Branded Hearts. Diana Hall

the stronger Indian held the stallion’s halter, the boy eased up to the animal’s side. He held out his hands and cupped the horse’s velvety nose. Laughter and taunts from the sidelines melted away as the cowboys watched.

      Nostrils flared, the stallion possessed a lot of fight. The boy lowered his head and let out a long, slow, even breath. The stallion stilled. Then the half-breed youth inhaled as the animal exhaled, stealing the stallion’s breath.

      Silence settled on the scene, the cowhands and Garret mystified by the action. Again, the two adversaries exchanged breaths, as though they were exchanging souls. The stallion’s fidgeting quieted to an alert twitch of his ears.

      The tall Indian removed the flour sack. In one fluid motion, Kit pulled himself up onto the stallion’s back and his brother released his hold on the halter.

      Surprise flickered across the stallion’s expressive face. Uncertainty tensed his muscles. Pawing the ground, the horse took a few steps forward.

      Kit straightened in the saddle. Garret heard him utter a few Indian commands he couldn’t understand, but the black did. The horse moved away from the rail toward the center of the ring, shivering, but held in check by the steady hands of his rider.

      Indian magic? Garret doubted it, but there was something about the thin boy and the powerful horse that bristled the hair along his neck, made him feel he was seeing something unique and special.

      “He ain’t done nothin’ yet.” Traynor stood, his belly dipping over his belt buckle. The best bronc rider on the ranch, he had been thrown twice by the black. Traynor’s hurt pride snarled his face into a mask of hatred. “Listen here, Cade, that don’t count none on the bettin’ time. He ain’t a ridin’ ‘im.”

      Cade gave the angry man a crooked smile. “Bet was the Indian would last longer on the black than any of us. Nothing was said about which Indian or about just sitting.”

      “Well, let’s see some ridin’ then.” Traynor tossed his high-crowned hat into the ring. The stiff brim struck the stallion in the corner of the eye.

      Outrage and raw power broke Kit’s mystical control of the stallion. Stopping short, changing direction and bucking, the black fought to throw his rider. Mud flew into the air. The smell of crushed pine burned Garret’s nose. The fear of a crushed boy quickened his pulse.

      Riding like a veteran cowhand, the slim boy clung to the horse’s back. With each lunge of the horse, Kit leaned back, one arm flying into the air to keep himself balanced. Shouts of encouragement for the rider and disapproval for Traynor created a noisy din.

      The stallion twisted and gyrated. Foam spilled from his mouth and lathered the bit. The acrid scent of sweat and horses heated the air. Each time the animal’s crushing hooves pummeled the ground, Garret expected to see the Indian boy fall and the stallion trample the life from him. Yet Kit outthought and outmaneuvered the horse. Perhaps they truly had exchanged souls along with their breath.

      His most ingenious tactics a failure, the stallion gave a few halfhearted kicks. Sweat dripped from the girth. The horse sucked in deep breaths of air. Surrender loomed just ahead.

      A calm settled over the corral. Cracker stopped in mid-chew, watching the boy and the horse. “If I live to be a hunerd, I’ll never see a ride like that again.”

      One look at the older Indian, and the calm shattered. Anger blazed across the red man’s face and his stare centered on Traynor. With his brother back in control of the horse, he headed toward Traynor, his tight fists flagging a warning. The cowboy made a beeline for the barn.

      The half-breed was loaded to the muzzle with rage, ready to kill. Garret jerked his thumb toward the barn. Cade slipped away from the fence and headed for Traynor. A fight, with fists or guns, could always draw Cade’s attention. Garret cut off the Indian and faced down the taller man. “Traynor’ll get what he deserves.”

      Fists the size of cannonballs slowly unclenched. The Indian took a step back, a look of sarcastic disbelief on his face. “Then I will see your judgment. But if I do not agree, I will see the man pays a harsher price.”

      With the Indian at his heels, Garret strode into the barn. Irritation, with the Indian and Traynor, made Garret’s lips twitch into their usual scowl.

      “I came to collect my winnings.” Cade blocked Traynor into a stall.

      “I ain’t a-paying you squat.” Traynor lowered his head and charged. Stepping aside at the last minute, Cade watched the muscle-bound cowboy run by and crash against the opposite stall gate.

      Military discipline checked Garret’s urge to give the cowboy a mind-numbing blow. He jerked his chin toward the horizon. “Collect your wages and ride out.”

      “You’re firin’ me and a-keepin’ them Injuns?” Traynor snorted, and puffed out his chest. Pointing toward the breed, he added, “That kind ain’t no good unless they’s dead.”

      The breed’s fist shot out like a lightning bolt and landed square on the wrangler’s nose. Blood spurted over Traynor’s face. He fell back, wiped his face with his hand and shook off the blood. “Goddamn breed.” He reached for his gun.

      Cade’s gun snaked out of the holster with the speed of a rattler’s strike. Traynor halted, his hand inches from the butt of his pistol. Despite the tense moment, Cade drawled out, “You don’t want to wind up dead as well as fired. You’ll have to spend all your wages on a casket.”

      “Listen to him.” Garret tugged on Traynor’s belt and collar, bringing the stunned cowboy to his feet. A pulpy mass, bleeding and skewed to the left, marked where his nose used to be. “Cade, pay Traynor his wages from your winnings. Then see he gets his horse and rides out.”

      “Dammit, Cap’n,” Traynor protested. “He didn’t win that money fair and square. You know he chea—”

      Cade blocked his gun barrel with Traynor’s chin. “I’m thinking you oughta be buried at sunset. Right peaceful then.”

      Traynor took the hint, shut his mouth and pulled his face away from the gun.

      From behind Garret, the breed growled, “It will do for the injury to Kit.”

      “It wasn’t for you or your kin,” Garret snapped as he laid the truth out bare for the Indian. “Traynor’s actions could have damaged a valuable piece of my property.”

      The hooded look returned to the breed’s eyes. Turning to leave, he replied, “Indian lives are worth less than horses. This I have heard.”

      Let the Bluebellies starve. They ain’t worth feeding. The prison guard’s taunt echoed in Garret’s head. He knew the value of human life and how it could be cheapened. Hell, the Indian took it all wrong. Mexican, Black, Indian, it didn’t matter. Even after surviving Andersonville prison, he had hired on Johnny Rebs.

      That stallion could guarantee Garret a visit with Sam Benton. The word in town was the rich man appreciated good horseflesh, and that appreciation might manifest itself in the army contract.

      “Senor, come quick.” Vega, the ranch foreman, waved both hands in the air. His handlebar mustache bounced as he added, “The rider fell…”

      Aggravation threatened to break what was left of Garret’s iron-willed control. Running to the corral, followed by the breed, he pushed past the silent ring of cowboys. “Someone help him out of there…” His voice dried in his throat like grass in a summer drought. Kit’s slouchy hat blew across the chewed-up ground.

      “Damn you to hell.” Garret shouted at the half-breed and slipped between the rails. The black, all fight out of him, rested at the opposite rail, far from the figure sprawled on the ground.

      “Are you crazy?” Garret demanded. He reached out and jerked Kit up.

      Kit stumbled to remain upright, then pushed his arm off with a strength that surprised him. “The black’s broken. I rode him longer than you. Now,