Glorious A Novel of the American West by Jeff Guinn

Author:Jeff Guinn
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group, USA
Published: 2014-05-05T21:00:00+00:00

THIRTEEN

McLendon had always assumed that riding horses was easy, but it wasn’t, starting with the unexpected complications of getting onto the saddle. Back in St. Louis he’d ridden in horse-drawn carriages but never on a horse’s back. The mount Misterio brought for him was one of the small, agile Mexican breeds, and it wouldn’t stand still while McLendon tried to get his foot into the stirrup and hoist himself up. He kept missing the stirrup, kicking it away in the process, and then he had to wait until it swung back from under the horse’s midriff to try again. Misterio, who seemed to vault onto his horse, watched impatiently as McLendon failed several times to get seated.

“Grasp the pommel and step into the stirrup, señor,” he said. “It should be one smooth movement.”

When McLendon was finally in the saddle, Misterio wheeled his own mount around the back of the corral, away from the few main buildings in Glorious. He apparently wanted them to make their way to the ranch unobserved. In the purple glow of the high desert twilight, they trotted behind the farrier’s shop, the mayor’s small house, and the Tirritos’ dry goods store. No vaqueros were posted at the guard hut because it was getting dark. They were almost to Turner’s small, isolated shack when Misterio made a sharp turn south. McLendon almost didn’t follow, because his horse seemed determined to keep going west. He yanked on the reins and finally the horse turned and started trotting faster, which made McLendon bounce uncomfortably on the hard saddle. Night was falling fast and he could barely discern Misterio only a few yards ahead.

“How far?” McLendon called.

“Another mile and a little more after we ford the creek,” Misterio said, and then they were briefly in the water. McLendon’s legs were splashed. The ground leveled out and he did a better job keeping his seat. That allowed him to wonder again what Mr. MacPherson wanted to see him about.

With only the light of a quarter moon in otherwise pitch-blackness, McLendon had no sense of direction. Peering ahead, he thought after a while that he saw pinpoints of light. These gradually grew larger, and he realized that they were torches flickering behind a high stone wall. There was a wooden gate built into the wall, and Misterio rode up to it. He called out something in Spanish; there was the sound of metal bolts being pulled, and the gate swung open.

“Come along, señor,” said Misterio, and he and McLendon rode into the compound. There was sufficient light from the torches for McLendon to see that the nearly head-high wall surrounded several adobe buildings and a large, sprawling main house also made of stone. A woman carrying a basket piled with laundry crossed from one of the adobe structures to another. Guards with rifles lined the interior wall.

“Señor MacPherson awaits you in here,” Misterio said, pointing at the stone house. He dismounted and gestured for McLendon to do the same. It wasn’t easy.

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