//------------------------------// // Mutual Introductions // Story: A Horse Called Sunbutt // by Estee //------------------------------// There was something about having an arrow in the leg which made a man want to leave it there. Whips... they only touched the skin (and sometimes, when the so-called discipline had gone on for far too long, what was underneath) for a second, maybe less, and then they were gone -- in a manner of speaking. The feel of the whip lasted for days beyond the actual contact, and part of the length would be embossed into skin and mind forever. A whip was a moment of impact against the body followed by a lifetime of carrying the lash, and never by the handle. But an arrow... well, that was new. He didn't know how to deal with an arrow. The head... no portion of it was visibly protruding from the surface of his right thigh: just the shaft. So the entire sharp end was buried within muscle, and had been for some time -- long enough for the bleeding to have stopped and the dry red-brown gunk to form a seal around the wound. So in order to remove it, he would have to break that seal. Which wasn't a bad thing: more bleeding would just help wash the wound clean and without any alcohol to pour on it -- he'd had a single small bottle, strictly medicinal purposes, but one of the men on the stagecoach had snatched it from him before the pack had sacrificed him to the natives... ...well, without alcohol, bleeding-as-cleanse was fine, really. He was used to bleeding and would just hope not to do too much of it. But 'too much of it' was the other lurking problem. With the arrowhead completely within his leg... could he accurately judge the shape of it based on the penetration? See exactly how the thing had entered and remove it along the smoothest path, preventing more damage? Wiping away some of the gunk would help with that, but... he still wouldn't know what the arrowhead's full shape was like, especially how jagged the edges were: any attempt to remove it could graze some major blood vessel which hadn't been hit on the way in, and then 'too much of it' would turn into a decidedly short-term problem. He could live with the limp. He couldn't live without his blood. But leaving the arrowhead in place... that was begging for infection, and a man needed two legs to limp with... ...oh, and as long as he was coming up with disasters he could look forward to, there was one more: the chance of a fragile shaft. Pull too hard, break the arrow in such a way as to leave nothing he could grip and an arrowhead buried in his thigh until such time as he could find a doctor to cut it out. More likely a barber. Presuming that didn't kill him. Which still presumed he could last long enough to find a barber when he was lost somewhere in the Idaho Territory under a just-risen sun, forcing himself to stand erect and gaze across seemingly endless grasslands, making a real effort to breathe air which seemed far too thin, not a road or edible plant or animal in sight, nothing but him and waving fronds for what felt like miles around. No signs of passage. Nothing in any direction which said people. Not that most would have bothered to help him, but looking was in the spirit of the thing. He regarded the elaborately-feathered tail at the end of the shaft and considered that if he just had a matching one sticking out of his other thigh, he could try to use them for wings. Possibly lost a little too much blood already. "Go West, they said," he muttered to any divine entity who might care to listen. "Find your fortune in the new Territory, they said. Go die somewhere where we won't be troubled to haul your body away, they should have said..." He sighed, took stock of his possessions. One set of clothing, heavily bloodstained on the right leg from mid-thigh down. A pair of boots which had not been stolen by the Indians who had accosted the stagecoach and he would be glad for that if he ever reached anything which could pass for civilization, because two carefully-hollowed heels contained all the money he'd had left after buying that last ticket and it was still with him, for all the good it would probably do his corpse. No weapons of any kind outside of fists, teeth, and feet, with that last category not quite fully functional. A hat: one of the new styles, something he'd taken a shine to upon seeing it in St. Louis. The arguable first truly frivolous purchase of his life, a personal beacon shining towards the West. So why didn't they take it? Two whole dollars, that hat cost... They probably just hadn't wanted to see his hair. Clothing: fine. He was decent, as far as that went. Money, but as much of a place to spend it as he had prospective women to not shock, at least with his lack of nudity. Armaments: not quite. Goals... ...get moving. He was going to need food. Fresh water. Barring running across any people, both objectives currently meant river. There had to be rivers somewhere around here. Idaho Territory was starting to show promise for gold, everyone knew that. (Not why he'd come.) You couldn't pan for gold without water. So by all reason, the Territory should have plenty of rivers around. Simple thought dictated that if he moved enough in any given direction, he'd reach water. Or at least the body's drive to do something other than wait to find out what the scavenger birds would manage with a sudden cash windfall ordered the same. And a river also meant people, or at least following it meant