A Coffin for Santa Rosa Page 10

Raven, who’d been praying he’d stop her, lowered the Winchester and pretended to be vexed. ‘You saying now you don’t want me to shoot him?’

  ‘I’m sayin’,’ Gabriel said, wearily clinging to the rope, ‘that maybe we should consider our options.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘We could try to gentle him some – though gentlin’ might cost you a finger or two.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Give him water an’ maybe wash his wounds, wrap that leg if he’ll let us get close enough – which ain’t likely – anything, just so he knows we’re tryin’ to help him. Maybe then we’ll win him over … get him to trust us.’

  ‘Then, what?’ she asked impatiently.

  ‘Find some high ground to bed down for the night—’

  ‘High ground?’

  ‘Storm’s comin’.’ He indicated the thunderheads forming over the distant mountains. ‘Could be a lulu an’ I reckon we don’t want to find ourselves swimmin’ all the way to Santa Rosa, now do we?’

  ‘Santa Rosa?’ she squeaked. ‘M-Mean we’re gonna…? Oh Gabe, Gabe,’ she exclaimed, hugging him. ‘Thank you, thank you—’

  ‘All right,’ he grumbled, hiding the pleasure he felt from making her happy, ‘cut it out. No need to act like Christmas came early or somethin’.’

  ‘But it has, it has! Can’t you see that? And he,’ she said, meaning the leopard stallion, ‘is the best present you could ever give me.’

  Later that night, while lightning flashed in the night sky over the foothills outside Santa Rosa, Brandy stood on a ridge overlooking the Box M ranch. Though the big spread was several hundred yards off, the Morgan could smell the broodmares enclosed in the corral. Their musky scent aroused him and he nickered, quivering with anticipation. Except for the teeth marks on his chest and flanks, and the soreness in his neck and ribs from El Tigre’s pounding hoofs, the all-black stallion was remarkably unscathed from the fight.

  Again the wind brought the scent of the broodmares to his nostrils. He snorted and pawed the ground with his foreleg, his shoe causing sparks as it struck stone. He heard a whinny rising from the darkness behind and below him. Turning, he looked down into a narrow sheltered ravine where the herd was tucked in for the night.

  Brandy watched the drowsy mustangs, knowing as he did that he was responsible for their safety, whether the danger came from man or mountain lion; but the smell of the broodmares was irresistible and, tossing his proud head, he started down the long slope that stretched all the way to the ranch.

  The ground was soft and sandy, and the Morgan made little noise as he descended between the scattered scrub-bushes and clumps of Cholla. Reaching the bottom he paused, lifted his head and tested the wind. The air had grown damp and smelled of rain. The scent of man was also strong, as was the smell of tobacco and Brandy alertly pricked his ears and listened for any noises that might warn him of danger.

  Nothing stirred.

  Brandy cautiously trotted forward. Soon he was close to the outlying corrals and could see the white fences and the buildings rising darkly behind them. Since he was downwind, the broodmares couldn’t smell him, but they heard him coming and stirred nervously. Jostling each other, they nickered softly and flicked their tails.

  The night-watch, an old cowboy known as Smoky for the cigarette always slanting from his lips, heard the mares stirring and silently cursed them. Grudgingly, he rose from his chair on the bunkhouse porch, grabbed his rifle and the lamp from the hook above his head, and plodded toward the corral to investigate.

  ‘Keee-rist,’ he grumbled, ‘why can’t you ladies behave y’selves?’

  Reaching the corral he peered between the bars, squinting to see what was agitating them. Seeing nothing threatening, he clucked his tongue and made soothing noises, trying to calm the mares. When that didn’t work he talked softly to them, as if they could understand what he was saying, asking them if they could smell the storm coming or if they had gotten wind of a lion. As he spoke he rubbed the necks, flanks and muzzles of the mares that brushed against the fence, all the while reminiscing about the good old days when there were no fences and he and other young cowpokes drove herds of wild, woolly longhorns up from Texas all the way to Wichita, where at the railhead there were often so many steers the pens couldn’t hold them all and the rest had to wait outside of town, turning the grassland into a sea of beef.

  Finally, worn out from talking and satisfied the mares were safe, Smoky ambled back to the bunkhouse.

