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Jamison hummed and smiled to himself. He filled his
pipe with Paladin tobacco and lit it with his lighter. It was pretty up here,
always was. He had missed the hills during his, as his mother had put, Sojourn
in hell. Mama had always hated the flat land and flat-landers. She was a hill
woman, and tough. ‘No flat-lander ever walked the walk to Heaven.’
Sarafina, you poor fool horse.
He was saddened by the loss of her. The old mare
hadn't looked like much, he supposed, not when compared to the elegant
thoroughbred mares, but he had used her a few times, and found she was one of
the best trail horses he had ever ridden.
“Had a gait like smooth as glass, Mama,” he
said, his inner eye on a mother far older than his own. “A real mountain
horse.” She had been steady, eager, and acted intelligent, no matter what
the trail. “And spirited? Made those thoroughbred fillies look like dowdy
old maids.” Until that fool agent tried to use her on a deer hunt.
“Near killed the man.” Jamison grinned around
his briar and walked a little farther. She had been good company, both of them
being stoical and ornery.
She gave her life to save that boy. Man, but wasn't
that one for a cold night, a grandchild on each knee. My oh my, but yes.
He stopped and listened to the breath whistling in
his lungs and the steady, strong beat of his heart. His hand massaged his
chest.
“Got a few good years left-”
Voices?
They sounded familiar. At least one of them was well
educated. Not raiders, then.
Jamison cocked his head and frowned, wanting only to
be alone during this 'wake' for the old mare. In his back pocket was a silver
flask of his mother's best 'shine, twenty years old if it was a day, and so
smooth-
Hiding? Finish what?
Two Swords rumbled a snarl at him. Jamison paused.
Two Swords kicked him in the baggy seat of his pants. Jamison yelped and
rubbed his bottom.
“I'll be go to hell.”
Eagle-Woman or no Eagle-Woman, Jamison’s Guardian
raised his sword and warned off Two Swords.
Two Swords 'Heart-a'-Fire hissed and was answered in
kind by the other's sword.
The trail here was faint, the deer liked it because
few humans knew of it. As a teenager he had gone away to follow the McAllen
horses on races around the world, then on to a career in pro-ball, but it was
still here. He still remembered it's history, of runaway slaves, both white
and black, who used this trail to run west into what had been Indian country
and freedom. A few words of Cherokee had taken many a person to safety in the
north.
On silent feet he stole forward.
Move like an injun I can.
He suppressed a chuckle. All those times as a child
he and his cousins had played 'injun' on this farm. Most were gone now, dead
or moved away, but those who came to visit stayed for hours and at times days.
He parted a screen of bushes and shouted in horror
at the blood and the hate.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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