Crow Bait

Sixteen

Lancaster finally decided he had time for a leisurely breakfast, but he spent the whole time still trying to plug the holes in his memory.

He thought about what the doctor had said. What kind of boots? He’d never paid much attention to men’s boots before—unless they were heels up on the ground. What could a man’s boots tell you about him?

He thought back to being kicked, staring off into space, trying to bring it into focus. What he remembered mostly were toes and heels. Heels. That meant he was not only kicked, but stomped. But still, they made no attempt to kill him, only to hurt him. And they could have done worse than that. They could have maimed him. What did that mean? That they wanted to make it difficult for him to survive, but not impossible?

They wanted him to die in the desert, but not without a fighting chance?

But he was thinking about this the wrong way.

It wasn’t the three men who were making the decisions. He recalled a scrap of conversation that made him believe that they had been hired by somebody, and they must have had specific instructions.

So who wanted him dead?

The list was too damn long.

In his days as a gun for hire, he’d killed a lot of people—people he didn’t know, people he was hired to kill. He always did it from the front, though, never from behind, never an ambush. Anybody he killed always had a fair chance to kill him first.

But family members probably wouldn’t appreciate the distinction. There might be somebody out there who hated him enough to hire somebody to leave him alone in the desert to die.

It would be impossible for him to figure out who it was, though. There were just too many. And who knew how many he’d forgotten during the few years he’d been a drunk?

And now, getting kicked in the head hadn’t done his memory much good, either.

He’d gone to the doctor to talk, for either solace or advice. Maybe what he should do was take the doctor’s advice, and let the memories come back on their own.

Meanwhile, there was the horse to consider. And he still had to come up with a way to make some money.

From breakfast he went right to the livery to see Mal.

“Mornin’, Lancaster.”

“Mal.” They shook hands. “How’s he’s going?”

“Crow Bait?” Mal asked. “He’s already surprised me.”

“How?”

“The way he eats,” Mal said. “Horse eats like an animal twice his size.”

“Yeah? That’s good, right?”

“It’s good if he puts on weight,” Mal said. “If he eats like that and he don’t put on weight, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Well, like I said yesterday,” Lancaster replied, “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“You wanna take a look at him?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Go on back.”

“Thanks.”

“How’s that gun feel?”

Lancaster stopped and looked down at the gun on his hip.

“It feels good,” he said. “I just need to clean it a little better.”

“I’ve got a kit for that,” Mal said. “I’ll give it to you before you leave.”

“I’ll pay you—”

Mal waved away any mention of payment.

“Just bring it back when you return everything else,” he said.

“Okay.”

Lancaster walked to the stall where Crow Bait stood, head in. The horse’s rear end was probably the only part of it that looked normal. Maybe that big rump was where his stamina came from.

Lancaster patted the rump, walked farther into the stall, and held the horse’s head, patted his nose.

“How you doin’, boy?” he asked. “Man, you are ugly but you saved my life, so to me you’re the most beautiful horse alive.”

Crow Bait nodded his head and poked at Lancaster’s hand.

“You want a treat? I got nothing for you, but I’ll make sure I do from now on.”

“Here,” he heard from behind him. He turned and Mal was holding out a couple of green apples. “He likes ’em.”

“They sour?”

“Yeah,” Mal said. “I found out he doesn’t like sweet.”

Sweet?

Suddenly, it went dark.