The short, narrow-shouldered man rode south from the high hill country of the East Pryor. He’d followed the Apsaruke trail for the better part of the day. Red dust stained the sorrel’s fetlocks a dark pink. On the ridges of the far mountain a light dusting of snow had fallen above the timberline. Only a few drifts stayed, the rest vanishing in the afternoon sunlight. He rode easy in the saddle, more a part of it than not. The sun had long ago burned him brown except where his hat rested low on his forehead. That was unnaturally white. The light brown hair that tumbled over his collar was long, but not so long as to call undue attention to it. The late spring had been a little cold at 6200 feet elevation, so he wore a sheepskin loosely around his shoulders. It hung to mid-thigh.
He rode in from the north side, turning neither left nor right, staying pretty much to the center of the dusty road. It was close to two-fifteen in the afternoon. Except for the horse he was riding, he looked like any other horseman passing through Kane, Wyoming on a Thursday. This sorrel horse, however, was a little better than most; stood a little taller, moved with a certain grace that was unmistakable.
On his left sat a small, white church with a cedar rail hitching post on two sides, there being one in the rear where the parson lived. Next to it, but set back from the road, was a one-room schoolhouse built close to the church so that it could be used both as a classroom and a church room. Farther down the street on the right was the Kronstom Hotel. It sat across the street next to the State Bank. Both of these buildings were next to the pool hall and the Burlington Rail Road Depot.
All of these matters of city planning were seen by the horseman as he rode into the settlement.
In the distance the younger school children were playing “kick the can” between the church and school. Out in front, three of the older boys were sitting on the rail fence that separated street from school and kept the school fenced in. They were arguing, bantering back and forth, as the horseman approached. No one remembered the man. He hadn’t been seen before, so they jawed back and forth about who he was, who he wasn’t, and who he might be. One claimed to have seen the horse before, but it was agreed that no one knew the rider, then,that no one knew the horse either.
One ventured that it could be that Jess fellow folks talked about, that no one had seen recently, except maybe Fred the hostler. But they all agreed that that fellow was dead for sure; that he’d been shot and crawled off somewhere, hid himself and died a lonely death.
The “kick the can” gang swirled around them, under the fence, to the edge of the street and back under the fence. Left in its wake was a red-headed six year old who also saw the horse, the rider. Only he didn’t step back. He stepped forward. One step, two, three, then he was out in the middle of the dirt road.
The boy on the end yelled a warning. All three jumped down and tried to reach him, but they were too late the heroes. A hand reached down from the blue April sky and pulled him up, placing him deftly on the shoulders of the saddle. The boy leaned back, wrapping the open sheep skin around himself until only his red hair showed. The long Sorrel horse never missed a step; never stopped, never hesitated, never even slowed. They’d be home in another hour and school was out. He’d been rescued. This was the best day of his life. No more “kick the can,” no more books and ledgers and “where’s your home work.”
