The Smartest Horse in Texas (The Traherns #2) Read online

  THE SMARTEST HORSE IN TEXAS

  The Trahern’s #2

  by Nancy Radke

  Table of Contents

  Begin reading

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

  MAIN MENU

  1

  A man should never have to ride bareback on a bony horse. At least not very far. It ‘bout cuts him in two.

  I wouldn’t have been riding this way, except some sneak thief stole my mount, saddle and all, and took off, leaving me this bag of bones. I’m a big man and at least the “bones” had long enough legs that my feet didn’t trail in the dirt, but I did have to watch out when we passed rocks and thorn bushes. That was about all the good I could say about him.

  The horse stolen from me, named Hero, was a heap better. I would a been right put out, except I stole Hero in the first place, during the war, and it didn’t seem quite right to make a fuss over a horse that wasn’t mine. But Hero was a powerful stallion and more horse than most men ever get a chance to ride, and I missed him. I aimed to get him back.

  When the war was over, I rode Hero back to my old home. My ma and pa were still alive and I spent a year there, helping them rebuild and get some crops in. The next spring, I left to make my own way. Their farm could only sustain two people at the most. I rode south through Ft. Smith and down the Butterfield Trail, headed toward El Paso. I figured to find me a place in Texas and build a ranch.

  According to my cousin, Trey, there were thousands of longhorn cows running through the Texas brush, breeding like jackrabbits, just waiting for a rope to be dropped on them. He’d put together a herd and brought it up to Independence, Missouri, just after the war broke out. A man with a loop and a running iron could soon have himself a large herd. A few trips north would give a poor man a big stake in a short time.

  I’d swapped my tattered Rebel uniform for some clothes at a small Cherokee Indian village. They were delighted with the brass buttons and the colonel's three stars on the collar. I couldn’t be shut of that uniform fast enough, and was happy they wanted it. Many of their tribe had fought with the Confederates, and they were facing an uncertain future.

  Of course they wanted Hero, but he and I had gone through the last weeks of the war together. No one got him. At least, he wasn’t for sale.

  The pants I’d traded for looked like they’d last a spell, made of heavy cord cloth. I now had a buckskin shirt, and, the best trade of the lot, a sturdy pair of high-topped moccasins which one of the women had made for me there on the spot. Riding boots were made for riding, and I needed to be able to rest my feet now and then. Unlike many horsemen, I liked to walk, but just not in boots.

  They thought my red underwear and my worn out army blanket would be perfect, woven into a blanket. I got one of their heavy blankets in exchange for them. I had brought in a fat buck I’d shot, and we all shared the meat. As I left, they offered me some pemmican, and I happily accepted, storing the dried meat in my saddlebags.

  I had just crossed a dry stretch of prairie when my fortunes reversed.

  Finding a tiny stream that barely had a trickle flowing, I had dismounted to get a drink. I’d loosened my cinch so Hero could rest while I gathered an armload of rocks to dam up the creek and give him a good drink. It had been done before, so I just had to round up the rocks and put them back in their places.

  That there thief must have been lying in the brushy rocks all along, for Hero didn’t even raise his head until the gent stood up and demanded I hand him over.

  I had my arms full of rocks and my gun in its holster, tied down. He had a gun in his hand. He swung aboard and took off and I stood there watching to see if my loose cinch would spin the saddle on him. It didn’t. I could have tried to shoot him off of Hero, but I valued that horse too much.

  Also, being a stallion, he just might be too much horse for a thief.

  I put my rocks in the stream, waited a minute, then got a good drink and looked around for something to carry water in. I didn’t have any illusions about trying to cross that desert stretch up ahead without a way to carry water and my empty canteen had gone north with that thief. He hadn’t even taken the time to fill it, making me wonder if he had any bullets in his gun. Well, he now had my Henry rifle and extra ammo in the saddlebags.

  A soft nicker alerted me.

