Читать книгу Fury and the White Mare - Albert G. Miller - Страница 4

Pete Wilkie, the scrappy old foreman of Jim Newton’s Broken Wheel Ranch, lay in bed fast asleep. The grin on his face indicated that he was having one of his “happy” dreams.

“Ever since I was knee-high to a snake’s chin,” he had once told Joey, “I’ve on’y had two kinds of dreams: happy or turrible. I cain’t figger it out, Joey; I never have any of them in-between kinda dreams, like reg’lar folks do.”

In Pete’s “turrible” dreams, which were always the same, he found himself being thrown from a bucking bronc before the eyes of a jeering rodeo crowd. These dreams usually ended by his falling out of bed.

His “happy” dreams, on the other hand, were assorted. In some of them he was the world’s champion trick rider and roper, in others he was either the fastest gun in the West or owner of the King Ranch in Texas. But the happy dream that Pete was enjoying this cold February night was a brand new kind. He had discovered a uranium mine and had money enough to buy everything that had ever caught his eye in the Western Section of the mail-order catalogue.

“Let’s see now,” he muttered in his sleep. “I think I’ll buy me one of them Stetson hats with the five-inch brim. Mebbe I’ll even order two of ’em, seein’ as how they’re only a measly ninety dollars apiece.”

Joey Newton had somehow come into the dream, and was looking over Pete’s shoulder. “Lookit here, Joey,” said the old man, pointing to the catalogue. “It says here this hat’s got seven x’s on the sweatband. That means it’s the best doggone top piece money kin buy.”

Joey whistled softly. “Boy, Pete, it must be great to be as rich as you are.”

Pete chuckled. “It shore is. Say, Joey, is there anythin’ special you got a cravin’ fer? Jest name it an’ I’ll buy it fer you.”

Joey thought for a minute. “Gosh, Pete, I can’t think of a thing I want. But look, how about buying something for Fury?”

Pete snorted. “Now what in tarnation would you buy fer a horse that’s already got everythin’? Fury’s got a good master, a good home, an’ all the feed he needs to keep him fat an’ sassy.”

“That’s right, he has,” Joey agreed.

Pete’s happy dream continued, as the pale moonlight crept across the outside of the ranch house and shone through the window upon his smiling face. Below the hatband line, the face was sun-darkened to the color of an outside cut of roast beef. Above the line, the forehead was white as the pillow. The old man’s grin broadened as he turned the pages of the catalogue and decided to order himself a fifty-dollar pair of handmade boots.

At that moment, for the first time in Pete’s life, his happy dream turned “turrible.” To his dismay, he found himself riding a bucking horse before thousands of screaming people. The bawling bronc seemed to be trying to hammer Pete’s spine into his neck, as the dust boiled up beneath its thundering hoofs. With one hand Pete got himself a strangle hold on the saddle horn. With the other he grabbed a fistful of the animal’s mane. Now the hoof-beats seemed even louder than the clamor of the crowd. As his mount did a corkscrew turn in mid-air, Pete went flying like the man shot out of a cannon at the circus. He landed with a thump and, as he rolled over to avoid being trampled by the pounding hoofs, his head cracked against the leg of the bureau. He woke up yelling, and discovered that, as usual, he had fallen out of bed.

As the angry old man scrambled to his feet, he realized that the sound of hoofbeats was actual and not merely part of his dream. A horse was galloping down the road toward the ranch gate. With his bare feet slapping the cold floor, he ran to his bedroom door, opened it, and stood blinking as the lights went on in the living room. Jim and Joey were already there in their pajamas. Pete gathered his flapping nightshirt around his spindly legs and scurried toward the hearth, which was still warm from the dying fire.

“What in tarnation’s goin’ on outside?” he demanded. “What kind of a danged fool’d be ridin’ a horse in the middle of the night? An’ don’t say ‘Paul Revere,’ ’cause I heered that joke when I was no bigger’n a hoptoad.”

“It’s Fury!” Joey cried. “He ran away! I saw him from my window!”

“How’d he git outa the barn?” Pete yelled. “Didn’t you bolt the door?”

“Sure I did! But Fury can slide the bolt with his muzzle. You know that!”

“Yeah, I do know it!” Pete shouted sourly. “An’ that’s what you git fer givin’ a horse a trick education! He wakes everybody up at three o’clock in the mornin’, when it’s cold enough to freeze the snout off a brass hyena.”

