Paths
Warnings: implied slash, but only if you look for it, some violence, some animal cruelty.
"Don't I know you?"Vin glanced up, his right hand slipping to the stock of his rifle. "Don't think so," he answered, looking the man over closely as he could in the dusk.
The man looked like all the others here, dirty, dusty, and tired. Cattle drives were the worst of the worst, hot and hard, and Vin hated them as much as any of the other twenty men here. But it was money and usually no one asked questions, which was what he needed right now.
The man shrugged, looking away from Vin and down into the campfire. It had been a long day, most of the other men settling in for the night. "Thought you might have worked the drive down to Red River several months ago," he said as he crouched down, reaching for the coffee pot. "You look like somebody on that ride."
Vin relaxed a little, shifting so that he was leaning back against his saddle, but he didn't take his hand off his gun. "Ain't done that one," he said.
The man nodded as he poured. "Should. It's long, but not as hard as this one. None of these red-skinned bastards to keep a watch for."
Vin didn't say anything, wasn't any need to. He had enough trouble without inviting more.
"Which watch you draw?" the man asked, standing back up.
Vin squinted up, keeping an eye on the man's hands. "Dawn. You?"
"First," he said, and he grinned, his teeth flashing in the fire light. "Reckon I'll see you in the morning, then."
"Reckon so," Vin agreed.
But as the man walked away, Vin sighed. It was going to be a long night, starting with him needing to find another place to sleep.
*&*&*&*
Over the next several days, Vin watched and studied and learned. The man's name was Billy Joe Warwick, and he hailed out of Abilene, Kansas. He smiled a lot, and laughed a lot, but he had a rough way about him that made Vin edgy. He was mean, Vin thought, could see it in the way he teased at the others, way he slapped a little too hard, pushed at people a little too much, jerked the bit around on his horse, kicked him more than necessary.
Warwick watched Vin about as much as Vin watched him.
Weren't but a couple of reasons for a man to be watching him that much, either sex or the bounty. Vin wasn't interested in either one.
Vin had signed on to make the ride to Colbert, but he suspected he was inviting trouble to stay that long. When they drew near to Fort Gibson, he caught up to Zeb, the trail boss, and told him he'd be heading out. Was kind of nice that Zeb tried to talk him out of it, more so because Vin knew they wouldn't have no trouble picking up extra help at the Fort.
Zeb paid him his due at the end of the day, money Vin stashed in a small leather bag stuck inside his pants. He didn't say anything to anybody, hoped Zeb didn't.
But he wasn't real surprised to see Warwick watching him as he moved away from the camp.
He took the long way out, trying to lose himself around the herd of cattle they'd been moving, but he suspected Warwick wasn't that much a fool. He wasn't disappointed when the man showed up ahead of him several hours later, his big black lathered and chomping at the bit.
"Trail's that way," Warwick commented, his arms crossed over his lap. He was chewing lazily on a stalk of dry grass, the brim of his hat shadowing his face in the dusk.
Vin had stopped Ootupitu, his horse, a ways away, angling a little so that his left side was toward the other man, giving him a clear draw across his own body. Ootupitu was Indian-broke, a wild one Vin had helped catch and break, and Ootupitu was as calm as the air around them.
Warwick tilted his head, and Vin could see one of his eyes. "You leaving us?"
Vin didn't need to answer, but he did, thinking to put off what he knew was coming. "Had all the cow shit I can handle for now," he answered with a slight nod. "Reckon I'll be on another ride before too long. Probably see you there."
Warwick didn't move though, and Vin let his hand slide to his gun. He wasn't a fast draw, just a sure shot, so he needed the advantage.
"You a 'breed?" Warwick asked. "Got you an Indian pony, wearing Indian clothes - figured you was part Indian."
Vin shrugged. "Don't know," he answered honestly. "Spent some time hunting with a tribe of them, picked up a few things. That a problem?"
Warwick shrugged this time, but he was grinning too. "Ain't no problem. Just tells me where you been hiding out, Tanner."
