Читать книгу The Rocking R Ranch - Tim Washburn - Страница 8

CHAPTER 3

Percy, the oldest of the four Ridgeway siblings, felt conflicted as they worked to cut a few extra horses out of the ranch’s herd for the trip. Feeling guilty about leaving his wife, Mary, in such a terrible state, a part of him was looking forward to a day or two away from the house to clear his mind. The last few weeks had been extremely difficult, and the doctor was doing all he could, but it was clear to Percy that his wife’s condition was worsening. Physically, Mary no longer resembled the woman he had married and, the hardest part to accept, her once-active mind was dulled by an unending supply of laudanum that barely eased her pain.

Percy returned to the task at hand and spurred his gray mare into the horse herd to cut out a paint horse he enjoyed riding. Riding along beside the paint, he strung out a lasso with his rope and tossed it over the mare’s head, pulling her to a stop. Nudging the gray closer, he rubbed the paint’s neck and talked to her in a low, soothing voice. Most of those on the ranch thought Percy was crazy for choosing to ride mares, often citing their tendencies to be bad tempered and meaner than hell. But Percy found them companionable and gentle as long as they weren’t in heat. He led the paint mare over to the horse wrangler for the trip, Luis Garcia.

Luis was a short, compact Mexican man who had been born south of the border and had eventually migrated north. Percy thought he was one hell of a hand and Luis could ride anything on four legs. He shook his head as he grabbed the rope and said, “Wouldn’t hurt to pick out a gelding, Percy.”

Percy grinned and he suddenly realized that was the first time he’d felt a spark of happiness in a long while. “Always been a lady’s man, Luis.” He nodded at the paint. “That mare is as gentle as a kitten.”

“Might be, but kittens turn into cats and most are meaner than hell,” Luis said. “Some’d scratch your eyes out just for spite.”

Percy widened his eyes and pointed at his face. “Still got two good ones.” Percy laughed as he turned his horse. Tall at six-three, Percy had his father’s dark hair and his mother’s lean frame. Rangy and strong, his smooth and graceful movements often appeared effortless to others and he was smarter than most, allowing him to quickly adapt to any situation. With wide-set shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist, Percy disliked shaving and only accomplished the task every couple of weeks when he got tired of the stubble.

Deciding the two horses would be enough, he rode toward his father, who was sitting his big white gelding, Snowball, watching the men pick out their mounts. A big man needed a big horse, and Snowball was one of the largest saddle horses on the ranch, measuring over seventeen hands tall. Percy reined to a stop and said, “What happens if these rustlers turn out to be a couple of Comanches?”

Without turning, Cyrus said, “Don’t matter. A thief’s a thief.”

Percy, continually frustrated by his father’s unbending will, said, “You willing to start an Indian war over a couple of steers?”

Cyrus turned to look at his son. “What would you do? Just let ’em ride off with them cattle with no punishment? We do that and we won’t have any cattle left fore long.”

“I’m not sayin’ we do nothing. But hangin’ a couple of Comanches might not be too smart on our part. Might spark a shootin’ war.”

Cyrus turned and looked off to the west, toward the heart of what was still Comanche territory, a scant few miles away. “Injun war’s already a-brewin’ and it ain’t got nothin’ to do with cattle.” He turned back to Percy. “Besides, it ain’t Comanches. Wilcox claims the rustlers headed north, across the river. Might be Injuns, but it ain’t Comanche. Far as I know, ain’t many of ’em on the reservation.”

Percy sagged in the saddle a little. Moses Wilcox could track a gnat across a desert. And if he said the rustlers went north then they went north. And just about every time they’d ridden into Indian Territory bad things had happened. “So, we’re headed north?”

“Looks like,” Cyrus said. He pulled out his pouch of Bull Durham and began rolling a cigarette. As if reading Percy’s mind, he said, “Ain’t my favorite direction of travel, neither. But ain’t much we can do about it.” Cyrus licked the edge of the paper and ran his finger along the seam before putting the cigarette in his mouth. He pulled a match from his pocket, flicked the head with his thumbnail, and lit up. As the smoke curled out of his nostrils, he watched as the last of the hands rode in with their preferred mounts.

“Eli staying back?” Percy asked.

“Yep, as usual,” Cyrus said. “Boy ain’t got a lick of fight in ’im.” He took another drag from his cigarette and the smoke danced around his bearded mouth when he said, “I don’t know where I went wrong with that boy.” He shrugged and said, “Anyways, I hope you brought plenty of ammunition.” He spurred the big gelding forward without waiting for Percy’s reply.

Percy paused, mentally calculating how much ammo he had packed in his saddlebags. He had two boxes of. 44-40 cartridges for the new Winchester rifle and two boxes of .45s for the new Colt Peacemaker he bought recently to replace his older Colt Model 1861 Navy. Percy decided if they were going to need more ammunition than that they might ought to stay home.