A Tale Out of Luck Page 9

  “Next time I saw him, he’d rubbed that hackamore from his head and had gathered a few mares. He had come here lookin’ for his freedom—like me. He had escaped, and had to hide to keep from being caught and whipped—like me. But I wanted to catch him—a beautiful horse like that. I guess I thought we could help each other. Maybe I was wrong.” Jubal struck a match on the rock wall and cupped his hand around it to relight the tobacco in his pipe.

  “Were you a slave, Mr. Hayes?” Skeeter asked.

  Jubal nodded. “Born lookin’ like this, you can imagine my master wasn’t too happy with my folks. An albino ain’t fit for work in the fields. So that slave master sold my folks to two different buyers. I never knew ’em.”

  “You’re an orphan, like me,” Skeeter said.

  Jubal looked at him. “Maybe you understand a little, then. But I was a slave, too. Like I said, I couldn’t work in the fields, but they kept me around as a curiosity and put me to work tendin’ horses. I became a good jockey, and my slave master bought me my shaded spectacles so’s I could race. We had a big race in San Antonio, and I escaped there, and run off to hide in these hills. That seems well nigh a lifetime ago.”

  “So that’s when you first saw the Steel Dust Gray?” Jay Blue asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  Jubal nodded. “The story come up through Fredericksburg that the Steel Dust Gray was caught in the wild as a two-year-old colt, and killed a man tryin’ to break him down around Bandera. Some German settlers I sold horses to over on the Pedernales told me to leave him be, or he’d kill me, too, but I still thought I could catch him.

  “I taught myself and trained my horses to rope by watchin’ the vaqueros, but I never could get close enough to that stallion to throw a loop at him. So I learned to charm these mustangs.”

  “How do you charm a wild animal?” Skeeter asked, amazed.

  “You boys know what a horse whisperer is?”

  Skeeter put his hand in the air, as if he were in school. “You mean like when your voice gets hoarse, and you try to whisper?” He rasped the last few words.

  Jubal shook his head, a look of disgusted disbelief on his face. “I’m amazed you two scatterbrains put up with each other. Just listen, will you? There are men who can whisper in a horse’s ear—in some kind of secret horse language—and the horse will just do whatever the horse whisperer says to do.”

  Jay Blue smirked. “Are you tryin’ to tell us you’re a horse whisperer?”

  “Me? Hell, no, son, I’d be lyin’ to you if I told you that. I’ve tried whisperin’ to ’em, and it don’t work for me. Even when I talk right out loud to ’em, they don’t understand me right off. But sooner or later, I get my meanin’ across to ’em. No, I ain’t no horse whisperer. I’m more of what you’d call a mustang mumbler.”

  Smoke billowed from Jubal’s mouth in the lantern light as he busted out in laughter and slapped his knee. Skeeter joined him, and even Jay Blue had to chuckle.

  “Mustang mumbler! That’s a good one!” Skeeter declared.

  “What I learned to do was go out and live among ’em. I become one of ’em. After a while, they’ll accept me into their band, and they’ll learn to trust me. They’ll follow me anywhere. That’s how I led that string into the corrals at Fort Jennings today. You saw me.

  “So, anyway, after charmin’ and pennin’ many a mustang, I went after El Grullo’s herd. Took a long time, but every day he’d let me get a little closer to the herd. I was camped real close one night when I woke to the feeling of the ground shakin’. Ol’ Steel Dust was on me in no time. He stomped my head pretty good, and bit me once or twice. I tried to get up and run, but he whirled and kicked. Broke my arm right here between the wrist and elbow—I heard it crack. He drove me out of my own camp where I couldn’t even get to my gun to fire it and spook him off. I got behind a mesquite tree, and managed to stay away from him. But he wasn’t done. He turned back to my camp and stomped everything that smelled like me. Broke a good Winchester rifle. Then he went after my gelding and spooked him so bad that he set back and broke his lead rope and run off, leavin’ me busted up, afoot, and without a gun, a long way from home. Turned out it was one of the best things ever happened to me.”

  “What do you mean?” Skeeter said. “Sounds like your luck was runnin’ even lower than ours has.”

