CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A lone quail fluttered from the thick brush and sought another place to hide. Seconds later, Deed Corrigan cleared the halfmoon hill rimming the southern lip of the Corrigan ranch yard. He reined up the bay and studied the busy scene below. A soft autumn breeze ran through his shoulder-length hair on its way to a row of cottonwood trees. Overhead, the sun was easing into afternoon.
Behind the house he could see the top of the old oak tree that shaded the graves of their father, mother, and sister. How long ago that seemed, almost like it was part of another life. He thought of Holt and what he would say about that, shook his head, and studied the activity. Neither of his parents’ faces, nor that of his sister, came to his mind anymore. Only blurred images. Silka had become a father—guiding, teaching, caring. He touched the brass circle at his neck.
In the farthest corral, a cowboy rode a semibroke mustang, a regular fall task to turn all of their horses into good work mounts. He guessed it was Chico. Standing next to the corral was Little Jake, waiting to take the next horse. All their horses would be needed for the fall roundup. The systematic search of the territory for cattle was hard, time-consuming, and involved the cooperation of all the ranches in the area. Or had in the past.
Not far from the corrals, another man was singeing the whiskers off a new rope over a small fire. Most likely it was Harmon. Tied to two trees was another new rope, pulled tight to get out the kinks. He smiled; ropes didn’t last long around there, even when they had been waterproofed with beef tallow. Old ropes were cut up into shorter piggin’ strings for tying calves’ legs to quiet them for branding.
He felt guilty about not being here before. Breaking horses was something he usually was involved in and good at doing. But he shouldn’t have had the guilt. His presence had given Atlee Forsyth the strength to go on, and the protection from Indians. It had been important to stay. Still, it hurt to see others hard at work.
Sitting on a bench beside the ranch house was Willy, repairing a saddle. A few feet away were two more saddles. It was a time when all gear must be in top shape; a bridle or cinch snapping at the wrong moment could bring serious injury or worse. At his feet was a long-eared brown dog napping; another was inspecting something just inside the barn door.
Silka was shoeing a roan; he had learned the skill moving across the country and took pride in his work. An anvil and bellows was kept very busy this time of year. Of course, like most ranches, there was a keg of good ’nuffs, or shoes of various sizes ready to put on a horse without heating them. As expected, Silka didn’t like them.
The horse wrangler, Harmon Payne, was a well-built cowboy who liked to spout phrases from Sir Walter Scott and Tennyson. The Corrigans knew he had been a teacher in Ohio before coming to Texas. Something had happened there, but no one asked. He was loyal to a fault and tougher than his thin frame would indicate. Willy Court was average-sized, cocky, and always interested in a fight, and he, too, would stand for the ranch. Jacob Jason, or “Little Jake” as most called him, was a short, fiery hand, ready for anything and anyone. Chico was a hardy Mexican; he knew little English, but knew cattle and horses well. Deed wondered if Blue was planning on hiring any other short-term help for the roundup. He figured the three hands would be kept on during the winter months.
Not far from the southern corral was the chuck wagon they had brought back. It, too, would be needed for the autumnal gathering. All of the area ranches supplied their own. He figured their black cook, Too Tall, was back, too. The short man also did the cooking for the ranch. His real name was Oliver Gistale, but nobody called him that.
Chickens were pecking the ground on the west side of the house, oblivious to the rest of the world. Somewhere a rooster strutted, letting the world know who was in charge. He didn’t see Blue or Bina, but saw the children playing on the east side. He nudged the bay into an easy lope and hallooed the ranch as he neared. The dog snapped from its nap, barked, and headed toward Deed. Silka looked up and waved. All three children stopped playing, then came running and laughing toward him, too.
“Uncle Deed! Uncle Deed!” the two Corrigan children clamored together. Jeremy lagged a few steps behind, unsure of who this stranger was in front of them.
Grinning, Deed swung from the saddle, knelt, and spread his arms. The two kids piled into him, talking at the same time. He gathered from their happy chatter that their parents, Blue and Bina, were both in the barn.
Standing a few feet away, Jeremy watched with his hands behind his back.
