Marshal Jeremy Six #4 the Proud Riders Read online

  But his alertness dwindled as time stretched along and the palomino came nowhere near him. Waiting began to lay a frost on his nerves. The moon settled lower in the west. Soon it would be too dark to throw the rope.

  The palomino walked back off the cliff. Chavis’ muscles went tense. But the stallion only stood there, surveying his mares, and presently returned to his post on the point of rock. A quiet curse escaped Chavis’ lips.

  John Paradise murmured, “Patient, ever patient, and joy shall be thy share.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Sure,” Paradise said mildly.

  The moon sank lower. Chavis said, “Time is it now?”

  “I imagine around twelve, maybe half past. You ought to know by now you can’t even up a fingernail by biting it.”

  “Keep it quiet,” Chavis adjured.

  Far across the desert, perhaps sixty miles to the northwest, the peaks of the Catamounts reared against the sky. The moon touched its lower edge against that range.

  And as if that were somehow a signal, the big palomino came down off its post and trotted gently into the meadow. It started up the far side of the bowl, coming close by each mare and each colt, stopping once to nuzzle a gawky filly. Chavis’ knuckles whitened on the rope.

  The stallion made a leisurely circuit, stopping here and there to test the wind. It went far up toward the head of the canyon in search of a stray mare, and came back into sight herding the mare ahead of it: when the mare was settled in the meadow to the stallion’s satisfaction, he continued on his tour of inspection.

  The westward peaks bit a larger chunk out of the moon. Eerie long shadows stretched faintly across the meadow. Chavis’ breath wheezed in and out. He felt Paradise’s strong calm hand on his wrist; he glanced at Paradise and caught Paradise’s nod. Chavis braced his feet under him and laid his right hand far back, holding the rope noose doubled. He dug his left heel back and forth to secure a firm foothold.

  The palomino approached. Coming right down the near side of the meadow, on a course that would take him just beneath Chavis’ position, following the perimeter of what was, to all intents and purposes, his encampment. Chavis watched the way the palomino held his head high, nostrils flared, eyes bright. Chavis’ biceps swelled. He heard Paradise’s almost inaudible murmur: “Loosen up, partner.” And hope the wind doesn’t shift.

  The horse was fifty yards away, then a hundred feet away, still coming, moving without hurry, swinging its head from side to side. Seventy feet, sixty, fifty—Chavis’ eyes measured the distance with great care, admonishing himself: Remember that’s not a Goddam rock you’re throwing. He tensed to throw.

  The horse stopped short. Sensing something, it shot its ears forward alertly.

  The great proud head was swinging toward him when Chavis made his throw.

  The loop sailed through the air and there was one awful moment when Chavis was convinced it was going to miss, that the horse was going to dodge in time. But the open loop settled swiftly and, too late, the big horse began to shy away and duck its head.

  The loop sank over his neck: the noose was on him, drawing up firm and taut: Chavis dug in his heels and leaned far back.

  He had time to hear the gust of John Paradise’s shout: “Good man!” before the stallion wheeled violently away. Chavis only had time to spin a single half-hitch around his wrist: and the big palomino’s wild plunge ripped him off his feet.

  He flew past the parapet and struck the meadow grass with a blow that knocked the wind out of him. The horse reared against the pull of the rope; it wheeled on its hind legs, cried out, dashed away again. Chavis thumped along the ground, scraping his chest and arms. The flailing rope, hitched to his wrist, all but wrenched his arm from the socket. Grass blades sliced his face. His boots drummed the ground. The earth sped by, underneath him; he kept a maniacal grip on the rope and he shouted aloud: “I won’t let go! By God I won’t let go!”

  He got his feet under him somehow, scrambling, oblivious to the raw pain in all his fibers. Up there at the end of the rope, the stallion was rearing up, pawing the air with its hoofs.

  It was Paradise: Paradise out there, waving hat, racing back and forth, charging in and darting away, worrying the palomino, confusing it and staying the horse’s rush.

  There was a broken interval of time when the horse settled down on its four legs and stared at Chavis, making up its mind. Paradise called, “Wonderful job, partner. You’ve got him right where he wants you. Look out he doesn’t rush you, run you down.”

