him look at the old giant and mutter, ‘Mucho mierda,’ again. If Jones heard the words he didn’t let on.
‘Tie that colt up,’ Baldwin called after him. ‘He’ll get himself burned in here.’
The bay fought them some, worrying about her youngster, tossing her head and dancing, until Baldwin put a half-hitch on her nose and tightened it down. She didn’t want any part of that and settled nervously into the familiar routine of shoeing. They had positioned her against the side of a stall and Mannito leaned into her with his shoulder, pushing her weight to the opposite foot, so he could easily lift the one he wanted. He was wiry and agile, and moved fast, scraping, cutting, and filing, removing excess hoof and shaping what remained, careful not to cut the frog. Then, taking the metal horseshoe blanks that they bought from a company in St Louis, he checked them against the bay’s hoof until he had a close fit. Satisfied, he grabbed the shoe with a long pair of tongs and buried it in the hot coals of the hearth, Baldwin pumping the bellows.
Soon the metal was glowing pink and Mannito pulled it out and began to hammer on it with his small sledge. Dot loved the rhythm of the clanging sound, the bouncing of the hammer off the anvil as Mannito worked. He checked the shoe on the hoof again, took another couple of strikes on the metal, then, satisfied, plunged it into a pail of water, the water spitting, steam hissing. Leaning into the horse again, he bent next to her, picked up her hoof, hammer in hand and nails sticking out from his mouth, and quickly hammered the shoe onto the hoof, clipping and filing the ends of the nails off. Baldwin steadied the mare, talking to her, rubbing her ears.
The rancher glanced at Mannito’s small back as the Mexican worked. ‘What does mucho mierda mean anyhow?’ he asked quietly.
The little man looked up and said, ‘Much shit, señor.’
‘Great,’ Baldwin said. ‘No more trouble. Okay?’
‘Okee, Señor Brake.’ Mannito grinned.
Baldwin was still holding the bay’s head and Mannito was just bending over and pulling the horse’s final hoof onto his aproned thigh, when the foal squealed. Not a normal nicker, either, but a shrill-pitched cry of pain and fear.
The bay exploded at the sound, cow-kicking and bucking, sending Mannito sprawling and dragging Baldwin across the barn as he held onto her halter. Dot scrambled up a stack of hay to safety. She looked for the old man. He had disappeared into his stall, returning moments later with his Sharps, and slipping into the night.
‘The light,’ he called back to Baldwin.
The rancher and Mannito followed him into the darkness. It was easy to spot – the grizzled fur standing out in the night against the darker shadows. The wolf had made a pass at the foal’s throat but missed, catching its shoulder instead.
‘Damn brazen beast,’ Baldwin said. The animal was disappearing into the shadows, Chaco hot after him. The old man whistled at the little dog and he slid to a halt and raised his leg on a post. Jones bent and put his Sharps through the fence rails, bringing the beaten old stock to his shoulder. Baldwin was squinting hard, trying to follow the light smudge of fur streaking away through the shadows of the pasture. He lost it. Thought he saw it again. No. It was too late.
If the old man had wanted a shot, he should have taken a quick one as soon as they walked out of the barn. But Baldwin figured his reflexes were too worn for that. At least he hadn’t got excited and shot the colt by mistake.
Jones continued to stand bent over, looking down the long, heavy barrel of the old rifle into the night. There was no doubt in Baldwin’s mind that the rifle could reach the distance, but there was nothing to see.
‘Too fast for us,’ Baldwin said, trying to ease the old man’s embarrassment at not taking a shot. Mannito nodded. Chaco barked pridefully. The old Mexican laughed at him.
‘You wouldn’t be so jo-fired brave if that wolf stopped running,’ Dot called to the little dog. She hadn’t cared much for him since he’d grabbed her pants leg.
Baldwin was walking toward the trembling foal and the bay, when the Sharps exploded in the blackness, flashing like lightning, the heavy concussion catching the rancher by surprise and causing him to step sideways.
‘Lord Almighty – Jones! What are you doing shooting into total dark—’
The single yelp in the far distance caused him to stop talking and turn and face the old man. At that moment, he looked at him differently – would always look at him differently. First the book, then this shot in the dark. He was a strange one, not to be dismissed. Not easily understood. Maybe the shot was pure luck, but something in the way the old man slowly stood and pulled the long, hot cartridge from the breech, slipping it carefully into his belt to be reloaded, said it wasn’t. The old giant could handle himself. In fact, at that instant Baldwin wondered whether, even near death, he could kill Jones if he had to. The thought seemed crazy and he wondered why it had come to his mind. But he knew one thing for certain, Jones was dangerous.
‘Madre de Dios!’ was all Mannito could manage. ‘Mother of God.’ He said it over and over.
‘Son-of-a-bitch,’ Dot muttered.
‘Dot,’ Baldwin said sternly.
‘Sorry.’
‘I thought you wore glasses,’ the rancher said to Jones, as the old man turned and started back toward the barn.
‘Close up. I see fair at a distance.’
‘I’d say.’
The door to the ranch house opened and Maggie stepped out on the porch carrying a shotgun. ‘Brake,’ she called, peering into the darkness.
‘Everything’s fine, Maggie. Mr Jones just shot a wolf.’
Maggie didn’t reply for a moment. Then she said, ‘He’s good at killing things,’ and went back inside.
Baldwin watched the side of the man’s face, but his expression didn’t change. Dot looked confused by her mother’s comment, and Baldwin put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly.
Carrying lanterns on horseback, Mannito and Baldwin found and finished the hip-shot wolf on the south slope. Twenty more yards and he would have made the tree line and safety. They calculated the shot at a thousand feet. In cracking blackness. Twenty yards to the trees. Studying on it, the rancher knew it hadn’t been a luck shot. The old man had waited until the wolf hit the slope and started the climb – knowing he would be winded and moving slower, and at some point would stop and look back at the danger. They always did. When they figured they were safe, they always stopped and looked back. That was the moment an experienced hunter waited for; and Jones had done just that. But at night – how had he seen him?
‘That old bastard doesn’t need a lot of room to dance,’ he said to Mannito.
‘Madre de Dios!’ was still all the Mexican could manage to say about the amazing shot.
The two days that Baldwin had said Jones could stay on the place had stretched to four. The rancher wasn’t certain why, unless it was that he felt sorry for the old
