Cheyenne and Eli

[Rmajere]

Chapter one and done

The shooting was over by the time the thunder reached the hills.

Sheriff Eli Mercer sat crooked in the saddle, one hand locked in Cheyenne's mane, the other pressed hard against the wet patch spreading under his vest. His revolver hung low in its holster, half-seated, the leather dark with dust and sweat. Behind him, down in the dry wash, Boone Talley lay faceup among the rocks with a bullet through his chest and one arm bent under him wrong.

Talley had been running from the law for near a year. He had robbed stagecoaches, held up two stores, and killed three men that anybody knew of. Maybe more. Folks in Gannet said Boone Talley laughed when he shot somebody. Eli had never asked if that was true. It did not matter now.

What mattered was the road back to town.
"Come on, girl," Eli said.

Cheyenne flicked an ear back at him.

She was a broad-backed Appaloosa mare, white over the hips with dark spots, brown through the shoulders, and tougher than anything Eli had ever put a saddle on.

She was not fast in the way race horses were fast, but she could keep going after other mounts had gone soft in the legs. Eli had raised her from a colt after buying her dam off a rancher south of Abilene.

She knew his weight, his hands, the sound of his voice, and the mean habits of every trail in three counties.
She started forward at a steady walk, climbing out of the wash and up onto the flat.

Eli looked back once.

Boone Talley was already getting small behind them.
He had found Talley near noon by a line shack west of Miller's Creek. Talley had not been alone.

Two men had ridden with him, drifters with guns on their hips and poor judgment in their heads. One bolted at the first shot. The other had gone down under Cheyenne's hooves when the mare surged sideways and broke the man's aim before Eli fired.

Talley himself had lasted longer. He ducked behind a water trough, came up with a rifle, and put a round through Eli's side.
Eli had answered with one shot from thirty feet.

Talley died in the dust.

It should have been a clean ending, as clean as those things ever got, but Eli's wound was bad enough that he could feel the strength leaving him with every mile.

The land between the wash and Gannet was open and rough. Low brush, scrub oak, hardpan, gullies cut by old rain. The road was more suggestion than road.

At places it split and joined again, wagon tracks drifting where the ground allowed. By dark it would turn cold. If he slipped off in the wrong place, nobody would know where to start looking until too late.

Cheyenne kept moving.

Eli let the reins go loose. There was no point pretending he was guiding much. His vision blurred now and then, and every jolt in the saddle worked against him. He tried to stay upright by habit more than strength.

Once his chin touched his chest and he nearly pitched forward, but Cheyenne slowed under him, stepping careful until he straightened again.

"That's it," he muttered. "Just like that."

The mare's ears turned back once more. Then she kept on.

By midafternoon the sun had turned flat and white. Eli's mouth was dry enough to hurt. He reached for his canteen and found it hanging where it belonged, but when he pulled the cork his hand shook too badly to lift it proper. Water ran down his chin and onto his shirt. He managed one swallow before the canteen slipped from his fingers.

It hit the ground and rolled into sage.
Cheyenne stopped.

Eli looked down at it and cursed under his breath. He could not climb down for it. He knew that much. Once off the horse, there was a fair chance he would not get back up.
Cheyenne turned her head, waiting.

"Leave it."

The mare stood still.

Eli closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. The canteen sat maybe six feet off, bright tin flashing in the dirt. Cheyenne sidestepped once, then again. She lowered her head, stretched her neck, and nosed at the sage until she found the strap. She caught it in her teeth, lifted, and brought it within Eli's reach.

He stared at her.
"Well," he said.
He took the canteen and tied it back on.
"Guess you're doing the sheriffing now."

He drank twice more and handed the rest of the journey over to her.

The first real trouble came near sundown.

Eli heard the riders before he saw them. Two horses coming hard from the north, cutting across the flats. He tried to sit straighter. His hand went to the revolver, but drawing it felt like work meant for another man. When the riders came into view through the mesquite, he saw dust, hats, and the shine of long guns across their saddles.

Friends of Talley, maybe. Or just men who thought a wounded sheriff might be carrying reward money.

