Trail Hand (13 page)

During the ride to the fort the next day Sonora got to philosophizing on one of his favorite subjects, namely those who wanted to make him conform to their way of doing things.

“Ever notice how some folks are always tryin’ to tell you how to act?” he asked.

“Sure, there’s always someone like that around, so?”

“Well, it just seems to me that we was a country supposed to be formed by runaway folk, like them pilgrims. They just wanted to be left alone, ya know. Nowadays it seems like we got more political parties and do-gooder temperance groups telling us what to do, than we got people actually doin’ it. Hell, I even heard there’s some place in Kansas what won’t let you carry a gun in town. You hear about that?” he asked.

“Yeah, I did. They call it a deadline. Anyone passing over it has to check his guns with the sheriff or he gets arrested.”

“So what you think about that,” he asked.

“Well, I’ll tell you. My uncle Zeke used to be in the military for a while and studied a little law. According to him, we all got individual rights, you know, ones no one can take away. My uncle said that somewhere in the Constitution, or the
Bill of Rights, or something, it says we all got a right to keep and bear arms.”

“Right, but what about those badges what try to take them away?”

“Uncle Zeke said there’s a part in there to protect us against a corrupt government. Funny thing, but he says the Constitution don’t actually grant rights…we already have them…it just spells them out clearly. Seems when the Constitution was written and they got to talkin’ about folks protectin’ themselves, they used a very specific word…infringement.”

“ ’Fringement? What’s that?”

“Zeke says it means the government can’t mess with your right to carry. ‘The right to bear arms shall not be infringed,’” I quoted.

“Well, some folk say that you can keep your gun, but just can’t wear it. Says it’s better for the town,” he pointed out.

“I once asked my uncle a similar question. He says the founding fathers didn’t set things up so our rights could be tromped on in the name of a supposed greater good for the majority. See if it’s an individual right, like the right to free speech or to protect your family or home, it’s still a right, regardless what the local star says. Funny thing, I hear the bank in that town you mentioned has already been robbed four times, and the sheriff never caught any of the robbers.”

“That figures,” Sonora remarked.

“Well, my point is in a town just across the state line they had a couple of stick-ups, but the townsfolk were all armed. The robbers didn’t even clear the main street before being caught.”

“Makes sense,” Sonora agreed. “You know
someone’s got a gun an’ another ain’t, you gonna rob the one what ain’t.”

“Bet you dollars to donuts those that obey the deadline are all law-abiding citizens. You know…the kind you wouldn’t have to worry about anyway.”

“ ’Course they is. Hell, man, why do you think they call them outlaws,’ cause they don’t obey the law.”

“Well, someday I hope to hang my gun up, Sonora. But rest assured, when I do, it will still be hanging within reach.”

“You bet. By the way, you know that cayuse o’ yours is favoring his leg?” he added.

“I know. He’s been a little off all morning. Right front, I think.”

“Best have it looked at when we get to the fort.”

“I will. How far you figure we still got to go?”

Sonora squinted a little and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, about another two hours, Ah reckon.”

He was right as usual, almost to the minute. As we rode through the gate, a sentry quickly looked us over and waved us by. Sonora stopped to ask the private about his sergeant friend.

“Sorry,” the trooper replied. “I’m new on the post, don’t know everyone yet. You might ask over at the sutler’s store, though. By the way, your friend’s horse seems to be favoring his leg.”

“We know,” I answered. “You suppose someone here might be able to check him out?”

“That I can help you with. Doctor Chapman’s our vet’nry, and a good one to boot. Anyone can put a horse right, he can.”

“Thanks,” I replied as he pointed the way for us.

We looked for Dr. Chapman as instructed in
the main horse barn. A long white jacket hanging on a nail identified the stall where we found him examining a large black gelding. The veterinarian was a tall, solidly built man with a full beard that was starting to gray. He wore a long church bell-shaped stethoscope around his neck, had his sleeves rolled up, and was using a large magnifying glass to inspect a horse’s right eye. A shorter, slightly balding trooper was busy writing something down in a small notebook while the doctor dictated.

“…small nebula in the temporal quadrant of the right eye and an active corneal ulceration in same location on the left. Eyelids, sclera, and pupillary reflex appear normal. Got all that, Corporal?”