an increased chance of same. Potentially someone who could do a better job of getting the arrowhead out than he could. Or, at the minimum, had a knife handy for when the shaft inevitably broke... ...I can wait to die here or I can go see if there's a more interesting death somewhere else. Yeah, definitely a little low on blood. He grinned, and the expression was more than a little fatalistic. It was a look he'd learned to conceal at his old -- employment -- because it inevitably made people angry when they realized he knew something was going to kill him and he didn't particularly care if it wound up being them. Death by boss had been the way of the world -- until the world had changed while making the mistake of leaving the people within it exactly the same. All right. He had his inventory. He had sunlight to move under, although hopefully not too much of it: the morning was cool enough for June, but the month meant that could change in a hurry and sweat had to be added to an excruciatingly long enemies list. With the sun just barely up, he had his compass -- and hadn't someone said all rivers ran towards the ocean, or at least tried to? Out here, that meant they would be moving west. So if he went that way... ...which was realistically still a blind grab, but hey, at least he would be doing something. He gritted his teeth and began to limp towards a personal West, paying a new kind of toll for the continuing dream. He'd decided to leave the arrowhead in place for a while. He could wait a day, see if he could find someone who would take it out for him. The agonies of even a successful removal would probably slow him down more than the pains from keeping it in the flesh sheath. It was a beautiful rainbow of feathering, really. And the blood hadn't reached it. "Go West, they said..." If he found a stagecoach depot office, he was going to demand a refund. He pictured the reaction to his demanding anything, and the laughter got him through the next forty steps. ----------------------------------------------------------------- It took him a few seconds to reconcile the horse. Oh, he'd lost blood before, far too much of it. And when the internal river ran too low in its bed, you could start to see things. He'd been keeping a very close eye on reality just to make sure it stayed that way, all too aware of just how easily a tired, thirsty, and hungry (because now there was that too) mind could conjure illusions beneath a noon sun which was far too determined to remind him of what he'd supposedly left behind in the East. So hallucinating a horse... that would have been easy. Something which indicated an increased chance of people: a farm, a ranch, a rider somewhere nearby. But he was certain he would have conjured up something with a saddle. Stirrups. Reins. And while he was at it, something he could have gotten on without using a staircase. "Jesus..." About one-third prayer, one-third startlement, and the rest was a notation that something more than casual creation might have been involved in making this. The horse had jerked its head up when it had heard him coming: the softly-exhaled word (which might have needed a leftover fraction for any potential blasphemy) made the ears twitch. It looked more startled than he felt. It was staring at him as if it -- no, she, this was a mare -- had no idea what he was or what she was supposed to do with him. But it wasn't running. Maybe... maybe it was just unfamiliar with him. It could know humans, and there was a chance anything this magnificent was (or had been) the property of -- -- 'property' was a bad word. Anyway, it could have had a rider once. Or he could be on someone's farmland, or -- and the thought hit him in a rush that made his head swim in a way blood loss never had -- it lived here, and that meant it survived here. He couldn't eat grass -- but they both needed water to live, horses could scent rivers when humans couldn't... He looked it over. It stared at him. It took about the same amount of time on both ends, but he felt he had more to go over. For starters, it was the biggest damn (and that blasphemy was fully justified) horse he'd ever seen. Possibly the biggest damn horse anyone had ever seen. At a guess... twenty-one, possibly twenty-two hands high: it would tower over him if he was directly next to it, seemed to loom across the three dozen yards separating them, and he could see no way to get on its back with an injured leg which didn't involve a fully-cooperative horse: any prospective rider who wanted to bust this bronco (and was this a bronco? He didn't know all the breeds) and met resistance would have an interesting story to tell Saint Peter, if a decidedly short one. White, almost blazingly so, coat nearly shimmering under the sunlight -- and that was with the bits of dirt it had already picked up from travel through the grasslands. No way to tell if it was shod from here. A long, classic, beautiful sort of face -- for a horse. Extremely attentive ears. Large eyes staring at him, trying to work out what to do about his presence -- large purple eyes. Something he'd never seen on any horse in the East, but humans could have purple eyes and so it didn't surprise him to see them here. The mane was -- well, since this was apparently the point where the power which created the mare had decided to knock off for the day, 'a pity' was fair. It was manure-brown (and multiple horrible shades of it), a color which would forever seem