Deed smiled, patted both Corrigan children, and said, “And you must be Jeremy. I’m Deed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Jeremy,” Deed said. “You’re a brave young man.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Deed laughed. “How about calling me Deed?”
“Yes, s—Deed.” The boy smiled.
“Come and join our little gang,” Deed motioned. Without hesitation this time, Jeremy took a half skip and rushed into them. They all laughed.
From the barn came Blue, joining Silka in his advance to welcome Deed. The children giggled and hurried to return to the game near the house. A hearty handshake from both men made him feel at home again.
“Good that you are home, Deed,” Silka said, patting the young gunfighter’s shoulders. “No one can break the horses like you do, son.”
“Don’t know about that, but I’m ready to take my turn.”
“Well, we have a blind bucker. Set him aside, hoping you’d give him a go,” Silka said. “If you can’t set him straight, we’ll just let him go. Too dangerous.”
Having dealt with a blind bucker before, Deed knew that this was a horse that went crazy with fear whenever it was ridden, bucking into anything. More dangerous to itself than its rider, the horse was likely to injure itself bucking over something or trying to.
Before he could respond, Blue told him that Taol Sanchez, oldest son of their neighbor, had ridden over yesterday to discuss the roundup. The Sanchezes felt the Bar 3 should be invited to the roundup gathering, in spite of the unfortunate circumstances. A two-week target date for the roundup to start had been set.
“How like Ol’ Man Sanchez,” Deed responded. “Thinks everybody is good if given a chance.”
“Well, it’s not as simple as that, Deed,” Blue said. “But he does believe in the goodness of people. In this case, though, he knows the Bar 3 land is too great to ignore. Likely some of our cattle have drifted over there, too.”
“You mean theirs.”
Blue grinned. “Guess so.”
“What about Ol’ Joel? Who’s gonna be the wagon boss?”
In previous years, the Bar 3’s veteran cowhand had served in the important role as wagon boss, the man in charge of sending riders to cover the land. So a new person would have to be chosen. Blue thought someone from the Lazy S would be the likely replacement.
“What if the foreman of the Bar 3 wants one of his men to run the roundup?”
“We’ll deal with that if it comes,” Blue answered. “So far, I haven’t heard if they even plan to join us.”
“Not sure riding with them is a good idea, Blue,” Deed said, leading his horse.
“You want the Sanchez boys to do that alone?”
Silka shook his head and they walked toward the barn without talking.
Breaking the silence, Blue asked about things at the station. Deed told them about the division agent approving Atlee as the station manager and that he was considering making it an overnight stop, expanding the station with sleeping quarters for passengers. He explained the German farming couple had agreed to stay on and help, so he felt it was a good time to leave.
Studying his brother for a moment, Blue asked, “How did it go? When you left.”
“Went fine,” Deed said, glancing at the children now back at their play. “Oh, I invited Benjamin, the Forsyth boy, to join us for the roundup. Be a good experience for him.” He paused and added, “Uh, and Elizabeth, his sister, you know, to join your kids for a few days. Hope that’s all right.”
“Of course it is. And Atlee?”
“Uh, she said it was fine, as long as Benjamin promised to get his schoolwork done first.”
Blue smiled. “Good, but that’s not what I meant. I’m sure she was sorry to see you leave.”
Glancing away, Deed tugged on his hat brim. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Well, I was good help, you know, but she’s got it under control now.”
Talk continued about the roundup and the idea of branding the newborn calves early, before Agon Bordner could make another move to control the region and rustle any cattle he could find and brand them with his Bar 3. Bordner’s takeover of the Bar 3 reminded Silka of the perilous days of feudal Japan where nothing and no one were safe. Blue believed the man would abide by the unwritten rules of the roundup, that ranchers who went out to brand calves before the others were called “sooners” and were frowned upon. Blue didn’t want the family breaking those rules. Deed and Silka didn’t think that would deter Bordner or his foreman, Dixie Murphy.
Deed stopped and his bay nudged him from behind. “Have you seen any Bar 3 riders around?”
“No. It’s been real quiet,” Blue answered, pausing alongside his brother. “At least around our range.”
“Are you worried about them?” Deed started walking again.
