To Tame a Cowboy (Colorado Cowboys #3)(15)

While horse hunters could obtain wild stock anywhere in the mountains and attempt to break them, the mustangs weren’t easy to tame. The bronc busters weren’t always successful—as evidenced by the battered and bloody mustang Brody had rescued yesterday in Fairplay. Even though the mare’s owners had attempted to beat her into submission, she bucked easily and wasn’t the kind of horse anyone wanted to be riding on a mountain trail near the edge of a cliff.

“Brody won’t mind if I tag along?” she asked.

Ivy sized her up. “Reckon Brody’ll wanna drive some of the mustangs into his corral. We could use the help if you’re up for it.”

Savannah’s blood thrummed at the prospect of getting a closer look at the mustangs in the wild. “I’m up for it.”

In no time, they were on their way, galloping east into the foothills. Savannah marveled at the beauty of the high country as she had yesterday when the caravan had ridden down out of the snow-covered Ute Pass into South Park. Surrounded by mountains on both the east and west, the rolling prairie stretched out for seventy-five miles from north to south. And though the grassland was flat, the elevation was close to ten thousand feet, a good five thousand higher than the Front Range.

She’d had some shortness of breath while making the gradual climb up. But since arriving, she hadn’t experienced any of the usual mountain-sickness symptoms other than her lips and mouth being dry.

Though Brody was mostly silent, Ivy chattered nonstop about the mustangs, filling Savannah in on the ranchers’ growing frustration with the wild herds eating up the grass meant to fatten the cattle, especially in the winter and spring when the naturally cured hay was less plentiful.

Ivy’s eyes flashed with indignation. “Some ranchers have taken to corralling the weak and injured mustangs, selling them for a few cents a head to area farmers to turn into dog and pig feed.”

That was exactly what the fellow had been planning to do yesterday to the mustang. Savannah could only shake her head in dismay.

“Then we’ve got some good-for-nothin’s who’ve been shooting the mustangs and leaving their carcasses to rot in the sun.” Ivy fingered the revolver holstered at her hip, as if she’d like nothing better than to shoot at those good-for-nothin’s.

From the firm press of Brody’s lips, he seemed inclined to join Ivy.

Savannah lifted her face, letting the bright sunshine warm her skin. “I understand the need to keep both the cattle and horses from overgrazing and starving to death, but surely the area ranchers can come up with a better solution than killing the horses.”

“Most don’t care,” Ivy said, her tone laced with disgust.

“It’s all about profit.” Brody’s few words were clipped but packed with meaning. The ranchers could make money from the cattle. Lots of it. But the mustangs were nothing but a liability.

“I’m sure the wild horses must be a threat to Healing Springs’ cattle and grassland too.” Savannah was glad the Double L didn’t have to face this problem on the Front Range.

“We grow our own alfalfa.” Ivy spoke with a knowledge that likely came from listening to the menfolk discuss the matter. “Wyatt started off doing it, and now Flynn’s taken over.”

“Seems like a wise plan.” Too bad more ranchers in the high country didn’t do the same thing. But why should they make the time and effort when they had free-range grass? Daddy and Chandler wouldn’t do it.

As they began the climb into the hills, Ivy took the lead. The pine trees thickened, and so did the patches of slushy snow full of pine needles, making the ascent more difficult. As they neared the crest of the first ridge, the echo of gunshots reverberated in the distance. The trees thinned enough to give a view of a valley with a wide creek running through it.

Savannah guessed such an area was a natural place for horses to congregate. If anyone was interested in killing them, the fortress of the surrounding rocks provided plenty of overlooks.

“There.” Ivy pointed to a cove upriver. In the shelter of trees and boulders, Savannah could make out a dozen or so mustangs. Several were a golden-tan dun and stood out among the pine, as did the roans and sabinos. The bays and blacks blended in better within the thick branches and shadows.

Compared to other breeds, the mustangs tended to have wide foreheads that tapered to small muzzles, giving their faces a V shape. Their eyes were large and expressive, but their ears were smaller and pointed slightly inward.

Even now as Savannah glimpsed one of the faces peering from behind the branches, she was struck by the potential of such horses. They could be friendly and trusting companions if trained properly and given the right care.

As another shot rang out and pinged against a rock near one of the horses, the herd shifted, clearly agitated enough to remain under cover. She could almost sense their fear as if it were a real, living creature hovering around them.

“We have to do something.” Desperation drenched Savannah’s whisper.

Ivy nodded solemnly downriver. Several horses lay unmoving along the creek bank, blood running in rivulets from their bodies, turning the water a reddish tint.

Savannah gasped and almost cried out. But at Brody’s warning glare, she caught herself and bit back her dismay.

“If Dylan were along, he’d be able to pick off each one of those pesky cowhands.” Ivy’s dark eyes flashed. “He’s the best sharpshooter this side of the Mississippi.”