Jim raised his hand and spoke commandingly. “All right, knock it off, both of you. You sound like a couple of bickering kids.”

“But Jim,” Joey said in a despairing voice, “it’s Fury! He’s gone! What’re we going to do?”

“We’ll discuss that after we put on bathrobes and slippers. Hurry it up, before we all get pneumonia.”

When Jim and Joey returned to the living room, Pete was still standing on the hearth with his back to the poked-up fire. He had tucked up the rear of his nightshirt in order to capture some of the rising heat.

Joey wrinkled his forehead. “Fury hasn’t run away from the ranch since I first came here to live. That’s when he went out to fight the white stallion. I can’t understand why he’s done it again tonight.”

“Wal, he shore ruined one of my happy dreams,” Pete growled, rubbing his head. “An’ he raised a lump on my noggin, too.” Jim glanced at him and grinned. “Yep,” Pete admitted sheepishly, “I fell outa bed agin, dadgum it!”

Jim looked thoughtfully down into the fire. Even in his heavy woolen bathrobe the tall boss of the Broken Wheel looked vigorous and athletic, and his face beneath the light blond hair was handsome and wind-burned.

“Why do you think Fury ran away, Jim?” Joey asked. “Do you think he went to fight another stallion?”

“I doubt it, Joey. There hasn’t been a killer stallion in this region since the white one.”

“Yer right,” Pete agreed. “If there was, we woulda heerd tell of him long before this.”

“Of course,” Jim continued, “there are stallions guarding the mares of the mustang herds in the hills, but those aren’t killers. Fury wouldn’t break out to look for a fight with one of those fellows.”

Pete snapped his bony fingers. “The mares! That gives me an idee, Jim. Could be that Fury wants a companion to kinda settle down with.”

“That same thought occurred to me,” Jim said.

Joey looked at Jim, with disbelief written on his face. “But Fury has companions, right here on the ranch. He’s got you and Pete and me, and plenty of horses to keep him company.”

“That’s true, Joey,” Jim agreed softly, “but we can’t argue with an animal’s natural instincts.”

“I know that, but golly, I . . .” Joey’s voice trailed off as he walked to the window and stared into the night. Jim and Pete exchanged sympathetic glances and waited for him to continue. In a moment Joey turned and spoke in a small, hopeless voice. “I can’t believe that Fury’d leave us for—well—for anything.” He returned to the fireplace and laid his hand on Jim’s arm. “Jim, can’t we ride out now and bring him back?”

“Not in the middle of the night, Joey. It would be a fool’s errand.”

“Then when?”

“In the morning, right after breakfast.”

“Shore,” Pete added. “Bein’ it’s Saturday an’ there’s no school, the three of us kin ride up together.”

Joey gave the mantel an impatient slap. “But suppose Fury’s not in the hills?”

“He’ll be there,” Jim assured him. “I’ll bet you a new saddle we’ll find him with the wild-horse herd.” He placed his arm around Joey’s shoulder. “Okay son? Satisfied?”

Joey sighed. “I guess so, Jim.”

“Good boy. Now let’s all try to catch a few hours of shut-eye.”

“Smart idee,” Pete said. An’ when we git up, I’ll build us a breakfast of pork chops an’ flapjacks. That’ll give our stummicks a little somethin’ to work on durin’ the ride.”

Dejectedly, Joey returned to his room and closed the door.

“You know somethin’, Jim?” Pete whispered. “Durned if I don’t think that boy’s jest plain, downright jealous.”

Jim nodded. “I think you’re right, but it’s understandable. Jealousy’s a natural instinct, too.”

It was breaking light as the search party rode through the gate of the Broken Wheel and turned into the trail across the meadow that led westward to the high country. Jim took the lead on his bald-faced sorrel; Joey rode second on a calico pony; and Pete brought up the rear on Cactus, his favorite gelding.

At the breakfast table they had discussed their search plans.

“Last week,” Jim began, “when I rode up to check the wild herds, the largest one was wintering on Blazing Ridge.”

“How many head you figger’s in that partic’lar herd?” Pete asked.

“I’d say close to fifty.”

“It’s been a hard winter. How’d they look?”

“They seemed in pretty good condition. There was one mare among them that I hadn’t seen before. She’s snow white and a real beauty.”

Joey looked up from his plate, frowning. “Do you think that’s where Fury went?”

