found them. Never tried.” Elijah’s mouth tightened for a moment. “The chief had lost his own boy to the whites, and he took me in the lad’s place. For nine years, I lived as a Kiowa—hunted with them, raided with them, starved with them during the rough winters. I even had a pretty, young wife, but she died, along with our baby. That’s a part of the story I choose not to tell. Anyway, since you asked, that was how I came to learn their way of breaking horses.”
“But how did you come to be here? How did you escape?”
“Escape?” Elijah’s expression darkened. “I was Kiowa. The end came when the army wiped out our band. Most of my people, the ones that didn’t get away fast enough, were killed. The soldiers would’ve killed me, too, if they hadn’t noticed my blue eyes and red hair. They took me back to the fort and gave me clothes to wear. I knew better than to misbehave.” A bitter smile teased his lips. “However, I did threaten to kill anybody who tried to cut off my braids.
“They asked me about my family. I said I didn’t remember their names. The truth was, I knew that if they were alive, they wouldn’t want me. And if they were dead, I didn’t want to know. I took the name Hawkins because the translation of my Kiowa name was Red Hawk. Since I was old enough to be on my own, all the soldiers could do was turn me loose.”
“So you went to work breaking horses?”
“That’s right.” Elijah refilled his coffee cup and, at a nod from Joe, filled his as well. “A rancher—best white man I ever knew—hired me when I showed him what I could do with wild mustangs. He treated me well, and we made good money selling the horses. But I always wanted a place of my own, where I could live by myself—live in peace. When I discovered this spot, he helped me file a claim on the land. He’s gone now, but I still work with his son. I catch and break the horses. He sells them and keeps me in supplies. I was on my way back from his ranch with a wagonload when I found you.”
“And the books?” Joe glanced up at the shelf above the bed. “Is there a story behind those?”
Elijah nodded. “The rancher I worked for—his mother was a retired schoolmarm. She took a shine to me and decided to give me an education. I could read a little before the Kiowa took me, but I talked like a cracker. She took me through those books, and when she died, her son gave them to me.”
“So you’ve read them all?”
“Every one, more than once. They make good company on long winter nights.” Elijah stood. “I need to check the stock. You can clean up here. Give the scrapings to the dog on the porch. I’ll give you a warm blanket to sleep in, but the floor will have to do for your bed.”
“It’ll be fine. I’m much obliged for your hospitality.” Joe murmured the polite phrase his mother had taught him. Another question rose in his mind as Elijah went out the door and closed it behind him. He’d mentioned raiding with the Kiowa. Did that mean the man had raided white settlers, even killed them and taken their scalps?
He decided not to ask. Everyone had a right to their secrets.
* * *
The wild mustang, a handsome chestnut, stood alone in the training pen quivering as Joe approached. The horse had been gelded a few weeks earlier, by means of a wet rawhide string wound tightly above the scrotum. The string had tightened as it dried, cutting off the blood supply and causing the testicles, over time, to shrink and fall off.
“Is this how the Kiowas gelded their horses?” Joe remembered asking as he’d steadied the horse in the narrow chute while Elijah did the delicate work.
“It was one way,” Elijah had answered. “Sometimes they’d just cut with a knife, depending on the horse and other things. But this is how my grandfather taught me.”
“Your Kiowa grandfather.”
When Elijah hadn’t replied, Joe had realized it was a needless question. Now the horse was healed and ready for training. And, after some careful schooling, Elijah had given the job to him.
It had taken time for Joe to gain the old man’s confidence. One turning point had come when he’d told Elijah about seeing the blue roan