Chapter Thirteen
“What do you have in mind, Steele?” Ironside said, talking through the darkness.
“You boys need your horses back, so let’s go get them.”
“Hell, the corral is right up against the cabin,” Ironside said.
“I know.” Steele’s teeth gleamed white in the gloom. “Makes life interesting, don’t it?”
“Well, I say we light a shuck,” Ironside said.
“Luther, I can’t walk back to Recoil,” Shamus said. “We’ll do as Dallas says.”
“Easy does it, Colonel,” Steele said. “Keep to the shadows and walk like an Injun.”
Shamus grunted. “Damn it, young feller, I can barely walk like a white man.”
The stars and bright moon bladed blue light into the darkness as the three men crept up on the corral. The thirty penned-up horses were uneasy and milled around in a dusty circle, white arcs showing in their eyes.
“Luther, we’ll need your saddles and bridles as well,” Steele whispered.
“I don’t have a gun.” Exasperated, Ironside gritted the words through his teeth.
“You don’t need a gun,” Steele said, and his teeth flashed again. “If it comes down to it, I’ll do the shooting for both of us.”
Shamus shook his head. “I sure hope those boys of Condor’s are taking a night off.”
“And so do I.” Steele whispered, “This is a Savile Row riding outfit I’m wearing. I’d sure hate to get blood on it.” He waved Shamus and Ironside forward. “Let’s go.”
The cabin remained quiet and dark as Steele, who’d never been a puncher and was wary of horses, stood by with his gun while the two others cut out their mounts. Steele took the reins of Ironside’s horse and said, “Luther, get the saddles and bridles and don’t forget the blankets.”
“Now I ain’t likely to forget the saddle blankets,” Ironside muttered, irritated.
Steele led Shamus to a patch of shadow and waited for Ironside to catch up.
“Maybe you should go help him, Dallas,” Shamus said. “The saddles are a load for one feller.”
“He’ll manage,” Steele said.
“You’re not much of a man for hard work, are you?” Shamus said.
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.”
Disaster hit.
The door of the cabin opened and a man stood in the doorway in his long-handled underwear. “Here, who’s out there?” he demanded.
Steele drew his Colt, crouched, and headed toward the cabin, keeping to the shadows. He stopped when the yip of a coyote came from the corral.
“Git the hell out of there,” the man at the door yelled. He picked up a split log from near the doorway and tossed it into the darkness.
Another yip-yip sounded, then silence.
“Damned coyotes,” the man said before he stepped back inside.
A couple of tense minutes passed, then Ironside emerged from the gloom loaded down with a saddle on each shoulder.
“Was that you, Luther?” Steele said.
“Who? The man at the door or the coyote?”
“The coyote, of course.”
“Yeah, it was me. A young Kiowa woman teached me that call, among other things.”
“You saved our bacon,” Steele said. “Three cheers for the man from Dromore.”
“Seems like I did, don’t it?” Ironside grinned.
Dallas Steele led the way through the rustling darkness to a shallow dry wash where Shamus and Ironside saddled their mounts. The wind moved across the open brush country and lifted fine veils of yellow sand.
“You’d better mount up, Dallas. Those devils will track us soon as they find our horses missing.” Shamus looked around. “Where is your mount?”
“Over there, by the dead juniper,” Steele said. “He’s kind of hard to see in the dark.”
“But that’s a burro,” Ironside said. “It’s not a hoss.”
“Yes, I know, but he’s a fine animal. His name is Jonesy and he’s a well-mannered creature, obviously a burro of good breeding.”
“Why are you riding a burro?” Ironside said, his face disbelieving.
“It was the closest thing to a horse I could find in Recoil. I could probably have requisitioned one, since I work for the government through the Pinkertons, but that would have blown my cover.” Steele smiled. “The gentleman at the livery said Jonesy will carry me all day and into the next.”
Despite the fact that the eastern sky over the Little Hatchet Mountains showed a streak of gray, Ironside wouldn’t let it go. “You came all the way from . . .”
“Denver.”
“. . . without a hoss?”
“Yes. I traveled by train and stage, and I’ll return that way.”
Ironside shook his head and tried to get to the bottom of the mystery. “You don’t own a hoss? I’ve never heard the like.”
“I don’t care for them much,” Steele said. “I like my women wild, but not my means of transportation.”
“And there you are, all dressed up for riding like an English lord,” Shamus said.
“I am riding, Colonel,” Steele said. “I’m riding a burro. Now we’d better hit the trail for Recoil before Condor comes looking for us.”
Ironside ignored that and then, as though he’d just heard the worst heresy ever uttered by a human tongue, he said, “You don’t like hosses.”
“Not much,” Steele agreed. “They’re temperamental creatures for the most part, and dangerous.”
Ironside’s chin hit his chest. Then, at a loss for words, he finally managed, “Colonel, he don’t like hosses!”
“Luther, if the man doesn’t like horses, he doesn’t like horses,” Shamus said. “We can’t all be old centaurs like you.”
“I . . . I . . . I’ve never heard the like. A man who don’t like hosses . . . it just ain’t natural. It’s like saying you don’t like hound dogs.” Suspicion clouded Ironside’s face. “Hey, you do like dogs, huh?”
“I just love them to pieces. Now, as fascinating as this discussion is, I suggest we ride. We’re already pushing our luck.” Steele gathered up the burro’s reins and straddled the little animal, his feet trailing on the ground. “Gee-up, Jonesy,” He pumped the reins.
Behind him, Ironside groaned in a horseman’s pain.