Randy White - Dead Silence

Will was getting mad. Could feel the heat of it, like a chemical moving from his temples to his heart. One of the drawers spilled out. He slammed it against the door where the Cubans were now hammering at the lock. Pulled out another drawer and threw it.

He yelled, “Come on in, you assholes! I’ll blow your damn heads off!” He was looking for something else to throw and found a lead paperweight.

Will screamed, “What’s the matter, afraid?” He threw the paperweight at the door. It made a whap sound, like a hammer smacking wood. “I’ll open the damn door myself!” Said it knowing, even as he spoke, it was a mistake. He was mad, not crazy. No way in hell was he going out that door.

Never make a threat that’ll get your ass kicked or prove you’re a pussy- Old Man Guttersen on the subject of how a man should conduct himself in life.

On the far wall, Will saw the breaker box for the barn’s electric. Beneath it was the medicine cooler, padlock open. Even eastern ranchers had to know horse doctoring. Will had been working with vets since he was seven years old.

The boy rushed to the cooler, hoping to find a weapon-a scalpel or razor, anything sharp-then paused, listening. The banging had stopped. No whisper of voices outside.

He decided the Cubans were probably waiting quietly for him to exit. A stupid thing, telling them he had a gun and was coming out.

A few seconds passed, still no sound. He continued listening, as he opened the medicine cooler and scanned the rows of familiar veterinarian supplies: liniments, vitamins, bottles of vaccine and tranquilizers, wrapping tape, syringes…

As he scanned the rows of supplies, the period of extended quiet caused him to wonder, Maybe the Cubans ran for cover, afraid of being shot.

Possible.

Three or four minutes later, when the men still hadn’t resumed breaking into the barn, Will was sure of it. Maybe it wasn’t so dumb telling them I have a gun.

Old Man Guttersen was wrong for once.

So now he had to find a way to make the lie work for him. He needed a weapon. Give those candy-ass kidnappers a reason to be afraid of him.

His attention returned to the medicine cooler. And there it was. Not a weapon, exactly, but something that might do the job.

Will knew that the kidnappers would soon come back to the barn with a crowbar maybe… or use keys when the man they were waiting for arrived.

Their partner-whoever that was-worried Will, as if things weren’t already worrisome enough. Which is why the boy had kept busy until now.

After he’d flipped the main breaker, killing the lights, Will had watched the metal-eyed Cuban talking on a cell phone, standing by the farmhouse, its windows still bright. He couldn’t hear what the man was saying. But he could feel it, sort of. More like a taste or smell. Metal-eyes was talking to someone who was coming to help them. Self-assured, his posture upright.

How was it the two Cubans had a friend out here in horse country, the middle of nowhere? Unless… unless-Will’s brain was now inspecting different scenarios-unless the Cubans had pulled off the road because this ranch was their destination. Had nothing to do with Will screwing with the taillights, then kicking like a crazy fool. The Cubans had turned because they were meeting someone here. Possible?

Whatever…

The Cubans were coming for him, that’s all that mattered. Will knew it as sure as he knew Buffalo-head was watching the back of the barn while Metal-eyes was in front, talking on the phone.

No escape, not yet. Nothing he could do until it happened. So Will had focused on getting ready, which meant choosing the best damn horse he could find. To which he gave some thought, carrying a bag he’d taken from the medicine cooler, moving from stall to stall.

There were a dozen stalls but only eight horses. One was a mare that would foal in a month or so, four geldings and a big gray stallion that had to be sixteen hands tall.

There also were two good-looking geldings. One of them, a Morgan, was colored like Blue Jacket and had bright, intelligent eyes.

But Will kept coming back to the stallion. CAZZIO, was the name over the door. There was a ton of trophies on the mantle and a ton more blue ribbons and medals pinned on a board outside the stall.

Will cracked the stall door, then leaned his face in and waited, letting Cazzio decide. The horse had puffed up and snorted, no petting-zoo whore- Good! -then took his time before touching his muzzle to Will’s hair, then his face.

The stallion sniffed, then snorted. Sniffed again, then banged Will’s face with his muzzle in a testing sort of way. Snorted again and shied, letting the clatter of his hooves communicate a warning.

Will considered backing out and trying the Morgan gelding with the intelligent eyes. Stallions were risky. Two years back, he had watched a rank Arabian stud clamp his teeth on a man’s neck and fling him like a rag doll before trying to stomp him to death. A decent hand with horses, too, an experienced wrangler.

It’s the way stallions were. Slip a grain sack over their head, tip them and clove-hitch their legs-all that might dull the fire for an hour or two but it was only a temporary fix. On the other hand.. . certain stallions, you didn’t want the fire dulled. Some were worth the risk.

Will put the medicine bag on the floor, aware of what the horse was smelling-horse tranquilizers and some other stuff-then stepped into the stall and closed the door.

“Easy… Whoa, easy…”

The gray horse shook his head and pawed at the floor. Didn’t even have to move to dominate the darkness, his energy so radiant it shrunk the airspace.

“You look like the Real McCoy to me,” Will whispered.

I ain’t no vet, I’m a hand, he thought.

Then he waited, arms at his sides, for Cazzio to make up his mind.

Now Will was on the stallion, lying forward, his arms loose around the horse’s neck, the stall door closed, not locked, which the horse knew but was tolerating.

Go when it’s time to go.

A stallion like this one-by God, he would go.

Will had his boots up on Cazzio’s hindquarters, chest flat on his withers, so it was like lying on a wide, warm couch. He was under a blanket that he had pulled over them, but not until the air was right and the horse was ready-a feeling alive in the darkness, transmitted flesh through flesh. Not consent but tolerance, a gradual calming of muscle, subtle as first light.

Who the hell braided your mane? A real ranch, we’d open the gate before allowing this bullshit…

Right flank, left wither, the animal’s skin fluttered beneath Will’s belly. Muscles flexed independently, mechanics of a complicated instrument that, if played expertly, produced pure kick-ass flow. Part dance, all power.

Will’s nose rested near Cazzio’s mane, close as he could get to home: horse sweat and leather, the ammoniac mix of manure and grain. Crying wasn’t an option, but it was right there if Will allowed himself.

Waiting. They both were. Ten minutes, at most, he had been in the barn, but it felt like hours.

You like that?

He scratched Cazzio’s neck and Cazzio stretched his head forward, lips wide, teeth bared, as if laughing. He wasn’t laughing, of course, although people who treated horses as pets, as almost human, might believe it. Not Will. Horses were horses, a few better than most. The same with hands. It was just something some stallions did.

Blue Jacket, another example.

As Will lay on Cazzio, he told himself to relax, he needed to conserve his energy. Cazzio already had drunk his belly full from the water trough and found residue in the feed bin. Oats and sorghum plus a supplement powder, which smelled sweet but Will knew tasted awful. What farm kid hadn’t tried it? He’d squeezed the mash into a ball and swallowed it anyway. Will needed food. He didn’t want the crazy feeling to come back, which happened more often when he ran out of gas.