“Thank you, miss, but…no. I have taken in all the sustenance my long-abused body may absorb.”
He rose from the table to wander out of doors. He had come here on impulse; he had chosen to place faith in this one town. He would purchase land and settle. Now he needed to learn about his proposed home. In furtherance of this challenge, he approached a supposedly unoccupied gentleman.
“Sir, could you tell me the hour?” It was said politely and Gordon received an ill-tempered look.
“ ’Bout nine.”
That was all he garnered before the man moved to a circle of other men beginning to form. Careful to avoid the widening group, Gordon set an even pace along a boarded street, curious to look in each window and know the business within. He was careful, easy on his stiffened leg, and after some time found himself returned to the same spot where he had previously learned the time.
A deep, full voice spoke harsh words: “Damn him for ridin’ in like we ain’t nothin’ to him. Damn him for all the trouble he’s gonna cause.”
Gordon looked where men were pointing. A horseman had appeared at the edge of town, and the group, surrounding Gordon, drifted apart, faces turned to the approaching rider.
It was the first riding animal Gordon had seen in several weeks that he thought worthy of notice. Most of what was available had been scrub stock, such as usually found in hot climates. Heads too large, ewe necks, narrow-chested, and goose-rumped. Indeed, the most redeeming features of these animals were the ease with which they covered unyielding ground.
This horseman rode a tall, long-legged sorrel marked with too much white for Gordon’s taste, but the animal was well formed and sturdy. The rider’s gear was of the local variety, but its construction and decoration were exceptional. The rider himself possessed a grace not seen in many men, perched as they were on their scrawny mounts. The usual wide-brimmed hat shadowed much of the face, withholding the eyes from Gordon’s study. The head bent down, the eyes appeared too briefly, a light shade of blue startling in the darkened face.
“ ’Mornin’, mister. Nice day…for buzzards and weasels.”
Gordon wisely said nothing. Although the rider’s clothes were mended and patched, the bridle held medallions of silver and the saddle was carved with ornate flowers. Even the handgun was nestled in its scrolled holster. Gordon noted that the rider’s free hand rested near the pistol at all times. As horse and rider proceeded, Gordon recognized a marked change in the group of men—their sound had muted, their hands had stilled. It became difficult to draw in a breath. Gordon’s heart raced, his pulse thumped as he watched the sorrel horse strut. He waited. Still nothing happened, no one moved.
Then a voice crackled and stopped the prancing horse.
“Well, there, Mister Holden. You come to be miserable with me or to make the misery worse? Sure can use the company while I wait.”
An older man, heavy-set and in some obvious discomfort, had emerged from a building marked Livery Stable. One hand was set tentatively against the swollen side of his reddened face. This sudden presence knocked air into Gordon’s lungs and stirred the group of silent men.
“Hey there, Souter. Ain’t seen you since I got this bronc’. You had some strong opinions on my choice, I remember.”
The two men laughed, even Gordon smiled, and the endless traffic around them resumed. Words were exchanged between the two men that Gordon could not hear. Then the sorrel horse became agitated, shifting its weight, stamping a front hoof to paw the dirt. Sweat showed thick and white between the animal’s hind legs as its tail slapped wet hide.
The man addressed as Holden nodded to his older companion, then touched long legs to the horse’s sides. Nothing else seemed to move as the big horse skittered down a convenient alley. Even Souter remained watchful until Holden disappeared, and then he went inside.
Gordon’s leg trembled, his eyes fluttered, and he could feel that thump inside his chest. He would try a café across the street for a glass of something cold. Then he would resume his quest. But a commotion behind him forced him to look back as a thin horse ran past him. A scrub barely thirteen hands, ears flat, tail high, the pony responded frantically to the lashings of its fat rider. Horse and rider skidded into the same alley that minutes before had received the sorrel gelding and its commander. Gordon hurried in a painful run, determined not to miss the inevitable confrontation with Holden. Short of breath, he stopped, wiped his wet eyes with the back of his sleeve.
Mouth gaping, reins flying, the thin, yellow pony now raced toward him. Freed of the rider’s bulk, the saddle rose and fell with each stride, its heavy stirrups unnecessarily goading the pony’s flight.
When the pony was close, Gordon jumped to catch the bridle. His fingers felt the wet muzzle, the pony’s breath close on his face. The ponyslowed, then reared against Gordon’s grip. Yanked off balance, Gordon caught the saddle horn and righted himself. His heart and breath roared, but he heard the words.
“Now that’s not the smartest thing I’ve seen a man do. Jumpin’ out to catch that scrub could get a man killed.” It was the rider on the sorrel.
Gordon shrugged as he drew the reins over the pony’s head. He used his damaged right hand to withdraw his last linen handkerchief to wipe his face.
The man continued: “That bronc’ belongs to Melicio Quitano. Obliged if you’d take it to Billy’s stable. Melicio don’t need it right now, but when he wakes up, he’ll be wanting to ride on.” Derision laced the words.
This Quitano was alive or he would have no further need of the yellow pony, Gordon surmised. Choosing carefully to exhibit himself as a thoughtful man despite such risky behavior, he said: “I shall see to the pony, sir.”
Laughter made the retort barely comprehensible. “ ‘Shall’ is it? You’re that Englishman.” The laughter stopped. The sorrel’s horseman leaned back in his ornate saddle, rubbing a place high on his arm. “I commend you, Englishman, for catchin’ that pony.”
Gordon passed the stunted fingers across his jaw. It was his ruse for stalling.
The rider hesitated, then spoke: “It’s not likely Señor Quitano would enjoy seeing my face right now. He spoke hard words and paid for them. Some kind citizen will be glad to tell him where his pony’s gone…since we’re gatherin’ an audience…and you can be sure these boys’ll be eager to talk. Once I’m gone.” A bitter note tinged the last words.
Gordon’s instinct as he looked directly into the handsome face was one of pity. That a man so young and well apportioned should know the world in an ugly manner.
“I won’t tell you my story ’cause folks’ll tell you. All about Jack Holden and his outlaw ways.”
Gordon held his breath at the man’s honesty.
“Don’t fret now. They’re likely to drive me to my death with words, Mister Englishman. You take note and tell me sometime who speaks up and what story they tell.”
Gordon Meiklejon could not doubt that the townspeople were wise to fear the young man, and wiser still to let him ride on. Holden tipped his hat and reined the sorrel around Gordon and the yellow pony. Horse and rider reached the main street, turned left, and walked down the exact center of that broad path while the town held its breath.
It was the man with the swollen face who took the pony’s reins and led it inside the stable. Gordon followed, curious as to what questions would be asked.
The older man was decisive. “There here’s Melicio’s bronc’. How’d you come by it?”