a little.”
Bowles tells Javi to do as I ask and then climbs up on the dividing fence so he can get a better view.
The mare tosses her head, and the stallion nips at her neck, baring his teeth. I let this continue for a minute, allowing the age-old ritual to unfold, before I lead Kettle up behind the mare. I let him sniff at her and nuzzle her, butting her hindquarters with his nose, before allowing him to retreat to think on it. She’s distracted by the stallion and doesn’t even realize he’s there.
I’ve attracted an assortment of observers, including Vasquez and a small boy I assume is his son, some men from the Mormon encampment, and a ragtag assortment of trappers, Indians, and Mexicans who have emerged from places unknown.
Kettle rises up on his hind legs against the mare’s flanks, testing the waters, before coming back down and backing off. My crowd sighs, and the mare quivers, tossing her head at the stallion and lowering her hips.
“Do you think he’s gonna be able to do his business with everyone watchin’ like this?” Wyatt mutters, still holding the mare’s lead rope in his hands.
Bowles hoots, and I just shake my head.
“Patience,” I say.
It takes an hour for Kettle to get good and ready. He mounts and backs off. Mounts and backs off. And I let him take his time. My crowd gets tired, and Bowles begins to look doubtful, but I ignore them.
Finally, after several false starts, the mare lowers her hips with her tail raised and her flanks wet, the object of her interest posturing before her, and Kettle mounts, connects, gyrates, and within thirty seconds has withdrawn again. Task complete. He receives a smattering of applause from those who waited it out, and Bowles throws his hat in celebration. He tells Javi to take the stallion and “give that poor fellow an extra cup of grain.”
Slipping the lead rope from the mare’s head, I back her out of the stall with a flat hand and a firm push on her chest, and she willingly goes. Bowles leads her away, already wondering out loud about the color of her offspring. Wyatt and I remove the boards on both sides of the fence, hammering the nails loose.
“When can your jack go again?” Vasquez asks, slinging his arms over the top rail of the fence. “I’ve never been in the breeding business. I realize there’s a lot I don’t know.” His son is no longer with him, but a man with a huge wagging mustache and hair that touches his shoulders stands beside him.
“Tomorrow. Maybe. I’m a little surprised he cooperated. He’s come almost a thousand miles, and he’s tired.”
“That right there is not work for a jack,” the mustached man says. “That’s play.”
I don’t argue with him. It’s work if it’s done right and cruel if it’s done wrong. I’ve always enjoyed the challenge of redirecting nature, but I’ve never pretended I can control it.
“John Lowry, this is Jefferson Jones. He’s the blacksmith here at the fort. He thinks he can help you with that wagon.”
I set the boards aside and shake his hand in greeting.
“There’s a ridge on the Mormon Trail, about ten miles west of here. Steep as all get-out. There’s a half dozen wagons at the bottom of that hill,” Jefferson says.
“A half a dozen wagons in pieces,” Vasquez interjects.
“Yep. But that’s how all wagons start. I got an outfit we can haul the parts in. It’ll take us a half a day to go after it, another half a day to bring it back, but the bones are all there. If an axle is bent, that’s easy enough to fix if I can get it back here.”
“I’m a mule man, not a wheelwright or a wagon builder. How long is it gonna take to put it all back together?” I ask.
“Another day. I worked on the Erie Canal when I was about his age.” The man points at Wyatt. “All I did was fix the wagons. I could build one in my sleep.”
“Two days?”
“A day to go get it. A day to assemble. And you’re on your way,” he says.
I shift my gaze to Vasquez, not sure whether I can trust his blacksmith. He shrugs. “You aren’t going to find a better option,” Vasquez says.
“And what do you get in exchange?” I ask, looking back at Jefferson.
“I want the jack.”
Wyatt curses beneath his breath.
“No.”
“You must not want that wagon very bad.” Jefferson chuckles. I don’t laugh