  Halfway there he heard thudding hoofs and turned, just in time to see the all-black Morgan charging toward him. Old and stiff-jointed as he was, he dropped the lamp and his rifle and dived aside, rolling to safety under the fence of an empty corral. When he looked back, the lamp was out and the stallion had vanished like a nightmarish shadow into the darkness.

  Heart pounding, Smoky crawled to the fence and peered between the bars. The lamp lay two feet away. As he was reaching for it, he heard the mares whinnying … followed by the sound of their departing hoofbeats.

  Fumbling for a match, he lit the lamp and stood up, lamp held high so he could see the barn-corral. It was empty. Cursing, he ducked through the fence, collected his rifle and fired twice into the air. Then he ran to the corral, saw the gate was open and stared off into the darkness.

  He could hear the mares galloping away, but couldn’t see them. Then suddenly lightning lit up the sky and for a fleeting second he saw – thought he saw – a black shadow racing in and out of his vision. Then it was gone and he was left wondering if he’d imagined it.

  Behind Smoky, men dressed in various stages poured out of the bunkhouse. Lights came on inside the ranch house.

  ‘What in Sam Hill’s all the shootin’ about?’ someone yelled.

  ‘Smoky, you ol’ fart,’ another hand shouted, ‘I’m gonna pound your ears if you fell asleep an’ dropped your rifle again.’

  Smoky turned and faced the angry ranch hands gathering about him. Some wore long johns, others just Levis, others were hopping as they pulled on their boots, and everyone was yawning and rubbing sleep from their eyes.

  Unperturbed, Smoky dug a half-smoked butt from his shirt pocket, stuck it between his lips, struck a match on his gold tooth and lit up – each movement slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time to make sure he had the full attention of his audience before speaking. Then, when the men were about to explode with impatience, Smoky spit out a stream of steel-blue smoke, and explained what happened.

  Before he could finish their boss, One-Arm Charley Devlin, a Civil War veteran, stormed up and demanded to know what was going on. When no one answered him, but kept their eyes lowered and shuffled their feet, he grimly eyed the empty corral then stabbed his forefinger at Smoky.

  ‘Goddammit, Forster, did you forget to close the gate?’

  ‘No, Mr Devlin, sir,’ Smoky said, ‘I surely did not.’

  ‘Then who the hell did?’ Devlin glared at the other men. ‘Somebody better speak up,’ he warned when no one answered, ‘’cause nary a one of you is moving from this spot till I get an answer.’

  ‘Shadow Horse,’ piped up one of the hands.

  ‘What?’ said Devlin. ‘What was that you just said, Harv?’

  ‘Smoky, here,’ another hand chimed in, ‘says this wild, half-crazed black mustang come bustin’ in an’ damn near stomped him to death. Then, ’fore Smoky could stop him, it disappeared like a shadow—’

  ‘Taking the mares along with ’im,’ Smoky reminded. ‘Don’t forget that, boys. That’s the most important part.’

  Devlin erupted. ‘A wild mustang opened the gate all by hisself an’ let the mares out, is that what you ’pokes are asking me to believe?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr Devlin,’ Smoky said. ‘I reckon it is.’

  Devlin eyed him angrily. ‘Smoky, it’s a damned good thing you’ve worked for me a long time, ’cause right now loyalty’s all that’s saving you from pickin’ up your wages. Get ready to ride,’ he added to the hands. ‘We’re
going after those mares.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The storm hit shortly after midnight, bringing thunder, lightning and torrential rain that flooded the desert, turning gullies and dry washes into churning rivers.

  Earlier that evening, Gabriel and Raven had made camp in a cave halfway up on a rocky hillside. Unsaddling their horses, Gabriel led them to the back of the cave where he fed them each a handful of grain. Raven tried to do the same with the leopard stallion. But though he’d quit fighting the rope and seemed calmer and stronger after drinking water from Gabriel’s hat, he was still too wild to let them wash his wounds or feed him by hand. Finally, after he’d viciously lunged at her a few times, she left the grain on the ground in front of him and retreated. But that didn’t win him over either. Ignoring the grain, El Tigre stamped the ground and aggressively flicked his flowing tail as if warning Raven not to come near him.

  Watching them testing each other as he spread out the bedrolls, Gabriel couldn’t help thinking how alike the two were.

