The Busted Thumb Horse Ranch Read Online Free PDF Page B

broken-down fencing that’d once been
a couple-acre corral. “We’re home,” I said.
    “Sí,” Arm said, “feels right, no?”
    “Yeah. It feels right, pard.”
    We could barely see the top of the barn because
of the lay of the land—fairly gentle rises and
slopes. We plodded along, sweltering.
    “Peeg,” Arm whispered. “Over there—in the
scrub.” He loosened his throwing rope from the
latigo strip on his saddle. His black horse, dripping
sweat, perked up immediately, Arm transmitting
his excitement to the animal. I took a
tighter grip on the packer’s lead line. Arm shook
out a good loop and nudged his horse with his
spurless heels. The black took off as if he were
fired from a cannon, his hooves flinging clumps
of dried buffalo grass and dirt behind him.
    The pig—a young one, maybe a hundred, a
hundred and fifty pounds—burst out of the scrub
and began covering ground in that clumsy-looking
but actually quite fast way they have of
running.
    Arm was up and next to the pig in a few seconds,
swinging a loop over his head. The pig
wasn’t stupid; he cut sharply to his left, putting
Arm both behind and way the hell out of position
to throw. He caught the pig and the same thing
happened. Arm’s horse was sucking air but stillworking
hard. This time, when they got close
enough to throw at, the pig cut to the right—a
move Arm and his horse were expecting. Arm’s
loop struck out like a striking snake and dropped
over the pig’s head. At that very moment, Arm’s
horse stumbled, banging a front hoof against a
rock. Arm screamed, shaking his right hand as
he snubbed the rope over his saddle horn. Somehow,
he’d gotten his thumb in a small coil of the
close end of the rope as he did so. I could hear the
thumb snap from twenty yards away.
    The pig hit the end of the rope and flipped up,
crashing down on his back, squealing. “Sonommabeetch!”
Armando shouted, and made a cross-draw
with his left hand to the pistol on his right
leg and put six rounds into the pig. “ Jesús Cristo, that hurts,” he said.
    “Why the hell didn’t you just take the pig out
with the Sharps?” I asked.
    “Ees bad luck. A man captures his first food on
his land. Thass the way it’s always been.” He held
his left hand out in front of him. The thumb was
already twice its normal size and the nail was
mostly gone.
    “And this is good luck?” I asked.
    He glared at me for a long moment, his eyes
burning like embers. “The name of theese ranch
is now an’ forever ‘The Busted Thumb Horse
Ranch.’ Sí? ”
    Arguing at that point would have been stupid
and maybe dangerous. Anyway, I figured it was a
name folks wouldn’t forget. “Agreed, Armando,”
I said. “Now, let’s get a splint on that thumb an’
wrap it good. I’ll drag the pig on to the house.”
    “I need the liquor first to dull the pain.”
    “ ’Course you do.” I fetched an unopened quart
from the packhorse and brought it to Arm, who’d
swung down from his horse. While he sucked at
the booze I looked around for a good, straight
stick in the brush. I went back to the packhorse,
dug out my winter long johns, and tore off a
sleeve, which I then cut in strips with my boot
knife.
    Arm was pale faced but ready for me.
    “No other way to do this, partner,” I said.
    “Do eet. The longer you talk the bigger the
goddamn thumb gets.”
    Armando clamped his teeth together as I set
the splint and took a dozen or more wraps around
it with the long john fabric. Only occasionally did
a moan escape him. When I was finished he further
anesthetized himself with booze. “You done
it good, Jake,” he said. “Still hurt some, though.”
    Arm climbed onto his horse. I walked out to
the end of the rope and took a wrap around my
saddle horn. We rode toward the barn and house,
the pig bouncing on and over the uneven, rocky
land. The packhorse, scared but not scared
enough to bolt, came along docilely, although his
ears were back and his eyes wide.
    The house was a pretty