Warwick was a fast draw, faster than Vin, but he was too confident. His first shot missed as Vin had nudged Ootupitu and the horse stepped forward. His second shot missed as well, as his own horse wasn't as well trained as Vin's, the big black jerking at the gun shots.
The black's jerk had also caused Vin to miss, so that instead of hitting Warwick square on, he grazed the black's shoulder then caught Warwick in the hip. The black reared in pain, and Warwick went down, falling backward out of the saddle, landing hard on the ground.
But still holding his pistol, which went off. The bullet grazed Vin's arm, a burning pain that made him a little dizzy. Ootupitu moved again, mostly because of the tightness of Vin's knees as he clung to the saddle.
The black charged past, knocking into Ootupitu, who stumbled to one side. Vin caught his hands in his horse's mane, clinging as Ootupitu stumbled, then went down on one side.
He didn't so much fall as roll onto the ground, managing to shake free of the stirrups before the horse staggered back to his feet. Vin stayed on the ground for several seconds, adjusting to the pain and trying to get his head to clear. But Warwick could still be alive, probably was, and that was a danger.
It was as much a struggle not to groan as it was to get to his feet, the pain in his shoulder becoming a throb in his head. His gun was still in his hand, and his hand was still working, so he jacked another shell into the empty chamber.
Warwick was on his back, unmoving as Vin neared. His pants were dark with blood, and his face was pale, but he was breathing. Alive, but knocked out, probably from the fall.
Vin took the man's gun, tucking it into the waist of his pants, then edged around Warwick to check the bleeding. Like his own, it was more a graze than a real wound, and it didn't look to be bleeding too much.
Would have been easier if he'd killed the bastard, he thought with a sigh. But he hadn't, and now he couldn't.
He rose, looking for the horses. His was nearby, tail swishing as he chewed on a low bramble bush. Ootupitu was favoring the front leg that had gone down, but it was more a favor than a real hurt.
The black had stopped a distance away, snorting and trembling, but unlike Ootupitu, he wasn't favoring a leg. He was bleeding, though, a slice of pink flesh oozing red blood from his shoulder.
Vin made his way to his horse, grabbing up one of the canteens slung from his saddle horn. It was full, he'd filled them from the water wagon before leaving, and not old enough yet to taste like the canteen. He drank several long swallows, putting the canteen down when he thought he might puke, then moved slowly toward the black.
The horse wasn't breathing as hard, but he stepped back and away, his reins dragging on the ground. He was licking at the wound, his long tongue dripping spit and blood onto the floor, but he kept one eye on Vin, wary.
Vin knew he should get the hell out of here, put as much distance between himself and Warwick as possible. But he took a few minutes to pour some of the canteen water into his hat, holding it out for the horse.
The horse eyed him, shaking his head in anger as Vin stepped close, so he put the hat on the ground. Water wouldn't stay in it long, but maybe long enough. Horse wasn't stupid, he'd go searching for water as soon as he needed it, whether Warwick was up and moving or not.
Vin slipped out of his coat, grunting as it slid over his wound. Pulling his shirt clear of the furrow hurt worse, but he managed it with another grunt. Pouring water over it drew several curses, but he got it clean enough to tell that the bleeding was already stopping and that he'd live. It'd just hurt like hell for a while.
He covered it with a rag he had in his saddle bag, keeping an eye on Warwick who he figured should be coming around soon. Ootupitu was calm and still, munching on another bush.
The black had lapped up the water, but Vin noticed that the blood was still mixed with his drool. The shoulder wasn't bleeding anymore, and as he stepped close to get his hat, he saw why: the bleeding was coming from the horse's mouth, the bit sharpened to cause cutting and pain.
Bastard, Vin thought, and any little worry he'd had about Warwick vanished. It was one thing to go after a bounty - he knew that himself, had done his share of it.
But a good man, a just man, didn't intentionally hurt his horse.
