Abram paused long enough for me to know he was making up a name because the horse was indeed stolen. “Rooster,” he finally said.
“Good name,” I told him. I then rode away at a good clip, fearing not only that I’d be tempted to stay, but that the man owning the horse might come looking.
* * * *
Arizona is a mean place which breaks now and then with a stream and some trees that persist in the rough weather. Riding east, I was met with hard winds and water so scarce that when we found some, Rooster and I both got right in. And always, when things seemed harsh, I reminded myself I was not inside a cell.
There was high ground and low, the high sporting forests, the low nothing but desert. None of this put me off. Rooster and I did some good time, full gallop now and again, then walking a bit. It felt good to be back in the saddle and always thoughts of Tombstone kept us going.