The Jump-Off Creek Read Free Page B

horse. She saw him stand holding on to the saddle a moment before he let go and worked the buckles. The bay stood for him restlessly, rolling the bit, huffing air. There was a shallow cut along the shank of the horse’s off rear leg. Mr. Whiteaker wet his neckerchief in the rill along the notch and daubed away the gritty mud and blood. She sat stiffly on the mule, in the gusty rain, and watched him.
    Finally he came back up the trail to the broken edge. A little color had bloomed in his face. “Give those goats a swat. See if they won’t jump across,” he said to her.
    She had one hand twined tight around the saddle horn, the fingers holding on rubbery. She thought of backing her way off the hillside.
I believe I’ll just go around, thank you.
And he would take his cows and go on without waiting.
Suit yourself, ma’am.
    But she stood down from the mule, careful and grim, and pulled the goats up on the long tether. She remembered suddenly that one of the does was named Rose; the man who had owned her had called her after his wife’s mother. She didn’t know the name of the other goat, nor which of them was Rose. She stood, fishing uselessly for the name. Louise. The brown doe was Louise, after the man’s own mother. She undid the lead and bunched it up in a coat pocket. Then, standing at the edge of the short gravelly slide where the trail had broken down, she slapped Rose’s flank smartly. The goat shied, twitched her hide, blatted. Lydia got behind her and slapped again and pushed on her hindquarters. Rose made a cross sound gathering herself, and shot across the break. Louise bolted after her, stuttering and bleating protest at the edge.
    Mr. Whiteaker had got back out of the way, squatting up on the steep sidehill. Now he stood up. “If you’ll sling me the end of the pack mule’s lead, I’ll see if I can persuade him to come over.”
    The wind flapped the brim of his hat suddenly and he jerked his arm up, holding onto it. She held her own hat and waited until the gusty wind had fallen off. Then silently she brought the gray mule up and cast the lead across to Mr. Whiteaker. He pulled it and made a wordless, foolish clucking sound. The mule stood stubbornly with his neck stretched out, eyeing whitely over the edge of the trail down to the pine trees and the creek. Lydia slapped his haunch.
    â€œIf you’ve got a stick, ma’am, hit him with it.”
    She had no stick. She backed up from the mule and threw a rock. It smacked him at the root of the tail and he jerked and came over in a clumsy bounce, jolting his top-heavy load. The man let go the lead, let him go on by, trotting high-headed down the notch to take comfort from the bay horse and the goats, bunched up together halfway down to the trees.
    â€œNow you, ma’am,” he said. He ducked his chin. “I don’t know if you want to jump that mule over, or get over on your own.”
    She had got to recognize in the faces of most cattlemen a little conceit about mules. She had seen it once, maybe, in Mr. Whiteaker’s face, but there was nothing of it now, just that slight wariness.
    She stood beside the black saddle mule, in the rain, and looked ahead along the notch, not at him. “This mule has not even a name yet, Mr. Whiteaker, I have not known him long enough for that.” She glanced toward him. “But I have a general trust of mules on tricky ground.”
    He stood holding on to his hat, squinting at her through the rain. Then he said, in a low way, “I believe if you give him your heels, he’ll bring you across okay, ma’am.”
    She nodded gravely and got up on the mule. She had a habit of going quick in these events, before the misgiving would set
in. She gripped the horn, made a little involuntary squeaky sound, rammed her heels against the mule. The mule squatted back, deciding, and then they came over in a clumsy leap. Her bottom rose off the saddle