CHAPTER TWO
Eyes on the target, Arthur sure was glad he decided against heading into this one unarmed. That mare just did not seem to like him.
She'd managed to level a perfectly circular patch of grass overnight. Wood creaked as she strained against the hitching post she was tethered to, lipping at the juicier bits just beyond her reach. Her head shot up when Arthur clucked his tongue, but she switched her ears back when she realized who he was. She snorted and stamped a foreleg, sizing him up from beneath her bushy forelock, squared off with her weight rocked back on her rump.
"Hey, now," Arthur said, showing his hands submissively, carefully shifting the rope draped over his shoulder out of sight. "Easy, girl. You know me. I'm that ugly feller who saved you."
She snorted and threw her mane from one side to the other.
"Oh, come, now. Don't be like that." Arthur slowed his pace, dipped his hand into his crossbody satchel, withdrew the slightly bruised apple he'd snagged from Pearson's chuckwagon. "Just for you, if you'll have it, girl."
That got her attention. She pricked her ears at the apple presented on a flattened palm, then pinned them again, apparently torn between her disdain for Arthur and her desire for the treat. Still, she stayed put as he came ever closer. He was careful to stay outta the way of her powerful hind end. She was coiled to kick and he didn't want to be on the wrong end of the barrel.
"Ah, the best horse charmer this side of Saint Denis hard at work." Dutch's baritone rode above the camps hubbub, accompanied by the clink of spurs made heavy by the weight of the saddle in the man's arms. "Our very own Arthur Morgan."
Arthur peered over his shoulder, careful to stay facing the buckskin mare, who was now watching Dutch with a cautious eye. "You been out?"
"Had some business to attend to," Dutch replied with that cool overtone of his he used to disguise the fact that he was avoiding an explanation. He gestured as best he could with his arms occupied and changed the topic. "How's the arm?"
Arthur rolled his shoulder, feeling his skin tighten against the shotgun wound now freshly bandaged beneath his shirt. "Sore, but I think I'm gonna live, unfortunately."
A good-natured smirk pulled at Dutch's mouth. He nodded at Arthur as he passed. "Well, I don't want to interrupt you, Arthur. When you get a moment, come find me. I'd like to discuss your recent escapades."
Arthur's shoulders drooped just a bit. "Shoah," he drawled over his shoulder as Dutch strode into camp, hefting his saddle up onto one shoulder as he went. Arthur watched him a moment, trying not to work himself up about the whole deal, when the air close to his hand suddenly got a lot warmer. The prick of trimmed whiskers followed, then the velvety feel of a muzzle across his hand, seeking out the smooth apple.
He flattened his palm again and let the buckskin mare take the fruit. "Knew you'd come around," he said softly, carefully letting his hand rest on her neck. This time she didn't even flinch, and Arthur carefully patted her a few times, ruffled her black mane at her crest. "There, girl."
All things considered, she was pretty clean. Her golden coat shone with health. He ran his hands down the mare's back, feeling the curve of her spine for injury, prodded his fingers into the solid muscle along her hind legs. He went for the leg she'd got wrapped up in the stirrup, feeling critically for inflammation that might've shown overnight. She swished her tail at his wandering hands but did not react otherwise. Good.
"Well, girl," he murmured, slipping the rope from his shoulder as he stood. "Let's see what you got."
The rope wasn't really a rope, not anymore – it was a makeshift hackamore he'd fashioned himself. He stood, wincing at the stiffness in his saddle-sore back; ignoring it, he went for the mare's face, hooking a hand under her lower jaw and pushing her lips back with the other hand. The soft toothless part of her jaw was red and torn from her bit, and she tossed her head impatiently.
Arthur frowned. I'll hafta pick up some ointment, he thought. Nobody's gonna want a horse with a ruined mouth.
"Hey, Arthur." That was Marston's familiar rasp. "You ridin' out?"
He shrugged. "Was gonna go to the river, see how she handles. Why?"
Paper snapped as Marston waved a piece of parchment around. "Pearson's got a shopping list and we're runnin' low on gunpowder and gun oil. Couple of us are headin' to Valentine. Nice easy ride. If you can't stay on that wild thing, you can double back."
