Blind Tiger

“Makes no difference to me.”

Assured that Harold was all right, Thatcher went back to the corral and directed his concern to the stallion as he thrashed around the paddock, his eyes crazed, whinnying at a high pitch.

Fred Barker said to Bill, “I’ve had about all the excitement I can stand for one afternoon. I’ll leave you to ask your questions of Mr. Hutton. After witnessing what you just did, you prob’ly have a few more.”

He motioned for Roger to go along with him. They walked off together with Roger chattering nonstop about Thatcher’s incredible shot and his prize snake skin.

Bill turned to Harold, who still hadn’t said a word. Bill guessed he hadn’t quite regained his senses, and who could blame him? “What did you come out here for, Harold?”

“Oh, uh, to tell you that the J.P. turned Wally’s body over to the undertaker.”

“I want to take another look at him before he’s embalmed.”

“Figured that. I told the undertaker to hold off till you got there.” Harold looked over at Thatcher. “Guess I owe him a thanks.”

“No, go on. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

Appearing both relieved and humbled, Harold turned and walked off in the direction of the auto shop.

For several minutes, Bill watched Thatcher talking soothingly to the stallion, then walked over to join him. The horse had been

kicking at the fence as he bucked and reared. He’d settled down somewhat, but his ears were still flattened back. As Bill sidled up to Thatcher, he asked, “Did he hurt himself?”

“I was afraid he might’ve. So far, though, no signs he did. I didn’t stop to think how the gunshot would booger him.”

“You reacted out of reflex.”

“I saw Harold about to step right into that rattler and…” He trailed off, raising a shoulder.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“On the ranch. Part of the job.”

Bill looked at him skeptically. “Quick draw?”

“Never know when you’ll have to fend off a predator.”

“Of every sort, I would imagine.”

“You name it. Wolves. Coyotes. Rattlers.”

“Rustlers?”

Thatcher looked at him, his eyes hard and alight with anger. “What? You think I’m a hired gun or something?”

Bill didn’t back down. “Are you? Have you ever killed a man, Mr. Hutton?”

“Plenty. I was a hired gunman for Uncle Sam.” He spoke with soft but angry emphasis, then turned back to watch the stallion. “I think he’ll settle. He just got spooked. I’m calling it a day.” As he turned away from the paddock, Bill fell into step with him.

“Did you come straight here from the jail?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your duffel bag?”

“In the stable.”

“Get it. I’ll drive you.”