Jim shrugged. “It’s a possibility. Anyway, since that herd’s on Blazing Ridge, it’s the one we’ll check first.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Well, this is one morning we can leave the dishes in the sink. Let’s put on our cold-weather gear, saddle up, and get going.”

Twenty minutes later they started out. Two-thirds of the way across the meadow trail, they took the left fork and headed for Blazing Ridge. After an hour of riding, as they entered the edge of the forest, Jim raised his hand and turned in his saddle.

“What’s up?” Pete called.

Jim pointed as his companions pulled even with him. The timbered bridge that had carried the trail across a wide mountain stream had been washed away. “It must’ve been that sudden thaw we had last week,” Jim said. “Between the ice and the rushing water, the bridge didn’t stand a chance.”

Gosh, there’s always something,” Joey complained. “Here we are, in a hurry to find Fury, and we can’t get across the stream.”

“That’s the way it always is,” Pete grumbled. “Nothin’ ever comes easy.”

Joey brought his mount to the bank of the icy stream, looked down, and called over his shoulder. “Can’t we ease our horses down the bank and ride across?”

“We can’t ask horses to do that,” Jim answered sharply. “That water’s below freezing.”

“But, Jim, we’ve got to get up to the ridge.”

“That’s right, Joey, and we will.”

“But how?”

“By using our brains.” Jim pointed off to the right. “We’ll have to make a long detour in that direction. That way we’ll get to the herd without having to cross the stream.”

Pete made a wry face. “That means we’ll hafta cross Mark Yancey’s property.”

“That’s right. But Mr. Yancey won’t mind, once we explain our problem.”

“I bet he’ll be plenty mad, though,” Joey said. “He’s a pretty disagreeable character.”

Pete nodded. “You kin say that agin. He’s the most unfriendly cuss I ever heerd of. A real pain in the collar button.”

“Why?” Jim asked. “What did Yancey ever do to you fellows?”

“Well, I don’t know about Pete,” Joey said, “but last summer, when Packy and I went camping in the hills, Mr. Yancey chased us away. He was real mean about it, too.”

“Were you on his property by any chance?”

“Well, yes,” Joey admitted. “But just over the edge.”

“In that case he was within his rights.” Jim turned to Pete. “Now what did Yancey ever do to you?”

Pete’s eyes wavered. “Wal, nothin’ that you could rightly put yer finger on. But all the ranchers in the valley tell me he’s as mean as a wet polecat.”

Jim pushed his hat back with his thumb. “You’re certainly a fine pair of character assassins. You’ve blackened a man’s reputation on no evidence at all.” He brought his horse around. “Come on. Let’s ride up and find out what kind of a man Mr. Yancey really is.”

Mark Yancey was a lumberman who had moved from the Northwest several years earlier and bought a large tract of woodland adjacent to Blazing Ridge. Since his arrival, he had carried out logging operations in all seasons of the year. Although a small part of his acreage contained vigorous, productive stands of timber, the greater portion was poorly stocked; and he had made no attempt to put the land back to work by planting new seedlings.

Several well-meaning lumbermen had advised Yancey to replant trees for a future yield, but he had paid no attention to them. In addition, he cut his timber carelessly, with little advance planning. Jim pointed out this obvious fact as the riders skirted the edge of Yancey’s timber tract, seeking the road into the property. Hundreds of stumps could be seen among damaged trees.

“Look at those trees with their bark scraped off,” Jim said. “That makes them an easy prey to rot.”

Pete clucked his tongue. “You kin see Yancey ain’t very careful when he’s cuttin’ his trees.”

“Careless falling and tractor operation can ruin a fine, growing forest,” Jim added. “A little care would’ve saved damage to those trees left standing.”

“An’ lookit them high stumps,” Pete said. “Cuttin’ trees so high up off the ground is a waste of money an’ timber.”

From deep in the woods came the shrill screech of a power saw.

“They’re working in there,” Joey said in surprise. “I didn’t know they cut trees in the wintertime.”

“Logging can be done all year around,” Jim explained. “Of course, it’s cheaper in summer than in winter because of the snow problem, but winter logging has a few advantages, too. Machines and man power are easier to get at this time of year, and the rate of pay is lower.”

Pete grunted. “I bet Yancey’s a skinflint, too—as well as a pain in the collar button.”

Jim shot the rambunctious old man a look of disgust, but made no comment.

“Anyway,” Joey said, “I just hope Mr. Yancey’s seen Fury, that’s all I care about.”