Silka studied the leaves of a maple tree as they passed. Its leaves were beginning to show the first signs of crimson. He smiled and commented on their beauty. Both the Corrigan brothers agreed, but weren’t really paying attention.
“What do you want to do?” Blue asked, his voice barely hiding his agitation.
“I’m sorry, Blue. That wasn’t right of me.” Deed kicked a rock as they continued down the hill. “You think this Agon Bordner is going to be satisfied with the Bar 3 and the two little places?”
Blue took three steps before responding. “Wish I could say yes, but he does sound like a man who wants to be a king—”
“And we stand in his way . . . us and the Sanchezes,” Deed finished the statement.
“That’s about it.” Blue stared off, as if he could see a rider. “We’ve been keeping a close eye on our range and our cattle. One or two of us ride a part of it every day.”
Blue informed Deed about the herd’s condition. Overall it was in good shape in spite of the dry summer. There hadn’t been any signs of screw worm, usually identified by cattle twitching and giving off a rancid odor. As usual, they also worried about steers being bitten by rattlesnakes, displaying swollen jaws or low-slung heads. Only one steer had been put down because of such an encounter. Patches of locoweed, a boghole, or alkaline water were all noted and cattle kept from them. Because of the dryness, there was concern about quicksand where there had been a stream. The ground had to be worked until moisture came to the top.
Most of their herd was young and, largely, shorthorn of English lineage. A few mossy-backed longhorns roamed the hills, continuing to make riding among the herd a dangerous proposition. At this time of the year, the Corrigans liked to keep their herd on a higher range, leaving the lower lands for winter. Cattle that had been raised on the prairie had a tendency to stay out of timber, even if the trees gave them respite from winter storms. So the lower lands were the best practical solution.
Blue told the story of Willy getting completely covered in mud while getting a calf out of a bog. The calf’s mother thanked him by trying to butt the muddy cowboy after the small animal was successfully removed.
That brought a laugh from all three, then they walked in silence for a while, and Deed asked about Bina. Two dogs ran over, checked them out, then pranced away to more interesting adventures.
“Well, right now she’s taking care of the new stallion and some of our best mares. They’re in the barn.” Blue grinned. “About this time next year, we’ll have some fine new colts.”
“Don’t know anybody who can handle horses any better,” Deed said and smiled. “It’s good to be home, boys. Seems like forever.”
“Well, a lot has happened since spring,” Blue said and patted his brother on the back.
“Seems so. Where’s that bad horse, Silka?” Deed asked.
“He is over here. There. The paint.”
“That’s a good-looking animal. Goes crazy, huh?”
“Hai. It is pity we cannot ride such a fine horse,” Silka said.
A spotted, black-and-white mustang stood quietly in the corner of the unused corral. It was saddled and bridled. A lead-rope held it close to the corral bar.
“When no one is on him, he is so quiet. O soroshi when a man gets on.”
Deed recalled o soroshi meant “awful” and that it wasn’t like Silka to overstate anything.
“Where’d you get him?” Deed asked.
“Just showed up this summer with a bunch of mustangs we rounded up,” Blue said.
“Go and ask Bina to join me, will you?”
Slipping through the corral bars, Deed walked up to the paint horse. Its ears laid back on its head and the animal trembled.
“Hey, boy. I’m not going to hurt you. Can’t we be friends?” He put his hand on the horse’s chest, then worked his hand up to its nose. The horse jerked frantically to get away, but the lead-rope held it close to the corral.
Deed was patient. He guessed somewhere in the animal’s life it had been harmed or threatened by a man. No one would, or should, ride such a dangerous horse. But sometimes, it just took a different approach to make it a worthwhile animal. Certainly, the paint was a handsome steed and worth the effort.
Bina slipped through the corral bars and walked over to him. Her eyes were a question.
“Hi, Bina, sorry to greet you like this, but I need your help,” Deed said.
“Of course, what would you like me to do?”
“Have you ever been around this horse?” Deed asked, stepping back from the paint.
“No, I have not. It is good-looking horse.”