  Frustrated, Raven finally gave up and helped Gabriel cover their bedrolls with their slickers. The cave wasn’t very deep and there was no way to cover the entrance. Both knew that once the wind really got to blowing it wouldn’t be a matter of if they were going to get wet, but how badly. Meanwhile, her eyes never left the white mustang and when they’d finished and were sitting with their backs against the wall, eating jerky, Raven wondered aloud if the horse would ever trust her.

  ‘That depends,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘How much effort you’re willin’ to make. Takes time to build trust. Time, patience, and respect.’

  ‘Reckon that lets me out,’ she said with surprising candor. ‘Comes to patience, I’m worse than an armadillo diggin’ for grubs.’

  Gabriel chuckled and fondly ruffled her hair. ‘Don’t sell yourself short, scout. Set your mind to it an’ you’d be surprised what you can do. Take us for instance. We banged heads early on. But once we learned to respect one another … to understand each other’s ways … everything turned out fine. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Raven nodded.

  ‘Remember, anything worth having is worth waitin’ for.’

  ‘Caution’s the way, huh?’

  ‘No one’s said it better.’

  Raven didn’t argue but she wasn’t convinced. She chewed her jerky in silence, the beef so tough and stringy she almost gagged. Spitting it out, she grabbed her slingshot and announced she was going to kill something for the pot. Gabriel didn’t try to stop her. He didn’t have to. No sooner had she stepped outside when lightning lit up the sky, followed by rumbling thunder.

  Though the eye of the storm hadn’t reached them yet, Raven jumped back into the cave and plopped down on her bedroll. ‘Just ’cause I don’t like lightning,’ she said as Gabriel grinned, ‘don’t mean I’m scared of it.’

  ‘I’m scared of it. Don’t mind admittin’ it, either.’

  ‘Phooee. You’re just sayin’ that to make me feel better.’

  ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m scared of it all right.’ He lit the cigarette he’d been rolling and leaned back against the cave to enjoy it. ‘Once when I was a young’un in Colorado, Pa and me were ridin’ up a mountain to one of the gold camps when we got caught in a thunderstorm. The mule I was ridin’ got skittish an’ bucked me off. As I was cussin’ it, a bolt of lightning come down an’ hit the mule ’tween the eyes an’ killed it.’ Gabriel paused, spit out a smoke ring and poked his finger through it. ‘Been scared of Mr Lightning ever since.’

  Raven giggled. ‘Know what, Mr Moonlight? You are the world’s biggest liar, bar none. But I love you anyway.’ Leaning her dark head on his shoulder, she yawned and was asleep before he finished his cigarette.

  Though he never would have admitted it, having her pressed against him warmed him better than any fire. Slowly, so he didn’t wake her, he eased his arm up and put it around her shoulders. Let it thunder and rain all night, he thought. He didn’t care. He knew Raven was the closest he would ever come to having a daughter. Just like he knew he’d never find another woman like her mother, Ingrid. But that was all right. Now he had Raven. And knowing she loved him, trusted him, respected him was like … well, like owning a little piece of heaven.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The next morning dawned clear and bright. Gabriel stood in the mouth of the cave and inhaled a great lungful of fresh, crisp, sweet air. The sky was already aflame with color, mauves, pinks, blues and yellows so vivid they would look unreal on a canvas, the distant mountains so sharply defined they seemed touchable, while the desert stretching flatly to the horizon had a sparkling scrubbed-clean look to it.

  Scrubbed clean? The thought jolted Gabriel out of his revelry. He hurried down the slope and looked about him. The damp sandy soil was so smooth it could have been ironed. No tracks of any kind scarred the surface.

  Christ on the cross, he thought. How could he hope to find Brandy when the rain had washed away all trace of the stallion’s hoofprints?

  The two of them rode in glum silence in the direction of Santa Rosa. Earlier, the leopard mustang had fought the rope when Gabriel tried to lead it behind his horse. But now, a mile or two from the cave, it seemed to have resigned itself to capture and gave him no more trouble. Gabriel didn’t trust it however. From his experiences with the Morgan, he knew horses never forgot a slight and though they may act meekly, they were merely biding their time until they could seek revenge.

  ‘Gabe … what’s a cayuse?’

  Her voice came out of nowhere, interrupting his thoughts so that he had to think a moment before answering. ‘Indian pony, why?’

  ‘Never heard the word.’

