{"id":81,"date":"2008-08-03T00:00:27","date_gmt":"2008-08-03T04:00:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.spacewesterns.com\/?p=81"},"modified":"2022-12-14T14:08:25","modified_gmt":"2022-12-14T19:08:25","slug":"the-horse-thieves","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.spacewesterns.com\/articles\/the-horse-thieves\/","title":{"rendered":"The Horse Thieves"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

N<\/strong><\/span>obu\u2019s office smelled like shit. Not really shit, but the Chinaman has lit some incense that only members of his ilk could appreciate. Crawford chewed a cigarette, basking in the smell of tobacco as he stared across from his would-be employer.<\/p>\n

\u201cThese problems you\u2019re having on the ranch,\u201d Crawford said, \u201cthey can\u2019t be solved by the local law?\u201d<\/p>\n

Nobu patted his thin comb-over and fidgeted in his pretentious chair. Finally, he put his hands on the cluttered desk and said, \u201cThe law are no help. I think you have better luck than the law.\u201d His nasally voice and accent made each \u201cthe\u201d sound like \u201cda.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford took another drag of tobacco and scratched the stubble on his chin. \u201cProfessional contractors\u2019re rare. My rates have doubled since last year. Sure you don\u2019t wanna deal with the law?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have three horses stolen this week alone!\u201d Nobu said, his accent becoming more pronounced. \u201cAnd the law do nothing!\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford nodded and stood, flicking his cigarette to the ground and snuffing it beneath the heel of his boot. He made his way to one grease-smeared window and surveyed the ranch. Below, dozens of Nobu\u2019s horses were parked in even rows. Several spaces were empty.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can look into the problem,\u201d Crawford said, still staring at the rows of resting ponies. \u201cMy fee is five thousand now with another ten when I\u2019m done. If no arrests are made, I\u2019ll just keep the five. You won\u2019t owe me anything else.\u201d<\/p>\n

Nobu grimaced but didn\u2019t argue. He reached into one of a dozen desk drawers and withdrew a yellowing envelope full of cash. The Chinaman counted out five thousand dollars.<\/p>\n

C<\/strong><\/span>rawford left Nobu\u2019s office and made for the hitching post where his horse was tied. The cowboy used his checkered sleeve to wipe the rear emblem that read CMC Colt<\/em> while admiring the immaculate coat and twin chrome tailpipes.<\/p>\n

Years ago, Yoshimitsu Automobiles had purchased all the struggling companies and formed Consolidated Motor Corp or CMC. Any horse worth its shoes was made by the conglomerate, which owned ranches across the country. No one bothered to file an antitrust lawsuit.<\/p>\n

Crawford had won his Colt in a poker match, betting everything he had on a hand of trip-aces. The gamble had paid off. Crawford had ditched his aging Steed and roared away in the Colt, exposed engine block thrumming as he eased her out of Sausalito. The pony had treated him well ever since.<\/p>\n

Crawford adjusted his gun belt, placed his cigarettes on the dash \u2014 he never smoked while riding \u2014 and turned the key. His pony came to life with a roar before settling into an even idle. Crawford adjusted his spurs and set the car in gear.<\/p>\n

Nobu\u2019s ranch was several miles out of town. The ride back was a welcome chance for the Colt to stretch her legs. Few people traveled Route Number Eight unless they had ranch business or were up to mischief. Crawford didn\u2019t expect to see any other riders on his way back.<\/p>\n

The sun was already down, the day ending, when Crawford pulled up to McGee\u2019s Tavern. He dismounted and went inside, lighting a cigarette as he pushed past the saloon doors. Davin McGee stood behind the bar, serving ranchers and engine-poke alike. Many of the latter wore greased-stained coveralls with black gloves hanging from their rear pockets. In the background, Smilin\u2019 Sam had begun his first piano set of the night. A group of early drunks were already deep into a potentially violent game of poker. Crawford approached the bar and ordered a drink.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Old Man in tonight?\u201d Crawford asked, fingering his first glass of beer.<\/p>\n

