Part 25 (1/2)

Whadda y' mean?

The Kid? Well, h.e.l.l yes. There's a dozen men and more on the Turkey Track Bar who'll swear to it. He was still wet behind the ears, but we all saw him do what none o' the rest of us could do.

All right. You think the Kid is a sissy. All right, go ahead-we thought so, too, on the Turkey Track Bar. But let me tell you, that don't prove nothin” Not one way or another.

Naw; I'll buy. Hey, Sam! Just leave the bottle here; I reckon me and Morty can pour our own.

Thanks.

Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yeah.

It was the Kid who spotted the mustang in the first place. Now, I been Tad Jenkins' foreman at the Turkey Track Bar for twelve years, and I got no complaints. He pays a good wage and lets me do my job without always ridin' herd on me, like some bosses do. Tad's a tough old buzzard, and the only weak spot he's got is the way he spoils that kid of his. So when the Kid comes ridin' in after an all-day jaunt, all het up about this golden mustang he seen runnin' with the herd, I could see we were gonna have us a time of it.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like Tad Junior, and so do most of the boys, but he just ain't what you'd call a man's man, if you see what I mean. Spends most of his time readin' books, and don't give a d.a.m.n for the ranchin' business.

h.e.l.l, when I was seventeen, I'd been workin' on my own for two years, and I joined the Marine Corps before I was eighteen, back in '42. But that don't make no never-mind.

Anyhow, the Kid comes back, all het up, as I said, about this here horse he seen. He come ridin'

like there was a twister chasin' him, which is doin' pretty good on that horse his old man gave him. She's an old bay; gentle as mother's kiss, and d.a.m.n near as old as the Kid is, seems like. The Kid likes 'em gentle-he ain't exactly what you'd call a bronco buster.

He scoots up to the ranch house, hops offn that bay, and runs inside, a-yellin' for his dad. I'd've figured there'd been an accident or something, except that the Kid's got a big happy grin on his face, so I didn't pay no more attention.

Fifteen, twenty minutes later, the Old Man comes moseyin' out toward the corral, where I was oiling some bridles.

”Frank,” he says, ”you been payin' any attention to them mustangs lately?”

”I got an eye on 'em,” I says. ”I know pretty well where they are.”

He nods, easy-like. He just keeps that mustang herd because his own daddy kept horses. Once in a while, we cut out a few of 'em for the rodeo business, and when we thin out the herd, we shoot the old ones and sell the carca.s.ses to the dogfood packers, but horseflesh ain't what it was worth twenty, thirty years ago, so it don't pay to keep any real close watch on 'em.

The Old Man says, ”You didn't happen to notice a big palomino stallion runnin' with 'em, did you,Frank?”

I thought for a minute and had to allow that I hadn't. ”Mostly browns, greys, and bays,” I told him.

”Course,” I went on, ”I ain't seen 'em all. I figure, long as I know about where they are and about how many we got, why, if we need any more information, we know where to get it.”

”Sure, that's right, Frank,” he says. ”But young Tad was ridin' up near Smoky Bend, and he saw this mustang. Now, that herd ain't bred a palomino for as long as I can remember, so I figure that maybe someone's horse run away and joined up with my herd.”

”A stallion?” I said, sort of questionin' like.

”Well, young Tad seemed to think so,” the Old Man says. ”But he didn't get too close. Likely he couldn't be too sure.” Then he sort of looks off up at the sky as if he was figurin' the weather, which he wasn't. ”Tad's got another idea, though. He thinks, what with all the bomb-testin' and stuff they've been doin' in these parts, he thinks maybe we got a mutation on our hands.”

What? Well, Mort, the way I understand it, a mutation is an animal that don't turn out exactly like his folks-sort of a freak, you might say, This here radiation from the atom bombs is supposed to cause it.

Anyway, the Old Man says, ”Tad says this mustang looks different, somehow.” And he sort of looks off towards the hills. ”Why don't you round up some of the boys, Frank, and we'll go have us a look.”

