The Horse Thief

WITH THE ADDITION OF the gate, the newly constructed fence around the small plot of ground was complete. Tom Pickett stood in silence looking down on the three fresh mounds of dirt that occupied the enclosure. Throughout his life he had seen pain and death. But on this day, his heart had never been heavier. Completing the fence was an ending, the close of what had been the happiest time of his life. A breeze carried the scent of pine from the forest of piñon and juniper up the hillside.

Pickett turned, took a few steps, then passed through the gate and secured it behind him. He walked down the hillside and sat on the ground. Tears flowed freely down his face into an unkempt beard. Time passed, and he lifted his head to look out over what had been their valley. It wasn’t big, but it had been the place where their dreams had taken root.

In the distance, the southern New Mexico desert spread across the horizon. On their little ranch, a rocky canyon gave birth to a small creek that provided water for the household and stock. Three dozen head of cattle grazed contentedly on good grass near the creek and a half dozen horses wandered among them. A corral and loafing shed constructed the year before provided shelter for three well-broke riding horses. He wanted to build another out in the pasture so cattle and the other horses could find some protection from cold winter winds. The animals were the result of hard work, detailed planning, and prudent purchases.

Rose, his wife, and he had worked side by side to build a comfortable ranch house. They had been blessed with two wonderful children—James and Emma. In his mind, he could see them as they ran and played, dancing around their beautiful, patient mother. Now, all three rested in the hillside behind him.

The date was unimportant, but he remembered the events of the day clearly. A large party of men, women, and a few children in wagons had stopped by two months earlier to inquire about the best route to Albuquerque. Most of the group were from Ohio and travelling to the New Mexico city as they had been told it was becoming famous as a mecca for health and rejuvenation. Pickett and Rose had given them water and visited while James and little Emma played with the children. After many thanks, the company departed, and their happy life continued.

A few weeks later, Rose and the children started to sneeze and cough. At the time, there was a lot of wind and dust that accompanied their discomfort. He and Rose attributed the coughing and sneezing to the dry weather conditions. Then Rose became unusually tired and listless. The children began having night sweats and didn’t want to play. All three lost their appetites and rapidly dropped weight. When James began coughing up blood, he immediately rode the many miles to the nearest town with a doctor.

—

DR. MILTON BREWER LISTENED attentively as Pickett described the symptoms. The doctor’s demeanor was grim, but his verdict was chilling. “Everything you have described indicates your loved ones have consumption… or tuberculosis. Some folks call it the White Plague. Several years ago, in 1868, a Frenchman discovered that it is a very contagious disease. Unfortunately, a lot of people still refuse to believe that. I’m very sorry, but there is no cure. A person either gets over it in time… or dies.”

Dr. Brewer observed that Pickett reacted like a man physically struck by a powerful blow. The younger man explained he had no symptoms like his family—how could that be? As a response, the doctor just shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s something in your constitution that resists it.”

“You said it was contagious. What’s that mean?” There was desperation in Pickett’s voice.

“A sneeze or cough from someone who is infected can cause it to spread. People are flocking to New Mexico Territory in droves because it is arid here compared to back East—it’s being called the climate cure. And, whether it’s true or not, many believe that the disease can’t exist above 5,000 feet in elevation. Territorial officials are actively promoting the idea, so both sick and healthy folks are coming here,” Dr. Brewer said with an expression of distaste.

“The migration of people to our territory is having a devastating effect on Indians, Black people, and those of Spanish heritage. But those folks coming here are usually more well to do, so there’s a lot of places making money by establishing sanitariums, or health resorts, for the wealthy—while the less fortunate suffer and die.”

Pickett closed his eyes, and a picture of the company of people that stopped at the ranch sprang immediately into his mind. The children had played, and Rose had visited with the women. He remembered there were individuals who had been coughing and sneezing, but nobody talked about being sick. It didn’t seem important at the time. No wonder they were headed toward a place that was touting health. He tried to push his bitterness aside. It was as if his family’s happiness had been targeted.

