The Yellowstone by Win Blevins

Author:Win Blevins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media

2

Twilight at the trading post was a time Mac liked, particularly a nippy, salmon-colored twilight such as this one. Annemarie was down in the river, waist deep, holding the hammerheaded bay with a halter. Right now she was rubbing its muzzle, which the horse was holding still for. In a few minutes she would slide onto its back. This was how she started breaking a horse to ride. She did it marvelously well—fast, easily, with excellent results. Since Mac wanted to be a horse trader, he was lucky to be married to a good trainer.

Mac stirred the stew, keeping it from sticking. That was how he freed Annemarie to work with the horses a few minutes each evening.

Some of the hands were hanging targets—scraps of ticking—on the bottom round of a huge cottonwood. The throwers were aiming at the patches with knives or hawks. The stakes were small belongings, hard to come by in the mountains.

Other men were playing euchre. They had confiscated one of the two decks Skinhead brought from St. Louis—those cards weren’t going to be used for throwing-knife targets.

Blue was sitting on a stump sharpening his double-bitted ax. He would stick one blade in a crack in the stump while he filed the other. That ax was sharp as a knife. Sharper than some.

Mac wondered, Why do men go for sport with a tinge of risk? Why not do quillwork or some such? Or even break horses patiently? Mac liked that tinge, too, he admitted to himself.

Skinhead stepped off the seven steps from the big cottonwood round once more, to make sure. He took his stance, let the throwing knife drop behind his head, and hurled it hard. It thunked deep into the wood and quivered. Missed by more than a handspan. Truth was, Skinhead wasn’t particularly good with knife or hawk, though he’d never admit to that. He did make them fly fiercely, though.

Ferry missed, too. And Bass and Paddock. Looked like nobody would win whatever they had bet. Mac stirred the stew.

Dreyfuss tossed his knife softly and clumsily and hit close to the patch, but the knife didn’t stick. He laughed softly at himself. Dreyfuss was way behind on his skills of war. Despite his sophisticated upbringing, Dreyfuss was a determined student of woodsmanship. Strikes Foot was teaching him to track and said he was quick and subtle. From Strikes Foot, a high compliment.

Finally Skinhead won the wager, whatever it was. He had a way of coming out better than he looked.

“Hey, Blue, Paul the Blue,” called Skinhead. “Come throw with us.”

“You got naught I want,” said Blue without looking up.

Mac was looking at Blue’s hands and forearms as he worked. He was a really big man. His wrists seemed as big around as Mac’s knees.

“You bragged on what you can do with that ax. Why not try against this child?”

“You’ll not get your hands on my ax.”

Mac saw Annemarie lead the horse out of the river. She’d be wet and wanting to change. He started down to take the horse to the corral for her.

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