IGMS Issue 4 (16 page)

Garret rushed toward his trap. The horses milled around the willows, snorting and whinnying to each other. A bay yearling saw him, and stumbled in its haste to get away. Like a flock of birds, the animals poured inside the little corral. He sprinted the last forty yards, yelling at the top of his lungs to keep them from escaping before he could seal the crude pen.

"Get in there, you sons of bitches!"

It was working. Quickly, he crisscrossed juniper logs across the gap while the horses raced around the pen, the thunder of their hooves deafening. Furious at being trapped, the moon-eyed stud laid back his ears and charged the gate. The logs bulged, but held while the stud squealed in rage. Garret lashed the barrier in place, then retrieved his riata.

So far, luck was on his side. He crawled over the pen, a short length of cotton rope tucked under his belt for hobbles. Mindful of the circling horses, he readied a loop. The riata shot out, not at the stud's neck but his front feet. Caught, the horse crashed to the ground, but before Garret could reach him, jerked loose.

"Damn it!"

Garret winced at the pain in his left shoulder, so sharp he thought it had been pulled out of the socket. He coiled the rope, but the thought of another throw seemed beyond him. Round and round the horses raced, the moon-eyed stud keeping to the edge of the pen. Defeat lay bitter on his tongue as he realized he couldn't do it alone. Hurting everywhere, he limped out of the pen and started back to town.

Shorty looked up as Garret stepped inside the lobby.

"You catch him?"

"I got him penned up." Garret took a deep breath. In all his long life he had never begged for help. "I need a hand getting a saddle on him. If you've got the time."

"You want me to help you?" Shorty's bloodshot eyes brightened, long dormant pride stirring beneath. "Hell's bells, time's all I've got." He grabbed his coat then started toward the door. The bar and the glass of whiskey lay along his path. He paused, then hurried past without taking a drink. Together, they stepped outside.

Neither spoke during the long walk to the hot springs. Garret almost wished the stud had broken free while he was gone, but the animal stood inside the pen, ears forward, his pale eye watching every movement. Garret picked up the ratty blanket and handed it to Shorty.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Wait till I knock him down, then come running." Garret eased over the top of the fence and opened a loop. His shoulder throbbed and he thought about taking a soak, but quickly abandoned the idea. The time was now or never. Squinting in the noonday glare, he swung the rope over his head. The stud wheeled, too late to avoid the noose around his front legs. Garret wrapped the free end of the rope behind his back as the stud pitched forward.

"Come on, Shorty!"

"What do I do?" Fear pushed Shorty's voice high.

"Jump on his shoulder and put the blanket over his eyes," Garret shouted as the horse thrashed. "Hurry."

"But . . ."

"Just sit on the son of bitch!"

Shorty jumped into the pen, nearly tripping in his haste. He fell on top of the thrashing animal and wrapped the dirty green blanket around his head.

"Now what?" Shorty gasped.

"Hold him down." Garret worked his way down the riata, pulled the short rope from under his belt and tied it around the stud's front feet. Satisfied the hobbles would hold, he limped across the pen and untied the gate. The rest of the herd tore out. Brown dust settled around them as he put the gnarled poles back in place. "Keep that blanket on him, okay?"

Shorty nodded.

"All right," Garret said, "let him up."

The horse lumbered to his feet, stumbled with the hobbles, then stood trembling as Garret laid a matted pad across his back. Blind under the blanket, he pulled back as the saddle lit behind his withers. Fast as he dared, Garret threaded the cinch, then carefully worked the stiff hackamore under the blanket. The stud fought, but Shorty held tight. Nearly done, Garret pulled up on the latigo until the cinch was so tight he could barely squeeze two fingers between it and the stud's ribs. Quietly, he untied the hobbles.

He took a moment to gather himself, then grabbed the saddle horn. With his free hand, he turned the stirrup toward him and eased his toe inside. Soft as a falling leaf, Garret swung into the saddle. The horse bunched under him, back arched high and ready to blow. Shorty looked up.

"You sure about this?"

Garret gathered the reins in his hand, and nodded. Shorty pulled the blanket off and stepped back.

For one long, merciless second, the moon-eyed stud did nothing.

Then, he exploded.

Garret sat a whirlwind, an avalanche, a stick of blasting powder. Every jump struck like a sledge hammer. He tried to pull the stud's head around, but the horse was too strong. Nose nearly to the ground, the palomino kicked high. Garret felt himself falling forward and grabbed the saddle horn. His shoulder screamed in agony as they lit and jumped again. Shorty ducked aside as the horse struck the gate.