There was nothing to do but head back to the ranch. Pickett thanked Dr. Brewer who refused any kind of payment. At the general store he stopped briefly and purchased candy for the children and canned peaches for Rose. Rocked by fear and grief he rode without stopping. Maybe the doctor was wrong. They had to get better.

Arriving at the ranch house, he found it dark and uninviting. With no wasted motion, he unsaddled and turned out the horse. Stepping onto the porch, he opened the door with the sack of treats in hand only to find Rose feverish and sobbing on the floor in a corner. James was lying in his bed with a thin blanket over his form. In Pickett’s brief absence, he had passed. He held Rose in a tight embrace and cried with her.

Over the next two weeks, little Emma followed her older brother. Devastated, Pickett dug two graves on the hillside just below the tree line above the house and took them there. After a struggle to get Rose on a horse, he led her to the small graves. She watched in agony as he read scriptures from the Bible over them.

Three days later, he read scriptures over his one and only true love. His life was shattered, his family taken by an unseen enemy. Each day he put all his effort into constructing the fence around their resting places, leaving ample room for a spot he planned one day to occupy. The gate was the final touch. His soul was adrift, and he was utterly lost.

—

BIRDS TWITTERED AND FLITTED through shrubs on the hillside as the sun arced across the sky. No place to be, no place to go. The passing of time was meaningless, so he sat and stared across their valley.

The sound was an intrusion on his sorrow. Immediately Pickett tensed but remained perfectly still. The Colt .44 Single Action Army revolver was securely in its holster around his waist with the leather hammer thong ensuring safety.

The sound of a rifle being cocked was unmistakable. It was good that he left extra space in his family’s little cemetery. “Well, if you’re going to shoot—shoot.”

All was silent as a minute passed. The breeze was picking up slightly. All in all, it was a very pleasant afternoon to die.

Suddenly, a form moved around him on his left side. Looking up, he saw the threat was an Indian boy who looked to be in his early teens. The boy carried an old Winchester Model 1873 short rifle with an octagon barrel in what might be a .32 caliber. It had seen a lot of use. The boy pointed it in his direction—sort of. “You got the drop on me, son. I give up.”

The young man studied him, moving nothing but his eyes. “You are alone?” came the question.

“More than you will ever know,” answered Pickett.

“I have been watching you. You are acting strange."

“Guess so. You speak good English,” Pickett said, eyes locked with the young man’s.

“There was a priest who taught us about the world and to speak and read the white man’s language. He was Spanish but knew many tongues. At first, he was avoided by the people. He did not give up, and everyone came to like him, but he died badly.”

“You have a name?” Pickett asked, deciding not to pursue how the priest died. “Mine is Tom.”

“The priest named me Peter. My Apache name is Kuruk—it means bear.”

“They are both good names. Which do you like?”

“My family named me Kuruk. I like that,” he said as he lowered the rifle even more.

“So, you’re not going to shoot me?”

“No.” The boy looked to the ground. “I have never killed a person. The priest said it was evil. I killed two deer with it for food—I thanked their spirits.”

Pickett nodded his head. “Any particular reason you pointed that rifle at me?”

“I thought it would scare you.” Kuruk frowned.

“It got my attention, but I’m not feeling much scared,” Pickett said.

“I am not very good at being an Indian. An Apache is supposed to be brave and strong.”

“For what it’s worth, you seem both brave and strong. Why don’t you take a load off and sit down? Maybe we can parley.”

“What is parley?"

“That would be to talk. Discuss things, like why you are here,” he said and watched a confused expression cross the boy’s face.

“I came here to steal a horse.”

Everything considered, Pickett didn’t think it was possible, but he chuckled at the reply. “Well, there’s some good ones down there for sure.” He gestured toward the corral below. “Why do you want to steal a horse?”

Kuruk looked at him like it was a foolish question and perhaps insulting. “I am tired of walking.”

“Now that is an honest answer if I ever heard one. That’s something a man needs in addition to being strong and brave. Honesty counts for a whole lot with people. Where do you live?”

