The Killing Season (26 page)

“Come on,” Fisher hissed, “let's get those posts in position.”

Fisher and each of the two Mexican riders seized a post, and when misfortune struck, it was Fisher himself who was at fault. A rock rolled under his boot and he fell, dropping the heavy post. Almost immediately there was a warning nicker from the stallion. Nathan took up the post and drove it into one of the prepared holes. Fisher came on the run with one of the rails. Nathan took one end, and they rawhided it to two of the posts in the top position. Juan Corona and Hidalgo Allende quickly secured another rail, while Nathan and Fisher ran back for a third. They had all but two rails lashed in place when they heard the stallion nicker again, as the herd started back down-canyon.

“By God, we got 'em all!” said King Fisher gleefully.

Nobody else said anything, but Nathan caught the swift looks that passed between the two Mexican riders. They had been successful only because of the swiftness of the riders at the other end of the canyon, for when King Fisher had fallen, the wild horses had been spooked in the other direction. That alone had given them enough time to recover from Fisher's noisy tumble. The black stallion galloped up to the fence and reared on his hind legs as though to crush the barrier. He then turned and raced to the other end of the canyon.

“If there's a way out,” Nathan said, “he'll find it.”

“Then he'd better find it before daylight,” said Fisher. “That's when him and me will start gettin' acquainted. You got to show a horse you're not afraid of him.”

But Fisher was in for an unpleasant surprise. When he crawled through the fence, the black stallion came after him, teeth bared. Fisher didn't have time for anything except to hit the ground and roll under the fence, and even then, the stallion caught the back of his shirt in those mighty teeth. The fabric ripped, allowing Fisher to escape, minus most of his shirt. His hat was on the other side of the fence, and he watched the black stallion pulverize it with those lethal hooves. Pancho Gomez shook his head and said what the rest of them were thinking.

“He never be your
companero,
señor. You kill him or he kill you, I think.”

“I don't care a damn what you think,” Fisher shouted. “Find another canyon and herd the rest of these broomtails into it, leaving this black devil where he is. By God, I can hold out as long as he can.”

Nathan had his doubts. For starters, he wondered how the Mexican riders were going to drive the wild horses anywhere, granted they were able to separate them from the black stallion. While King Fisher stood near the fence brooding over the vicious stallion, Nathan spoke quietly to Pancho Gomez.

“The rest of those horses are as wild as the stallion. How do you aim to drive them anywhere?”

“The white mare, señor. She has not always been wild, for she wears a brand. Per'ap she not forget.”

To Nathan's surprise, the Mexican riders managed to find a box canyon with water and graze. They built a fence so that the rails could be removed. Pancho then began to work with the white mare, and five days later, the wild horses—with the exception of the stallion-were driven to the new holding pen. The Mexican riders began working with the wild horses, leaving King Fisher alone with his challenge. While Nathan would have liked to remain with the
vaqueros,
he decided what Fisher was attempting to do would be far more interesting. Besides, he might have to drag the Texan from beneath the deadly hooves of the stallion. The big black hadn't been still since his capture. He stalked from one end of his canyon prison to the other, seeking a way out. Five days after his first attempt, Fisher tried again. The stallion was at the far end of the canyon, but when Fisher climbed over the fence, the horse came after him at a fast gallop. Fisher stood his ground, determined to defy the horse, and almost too late, he stepped aside. The stallion wheeled and came after him again, teeth bared. Fisher lost his nerve, but this time, he didn't make it under the fence. The black stallion sunk his teeth into Fisher's backside. Nathan drew his Colt and fired twice over the horse's head. Only then did he let go of Fisher, allowing him to get under the fence. Fisher lay belly-down, gasping for breath. Finally he got to his hands and knees. Nathan managed not to laugh and said nothing. The burden of any conversation lay with King Fisher, and to Nathan's surprise, the Texan spoke.

“It looks like, by God, I'll have to get a saddle on the bastard and ride him down.”

“That's no way to tame a horse,” Nathan said. “The best you'd ever have is a horse that hates your guts.”

“Then what would you do with him?”

