“We started out last night, when you didn’t get back,” Allen said. “We knew you’d found something.”
Larom’s eyes had left McGregor. He was looking down the canyon. He knew. The horse he rode was one the boy had never seen before. A buckskin, tough, lean and wiry. This was no quarter horse bred by man, handled by man since the day he’d been foaled. No, this horse had been a wild mustang.
Larom’s gaze swept back, found McGregor looking at his horse, and said, “Spooky is a broke wild horse, Mac. He ain’t agreein’ with you at all that the stud’s gone. Nope, it ain’t so, he’s tellin’ me.”
The buckskin was snorting. He had his ears far forward and his eyes were turned down the canyon.
Larom’s long jaw swung out as he added, “No better way of knowin’ what’s around you than by ridin a broke wild horse. Somehow they know plenty without seein’ anything or catchin’ a scent. It ain’t natural, but that’s the way it is. Ain’t it so, Spooky?” He patted the neck of his bucksin. “Now let’s see what’s up ahead.”
The men pulled quickly out of line. The boy tried to stop them, but Allen had hold of his horse. “Why’d you do it, Mac? What reason did you have for lying to me?” Allen kept him with Mike and Joe while the hunters moved away.
McGregor said nothing. He could do nothing except follow them with his eyes. He had told his stallion to wait for him in the canyon, and had made it easy for them. Never had a better horse-trap been prepared by Larom than the one he, McGregor, had set unwittingly for his stallion.
He slid down from the saddle, and began walking after them. A minute later Allen rode beside him. “Kid, what’s come over you?” he asked. But the boy kept quiet, his eyes never leaving the mounted riders beyond. He saw them stop a short distance from the twist in the canyon, draw together and listen to Larom’s orders. Soon they were moving again. He saw the last man in line disappear around the bend. Suddenly the canyon walls vibrated with the stallion’s whistle!
He ran, Allen’s horse moving beside him, and then he stopped. Just ahead the hunters sat their horses across the canyon floor, closing this path of escape to the stallion. Far on the right were Hank Larom and two more men, sitting astride their mounts before the entrance to the pass, closing that means of escape, too.
It was easy, so easy. The trap had been sprung. The stallion and his band were only a short distance down the canyon. The mares were bunched, their heads together. The black stallion stood alone, just in front of his band. His head was held high, and turning constantly; he nickered to his mares. He must have realized they had no chance to scatter and break through the line of men.
The boy went to Larom. He heard the ranch foreman call to the man next to him, “Russ, look’ut that stud horse. You never before seen anything like him!” Larom’s face was intensely eager. “He’s somethin’ I’ve seen in dreams, but never real, not in the forty years I’ve been huntin’. He’s a perfect horse, a great horse … an’ he’s smart, Russ. He knows we got him trapped, but he’s smart and waitin’ to break through. He’s waitin’ there for us to come and get him.”
Russ didn’t say anything for a minute, and then, “We won’t be able to get near him, Hank, not on what we’re ridin’. Even your buckskin is scared to death of him. He’ll never go near that hoss. He’s too smart for that!”
What he said was true of all the horses in the barrier line. They were squealing in their terror of the black stallion.
Russ went on, “We got to cut him off from his band, Hank. The mares will be easy for us to handle, if we kin separate ’em.”
“It’s not the mares we want,” Larom said. “It’s him. An’ I ain’t never goin’ to quit until I git him. After him there ain’t no other horse for me in the world.”
“It’s goin’ to be like fightin’ a cougar with bare hands,” Russ said. “Like I said before, we ain’t gettin’ our horses up to him. He’d kill ’em sure, an’ they know it.”
“I’ll go up walkin’,” Larom said.
The other rider didn’t take his eyes off the stallion. “Then he’ll kill you, too, Hank. You know that as well as I do. I know he’s got a killer look in his eyes without even bein’ able to see it from here. I know it jus’ by the way he’s standin’ up there, an’ waitin’.”
“I ain’t goin’ to let him get away,” Larom said. “I ain’t, an’ that’s for sure.” For the first time he moved the rifle he carried.