He clucked at the horse, tried to calm him enough to at least get him out of the bridle, but the black backed out of reach, his tail switching angrily, his head tossing.
Ootupitu whinnied, as if talking to the black, but the black only seemed to get more upset.
Vin sighed, backing away. He didn't have time to be fighting with the horse, needed to get his own self out of danger. With a nod, he said softly, "You can come here and let me get that damned thing off of you, or you can fight it. No matter which way you decide, I'd get the hell out of here before he wakes up. Now come on."
He held up one hand, palm up and open, toward the black, and waited. The black eyed him, tail swishing, and didn't move until Vin took a step forward.
Then the black jumped back, out of Vin's reach, and Vin shook his head. "Up to you, then."
He turned and walked to Ootupitu, shaking his head as his horse made a few more calls toward the black. He was amused when the black answered, but the other horse still didn't come close.
He set Ootupitu at a trot for a while, wanting to get as far away as possible as fast as possible. From time to time, he thought he heard an echo of hooves behind him, but he didn't see anything at first. It was after about an hour, as he rode over a low rise, that he caught sight of his follower: the black.
It was trailing, matching their pace but staying back and away, like a shadow. In the moonlight, he was barely visible, only the sweat shimmering in the pale light giving away his location.
He was watching Vin, tossing his head and still swishing his tail, as if it were Vin's fault things were as they were. And maybe it was, Vin thought, he'd been the one to put Warwick on the ground.
He didn't have to guide Ootupitu, the horse could smell out water from any distance. Vin let him have his head, and it wasn't long before they were edging toward a small stream winding its way along bottom of a low rise.
He dismounted, letting Ootupitu drink while he filled his canteens and drank himself. He checked his improvised bandaged, found that it was red but not dripping, and left it alone.
He hadn't meant to sleep, and in truth, he hadn't. He'd drowsed, awake and aware as soon as he heard the first crunch of sand nearby.
But Ootupitu made a low noise, as if telling Vin it was all right, and he looked to find the black coming up to the water.
He was still wary, still watching Vin closely, and he came in on Ootupitu's left, so that Vin's horse was between them. He still wore all his tack, but Vin could see that the reins were shorter and hanging ragged, as if the black had found some way to tear them.
A way that would make his mouth bleed even more, Vin knew. Probably ripped it apart, he thought, wishing he'd had the time to get the black to trust him.
As he thought it, Ootupitu made another noise, and the black answered before putting his nose in the water, drinking deep and slow.
Vin sat back, watching the moon rise a little more. The wound was hurting more now, the ache of it settling in. It'd be fevered soon, he knew, and he knew he needed to be back on the way. Warwick wouldn't be following yet, but he'd be heading toward the Fort and once there, he'd be able to convince all sorts of men to start looking for Vin. He needed to get as far away as he could.
He lurched to his feet, not surprised when he stumbled, his feet slipping on the softer ground, nor when the black once more jumped away, frightened.
But Ootupitu grunted, as if telling them both to behave, and Vin paused to get his balance.
The black snorted, but he stood still, waiting and watching. Vin held out his hand once more, but allowed Ootupitu to stand between them. "Let me get that off of you," he said softly, easily. "Won't do nothing else."
The black's tail switched, hard and fast, but he didn't move. Vin slowly took one step toward him, coming level with Ootupitu's nose. His horse snorted again, and Vin thought that he might have grumbled, but Ootupitu put his nose back into the stream, taking on more water.
The black shook his head, but not as hard as he had before. The white blaze on his nose waved in the darkness, not a warning but not a welcome.
Vin lifted his hand just a little higher, and the horse snorted. But he didn't move until Vin's hand was close, the tips of his fingers wet with the horse's breath.
The black moved then, stepping back, but it was graceful and slow - still careful but not as much so. He'd been waiting, Vin realized, waiting for Vin to grab the ends of the reins.
Testing, Vin thought, and it was almost laughable. But the horse lowered his head, pawing once at the ground, and Vin pulled his hand back.
