Slim Evans and His Horse Lightning

by Graham M. Dean

The twilight deepened and the evening star peeped down on the boulder-strewn wash which a few minutes before had hummed with leaden death.

Night came and with it the valley awoke to new sounds--the noise of boots scraping on rocks as their wearers clumsily attempted to move about in silence. Slim took off his own boots and in his stocking feet started quietly toward the place where he had last seen the riflemen. Sharp stones jabbed his feet, but he moved silently, pressing steadily ahead.

In a few more minutes a new moon would shed its feeble rays over the Cajons, but it might not penetrate this remote valley. Slim almost stumbled over the rifle, which the man had dropped. The stock of the weapon had been shattered by the impact of his bullet and the gun was worthless. Slim laid it back on the ground and worked slowly toward the mouth of the box canyon. He was curious to learn the identity of the man who had been the target for the vicious attack of the gunmen.

The Flying Arrow cowboy was almost at the mouth of the canyon when a thunder of flying hoofs stopped him. There was something familiar in the leaping cadence. The wild tattoo of the hoofs sounded like Lightning. But that couldn’t be. He had left Lightning well up the trail.

With a growing fear in his heart, Slim cast caution to the winds and raced back along the trail. The rocks bruised his feet, but with his one thought for Lightning there was no time to stop and hunt for the boulder on which he had left his boots.

The trail smoothed out. Slim felt grass underneath. It was here that he had left the beautiful sorrel; it was here that Lightning should be waiting for him.

Slim cupped his hands and called the name of his horse.

“Lightning!” he cried. Over and over again the shout was hurled from his anxious lips. He whistled again and again. Each time there was only the silence of the night for an answer, while far down the trail the drumming of flying hoofs lessened and finally vanished altogether.

Slim knew what had happened. The riflemen, cut off from their own horses by his appearance, had been forced to seek escape up the trail. They had come upon Lightning, awaiting the return of her master, and had mounted the big sorrel. Picking their way around the rock-strewn wash, they had returned to their own horses and made good their escape but Lightning, the most valuable horse in the Flying Arrow remuda, had been taken with them.

There was a consuming bitterness in Slim’s heart as he turned slowly back along the rocky trail to find his boots. Lightning was his own horse. He had trained the mare until she was the envy of every cowboy in the Flying Arrow territory. His hands gripped the stock of the rifle hard. Let him come within range of the men who had stolen Lightning and there would be no warning shouts, no fancy shots aimed only to hit an elbow.