The boy saw this movement and so did Allen, who said, “Hank, we take this stallion alive or not at all. I couldn’t get rid of him that way.”
Larom’s eyes didn’t leave the stallion. “Boss, I wasn’t goin’ to kill that stud. I guess I’d shoot myself before I done anything like that. I was jus’ thinkin’ I’d crease him, if I couldn’t git him any other way.”
The other rider turned to Allen. “By creasin’ Hank means grazin’ a bullet along his neck. It would cut him down without hurtin’ him much. Hank’s one of the few men who can do it, boss. I’ve seen him.”
McGregor’s face twitched convulsively. He inched toward Larom’s rifle. No one was going to graze his horse with a bullet. How long ago had it been since Larom had hunted horses? Years! And his aim needed to be off only a fraction of an inch to kill.
Suddenly Larom said, “The stud’s comin’ down!”
Every man in the line was set, with one hand controlling his frightened mount and the other on his rifle, ready to fire into the air to terrorize the stallion into going back if he sought to break out of the canyon.
The stallion came closer, the beat of his hoofs swifter and louder. The men looked and looked, following his every movement, each man longing to have him for his own. Yet in these brief moments all the hardened hunters except one gave him up as unattainable. Only Larom cherished this stallion so much that he would risk his life to capture him.
The horse came to a plunging stop a short distance away from them. He stood there watching them, his large eyes moving up and down the line of men until they found the boy. He nickered and pounded his hoofs into the earth. Every muscle of his body was clearly defined in the bright sun. His small head rocked and he tossed his mane and forelock vigorously. He nickered again, his eyes never leaving the boy.
Russ said, “He’s got the killer look. I told you he’d have it, Hank. Even the hair on his neck gives him away for what he is. He’ll kill you if you go after him alone, an’ if we go as a group he’ll break the line and scatter with his mares. We ain’t seein’ him again once he does that. He’s too fast for our hosses. I knew that jus’ seein’ him come down.”
“I know,” Larom said, and all his great longing was in his voice. “We’ll never git near him … not unless I kin crease him. But God, Russ, if I kill him, I won’t be able to live with myself.”
“Get him now, Hank. You couldn’t miss at fifty yards.”
“No, I couldn’t miss at this distance.” Larom slid down from his restless buckskin, and handed the reins to Russ. But he never raised his rifle, for McGregor’s hands were on it, holding it down. Then he heard McGregor’s words:
“I’ll get him. I’ll get him for you.”
Then McGregor left, before Larom had a chance to understand what the boy meant to do. The foreman watched with the others, staring and unbelieving, while McGregor walked toward the stallion. He realized immediately that the kid wasn’t going to his death, for the savageness had left the stallion’s eyes. McGregor pulled the Black’s head down to him and stayed with the stallion, stroking him, while the men stared, still not believing what they had witnessed. Finally McGregor turned away from the stallion, and came back to them.
“Give me a halter, and we’ll go with you,” he said.
Larom tore his incredulous gaze away from McGregor to get the halter out of his saddlebag. He gave it to the boy without saying a word.
Far down the canyon, the mares raised their heads to nicker to their leader. The stallion turned toward them but didn’t move. Without him they would be free no lon
ger, returning quickly and easily to the domestic life most of them had left at his bidding. They would follow the mounted ponies back to the ranch, eager once more for good feed and shelter and care.
The stallion turned to the boy approaching him. He, too, was ready to go home.
The men watched McGregor slip on the halter. They broke their line across the canyon when the stallion was led toward them, Allen going on ahead. Hank Larom nodded to several men, and they left to get the mares.
Russ, riding beside Larom, said quietly, “We ain’t never seen anything like that before, Hank.”
“No. We saw a lot of things today we ain’t ever seen before.”
“But that’s a wild stallion. How’s the kid gittin’ away with it?”
Larom shrugged his thin shoulders. “I ain’t knowin’ how, but he gentled him some way before we got here.”
“All in one night?”
“Has to be. He couldn’t have come across him before late yesterday afternoon.”
