The Busted Thumb Horse Ranch by Paul Bagdon Page B

an’ maybe a taste of whiskey to
warm the blood, no?”
    “Fine idea,” Tiny said. “Let’s do it.”
    We sat at a table in the saloon. Most of the
cowhands had cleared out—either lost all their
money to the professional gamblers, spent it on
whores and booze, or simply moved on.
    “I know Dansworth—or I know of him, anyway,”
Tiny said. “He’s got some fine racehorses,
I’ll give him that. Not just hotbloods, either—all
kinds.” He paused. “I heard that fancy Colt hecarries
was made by a gunsmith in Chicago—
starting from scratch. Then, Danworth spent a
few months with a ’ol boy named Jackson—a
gunfighter—an’ learned to use the pistol. Word
says he’s fast an’ deadly, dude or not.”
    The bartender was familiar with our needs. He
brought over a tray with six schooners of beer
and three double-shots of whiskey.
    “What else do you know?” I asked.
    Tiny downed his whiskey.
    “Well, his papa built up a hell of a operation
durin’ the war, sellin’ beef to both the Yanks an’
the rebs. Made him real rich. He was a horseman—
knew horses and always had prime stock
around—and always lookin’ for more to buy. He
up an’ croaked three, four years ago an’ his kid
took over. That cowflop we just saw was the kid.
Thing is, he’s got those hundred men an’ more,
an’ he uses them like a army.”
    My whiskey was raw, but the warmth of it
going down felt good. “You think we got anything
to worry about from him?”
    “We step on that cucaracha, no?”
    “Sure. But he ain’t the one you gotta worry
about. It’s his men. From what I heard, he’s got a
pack of deserters, crazies, an’ gunslingers ridin’
for him. He pays them good an’ they ain’t afraid
to trade gunfire.”
    “Neither are we,” I said.
    “I know that. All I’m sayin’ is to keep your eyes
open an’ watch that mare real close. By the way—
how’s the stud comin’?”
    “He’s doin good, considerin’ he was as wild asa damned mountain cat when we brought him in.
I’ve got him snubbed an’ I can touch his muzzle.”
    “I’d say don’t push him, Jake. Take your time.”
    Arm laughed. “Jake, he’s as patient as a kid at Navidad. ”
    Tiny changed the subject. “How’re Blanca an’
Teresa doin’?”
    “They’re great. God, the way they feed us. I
swear to you, Tiny, it won’t be long before I’m as
fat as Armando.”
    “Ees muscle, no fat.”
    We all hefted our beers, laughing. Arm held up
his whiskey glass and the tender brought over
another trio of doubles. After we’d all finished
our drinks we went back to Tiny’s shop. We
stopped at the corral to gawk at the buckskin
mare for a bit, and then Arm an’ me rode over to
the mercantile. Our packhorse was tied to the
hitching rail in front. The poor critter was as
loaded as he could be, but there didn’t seem to be
much weight to what he carried in his bags—just
size and bulk. I went in to even up. The price was
$47.34, which is a pretty stiff amount of money,
but what the hell.
    The stuff that’d been minute ice particles had
turned to snow as we wet our whistles in the saloon.
There was some wind behind the snow, but
visibility wasn’t too bad. We rode at a walk. At one
point I reined in, swung down, and stepped over
to the packhorse at the end of the rope wrapped
around my saddle horn. The clerk had done what
I asked; there was a bottle of whiskey carefully
wrapped in a grain sack and brown paper.
    “This will warm us up a bit,” I said to Armando.
    We got to the ranch just before dark and tied
the packhorse to the rail in front of the porch.
Then we saw to our own horses, rubbing them
down, graining them, filling their buckets with
fresh water. When we got back to the house, the
packhorse had been unloaded and he stood there
looking hungry. “You go on in,” I said to Arm.
“I’ll look to this guy—give him a little treat.”
    Although he wasn’t sweated at all, I rubbed
him down and gave him a bucket of molasses
grain and