It was Gayle Souter and the kid, Red Pierson.
Davey would have laughed but his sides already hurt. He suspected from the look on English’s face that the man was going through the same feeling. Davey did the talking this time; it was his boss’s range.
Souter never took his gaze off of Burn, except to give the bay colt a good study.
Davey tried to make his point. “Holden aimed to shoot me, Souter, and Burn stopped him. Last we saw, Holden was headed north on a black Sunday bronc’.”
Souter surprised them with his answer. “Miss Katherine sent us this way, said Holden’d been to the ranch. We turned her pa back some time ago. Davey, you finish your chore…gather up what you can. English here’ll help you drive the stuff in …as payment for some of the grass his mares been grazin’. Me and Red, we’re trackin’ Holden,and we’ll get him this time or run him off our range.”
When they got on Holden’s tracks, Souter let the boy do the work. He gave him encouraging words when it got rough, but most of the time he sat his red dun and thought about the two men they had left behind. Hildahl would be Meiklejon’s best choice to take over when he himself had to quit. He hated to think that way, but the past few days had told him he was no longer young. Davey Hildahl would do as boss in a few years.
Red hauled up, pointed to where Holden’s tracks climbed a shale slide.
Souter patted his bronco’s neck. He couldn’t second guess Holden, even with the information about Holden’s direction. The tracks went straight up. Souter and the boy followed.
It took a long half day to ride the rest of the section. Pride kept Davey and English from admitting the truth, even when it plain hurt to keep working. Finally they spoke up about the horses, saying the broncos were done in and needed a rest. In the colt’s case it was true; even a greenhorn could see the youngster was worn to a nub.
They camped outside the bull’s territory, roasted a tough hare and boiled old coffee, even cut open an airtight of peaches and took turns spearing the fruit. No need to talk. The horses grazed. The colt even got down and rolled in the hobbles and got back up with no trouble. In the morning they’d push the market stuff over to the burned cottonwood, leave them for Bit Haven and Stan Brewitt to bring in.
The last quarter mile, right before they could see the ranch, was hell for both men. Davey cursed under his breath; he was delivering Burn English to Miss Katherine again. Awoman as fine and tender-hearted as Miss Katherine, she found more in a man than was really there. He was the fool, after all—big, dumb Davey Hildahl putting a rival in the arms of the woman they both loved.
They rode that last quarter mile in silence, full of memories and forlorn hope.
Katherine was at the kitchen door when they rode in. Their terrible exhaustion was evident, yet they spent time caring for the horses before they took care of themselves. At the door, Katherine watched.
Bothered by her private thoughts, she fed both men as much as they could eat, marveling at their capacity. Davey was the first to finish, sipping at cooled coffee while Burn ate a second piece of pie. They had not spoken except to ask for more biscuits or another platter of meat. Unless she asked a direct question, they were too busy to talk. She knew the range etiquette—a meal was for eating, talk came later.
Burn stood up and thanked her while Davey offered to wash the dishes. She stared at them in wonder. There was pride and grace in Burn English, with fiery eyes and temper, the heavy black hair and thin body. Then Katherine moved her gaze to Davey who fiddled with the dishes, holding one up in his long hands. Sweet, child-like, steady, and strong.
She knew without either of them needing to tell it—they both were in love with her.
Burn was the first to hear the two horses. Hetensed, glanced out the door. Gayle Souter and the boy, Red. The old man climbed down from his red dun, sjpg as Burn ever saw a man. Souter headed for the kitchen. Burn saw the look on the seamed face and knew it was bad.
Katherine walked to the door. Souter entered and refused coffee. Katherine backed up until she could almost touch both Davey and Burn.
“Ma’am.” Souter removed his hat. He looked down at the swept floor marred with boot scuffs. He couldn’t get the words out so he began again. “Ma’am. We found your father, Miss Katherine. Shot through the heart. He died quick.”
It was as bad as Burn knew it would be.
Souter droned on, doing his job the only way he knew. “We found Jack Holden nearby.” Souter coughed. “From what we could read off those tracks, Holden met with your pa and…don’t know why, won’t ever know…but Holden shot your pa.” Here Souter faltered before continuing. “It looked like Holden’s horse bolted. The spill broke Holden’s back.” There was a long pause this time. “He was dead…time we got to him.” Souter had finished.
Katherine took a half step closer to Davey. As Davey put his hand on her arm, a look passed between him and Burn English until Burn had to turn away.
Epilogue
When he wrote the final words, Gordon Meiklejon realized the sun was glittering through fast-moving clouds. It had taken him five days of steady writing to come to the end. Now Gordon ventured outside to look up and see the distant blue of the sky. When he raised his face, he could feel the sun’s warmth on his winter skin. He sighed, and a voice called out: “What’d you think, boss?”
Gordon turned, watching as the man walked toward him, long legs pumping through the drifts. Davey Hildahl stopped next to Gordon, and the two men exchanged pleasantries.
“This will do for the spring grasses, won’t it?”
Davey nodded at the boss’ statement. “It’s what Souter would have called ‘poor man’s fertilizer.’ A spring snow’ll melt quick and that pretty green we been waiting for’ll grow up fast.”
They’d come a long way since that terrible fall. Davey and his wife lived in the old house, the one Littlefield built in ’84. Gordon had offered to build them a new home, but Katherine said her husband liked the place and that she’d grown fond of it, also. Several rooms had been added to accommodate the Hildahl children as they were born. First was Henry, born in ’94, and then little Gordon. And Edward, who had lived only a month. Fanny and her sister Elizabeth shared a large room.
It was a full house, one Gordon and his wife envied. Roberta was unable to bear children, but she shared some of the child-rearing work with Katherine. Only on very rare occasions did Meiklejon catch her gazing at the Hildahl children with sorrow in her fine eyes.
Once Hildahl left him, Gordon sat down at the cluttered desk and reread the final words of his story, thinking of all the events that had followed. He would not record these, for it had been his purpose to write his impressions of that first year, since it had served as his introduction to New Mexico.
Rose Victoria Blaisdel had never recovered from her ride. She had laid, semi-conscious, for days until word filtered back to Socorro of Jack Holden’s death. The child had then gone through the hotel shrieking, and it had taken Dr. Lockhart several hours and a bottle of laudanum to quiet her. She had been sent East “to visit an aunt,” as the family told the story. By the following spring, no one spoke of her at all.
Both her sisters married. One lived on the L Slash with her husband, Red Pierson. The boy had thickened as he matured into his promise, and was a good hand on the ranch. The other sister was in Socorro with her second husband, running the Southern Hotel.