“It ain’t right,” Russ said. “It’s spooky, that’s what it is. Spooky.”
“I know, but sometimes it happens. Sometimes it does.” Larom paused. “I’d give ten years of my life if it’d happened to me, Russ … ten years.”
“You better wait ’til you see how the kid makes out with him before sayin’ that, Hank. I still wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. Nope, not me.”
CLOSING HANDS
14
It was a little over a week since they had brought the black outlaw to the ranch and had given him the largest of the corrals. As long as McGregor tended him he gave no trouble, but none of the other men dared go near him. To them he remained “a wild stallion never clear broke.” They knew the boy could handle him, but with the exception of Hank Larom none of them understood why this was so. They listened to Larom explain that “sometimes it happens. Sometimes it ain’t necessary to break a wild horse by ridin’ him until he finds out you’re the boss.” They shook their heads, not believing this any more than everything else they had witnessed. They decided that sooner or later a reckoning must come. To their minds, gentle hands, and a soft voice—instead of ropes and a bronc saddle—had no place in the mastery of a mature, unbroken stallion.
Although Allen hadn’t forgiven McGregor for telling him that the stallion and his band had left these parts when they hadn’t, he had no alternative but to put the boy in complete charge of the black horse. No one else would touch the stallion without his being fully broken. Only Larom could have broken him the way they understood, and he wouldn’t do it because he was convinced it wasn’t necessary. He believed that the boy and the stallion should be left alone for the time being to see how things worked out.
This arrangement suited McGregor perfectly. He had not lost his horse. He still had time to learn all he wanted to know. Early one morning when he had finished brushing the stallion, he looked around to find Allen standing outside the corral fence. Allen called to him. As he walked toward the fence he was filled with uneasiness, for he knew his employer would have fired him days ago if it had not been for Hank Larom. Was his dimissal coming now?
At the fence he said, “Yes, boss?”
Allen removed his hat with thin, nervous hands. He said nothing; his eyes were on the stallion who stood in the center of the corral, watching them.
The boy, too, turned to his horse and then back to Allen again.
Finally the man said, “You got him pretty well cleaned up in the short time he’s been here.”
“I can change his coat, but not the scars.”
“No, they’re there to stay, all right.”
In the adjacent corral was the stallion’s band. The mares began moving about. Their hot smell was heavy in the still air. Just beyond in another corral ran Hot Feet with tossing head. Allen’s eyes turned to his prized quarter stallion, and he looked upon him as he would no other horse in the world. “The outlaw’s a fine horse, but Hot Feet’s a better one,” he said.
“Better for you,” McGregor replied quietly. “It all depends who’s looking at them, and what he wants in a horse.”
Allen was silent for a few moments, and then he said, “Yes, I guess that’s true.” He turned to raise a long, bony finger in the boy’s face. “But the real men in this horse game are the breeders, the men who take the time to figure out bloodlines and crosses, who mate their mares intelligently, trying to improve their breed or type of horse.”
The boy couldn’t help smiling in spite of the finger wagging in his face. “Sometimes you don’t get exactly what you want. Sometimes you’re disappointed.”
“I know that,” Allen returned brusquely. “But at least we try, and that’s what is important in this game. We spend time and thought trying to improve our stock.” His eyes found the black stallion again. “I don’t want him,” he said. “I had nothing to do with his being here. Neither did any other person. He’s a product of the wild, just an accident of birth, like any one of the thousands of mustangs who’ve roamed this country for centuries.”
“I’ll take him, if you don’t want him,” the boy said quickly. His chest was so tight that his words came only in a whisper. Allen turned to him, and McGregor repeated what he’d said, louder this time.
The keen eyes behind the rimless glasses saw everything. Finally Allen said, “No, I’m holding on to him, Mac. For the time being, anyway.”
“But you’ll keep me in mind in case …”
“Yes, of course. You’re the only one who can handle him … except, perhaps, for Hank.” Allen took his foot off the fence rail and replaced his hat. “What I wanted to talk to you about was this: I guess you know we’ve got some races over in Preston next week. They’re pretty big, and we get horses from California, Texas, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico and Colorado. That’s where Hot Feet won his championship last year.” Allen paused. “I was thinking that I might send Hot Feet over to Preston again. And, to make a long story short, I’d like you to ride him.”
