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Holiday Hitches at Mustang Pass

By Cindy M. Amos

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To his best recollection, Mustang Pass never knew when to stand still. Nate Rayburn left the church construction site toting a couple of buckets to haul some water for lunch break. The better part of September had come and gone with him in residence. Every day ushered in the same momentum for the new county seat—hurry up and happen. He shook his head upon realizing there could be worse reputations to bear than work-mongers.
On Saturdays, mining silver took a backseat to building the town. As sheriff-elect, he had no status beyond acting deputy until the election on November second. Until then, he played water boy, go-fetch fella, stocking slave at the mercantile, and a multitude of other thankless jobs that filled the hourly chinks of his day. As a law-preserving deputy, he conducted street checks on a modest yet ever-expanding grid around town. By now, he’d memorized Main Street like the back of his hand. Quiet he could handle. Monotony proved another matter entirely.
As Rocky Creek came into sight, he admired the blurred reflection of the steep mountain ridge that ended the valley to the north. Following the sloped street, he soon came to the water’s edge. The easy gurgle of flowing water unknotted a few kinks in his back left from stacking the last cut of summer hay in the south valley. For payment, he brought home half a bushel of apples and a pint of applesauce that substituted for dinner last night. October would have to present a more generous payout, or he might not live to see Election Day.
After wading into the shallows, he allowed the stream to clear before taking a scoop of drinking water for the builders. Today, they had a scant half-dozen men due to some training up at the Indian encampment. That merger expanded his jurisdiction for law enforcement, but the scenic gap made the ride to the upper plateau worthwhile. Like the stream’s reflection of granite slopes, safety was a mirage in the West. Still, a town needed a sheriff, especially a county seat.
The first scoop produced a weighty volume of water that brought immediate complaint from his right shoulder. He set the bucket on a level spot and hauled the second pail into striking distance. Above the gap, the staccato sound of gunfire peppered the air, soliciting a chuckle. “Injun target practice. Who’d have thought it? This town sure follows its own way. Most folks would be scared witless.”
He’d no more than cleared the second scoop than a commotion appeared at the base of the mountain slope. A team of startled horses pitched a wagon sideways around the last curve into town. At this rate, they’d make the bridge crossing completely broadside—not a highly recommended orientation.
Jostled into action, he stashed the bucket on a flat rock and waded to the closest bridge abutment to shimmy up the piling. Once on the planking, he pressed from jog to all-out run, water squishing from his boots at every footfall. The speed of the horses caused him to quicken his pace. One glance at the empty-handed driver told him more than he wanted to know. He would have to jump the harnessed pair to regain control of the rig.
A moment of focused decision-making yielded the dappled gray as his target. Its wild-eyed partner, a mule-colored gelding, snatched at the leather harness like it had grown deathly allergic. To survive the collision and live to tell the story, he’d steer clear of that demolition package running side-wise at a solid fifteen hands high.

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