He still had doubts about Jackson's offer. It was better than some dull, monotonous job, but it was also plainly dangerous.
Thinking on it, he turned over. His ribs ached; he groaned. The sound produced another, which he identified as Fen waking up and padding across the tipi to stand beside his head. Charles lay rigid. Would the dog bite him?
Fen's head bobbed down. His raspy warm tongue licked Charles's bruised face three times.
On such small affections do large decisions turn.
"Fine, damn fine," Wooden Foot exclaimed when Charles said yes in the morning. The trader rummaged in a heap of blankets and canvas-wrapped bales, found two supple objects that he pressed into his new partner's hands.
"What are these?"
"Buffla-hide moccasins. From a winter kill. You get the thickest coat on the buffla then. You turn it inside, see? These'll keep you warm where we're goin'."
The tipi filled with the rich smells of coffee boiling and sowbelly frying in a cast-iron skillet. With a mitten on his right hand, Boy squatted and held the skillet over the fire, an almost demented concentration on his face.
"I'll need a horse," Charles said;
"I got an extra I brought back from the Indian Territory. A four-legged jug-headed whelp of Satan nobody would buy. If you can ride him, you can have him."
"I have to qualify to be your partner?"
The trader squinted at him. "That's the size of it."
"I'm still pretty sore. Riding some wild horse won't help that any."
Wooden Foot shrugged to acknowledge the point. "I s'pose we could wait a day or so —"
Charles rubbed his aching ribs and thought about it. "No. Let's get it over with."
Heavy fog hid most of the ground around Wooden Foot's tipi, which he'd erected west of the tent town near Jefferson Barracks. The trader led Charles to the horse, tethered some distance from his other saddle animals and pack mules. The small, rangy piebald was black and white, with a broad face blaze.
"I think he's a killer," Wooden Foot said, reaching for the low tree branch to which he'd tied a rope fastened to the headstall. "I prob'ly oughta shoot him."
"Watch out," Charles yelled, pushing Jackson as the horse reared. Front hooves slashed the mist where the trader had stood a moment before.
"See?" he said, from where the push had spilled him. "I broke him, but nobody can ride him. I come close to puttin' a bullet in him twice already."
Charles felt tense, uneasy. He was remembering his last, and fatal, ride on Sport in Virginia. Sport, an enemy bullet in him, had carried Charles to safety with speed and great heart while his lifeblood pumped away behind, splashing the snow. Sport had been a horse nobody had wanted.
"Don't try killing him in front of me," he said. "I lost a fine gray charger in the war. I can't tolerate anyone hurting a horse."
Still, he understood the trader's apprehension. The piebald had murder in his eye. Charles saw some virtues, though. Lightness — he estimated the horse at about a thousand pounds — a fine neck, and the smaller hooves and head typical of a Southern saddler.
"Indian pony, you said?"
"Yep. The Army ruins 'em. Chokes 'em with grain so they forget livin' on grass. Makes 'em weak and slow. Won't happen to this one. He won't live that long."
"Let's find out. Where's that blanket and saddle?"
The mist rolled thick around them. Wooden Foot tied the rope to the tree again. With a listing gait, Charles walked to the piebald. "It's all right," he said, putting the blanket on. "It's all right."
The piebald lifted his right foreleg. Charles's belly tightened up. Down went the hoof again, plop, and the piebald exhaled. Charles saddled him with care, tossing Wooden Foot a surprised look when the saddle's weight caused no problem. He didn't understand. Maybe there was some unfathomable streak of madness in that beautiful head.
He dropped the stirrups down and mounted slowly, as much from pain as caution. The piebald stayed still, though he turned his head, trying to see his rider. The mist rolled, the centaur figure rising from it. On the distant Army post, bugles sounded a morning call.
Quietly, Charles said, "Untie the rope."
Wooden Foot darted in and did it fast. Charles took the rope, wrapped it around one hand, gave an easy tug.
Shooting skyward, his left leg wrenched by jerking out of the stirrup, Charles thought, Jackson will have to kill him. He struck the piebald's croup as he came down, then hit the dirt, while the horse bellowed and kicked. The impact made him feel like torches had been lit in his body. A hoof gashed his forehead before he rolled clear and snatched out his Army Colt. Kneeling, in excruciating pain, he steadied the revolver with both hands, waiting for the horse to come after him.
The piebald snorted, stamped, but stood still. Boy hugged his uncle's waist from behind, peeking at the horse and the man aiming the gun.
"Better do it, Main."
"No, not unless — wait. I didn't notice before. Do you see that red bubble on his mouth?"
Peevish, Jackson said he surely didn't. Charles knew that men the trader's age often had trouble with their eyes. He shoved the Colt away and approached the horse cautiously. "Let me see," he said in a soothing voice. "Just keep quiet and let me see." His heart hammered; the piebald's eyes held that raging look again.
But he let Charles gently pry his jaws apart, revealing the blood-slimed bit. Charles exploded with laughter born of relief. "Come see this. Not too fast." Wooden Foot sidled in behind him. "There's your killer streak. An abscessed molar. Leave the reins alone, and he's fine. Pull them, he goes crazy."
"I missed it," Wooden Foot said. "Just damn completely missed it."
"Easy enough to do." Charles shrugged, unwilling to tell the older man he should buy a pair of spectacles. He reached under to rub the piebald's chest. "Soon as we find a horse doctor to nick that tooth and drain and poultice it, he'll be fine."
"You'll keep him?"
"That was the deal, wasn't it? You want to pat him, Boy? It's all right."
Wooden Foot's nephew scuttled forward, a heartbreaking elation on his white face. He touched the piebald and smiled. The trader sighed, his tension gone.
"Then he's yours to name, Charlie."
Charles thought a bit, joining Boy in patting the horse. "Let's see. It should be a name to make people respect him, and not fool with him. They don't need to know he's gentle." He patted the horse again. "You said the devil whelped him. I'll name him for his papa. Satan."
"Hot damn," the trader cried, starting a little jig, bouncing from his good foot to the artificial one with amazing agility. "Hot damn, oh, hot damn. This here outfit's back in business."