Ironhorse

94

The fog made it so we saw only the horse’s legs at first. The big animal was taking one troubled step at a time coming our direction. It looked to be stepping awkwardly, as if it were crippled or something.

After a moment it became clear to us what we were seeing. The horse came into full view. There was no rider, just a saddled, riderless horse with troubled breathing and most certainly a crippled hind leg.

“No good son of a bitch,” Berkeley whispered quietly. “That’s that dun, Virgil, that belong to that big lumberjack in Standley Station.”

Jimmy John released the tension he had on the bow.

No doubt this was Gobble Greene’s dun, the second horse abused by Lassiter in less than twenty-four hours. We stayed put, squatted down, watching the dun as it slowly walked toward us. Nobody said a word. We just watched, and as he got closer we could tell the horse was done for. His back leg was broke and showing bone. Blood dripped from his nose, too, and his flanks were moving in and out rapidly. The dun stopped and just looked at us.

“Rode him out,” Berkeley said. “Rode him until he couldn’t go anymore.”

“We know about this dun horse,” Virgil said to Jimmy John.

“Fellow named Lassiter,” I said. “One of the men we are after, rode another horse into the ground before he stole this horse.”

“He damn sure did,” Berkeley interrupted with a hiss. “My horse.”

“Then he stole this horse from Standley Station,” Virgil said.

Virgil stood up slowly. Berkeley, Jimmy John, and I stood up, too.

“He rode up the tracks, then cut off up to here, to this road from the pass switch,” Berkeley said.

Jimmy John shook his head.

“Hard ride,” Jimmy John said. “Rough ride. The back way I brought us up here to the west end of this line is longer but shorter in the long run. Riding up from the tracks to this road is tough going.”

“He don’t give a shit,” Berkeley said. “He pushed this horse, broke it, just like he pushed mine, and now he’s on foot. The son of a bitch. That what you think, Virgil?”

“I do,” Virgil said. “Everett?”

“That sounds right,” I said. “Unless he fell from the dun, was hurt, lamed himself or some such, but I doubt it. Figure he continued walking up the road to the camp.”

“What now?” Berkeley said to Virgil.

“Now,” Virgil said. “We get right with it.”

“What about the dun?” Berkeley said.

We could not risk the sound of gunfire, but the dun had to be put down. A swift cut under the horse’s jaw was necessary. Berkeley stepped up. He was not particularly eager to perform the task, but it had to be done. He figured since he was in some way connected to this animal’s senseless demise, he would perform the unfortunate deed.

Afterward, nobody said a word as we walked through the thick fog back to our horses.

I thought about Gobble Greene and the muscular dun and how the two were a suited match. Gobble seemed like a loner. I’m sure Gobble’s strong dun with the bull neck and Roman nose was a big part of his solitary world. No doubt Gobble would sorely miss his mistreated steed.

We mounted up and rode east on the ridge under the telegraph wire toward where the road dead-ended. Virgil was seemingly now more focused on our objective; at least his countenance and pace indicated more charge.