“Excuse me,” Sonora said, interrupting the two. “You the horse doctor here?”

“Veterinary surgeon,” he responded, sharply correcting Mason.

“What’s the difference?” chided Sonora.

“Well, let’s see…captain’s bars, a six month sabbatical in Lyons, France, eleven-hour shifts tending the unit’s mounts, public health duties, plus I get to keep the colonel’s dog free of ticks. All that for the generous sum of sixty-five dollars per month.”

“My horse’s favoring his front leg some,” I said more respectfully. “I’d appreciate it, if you’d glance at it. Couldn’t find anything obvious myself.”

“You’re new around here,” the corporal said, more a statement than a question.

“Just rode in,” I replied.

“You boys on the Army payroll? Scouts?” he asked.

“Not presently.”

“Jus’ passin’ through,” added Mason rather curtly.

“Private consult will cost you extra. Ten dollars ought to do, I expect,” Dr. Chapman said rather seriously.

“What?” I exclaimed, somewhat shocked at the price.

“What did I tell you, Corporal. Folks’ll think nothing of paying a barkeep extra for a drink, or for a carpenter to fix a drawer, but they’ll begrudge a professional his consultation fee every time. Even after four years of advanced schoolin’.” Turning to face me, he smiled and added: “Just funnin’ with you, son. You see, for some strange reason, the corporal here wants to apprentice with me. Actually, the Army pays my keep. I’ll be glad to have a look-see.” Then, turning to Sonora, he added: “After all, we’ve only a couple hundred horses to treat on the post. Don’t reckon one more will kill me.”

Sonora didn’t see it, but I caught the wink he threw to the corporal, who rolled his eyes and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch.

“I’ll get the hoof testers, sir,” he said to the veterinarian. Turning back to me, the corporal indicated a spot in the barn’s center aisle.

I led the roan over and replaced his bridle with the halter the corporal offered me. Then crossed-tied the roan.

“He’s a little feisty today,” I warned.

“Corporal, if you’d be so kind,” Dr. Chapman said, nodding.

“Yes, sir,” the corporal answered, taking out a twitch made of a loop of short chain attached to the top end of an axe handle.

The corporal placed his hand through the chain and calmly walked up to the roan sideways, keeping the twitch hidden behind his leg and out of the horse’s sight. He slowly reached up and then quickly grabbed the horse’s upper lip, withdrawing his hand and firmly pulling the lip through the chain loop. Before the roan had a chance to react, the corporal turned the axe handle several times, screwing the chain down onto the lip.

When a cayuse has its lip all twisted like that, it effectively immobilizes it. A twitch works better than trying to hang on to a lip by hand, although some of the stronger
vaqueros
achieve the same effect by twisting an ear, or with a Mexican twitch, which they perform by simply grabbing a large fold on the side of a horse’s neck with their bare hands and rolling the skin up tightly. If a man’s strong enough, sometimes he can hold on this way long enough for the horse to be shod, or for minor surgeries to be performed.

Someone who really wants to gain control, however, will use a rope or chain twitch because it applies more squeeze and allows for better leverage over the horse. Sure enough, that roan stood as still for the veterinary as a stopped clock.

The corporal then wrapped the halter’s lead rope around the twitch’s handle and held it tightly with both hands.

“Prevents the handle from flying up and clouting you in the face when the horse shakes his head,” Dr. Chapman explained.

The fact that the corporal was missing several teeth indicated to me that he probably learned that trick from personal experience.

“Not likely to move much with that thing cut-tin’ into his lip so hard,” muttered Sonora.

“The corporal knows his job, all right. This won’t hurt him in the least,” commented Dr. Chapman after overhearing Mason’s remark. He bent over and began to run his hands down the horse’s legs, one at a time.

“Seems to favor the front leg,” I offered.

“Uhn-huh. Right front. Saw the way he throws his head up slightly as he walked in. Takes the weight off the bad leg. Best to check them all, though.”

“Couldn’t find any cracks or stones when we looked. Suppose he’s foundering?” Sonora asked the veterinarian as he started his exam.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Dr. Chapman answered, looking over his shoulder, still bent over with the horse’s leg cupped in his hands. “I’m pretty good at these things, but, you know, I’ve never yet figured out a way to make a correct diagnosis
before
I’ve had a chance to examine the patient.”