  “Good luck comes in mighty peculiar packages sometimes, gentlemen. While I was limpin’ home with a busted head and a busted arm, I stumbled across a camp of Comanches. They had been on a raid, and had a captive.” He pointed toward the entrance to the cave with his pipe stem. “It was Luz. Don’t ever ask her about it, because she don’t like to think about it, much less talk about it.

  “It was dusk. They were makin’ camp. Luz was tied up. So I waited until almost dark and gave ’em my demon-on-furlough-from-hell routine.” Jubal began to laugh. “I walked into their camp half naked, painted with dried blood, howlin’ like a peacock. They lit out of there so fast that they left Luz and all kinds of handy things behind—bows and arrows, food, knives, buffalo robes . . . They didn’t even bother to round up their spare horses, so I caught a few. Me and Luz rode home in style.”

  “Wasn’t she scared of you?”

  “You can only get just so scared, son. She was already scared well-nigh to death when I found her. Once she figured out I wasn’t a ghost, we got along just fine. She set my broken arm and nursed me back to health. If that stallion hadn’t attacked me that night, I never would have found that woman, and I’d be one lonely hermit to this day.”

  “I don’t see our streak of bad luck turnin’ out that way,” Skeeter said. “At least not with Jay Blue in charge.”

  Jay Blue rolled a lazy look of disapproval Skeeter’s way, but said nothing.

  “Well, don’t worry, Jay Blue ain’t in charge,” Jubal declared. “I am. I swore I’d never go after Steel Dust again, but maybe it’s time. You boys can rope, so we’ve got one shot at catchin’ that mare, and maybe even El Grullo himself, if he don’t kill us all. I know where he’s headed with that mare. I know his patterns. He’s goin’ to one of his favorite little canyons. I’ve got a mustang trap built in that canyon. If we can get a couple of ropes on him, we can pen him there.”

  A smile had begun to form on Jay Blue’s face. “We can do this, Mr. Hayes. I told you, we could help you.” He stood and rubbed his hands together, as if he was ready to get started that very moment. “Daddy’s sure gonna be surprised when we ride back with that mare!”

  “Don’t start countin’ chickens just yet,” Jubal warned. “We got some hatchin’ to do first.” He stood and gently tapped the ashes out of his pipe, onto the flat rock atop the stone fence. “We’d best get a few hours of sleep if we’re goin’ mustangin’ tomorrow. We’ll be up by three thirty and mounted by four.”

  “I’ve got a good feelin’ about this,” Jay Blue said, nudging Skeeter as they returned to the cave.

  “Oh, crap,” Skeeter replied. “That’s what you told me about goin’ to town to see that barmaid, and my life’s been a bad dream ever since.”

  17

  BEFORE HE EVEN FOUND the strength to open his eyes, the Wolf felt himself wake from sleep. A great burning mass tortured his midsection. Another glowed through his eyelids. But in spite of the balls of fire inside and out, he felt chilled.

  He forced his eyes open and saw the sun on the horizon. Was it rising or setting? He hoped this was not the eternity of the Shadow Land. The missionaries on the reservation had promised it would be free of pain, but this was like no misery he had ever felt. He closed his eyes again.

  Visions, dreams, and memories intermingled until he could not tell one from the other. He thought he remembered having awakened before, in the cold water where he had hidden himself like a wounded varmint. He had dragged himself out of the water. But when? How long ago? And how far had he crawled?

  Again, he opened his eyes. The sun had risen a bit, having broken free of the horizon. Dawn. Now he recalled t
he battle. He had fought well at first. He had shot that big soldier in the shoulder with an arrow, then dragged his grandfather, Chief Crazy Bear, away. He had picked up a stick and fought with that. Then his medicine had gone bad, and now he lay here, helpless—useless to his people. Had they escaped? Where was his cousin, Crooked Nose? His friends? The women and children? The soldiers?

  He felt the gaze of Father Sun upon him, shaming him for lying there like a coward. He had to get up. Summoning all his strength, he pushed his body from the ground until he was on his knees. The pain in his torso was horrific, but he choked his groans of agony back down his throat. He tried to look around, but the images swam. He could focus only on the ground from which he had risen, finding it stained with his own dried blood. He refused to look at his wound.

