THE INSTANT IT had taken the half-breed to decide to help a stranger ambushed by three killers expanded into weeks. Summer turned into Fall. The grass began to yellow and get dry, and on the high slopes the first signs of impending winter began to show. The green of the aspens faded into gold; the cottonwoods became a soft, butter yellow, the colors contrasting with the rich, fiery shades of the oaks and the maples. The days remained warm, filled with lazy sunlight, more mellow than the fierce glare of the summer sun, and the nights grew chill and frosty.
Azul checked the horse herd each day, usually going up to speak with one of the Chiricahua guards. Bavispe had reduced the watchers to about three men—Azul was never exactly sure of the number—and was beginning to feel confident of the herd’s safety.
It was a typically Indian reaction. An Apache, or most of the other tribes, would fight one battle at a time: attack; fight; and then withdraw. A long, drawn-out campaign was alien to the basically nomadic nature of the tribes, and without some personal debt involved, they would hit and run, forgetting their enemies until the next time. The concept of someone waiting, biding his time over a period of weeks was foreign to them. As foreign as the pinda-lick-oyi desire to own all of the land.
The half-breed learnt that Bavispe was thinking of taking the clan south into Mexico for the winter, though this was not yet decided and might well depend on Cuervo’s approval.
The waiting grated on Azul’s nerves.
That part of his nature that remained purely Apache cried out for a swift resolution of the problem, and he was tempted to ride into Comstock and settle the matter once and for all with Fogarty and Rack.
That part inherited from his father persuaded him to hold off, to wait for Fogarty to make the first move. Commonsense told him that pushing the quarrel could have only two possible outcomes: either Fogarty’s men would shoot him down, or Sheriff Mengers would level a faked-up charge against him. Either way, the Taggarts would be left defenseless. Commonsense prevailed, but he had little liking for it.
He filled in his time with the horses, concentrating mostly on the young stallion. Jody Taggart had promised him a pony, and this was the one he had chosen. He doubted that the rancher had intended for him to take that particular horse, but after risking his life on Taggart’s behalf, he felt it was owed him.
The stallion had never been ridden. It was proud and wild and magnificent. And when he first put a rope on it, the animal fought him for the better part of thirty minutes. He used the pinto mustang to rope the much bigger horse, using the pony’s wiry strength and natural cunning to combat the fierce opposition of the part-Arab.
Taggart’s skill as a horse-breeder became apparent during the taming. The stallion was tall at the shoulder, with the smallish head and clean, swift lines of its Arab forebears. Yet it was more heavily muscled than a pure Arab. The strength of its legs and the deepness of its chest indicated Morgan cross-breeding, that same proud line tempering the arrogant fierceness of a pure-bred Arab.
For one hour after he had the stallion calmed—or tired—enough to accept the rope, Azul held it still. He let the animal get used to his smell, speaking to it in the same non-language he had used to quiet the pure-bred stallion. Then he let it loose and watched it prance away, admiring its lines and its proud spirit.
After that he went back every morning, gentling the horse until it recognized him and no longer shied away when he came close. He got it used to the rope, running it in wide circles as he taught it to shift pace on command. Then he put a bridle on its head and ran it with a bit between its teeth. Next came the saddle breaking.
Usually, this part would have come first. He would have set a rope bridle on the beast’s head and got a saddle lashed to its back with the help of friends. Then simply ridden the animal until it recognized him as master and gave in to the unfamiliar weight. In the case of the stallion, however, he did not want to break its spirit, or teach it to resent the saddle. So he did it slower, taking his time. First he set an empty sack on the stallion’s back. The horse bucked it off. Azul kept on putting it back until the animal no longer fought the weight, and became accustomed to both sack and fastening cord. Then he borrowed a pad saddle from the Chiricahua and got the horse used to that. The next step was to apply a full-weight western rig, complete with stirrups and saddlebags. It took a week before the stallion accepted the thing.
Then Azul mounted.
The stallion exploded into the air. It went up in a vertical jump, landing on all four hooves with its legs stiff and straight. The shock rammed upwards through the half-breed’s spine. His teeth clashed together and lights danced over his eyes. He felt the horse lift on its hindlegs and set his own weight forwards, standing up in the stirrups. Then the forelimbs slammed against the ground and the horse kicked out, trying to toss him over its head. He swung backwards, countering the movement and anticipating the next attempt.
It came in the form of a sudden dash towards the far side of the meadow. The stallion’s power was evident in the speed with which it took off, hitting a full gallop almost at the same time its legs touched the grass. The watching herd scattered as it went through, neck stretched out and pale mane flying in the wind of its passage. It surged up the slope, then swung to the side, fighting the bit. Sensing the angle, it deliberately let its legs fold, rolling back down in a desperate attempt to crush the rider beneath its weight.
Azul sensed the intention and swung his feet clear of the stirrups. As the horse turned over, he lifted clear of the saddle and swung the reins over the rolling head. The horse turned twice, then began to scramble back on its feet. The half-breed landed in the saddle as it rose, hooking his moccasins back in the stirrups and straightening the reins.
