Chapter 1

Orville “Orr” Loveless got out of his battered, faded-red Chevy pickup. Even before he shut the door, the first sounds he heard had him running for the huge steel barn near which he’d parked. He could hear somebody inside cussing up a storm and then a sharp crack, like the sound of a whip. An animal gave a shrill squeal. Next, he heard the drumbeat of hooves slamming into wood. Holy shit, seemed like somebody was having serious trouble. He burst through the half-open drive in door and looked down the shadowy interior aisle of the barn.

About halfway to the opposite end, a paunchy man fought to hold onto a lead rope. At the end of the lead, a sorrel mule screamed and struggled. The man lashed at it with the whip he held in his left hand while he fought to keep the mule’s head toward him with his right. The mule strained, trying to wheel around and present its hind end to the man who belabored it.

Orr fought back a red haze of fury. No animal deserved to be treated like that. Nine times out of ten, a calm, quiet approach would settle even a spooky outlaw. “Hey, hold on. Give the poor critter a chance. Looks to me like it’s scared shitless.”

“Fuck that poor critter shit. Goddamn jackass tried to bite me and then kicked, just missed me by inches. I’ll whale the hide off the mother fucking piece of garbage. Think you’re so smart, you take the misbegotten thing.”

“I think I was planning to. Is this the mule advertised for sale in the local paper? If it is, I’ve got money in my pocket that says you need to quit beating my mule.”

By that time, he’d reached the pair. Orr put a hand out and grabbed the thick cotton lead rope. He edged between the other man and the mule, turning his attention totally to the animal. It halted, snorting and shivering, eyes rolling in obvious fear.

Ignoring the sputtering livestock dealer, Orr began to speak to the mule, talking in a low, mild tone, sending out all the calm and easy vibes he could. Still using the same tone, he glanced quickly the other man’s direction. “Back off and take that fucking whip with you. I’ve got payment for the animal and you’ll get it as soon as I calm her down and get her into my trailer.”

By then he had recognized the mule was a mollie or female mule. She was a pretty thing, too. Within a few minutes, she began to calm down, quit rolling her eyes and paused, as if waiting to see what he was going to do. He’d bet she was out of a good cowpony mare, if not a registered Quarter Horse. She had the sturdy, well-muscled Quarter Horse body, covered with a sleek hide, despite the sparser mane and tail and the long ears she’d inherited from her donkey father. Though young and a little leggy, he felt sure she’d grow quickly into a good saddle animal with the right handling. He wasn’t known as the mule man for nothing.

Within about ten minutes, he had her steady enough that he turned without concern to lead her out to his rig. She followed obediently, keeping a little slack in the lead rope. It took a few more minutes to get her to enter the trailer. He gave her time to sniff it over and decide it was not a mule-eating monster. She showed no vicious tendencies as he led her in and secured the lead to a ring in one front corner. Only then did he ease out, close the tailgate, and return to the barn.

The abusive, loud-mouthed dealer stood at the door, his jaw hanging. “You some kind of mule whisperer? She was always like a wild tiger with me. I was ready to kill the bitch.”

Orr restrained an urge to grab the whip the man still held and give him a taste of his own bitter medicine. “Get the bill of sale for me. Here’s the check. If you get any more mules, just let them run in the pasture and call me. Unless they’re ancient or crippled, I’ll buy them with one caveat. You leave them alone until I get here.”

The dealer nodded. “You got a deal, mister. The less I have to do with those long-eared hellions the better. I’ll stick to horses whenever I can. Even cattle are better. Don’t have to fuck around with them.” He handed over the documents and took the check.

Orr hoped none of those horses got on the bulky man’s bad list. Although he was tempted to call the officials, he knew the stock dealer was a buddy of the county sheriff and, at the most, would get only a slap on the wrist. While city dogs and cats might be at least partly protected, rural animals in the southwest were still not accorded much legal defense and their abusers usually skated. That being the case, he could not save them all, but he rescued as many as he could, especially mules.