its stall, let it grow desperate for the field while the boy got up the guts to ask.
“Can I ride him?” Voice cracking over a few short words.
“Suit yourself.”
“Can I name him? I picked out a name.”
Erastus left this last unanswered. Days later, he heard the boy whispering his choice in the gelding’s ear.
Bull
. Not many could’ve gotten it that far wrong.
Erastus feels his upper lip contract. He plays with the notion of changing his mind.
I believe I’ll go on my own
, is all he’d offer, let Lal’s face fall as it may. And wouldn’t it be fine, riding out forthe city alone. Fine, yes. If only he could make out the terrain that lay more than a few yards beyond Ink’s nose.
He tried spectacles, some four or five years ago now. It was a bit of a trick getting his hands on a pair. The nearby town of Tooele was out of the question—a crack hunter could scarcely wander through the front door at Brother Rowberry’s and declare to all and sundry gathered there that he was getting on for blind. He knew of an apothecary’s in the city, though, tucked away down a side street, quiet in the late stretch of day. There were no other customers in the place, but he locked the door behind him all the same, dragging down the blind. The man behind the counter stood steady. There were reasons besides robbery why a man might visit an apothecary on the sly.
Erastus tried on pair after pair, drawing them from the straw nest of their crate, settling them straight-armed and precarious across the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t see far enough within the shop’s walls for a proper test, so he opened a gap at the blind and peered down the dusty lane.
One pair did it, a bit slithery around the edges but the centre crystal clear. He could think of nothing but dropping his first quarry—something tricky, an antelope maybe, or a bighorn. That and the look on the Tracker’s face when Erastus told him to hold his fire.
The thrill lasted until the city fell away behind him—houses thinning out, yards expanding to become farms. At the first unpopulated stretch, he tried the spectacles on. They stayed put while he kept Ink to a careful walk, but threatened to fly off at any kind of speed. Closer to home, he cut across country, dismounting when he was well into his own land but still a good distance from the house.
The damn things made a fool of him then and there. Withoutthem he couldn’t discern the target. With them he couldn’t line up his sights. He hurled them down as a child might and crushed them beneath his heel. Once mounted, he grinned bitterly to hear Ink follow in his footsteps, grinding the lenses beneath her hoof.
His vision is much deteriorated since that day—back then he could still trust himself to make a journey alone. He might take the Tracker with him to auction, if only the mulish devil would ride. There’s no way in hell he’s drawing up to that crowd with an Indian sharing his saddle, hugging his back. Besides, being Paiute, the Tracker doesn’t know the first thing about handling horses. Lal tends to come down on the nasty side of things, but at least he can keep a string of colts and fillies under control.
On the up side, the pair of them will turn heads together. Erastus is a man of reputation, mounted on the finest-looking horse in any crowd. Bull makes a good contrast to Ink, an eyeful in his own right, so long as he chooses to behave. And there’s no denying Lal’s the sort both women and men watch. His mother’s son. It’s as close as Erastus will come to parading Ursula around Temple Square—the city no lure to her, even if it is the City of the Saints.
Truth be told, Erastus would just as soon not go himself. It’ll be a day spent feigning interest in gaits and bloodlines, followed by a short night in a shared hotel room and the chore of the return ride. Hard to believe he used to have trouble sleeping the night before an auction. He can recall lying awake in a kind of fever,
“Can I ride him?” Voice cracking over a few short words.
“Suit yourself.”
“Can I name him? I picked out a name.”
Erastus left this last unanswered. Days later, he heard the boy whispering his choice in the gelding’s ear.
Bull
. Not many could’ve gotten it that far wrong.
Erastus feels his upper lip contract. He plays with the notion of changing his mind.
I believe I’ll go on my own
, is all he’d offer, let Lal’s face fall as it may. And wouldn’t it be fine, riding out forthe city alone. Fine, yes. If only he could make out the terrain that lay more than a few yards beyond Ink’s nose.
He tried spectacles, some four or five years ago now. It was a bit of a trick getting his hands on a pair. The nearby town of Tooele was out of the question—a crack hunter could scarcely wander through the front door at Brother Rowberry’s and declare to all and sundry gathered there that he was getting on for blind. He knew of an apothecary’s in the city, though, tucked away down a side street, quiet in the late stretch of day. There were no other customers in the place, but he locked the door behind him all the same, dragging down the blind. The man behind the counter stood steady. There were reasons besides robbery why a man might visit an apothecary on the sly.
Erastus tried on pair after pair, drawing them from the straw nest of their crate, settling them straight-armed and precarious across the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t see far enough within the shop’s walls for a proper test, so he opened a gap at the blind and peered down the dusty lane.
One pair did it, a bit slithery around the edges but the centre crystal clear. He could think of nothing but dropping his first quarry—something tricky, an antelope maybe, or a bighorn. That and the look on the Tracker’s face when Erastus told him to hold his fire.
The thrill lasted until the city fell away behind him—houses thinning out, yards expanding to become farms. At the first unpopulated stretch, he tried the spectacles on. They stayed put while he kept Ink to a careful walk, but threatened to fly off at any kind of speed. Closer to home, he cut across country, dismounting when he was well into his own land but still a good distance from the house.
The damn things made a fool of him then and there. Withoutthem he couldn’t discern the target. With them he couldn’t line up his sights. He hurled them down as a child might and crushed them beneath his heel. Once mounted, he grinned bitterly to hear Ink follow in his footsteps, grinding the lenses beneath her hoof.
His vision is much deteriorated since that day—back then he could still trust himself to make a journey alone. He might take the Tracker with him to auction, if only the mulish devil would ride. There’s no way in hell he’s drawing up to that crowd with an Indian sharing his saddle, hugging his back. Besides, being Paiute, the Tracker doesn’t know the first thing about handling horses. Lal tends to come down on the nasty side of things, but at least he can keep a string of colts and fillies under control.
On the up side, the pair of them will turn heads together. Erastus is a man of reputation, mounted on the finest-looking horse in any crowd. Bull makes a good contrast to Ink, an eyeful in his own right, so long as he chooses to behave. And there’s no denying Lal’s the sort both women and men watch. His mother’s son. It’s as close as Erastus will come to parading Ursula around Temple Square—the city no lure to her, even if it is the City of the Saints.
Truth be told, Erastus would just as soon not go himself. It’ll be a day spent feigning interest in gaits and bloodlines, followed by a short night in a shared hotel room and the chore of the return ride. Hard to believe he used to have trouble sleeping the night before an auction. He can recall lying awake in a kind of fever,
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