“I'd take down that fence and set him free,” said Nathan.

“Never in hell,” Fisher said.

“One way or the other,” said Nathan, “you're going to lose him. Look.”

The stallion was trying to climb the canyon wall. He had dug in his hooves, inching his way painfully along, only to lose his footing and fall to the canyon floor. Undaunted, he struggled to his feet, blood glistening on his rump. Three more times the horse tried to creep up the impossibly steep wall, and three times he fell. It was more than Nathan Stone could stand. With his knife he slashed the rawhide securing the rails to the posts, and the barrier was down.

“Damn it,” Fisher shouted, “that's my horse!”

“No,” said Nathan, “he's not your horse, and he never will be. He'll go free or he'll die. Now you and me are going to get our horses and ride away from here. You have the horses you came for, if you can keep this devil horse from taking them away from you.”

They rode out, bound for the canyon where the Mexican cowboys held the rest of the captured horses. Cotton Blossom loped ahead. Pancho Gomez watched them ride up.

“Diablo caballo?”
the Mexican inquired.

“I turned him loose,” Fisher said. “Now we got to get the rest of these broomtails out of here before he comes lookin' for 'em.”

Pancho shrugged, rolling his eyes heavenward, as though seeking strength. He then turned away, taking the unwelcome news to his companions. King Fisher stood up in his stirrups. In their argument over the stallion, Nathan had forgotten about the animal sinking its teeth into Fisher. It would be a touchy subject, but he spoke.

“That horse bite needs some attention. It could become infected.”

“
De nada,”
Fisher said. “Nothin' but a bruise. I'll have Shaniqua see to it when we get back to the ranch.”

Nathan said no more. Like Ben Thompson, the big Texan was neck-deep in pride, and obviously didn't want the Mexican riders to know of his ignominious-and painful—retreat from the wild stallion. They rode on to the distant holding pen where the
vaqueros
held the captured horses.

“Caballos,
ready,” Pancho Gomez said.

King Fisher nodded, and the drive began. There were twenty-eight, including the mare with the brand, and to Nathan, they looked as unruly as ever. But the Mexican riders had worked wonders with the white mare, and she took the trail readily. The others followed, and were kept bunched. They stopped occasionally to rest their horses, milling the wild ones, lest they break away.

“We'll make camp near the first spring,” Fisher shouted.

It was the spring where they had camped that first night after entering Mexico, and after a day under the relentless sun, even the wild horses forgot everything except the cool water at hand. After resting the horses, every man again took to the saddle. Supper, which consisted of jerked beef, they ate as they rode, constantly circling the captured horses.

“If that stallion shows up,” Fisher said, “shoot the varmint. And don't wait till he's scattered the herd to hell and gone.”

“The rest of you stay close to the herd,” said Nathan. “Cotton Blossom and me will be a half mile out, riding a circle. If the stallion shows up, we'll try to spook him before he can reach the herd.”

Fisher said nothing, but Nathan received grateful looks from the Mexican riders. They clearly didn't want to kill the stallion just to save King Fisher's captured herd, and Nathan shared their sentiment. It would be a long and tiring night, but another day of hard riding would take them to the Rio Grande. While Nathan said nothing to Fisher, he was weary of the mercenary aspects of wild horse hunting.

 

Sometime after midnight, Nathan reined up. Some distant sound had alerted him, but he thought it might be Cotton Blossom, for he hadn't seen the dog in a while. Then somewhere to the south of him, Cotton Blossom barked. The first was a warning bark, but as only a hound can, Cotton Blossom gave full voice to all that followed. Nathan kicked his horse into a gallop. Cotton Blossom hadn't liked the wild stallion, and Nathan suspected that if the two met, the hound would make a fuss similar to what he was now hearing. The barking continued, diminishing to a series of savage growls, as Cotton Blossom decided to get serious. Finally, lending reality to Nathan's suspicions, there was the angry squealing of a horse. As Nathan neared the scene, the squealing of the horse changed its tone. Now it seemed in pain. It was the nature of a wolf—or a dog—to hamstring a horse, elk, or deer, and if that happened, the animal so afflicted had to be shot.