Ootupitu whinnied, then moved in close, his nose butting against Vin's shoulder. It was a nudge, gentle, and Vin reached up to pet him. Ootupitu made another low sound, then slowly drew back.
The black was still there, watching, and Vin held his hand out again. But Ootupitu turned, moving his flank between them, and Vin wondered if his horse was jealous.
Didn't really matter, they needed to get moving. But he was pleased when, as he mounted up and Ootupitu started forward, he heard the echo of the black behind them.
Traveling at night was, in its way, easier. Slower, as he and the horses picked their way through the places they couldn't see, but cooler and more peaceful. They made good time, thanks to a bright moon, and dawn was breaking across the sky when Vin knew he had to stop, had to get some rest.
The wound was turning, he could feel it in the stiffness and in the heat of his own body. His head was beating with almost every beat of his heart and it was getting hard to sit the saddle.
They were coming into a wooded area, which would offer some cover from the light and some protection from being seen. Ootupitu grunted with relief as Vin dropped to the ground, then whinnied.
The answer was low and came from behind them, the black close.
Vin didn't take Ootupitu's saddle off, afraid he'd need to move quickly. There was water somewhere, but not close, so he shared what he had in his canteen with the two horses, leaving his hat on the ground for the black.
His didn't rest well, waking often and hurting. The fever was building, he knew, and he knew he needed to go to ground somewhere safe. He got to his feet around noon, the day warm, his body warmer.
The black and Ootupitu were close together, Ootupitu ground-tied and munching on the grass and low scrub. He moved over to Vin, nuzzling at his chest. Vin didn't think, his hand reaching up to stroke the horse's muzzle.
The black stepped forward, snorting and pawing at the ground. His nose flared with temper, and he bared his teeth in warning.
Ootupitu backed away from Vin, making a noise low in his throat as he turned to the black. The two horses stared at each other for several seconds, and Vin knew that something was passing between them, but he didn't have time to worry with it.
He led Ootupitu at first, looking for water first, and for sign. He was moving parallel with the road but far enough away to avoid anyone on it. The black still trailed them, but he was shy again, staying back.
The creek was small, more a trickle than a stream but it was enough for the horses to drink and for Vin to wash up some and refill the canteens. He took the time to look at his wound, not surprised to see it swollen and crusted with yellow. He cleaned it, making it bleed and throb again, but he knew it wasn't going to be enough.
Ootupitu nudged at him again as he rifled through his saddle bags, looking for the few medicines he had. Willow bark would help with the fever and the pain, but he needed to make a poultice to draw the infection.
The arrow came in low, landing in the ground right at his foot. He flinched, surprised, but curbed the habit of reaching for his gun. That would get him killed straight away.
He took his hands slowly from the saddle bag, keeping them in plain sight, then turned very slowly as well.
It was a small band, not a tribe so much as a family, he thought, several warriors and their women, a few young'uns in the back. Two of the three warriors held bows, aimed at him, and the women held knives and carried everything the families had on their backs or on the travois they pulled. The third brave held a pistol, his hands steady and his aim true.
Renegades, Vin knew, running from the reservation or a round-up, people with nothing to lose.
The one with the gun muttered something, his eyes never leaving Vin, and one of the braves started moving slowly forward. Vin stayed still, letting the man come. Desperate, he thought, but they weren't starving. They needed something from him, his guns, maybe. Probably.
"Going the wrong way," he said evenly, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to startle. "You're headed toward Fort Gibson."
The one with the gun raised the gun a little higher and Vin held his breath. He hoped that one of them spoke enough English to understand him; he could try Comanche or even a little of the Kiowa he knew, but he'd learned that sometimes it was more dangerous to speak the language of an enemy tribe than the language of the white man.
"You lie," the gun man said after a few seconds.
Vin shook his head slowly, and answered, "No, Fort's that way." He tilted his head in the direction they were headed. "Staying clear of it myself."