He was smiling at Sonora when he said it, but his message came across clear enough.

“Right you are, Doc,” Sonora replied. “I’ll just let you get on with it.”

Captain Chapman proceeded to pull the shoe and, with a curved knife he snatched from his rear pocket, trim away some of the tissue from around the frog and sole.

“Hoof testers, Corporal.”

The testers were actually large round pincers used to apply pressure around the edges and bottom of the hoof. The roan flinched a time or two before the veterinarian finished his exam.

“You’re lucky,” Dr. Chapman said, washing his
hands off in a nearby water bucket. “Seems to be just a stone bruise. No sign of problems with the navicular bone and no sign of rot.”

“Any recommendations?” I asked, somewhat relieved.

“Take him next door to Sergeant Emerson. I’ll write you up some instructions to give him,” he said, taking the notebook from the corporal. “Not that he’ll follow them,” I overheard his mumble. “I want him to build up the shoe a little and cut a sole pad to go under the shoe. It ought to protect the sole long enough to heal while still allowing you to ride him.” The captain shook his head. “That is if the good sergeant doesn’t lame him in the process.”

“A little heavy-handed, is he?” I asked, wishing Chango were around to do the job.

“I’ve seen apes in a zoo with a softer touch. ’Course, you understand that if this were to get back to the sergeant, I’d deny ever having said the like.”

Considering the size of most farriers I’d met, I could fully appreciate his position.

“Don’t leave that pad on longer than a month,” he added. “Tends to soften things up, and, if you aren’t careful, the sole will get a little mucky.”

I thanked the captain and, remembering his earlier comments, offered to pay something for his extra effort. He just waved it away.

The corporal untied the roan, and then Sonora and I headed next door to look for the troop’s farrier.

“Orders from the captain, eh? As if I didn’t have enough to do already.” Sergeant Emerson apparently wasn’t in the best of moods.

“Yes, sir,” I answered.

“Don’t sir me. I ain’t no officer, I work for a living,” he snapped.

“Right.”

“And I suppose you’re in a hurry.”

This time it was Sonora who answered. “That’s right. The colonel needs us to do some scoutin’ for him. And he said the sooner the better.”

I shot him a quick look, but Sonora’s expression was dead pan.

“Christ, that’s all I need.” The sergeant had been working on a large gray jenny. He dropped the hoof and tossed the shoe he had pulled into a wooden box in the corner.

Sergeant Emerson was a dark-haired, husky sort, about thirty years of age, which I roughly estimated to be the amount of time passed since he last changed his uniform. It was hard to believe, but he actually smelled worse than the barn he worked in. The remnants of a fat cigar whose flame had long gone out clung to his lips, even when he spoke.

We tied up the roan and the sergeant bent over to examine his feet. “The shoes in back look all right. I’ll just replace the ones up front the good doctor saw fit to pull.”

“You know, the vet suggested we fill in the front hoofs and have a pad put on,” I added.

“I can read,” he growled. “Christ, it turns out everythin’ that quack looks at either needs corrective shoes or some special damn’ pad.” He selected a rasp out of another box, and spit on it. As he began to trim the hoof, the sergeant shook his head at us.

“File and shape the hoof. Build the shoe up.
Huh! Probably just a damned nail abscess. You drive one in too deep or screw up the angle and you lame the horse sure as I’m standing here. Probably the last smith’s fault.”

Knowing the type of work Chango Lopez did, I doubted that was the case, but I wasn’t about to argue the point. Like Pa always said, when you wrestle with pigs, you both get dirty, but only the pig enjoys it.

“Well, just the same, I wouldn’t want to piss off the captain, not to mention the colonel,” I added, remembering the sergeant’s reaction when Mason first mentioned him.

“By the way, you know a master sergeant by the name of Freeman?” I asked. “Nathaniel.”

Emerson began pounding out a shoe on his anvil. He paused to look up at me before answering.

“Nigger sergeant from that unit what came in with the inspector? What about him?” he asked, returning to his work.

It was as if he was totally ignoring Sonora’s presence. I saw Mason’s face begin to tense as he started past me angrily; I shot my arm out sideways, palm against his chest.