Ride Away by Smith Cotton

Author:Smith, Cotton [Smith, Cotton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2015-10-19T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A lone quail fluttered from the thick brush and sought another place to hide. Seconds later, Deed Corrigan cleared the halfmoon hill rimming the southern lip of the Corrigan ranch yard. He reined up the bay and studied the busy scene below. A soft autumn breeze ran through his shoulder-length hair on its way to a row of cottonwood trees. Overhead, the sun was easing into afternoon.

Behind the house he could see the top of the old oak tree that shaded the graves of their father, mother, and sister. How long ago that seemed, almost like it was part of another life. He thought of Holt and what he would say about that, shook his head, and studied the activity. Neither of his parents’ faces, nor that of his sister, came to his mind anymore. Only blurred images. Silka had become a father—guiding, teaching, caring. He touched the brass circle at his neck.

In the farthest corral, a cowboy rode a semibroke mustang, a regular fall task to turn all of their horses into good work mounts. He guessed it was Chico. Standing next to the corral was Little Jake, waiting to take the next horse. All their horses would be needed for the fall roundup. The systematic search of the territory for cattle was hard, time-consuming, and involved the cooperation of all the ranches in the area. Or had in the past.

Not far from the corrals, another man was singeing the whiskers off a new rope over a small fire. Most likely it was Harmon. Tied to two trees was another new rope, pulled tight to get out the kinks. He smiled; ropes didn’t last long around there, even when they had been waterproofed with beef tallow. Old ropes were cut up into shorter piggin’ strings for tying calves’ legs to quiet them for branding.

He felt guilty about not being here before. Breaking horses was something he usually was involved in and good at doing. But he shouldn’t have had the guilt. His presence had given Atlee Forsyth the strength to go on, and the protection from Indians. It had been important to stay. Still, it hurt to see others hard at work.

Sitting on a bench beside the ranch house was Willy, repairing a saddle. A few feet away were two more saddles. It was a time when all gear must be in top shape; a bridle or cinch snapping at the wrong moment could bring serious injury or worse. At his feet was a long-eared brown dog napping; another was inspecting something just inside the barn door.

Silka was shoeing a roan; he had learned the skill moving across the country and took pride in his work. An anvil and bellows was kept very busy this time of year. Of course, like most ranches, there was a keg of good ’nuffs, or shoes of various sizes ready to put on a horse without heating them. As expected, Silka didn’t like them.

The horse wrangler, Harmon Payne, was a well-built cowboy who liked to spout phrases from Sir Walter Scott and Tennyson.

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