The one closest to him stepped up, careful not to get between Vin and the gun. He was fast, his hand grabbing at the gun in Vin's holster and yanking it clear.
Vin stayed as still as he could, even though his hurt arm was beginning to drop. Sweat was sliding down his face, tickling, and nausea was beginning to twist in his belly.
Beside him, Ootupitu shifted his weight, his tail flicking. The black snorted and tossed his head, watching.
The one closest reached in again, pulling the belt knife out and holding it so that it pointed at Vin. Vin swallowed, trying to stay still, but his arm drifted a little lower, and a wave of dizziness made him close his eyes.
Ootupitu nudged him then, a gentle pressure with his head, but it was more than enough to send Vin stumbling forward. The brave with the knife jerked back, the tip of the knife biting into Ootupitu's flank, and the horse lashed out with his back foot, snorting at the pain.
The black reacted as well, bellowing as he reared, waving his front feet in challenge, and the gun man panicked, the pistol going off.
Vin went to his knees, partly from instinct and partly from the stumble, covering his head as the gun went off again and the Indian children screamed and the men yelled at each other.
As the sounds quieted, he looked around, hoping for an escape. The brave who had been taking his weapons was on the ground, groaning, the second brave and one of the women bent over him. They were talking in a language that sounded a little familiar but Vin still didn't understand it.
Gun Man was still holding the gun, but it was at his side, the smoke from its muzzle creating a spiral around his wrist. He was staring at the cluster of his people, surprised, Vin thought, or shocked by what had happened.
His stomach chose that second to claw its way up his throat, and he spent several long minutes doing nothing but letting it do what it wanted. He hadn't eaten much in the past several days, more intent on keeping himself moving, but his body tried anyway.
Afterward, as he swiped the back of his hand over his face, trying not to shake, he didn't have the strength to draw away as a hand touched his shoulder.
One of the women held out a damp rag, offering it to him. He nodded his thanks, wiped at his face then let it sit on the back of his neck. The nausea ebbed a bit, and he took several deep breaths, looking around.
Gun Man was now standing over his wounded friend, the others trying to hold the shot brave down to get a look at the wound. Gun Man looked up, catching Vin's gaze, angry and scared.
Vin sighed. "You speak English?" he asked, looking from Gun Man to the woman standing beside him.
She glanced to Gun Man who sneered but nodded, once.
"Some," she answered, her voice soft.
"I might can help your friend," he said, "might can get the bullet out if it ain't in his gut."
She looked from Vin to Gun Man, then spoke fast in the Indian tongue. Gun Man asked something, and she looked back at Vin. "Why you help?"
There weren't many ways to answer this. "So you won't kill me," he said flatly, meeting Gun Man's gaze again.
It apparently didn't need her to explain, because Gun Man glared, holding up the pistol but not pointing it. "Come," he said sharply.
The third woman had already started laying a fire, and by the time Vin had figured out what he could do, it was blazing and a pot of water was heating. Some things were the same among humans, no matter the language.
"Bullet ain't deep," he said, "but gonna need my knife to get it out." He was speaking to the woman, but looking at Gun Man.
He got it, even got them to let it heat in the fire. Getting the bullet out was harder, as he had to dig it out of the man's hip bone. Fortunately, the brave had passed out pretty early on.
The women had made a poultice, and Vin left them to it and to the bandaging, sitting back on his heels and wiping at his head.
"For you," the woman said, holding out a lump of wet green leaves. "Your arm."
Gun Man didn't object, and Vin wasn't going to either. By the time she'd put it on him, wrapping it in a strip of cloth, he was sick again.
Someone had taken his bedroll of Ootupitu and spread it near the fire, and he was pushed toward it. "Sleep," the woman commanded, and once more Gun Man nodded. "No one will hurt you."
No one did. He didn't intend to sleep long, but the fever took him down. He had vague impressions of the poultice being changed, of conversations going on around him in that language he didn't understand, of someone forcing him to drink water.