“If we should bump into Mr. Yancey or any of his men,” Jim advised, “you’d better let me do most of the talking.”

After another fifteen minutes of silent riding, they came to a rutted skid trail. Yancey’s property on their right was studded with stumps, while the trees on the left were uncut.

“I wonder why Yancey ain’t logged that other side,” Pete said. “Sech healthy-lookin’ trees’d fetch a mighty fancy price at the sawmill.”

“He wouldn’t dare touch this forest on the left,” Jim explained. “It’s public-domain land. The trees belong to the United States government.”

“What would happen if he did cut them down?” Joey asked.

“He’d be fined and imprisoned. Government timber, such as this, is under the protection of the Bureau of Land Management. Anyone who cut it would be charged with timber trespass.”

“That’s right,” Pete said. “They call it ‘timber rustlin’.’ Instead of stealin’ horses, they’d be stealin’ trees. The Federal foresters an’ the FBI’d clap ’em behind bars the minute they found out about it.” He turned to Jim. “Matter of fact, I never knowed this here was gov’ment timber. Must be a big temptation to Yancey, havin’ all them fine trees right next to his own property.”

“There you go again,” said Jim, annoyed. “Believing the worst of a man before you’ve even met him.”

The screech of the power saw became louder as they rode forward. In a moment they rounded a bend and came upon the logging operation in full swing. A small donkey engine added to the din. As the riders came into view, the logging crew of four men looked up in surprise. At a hand signal from one of them, the noise ceased. The man who had given the signal threaded his way over the fallen logs and approached the visitors with a stern expression on his face. His chin and cheeks were darkened by a three-day growth of whiskers, and his boots and mackinaw were covered with sawdust.

“Good morning,” said Jim pleasantly. “Is Mr. Yancey here?”

“I’m Mark Yancey,” the man snapped. “Who’re you?”

“We’re from the Broken Wheel, a horse ranch down in the valley. My name’s Jim Newton.” Jim thrust his hand down for a shake, but Yancey paid no attention to it. Jim smiled. “This is Pete Wilkie, my foreman; and the boy is my son, Joey.”

Yancey peered at Joey through a pair of bushy eyebrows. “Joey, huh? I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

“Yes sir,” Joey answered shyly. “Last summer, when I came up with a friend to camp out. We made a mistake and camped on your property. You chased us off.”

Yancey scowled. “Oh yes, now I remember. You were ridin’ a black horse.”

“That’s right,” Joey said eagerly. “Fury. That’s why we rode up here today, Mr. Yancey, to look . . .”

“We’re sorry to interrupt your work, Mr. Yancey,” Jim cut in, “but we’re trying to get to Blazing Ridge.”

“Then why the devil didn’t you follow the trail? You’re way off base.”

“We know that, sir, but the bridge was out. The only way we could get to the ridge was across this property. Would you be kind enough to give us permission?”

“Why? What’s so important on the Ridge?”

“A herd of mustangs is wintering up there,” Jim explained. “Early this morning Joey’s horse, Fury, broke away from the ranch and we think he might’ve gone to join the herd.”

Yancey’s eyes showed a flicker of interest. Turning, he addressed one of his men who was shambling toward the group. “Hey, Bud, you hear that?”

“Hear what?” the man asked blankly.

Yancey disregarded the question and spoke to Jim. “This is Bud Snape, my loggin’ boss.”

Jim gave Snape a polite greeting. Snape, a hulking man dressed in dirty work clothes, flicked the edge of his woolen cap with his middle finger.

“These riders are from a horse ranch down below,” Yancey told Snape. “I bet you can’t guess what they’re lookin’ for.”

Snape frowned. “Nah, how could I? I’m no mind reader.”

“They’re lookin’ for a black horse that ran off last night.”

Snape, who seemed a little slow at understanding, thrust a grimy finger under his cap and scratched his head. A few seconds later his broad, flat face lighted up, and he flashed a broken-toothed grin. “No kiddin’,” he said. “I’ll be doggoned.” He looked up at Jim. “So that black critter belonged to you, huh?”

Joey leaned forward eagerly. “You mean you saw Fury?”

Snape wrinkled his forehead. “Saw what?”

“Fury. My horse.”

Yancey broke in angrily. “Yes. We saw Fury. He raced through these woods like an express train. Knocked over a stack of empty oil drums and woke everybody up.”

