Where the Lost Wander(68)

I glance back at Wyatt, whose face has gone crimson with all the discussion of weddings and rooms. I don’t know what to say. My pride and my need are warring in my chest.

“That’s kind of you, ma’am,” Wyatt says, saving me. “But there’s quite a few of us. The whole train will want to attend. It might be better if we do it outside. But my sister deserves something good, something fine. I’m sure she would appreciate the room.”

God bless you, Wyatt.

“Very well, young man,” Narcissa says, smiling. “There’s a small clearing just behind the fort. I have a garden there, though we have a while before harvest time. There’s some yarrow that grows wild all around it. It’ll be prettier than any church. Tomorrow, at sunset. It’s the perfect time of day. And Mr. Lowry, when your bride arrives, you will bring her to me.”





14





THE CUTOFF


JOHN


I spend the next morning trying to earn a wagonload of discounted supplies out of Teddy Bowles. He does indeed have a few mares, and after looking them over, I inform him that one is probably already pregnant, despite his efforts to keep them away from the other horses, but one is in heat. The breeding season for mares extends from early spring to the end of summer, with cycles of fertility throughout. I tell him this as I explain my process, but he just wants to get started.

“Let’s get him in here,” he says, clapping his hands.

“She won’t be interested in the jack,” I warn. “She’s a mare, and she wants a stallion.”

Bowles frowns, not understanding. “But I want a mule outa that jack.”

Wyatt is trying not to laugh.

“I understand,” I say. “But I’m going to need a stallion to make her cooperate.”

I rattle off a few other things I’ll need and agree to meet him near the fence that divides the interior corral in an hour.

I don’t think he’s convinced, but he sends a stable hand named Javi, a Mexican boy a year or so younger than Wyatt, to secure the stallion while he gathers the other things I’ve requested, and Wyatt and I head to the enclosure with Kettle.

“Why do you need a stallion?” Wyatt asks.

“We’re going to have to tease the mare, get her ready, and give Kettle a chance to do his business.”

“How long do you think that’ll take?” Wyatt asks.

“Jacks are slow. And they prefer jennies. Mounting a mare doesn’t come naturally, as natural as all this is.”

“Huh,” Wyatt grunts, impressed.

I scratch Kettle between his ears. “You gotta coax him. You gotta convince him. Tell him, ‘You like her, Kettle. You do.’”

Wyatt grins and removes his hat, swiping at the dusty strands of blond hair that stick to his forehead. “Can you usually convince him?”

“I usually can if I don’t get pushy.”

Bowles delivers what I’ve asked of him, and within a half hour, I’ve cleared out all the other horses to the back paddock and created my stalls. Each stall consists of parallel boards jutting out from the fence that divides the corral in two. When the mare and the stallion are in their stalls, they will face each other but be separated by the fence.

“Lead the mare into the stall, Wyatt, and stand there with her, holding her rope, but leave it nice and loose.” The makeshift stall is just wide enough for the mare to stand within it but narrow enough to keep her from turning.

I point to Bowles. “Bring the stallion in on the other side to face her. That’s right. At home we call the stallions the dandies. He just has to look good and kiss her a little.”

Bowles tells Javi to do as I ask and then climbs up on the dividing fence so he can get a better view.

The mare tosses her head, and the stallion nips at her neck, baring his teeth. I let this continue for a minute, allowing the age-old ritual to unfold, before I lead Kettle up behind the mare. I let him sniff at her and nuzzle her, butting her hindquarters with his nose, before allowing him to retreat to think on it. She’s distracted by the stallion and doesn’t even realize he’s there.

I’ve attracted an assortment of observers, including Vasquez and a small boy I assume is his son, some men from the Mormon encampment, and a ragtag assortment of trappers, Indians, and Mexicans who have emerged from places unknown.

Kettle rises up on his hind legs against the mare’s flanks, testing the waters, before coming back down and backing off. My crowd sighs, and the mare quivers, tossing her head at the stallion and lowering her hips.

“Do you think he’s gonna be able to do his business with everyone watchin’ like this?” Wyatt mutters, still holding the mare’s lead rope in his hands.

Bowles hoots, and I just shake my head.

“Patience,” I say.

It takes an hour for Kettle to get good and ready. He mounts and backs off. Mounts and backs off. And I let him take his time. My crowd gets tired, and Bowles begins to look doubtful, but I ignore them.

Finally, after several false starts, the mare lowers her hips with her tail raised and her flanks wet, the object of her interest posturing before her, and Kettle mounts, connects, gyrates, and within thirty seconds has withdrawn again. Task complete. He receives a smattering of applause from those who waited it out, and Bowles throws his hat in celebration. He tells Javi to take the stallion and “give that poor fellow an extra cup of grain.”