  It had come from behind a large rocky outcrop, and I walked carefully around to the other side. There lay this thin white horse, half-dead. I ran back and filled my hat with water and carried it up to him. I washed out his mouth and got him to drink a few swallows. Then some more.

  I refilled my hat, then helped him drink, cupping the water into his mouth.

  So this was how that gent had got here. He probably thought his horse was dead and looked upon my arrival as an early Christmas. If he’d have known he was stealing a horse from a Trahern, he might have reconsidered first.

  Our family had no quit in them. Men or women, once we set our minds on a thing, we didn’t stop, even if it took years. My cousin, Trey, was as likely as not hunting me down right now. I needed to have Hero to give back to him. Trey wouldn’t take it kindly if I lost his horse.

  The thief’s outfit was also there, an empty tin canteen and an old Sharps rifle with no bullets. The horse had a bridle, but no saddle.

  I took that white horse to water and watched as he got himself a drink and then another one. Then he flopped down on the dirt with a groan and rested.

  I checked his feet. He had one shoe off and another just hanging, so I worked it off with my knife. Then I got another drink and filled the canteen left by the thief. I screwed down the cap and put it to soak in the stream, so the wet cloth covering would keep the water inside cool.

  Then I took me a drink a little upstream, then another, and finally got that horse up and gave him one more deep drink before we started out.

  That thief had been mighty dumb, for he had taken Hero just as I’d completed a long waterless trek, and he hadn’t bothered to let him get a drink. He also wasn’t riding with any water, because I’d run out before I reached the stream. I hoped I would find him before Hero was killed. I’d taken a liking to that stallion, ever since I had lifted him from Trey, who was fighting on the Union side.

  I’d always ridden carefully and my mounts were always in good shape. I think the white horse must have appreciated the rest and the water, for he started out at a fast trot, and it nigh bounced the insides out of me. He had the roughest trot I’d every tried to sit, and with no stirrups, I couldn’t hold myself away from his boney withers unless I held myself back with my hands or pulled my knees high.

  I settled him down into a fast walk and decided he must have some Walker in him, because his gait smoothed out and he walked faster than his trot.

  I scooted myself back a mite towards his rump and let him go, following Hero’s trail, which was headed north. Not the direction I had been traveling, but I was determined to get Hero back.

  Towards evening, the white started slowing down. I slid off and walked a bit to let him rest. I’d been walking now and then, and my feet were so sore from my high-heeled boots, I could hardly stand. I made an early dry camp in a stand of cacti. I drank from the canteen and gave the white a sip of water from a stem of cactus. It didn’t work all that well, but it did have some water in it. I slept for a few hours while the sand was warm. It got cold, but the moon came out, lighting up the trail and I led that horse out and we walked a good many miles before the sun came up.

  Later that morning we were taking another rest when a group of five riders descended upon us, rifles at the ready and looking for bear.

  “That’s his horse,” one of the men cried out, spurring
his horse to plunge down the slope to where I stood.

  I lifted my hands, for they looked to be ready to shoot on sight, and I didn’t want any bullets flying my way.

  One youngster shook out a rope and that I really didn’t want to see, although there were no trees nearby.So I was going to get hung as a horse thief after all, for a horse I hadn’t stolen.

  Well, I’d give it a good talk. “Before you gents get all worked up, why don’t you take the time to check out some facts.”

  The youngster glared at me. “We don’t listen to no lyin’ murderin’—”

  Murder was it? So he had been more than a horse thief. “Even if I told you my horse was stolen from me by the man who almost rode this one to death.”

  “How come you’re alive, then?” he said with a sneer, making his loop.

  “Cause I don’t think he had any bullets in his gun when he grabbed my horse. I didn’t realize it until he rode away. I had dismounted at that small stream back up the trail aways, and he snuck out of the bushes and took off on my horse. He’s a sorrel stallion with three white stockings and half a star. My name’s on the saddle. It’s a Texas double-rigged. I intend to get my outfit back—so if you folks have cause to want part of his hide, you can stand in line.”