\u201cUpstairs,\u201d McGee said between orders. Further down, a young engine-poke examined his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s got him a few more appointments \u2019fore he can get to you, Crawford,\u201d McGee continued. \u201cMight be better to come back tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford shook his head and sipped his beer. \u201cCan\u2019t. Need to ask him something.\u201d<\/p>\n

McGee glanced at his watch. He bristled his moustache while considering the time. \u201cProbably be after midnight. Still want to wait?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAbsolutely.\u201d<\/p>\n

T<\/strong><\/span>he poker game became violent sooner than expected. In an almost clich\u00c3\u00a9d turn, one player accused the other of cheating and overturned the table. Out of loyalty to McGee, Crawford separated the fighters and escorted them out at gunpoint. Both men unclenched their fists at the sight of Crawford\u2019s six-gun; one pissed his coveralls. They left without an argument and \u2014 to McGee\u2019s delight \u2014 their poker bets.<\/p>\n

Crawford had two more beers and a beef sandwich before midnight. Many of the engine-pokes had paid their tabs and left with a pleasant buzz. Some had paid to cuddle McGee\u2019s girls. The tavern owner pointed to Crawford and then to the stairs, absently polishing the bar top with a graying rag.<\/p>\n

T<\/strong><\/span>he Old Man was neither old nor menacing. The name stemmed from his having been in the information business since boyhood. Stories said the Old Man had made his first sale upon learning the size of his sister\u2019s brassiere. Fellow boys had paid a nickel for the nugget that had fueled their adolescent fantasies for weeks.<\/p>\n

The Old Man\u2019s office was nothing like Nobu\u2019s, and most people were dumbfounded as to how it stayed so impeccably clean. Trail dust seemed to stop at the door, held back by the info merchant\u2019s obsessive-compulsive will.<\/p>\n

Crawford sat on one side of the well-ordered desk, not daring to light a cigarette, and waited patiently for the Old Man to finish poking through his files.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d the Old Man said, humming just beneath his breath. \u201cSomething about a glue factory came through the other day.\u201d He flicked through the file. \u201cI can give you the name of an engine-poke at Benson\u2019s Ranch for, say, two hundred dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford extracted his advance from Nobu and counted the amount. He handed it to the Old Man without bartering.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe man you\u2019re looking for is Lorem. Rob Lorem.\u201d<\/p>\n

N<\/strong><\/span>orma was in bed, but awake, when Crawford arrived home. He imagined she might be naked beneath the sheets, but knew she was probably wearing a cotton shift. He would have to tell her about the job before going to bed. She would probably be too tired by then to make love.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou smell like cigarettes,\u201d Norma said. \u201cI thought you didn\u2019t smoke while riding.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNever. Had a smoke on the way up.\u201d<\/p>\n

Norma nodded, shifting in her body around to face him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hate it,\u201d she said. \u201cI wish you\u2019d quit.\u201d<\/p>\n

Norma wasn\u2019t the hussie that some cowboys kept company with, and certainly not a saloon girl skilled at wooing engine-pokes. Sometimes Crawford hated her willful attitude and strong opinions. He also knew she was a singular creature that offered more fulfillment than ten whores combined.<\/p>\n

\u201cWent to see Nobu today,\u201d he said, changing the subject. \u201cGot a job.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s good. My pony\u2019s gonna need shoes soon. I was thinking a set of Goodyears.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford did the calculations in his head. Yes, Nobu\u2019s fee would be enough for horseshoes and a few months\u2019 comfort.<\/p>\n

Norma was propped on her elbow now. \u201cSo what\u2019s the job?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNobu\u2019s got trouble with some horse thieves,\u201d he said. He removed his gun belt and placed it on the dresser. \u201cThe Old Man gave me a lead to track down tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou coming to bed now?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAin\u2019t that what it looks like?\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford finished undressing and climbed naked beneath the sheets. His prediction about Norma\u2019s nightwear proved correct as he sidled next to her.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m glad you got the job,\u201d she said, placing a hand on his chest. \u201cDo you have to be up very early tomorrow?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot so early.\u201d<\/p>\n

