Read Sunday's Colt & Other Stories for Free Online Page A

door fast.
    After the street settled and the stories were told, Red River and Billy bought their bottles and rode back to camp. They spent the rest of the night telling Candle of the fracas, drinking whisky, and waiting for Ty Lee. It was Billy’s first encounter with Red Eye and he paid a heavy price in the morning. The lad was so sick that he wondered if he had to get better just to die.
    It was mid-morning when Ty Lee rode into camp, filled his coffee cup and squatted by the fire. He didn’t volunteer any news and no one asked. He just sat by the fire and stared silently into the coals.
    After a while, Red River decided to make his move. “What do you think, partner? We better get into town and start that money back to Townsen.”
    Ty Lee nodded. “Fair for a fact. It’s time to head for home.”
    As they saddled fresh horses, Red River said, “We probably ought to buy ourselves some grub for the ride back. Is there anything you need from the store?”
    Ty Lee nodded without looking up. “I could use some tobaccy, but I’ll have to get a loan from you.”
    â€œYou spent it all?” Red River asked.
    Ty Lee smiled and tightened his cinch. “She stole it. When I woke up this morning she was gone and my whole poke with her.”
    â€œThe hell you say. We better get to the law and get them on her.”
    Ty Lee threw down his stirrup and lifted his foot into it. “No, let her have it.”
    Red River swung into his saddle and settled into the cantle. “That’s a lot of money for one night, partner.”
    Ty Lee smiled and gently spurred his pony forward. “All I know is…for a spell there last night I was more than I ever was and more than I’ll probably ever be.” He turned to his partner and his eyes cut deep. “What’s that worth to fellows like you and me?”
    Red River gave it some thought, nodded, and rode on in silence.

The Black Queen
    It was down near Trace Madres where riders from the Square Bit trapped her among thirty other head of mustangs. Those old boys had been trailing that bunch of broomtails for nearly a week when they found them watering in a shallow Comanche mudhole at the upper end of Blanco Cliffs Canyon. They closed off the exit with a thorny locust barricade and figured they would manage a right handsome remuda once the culls were shot and the rough rode out of the rest. At the time she was nothing more than a scrawny little black filly weighing less than six hundred pounds. In fact there wasn’t much showy about her at all. She was block-headed, split-hoofed, knock-kneed, and sported a notched left ear. She had an inch-wide irregular scar running from the point of her nose to just below her right eye and her wild mustang mane looked like a drunkard’s mop after a three-week binge. She was pure Spanish from her slit nostrils and narrow eyes down to her bushy fetlocks and ratted tail. Showy, hell! She was pretty damned plain when you think on it. About the only good to her was that she was free for the taking and could turn a man a four-dollar profit if he didn’t break his neck riding the green out of her.
    Her first victim was a Mexican named Banuelos. As was the custom, each vaquero roped out a choice in turn and worked his way down until the whole bunch had been green broke. Banuelos had just rode down a pinto buckskin for his fourth bronc and the pickings were getting pretty slim. It’s told that he missed his loop on a scrawny gray and picked the black because there wasn’t much difference between poor or a little poorer and he was getting tired. Anyway, she piled his ass in four jumps and then put a hoof through his forehead for his trouble. No one thought too much about it as that’s the way it goes sometimes if a hand doesn’t land on the run when he gets pitched.
    Banuelos had a compadre by the handle of Mexican José. José took it upon himself to take retribution on