  Trying to rise to his feet, the Wolf stumbled back down to his knees. The scraping of his palms and knees in gravel and thorns was nothing compared to the torments of his fevered wound. Then he saw a slender tree limb lying on the ground—one that had been swept down the stream in times of flood and deposited here. He crawled toward it. Taking the piece of driftwood in hand, he found it strong enough to support him.

  By leaning on the stick, he was able to rise to his feet and look around him. His vision blurred the distant landscape, but he could see the ground under him well enough, and the rising sun gave him his bearings. He began walking, using the stick like an old lady, keeping the sun over his right shoulder. He didn’t know what else to do. He was not going to just lie there and die, in shame and defeat.

  Before the fight, Crazy Bear had told everyone in camp that if they were attacked, and had to scatter, they would meet up again where the two big rivers came together—the ones named the Colorado and the Llano by the Spaniards who had come long before the Americans. He knew that campground was to the northwest, so he plodded along in that direction.

  Neither time nor distance meant anything to him anymore, and so he could not say how far he had walked when he tripped. In straining, trying to catch himself upon his walking stick, he tore open the wound where the bullet had ripped out of his body over his right hip bone. His knees hit and he pitched forward onto his face. He felt the warmth of his own blood running down his side.

  Was this how he would die? Bleeding to death, facedown in the dirt, too weak to sing his own death song? Father Sun’s glare drilled mercilessly into him, and the Wolf knew that any hope he had of surviving would have to come from the spirits now, for he was no more able to help himself than a motherless infant. He felt very thirsty, and his eyes closed.

  “Hey, Jefe, when do I get my next raise?” Policarpo asked, riding along at a trot beside Hank on the road to Fort Jennings. Tonk was riding ahead, as if he was still scouting for the Texas Rangers. They had stayed in town last night and had ridden home to the Broken Arrow Ranch after dawn. Failing to find Jay Blue and Skeeter there, they figured they’d better ride on over to Fort Jennings to inquire after the boys.

  “A raise?” Hank said, scoffing at the idea. “I defy you to find another ranch foreman in Texas as well paid as you.”

  “But I need more whore money.”

  Hank appreciated the honesty, but didn’t buy the argument. “You ended up with that plump gal from Flora’s last night, didn’t you?”

  “No,” Poli insisted. “She ended up. I was standing flat-footed.”

  Hank grinned, and shook his head. “You’re liable to rot something off proddin’ around in the wrong place. Then you damn sure won’t need a raise.”

  “I’m serious, Capitán,I ain’t so young anymore. I gotta make hay while the sun shines, if you know what I mean.”

  “You got plenty of time. Look at me.” He shot a grin at his foreman, and felt the twinkle in his eye from last night at Flora’s.

  “Ah-ha!” Poli blurted.

  “Ah-ha, what?”

  “Forget about the raise, you just told me what I wanted to know.”

  “I didn’t tell you a damn thing.”

  “How was it?”

  “How was what?”

  “Come on, Capitán, is the prize as good as the wrapping paper looks?”

  Hank frowned. “None of your business. Let’s lope on into Fort Jennings.”

  They caught up with Tonk and the three of them hit a canter that lasted until they came to the sentry on the road. Gaining entry to the post, they rode to the officer’s quarters and found First Sergeant July Polk sitting in his favorite chair, leaning back against the porch in the sun. He was out of uniform, shirtless, his left arm bandaged and in a sling.

  “Hello, Captain Tomlinson,” he said as Hank and his two ranch hands trotted up. “I’ve been expectin’ you.”

  Hank nodded a greeting. “Have we met?”

  “Not exactly,” Polk explained, “but I know who you are. I saw you here on the Fourth of July, for the festivities, but we didn’t get a chance to howdy and shake.” He rose from his chair as Hank dismounted. He offered his hand to the retired Ranger. “First Sergeant July Polk.”

  “Pleasure,” Hank said, shaking the man’s massive hand. “Why would you be expectin’ me?”

  “Your son was here yesterday. Thought you might be on his trail, with the Indian trouble and all.”

  “I don’t exactly consider just one corpse full of arrows Indian trouble.”