Norman\u2019s hand strayed to his groin, her touch still electric after all their years together. Apparently they\u2019d be making love after all.<\/p>\n

T<\/strong><\/span>he ride to Benson\u2019s Ranch was quiet, but there were more riders on the trail. Some punk in a CMC Stallion blasted by Crawford at a swift run \u2014 probably 110, 120 \u2014 and Crawford was tempted to give chase. He didn\u2019t know the rider personally, but wanted to prove the Colt\u2019s exposed engine and intakes could still set a mean pace. The job, though, was more important than jaunts along the trail. Crawford eased his spurs and basked instead in the cool breeze.<\/p>\n

Benson\u2019s Ranch offered stiff competition to others in the area. The Texan had nearly twice as many heads as Nobu. Lots full of gleaming ponies surrounded the main building, which housed Benson\u2019s office and barn. Crawford supposed he should announce himself to Wilmer Benson, but decided against it. If questioned, Crawford would say he was consulting on a remedy for his own horse.<\/p>\n

The Colt idled down a lane of resting ponies and stopped at the barn. Horses in various states of repair (or disrepair) sat around the open bays, components exposed, missing or broken. A group of engine-pokes sat on the chrome bumper of a terminal case, smoking cigarettes and exchanging gossip.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnyone seen Lorem today?\u201d Crawford said, leaning out his window.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Lorem,\u201d said a man at one end of the bumper.<\/p>\n

Rob Lorem was the youngest of the group and probably hadn\u2019t been an engine-poke very long. He wore his grease-stained gloves, even on break, and Crawford wondered that the cigarette Lorem smoked didn\u2019t light both his hands on fire.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Old Man told me to see you,\u201d Crawford said. \u201cLet\u2019s take a quick ride \u2019round the ranch.\u201d<\/p>\n

Lorem tossed his cigarette to the ground. \u201cNothin\u2019 doing. Boss is pretty strict about breaks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford waved a fifty-dollar bill out the window. \u201cHe won\u2019t care if you\u2019re a few more minutes.\u201d He paused as Lorem stared at the money, transfixed. \u201cAnd take those grease-ball gloves off before you get on my horse.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cM<\/strong><\/span>ind if I roll a quirley?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d prefer you didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

Lorem replaced his tobacco and hung one arm out the window. In the confines of the car, Crawford thought he smelled even shittier than Nobu\u2019s office. The Colt moved up a row of new ponies.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo what the Old Man tell you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou might be in the know \u2019bout a glue factory \u2019round here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou buying or selling?\u201d Lorem reached for his cigarettes again before remembering he couldn\u2019t smoke.<\/p>\n

\u201cNeither. But I think these banditos are stealing from my employer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd who is your employer?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not important. But you won\u2019t be indicted provided I don\u2019t find your hat in the same company as these other thieves.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou won\u2019t, mister…?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t say.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell Mister I-Didn\u2019t-Say, the fact is I sometimes sell parts \u2014 shoes and spurs if you will \u2014 to the big bugs who run this chop shop. Nasty bunch. Don\u2019t give me a fair price for half the parts I get \u2019em.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll have one less customer if I run \u2019em out. That bother you, Lorem?\u201d<\/p>\n

Rob Lorem thought for a moment and shook his head. \u201cProbably better they\u2019re shut down. \u2019Sides, this work ain\u2019t bad\u201d \u2014 he pointed to his coveralls \u2014 \u201cand Mister Benson pays better than most.\u201d<\/p>\n

They were nearing the barn again. The other pokes had returned to work, and the chrome bumper was vacant.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo where am I off to?\u201d Crawford asked, pulling his horse up short.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe meet at Split Rock, Thursdays at sunset.\u201d<\/p>\n

