trail down from the mesa, however, I could see that the other horses were gone.

I pulled Wahoo Sue up beside the line where I’d tied the two animals. I could see the fresh tracks where either Benjamin or Barsad must have retrieved them. I was betting on the kid, as the horse tracks scattered toward the road and continued back down from the mesa, but there were marks from the truck as well.

Damn.

First things had to come first or Sue might collapse under me, and I’d be ineffectively afoot. I directed the big mare over to the black rubber buckets that still hung on the side of the trailer. As I’d suspected, the ones that had held the grain were empty, but as I had hoped, the water containers were three-quarters full. I watched as she submerged half her nostrils and sucked in the water like a sump pump.

I patted her neck and then slipped off the side, took one half-step, and collapsed, dropping the rifle and slamming my head against the trailer only to slide down and lay there propped against one of the tires.

I’d forgotten about my broken foot.