That's when I got the whole picture. The Kid had taken a notion that he wanted that horse, and the Old Man was going to give it to him. Well, it wasn't any of my business-I don't mind cuttin' out a horse for the Kid any more than I mind cuttin' one out of the herd for a rodeo. In fact, I sort of cherished the idea of watchin' the Kid try to ride a wild mustang. Might be worthwhile watchin”

Well, me and some of the boys saddled up and rode out with the Old Man and the Kid to find this here golden horse.

Morty, let me tell you that we had the dangdest time catchin' that ornry animal. He was skittish as a new bride and a d.a.m.n sight faster on his feet.

We spotted the herd out near Smokey Bend and reined up a quarter of a mile away to look 'em over. We were on that little rise just north of the river and we could look down on the mustangs and see most of 'em.

Naturally, we spotted the palomino right off. You couldn't of missed him. The Old Man got his field gla.s.ses out and took a good, long look, and pa.s.sed 'em to me.

Well, sir, I never seen a horse like that'n before. I could see what the Kid meant when he said it was different. It was a golden blonde all over, except for a white spot on its forehead and the dark hooves. And it wasn't just the color, either-the neck and head were just a shade too long to look natural on a horse, and his chest was as broad as a Percheron's. And there was one other thing queer about him that I didn't notice until I'd looked for a while.

Now, you mightn't believe this, Mort, but that mustang's eyes were as blue as sapphires! Yes, sir, just as pretty a blue as you'd ever want to see.

Oh, you'd heard, eh?

Well, anyway, I handed the gla.s.ses back to the Old Man and said, ”Pretty eyes.”

”Mighty pretty,” he says, looking at me peculiar. ”Mighty pretty.”

We both knew right then that this wasn't no horse that had strayed off from n.o.body's ranch and gone wild. If anybody had ever had a blue-eyed blonde for a horse, we'd of heard about it, and if anybody'd lost such an animal, there'd of been a reward out, you can sure bet.

The Old Man looks for a mite longer, then he says, ”Okay, boys, let's corral that beauty. And watch yourselves. Anybody causes that animal to break a leg, I'll shoot him instead of the horse.”

So we started down the slope gentle-like, so's not to spook the herd. The Kid stayed back on the rise to watch.

Well, sir, I tell you that horse didn't no more want to be caught than a bar of soap in a bathtub. We tried to box her up by goin' in easy, but she was the first one to notice what we was up to, and she spooked the rest of 'em. She-What?

Well, sure I said, ”she.” The Kid thought she was a stallion, and so did the rest of us until we got close up and down level with her. But she wasn't-she was the biggest, toughest-looking mare you ever seen.

And run! We couldn't even get close to her if she didn't want us to. Every time we got up near, that horse would take off like a stray piece of lightning, left our nags so far behind that we knew we'd just have to find a better way.

The trouble was, that horse was smart. She knew that we didn't intend to hurt her, so we couldn't scare her any. She'd just as soon come at us as run away, and she was slick as b.u.t.tered gla.s.s. And the d.a.m.n critter didn't really try to run very far. She'd only circle around, stayin' just out of range.

Pretty soon, the rest of the herd was so spooky that they took off down toward Barton's Creek, but that mare didn't go with 'em. She just stuck around to laugh at us poor fools tryin' to catch her.

Well, finally, we circled around her and started closin' in. We figured we had her this time, but she just waited until we were really close-just stood there, chompin' gra.s.s until we were almost on top of her-and then she took a flyin' leap between me and the Old Man and tore up the rise toward the Kid.

Well, clanged if that Kid didn't have his rope out. That mare is comin' at him at a full gallop, and he just sits there, waitin', with his la.s.so ready.

The Old Man bellows at him ”Tad! Don't you rope that horse. She'll break a leg at that speed!”

But the stupid young sprite don't even hear-all he sees is that horse.

And when she gets close enough, he throws the loop over her neck.

Now, you know as well as I do that that would have killed any ordinary horse. But not this baby.

She comes down on all fours and skids herself to a stop as if she'd had air brakes. Didn't even tighten the loop much. Then she just stands there, meek and peaceful as you please, while we ride up.

The Old Man tries to chew the Kid out for usin' a rope, but there ain't much he can really say. That horse had made fools out of the rest of us, and the Kid had caught her slicker'n a whistle, so the Old Man had to pretty much let it go.