Free A Lady Bought with Rifles by Jeanne Williams Page A

imperfections?”
    â€œThat’s not the word for it. He’s near crazy when it comes to things he owns or uses. They have to be the best. He paid a sight of money once for a fancy gun. When it jammed on him, he just tossed it down a gorge.”
    â€œHis wife must have a perilous time of it!”
    â€œShe would, if he had one.” Trace’s lip curled. “He’s from some high-powered Yankee family—reckon he thinks nobody south of Boston is good enough for him to marry.”
    Gazing out at the horses, he dismissed Court and spoke with the drawl I found so delightful. “Would you believe that all the horses in Mexico and South America came from those brought by the Spaniards, along with most of those in the western United States?”
    â€œThe English brought horses,” I argued.
    He shrugged. “Sure. So did the Dutch and French, but precious few of them got west of the Mississippi till after the War Between the States. The very first horse to run wild in this country is supposed to have been a colt foaled on one of Cortez’s ships a few days before they landed. When its mother died on the march into the mountains, the colt was lost, and when seen again, it was living with a herd of deer.”
    â€œSo it found a family,” I exclaimed, charmed.
    Trace glanced at me, his eyes serious though he was smiling. “It’s surprising how often animal orphans do. I knew a hen that mothered a kitten and a fawn that grew up with dogs.”
    â€œReally? What happened to the fawn?”
    Trace’s smile faded. “Some strange dogs killed it.”
    â€œOh!”
    He shrugged, reining his horse about. “Don’t be too sorry for the fawn. He had a few good years of frolic. Guess he never lived with the fear his wild kin had, always ready to run.”
    A short fearless life or a long one bought by constant vigilance? I though of Sewa and wondered if she would rather have died than live a cripple. Saddened, I rode after Trace.
    We rode down a box canyon toward a band of horses ranging in color from cream to buff. “The ones with black streaks along their spines are coyote duns,” Trace said. “Some people think they’re throwbacks to the first horses in all the world and that they can stand more than other colors.”
    â€œDo you?”
    He grinned. “I’ve had good horses of every shade. This manada has the top stallion, though. He has about fifty mares, double what most can handle.”
    I gazed at the magnificent silver-gold creature grazing on a rise behind and to one side of the herd. “You mean he’s their husband?” I fumbled, felt blood wash up to the roots of my hair at Trace’s startled hoot of laughter.
    â€œYou might say that,” he managed. “He’s a protector-tyrant who keeps the herd together, breeds the mares, and fights off dangers. Only the best stallions can do this, so the heritage from a range sire is usually strong. Trouble is, any mare looks good to a stallion, he’s as unparticular as a drunken cowboy at the end of a trail drive.”
    â€œThat must not be a mare he’s after, then. Look! He’s driving that horse away.”
    To the far side, a horse had tried to slip in among the stragglers, but the stallion drove at him fiercely, biting the haunch, ramming the stray’s ribs with the crest of his neck. The intruder fled. The stallion chased him from the canyon, punishing his would-be follower so cruelly that it flattened almost to its belly in its hurry to escape.
    â€œYearling looking for a home,” Trace said. “Stallion cuts them out of the herd, even the fillies, when they get to be that age.” He shook his head in rough sympathy as we watched the vanishing youngster. “Reminds me of when I was a kid.”
    â€œYou didn’t have a family?”
    â€œJust an aunt and uncle who didn’t want me.”
    His short answer warned me not to