Thatcher had figured such was the case. “How many horses are you stabling?”

“Currently six. Plus four of my own that I rent out. And one ill-tempered sumbitch that a fellow left here for me to break.”

“Yeah? How’s that coming?”

Barker shifted his chaw and spat into the dirt.

Thatcher smiled. “That ill-tempered, huh?”

“High-steppin’ stallion. Owner won’t hear of gelding him yet.”

“Let me take a look at him.”

“What for?”

“Why not?”

Barker thought it over, then said, “What the hell? I’s tired of working on that clutch, anyway.” He kicked the front tire of the milk truck as he walked around the hood. “Come on.”

Thatcher followed him around the far side of the large stable to a corral of respectable size, but confining to the bay stallion who was running along the encircling fence, making abrupt directional changes, bucking occasionally, demonstrating his anger and frustration over being penned. When he sensed them coming toward the corral, he pinned back his ears, and his nostrils flared.

“I had to put him out here. He kept the other horses stirred up. Especially the mares.”

Thatcher chuckled. “I don’t doubt it. He’s a handsome devil, and he knows it.”

He was a large horse, sixteen hands, perfectly formed. He had the classic black points and a deep red coat that would gleam if he were groomed. Thatcher propped his arms on the top fence rail and watched the stallion strut, tail high.

“Does the owner want him trained to race?”

“To ride,” Baker said, adding dryly, “for longer than three seconds at a time.”

Thatcher smiled at the quip. “Does he have a name?”

“Ulysses.”

“I’d be throwing my owner, too.” Thatcher shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the fence rail. “How does a dollar and a half a day sound, Mr. Barker?

“Hold it. What are you doing?”

The stallion was snorting and eyeballing Thatcher as he unlatched the gate, slipped through it, and closed it behind himself. The horse didn’t like any of it. He became even more agitated, picking up speed on his next go-around of the corral and coming dangerously close to Thatcher who stood stock-still.

Barker said, “Get out of there. You ain’t even dressed for this.”

“I had to leave my gear behind when I went into the army. But he doesn’t know city shoes from boots.”

“At least take this rope.” Barker lifted a coiled lariat off the top of a fence post.

“Not for our first meeting.”

“That bastard’ll kick you into next week.”

“I’m mindful that he’d like to. But he also wants to know what I’m up to.”

“I want to know what you’re up to.”

“Earning my buck fifty.” Thatcher calmly walked to the center of the corral.

“I haven’t agreed—”

Thatcher said, “Mr. Barker, I don’t want him to see me as a threat, but I do want his undivided attention, and, no offense, you’re a distraction. If you could back up a little, please.”

Thatcher heard Barker spit another wad of tobacco into the ground before muttering, “Your funeral.”

There was a lot to be learned about the horse just from watching how he maneuvered. Thatcher faked indifference, but, without appearing to, he studied the stallion’s movements as he cantered along the fence, tossing his head, whinnying, stamping, making sudden shifts in direction, asserting himself.

After several minutes, Thatcher spoke softly, “Won’t do you any good to keep that up. You’ll wear yourself out before I leave this corral.”

He partially turned his back to the animal, remaining very aware of where he was, but intentionally keeping his head turned away from him as though uninterested in his arrogant posturing.

“See, I’m not scared of you. And you don’t have to be scared of me.”

It didn’t take long. The horse slowed his gait and eventually came to a standstill. He stomped a couple of times, then turned toward the center of the corral to face Thatcher. “Well, are we going to be friends?” Thatcher made a nicking sound. Not yet ready to concede, the stallion shook his head.

“All right. Stay there and think it over. I can wait. Sooner or later, your curiosity is going to get the better of you.” Thatcher stayed as he was, acting nonchalant. “Those mares you’ve got stirred up. Are they pretty?” The stallion’s ears flicked forward. Thatcher made the nicking sound again.

Slowly the stallion walked toward him and came to a stop, head down. “Good boy. We’re making strides. Ulysses, huh? Guess you’re stuck with it.”

The stallion snuffled and jerked his head when Thatcher reached up to stroke his forehead, but after one more rejected attempt, the horse allowed his touch. “Thata boy.” Moving slowly, speaking softly, he praised the stallion’s cooperation. As Thatcher rubbed the horse’s neck, he looked over at Barker. “A dollar and a half a day?”

Barker spat. Thatcher took that as a yes.

* * *

After spending another few minutes smoothing his hands over the stallion, building trust, he left the corral and reclaimed his coat. Barker led him into the stable, introduced him to the horses in the stalls, and showed him where tack and supplies were kept.

“I’ll have to borrow one of your saddles,” Thatcher told him. “Mine’s at the ranch.”

“Help yourself. What they’re there for.”

As Thatcher was leaving, Barker told him there was a secondhand clothing store in town. “You might find yourself a pair of boots, at least.”

Thatcher got directions to the shop, but it was closed for the day. He had planned on sending Mr. Hobson a letter tomorrow telling him that he could start looking for him in about a month. In the letter, maybe he’d ask Mr. Hobson if he would send him his gear by train and take the expense out of his salary once he was back.

He made it to the boardinghouse before the cold supper was cleared off the sideboard. After finishing his meal, he wandered out onto the porch where several other boarders were chewing the fat.

Laconically, they all introduced themselves and shook hands, but he didn’t get the impression that fast friendships were formed among them, probably because of their transiency.