  Behind Chavis was a stunted tree, ball-shaped and no more than eight feet high. It’ll have to hold. He was dimly aware of the rushing pound of hoofs—the mares, herding their colts away to safety. It was the law of the herd. The stallion would have to look out for himself.

  The big palomino spun on its hind legs. From the way its eyes rolled, Chavis could almost read its mind: Run them down. But the rope was tangled in the horse’s forelegs, and Paradise kept darting around waving his hat, slowing down the stallion’s assault. Chavis kept the rope tautened at full length as he backed stubbornly toward the scrub tree. He tried to stretch extra inches out of the rope with his iron grip. He heard Paradise calling:

  “Loosen that hitch, in case you have to run for it.”

  “I’m not letting him go.”

  “Better than getting your head caved in. Unhitch it.”

  Chavis shook his head stubbornly. His eyes were fastened on the rearing golden stallion. He backed up slowly, keeping the rope tight. Each time the palomino reared, it almost jerked him off his feet.

  Paradise flashed his hat under the horse’s nose to keep it back. A blow of the palomino’s swinging foreleg glanced off Paradise’s shoulder. Paradise shot away rolling; and the palomino turned, braced his legs for an instant, and charged.

  The rope immediately went loose: Chavis lost his footing. He scratched and scrambled, diving past the base of the scrub tree; he swung his legs around and plunged both arms under the tree, heedless of tearing branches. He made a fast double-loop of rope around the base of the tree, with the earth pounding under the palomino’s hoofs.

  Chavis gathered himself close against the tree. The horse’s blurred shape shot by, breaking stride at the last instant. The ground shook. A dust clot hit Chavis in the teeth, hard enough to rattle his head. He had the gritty taste of sod in his mouth and his front teeth felt loose with stabbing pain.

  The palomino’s rushing momentum had carried it far past the tree. In this fractured space of time, while the rope hung slack, Chavis made a rapid third turn of rope around the tree and tied a swift single knot.

  The horse shied back. Chavis saw Paradise, come from somewhere, swarming up the rope, looming out of the bad light. Paradise, still game, was limping fast, heading to intercept the circle of the palomino’s path. The horse reached the end of the rope just as Chavis came around and got a grip on it. His hands were scraped and moist—Blood, he thought, with strangely abstracted calmness.

  He grunted quickly, “Hold him, John.” Then he was off the rope, circling away, snaking out a second loop in his shoulder-carried second rope. The horse kept shying away. Back by the tree, Paradise was doing his best with one hand to haul the taut rope in shorter, like a fisherman reeling in his catch, to shorten the arc of the stallion’s travel: and the quick noose of Chavis’ second loop fell.

  It caught against one ear, but slipped down over the palomino’s gallant head. Chavis stood with his legs apart, straining back against the pull of the rope, and the horse whinnied angrily. Chavis backed off, playing out rope until he reached a gnarled juniper: he dallied the line with quick expert turns, and began to pull the horse in, until finally, while Chavis stood with his head down in abject drained exhaustion, the palomino stood defiantly at the center of a continuous straight line of rope, drawn both ways by wire-taut lines, prevented from moving more than a foot in any direction. Its sharp hoofs pawed the ground: its voice cried into the night.

  John Paradise made a w
ide path around the horse and came up to Chavis. Chavis had a stitch in his ribs. Sweat dripped from his scarlet face. Breathing like a teakettle, he sank slowly to the ground.

  Paradise’s rare grin made a broad streak across his face. “You did it, partner.”

  “We did it, John.”

  “All right,” Paradise said, without argument. He looked at the ball juniper. “You think that will hold him?”

  “Doesn’t look like much, but those roots go down a long way to find water. He won’t uproot these trees tonight.”

  Chavis rubbed his hands together gently. Both palms bled. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll ride that horse.”

  “Tomorrow. When’s tomorrow?” Paradise stood staring at the horse. “A long way off. Let’s turn in.”

