Military Justice shuffle and extended the deck.
French Frank drew a card and displayed a six of diamonds.
âVery good,â I nodded. âDraw again.â
He turned up a jack of clubs.
âFace card,â I smiled. âDoesnât count. Draw again.â
French Frank drew a three of hearts.
âSix and three,â I said, âtotals nine. My draw.â
I picked my card and turned over the ten of spades.
âWell, it was close,â I remarked and replaced the winning card.
French Frankâs mouth twisted downward. He thrust the deck back into his shirt pocket.
âI want to think this over. I think maybe you pulled a fast one.â
âThink it over later,â Riker said, âand get to work now.â
I thought something over, too.
Wolf Rikerâs attitude toward meâand the perceptible change that appeared to accompany it.
I wasnât quite sure why, but it definitely seemed like a change for the better.
However, as I had noted before, it was a long way to Kansas.
I stood by, watched and listened, as Dogbreath bridled, saddled, and cinched the paraphernalia onto the horse called Tobacco, which was indeed the color, or colors, of a bright leaf.
The procedure was simple enough for even a Harvard graduate to understand and execute.
Dogbreathâs description of the horse was a trifle less intelligible, with such phrases as bridle wise, clear footed, can carry the news to Mary, neck reiner, smooth mouthed, swimmer âbut I discerned that it all added up to a positive appraisal of the gelding called Tobacco.
I mounted and rode slowly past the kitchen wagon where Cookie and French Frank were carrying on a conversation, a conversation that most likely didnât concern the dayâs menu.
It did not take long to determine that, as Dr. Picard would say, Tobacco and I were sympathique . And almost the same could be said for the late Donavanâs saddle. It was much more form fitting and comfortable than the pancake English version.
Within an hour Tobacco and I had ambled, trotted, and even galloped past many of the riders prodding the cattle: Smoke, Dogbreath, Reese, Latimer, Drago, Simpson, Morales One, Morales Two, and some of the rest, at first near, then farther away from the herd. At that point I reined up, patted Tobaccoâs neck, and even spoke a few flattering words to my newfound acquaintance and friend. Thatâs when another acquaintance rode alongside and started an all too amiable conversation.
âHowâre you gettinâ along, pard?â French Frank inquired. âYou and olâ Tobac?â
âOlâ Tobac and I are getting along very compatibly, thank you.â
âUh-huh. And the saddle?â He pointed.
âAlso compatible.â
As he pointed, I noticed that he held a flexible, woven leather whip with a short stock about a foot long and with a loop attached to his wrist. The whip carried a lash of three or four heavy, loose thongs. Later I was to learn that it was called a quirtâand soon I was to learn one of the purposes for which it could be used.
âO.K., pard. Letâs see how you and olâ Tobac can really get along.â
With that he thrashed Tobaccoâs rump, again and again, flogging the animal into a frenzy. Tobacco bolted ahead like a rifle shot, his hooves barely touching the ground.
French Frank roared with glee and laughter and chased after us for even more merriment. He managed to catch up to us, then, with all his might swung a backhanded blow with the quirt at Tobaccoâs head. I held the reins with one hand, reached out and took the blow on my wrist, wrapped my hand around the thongs, braced both feet into the stirrups and jerked back with every fiber of strength I could muster.
Once again French Frank flew off his mount, this time even more abruptly, and hit the ground even more violently than the time Wolf Riker backhanded him off the saddle.
Tobacco came to a halt
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