Squinting at the afternoon sun, Arthur slipped two fingers under the brim of his hat and scratched at his hairline. "Shoah. Let's get the hell on before the girls catch wind of it."
Arthur always preferred riding bareback. Sure, saddles provided extra handholds and storage for weapons and game and the like, but there just wasn't anything like sitting right on the horse, feeling the sway of her belly as she walked, the shift of muscle beneath smooth hide, the warmth of her breathing sides against the insides of his knees. After a while, Arthur couldn't tell where he ended and his horse began.
The buckskin mare was sound, thankfully, and whoever had trained her had done a remarkable job; she turned on a dime when Arthur neck-reined her in a serpentine pattern behind the others, responded easily to the shifts in his legs and seat to control her. Her jog was smooth as butter, but he noticed she pinned her ears and swished her tail every time he asked for more speed, like she was irritated he was making her work harder.
All in all, she was a smooth ride … until he asked for a lope.
Damn horse took off like a steam engine, shoving off her hind legs and lunging into the first stride with enough ferocity Arthur almost slipped right off the back of her. His knee-jerk reaction was to clamp his knees around her belly and take up a handful of mane to steady his balance. Worked for a few strides, but just as he'd started to settle himself square over her back again, she tucked her rear beneath her and slid to a halt.
There are times when a horseman has to decide whether to ride something out or bail. Arthur chose the latter.
"Son of a bitch!" He spat as he pitched over the mare's shoulder and took the ground to his knees. Rocks tore into his denim pants and scraped him up; he threw a gloved hand out to keep his face from smacking the earth and was rewarded with the sharp pain of a rock in his palm and a burst of heat at his arm. He thought it might be the shotgun wound reopening.
"You ok?" Javier reined his pinto up beside Arthur, preparing to dismount as the others drew up alongside him.
Arthur stood, hands on his knees, checked to make sure everything still worked. It did. "Damn," he spat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the dark shape of his hat and walked gingerly over to it. Oh, he was gonna feel this one tomorrow. Excellent.
And – goddammit – John was laughing at him.
"Oh, boy, she's got you aaaall figured out already," the younger man cried from his place still posed atop his horse. Arthur yanked his hat down over his brow and glared at Marston with a set jaw, which just caused him to have a fit all over again. He slapped his thigh. "I never seen a horse successfully buck you off, Arthur. You only come off when they quit moving and you don't."
"Shut it." Arthur sucked dirt off his teeth and spat to the side, half-expecting to see the buckskin mare high-tailing it the hell outta Dodge, fully surprised to find her standing a few feet away.
"I meant that a compliment, but if you wanna to turn around, we won't fault you for it."
"Shut the hell up, Marston." Arthur threw the reins back over the mare's head as John chuckled behind him. He grabbed a handful of mane and clambered back on less-than-gracefully. The mare looked up from her grass, twisting around to lock eyes with him.
Arthur couldn't help it. He leaned forward and hissed into the mare's ear, "Don't even think about doin' that again."
She snorted, but Arthur was pretty damn sure she meant it as a laugh.
By the time they trotted into Valentine, they'd come up with a pretty solid plan of attack. Lenny and Javier were in charge of visiting the butcher's stand and the general store to check the boxes on Pearson's list, Marston was to handle all things weapon-related at the gunsmith, Charles was tasked with purchasing medicines and other provisions, and Arthur was left to his own devices. They agreed to meet up in an hour at the saloon because damn it, they all needed a stiff drink and a decent meal that didn't consist of overcooked stew.
"Easy, girl," Arthur said as he split from the group and pointed the buckskin in the direction of the livery. He thought about getting a price on her. Maybe. Not yet. He really wanted to fix that bridle and hook the saddle up with a new latigo, then see what he could get out of the deal. Horses with tack went for more than without, especially if it was fit right. He'd get supplies, repair everything, and then send her off to whoever her next owner might be.
At least, that's what he told himself.
He drew her up in front of the livery, dismounted and threw her reins over the hitching post right outside. Evening had made itself known right quick. In the red sunlight, Arthur noticed the mare's coat wasn't solid gold, but instead flecked with reds and smoky-black dappling. There was a particularly interesting patch on her shoulder, almost …
"Huh." Arthur passed his fingers over the mare's hide, his hand casting long shadows across her body in the fading light. There was a marking on her shoulder. Thick, like scar tissue, too intricate to be an accident.
