The redhead introduces his companions. “This is Mr. MacMartin and his boys, Ian and Angus—from Scotland.”
The MacMartins share the same stocky build. The sons, in their twenties, wear twin scowls and matching hair styles, blond hair clipped close to the skin. Yellow stains bloom around the armpits of their once-white shirts.
The wrinkles in Mr. MacMartin’s forehead crimp. “If it weren’t for yer quick actions, we’d be in a right fine mess, nae, boys?” His thick brogue requires time to wade through.
Cay snaps his fingers in my direction. “Translator! You speak Scottish?” I can tell by the twinkle in his eye that he is teasing, but Angus’s and Ian’s blue eyes frost him from either direction.
“Fluently,” I say.
Angus clenches his fists. A scar running down his cheek blanches when he scowls. “Any eejit can catch a bunch of cows and pigs.” His voice grates my eardrums like a rusty fork raked across bone China.
“And any eejit can lock down the cows and pigs instead of nipping the bottle,” counters Mr. MacMartin. “Hell slap you and your bruv. What these boys did was pure brilliant.”
“All these bogging tumpshies did was snatch some glory they’ve nae earned. Stupid animals always come home to what feeds them, nae?” huffs Ian, taller of the two with a piglike snout and a rash of red pustules across his cheeks. A tattoo of a ram prepares to leap off his biceps as he flexes his arms. He rocks forward onto his toes, maybe to reach Cay and West’s height. I can smell his spirits from where I stand.
“Well, I never heard of no tumpshie,” says Cay, “but a child owes his daddy more respect than that.”
“Child?” Angus snaps. “Compare to me, lad, you’re a baby, and what you did was baby work. Try catching cougars or bighorn. Until you can trek real animals, shut your geggies.”
Cay’s good nature dissolves. “My what?”
West is giving off his hard look with the twin arches of disapproval and a tight mouth, the one he usually reserves for me. This time, though, his top lip curls for half a second. I notice the rope under his crossed arms.
“As wagon leader, I want you to take your sons back to their wagon for a splash a’ cold water,” says the redhead, drawing his bulk up to full height, which I guess to be well over six feet. “There will be penalties for their negligence and rudeness.”
Angus spits in the dirt. Cay and West glower like they wouldn’t mind enforcing some penalties of their own. Andy’s nose wrinkles in disgust.
Peety’s the only one with half a smile left on his face. “Hey, amigos, you need help tucking your sons in, you let us know.”
My piglet decides she’s had enough of the bickering and squirms free. She drops to the ground with a squeal.
“Son of a bitch,” says Ian. “That chink tried to steal your pig.”
The slur and the accusation hit me like a double slap on the cheeks. “Did not,” I lash back. “I was keeping her warm.”
Andy elbows me, a warning.
Mr. MacMartin’s face colors. “Angus, Ian, mind now! Go on back.”
The piglet goes to sniff at the ground, bringing her too close to Angus. His eyes glint. When he steps back, I know what he plans to do. I throw myself on top of the piglet.
“No!” I cry.
Angus’s boot bites me in the ribs. I gasp and curl up like a pill bug. The piglet squeals as she races off.
“Sammy!” yells Andy, running to me. She helps me up as I try to draw air back into my lungs.
“Peety,” says West. He puts a short length of cord between his teeth.
“Sí.”
Quick as a blink, West pitches a loop over Angus and jerks hard. Before Ian can help his brother, Peety lassoes him, too. In less than twenty seconds, the MacMartins are kneeling in the mud, arms roped to their sides. West spits the cord from his mouth and pulls it across Angus’s thick neck.
The redhead opens his hands at Mr. MacMartin, who in turn, holds up his. “All right, lads, I thank you for your help, but we’ll take it from here.”
“Say you’re sorry,” says West through clenched teeth.
Angus spits again. West pulls the cord even tighter. “I didn’t hear you.”
Angus glows bright red now, his blue eyes popping out at me. “Sorrea,” he says, which might be the worst word he had to use all day.
West turns Angus to face his father. “And to your daddy.”
“Sorrea,” Angus repeats, lacking sincerity.
“Anyone else need an apology here?” asks West, forcing Angus’s head to look around at us.
No one says anything. Ian scowls.
“Aye, then,” says Mr. MacMartin. “Boys, let’s go.”
West and Peety pull their catches to their feet and free them. The young men stumble after their father. As they leave, Ian slits his eyes at West and spits out something that sounds like a hex.
“You okay, son?” the redhead asks me.
My clothes are muddy and my face is probably covered with black smudges. I can’t think of a part of me that doesn’t hurt, but I say, “Yes, sir.”
“Those boys been in and outta prison all their lives back home,” says the redhead. “The father brung ’em out here to get a fresh start. But the iron hardened on them long ago.”
“Well, sir, they can’t be blamed for the lightning,” says Cay. “Bovines will stampede when you say boo.”
“’Tis true, but theirs was the job to secure the rest of the livestock. The oxen would not go far by themselves, likely, but when everyone starts running, ’tis a race to the death.”
He lifts his heels then rocks back onto them, his large hands folded in front of him. “Again, much obliged for your work. I shudder to think what could’ve happened. You shall be paid for your troubles. We have twelve wagons up about a mile. If you could do us the last favor of moving our animals back, we would appreciate it.”
Cay touches his hat. “Will do, sir.”
“This one’s dragged out,” says West, glancing at me. “You might want to take him with you.”
No doubt he is thinking on how much work I am and once again wishing they had left us—me—behind.
“Andito, you go, too, bring Franny and get her some oats, okay?” Peety says. “We’ll join you later.” Andy runs to fetch her saddlebag, while I retrieve my violin case off Princesa’s back.
“I didn’t catch your name,” says West to the redhead. “I’m West Pepper.”
“Olin Bartholomew, wagon leader,” says the man. “Most people call me Sheriff.”