The Englishman was presentable. He could not be faulted on manner or money as he had come to buy an established brand. He was not unattractive, with fine light hair that fell across his slender forehead. He was tall and well fashioned in his foreign suits. And physically whole despite a few minor flaws, unlike some of the locals who were crippled and unable to care for a healthy wife.
As the eldest, Rose Victoria had first choice. She sighed as the last of the potatoes were peeled and she swept the remains into the slop bucket. She hated pigs, hated their smell, their noise, and the fact that she must tend to them as she tended to customers. She would marry and there would be no pigs to slop on her wedding night.
Gayle Souter had been a long time in this country, and he liked what played for him this very morning—lines drawn, views exchanged, two men of mettle gauging the other’s strength. He hoped the Englishman stayed. Times changed and a few civilized men could make a difference. Souter rubbed his graying jaw, edging carefully around the broken tooth. He’d been fighting the tooth for a month, had gotten so he couldn’t eat or sleep. He was wishing for soup, and passing by good steak, even pushing off from dried apple pie.
Hell of a thing when a man didn’t want to eat his fill or do his work, not for a man like Gayle Souter. He was in his midfifties, bowlegged from carrying weight all the long years. Sjpg when he walked, slow to talk his mind, but solid and knowing the worth of responsibility.
He rubbed his hands and the smell of horse liniment rose from the friction. Hands pained him in the chilled mornings. He hurt most places a man could name, from breaks and cuts, bones jammed out of place. And he faced another birthday in two weeks. He was plumb getting old.
His boss, Ransom Littlefield, owned 150 sections of the roughest, most unforgiving land Gayle Souter had ever ridden. And Littlefield’s cattle were like their owner, continually on the prod. Had to be to keep their babies from being coyote dinner. Ten years Souter had worked for Littlefield. Littlefield didn’t like talk, so Souter ordered and the men followed. It was a bargain in both directions.
Two days past, Littlefield had said he was selling out, did Souter want to buy? Souter had glared at the old man, then grimaced as slow comprehension dissolved the anger. Littlefield was ancient, and Souter had never seen it. Face seamed, teeth long gone, shaky hands, neck turkey-wattled. Only the eyes showed a memory of youth. The man was maybe dying, and Souter hadn’t known. But Souter said no, he couldn’t buy.
He had ridden into Socorro, using the broken tooth as the need. Rubbing his bent hands overbits of hair, Littlefield had said it was best Souter got the tooth pulled. “ ’Bout time, son, you been mean all summer.”
Littlefield needed to sell; the Englishman wanted land. 150 sections. Made sense for Souter to sit down at a table and study those pale eyes, see if there was enough backbone.
He watched a young girl cross the street and rubbed his jaw, felt pain branded on inflamed bone. It was one of the younger Blaisdel girls. Growing up nice and sunny, not like the older girl, Rose Victoria. Couple a times he’d found himself eyeing that oldest girl with indecent thoughts. She moved slow, looked up through long lashes, and stared sweetly. The younger girls weren’t that way at all.
Old man rickety and bowlegged, hands sprung wide and bent from work. Old man was a fool for thinking like a young buck. The oldest Blaisdel girl did that; man had his nature, couldn’t change now.
He could fancy the Donald woman. She paid her bills while her old pappy left behind gambling debts and whiskey bottles and more promises than any man could collect. The Donald woman could do as a wife. A man with sense, he could see her refusal to be judged by her pa. She was a woman warm at night, clever all day. But even she was too young for Gayle Souter, and he’d had his share of wives. Still the oldest Blaisdel girl got a man to thinking.
He watched the Blaisdel youngster cross the street, carrying a package that leaked thin blood. Souter chomped down on a chaw that reminded him why he was standing in the livery door watching the doc’s window. Then the doc’s buggy made its appearance. Souter spat out the chaw, wiped his mouth, and felt the tooth rise in protest.
The following morning Gordon Meiklejon drank deeply of bitter coffee and winced at the scalding taste. Souter entered the dining room, stared at each occupant before heading straight to Gordon’s table. Souter’s face was lopsided but no longer swollen, and his recent affliction did not prevent him from speaking clearly.
“ ’Mornin’.” The head tilted briefly but there was no “sir” following.
“Good morning, Mister Souter. Please join me.”
The old man put on quite a show. One large hand was placed on the table’s edge, and the rest of his considerable weight leaned on that hand while the body was lowered into the chair. “Had a horse turn on me ’bout a month past.”
Gordon empathized with the terse explanation. The Blaisdel girl served more of the bitter coffee, which Souter drank in great gulps.
The Englishman was a good listener, his narrow face white, his pale eyes steady on Souter’s face. Souter put the end to his selling and sat back, laid both hands on the table. He saw their knots and scars, and shook his head, blaming any failure of his yarn on coarse words. But Meiklejon was interested; Souter read that much in the slender face. Souter sat quietly, knowing a whole lot rested on a few words.
“I will want to talk with your Mister Littlefield. When do you think we might leave?”
Souter grinned to slow it down. “Mister Meiklejon…ah…sir.” He swallowed some onthe last word but it was right this one time. “There’s a horse Billy’ll let you use. We can ride when it suits you.”
Within a half hour Gordon emerged from his room and began his descent, eager to step into the lobby where he found Souter waiting. He anticipated the ride, fresh air, and exercise. It would be a treat after his confinement in the train car.
The eldest Blaisdel girl held out her hand to Gordon. “Mister Meiklejon, please be careful. I will worry until you return.”
A pretty speech for a pretty girl. He was touched by what he read as genuine distress. “Please, miss, don’t fret on my account. I will be with Mister Souter.”
At the hitch rail, Souter held the reins to a solid bay gelding of some quality. The animal wore the usual contraption of leather and wood, all of which sat on two folded blankets. Souter took possession of a squat horse with the head of an elephant on a mottled body. A canvas bag of food hung from the saddle’s horn. The man pointed to a similar bag tied to Gordon’s saddle. Behind the cantle were tied a blanket and what looked to be an oilcloth. “For sleeping out,” Souter remarked. Gordon looked into the endlessly clear sky.
Another ten minutes was wasted in the local emporium purchasing one of the ubiquitous broad hats. That being accomplished, the two men rode out single file. Immediately the land climbed and evidence of mining corrupted its beauty, but Gordon could not prompt Souter into speaking on anything but cattle.
Magdalena was reached well after noon. It appeared to be a highly industrious town, surrounded by miles of pens clustered near new railroad tracks. Gordon wished to stop, but Souter showed no inclination to do so and Gordon remained wisely silent about his needs.
The bay gelding had a quick trot, which Gordon would have enjoyed had the saddle been more comfortable. He rode more like a child aboard its first pony than an officer from Her Majesty’s forces. At times he envied Souter on the mottled pony. The old man sat the animal’s singular pace with no apparent effort. Gordon Meiklejon felt abraded pain in his knees and backside after several hours and began to wish for another method of travel.