“Cotton Blossom!” Nathan shouted. “Here!”

The commotion ceased for a moment, and then there was the unmistakable sound of retreat. Nathan sighed, for the stallion was still able to walk. Eventually a shadow separated itself from the brush. Cotton Blossom had arrived. But so had King Fisher, with his Winchester ready.

“Damn it,” Fisher bawled, “while the dog had his attention, why didn't you shoot the varmint?”

“I didn't see the need for it,” said Nathan mildly. “I reckon Cotton Blossom chewed on him some, and he backed off. Let's leave well enough alone.”

Fisher said nothing, but mounted his horse and rode back to camp. The rest of the night was uninterrupted, and they moved out at first light, chewing on jerked beef as they rode. Nathan looked back occasionally, half expecting to see a thin plume of dust on their back trail.

“If that sneaking varmint trails us, I'll meet him with a Winchester,” Fisher said.

Nathan said nothing, nor did the Mexican riders. They could only hope the stallion had given up and wouldn't follow. It was near sundown when they reached the Rio Grande and there they reined up, for the Mexican riders didn't wish to cross the river. King Fisher paid them in gold and allowed them to take some of the remaining supplies from the packhorses.

“Now,” Fisher said, “it'll be up to the two of us to get these broomtails on across the river and into the corral.”

It was no easy task, for the horses were still wild enough to balk at the very sight of a corral. Fisher finally managed to lead the white mare in, and the others very reluctantly followed. When the rails were in place, Fisher sagged against the fence and groaned.

“My God, of all the horse hunts we've ever done, this was the worst. I'm tempted to give up on horses and take to sticking up banks, if I wasn't such a big target.”

Nathan laughed. “You'd have to get shot pretty low down to equal the pain from this horse hunt. I'd say you bottomed out.”

“You won't never let me forget that, will you?”

“Probably not,” said Nathan, “but at least I didn't tell your
Mejicano
riders.”

They went on to the house and found Shaniqua had supper ready. It was the first decent meal they'd had since leaving the ranch. The Mexican cook fed Cotton Blossom in the kitchen, after which the hound curled up behind the stove.

“We'd better stand watch near the corral tonight,” Nathan said. “I wouldn't be in the least surprised if that stallion don't come after his mares.”

“He can try,” said Fisher. “It's a five-rail fence, double-lashed with green rawhide. A bull buffalo couldn't break it down. I'm ready for a decent night's sleep.”

“I can put Cotton Blossom outside,” Nathan said.

“Hell, he's been without sleep as much as we have,” said Fisher. “Leave him be.”

 

The first rays of the rising sun were just painting the eastern sky when Nathan got up, got dressed, and made his way to the kitchen. Shaniqua always had the coffee ready, and she poured Nathan a cup. Cotton Blossom still drowsed behind the stove, and opened one eye for Nathan's benefit. Nathan put down his coffee cup and went to the kitchen window from which he could see the barn and the distant corral. Unbelieving, he rubbed his eyes and looked again. The corral was empty!

“God Almighty,” he said aloud, “I don't believe it.”

“Don't believe what?” King Fisher asked.

“The corral's empty.”

King Fisher dropped his boots and sprang to the door in his sock feet. He paused on the porch, his eyes on the empty corral. He finally sat down on the steps, buried his face in his hands, and Nathan thought he was going to cry. Instead, he began cursing. Starting at the time of the flood, he cursed horses in general and wild stallions in particular, and when he ran dry, he started over.

“Here,” Nathan said, dropping Fisher's boots on the step beside him, “we might as well go see how he did it.”

Choosing one of the posts where the five fence rails had been secured with a double lashing of rawhide, the resourceful stallion had chewed through the iron-tough rawhide. As a result, the rails had fallen free, leaving a sufficient gap for the horses to escape.

“Damn him,” Fisher shouted. “I should have shot the sneaking varmint when I had him behind a fence.”

“No,” said Nathan, “you shouldn't be relying on rawhide for a permanent corral fence. You made it easy for him. What do you aim to do now?”