When he was clear-headed enough to be awake, dawn was coming on, the fire was a low, and Gun Man was seated on the ground nearby, holding the pistol loosely in one hand.
Vin glanced around, noticed that most of the others were sleeping. The horses were resting a ways away, Ootupitu bare, and the black as well. The Indians had done better than Vin had at getting close.
Gun Man watched Vin for several minutes, and when he spoke, his voice still held the anger from earlier. "Why you help?"
"Told you," Vin said, or tried to. His voice was rough and his throat dry.
Gun Man frowned, then pointed toward a wooden bowl near Vin. Water, Vin saw, and nodded his thanks, taking several swallows.
He cleared his throat, then tried again. "Figured you was gonna kill me."
Gun Man watched him, not saying one way or the other, but Vin hadn't expected him to. He took another sip of water, aware that his arm was hurting, but it was just dull ache now, not the throb of yesterday. The poultices were working.
"We go," Gun Man said after a space, his voice not as hard.
"To the Fort?" Vin asked, even though he knew the answer.
The Indian looked away then, toward the horses. "We take one horse," he said flatly. "Leave long gun, and knife."
Vin looked at the horses, his gut stirring but not as much with nausea this time. He knew better than to get attached to animals, had learned that as a boy - animals or people, either one. But Ootupitu had been his from the start, a colt that he'd captured and helped break, then a gift from the tribe when he'd left. Ootupitu had been his most constant companion since then.
They had managed to get the black to let them close enough to take the saddle off, but he doubted that was enough.
"We need horse," Gun Man said, and now, his tone was softer.
"Yeah," Vin sighed. "Reckon you do."
He didn't watch them as they loaded Ootupitu, working instead to get close enough to the black to hold him. The bit was still in place, no one managing to get close enough to take it off.
He did catch one of the torn reins, but he hated using it, knowing what it was doing to the black's mouth. Fortunately, Gun Man was good with a rope, the lasso dropping easily over the horse's head and down his neck. As soon as the knot caught, Vin let go of the rein. He'd need to get them off, get the horse to trust him enough to get close. For now, though, the horse was caught, tied to one of the stronger trees close to the tiny stream.
Ootupitu whinnied then, a soft sound that cut at Vin, and he couldn't stop himself from looking. The horse made another soft sound, stretching his head toward Vin, then shaking it. But his body was still, not disturbing the injured man on the travois strapped to Ootupitu's body.
"He will be one of us," Gun Man said quietly. "A brother."
Vin nodded, not looking at his horse. Instead, he pointed toward the saddle that had belonged to Warwick. "Take that," he muttered, "trade it when you can."
Gun Man frowned, then said something in his own language to the women. To Vin, he said, "Not yours?"
Vin shook his head.
Gun Man looked to the black, then back at Vin. "Not yours?"
Vin sighed. "Reckon he is now."
Gun Man looked past Vin to Ootupitu, then back to the black, before walking over to him. The black tried to draw away, but the rope around his throat kept him to a certain area, and Gun Man didn't give ground.
It was over before Vin understood what was happening, the Indian's knife sharp and his actions practiced. He didn't pull at the reins or the bit, cutting the leather strap under the horse's throat. In a move almost too fast for Vin to see, Gun Man caught the strap behind the black's ears and flipped it down as he walked away. By the time he was two steps away from the horse, the bit with the reins still attached was on the ground, tinted pink from blood and spit. The horse was pawing at it, stomping at the ground and calling out his temper.
Ootupitu answered, but softer and soothing.
Gun Man wiped off his knife's blade as he joined Vin, but he called to one of the women in his own language. As she searched through one of the cloth bags she was carrying, he turned to Vin. "Yours."
The woman hurried up, handing something to Gun Man who in turn, held it out to Vin.
An apple, hard and dry, but recognizable. Sweet, too, Vin thought.
Gun Man pointed with his chin, indicating that the apple was for the horse. A bribe, Vin realized, to get the horse to trust him.