Wood splintered as they broke through. Gritting his teeth, Garret pulled the animal toward the canyon wall. Up the rocky hill they raced, loose scree flying out behind. Up and up until it felt like they would topple backwards, the moon-eyed stud ran, desperate to shake the tormentor off his back. Garret pulled him around, and they rushed headlong back to the canyon floor.

Along the narrow creek they charged, horse and man, neither ready to quit. The stud jumped the marshy bank and plowed through the willows. Whip-thin branches snapped at Garret's face as they broke out onto the wide flats. Far in the distance the clouded pass beckoned. As if he sensed his own freedom lay past the distant mountains, the horse laid his ears back and stretched out toward it. It would be so easy to let him run and all else be damned. He'd done it.

He had, hadn't he? The horse was beat, he could tell it. But, that didn't seem to matter now. Instead of feeling elation, he felt hollow inside, like the stove back at the Antler, full of cold ash and smoke. Breaking the stud didn't change a thing. He was here for a reason, all right, but besting the horse that had shaded him wasn't it. Beneath him, the animal staggered, winded from running. Garret let him slow, his mind clear as the sky above him, stretching out for the answer that had missed him so long. The thought was slow in coming, but when it did, it struck like a charging bull.

This wasn't Hell. It was a school house, a place to learn the things he should have picked up when he was alive, but hadn't. He'd learned a hard lesson today when he admitted he couldn't catch the horse alone. It had cost him his pride to ask Shorty for help, but the little drunkard had been enough of a friend not to throw it back in his face. Now, Garret realized, smiling to himself, it was time to pay back the favor. He gathered up the reins and pulled back.

"Whoa, you piss-eyed bastard!"

Garret hauled on the reins until the exhausted horse's nose brushed his right knee. Stumbling, they came to a stop. Before the winded animal could try him again, he spun him in tight circles until both were dizzy.

"I've never seen the like -- you did it." Shorty jogged down the canyon, his cheeks red as his nose. "I thought he had you for sure."

"So did I." Garret spun the horse once more, then stepped out of the saddle. His legs nearly collapsed as he hit the ground. Shorty hurried toward him and he gratefully passed him the reins.

"That was quite a ride." Shorty gripped the reins beneath the stud's jaw, keeping well clear of the front feet. The grin on his face faded. "Reckon this means you'll be heading for that pass, now."

"No." Garret rubbed his shoulder. "I ain't going anywhere. You are."

Pale as the winter sky, Shorty stared at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. This ain't Hell. It's just someplace to get past on the way out." Garret snugged the cinch a little tighter, the leather slick with dirty white foam, then nodded at the saddle. "Get on and head him toward that pass. He'll do the rest."

"I . . . I can't." Shorty gasped for air. "I'm no bronc stomper."

"You don't have to be. That horse wants to go as bad as you do." Garret crowded the smaller man toward the stirrup. "You said it yourself. Not many men get a second chance to prove themselves. Well, here's yours."

"But . . ."

"Damn it, Shorty, plant your ass in that saddle before I change my mind."

The tired horse staggered as Shorty lumbered into the saddle. Fear glazed his eyes as Garret handed him the reins. "What about you? What are you going to do?"

"Right now, I'm going to soak the ache out of this shoulder." Garret eased away from the stud's neck. "Good luck, Shorty. I'll see you on the other side." Before either man could say more, he swatted the horse on the rump. The animal bunched, then took off. Shorty clung low to the stud's neck, awkward as a monkey on a pony. Garret stood a long time until both horse and rider vanished over the horizon, nothing left but the dust drifting on the wind. Body aching but his spirit young again, he trudged back to the hot springs, stripped down to his hide, and eased into the welcoming water.

Slowly, day after day, the world around him changed, winter drifting into spring
.

Ice turned to mud, pale green shoots peeking out from beneath clumps of sagebrush and last year's grass. Garret could taste the change in the air, an endless, ageless scent so old it needed no name.

It tasted like hope.

For days after Shorty left, he stood on the ridge, watching for him. But, as time wore on, he went less and less, convinced at last the stocky little man had made it. He smiled at the thought of Shorty perched high on the palomino's back as they thundered through the Pearly Gates. The aches in his body healed slowly, the hot-spring tonic for his bones, and gradually his strength returned. He repaired his corral, and at night sat by the kitchen stove, rolling smokes while he braided a new hackamore. Shorty's bottle sat on top of the bar, untouched, the cork stuffed tight.

He watched the horses, too. The mares had started to drop their foals, all spindly legs and bristle tails as they pranced behind their mothers. One in particular caught his eye, a white horse-colt with one blue eye. Young as he was, the colt stood head high and proud, and Garret could tell he was going to be a handful.

But then, he wouldn't have it any other way.