Allen’s last words came forth with a ring. He turned to the boy, smiling, as if to say that all was forgiven, and here was the opportunity to ride a champion in the Southwest’s greatest race meeting. His mouth dropped when he saw no elation on the boy’s face, only a stiffness that was cold and unchanging.
“It’s the chance of a lifetime,” Allen added awkwardly. “Last year we had over ten thousand people watching the races. You ride Hot Feet well and you can name your own price in the future … not only from me but from other owners who are always looking for good jockeys. Riding racehorses is big business, Mac. You can …” Allen stopped abruptly. Then he went on. “But maybe you’re like me and not interested in the money end of it, Mac. I should have known better than to put it the way I did. Here’s what we’ll do. I like the way you ride a horse, and the way you handle them. I’ll make you my stable partner if you do well with Hot Feet next week. After that, we’ll breed our mares to him, and raise our own. You’ll own them with me, and do the race riding. How’s that for a deal, kid?”
There was still no change in the boy’s face.
Allen said, “Hank has been working Hot Feet, so my little champ is just about ready to go. All you’ll have to do is ride him around here a few days to get used to his ways. You’ll like him, Mac!”
The boy’s lips barely moved. “I like him now, but I can’t ride him, boss. I can’t.” He saw a sudden change sweep over the man’s face. All of Allen’s eagerness and enthusiasm were gone. In their place were disappointment and bewilderment. The boy knew he couldn’t ride Hot Feet with ten thousand people watching him. He was deathly afraid that just one person among all those thousands would identify him for what he was, a thief, and he would have to run again. He knew, too, that Allen wouldn’t force him to ride. It wasn’t in this man to think of his riding Hot Feet as anything but a great privilege.
“Have it your own way,” Allen said, turning away. The matter was closed. He would never reopen the subject. “If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be in tow
n. Back this afternoon,” he added brusquely.
The boy crossed the corral to his stallion. The horse put out his tongue for him to pull. This trick had been going on all week long. But it was nothing new to him or the stallion. When had it first begun? Where?
In Leesburg, the burro Goldie was tied to the rail outside the general store and post office. His eyes were closed and his long ears drooped. He paid no attention to the scrubby Indian ponies hitched to small buckboards and wagons, even when their owners came out of the store and, after loading flour, cloth, potatoes and tin dishes, rattled away. Nor did he hear the loud blare of the jukebox coming from the restaurant a few doors down the dirt street.
Finally Gordon emerged from the store, carrying a heavily wrapped package whose weight bent his long, lean body in his effort to hold it. He put it down before Goldie and said, “I’ll get a cup of coffee, and then we’ll start back. I’m not packing this on you yet, but keep your eyes on it.”
Goldie never opened his eyes.
Gordon walked down the street to the restaurant, and went inside. He hoped he could have his coffee in peace, that whoever was putting coins in the jukebox would leave. There were several men sitting at the counter. He nodded to them, and was making his way to one of the booths when he saw Cruikshank sitting on the stool at the end of the counter. He nodded to him, and Cruikshank nodded back.
Reaching the booth, he sat down. A newspaper had been left on the seat. He picked it up, noting that it was a Phoenix paper and over a week old. He wasn’t interested in the news but turned to the back section, hoping to find a crossword puzzle. His eyes lighted when he saw one.
“What’ll you have, Slim?” It was the man from behind the counter.
“Coffee. Maybe a couple of fried eggs, too.” Gordon looked up. “Got a pencil on you, Harry?”
“Yeah. Here.”
When the waiter had gone, Gordon turned again to the puzzle. While he worked on it he thought of Cruikshank. So Cruikshank was out of jail. Seemed only a few days ago that he’d brought the kid to town and it all had happened. Yet almost a month had passed. Well, he held no grudge against Cruikshank, and Cruikshank was letting him alone. Nothing wrong with that.