They didn't say goodbye, just walked away. One of the women led Ootupitu, and for few seconds, Vin thought about trying to get his horse back.
Ootupitu turned, then, his dark eyes looking at Vin, and he snorted. His tail switched and he shook his head once more, and he made a call, but it was to the black, not to Vin.
The black called back, struggled against the rope around his neck, as if he would follow.
Vin watched them go, tired and sad.
For a while, the black called after Ootupitu, kept up his fight. Vin envied him, in a way, wished he could find the anger. But he only had himself to blame. He'd let them get him, then let them take Ootupitu.
He wasn't dead though, wasn't heading back to Tascosa. And he was better, the fever down and his wound wrapped in a bandage with a fresh poultice on it. He had his gun, his knife, his money, and he had a horse.
He'd been in worse shape.
He sat for awhile, watching the black as he gradually calmed. When the horse started pulling at the grass, Vin got up and made his way to the stream, washing up. The black watched him, but didn't seem to mind him being that close.
"Just you and me now," he said after a time, sighing again. He got to his feet, wiping his wet hands on his pants and looking around. Everything he had in the world was scattered around, his saddle and gun, bedroll and saddle bags. "Guess we'd best be getting on."
The black snorted, putting his nose into the stream.
Vin tightened everything up, getting it all together in one place. Wasn't much really, but it was enough to make the black nervous. He watched every move Vin made, tail swishing harder and higher.
When he couldn't find any other distraction, Vin moved up to the horse, his steps measured. He had already cut the apple into slices, thinking it better not to have his knife out as he neared the horse.
The black tensed, stepping back and as far away as the rope would allow. He still wore a halter, the leather worn and supple. The furrow in the black's shoulder had started scabbing over, still showing pink against the horse's hide.
Vin stopped, holding out an apple slice with his good arm. He waited as the black stared at him, waited as the black stamped his irritation, waited as the black tossed and twisted, trying to get free.
Waited as the horse fought his curiosity, the scent of the fruit finally reaching his nostrils.
Vin let go of the slice as soon as the black lipped it, letting the horse take it easily. The black stepped away, eyeing Vin as he chewed.
"Got more," Vin said quietly, holding out another slice. "Think you can let me saddle you?"
By the fourth slice, the horse had stopped stepping away from him, and was letting Vin stroke his muzzle. He was still wary, but when Vin picked up the saddle and walked slowly back to him, he didn't fight.
Skittish, Vin thought as he tightened the girth, and with reason.
It took the rest of the apple to get everything else tied to the saddle and set, but the horse was standing still for him. He wasn't going to be as calm as Ootupitu, but maybe he wasn't as wild as he had seemed.
He needed reins of some sort, some way to guide the horse. With the halter still on, he could attached leads, if he had any. The reins were on the ground, but they were too short, especially if he had to tie them to the halter.
He could use the rope, tie it off to the halter, maybe get by without having to cut it if he was careful. It was gonna be a while before he dared to go into a town and he needed to have the rope whole for as long as he could.
He caught the rope, thinking to hold on to it before he untied it. As he caught the line, the grip pulling at it, the black came to life, jerking hard and fast and almost putting Vin on the ground.
The sudden pull tore at the bullet crease, ripping it open again, and the shock of the pain spiked through his head. He thought he might have cried out, he did know that he let go of the rope, his hand going to the bandage.
He didn't throw up this time, but it was a near thing. He was sweating and shaking but still on his feet even if he was bent over.
The tears were from the pain, but they still drifted down his face as he looked up at the black. The horse was pawing the ground, nervous, and nickering, calling for Ootupitu.
Vin looked toward the path the Indians had take, and the tears came a little faster. He went to his knees then, telling himself it was the pain even as the waves of it slowed and his stomach stopped clenching. It was just a damned horse, the one that he'd lost and the one he was stuck with.
A damned horse.
He wiped at his face, his shirt sleeve coming back wet, and he was still looking after Ootupitu.