filth-encrusted even when perfectly clean, all falling to his viewing side in a cluster of Gordian tangles which Alexander would have given up on. Any attempt to brush it would have resulted in defeated or vanished combs, braiding it with ribbons was tying bows around a compost heap. In total, there was basically nothing wrong with the mane that couldn't be cured by a highly localized and extremely merciful brush fire, and it made him move his gaze along the flank, heading for the tail to see if that was just as bad -- which would incidentally let him spot any brand, proof of an owner... ...huh. The tail was almost as bad. But it was the hip that caught his attention. He stared at the yellow splotch. Not spotting, not a smear... almost perfectly circular. Brighter than he would have expected fur to be. It could have been dye painted onto the coat, too regular to be natural... but at least from his current distance, natural was what it almost seemed to be. No brand. All right -- the brand could be on the other side. Or this could just be some rancher who feels burning his horses is going too far for marking property and a little dye will do him fine. Which doesn't make sense from a rancher view: it's a lot kinder to the horse, but that dye could be scrubbed out by any thief with a good lye and five minutes to do it. Utah Territory wasn't that far away when the stagecoach got stopped and lye is available. But so far, this horse has no owner -- -- which means she probably isn't tame... She was still staring at him. She didn't seem to be particularly twitchy: his appearance had surprised her as much as she'd shocked him -- but none of that continuing evaluation came from the center of the perpetual near-panic so many horses existed within. She was -- sizing him up. He knew she could take him. Worse: so did she. "Hey there..." Her ears perked at his softly-pitched voice, and she still did not start. Some experience with humans, or just feeling she had that much control over the situation? For his part, he was talking strictly from the hope that she not only knew about voices, but might have commands she recognized. Orders she would automatically obey... ...he pushed the thought back. "Are you local?" he gently asked, risking a limping step forward. The horse made no move away from him, simply watched. It didn't look as if any part of the coat had been pressed down by a saddle, at least not recently. Wild? Free roamer on a ranch the size of Charleston? He hadn't seen a single fence... Well, he could think of one command the horse would almost have to know, presuming the owner spoke English and wasn't twelve feet tall. "Kneel?" The horse blinked -- and the evaluating look changed to what almost felt like equine outrage, with the single hard snort removing all uncertainty. He saw the right foreleg quickly go up and down, heard the stomp as it contacted the first rock for miles around. Not good. "Okay..." he just barely managed, and forced himself to try two more dragging steps through the waist-high grass towards Certain Trampling Death, circling a little to the right as he did so. (It was now mostly about checking the other side for a brand and, if he found one, saying a very sincere prayer that this giant wasn't a runaway.) The mare, knowing exactly who was in charge of the encounter, continued to watch, nostrils now slightly flared. "Sorry about that... I just thought it was a word you might know. I wasn't trying to give you an order," he lied, and the words made him sicker than the pain, "just finding out if you'd respond to one." It didn't understand him, he knew, not possibly beyond a few key words taught by a theoretical owner -- but the tone was important. Gentle, kind, steady, trying not to let the pain break through. Give her something to pay attention to other than his movements. Keep her from worrying too much, from galloping away. Also, optionally, from killing him. Which would admittedly be an interesting sort of death. Sure, it happened to people out here all the time if you believed some of the stories, but having that demise inflicted by the biggest damn horse in the world... "So what are you doing out here?" Still gentle. Still blocking the pain. Now doing a pretty good job at excluding the inner visions of hooves crushing his skull. The mare blinked again, then slowly moved her head: left, then right. She turned a little towards the former as she did so -- but kept nearly all of her focus on him. It was as if she was checking for other threats while making sure the current one (not that he could be such to her) didn't try anything -- except that she was still turning, still moving her head from side to side, searching -- -- she was facing north. She stared in that direction. Made her first vocal sound, a long nickering whinny which didn't bother going through his ears and was directly heard by his heart. A sound which said loss and need, desperation mixed with despair... The horse turned back. Faced him, blinked again. Snorted. The nostrils flared a second time, and the lips momentarily pulled back from the teeth. It was his turn to blink. Horses had emotions, he knew that, and some of those feelings could be complex ones. They had a language of their own for those who cared to learn the cues. He personally spoke very little of it: there hadn't been much opportunity. But it had felt as if he had been given a message, an almost impossibly clear one. 