“Why not?”
Mitchell eyed me as if I should already know the answer to that. “’Cause nice girls, they always be ’spectin’ you to settle, and you know that ain’t me. I don’t intend t’ settle.”
“Never?”
“Yeah . . . when I’m dead.”
Mitchell stayed the night in the shed, and we talked through most of it. Next morning, right after breakfast, Mitchell headed back to the camp so he could reach it early enough to see one of the camp women who’d taken a liking to him. Once Mitchell had gone on the road, I started back to work. I had long ago given up the notion of the Sabbath as a day without toil. Even though I read my Bible, I didn’t attend church. The store was locked and quiet on a Sunday. Luke Sawyer’s house, on the same piece of land, was just as quiet, for Luke Sawyer and his family were all-day Christians and spent most of the day in the white church across town. I had no one calling me, no one demanding my time. For me, Sunday was a good day to work.
“So, you been holding out on me, huh?”
I looked up in surprise from my workbench to find Luke Sawyer standing in the doorway. It was late on a Monday afternoon and Luke Sawyer was dressed in the long white butcher’s apron he often wore during store hours and, as usual, that made his already large frame appear more threatening. I felt caught off guard and I grew tense at the tone of his voice. “What?” I said.
Luke Sawyer waved a letter toward me and stepped into the shed. “You know what this is? A letter all about you!”
I put aside the piece of pine I’d been planing and rose slowly, readying to defend myself against whatever accusations he was about to make.
“That’s right! It’s all here!” Luke Sawyer held up the letter for emphasis as he stood opposite me. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew about horses?”
“What?” I said again.
“This letter here is from Miz Hattie Crenshaw. I wrote her about you when you first came—I like to know who I’m dealing with. Seems she’s been away and didn’t get my letter ’til recently. But anyway, I just now got this letter from her and she tells me you not only know carpentry, but you’re about the best horseman she’s ever seen! She says you can ride the best there is, and you can train them too. Even the wild ones!”
I turned to get a chisel from one of the shelves. I didn’t want Luke Sawyer to see the look of relief I was sure showed on my face. “How is Miz Crenshaw?” I asked.
“She’s fine, fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Well, what about it?”
I turned back to him with the chisel in hand.
“What about the horses?” he went on excitedly. “About what she said? You that good?”
“I’ve done quite a bit of work with horses,” I admitted.
“Miz Crenshaw says when you worked for her, you were so good, she loaned you out to some of her neighbors who needed help with some of their finer horses. Says you even raced for her and some others, and every race you rode, you won! I think you’re being too modest, Paul.”
I smiled slightly. “Well, I’ve always loved horses.” I sat back down on the bench and again took up the pine.
“So, how come I had to hear all this from Miz Hattie? How come you didn’t tell me yourself?”
I looked up at him. “I came to you about making furniture, not riding horses.”
Luke Sawyer studied me, then said, “Come with me.” At that, he turned brusquely and left the shed. He expected me to follow and I did. He led me behind his store past a stable, where he boarded horses and kept some for hire as well, then down a trail through woodland to an open pasture. A corral was at the far end of the pasture and a herd of horses was penned inside. We crossed to the corral, then Luke Sawyer leaned against the gate and motioned toward the horses. “So, what do you think?” he asked.
I glanced at the herd. They looked to be mostly mustangs. But there was one who was different and right away caught my eye. It was a stallion. He looked underfed and there was dried blood on his coat, as if he had been in battle. He hadn’t been cleaned up, yet he stood apart from the others. He was a palomino. Both he and another stallion, a black one, had been tethered on opposite sides of the corral. “They’re from out west?” I asked.
Luke Sawyer nodded. “Man brought them in a few days ago on a barge ’cross the Mississippi. They’re supposed to be bronco-busted, but that’s all, and from the look of some of them, seems like the job wasn’t too well done. Still, he’s looking to make a sizeable amount on them. He’s boarding them here while he tries to round up some buyers to look them over. He says he’ll give me first pick if I’m interested in buying.”