The horse snorted and bucked some more, but now its kicks were slower, less violent. Its teeth champed together, trying to fasten on the bit, and it ran again, heading for the far slope. Half the distance across it stuck its forelimbs out in front and dug the hooves into the ground. At the same time it dropped its head and kicked again with the hindquarters. Azul sat back far enough that he felt the saddle dig into his spine, simultaneously lifting his feet to parallel the animal’s neck. It was like riding the cowcatcher of a runaway locomotive, and the shock jarred through his body with numbing force. But he stayed in the saddle.
After that it got easier.
The stallion was getting tired. Maybe even as tired as the half-breed. The horse let him walk it across the meadow, offering only a few token bucks. He turned it on the reins, testing its acceptance, then trotted it back to the pinto mustang that was grazing quietly near the fence.
Hitching the stallion to the poles, Azul dismounted. He stripped off the saddle and the bridle, and then turned the big horse loose. It stared at him for a moment, then swung its head away and galloped off.
Azul climbed on to the pinto and began to walk the mustang over the meadow.
There was a high-pitched shout from amongst the trees and Churro came down the slope at full stretch.
The Chiricahua skidded his pony to a halt in front of Azul’s mount and grinned broadly.
‘That will be a fine horse, Azul. Maybe one day I shall steal it from you.’
Azul grinned back: ‘It would be a hard thing to kill a friend, but for a horse like that...’
He left the sentence unfinished. Churro laughed, and said: ‘It will be more closely guarded than all the others. I might even take it back to the rancheria with me. So I can tend it personally.’
‘It needs some breaking yet.’ Azul went on smiling, feeling good about the horse and the easy friendship. ‘I do not think a boy like you could handle an animal like that.’
The Apache laughed some more, then: ‘How are things at the Taggart place? I have no word.’
‘Quiet,’ said Azul. ‘I have not seen Fogarty, or any of his men.’
That part, at least, was true. And—in a way—things were quiet. Though trouble was building as surely as the winter snows were coming. He could feel it the same way he could sense the reactions of the stallion. And no more avoid it than he could deny the advent of winter.
‘The woman,’ Churro urged. ‘You have been there a long time while her man is sick, and white women are not like ours.’
‘I made her husband a promise,’ Azul said, ‘that I would look after him. Not his woman.’
Churro nodded, smiling. Then spun his pony round and went back up the ridge without speaking.
Azul headed back to the ranch with the smile gone from his face.
The young Chiricahua had woken doubts in his mind that he had been trying to forget. Or avoid. He wasn’t sure which.
Jody Taggart was mending well. He was still too weak to move from bed, and spent most of his time asleep. His fever was gone and he could now eat broth, sometimes even a mashed-up stew. Azul spent time talking with the rancher, mainly assuring Taggart that the hors<s were well and there was no sign of any trouble from Fogarty. Jody accepted his assurances and his help with the quiet gratitude of a man too sick to fend for himself.
His wife was more voluble in her thanks. More physical, too.
She insisted that the half-breed sleep inside the cabin, claiming the mounting cold and safety as the reasons. The former justification had some reason, but Azul felt the latter was pure excuse: should an attack come, it would most likely be better to divide it between the cabin and the bunkhouse and wait for the Chiricahua to come to help.
The bunkhouse, though, was beginning to freeze up at night, so Azul agreed to the move.
The physical side was simultaneously enticing and awkward.
The woman took to appearing in nothing more than her nightgown and the skimpy green robe he had seen before. She no longer bothered, after a while, to hold it closed, though he noticed that she had always brushed her hair and cleansed her face of the marks of sleep.
She was attractive: that became increasingly obvious to him as the weeks passed. And—during that same time—there was far more contact between them. When serving him his meals she would brush against his body, letting her hair touch his face, or a breast fall against his shoulder. Sometimes she let her nightdress rise over her legs, exposing her calves, and—twice—her thighs. Once, she was washing when he came in, her breasts fully exposed. She covered herself quickly, seemingly embarrassed, but not before he had seen the dark nipples tipping her full bosom.
One morning she came into the main room with nothing more than the robe covering her body. Azul woke at the sound, reaching instinctively for the Colt beside his makeshift bed. He sat up, thumbing back the hammer as the woman gasped and let the robe drop fully open.
Azul’s weapon was pointed at her belly, centered on the area above the dark, triangular patch of hair between her thighs.
She smiled before she closed the robe, holding it at the waist so that only the jut of her breasts kept the edges to her body. She turned her back, swirling the robe out from her legs, and began to fasten it.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was husky; perhaps with sleep. ‘I wanted some water, and I thought you were asleep.’
She filled a cup and began to drink. Azul lowered the Colt’s hammer and set the pistol back down. Mary finished her water and went back to the bedroom, pausing at the door to glance over her shoulder and shrug slightly.
After that, the visits got more frequent, and the half-breed found himself torn between natural lust an d a vague sense of loyalty to the wounded husband. It was difficult to refuse the increasingly open invitations of the woman, yet hard to betray the trust her husband had placed with him.
And one day it all came to a head.