Branded Hearts. Diana Hall

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СКАЧАТЬ give us a job?” the smaller Indian questioned as he pushed his way forward. His gaze fixed on the lathered sides of the stallion. He tucked a few loose hairs under his black felt hat.

      “Break the stallion, and he’ll give you the ranch.” Cade chuckled.

      “Don’t need a ranch, just a job.” The boy’s cold stare met Garret’s. For a youngster, the lad showed merit. His gaze didn’t falter as it drilled into Garret.

      The two Indians were drifters. Trail dust layered their clothes and bedrolls. They’d move on after a few months, and the army would be none the wiser.

      Garret knew what it was like to be spit on and insulted. Being the son of a saloon gal wasn’t much different from being half-Indian. “If the stallion is broken, Cade’ll hire your brother.”

      “What about me?”

      “I’ll give you a job for as long as you want it,” Garret promised.

      The big half-breed gave the younger one a long, silent look. Without a word passing between them, a decision was made. Both moved toward the corral.

      “Two bits says he lasts longer than any of us did.” Cade gave Garret a devilish wink.

      “I’ll take that bet.” Cracker joined several other cowhands clamoring for a piece of the deal. Fists rose again, money exchanged hands.

      Wranglers leaned against the top rail of the corral, eager to see exactly what the powerful Indian was capable of. The cowhands looked like a poorly constructed Navajo blanket. Their shirts wove an uneven line of desert reds and browns while their jeans formed a uniform lower border.

      Both Indians walked into the corral. Pine needles littered the ground, soaking up the moisture from last night’s summer rain.

      The big Indian carried an old flour sack, the boy lugged a dally saddle. The stallion paced, whirled, then raced toward the youth. While the small Indian plowed through the mud toward the fence rail, still toting the saddle, the older one whipped out the sack and covered the black’s eyes. Blinded, the animal halted, his nostrils flaring.

      “Kit?” The big Indian faced his smaller brother as he held on to the stallion’s halter.

      “I’m fine.” Kit’s breath came out in short bursts. He slapped on the saddle and tightened the girth. The stallion pranced sideways.

      Cracker, the ranch doomsayer, muttered, “Pshaw! They done got the black madder than a cornered polecat. Ain’t that right, Candus?”

      The old Buffalo soldier’s black face creased into deep furrows of worry. “Ain’t no one a-ridin’ that animal now.”

      While the stronger Indian held the stallion’s halter, the boy eased up to the animal’s side. He held out his hands and cupped the horse’s velvety nose. Laughter and taunts from the sidelines melted away as the cowboys watched.

      Nostrils flared, the stallion possessed a lot of fight. The boy lowered his head and let out a long, slow, even breath. The stallion stilled. Then the half-breed youth inhaled as the animal exhaled, stealing the stallion’s breath.

      Silence settled on the scene, the cowhands and Garret mystified by the action. Again, the two adversaries exchanged breaths, as though they were exchanging souls. The stallion’s fidgeting quieted to an alert twitch of his ears.

      The tall Indian removed the flour sack. In one fluid motion, Kit pulled himself up onto the stallion’s back and his brother released his hold on the halter.

      Surprise flickered across the stallion’s expressive face. Uncertainty tensed his muscles. Pawing the ground, the horse took a few steps forward.

      Kit straightened in the saddle. Garret heard him utter a few Indian commands he couldn’t understand, but the black did. The horse moved away from the rail toward the center of the ring, shivering, but held in check by the steady hands of his rider.

      Indian magic? Garret doubted it, but there was something about the thin boy and the powerful horse that bristled the hair along his neck, made him feel he was seeing something unique and special.

      “He ain’t done nothin’ yet.” Traynor stood, his belly dipping over his belt buckle. The best bronc rider on the ranch, he had been thrown twice by the black. Traynor’s hurt pride snarled his face into a mask of hatred. “Listen here, Cade, that don’t count none on the bettin’ time. He ain’t a ridin’ ‘im.”

      Cade gave the angry man a crooked smile. “Bet was the Indian would last longer on the black than any of us. Nothing was said about which Indian or about just sitting.”

      “Well, let’s see some ridin’ then.” Traynor tossed his high-crowned hat into the ring. The stiff brim struck the stallion in the corner of the eye.

      Outrage and raw power broke Kit’s mystical control of the stallion. Stopping short, changing direction and bucking, the black fought to throw his rider. Mud flew into the air. The smell of crushed pine burned Garret’s nose. The fear of a crushed boy quickened his pulse.

      Riding like a veteran cowhand, the slim boy clung to the horse’s back. With each lunge of the horse, Kit leaned back, one arm flying into the air to keep himself balanced. Shouts of encouragement for the rider and disapproval for Traynor created a noisy din.

      The stallion twisted and gyrated. Foam spilled from his mouth and lathered the bit. The acrid scent of sweat and horses heated the air. Each time the animal’s crushing hooves pummeled the ground, Garret expected to see the Indian boy fall and the stallion trample the life from him. Yet Kit outthought and outmaneuvered the horse. Perhaps they truly had exchanged souls along with their breath.

      His most ingenious tactics a failure, the stallion gave a few halfhearted kicks. Sweat dripped from the girth. The horse sucked in deep breaths of air. Surrender loomed just ahead.

      A calm settled over the corral. Cracker stopped in mid-chew, watching the boy and the horse. “If I live to be a hunerd, I’ll never see a ride like that again.”

      One look at the older Indian, and the calm shattered. Anger blazed across the red man’s face and his stare centered on Traynor. With his brother back in control of the horse, he headed toward Traynor, his tight fists flagging a warning. The cowboy made a beeline for the barn.

      The half-breed was loaded to the muzzle with rage, ready to kill. Garret jerked his thumb toward the barn. Cade slipped away from the fence and headed for Traynor. A fight, with fists or guns, could always draw Cade’s attention. Garret cut off the Indian and faced down the taller man. “Traynor’ll get what he deserves.”

      Fists the size of cannonballs slowly unclenched. The Indian took a step back, a look of sarcastic disbelief on his face. “Then I will see your judgment. But if I do not agree, I will see the man pays a harsher price.”

      With the Indian at his heels, Garret strode into the barn. Irritation, with the Indian and Traynor, made Garret’s lips twitch into their usual scowl.

      “I came to collect my winnings.” Cade blocked Traynor into a stall.

      “I ain’t a-paying you squat.” Traynor lowered his head and charged. Stepping aside at the last minute, Cade watched the muscle-bound cowboy run by and crash against the opposite stall gate.

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