Pete guffawed. “That’s Fury, all right.”

Yancey glared at Pete. “It’s no laughin’ matter. He might’ve done a lot of damage.”

Joey was anxious to get going. “Come on, Jim, let’s look for him.”

“Easy, Joey, we will,” said Jim. He turned to Yancey. “We’re sorry that our horse caused you so much trouble. If any damage was done, I’ll gladly pay for it.”

Snape spoke up. “Don’t worry, mister, yer horse didn’t bust anythin’. Just made a heck of a racket, that’s all. ’Specially when he ran back through here with a white mare.”

“A white mare?” said Jim. “Are you sure?”

“An’ how. That mustang was as white as a ghost.”

“Look,” Yancey said impatiently, “you’re wasting my time. Like Snape said, your horse was running with a white mare. Now ride anywhere you want to ride, but find him in a hurry and clear out.”

“Thanks, Mr. Yancey, we’ll do that,” Jim said pleasantly. He slapped his rein. “Let’s ride.”

As they left the road and cut into the woods, Snape called after them. “There’s a clearin’ about a half-mile straight ahead. I betcha ya’ll find them two horses grazin’ there together.”

“Thanks, Bud,” Jim called back. “Sounds like a good tip.”

“Wal, Jim, what’d I tell you,” Pete said, after they had ridden out of earshot. “Is Yancey an unfriendly cuss or ain’t he?”

“He is,” Jim answered with a chuckle. “And he’s also a pain in the collar button.”

Joey peered through the trees ahead. “Gosh, I sure hope we find Fury in that clearing. If we don’t, we’ll have to ride all the way up to Blazing Ridge.”

“Simmer down,” Jim said. “We’ll have Fury back before the day’s over.”

When the light grew brighter in the dusky forest, Jim gave the hand signal to halt. “The clearing’s just ahead. Let’s continue as quietly as possible.”

In a moment Joey caught his breath and pointed. “There!” he exclaimed in a low voice. “Look!”

Grazing at the far edge of the clearing, gleaming snowy white in the sunlight, was the mustang mare. Fury stood grazing beside her. Hearing the approaching riders, he flung his head up and gave an angry stallion scream. The mare leaped sideways, whinnying in fright.

“Call him, Joey!” Jim commanded. “Let him know it’s you!”

“Fury!” Joey shouted. “Fury, it’s me!”

Fury bent his ears toward the sound of the voice, then turned to the mare and voiced a shrill command. She wheeled obediently and raced from the clearing into the safety of the forest.

“Come on!” Pete yelled. “Let’s catch him before he takes off after her!”

As they burst into the clearing, Fury darted away in the direction taken by the fleeing mare.

“Fury!” cried Joey. “Fury, come back!”

“Dismount!” Jim barked. “Try to coax him back, before he gives us a chase.” Jim caught hold of the pony’s bridle as Joey leaped to the ground.

Fury had hesitated at the far edge of the clearing. Joey walked toward him, slowly.

“Fury, it’s Joey. Come to me . . . please!”

The great stallion turned his head uncertainly, caught between his instinct to follow the mare and his love for his young master.

“Lookit him,” Pete muttered. “Right now he’s half-wild an’ half-tame. He kin go either way.”

“I think Joey will win,” Jim said. “Temporarily, anyway.”

The men sat quietly in their saddles, watching the youngster in his struggle to win Fury back. Joey was pleading softly, with both arms outstretched. Ten yards from the trembling stallion he stopped and called Fury’s name. He was no longer pleading, he was demanding obedience. Fury looked at the outstretched arms, took a pace forward, then glanced back into the woods. Finally, with a sigh that was almost human, Fury made his decision, cantered to Joey’s side, and pushed his muzzle against the boy’s shoulder. Joey placed his palm against Fury’s soft upper Up and rubbed it lovingly.

“Thanks, Fury,” he whispered. “I’m glad you decided to come with me, instead of her.”

The stallion threw his head back and nickered with delight. Grasping the thick mane, Joey vaulted to his back and rode him across the clearing.

“Good work, Joey,” Jim said.

Pete’s eyes twinkled. “What was so good about it? A strong he-male’s better’n a purty female any day. Right, Joey?”

Joey rubbed Fury’s left ear and nodded.

Riding in a circle, to avoid meeting Mr. Yancey again, they made their way back to the skid trail a half-mile below the logging operation. It was high noon as they cantered through the gate of the Broken Wheel.