Ralph Compton - West of the Law

‘‘Let.’’

The old man scratched his belly, spit and wiped his bearded mouth with the back of his hand. ‘‘I got a real good buckskin back there will suit ye fine. Cost ye fifty cents a day and two bits extry fer saddle an’ bridle.’’

‘‘Sounds reasonable,’’ McBride allowed.

‘‘Then I’ll saddle him up for ye.’’ The old man hesitated and stuck out his hand. ‘‘That will be seventy-five cents in advance, plus a ten-dollar deposit on the hoss.’’

‘‘Not a trusting man, are you?’’ McBride said.

The old man shrugged. ‘‘You mought be honest, but then again you mought be a hoss thief. Well, young feller, does the ten-dollar deposit go?’’

‘‘It goes.’’ He paid the old man.

‘‘Name’s Ebenezer Keble, fer them as likes to know. There’s coffee on the stove, if’n you’ve a mind to drink some.’’

McBride laid his carpetbag and the Winchester on the floor, then stepped into the office. He found a tin cup and poured himself coffee. He was draining the last of it as Ebenezer led a tall, rawboned horse to the door. McBride’s heart leaped into his throat. ‘‘Kind of big, isn’t he?’’ he said.

‘‘Yup, he’s a big un all right. Some folks say ‘Admire a big hoss, but ride a small one,’ but I don’t hold with that. This big feller will take you to where you’re goin’ and back again without breaking a sweat.’’

A tense minute ticked past, then another. ‘‘Ye gonna climb into the saddle or no?’’ the old man asked, growing puzzlement in his eyes.

‘‘Sure,’’ McBride said. He could hear the hammer of his heart. He stepped to the horse.

‘‘If’n I was you, I’d mount from t’other side,’’ Ebenezer said. ‘‘At least that’s how it’s done around these parts.’’

McBride nodded and walked to the left side of the horse. The buckskin whinnied, rolled its eyes and sidestepped away from him.

‘‘Jes’ grab on to the horn with your lef’ hand and put your foot in the stirrup,’’ the old man advised. He watched the proceedings for a few moments as McBride hopped around on one leg, then said, ‘‘If’n I was you, I’d put my lef’ foot in the stirrup. You’ll find it’s a sight easier that way.’’

The prancing horse led McBride around in circles. He was now hopping on his right leg, his other foot in the stirrup. Thick clouds of choking dust swirled, making him cough.

‘‘Hoist yerself up now,’’ Ebenezer hollered. ‘‘That’s it. There you go.’’

McBride was belly down across the saddle, the bouncing, snorting buckskin giving him no help. ‘‘What do I do now?’’ he yelled.

‘‘Th’ow yer leg over the saddle nice an’ easy an’ sit up. There’s a good gent.’’

McBride could hear from the tone of the old man’s voice that he very much doubted his equestrian abilities. The irritating thing was that he was right.

Finally McBride got to a sitting position and he slid his right foot into the stirrup. Suddenly the buckskin went quiet, and pleased, he relaxed.

‘‘Git ready now,’’ the old man said.

‘‘For what?’’

‘‘Oh, nothin’ much, he’ll just buck a few times to let ye know he’s awake an’ ready to go. He don’t mean anything bad by it. All ye have to do is show him who’s boss.’’

Those dire tidings did not have time to sink into McBride’s consciousness because the horse suddenly uncoiled like a spring, arched its back and started to crow-hop around in fast, tight circles.

‘‘Hold on, feller!’’ Ebenezer yelled. ‘‘Ye got him’’—the end of the sentence faded away into a whisper, directed at McBride lying facedown in the dust—‘‘on . . . the . . . run.’’

Stunned, McBride lay where he was for a few minutes, then rose painfully to his feet. He took off his hat and slapped dust from his pants as the old man asked, ‘‘Here, are you one o’ them city fellers?’’

McBride nodded, grimacing as his lower back punished him.

Ebenezer scratched his whiskered cheek. ‘‘Well, sir, it seems to me we have a problem here.’’

‘‘A smaller horse might help.’’ McBride was irritated at himself, the old man and above all the buckskin, now standing head down, its eyes shut, as it dozed.

Ebenezer slammed a fist into his open palm. ‘‘An’ by jiminy I’ve got the very thing. You stay where you are—I’ll be right back.’’

‘‘I’m not going anywhere,’’ McBride said.

The dawn was shading into the tarnished silver light of morning. Ribbons of scarlet and jade streaked the sky, melting into rose pink at the horizon. Jays were quarreling among the branches of a scrub oak at the rear of the barn and the air smelled of the clean, newborn day.

McBride turned and saw Luke Prescott walking toward him. The gunfighter carried a rifle in one hand, a bulging burlap sack in the other. He glanced at the buckskin. ‘‘I see you’re all ready to go, Smith. I’ll saddle up.’’ He raised the sack. ‘‘I got us some grub, hardtack, salt pork and coffee. Got a pot and fry pan as well. We could be out for a few days.’’

A few minutes later Prescott walked out of the barn, leading a magnificent black. ‘‘Well, let’s go,’’ he said. He tied the sack onto the horn, then swung into the saddle with effortless grace. He looked down at McBride. ‘‘Mount up.’’

‘‘I can’t,’’ McBride said miserably. ‘‘I don’t know how to ride.’’ He felt like he was confessing to a crime.

And Prescott took it as such. His face shocked, he asked, ‘‘You can’t ride?’’

‘‘Damn it, isn’t that what I just said?’’

‘‘How do you get around?’’

‘‘Usually, I take a streetcar.’’

Prescott threw back his head and laughed. ‘‘Hell, I was right. I had you pegged as a city boy.’’ The laughter glow was still in his eyes as he crossed his hands on the saddle horn and leaned forward. ‘‘And I figure your name isn’t John Smith either.’’

‘‘It’s McBride. The John part stays.’’

‘‘Well, John McBride, in this country a man without a horse has two choices—stay home or walk.’’

‘‘How far to the Spanish Peaks?’’

‘‘Sixty miles, give or take. Your feet would be mighty sore by the time you got there.’’

Defensively, McBride said that the man called Ebenezer was bringing him a smaller and tamer horse. ‘‘I think I can manage that,’’ he said.

‘‘Let’s hope so.’’ Prescott grinned. ‘‘Where we’re going is rough country and a man on foot isn’t going to put a scare into Gamble Trask and his boys.’’

Later, Ebenezer did lead out a small, mouse-colored mustang—but it was between the shafts of a two-wheeled trap.

‘‘Got what you need right here,’’ the old man said. ‘‘Cost you the same as the buckskin.’’

Prescott’s laughter was a joyous thing. ‘‘Hell, John, even you can’t fall off that!’’

His face burning, McBride asked the old man, ‘‘What do I need to know?’’

‘‘Not much. Jes’ slap his back with the reins to go, and pull back on them to whoa.’’ Ebenezer nodded toward Prescott. ‘‘This little pony will still be going when that big American stud of his is lying dead beat on the trail.’’

‘‘Could be,’’ Prescott allowed, fighting back a grin. ‘‘Nothing like a pony and trap to take a man where he wants to go in comfort.’’

McBride ignored the man, got his carpetbag and rifle and tossed them on the seat. He climbed on-board, took up the reins and slapped the mustang’s back. The trap lurched forward and Prescott swung beside him.

‘‘This,’’ McBride said, pleased, ‘‘is much better.’’

Prescott smiled. ‘‘Yeah, until we hit the mountains.’’