Kuruk thought about his answer. “I lived in a village up in the mountains with my family and others of our people. The priest came to help and teach us, so we helped him build a church.”

Pickett nodded in understanding. “Seems like a good place. You don’t live there anymore? Did you run away?”

“Yes... no,” he said, then faltered. “I left—did not run away. Must find a new place to live, can never go back.”

Pickett was curious, something didn’t seem right. “Why is that?”

The boy’s features instantly clouded. “Dead. All family is dead, most others dead too—even priest. He try to help, but his prayers not answered. A trader came to the village two full moons ago and stayed for two days then left. People began to cough and sneeze after he left. There was sickness everywhere. Then people started to cough up blood. Then they died. My two sisters died first, then Mother and Father. Grandmother was the strongest but still died. Others went to different places. All were afraid and left—to flee sickness,” Kuruk explained, then just sat in silence looking at the ground.

The words of Dr. Brewer echoed in Pickett’s mind—tuberculosis was very contagious… having a devastating effect on Indians. Here, sitting with him, was a victim like himself, from another culture, who survived but whose life was forever changed. “I am sorry, Kuruk. Those are terrible things to see.”

“Do you know of such sickness?” Kuruk asked, looking up at Pickett.

“That I do. Did you notice the little fenced area on the hill behind us?”

“Yes, I walked by it when I tried to sneak up on you sitting here.” Kuruk cocked his head slightly anticipating that there was more to be said.

Pickett pursed his lips and sat in silence for a minute or more. “That is where my family is. My wife and two children are buried there. They had the same sickness you have described. I think a group of people passed the sickness to them when they stopped at our home on their way to Albuquerque.”

“Then we are alike—no family,” Kuruk said. “What you going to do?”

“Keep going on. There are cattle and horses to care for. Need to sell cattle to buy food and supplies. I guess there’s plenty to do until it’s time to rest with my family. How about you? What are you going to do?”

“I do not know. Village full of death. People do not trust the Apache, so we not wanted in towns.”

A long pause ensued between the pair as Pickett looked once more off toward the valley, and Kuruk studied an ant working its way across the ground between them.

At last Pickett spoke. “You speak English and can read. Those are good things. My wife loved books and had several. I didn’t cotton much to them, spent most of my time working on the ranch. Maybe you would like to read her books.” The boy’s expression transformed into one of intense curiosity.

“If you’re interested—and since you don’t seem to have any place to go just now—I could sure use some help with the place. Wouldn’t be anything special, but we would eat regular. We could probably learn a lot from each other, too… that is, if you’re interested.”

“You would trust me? I would live with you?” Kuruk asked with a hint of suspicion.

“Yes, and yes. You have shown me you are brave, strong—and honest.”

Time passed as the offer was considered. “I will do this,” Kuruk stated simply, his eyes locked with Pickett’s.

Pickett studied the serious young person in front of him then stood up, as did Kuruk. “Good. It’s settled then. Grab your rifle and come on. I’ll help you pick out a good horse to steal.”

A native of western Colorado's high country, MICHAEL MCLEAN has packed on horseback in Montana's high country wilderness, mined gold and silver thousands of feet below the earth's surface, fly-fished Yellowstone Park's blue-ribbonwaters, and explored the deserts of the West. Through personal and professional experiences he has collected a wealth of information to develop story settings, plots, and characters. His work has been published in New Mexico Magazine, Rope and Wire, and The Penmen Review. His story “Backroads” was the winner of the 2012 Tony Hillerman Mystery Short Story Contest. McLean believes the less travelled and often lonely back roads of the West offer intimate access to the land, its people, and their stories. A mining engineer by profession, McLean also has technical publications to his credit. He now works in New Mexico's oil and potash-rich Permian Basin and lives in Carlsbad, New Mexico, with his wife, Sandie. McLean is a regular conributor to Saddlebag Dispatches, and “Horse Thief” is his sixth short story to be published within its pages. He also won Honorable Mention in 2021’s inaugural Mustang Award for Flash Fiction.