The sorrel shied at a blowing weed and Jack spurred the big horse back into line. He would not ride one of the small Spanish pacers; they did not suit his wry vanity. It took a blooded horse to carry all of Jack Holden.
Several hours from town, the sorrel went to its knees. Jack stepped down as the horse buried its nose in soft sand. He grabbed the head and yanked until the horse stood. The right front tendon was thickening. Bowed, he thought. He undid his rigging and pulled off the bridle, then drew his pistol, wavered, and slid the weapon back. He’d leave this horse to fate.
The saddle was a burden, and walking was never good. Jack managed a mile, which ate up the bleak warmth of the afternoon. He put the saddle down, sought out a comfortable tree, and decided to wait. The territory was full of people, and some didn’t know it was Christmas.
He hadn’t counted on the particular horse and rider that finally approached him. Jack was in full sight of the trail, smoking a cigar. The small horse, a dark roan, was just sturdy enough to carry Jack and his saddle until he got to Son Liddell’s pasture. But as Jack watched the rider, he figured he’d have to share the roan, not steal it. When the horse and rider got closer, Jack saw nothing to change his mind. The man was small but he came at Jack without hesitation.
Jack saw the watchful eyes, the nerveless hands gentle on the reins. He’d not get the roan by sweet talk or a gun. He’d have to fight, and itcould come to dying. The rider stopped the roan out of reach. It was Jack’s game.
“Mister, you see my trouble. Got any ideas?”
“Walk.” That was all.
“Hell, mister, I done that.” Damned if he’d walk when there was a horse this close. “Give a man a lift?”
The vivid eyes drifted down Jack’s length, then looked at the mountains, the low sun. The eyes came around to Jack. “Tomorrow.”
Didn’t want company, didn’t like folks much. Hell, Jack had felt it many a time when he had been threatened with a rope. The man was a mustanger—he knew by the intense smell. Best to keep upwind of his company. It would be a cold camp. Damn but he was hungry.
Before daylight, Jack slid from his blankets and approached the roan. He wiggled his fingers under the pony’s nose. The roan shifted his head so Jack couldn’t reach him. Jack persisted and the roan bowed his neck, touched Jack’s cold fingers with a dry muzzle, and blew warmed air across Jack’s palm.
“You ain’t gonna steal him, mister. Get back to your sleeping.” The voice came from an undetermined direction.
The son-of-a-bitch had moved his blankets. Jack lied, knowing it would make no difference. “Thought I’d make friends since he’s goin’ to carry double, come morning.”
The knowing voice answered: “Yeah, and I just needed a softer place for my bedroll. Lie back down, mister. That roan ain’t your friend.”
Jack had given his name maybe three times last night, and still he got called “mister”. He eased away from the roan and lay down. The blanket felt good; he was shivering from the new-dawn chill. Jack rolled up tight, cursing softly.
Cold beans, hard biscuits—at least the fellow wasn’t against sharing. Cold camps didn’t set well, but a mustanger couldn’t risk the breath of fire on his hide. And this one was the pure quill.
The roan watered out of the rider’s punched hat. This was a tough pair. It was going to be hard separating them. Jack got his saddle in one hand and came up next to the mustanger. It wasn’t till then that he saw how small the man was. Not even up to Jack’s chin. Yet the man didn’t shrink from the threat of Jack’s presence.
The mustanger pulled the cinch tight on the roan, slipped a ring bit in the horse’s mouth, and buckled the headstall, held on to the split reins. Each move was spare. Then the man turned to him, eyes going up to Jack’s face. Hard green eyes. Jack didn’t like what burned there, knew the mustanger saw the same thing in Jack’s face.
“You leave your gear, come back for it.” He nodded at Jack’s heavy saddle. “Ain’t asking the roan to carry that thing.” Jack’s rig was real pretty; he’d never felt nothing but pride for the gear before. The man paused. “Bring a bridle.”
Jack Holden was a lot of bad things and most he’d admit to, but he wouldn’t kill a man over one horse. Not when the man looked into Jack and understood and still doled out cold beans, made the offer of a ride.
The mustanger swung up on his horse, kicked out one stirrup. Jack let his saddle drop and slid his leg over the mustang’s rump. The pony squatted, ears flat back. The mustanger touched the roan’s neck, spoke a few words, and the roan ears swiveled rapidly. Then Jack settled on the slippery rump and grabbed the saddle’s high back. The mustanger allowed the roan to step forward. The pony half jumped, stopped, shook violently, loosening Jack. Both men laughed; the pony’s ears went back again.
After a morning’s ride, they climbed a small hill, and below them a band of horses grazed in a narrow cañon. Jack slid down as the mustanger spoke.
“Best think ’fore you pick out your next horse.”
Jack grunted: “I got a supply some miles from here. Only needin’ a lift. I’m thankin’ you for the ride.” He couldn’t resist. “And the fine company.”
Hell, Jack thought as he slid down into the cañon where the horse band grazed, I still don’t know the son-of-a-bitch’s name.
Chapter Six
Jack Holden rode into Socorro once more that winter. Rose heard the horse’s footsteps come around the root cellar where she was cleaning up a spilled pickle jar.
The buckskin horse Jack rode was skittish and he had his hands full as he leaned over and put his hand on her. Then he was down from the buckskin, kissing her, and Rose kissed him back. She clung to Jack, and there was nothing else inthe world—until Mama’s voice came from the back door.
“Rose Victoria, you get away from that man.” Then it was a wail. “It’s Jack Holden!” Mama’s desperation was proof; Rose was no longer a child.
Jack slipped back onto his horse, looked down at Rose with those wonderful eyes. “Darlin’, your ma’ll bring the whole town here. I’ll be ridin’ on, but you keep that place warm.” He smiled, and she tried reaching him but the skittish horse bolted.
Rose swept the remains of the pickle jar into a corner of the cellar and ventured out, passing by her family with a knowing smile.
Meiklejon returned to the Southern Hotel in late February. The whole town knew he had wired for more money. He spent his time at the dry goods store where Harnett would order anything for cash up front. They discussed the merits of wire while waiting for the cash to appear.
Rose didn’t care about the wire or any of the talk that went with it. She only wanted Gordon Meiklejon, the suitor. He appeared lonely but that was impossible, for daily he talked with the banker and even saw the town doctor several times. Words went back and forth to England, the telegraph operator told her father. Couldn’t say names for it was against company policy.
Occasionally she glimpsed him in the stuffy room Mama called a parlor, seated in a worn chair, holding a book. Those soft eyes looked out a shuttered window without blinking. She was curious to know what he thought, guessing it would be men’s business.
He stopped her one evening and asked if he had offended her, for she seemed distant of late. Could he be of help? He had come to depend on her smile, he said, to brighten his days while he waded through the drudgery of finance.