Stallions at Burnt Rock (West Texas Sunrise Book #1): A Novel by Paul Bagdon

Author:Paul Bagdon [Bagdon, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781441239495
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2003-02-01T05:00:00+00:00

* * *

7

* * *

Ben Flood stepped out of his office and pulled the door shut behind him. He blinked in the bright sunlight, then glanced up and down the length of Main Street—not because he thought something was wrong, but because it was his habit. What he saw stopped him in place. A stranger was riding down the street on Jonas Dwyer’s horse Pirate.

Ben looked more closely at the horse, but he knew he wasn’t mistaken. Pirate, to a horseman, was almost impossible to miss: The burnished bay of his coat, the powerful lines of his legs, and the depth of his massive chest made him stand out from other horses the way an eagle stands out in a gaggle of geese.

Ben knew that horse theft was a relatively rare crime in the West—primarily because the penalties for it were severe. A captured horse thief’s life often ended as soon as the captors came to a tree with stout enough limbs to support the weight of a man and a length of rope. Justice frequently came even more rapidly than that; men on horses they didn’t own and had no reason to be riding were often summarily shot and killed.

Pirate’s rider, however, didn’t look like a horse thief—or at least any horse thief Ben had ever seen. This man was tall enough to look well matched with the horse’s sixteen-hand height. He sat in the saddle a bit stiffly, perhaps because he didn’t spend enough time there to make it a completely natural position for him. He wore a pinstriped suit, a white shirt, and a foulard tie, and his boots glistened like polished ebony. He reined in when he saw Ben approaching him.

Ben stopped and stood a few yards in front of Pirate, his right hand hanging easily at his side, his fingertips just grazing the grips of his Colt. The sun was at a tricky position—behind the rider and white-hot bright against a clear blue sky.

“Afternoon, Marshall,” the man said. His voice was that of a banker or perhaps a judge—authoritative, deep, the type of voice that never had to ask for anything more than once. “Nice little town you have here,” he added.

Ben assumed there was a smile behind the words, but he wasn’t sure. To look at Pirate’s rider’s face would be to look straight into the sun.

Three men on horseback who had followed Pirate out of the livery stable hung back, silent, apparently at ease. One had kicked his left foot out of his stirrup and cocked his leg over the saddle horn. Another built a cigarette, his fingers moving with the economy and skill that come with repeating a task thousands of times. The third drank from his canteen, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and jammed the cork back in, tapping it with the flat of his hand.

“I’ve seen this horse before,” Ben said.

“Oh? Well, he’s been around, I suppose. Doesn’t seem strange that you’d remember a creature as beautiful as this fellow.

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