S<\/strong><\/span>plit Rock was aptly named, a strange rock formation out in the desert. Natives said the gods had smote the rock, cleaving it in half to form a misshapen y. Superstitions or not, Split Rock was a traditional place for clandestine meetings. Teenagers went to lose their virginity, banditos to make deals.<\/p>\n

Crawford stood in the shadows, one foot against the rock and a cigarette perched between his lips. His left hand held a broken part from the Colt, a compressor that had failed some months back. In the dark, though, the thieves wouldn\u2019t know that. Hopefully they\u2019d think he was another seller referred by Rob Lorem, another poke trying to make a few bucks on the side.<\/p>\n

The sunset had covered the desert in shades of rust. Now even the moon was absent. Crawford kept to the shadows, chain smoking and listening.<\/p>\n

Gravel crunched in the darkness somewhere to his left.<\/p>\n

\u201cLorem, where the fuck<\/em> you at?\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford whistled and stepped from the shadows.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo Lorem tonight,\u201d Crawford answered. \u201cBut he says you\u2019re of the first water.\u201d<\/p>\n

The bandito came into full view, a stumpy man with a leather hat and dirty shirt. Patches of stubble covered his grimy face.<\/p>\n

\u201cLorem said to come?\u201d Stumpy asked dazedly, as if his mental faculties couldn\u2019t catch up with his mouth.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right. Got a lung from a perfectly good CMC Colt to sell.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI ain\u2019t need nothing like that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cC\u2019mon. Lorem told me \u2019bout that glue factory of yours. Don\u2019t have any Colts down there? Hell, this piece probably fit a Clydesdale, too. Same size engine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Stumpy didn\u2019t reply, all his memorized lines apparently spent. Crawford registered footsteps on his right, but too late. By then, the sandalwood grip of another six-gun had already slammed into the back of his skull.<\/p>\n

\u201cH<\/strong><\/span>e knows a lot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHell, he could just be bluffing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShit he knew about Lorem and <\/em>the fucking glue factory!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere is that shitbag Lorem anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n

The voices came before consciousness. Even with his eyes shut, Crawford knew he was tied up. He didn\u2019t know where he was or how he had gotten there, only that he was lashed to a chair. His gun belt felt lighter, too. They better not have thrown his piece into the desert, Crawford thought. He liked that gun.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hear something now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford opened his eyes and saw Stumpy move toward the door. They were in a small room, probably a desert shack near the glue factory. Along one wall sat a desk and bookshelf, both cluttered with dusty ledgers. The chair to the desk was missing. Crawford was probably sitting in it now.<\/p>\n

The other bandito \u2014 Crawford thought of him as Tallman \u2014 watched as Stumpy opened the door. Rob Lorem breezed inside, still wearing his coveralls and greasy gloves. Crawford wasn\u2019t surprised that Lorem defiled his pony by wearing those gloves while riding.<\/p>\n

Lorem stopped when he saw Crawford tied to the chair. The reaction didn\u2019t last long. He quickly composed himself and closed the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cTook you long enough,\u201d Tallman said.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was just like you said!\u201d Stumpy added. Crawford realized he disliked Stumpy\u2019s voice almost as much as Nobu\u2019s whiny, broken English.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou did good,\u201d Tallman continued. \u201cYou\u2019ll be getting a bonus when I unload the next lot o\u2019 heads.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford began to struggle, testing the robes though he knew it would earn him a reprisal.<\/p>\n

\u201cShit! He\u2019s awake!\u201d Stumpy cried, jumping nearly a foot in the air.<\/p>\n

Tallman rewarded Crawford with a blow to the face. \u201cThat\u2019s enough of that.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford remained still. He knew the knots were amateur, but tight. The banditos had also neglected to tie his feet.<\/p>\n

\u201cLorem, check those knots,\u201d Tallman ordered. \u201cJust to be sure.\u201d<\/p>\n

Rob Lorem didn\u2019t look pleased but moved to the back of Crawford\u2019s chair. His gloved hands slid over the knots, then along Crawford\u2019s wrists.<\/p>\n