He needed to get up and try to get the black under his control. He needed to get moving, put more distance between him and Warwick and the Fort.
But all he could seem to do was think about Ootupitu, about cutting him out of the herd, dropping the rope over his head. About the days that he and Soko had spent together breaking the horse, training it. The time they had spent together.
Soko had been killed in an altercation with an Army platoon that had gotten confused about where they were. Vin hadn't been with him because he had been with several of the tribal leaders, answering questions about the white man's world.
Soko had been riding Ootupitu. Soko had died, Ootupitu had been cast out by the tribe, as had Vin.
He hadn't let himself think about it that way, hadn't let himself think about Soko. But Ootupitu was gone, now, back to the Indians. A different tribe, but Indians just the same.
He didn't want to think about Soko now, he had things that needed doing. But he couldn't seem to get his mind into the present.
The memories flowed around each other, Soko in the dawn, the early light making his skin glow. Soko in the moonlight, his eyes darker than the deepest shadows. Soko laughing, the sound warm and welcoming.
Soko and Ootupitu, graceful and tireless, the perfect pair.
Something nudged at him, and for a few seconds, he was caught between the memories and the place he was in. A second nudge brought him back to himself, and he pulled his head from his hands, his eyes opening reluctantly.
The black stood nearby, looking down at him. He still wore the saddle and all the things Vin had packed earlier, and the rope loose at the base of his neck. He was watching Vin, his dark eyes soft.
Vin sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face, ignoring the new wetness there. His legs shook as he got to his feet, the muscles cramped from being too long in one position.
The black didn't back away though, his ears flicking. His head came forward, just a little, and he made a low noise in his throat.
"It's all right," Vin whispered, the words as much for himself as for the horse. Maybe more, he thought, and his eyes drifted back to the path the Indians had taken.
The black leaned in again, nudging him. Without a thought, he brought his hand to the black's muzzle, cupping the thick jaw and stroking absently.
It took a while for him to think about what he was doing, to think about what the black was allowing.
About the time he did, the black stepped forward, his head coming to rest on Vin's shoulder. The horse made that noise again, soft and low and in Vin's ear. The rope draped down Vin's chest, and he let his fingers touch it.
The black didn't bolt away, but he did stop moving.
Vin tilted his head, his hat brim brushing the horse's cheek. Carefully, he drew his knife from its sheath and cut the rope just above where it was knotted.
The black snorted, snot spraying the back of Vin's jacket, and his head pulled up. But he didn't pull away.
"You gonna let me ride you?" he asked, but he didn't move, deciding to wait for some sign from the horse.
The black made another noise, then stepped back. Vin didn't move, and the black huffed a breath before turning his head so that he was looking into Vin's face.
He moved slowly and carefully, catching the loop of rope and holding it. It was the only restraint on the horse, his hand on the rope.
The horse's head dropped and he nudged Vin in the chest, not a hard push but still strong.
"Ready to go?" Vin asked, putting the knife away.
The horse stepped back, his head coming up so that he was looking at Vin. He turned his head, his long neck bending as he looked down the path Ootupitu had gone, then back to Vin. He snorted again, then shook his head.
Vin smiled. "Yeah, reckon you're right. Need to move on."
He stepped away to untie the rope from the tree, only to find it had been chewed in half. He'd been out of it for a while, long enough for the black to free himself.
And to stay.
The horse was still as Vin untied the longer part of the rope that was still tied to the tree, and he didn't bolt away when Vin slowly caught his halter, threading the rope through one of the metal circles at the horse's jaw and tying it in place.
The black snorted and fidgeted as Vin did the same on the other side, but he didn't fight.
Nor did he bolt as Vin mounted. For a few seconds they sat, man on horse, both looking down one path, looking at the travois path in the dirt.
The black snorted, then, at the pressure from Vin's knees, he started off another track.
It took about an hour for Vin to realize that the horse was trained to respond to leg pressure, not the bit.