“I think so, too. I am told he goes crazy when he’s ridden. I want you to talk with him. Maybe we can calm him down,” Deed said, running his hand over the horse’s neck. The horse trembled even more and tried to jerk away. “Right now, he’s dangerous and not worth keeping.”
Bina walked up to the horse and spoke to him, rubbing its ears, nose, and all around its body. Deed didn’t recognize any of what she was saying and assumed she was talking in Apache. The horse was calm, but indifferent. She stopped and began talking to the horse in a distinctly different language. Her words were careful as if she wasn’t as sure of herself. He knew some of what she was saying and realized she was talking to the horse in Comanche. The horse’s ears went up and it leaned against her to listen. In Comanche, she told the horse not to be afraid, that he was a warrior’s horse, and that a real warrior would soon be riding him. This would be an honor. Deed smiled; he didn’t catch every word, but enough to realize she was instructing the animal on how it should act.
Silka and Blue watched from outside the corral.
“I think we’ve just discovered something, boys,” Deed called back. “This is an Indian horse. He doesn’t like white men. Scared of them.”
“Are you sure?” Blue asked.
Deed looked over at Bina. “Well, it looks that way, doesn’t it, Bina?”
“He is not Apache horse. He is Comanche horse. A fine one. I know not if he will let you ride him. You are white man. I tell him you great warrior, that it is honor for him.”
“But he’s a gelding. How can that be? I didn’t think Apaches or Comanches cut their horses.” Deed stepped next to her and patted the horse. Its ears went back again.
“Apache and Comanche sometimes do this. Learn from white man. Not all things from white man bad.” She smiled and looked at him.
“I know a little Comanche. Not like you, but some.”
She smiled. “It is not words. It is smell. You smell like white man. He is afraid of white man.” She cocked her head. “I do not quite smell like an Indian either, but enough.”
Deed frowned. “What can we do about that?”
“You go live in Comanche lodge for a moon, a month.” She smiled.
Deed laughed out loud. “Don’t think we’ve got that long. Anything else I could do?”
She patted the paint horse again, talking to it in the Comanche language. She stepped away and looked at Deed. “You must fool him, Deed Corrigan. I go for some things in house. You wait.”
“All right.”
She walked through the corral and went to the house. Deed went over to Silka and Blue, standing behind the corral fence, and told them what they were going to do.
“You really think you can make him think you’re a Comanche?” Blue asked. “Even if you do, we can’t do that with every rider.”
“Well, maybe he ends up in my string. If it works.”
“Uma no mimi ni nembutsu,” Silka blurted. He meant the project was a wasted effort.
“We’ll see. I have to try. That’s too much animal to go to waste,” Deed responded.
“Maybe you should blindfold him,” Silka said.
Blue pushed his hat back on his forehead. “Don’t know what good that’ll do. He already bucks and runs like he can’t see.”
Silka folded his arms. “It is to keep horse from knowing Deed is not Comanche.”
Blue grinned. “Sometimes I think Deed is one, a wild one.”
“You’re lots of help,” Deed chuckled.
Returning to the horse, he talked quietly, trying to remember any Comanche phrases that might help and thought the horse might be somewhat more calm than earlier, but it might be his imagination. Horses raised by Indians weren’t always changeable to white riders. He remembered a fine horse raised by a woman that went absolutely nuts when a man tried to ride it. Nothing could change it. Around a woman, the horse was sweet and gentle; around a man, the horse was a killer.
Bina returned with a small bowl; two eagle feathers with the ends tied with rawhide strings, dancing in the air; and several long ribbons.
“What’s all that?” Deed asked.
“Put your hands in this. It is cold ashes and grease. It cut down on your . . . smell. Maybe fool him into thinking you are Comanche warrior.”
“You make it sound like I need a bath. Do I need to put a feather in my hair or something?”
She smiled. “No. This horse will not care. Really. After you rub your hands, act like you are painting it for war, I will show you. Maybe this works. Maybe it does not. He may be loco.”
“I know, but I’ve got to try.”
Deed submerged his hands in the gooey mixture of ashes and grease, then held them up. A few ash flakes fluttered away and a string of grease ran down his right hand.
“Streak his face and his chest with . . . paint.”