  ‘Comes from the Cayuse Indians, a tribe in the north-west. Heard of that, haven’t you?’

  ‘Canada, you mean?’

  ‘Close enough. A long time ago the Cayuse bred their ponies with huge French horses called Percherons. Their neighbors, the Nez Perce—’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Nez Perce – means “pierced nose” – liked the spotted horses so much they started breedin’ their own. Folks ended up callin’ ’em Appaloosas, supposedly after the Palouse River near where they lived.’

  Raven looked at Gabriel in awe. ‘How come you know so much?’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘Reckon you could fit everythin’ I know in a thimble and still have room for a gallon of coffee.’

  ‘I’m serious. Where’d you learn so much?’

  ‘Mostly from Pa. Used to read to me every night ’tween supper an’ prayers. Said ignorance was a sin, an’ it was his duty to keep me from burnin’ in the fires of hell.’

  Raven thought a moment before saying, ‘He must’ve loved you very much.’

  Gabriel gave a grunt that could have meant yes or no.

  ‘I wish I’d met your pa,’ she said wistfully. ‘I bet I would have liked him. He sounds like my dad. Always wanting me to get smarter.’

  ‘Brains is the way,’ said Gabriel and he winked.

  By mid-morning the adobe buildings of Santa Rosa could be seen peeking through the distant shimmering heat waves. Knowing they only had a mile to go, Raven reined up and begged Gabriel to find some shade and take a nap till she returned. By riding into town he was risking his neck for no reason. She didn’t need his help to turn the leopard mustang over to Dr Pritchard, and if he rode in with her someone was bound to see him and tell Sheriff Forbes or one of his deputies, who’d arrest him.

  Gabriel disagreed. The last time he was in Santa Rosa, he said, the sheriff and his deputies went into hiding until he left.

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ Raven reminded. ‘Now there’s two thousand dollars on your head. An’ even if the law don’t want to collect it, there are plenty of others who do, including bounty hunters. Rats like them are willing to hide in an alley somewhere an’ pick you off as you ride by.’

  Gabriel knew she was right, but he stubbornly refused to
listen. First off, he explained, the reward was no longer two thousand. That extra thousand was Stadtlander’s money and now he was dead. Raven didn’t care. A thousand dollars was more than most folks in Santa Rosa made in a year. On top of that, she argued, there was border trash that would kill for a dollar, much less a thousand. When he didn’t answer, she added, ‘What happened to “caution’s the way”? Or don’t you listen to your own advice?’

  He had no comeback. Before the argument could continue, they saw a group of riders approaching from town. Gabriel shaded his eyes with his old campaign hat and tried to make out who they were. When that didn’t work he took out his field glasses and focused them on the party. He recognized their leader right away.

  ‘Posse?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Nope. A horse-rancher I used to know.’ Returning the glasses to his saddle-bag, he gave her the rope holding the leopard mustang and rode ahead to meet the riders.

  One-Arm Charley Devlin, on recognizing Gabriel, signaled for his men to halt, warned them to keep their hands away from their guns, and then rode forward to greet him. ‘’Morning, Gabe,’ he said cordially. ‘Been a spell.’

  ‘An’ then some.’ Gabriel shook the tough, stocky, ex-Union cavalry officer’s one good hand. ‘How’s life treatin’ you, Mr Devlin?’

  ‘No complaints. Well, maybe just one. Last night a wild mustang raided my ranch an’ stole a bunch broodmares—’ He broke off, shocked, as he saw Raven riding up with the leopard stallion in tow. ‘Jesus in a hand-basket,’ he exclaimed. ‘El Tigre! If that ain’t a sight for sore eyes!’

  ‘You know this horse, Mr Devlin?’

  ‘Damn right I do. Me an’ just about every other rancher in these parts. How’d you throw a rope on him, little lady?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Raven said. ‘Gabe did. Is that his name, sir, El Tigre?’

  ‘That’s what some call him,’ Devlin said. ‘Though El Diablo would suit him better. Mind if I take a closer look?’ he asked Gabriel.

  ‘Help yourself.’ Gabriel half-turned in the saddle, his right hand never straying far from his Colt, and watched as Devlin rode alongside the white mustang. Instantly, El Tigre flattened his ears, bared his teeth and tried to cow-kick Devlin’s horse.