A Tale Out of Luck by Willie Nelson, Mike Blakely

well where the Comanches are camped, Mr. Tomlinson.” He laced his fingers together and placed them atop his middle-aged paunch.
    “Yes, sir. Of course. Well, we were wondering if you had heard . . . or seen . . . or if you wouldn’t mind going to take a look . . .”
    The major raised his right palm to silence Jay Blue. Slowly, he leaned forward in his squeaky chair. “Now, let me make sure I understand this. Your mare ‘disappeared,’ as you put it.”
    “Yes, sir,” the cowboys said in unison.
    “Would this be your father’s new Thoroughbred mare from Kentucky?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The major stood. “So, your father’s Kentucky Thoroughbred
disappears
, and Captain Hank Tomlinson, the most famous Indian fighter in Texas, sends his peach-fuzzed son to the U.S. Army for help!”
    “Oh, he didn’t send us,” Skeeter said, honestly trying to clear things up. “We’re lucky he didn’t kill us. You see, sir, Jay Blue was supposed to be on guard—”
    “Skeeter!”
    “First Sergeant Polk!”
    In an instant, Polk had entered the office and snapped to attention. “Sir!”
    “See that these cowboys are escorted off the post.”
    “Yes, sir. And, Major, sir . . .”
    “What is it?”
    “Jubal’s back.”
    “Who?”
    “Jubal Hayes, sir. The mustanger. He’s leading six horses in.”

10
    G ET THESE BOYS out of here,” the major repeated. He grabbed his hat on his way out the door. “And appropriate the funds to buy the remounts.”
    “Yes, sir,” Polk said.
    Jay Blue followed the major out onto the porch. “But, Major, about that mare . . .”
    “Boy!” the commander fumed. “Go home and face your father! First Sergeant!”
    “Coming, sir!” Polk stormed out of the office, stuffing some currency he had gathered up from somewhere into his pocket. “You boys lead your horses and come with me. I’ll detail an escort to see you off the post.”
    “But . . .” Jay Blue began.
    The big first sergeant, who had been so friendly, now cut Jay Blue off short. “You heard the major. You will be escorted off the post.”
    With no choice left to them, the cowboys grabbed their reins and led their mounts across the parade ground, toward the corrals, on the heels of the major and the first sergeant. It was only now that Skeeter looked across the parade ground to see the mustanger Polk had announced. The man was riding toward the Fort Jennings corrals, in the lead of six wild-looking horses. Two strange things immediately struck Skeeter about this man. First of all, the six horses followed him untied. They plodded along behind him as if mesmerized, not a rope nor a halter among any of them. Second, the mustanger wore a scarf across his face, like a bandito,
and in fact had every square inch of his flesh covered, from the tips of his gloves and boots to the top of his dusty felt hat.
    “Hey,” Jay Blue said. “You ever seen anything like that?”
    “
Nunca
,” said Skeeter.
    A soldier at the bronc-busting pen ran to open a separate corral, then backed away to give the mustanger and his followers plenty of room. The strange man led the loose stock into the corral. They followed him in there as if under his spell.
    “Do y’all have to break mustangs to ride at this post?” Jay Blue asked the first sergeant.
    “The colored regiments don’t get the money other regiments get. Mustangs is about all we can afford. We break ’em ourselves.”
    “Who’s the man in the scarf?”
    “Name’s Jubal Hayes. He catches mustangs for a livin’.”
    “Catches ’em? Looks like he just sweet-talks them into following him around like pups.”
    “Why’s he wearing that scarf?” Skeeter asked.
    Polk didn’t answer, but looked over his shoulder at the cowboys and bared his teeth in a deep chuckle that sounded intentionally wicked to Skeeter.
    By now, the masked man had slipped back out of the corral and shut the gate on the mustangs. He dismounted, left his horse at the corral, and began walking toward the