  Polk frowned. “So you haven’t heard?”

  Hank felt that simmering feeling of dread trying to come to a boil. “Maybe you better enlighten me.”

  “We had a fight with the Comanches yesterday on Flat Rock Creek. . . .”

  Hank listened intently to the account of the skirmish. According to the first sergeant, who painted a clear picture of what had happened, the Indians had suffered the worst of it, although Major Quitman and two troopers had been killed. Polk seemed neither proud nor ashamed of any of this, and Hank felt inclined to believe his story.

  “What about the boys?” Hank asked.

  “I’d hoped they’d do as the major ordered, and go home,” Polk said. “But I asked around to make sure. A couple of privates who stayed behind at the fort yesterday remembered seeing your boys ride off to the west. It looked like they were on the trail of that mustanger.”

  “What mustanger?” Hank asked. He spent the next few minutes listening to what First Sergeant July Polk knew about one peculiar individual by the name of Jubal Hayes. This was a bit harder to swallow than the story about the Indian skirmish, but Hank still tended to give credence to Polk’s account.

  “Who’s in charge with the major killed?”

  “I guess I am,” Polk admitted. “The colonel is way up on the Brazos. The captain took sick and was sent to San Antone. The lieutenant is on leave.”

  “You look like you can keep order among the men.” Hank smiled.

  “I can handle ’em, sir.”

  “Which way did the boys go?”

  First Sergeant Polk pointed. “That way. To the right of the corrals. But the trail’s a day old, and it’s been windy.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” Hank stepped back up on his horse. “Between me and Tonk, we’ll find ’em.” What concerned him was how he might find them, but he didn’t intend to bother Polk with his worries. “I thank you for your information, First Sergeant.”

  18

  JAY BLUE eased his borrowed mustang pony up to the brink of the overlook, Jubal indicating with minuscule movements of his gloved fingers that the boys should approach with all possible caution.

  “There they are,” Jubal said in a whisper.

  Jay Blue’s right stirrup brushed Jubal’s left as Skeeter stepped up to the mustanger’s off side. Jay Blue removed his hat, stood in the stirrups, and peeked over the rimrock through the thorny-leaved cover of an agarita bush clinging to the precipice. Along the unnamed creek that took the form of a series of pools—like a string of pearls haphazardly cast aside—wild horses grazed and drank, meandering in and out of the cover, which included oak and elm trees, and several large, onion-shap
ed cedar bushes.

  The sight filled Jay Blue’s heart with more hope than he had been able to cling to for the past two days. Yet, there was still one lingering doubt. “Where’s the mare?” he whispered.

  “She’s down there in the timber somewhere.”

  “You sure it’s the right bunch of mustangs? I don’t see her, or the Steel Dust Gray.”

  “There!” Jubal said in a whisper. “Comin’ out of the trees.”

  Jay Blue caught sight of the motion, and the Thoroughbred mare trotted into view. His heart thumped as if he were walking into Flora’s Saloon to attempt a flirtation with the lovely Jane. Then, from the same opening in the creek-side undergrowth, the Steel Dust Gray stepped into view with his neck bowed and his head high, the morning sun painting a sheen on the ripples of his musculature. His tail switched with every step of his strut. He came sniffing up behind the mare, but she squealed and kicked at him, dodging toward the water, where she paused to take a good long drink.

  “He still hasn’t had time to have his way with her,” Jubal whispered.

  “Hey,” Jay Blue said, almost too excited to keep his voice down, “are y’all thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

  The dark lenses of Jubal’s glasses turned on him. “Son, I wouldn’t bet that you and me have ever had the same thought in our heads at the same time.”

  “Since when did you start thinkin’?” Skeeter added.

  Undaunted, Jay Blue motioned for his two trail mates to follow him back down the slope a way where they could talk out loud.

  “Mr. Hayes, she’s filling up on water right now.” Jay Blue grabbed the coiled lasso lashed to the right fork of his saddle. “I can catch her easy when she’s full of water. I can ride around downwind, come through that draw, sneak through the cover, and get within fifty yards of her before she ever sees me.”

  “Are you as good with a rope as you are with a banjo?”