\u201cSeem fine to me,\u201d the engine-poke reported.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo wadda we do with him now?\u201d Stumpy asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a big desert,\u201d Tallman replied, looking at Crawford instead of his partners. \u201cA regular bone orchard. Lots-a room \u2019tween ranches. Lots-a places to go missing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford moved his wrists instinctively \u2014 and discovered a faint thread of hope. Lorem had checked the knots with his gloves on; there was enough grease there to oil an engine and plenty to wiggle loose.<\/p>\n

Crawford flashed an impudent grin. \u201cI\u2019m just a cowboy,\u201d he said. The conversation would buy time enough for him to slip free. \u201cBut they\u2019ll be others. \u2019Fore long you\u2019ll piss someone else off. Maybe next time you\u2019ll be in the chair. Maybe that<\/em> cowboy\u2019ll just shoot you first.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s right,\u201d Stumpy whined. \u201cWe should pack up shop with the next lot of heads.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s bluffing,\u201d Tallman said.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe not,\u201d Lorem added. \u201cHe said the Old Man at McGee\u2019s told him about the glue factory. Word might be getting \u2019round.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tallman leaned forward, nearly nose to nose with Crawford. \u201cHe\u2019s lying \u2014 \u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford smashed his head forward, colliding magnificently with Tallman\u2019s skull. The pain was blinding and brought tears to his eyes, but Crawford continued on, swinging the chair sideways. He registered Tallman gripping his forehead in anguish and stumbling back against the desk. Crawford aimed the flying chair at Lorem, clipping the engine-poke\u2019s legs. Lorem dropped heavily to the floor while Stumpy made for the door.<\/p>\n

Tallman began to recover, a stream of blood winding down his nose. Crawford noticed his revolver on the desk. He swung his elbow at Tallman\u2019s chin and dived for the gun.<\/p>\n

Two shots within the confines of the shack sounded thundersome. Bullets ripped into Tallman\u2019s chest, who froze mid-draw, before dropping to the floor. Stumpy was gone, the shack door swinging wildly on its hinges, and Lorem was clawing for purchase on the dirt floor.<\/p>\n

Crawford paused, head throbbing, and kicked Rob Lorem in the back. The engine-poke grunted. Crawford turned Lorem over with one boot.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s the glue factory?\u201d Crawford asked, voice casual and even.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll tell you, just please don\u2019t kill me!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s the chop shop?\u201d Crawford repeated.<\/p>\n

\u201cA…a little east of here. I work there, sometimes. At night.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford dug his boot heel into Lorem\u2019s right arm, taking careful aim at the splayed, trembling hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat…whatcha doing, man?\u201d<\/p>\n

Lorem\u2019s eyes widened in sudden realization.<\/p>\n

Two more shots rang out in the shack.<\/p>\n

N<\/strong><\/span>obu\u2019s office still smelled like shit. Did the Chinaman ever stop with that fucking incense? Crawford puffed his cigarette, trying to ignore the stink while his employer counted out ten thousand dollars.<\/p>\n

Nobu handed the cowboy a stack of bills.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow were the horses you recovered?\u201d Crawford asked.<\/p>\n

The Chinaman touched his thinning hair. \u201cThree were…ok. Others good for parts \u2014 shoes, lungs. Some belong to Benson and Rivera. I think I keep those as well. For the trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n

Crawford waved the bills in his employer\u2019s direction. \u201cSounds like you broke even. Care to give me a bonus?\u201d<\/p>\n

Nobu laughed, nasally and high-pitched. \u201cYou a funny man, Mister Crawford. But I think I hire you again, if my need arises.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSounds like a deal.\u201d Crawford extended his hand across the cluttered desk.<\/p>\n

Moments later he was outside, staring at his Colt. Desert dust and rain streaks clung to her coat; his pony needed a bath.<\/p>\n

Crawford discarded his cigarette and opened the door. The exposed engine roared to life, and he was gone.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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