Cheyenne saw them too.

The mare did not wait for Eli's order. She broke from a walk into a jolting trot, then into a run that threw pain through Eli's whole side. He gritted his teeth and clamped his knees as the ground rushed under them. Behind, one rider shouted. A shot cracked. Dirt kicked up off to their left.

Cheyenne ran on.

She was not graceful. Eli had always liked that about her. There was nothing fancy in how she moved. She drove forward with her whole body, head low, legs working hard, picking her way without losing speed.

She cut through a shallow draw, climbed the far bank, and veered into a patch of broken stone where the footing turned bad for pursuit.

Another shot sounded. Too far back now.

Eli risked a glance over his shoulder. One of the riders had pulled up. The other tried to follow into the rocks, then checked off when his horse nearly went down. Men who lived by stealing other people's nerve usually lacked some of their own.

They fired once more for pride and let him go.

Cheyenne did not stop until the light had gone red across the west.
When she finally slowed, Eli was hanging half over her neck.
"You old brute," he whispered.

Her sides were dark with sweat. Foam ringed the bit. Still she kept walking.

Night came cold and quick. Coyotes called somewhere off in the dark. Eli could see the first lamp on the edge of Gannet when he thought at first he was imagining it. Then another came into view. Then the shape of the grain elevator. Then the church roof.

Town.

He tried to call out and got almost nothing.
Main Street was mostly empty by then. A wagon stood outside the livery. Light spilled from the saloon doors in a yellow strip across the dirt. Cheyenne walked straight down the middle of the street as if she owned the place.

Old man Harper, who ran the feed store, saw them first.
"Jesus Christ," Harper said, stepping off the boardwalk.
Then he started yelling.

Deputy Tom Bell came out of the jailhouse at a run, suspenders hanging loose, hat in one hand. Behind him came two more men and Doc Weaver shrugging into his coat.

Eli remembered Tom's face coming up toward him.
He remembered hands reaching.
He remembered saying, "Talley's dead."
Then he slipped sideways out of the saddle.

The next thing he knew, he was in his own bed over the jail office with his side bandaged and stitched tight. Morning light pressed through the window. The room smelled of boiled cloth, whiskey, and carbolic. His head felt packed with wool.

Doc Weaver sat in a chair by the door, asleep with his arms folded.
Eli moved, and the doctor's eyes opened.

"You stay put," Weaver said.

"I am put."

"You nearly bled out."

Eli licked his lips. "How long?"

"Since last night."

"Talley?"

"Dead, from what Tom says."

"The others?"

"Gone."

Eli let that sit. Then he asked, "Cheyenne?"

Weaver looked toward the window. "In the yard. Tom rubbed her down himself. Harper's been bragging all morning that she came into town smarter than some men he's known."

Eli shut his eyes for a second.

That afternoon, when Doc finally let him stand, Eli made his slow way downstairs and out into the yard behind the jail. Every step pulled at the stitches. The sun was up, the air cool and clear after the night.

Cheyenne stood at the hitch rail with a blanket over her back and a nosebag hanging empty. She turned her head when she heard him. Her ears came forward.

Eli walked up to her and put a hand on her neck.
Her coat twitched under his palm.
"They tell me you brought me home," he said.

Cheyenne sniffed at his shirt, then at the bandage peeking under it, then shoved her nose against his chest hard enough to make him wince.

"All right," he said, half laughing. "Easy."

Tom Bell leaned in the doorway, watching.
"Folks are already talking," Tom said. "Half the town says we ought to give that horse a badge."

Eli kept his hand on Cheyenne's neck. "Badge won't fit."

"We can hang it on the stall."

"No," Eli said. "Get her oats. Best we got."

Tom smiled. "Already done."

Eli nodded once. They stood in silence awhile, just man and horse and the sound of town life starting up around them.
Cheyenne lowered her head and breathed slow through her nose.

Eli scratched the base of her mane, the way she liked.
"You did good," he said.

The mare stood quiet beside him.
For Eli Mercer, that was enough.