Carefully, Deed smeared lines of grease onto the horse’s face and chest and ended it with a handprint on the horse’s shoulder. Approving, Bina handed him the two feathers and ribbons and took the bowl.
“Tie one feather onto his mane. Tie the other on his tail. Tie a ribbon to both.”
Deed talked to the horse as he tied on the feathers and ribbons. “All right. I’m going to get on.”
“Wait!” Silka yelled. “I have idea. Wait.” Silka sprinted away and returned with a coiled rope and a small brass ring. “We do nose-and-leg tie.”
“Sure.”
“I will help.”
Working quickly, Silka loosened the saddle cinch and slid the metal ring into place. He retightened the cinch, adjusting the ring so it was in the middle of the horse’s belly. They tied the rope on the bridle, then ran it between the paint’s front legs, through the ring, and then tied the taut rope to the horse’s right hind ankle.
“If he rears or bucks, he’ll pull his hind leg out from under himself. Maybe that will calm him down. He will know it not a good thing to do. You alert and jump,” Silka advised.
Deed talked to the horse, reassuring him, and swung into the saddle, but kept his boots out of the stirrups. The paint stood with its ears alert. He nudged the horse forward with his knees, talking reassuringly as he did, mostly in English.
As if suddenly aware of the weight on its back, the paint horse tried to rear. The rope yanked its hind leg forward as the animal raised its head. The horse bounced on its rump and fell over. Deed kicked free and jumped away. He stutter-stepped backward and maintained his balance.
Walking over to the horse, he talked to it as the startled animal stood and shook the saddle, rattling the stirrups like they were playthings.
“Okay, bud. We’re going to do this again. There’s nothing to be gained by acting up.”
From the corral, Silka yelled for him to forget the idea. Deed ignored the advice, grabbed the reins, checked the cinch, and remounted.
The paint horse started to rear again but felt the pressure of the rope pull on his back leg. He crow-hopped sideways and Deed encouraged him to walk. The paint hesitated, then began moving. Another attempt to rear reminded the horse of its limitations. Gradually, its head dropped, indicating it was comfortable with the man on its back. Deed wanted to shout, but knew this was only the beginning. It would take several rides before the paint was ready to be used on the roundup. He wondered if the horse was going to require painting, feathers, and ribbons each time it was ridden. He hoped not.
“What shall we call him, Bina?”
“Call him Warrior.”
“Warrior. I like that. Warrior, it is,” Deed said and patted the horse’s neck. “I’m going to bring him over your way, Silka. Will you please take off the rope.”
Reluctantly, Silka removed the rope. The paint horse took a few tentative strides and realized it was free of restraints. The bucking that followed jerked Deed’s head back and his hat went flying. The young gunfighter shoved his boots forward and withstood the animal’s attempt to throw him.
“Hang on, Deed!” Blue hollered. “If he starts running, jump off. He’ll hurt both of you.”
Quietly, Bina stood inside the corral, against the fencing, and said, “Deed, he will stop this. He has not been ridden for a long time . . . by any rider. He is full of life. He is not loco.”
Silka stared at her, unconvinced.
After three more jumps, the paint horse settled down and began to walk again as if nothing had happened.
Deed caught his breath and yelled, “Open the gate and let’s see what happens.”
He directed the paint toward the opened gate. The paint horse saw the opening and burst into a gallop and, in three strides, was running all out across the yard. After circling the open space, horse and rider disappeared in a blur over the first ridge. Silka wanted to get a horse and go looking for them, worried about Deed.
Bina told him to wait and Blue tried to act more confident than he felt. His younger brother could ride, really ride, but this was different. A horse like that could hurt its rider and itself, but Bina seemed quietly assured. Maybe his brother really was more Comanche than he thought.
Minutes passed.
“I go for Deed. He may be hurt,” Silka declared and headed for the barn.
“Wait, Silka. I see him coming. Over there. See?” Blue pointed with his lone arm toward the south. A silhouette was apparent. Deed and the horse were loping easily toward the ranch yard. The eagle feathers and ribbons fluttered in the wind.
Bina laughed. “It is Deed . . . and Warrior.”