  I started to put my hands down, then saw they weren’t accepting me yet. One of them dismounted and took my pistol and the old Sharps rifle. “This is Joe’s rifle, James. Got his name carved into the stock.”

  “What’s your name?” the oldest man demanded. He looked to be the one in charge, so I spoke to him.

  “Matthew Trahern.”

  “Trahern? I’ve heard of you. Out of Ohio.”

  “Not me. But I’ve plenty of kin, so it could easily be a brother or cousin. I’ve come up from Arkansas. What did the man do, who took my horse?”

  “Killed my brother. That’s his horse you’ve got.”

  “Well, if you hang me, you’re not going to get justice. I can prove where I was the last week or so. When did this happen?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Well, six days ago I was at Fort Smith. Having dinner with Major Grannon and his wife.”

  “His knees are bad, Uncle Jim,” the youngster said, pointing to the white horse.

  “He’s been ridden to the ground,” I said. “But he’s got a stout heart, even if his back is all bone.”

  “His name’s Jack,” one man said.

  “He got some Tennessee Walker in him, I think,” I said to him. “Even with sore feet, he sure can cover the ground.”

  “Put that rope away,” the older man told the youngster. “I’m James Cummings. You come with us while we get this straightened out.”

  The youngster scowled, but coiled up the rope, letting me breathe easier.

  “Any of you men read sign?” I asked.

  “I do,” Cummings said.

  “Then lookee here. See that track? That’s my horse. His back shoe has a notch in it. He’s big, purt near eighteen hands. You can see how far apart the tracks are. You’ll be able to spot him right off. I need my horse and gear so I can find work, so I’m following that trail.”

  The kid spoke again. “What if we don’t believe—”

  “Quiet.” Cummings cut the youngster off. “We’ll follow it. It’s mighty fresh.”

  “I’ve been gaining on him. He doesn’t know how to ride this country and save his horse.” Neither did they, for their horses were all lathered and breathing hard. Horses were cheap compared to most things, but a good horse had a value that couldn’t be figured in money.

  I gave Jack another drink out of my canteen and I think that sealed my case for Cummings.

  He nodded and relaxed, then waited for me to jump on and we rode off, following the track of the killer. I traveled as fast as possible, for I could see Hero was getting in a bad way, staggering from lack of water.

  Cummings could see it too. “He’ll kill your horse,” he said. He turned toward the youngster.

  “George, get down.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Give your horse to Mr. Trahern here. You follow us slow on your pa’s horse. We’re going to hurry and catch this man before he gets away.”

  “Thanks,” I said, swinging my foot over the white horse’s neck and stepping to the ground.

  The youngster glared at me as he got off and handed me his reins. I ignored him, knowing he was still too young to have much sense, and gave him the reins to his father’s horse. I didn’t offer to boost him on. There were plenty of boulders around if he needed help mounting.

  Around noon, we came over a rise and there stood Hero, in the shade of a yucca tree. We stopped and scattered back into cover behind some rocks.

  Hero walked down the trail and right up to me. He still had my saddle on and I noticed that the thief had cinched it too tight. The man had also used his spurs on him. I could see the bloody marks.

  Now I didn’t wear spurs when riding Hero for a reason. He never took too kindly to them.

  “Mr. Cummings, I think my horse dumped your killer up the trail aways. My rifle is here, which means he’s probably unarmed. And, I think...yes, here’s the money.” I untied a bag and handed it to him.

  That murderer had tore up Hero’s mouth yanking on the bit. I took off the bridle and put on his halter. Then I took off my hat, opened my canteen and poured Hero a drink in it. He drank it all, sucking up the last moisture, and I marveled that he was still standing.

  “You gave all your water to your horse?” one of the younger riders said, making it sound like some strange thing.

  “If he don’t make it, I don’t make it.”