She was branded. It was a chevron with the letter S nestled in the point.
He thumbed at the brand. The buckskin mare blinked at him through long lashes, almost sadly, exhaling through her nose. He wondered what it meant – the brand, that is. He'd have to ask. Not now. Now wasn't the time. He had a mission.
A few minutes later, he walked out with new leather reins, enough leather to repair the latigo on the broken saddle, a glass pot of salve for the mare's ruined mouth. He fitted everything into his satchel, thumbed a few bills into the stable's owner's waiting hands, and strode back out into the evening.
"Didn't take too long, girl," he murmured to the mare, unhooking her reins from the rail with one hand and pushing her forelock to the side with the other. "I need a drink. No thanks to you."
She snorted and shook out her mane, but followed docilely.
"You need a name," Arthur said as she fell into step beside him. Nah. That was probably a bad idea. He was selling her, after all. No reason to tempt himself to get attached.
Arthur never could understand how people could trade horses like they would a wagon. They were living, breathing creatures – creatures with as much personality as the people they worked for, if you knew what to look for. He'd sold horses, lost 'em to wolves, put 'em down himself from a broken leg, and each one left a mark upon him. He remembered Adam, the graceful bay saddlebred he'd jacked from a wealthy Southern matron, felled by colic; Willie, the surefooted roan mustang stolen from him in a raid gone wrong; the big gray quarter horse, Rowdy, he sold off to help the gang survive the winter … each left him with a heavy heart and a promise not to let himself get attached ever again, but of course, that never worked. Just ask Big Boss.
"All right, girl," Arthur said to the buckskin mare. He was close to the saloon now. Patting the mare on the neck, he hitched her once again, this time next to the rickety boardwalk. "Won't be long."
She glared at him. Yeah, sure.
It started out quiet enough. It always did.
Arthur bellied up to the bar through the crowd of gunslingers, travelers, city-slickers and maidens, flagged down the bartender.
"Whiskey," he said. "Whatever's strongest. And git yourself somethin', too."
The barkeep picked up the two coins, eyed them critically, then nodded. "Thanks, mister." He turned to face the haphazard shelves of alcohol, jaw working as he muttered to himself reading each label. He settled on a roundish bottle with mountains etched into it and poured into a shot glass liquid the color of dark honey.
Arthur picked it up, held it up to the dying sunlight. The whiskey danced like captured flame. Burned like it, too. Arthur threw the stuff back and swallowed, relishing the burn and the taste as it worked through him. Still, even with the alcohol warmth in him, he felt the cold prick of eyes on the back of his neck.
He brought the shot glass down and stiffened up, hand going reflexively for the revolver on his right hip. His shotgun was slung across his back. His heart drummed against the leather strap holding the weapon in place, its weight a solemn comfort against his spine. The atmosphere had changed. He wasn't sure how, but it had, and that was usually a bad thing.
The feeling of peculiarity got real strong when a couple bowlegged outriders in trail-worn chaps approached the bar, flanking him on either side. One had a threadbare denim coat, the other a faded flannel with the sleeves rolled up. Both were armed, and both were trouble.
"Evenin' fellas," Arthur said, signaling the barkeep to bring him another, making a point to stare straight ahead. "If ya don't mind, there's plenty room on the other side of the bar. My friends'll be here soon and I promised them a prime seat at this … fine establishment."
"Just gotta question for you," Flannel said, leaning dangerously close to Arthur's face, "if ya don't mind."
"I think I do mind," Arthur replied gruffly, accepting the fresh shot the bartender slid to him. "Not really in the mood to shoot the breeze with a coupla hard cases I ain't never met."
"That your horse out there? The buckskin?" Denim threw a bill onto the bar.
Arthur threw the second shot back. Not a good idea. He needed to be sharp. "What of it?"
"Just wanna know where you got her is all," Flannel drawled.
"Couldn't tell ya." Arthur's hand fitted to the familiar grip of his revolver.
"You should," Denim said. "Might regret it if you don't."
When Arthur breathed in, he felt the all-too-familiar jab of a gun's barrel at his ribs.