  Chapter Seven

  A gauze of tan dust hung over the meadow. Chavis limped over to the juniper and tried to find a handhold to lean against. Trying to conceal the fact that he was breathing hard, he stood frowning, earnestly rubbing the back of his neck with stubborn determination.

  Paradise was inspecting the tie down that held the palomino on its short picket. He came away shaking his head. “Ease up, Tracy. You’ll break your neck at this rate.”

  The palomino had pitched Chavis off more times than Chavis cared to count. He said, “My gut aches.”

  “Sure. Usually does when you get knocked off a bucking horse every ten minutes by the clock.”

  Paradise had a sleepy-eyed smile. The merciless orange sun beat down, baking Chavis’ scratched bruised body: he wore no shirt. Under the discolored skin his gnarled stomach muscles rippled. He sat down slowly, face full of dejection. “To hell with that goddam horse.”

  Paradise said slyly, “That’s sure a pretty horse, Tracy. A real Sunday horse.”

  “Aagh,” Chavis said in disgust. “There are some horses that just can’t be ridden, and this is one of them.”

  “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, partner. You’ll ride him, I expect.”

  “When he’s ready? I haven’t got that much time, John.” Chavis made a face. The palomino stood tall and golden in the sunlight. Chavis struggled to his feet. When he took a step forward, the horse’s eyes rolled and flashed; its hoofs shifted. Chavis gave Paradise an unhappy look and walked up to the horse. When he put his hand on it, he could feel it quiver. He said, “Take it easy, feller. Hold him down, John.”

  The palomino’s ears lay back. Paradise yanked the horse’s head down and got a good grip on the palomino’s left ear with his teeth. His left hand was gripped at the slipknot of the rope that held the horse down. With his teeth clamped on the horse’s ear, Paradise could only grunt. The horse trembled. Chavis fitted his left boot into the stirrup and tested his weight in it. The palomino stood like a watch-spring ready to explode.

  Chavis gathered the reins, reached for the saddle horn and took it in a grip an ape could not have pried loose. The pulse throbbed in his head. He felt weak in his legs; he could hardly pull himself up onto the saddle. Twelve hundred pounds of blasting powder, he thought.

  “All right. Turn him loose.”

  Paradise opened his mouth, spat, and stepped back.

  Well, Chavis thought, here we go again.

  The palomino stood bolt still.

  It didn’t move a muscle.

  Chavis’ stirruped feet were wrapped tight around the stallion’s barrel. His left hand held the reins and his right hand was locked on the horn. No fancy rodeo riding this time. Both hands where they were needed. From the bridle, Chavis’ long rope hung down, purposefully tied in loops and knots: if the palomino threw its rider, it wouldn’t be able to run very far without getting all tangled up in the trailing rope, tripping itself and coming to a halt. At least that much of their arrangements seemed to be working: the palomino had thrown him off at least half a dozen times this morning, but it had never gotten away from them.

  “Well,” said Chavis. “What do you know.”

  “Ride him, cowboy,” Paradise said, amused.

  The horse stood motionless. Chavis said boldly, “I’ll bet you don’t think I can ride him.” Bravado swelled his chest and he grinned. “You’ll just have to see it to believe it.”

  “I wouldn’t buy a ticket,” said Paradise.

  “Has this damned horse got a wooden head?”

  “We’ll see,” Paradise said. Gravely he removed his hat—and quickly waved it under the palomino’s nose.

  The palomino jumped straight up in the air.

  It came down on its legs, all four of them stiff.

  Chavis’ stomach floated around and then the drop drove his backbone up against his skull.

  He heard Paradise laughing at him. It was open, wild laughter, born of the roughhousing land of humor that was bred into Westerners. Even a gunfighter owned his share of it.

  The horse went mad. It whistled, whip cracked savagely around, fishtailed and corkscrewed. It whipped him up, smashed him down in bone-shattering jolts, sprang forward and whipped back with malevolent cruelty.

  Mauled, unbalanced, wheeling through the sky, Chavis saw a red curtain rise across his vision. His ears roared. The horse plunged stiff-legged again, wheeled away to the side, twisted, trying to get out from under the galling weight astride it.

