Montana Blue. Genell Dellin

kept his paints. He’d poured his rage and loneliness into them and slapped it onto the canvas while he held himself completely separate from every person in the prison. That was how he had survived.

      He needed to keep separate from Micah, too. It was a pity the old man had passed his prime but feeling sorry about Micah’s arthritis was what had brought him to the Splendid Sky on this first day out, and now here he was.

      Of course, coming here was giving him a chance at a good horse—and it was putting Gordon in his sights. He had left prison wanting both those things, hadn’t he?

      Both sides of the coin, that was what this world paid human beings for all the blood and sweat that they put into living. Turn over the good and a man could find the bad; turn over the bad and find the good.

      He had already known that when he killed the pond-scum drug pusher who had led Dannah straight to her death. Or had he? Had he just now realized it, which meant it was the good side of the bad ten years in the pen?

      He walked on back to the trailer, keeping step with Micah who was on the other side of it. Hell of a note. End up here at the Splendid Sky, first crack out of the box, when he’d imagined it all his life long.

      Right now, he’d think about the horse. Nothing else.

      He waited on the ground below the horse’s head until Micah had the gate open and had jammed the rusty pin of the trailer door up with his fist. The colt bared his teeth looking down at him.

      Get up here. I’ll take a chunk out of you.

      “Ready?” Micah said.

      “Ready.”

      Blue stepped onto the fender, pulled up on the strap of the halter, freed the tongue of the buckle from its hole and, therefore, the horse from the trailer. Roanie jerked his head away, clattered to the door and leapt out onto the ground of the round pen. Micah pushed the gate shut behind him and then the trailer door.

      The two of them stood together and looked in between the logs of the old-time round pen. The colt reared high, came down with a snort and a fart and went ripping off around the circle again, pausing only to buck and rear some more when the notion struck him. After two of those circles, he settled down into a run and tore around the pen so fast he was a blur.

      “How’d you get the halter on him?” Blue said.

      “I got ’im halter broke,” Micah said. “Sort of. But I never could stay on him.”

      He shook his head, took off his hat and put it back on again. Blue caught the smell of old felt and leather soaked with sweat.

      “He’s a whole lot worse since I sent him over to the Little Creek Division boys,” Micah said. “Gordon oughtta fire every one of them out on his ass. But I found out I’d never be able to stay on him and I was hoping they could get him broke enough for me.”

      Micah shook his head again, turned it, and spat on the ground.

      “Gittin’ old is a hoary bitch,” he said. “Don’t do it.”

      Blue gave a harsh laugh.

      “I won’t,” he said.

      And he probably wouldn’t, one way or the other.

      He kept looking at the horse and feeling the old, mostly forgotten tug at his gut. The roan thundered by them again.

      “Leave him,” Micah called over the noise. “You kin start on him tomorry.”

      Tomorrow. Would he stay here? On the Splendid Sky?

      Surely not. But maybe so. Hadn’t he been headed here anyhow?

      He didn’t want to think about it. He turned away, went back to the trailer, stepped up onto the fender, and jerked the halter loose from the rail where it was tied.

      He stepped down.

      “I’m gonna have to try him now,” he said. “Open the gate for me.”

      Micah did.

      “This here pen’s built like all the old-time ones—with room for a man to roll out under the bottom log,” he said. “Git out if he takes after you. He never done that ’til he’d been to Little Creek.”

      The warning pricked at Blue’s brain, but instead of thinking of himself facing the danger of a charging stud horse, he imagined Micah. The old guy had guts, crippled up as he was, to even try the colt.

      Blue walked through the gate and toward the center of the pen. The roan colt blew by behind him, sticking close to the wall. He circled the pen twice more, then half again, slowing, slowing. He started trotting back and forth on the west side, his dappled hide shining in flashes as he went in and out of the sun. Then he came down to a walk.

      He knew Blue was there but he wouldn’t even glance in his direction.

      Blue walked toward him. His fingers tightened around the halter strap as he coiled the rope. Sweat broke out across his back. How could he have sense or skill enough to connect with a terrified horse on this day?

      In this place?

      But he knew how to go about trying it, and that was all he did know.

      The roan stood still and turned his hindquarters to Blue.

      On the outside of the pen, Micah was pacing Blue.

      “What all has this horse gone through?” Blue called.

      “I ain’t sure. Them Little Creek bastards say sell ’im to the rodeo.”

      “So,” Blue said, watching the colt refuse to look at him, “how come you still have him?”

      “I know different,” Micah said, and the swift certainty in his tone made Blue smile a little. “That bunch of no-counts couldn’t tell a good horse from a mountain goat in the bright light of the Judgment Morning.”

      Blue glanced at him, then back at the roan. The old man was something else. You had to hand it to him.

      “So you’re hell-bent on dragging somebody in here that can ride him?”

      “I reckon you’re that somebody,” Micah said, with a satisfied chuckle.

      A troubled horse would spend a great deal of energy avoiding even eye contact with a human being, and this one was surely troubled. Much more so, without a doubt, than if he’d never been tried by anyone but Micah.

      Micah read that thought in Blue’s head from outside the pen.

      “I hate I ever sent him over there,” he said.

      “Water under the bridge,” Blue said.

      He bit his tongue. What was this? Keep it up and he’d be as big a chatterbox as Micah. Although, truth to tell, he probably needed to learn to talk again he’d been silent so long.

      The prick of pity he’d felt for Micah being too old to ride this colt wasn’t excuse enough to try to please him by fixing the horse. He would help this horse for the horse’s sake. He was trying to see if he wanted to buy him, that was all.

      When he got close enough, still holding on to the end of the rope, he threw the halter onto the ground behind the horse. Instead of shifting his feet away from it and moving forward as Blue hoped, the roan kicked at it.

      Blue took in a deep breath and then another, forcing them out through his mouth, trying to blow the tension out of him so the horse wouldn’t feel it. He reeled the halter back in and threw it again.

      The roan started backing up, fast as thought, straight toward Blue, kicking, kicking higher as he came. Blue got out of his way and he kicked the fence with a blow that rang through the air. That settled him down a little bit. He whirled to put his head to the fence again and his butt to Blue.

      Blue threw the halter. The colt kicked at it again.

      Blue pulled the halter to him and threw it again.