  I pulled my moccasins from behind the cantle, took off my boots and switched footwear. My feet were mighty happy to have those moccasins on.

  James Cummings had been watching, and I called him closer and pulled back my saddlebags so he could see the back of the cantle.

  “In case there’s any doubt,” I said, “here’s my name on my saddle.” It was branded in, my cousin had done it with the tip of a running iron. Trahern

  Nothin’ fancy, but it marked that outfit as mine. Or so they thought.

  He looked and nodded.

  “Give him back his gun, Brandy.”

  I walked over and got my pistol back. With the rifle in the scabbard and my pistol in my holster, I felt ready for battle again. I opened my saddlebags to check my ammunition. That thief had rummaged around in them, making a mess, but all my bullets were there.

  “We should go find your killer while he’s still trying to recover from what Hero did to him,” I said. “He didn’t take any of my bullets, so they must not fit his gun.”

  They mounted up and rode along the trail, single file, with me bringing up the rear, leading Hero, who walked with a limp. About a half mile along, Hero stopped, snorted, his head and tail high, nostrils flared, at full alert. He spun and looked at an area in the brush, quivering.

  This time I had my pistol in my hand. I looked down to where Hero’s tracks came out of the brush. They were next to a long broken track in the dust showing the passage of a sidewinder, a rattlesnake that travels sideways to go forward. Instead of charging straight into the battle, I’d do like that sidewinder and sort of sidle up to it, checking things out as I went.

  I dropped Hero’s reins and slipped around through the bushes, making sure I kept some cover between me and the killer.

  It was him all right. He was pretty beat up. I think Hero might have stepped on him a bit after he threw him off, just to teach him a few things about handling a stallion. And I had guessed right. He had no bullets in his gun. He didn’t even try for it.

  “Cummings! Here’s your man.”

  Cummings and his men rode up and dismounted.

  “That’s the man you want,” the thief yelled, pointing at me. “He stole my horse.”

  I shook my head. “You should never be allowed near an animal.”

  Cummings looked at the man. “You say this is your ho
rse. Where’s the bill of sale?”

  “There ain’t any. He cain’t write.”

  I smiled at him. “Yes, I can. My mother was the schoolteacher until my father liberated her. She just moved the school to our house and taught all ten of us kids to read and write. And calculate.”

  Grabbing him, they hauled him roughly to his feet. “I need water,” he said.

  “Too bad you didn’t think of that before leaving the spring,” I said.

  The kid caught up with us, which meant he’d pushed that white horse way too hard. Cummings didn’t seem to notice. They set the murderer on that bony white horse with his hands tied behind his back and I decided that was fitting justice. I gave Cummings the old Sharps rifle, which he said had been his brother’s.

  I now had my outfit back.

  Cummings looked me over. “You hunting work?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can calculate?”

  “Only if I have to. I’d never make a banker.”

  “He a good cutting horse?”

  “I’ve roped from him. Never tried cutting cows.”

  “I could use a good man. The fellow keeping my books for me says he can’t see the numbers anymore.”

  “I got a hankering for a place of my own,” I said. “But I need a stake. So I could work for you awhile at least. You could look for another man during that time. Where you located?”

  “The C bar C. We’re on the north side of the Brazos River.”

  “You going there now?”

  “After we turn this murderer over to the law at Ft. Smith.”

  “They’ll just hang him,” one of the men said. “Seems a shame to waste time taking him there.”

  “I want the law. We’ll do this legal,” Cummings said.

  “They take too long,” another man said.

  “You comin’ along?” Cummings asked me.

  “No. You don’t need me. I’ll go on south to your ranch. I’m going to need to take it slow. His feet hurt.” I nodded towards Hero. “I’ll see you when you get there.”

  “Tell Elmer, he’s my bookkeeper, that you’ve come to replace him. I’ll give him his pay when I get back.” They rode off, and I started walking south, leading Hero along.