  Chavis’ neck snapped wickedly. He felt the sour taste of blood on his tongue. His eyes dimmed with a red haze. The palomino lashed its body into tortuous swirls: it reached around and snapped at him with its teeth, and swung its head away with a mouthful of stirrup leather. It came down and jarred Chavis’ spine; it turned away in a curling rush; heaved back on itself; racked him out of his faint precarious balance.

  His teeth cracked together. His belly churned; he went blind with crimson bells, whipped to lather, lonely, beaten ....

  He kept his steel grip with his knees, more by instinct than design. He had the salt taste of blood in his mouth; he could feel it in his nose, on his lips and chin. He could not see at all.

  There was, lightly, the sensation of sinking into layers of misty cushions. There was no telling how long it lasted: but it ended abruptly, when the ground reached up and smashed into him savagely.

  Vaguely he heard Paradise’s worried voice. “You should have cut loose, Tracy. You had no business hanging on as long as you did. Like to busted your head wide open. Look, partner, you can’t break a horse like that all at once. You’ve got to wear him down. Tracy? What the hell—can you hear me?”

  Chavis struggled to find his voice. When it came, it sounded like a croak from someone else’s throat. “I can hear you.”

  Paradise made a relieved grunt. “You’re the stubbornest bronc rider I ever saw.”

  Chavis said, “He’s weakening.” He opened his eyes. His vision swam around for a while before he was able to bring Paradise into focus. “He’s starting to weaken, John. I could feel it. He’s starting to give up.”

  The horse was tied down again, across the meadow. Paradise must have done that. Chavis’ body cried out when he moved. In agony, he got one foot under him and then the other, and pulled himself to his feet with the aid of a scrub tree. He stood there with one arm braced against the tree for support, shaking his head, squinting his eyes shut.

  Paradise said, “Dizzy?”

  It was frightening: for a moment there, Chavis had seen a black veil rise in front of his eyes. For a moment, he had been blind. But it passed, and he was able to straighten up and stand erect. “I’ll be all right,” he said. He started to walk toward the palomino. “I’ve just about got him licked, John,” and fainted, falling limp on the ground, completely unconscious.

  Jeremy Six ordinarily made his first rounds of the day in the late afternoon, to take the town’s pulse and get the feel of things. It was part of his job to be to recognized trouble spots before they became trouble-spots.

  He entered the Drover’s Rest this afternoon at precisely five-forty-five by his vest-pocket snap-lid timepiece. The place was virtually empty: Six was alone in the room with Hal Cr
aycroft, who was tending bar.

  And that was highly unusual. In an early-to-bed, early-to-rise community like Spanish Flat, it was the habit of most of the citizens to drop around to the saloon for an evening drink before heading home to supper and bed. Ordinarily the Drover’s Rest ought to have a respectable crowd at the bar by this time of day.

  Six showed his surprise with a polite lift of his eyebrows. Hal Craycroft supplied an explanation:

  “You won’t be finding anybody in the saloons right now, Jeremy. Surprised you didn’t hear. The whole town’s gathered down in back of Zimmerman’s place to watch the horses work out.”

  “Horses? What horses?”

  “Well, Ben Chandler’s for one. Ben brought down that big blaze-faced black stud from his ranch this morning. His foreman’s been giving the stud a little work-out down on the flats behind Zimmerman’s corrals. But that ain’t all. Hell, you mean you really ain’t heard? Where you been all day?”

  “Out of town,” Six said, not elaborating. In fact, he had spent the whole day on a wild-goose chase. At four-thirty this morning, Dominguez had roused Six from sleep with the news that Ike and Malachi Lockhart were saddling their horses. Six had gone over to the stables and watched from across the street. When Ike and Malachi had ridden out of town, Six had got his horse and followed them. He had only returned to town half an hour ago. What had happened was enough to raise his hackles with anger. Two hours up into the Yellows, Ike and Malachi had dismounted at Stinking Creek, broken out fishing poles and sat down on the creek bank to fish. It was obvious they knew someone was watching them; it was equally obvious that they were not in any hurry, and had no intention of moving from the spot until they were sure they were alone.