'I'm looking for something. Something I need. And you are not going to get in my way.' Was having a lost owner as the object of her quest too much to hope for? Of course it was. But just then, it was the best hope he had. "I'm looking, too." The tone didn't seem to assure her. "Honest." Another dragging step. "I'm looking for water. Food, shelter -- help, if I can get it. People -- which..." and blocking so much pain seemed to leave an opening for bitterness "...probably doesn't mean help, but it's my best chance..." Another step, moving into shorter grass. A light breeze from the east rustled the fronds, made the feathers move. Her head dipped. The blinks stopped. Her nostrils went wider than ever. She was staring at the arrow. Smelling his blood. And still, she did not start. "Oh, this?" He waved his right hand towards it in a dismissive manner, gauged the distance badly, brushed the shaft -- -- barely, just barely, cut back the scream. But something did emerge, somewhere between grunt and a snort of his own and the strangled cries he'd heard coming from his own body on those occasions when the whip had seemed to go all the way through his back and snake up to bind his tongue. Her ears went back and for the first time, so did her stance -- but only a fraction of a step. The stare continued. "Souvenir," and there was too much gasp in it. "You've probably heard the sayings. Go West. Find your fortune. Meet Indian raiders. Get --" sacrificed "-- thrown off your stagecoach in order to satisfy them. Ride all night with a bag over your head. Get dropped off in the middle of what's probably still the Territory because they've decided no one's coming after them and they don't need a hostage any more. Get one free arrow as payment for your services. They don't really talk up those last ones." More staggering from his end, circling as she watched, getting near the point where he could see her other hip -- -- and still no brand. Just another yellow circle-splotch. So either not owned or held by someone creative. Pick one. The second slim option was where a tiny sliver of hope still lay. "Look... I'm not going to hurt you. I just need -- water. And maybe people. You might know where they are. I don't." Inching closer, his leg screaming at him now. Would removing the arrowhead have been so bad, even if it had gone wrong? Wrong might have meant death, but death meant no pain..."I'm not going to try and ride you. I don't even know how I could get on." (Her head tilted slightly to the right, she released a small snort and tossed the ugly mane.) "But if you led me anywhere... anywhere at all..." Her eyes narrowed, and she turned to regard the north again. Went back to facing him, found him in mid-step. Gave the most dismissive neigh he'd ever heard. And the message was once again clear: 'You are not important.' His descending foot found the second rock. The uneven landing sent a cascade of pain shooting up his spine, and the sound was so much closer to a scream this time, a sound which should have sent any wild horse into panic of some kind, triggered gallop or attack, anything other than this angry scrutiny... ...he dropped to his knees, and the impact did trigger a scream. Stared at the ground through the grass, knowing it would be long minutes before he could try to stand again and there was the sound of hoofsteps now, mostly muffled by the dirt but still just distinct enough, the giant mare was moving but those sounds were heading away from him, she had no need to attack something so helpless and had dismissed the lack of problem. Moving north, back to her hunt. "Sorry..." he gasped, despite there being no real reason to speak any more. "Sorry... just... really needed a friend right now..." The hoofsteps stopped. He heard the sharp inhalation. The tiny neigh which followed it, so small a sound for so huge a body. It was an odd noise for a horse to make and it surprised him, focused his attention through the pain and made him wonder what it truly meant. Because to his pain-wracked mind, that sound had a direct human equivalent, the tiny agonized vocalization of someone who had just seen their own actions from the outside and frozen as their very soul questioned what they were doing, and surely that was a feeling no horse could ever have. And then the hoofsteps were getting closer, he wouldn't be able to stand in time, couldn't run, rolling away would do no good, this monster of a mare could catch him with no effort at all and his death would be interesting indeed but with no one to take any notice of it, there was a giant shadow being cast across him and he saw the unshod hoof, one powerful foreleg right in front of him, all she had to do was rear back and come down again, part of that shadow was dipping and he could feel the hot breath against the back of his head... ...the teeth closed on his shoulder. Gently. Just enough to grip, and then she pulled her head and body back up, brought him into a standing position which he just barely managed to maintain, reeling against and clutching at her wide neck. She allowed it. And when he was steady again, she slowly, carefully lowered her body to the ground, the entire mass gradually descending in front of his shocked gaze. She glanced at him, then seemed to nod towards her broad back. Returned her purple eyes to focusing on him. "...'friend'?" he asked, feeling more than a little dazed. "Your command word is 'friend'?" She snorted in a decidedly derisive manner, and her face briefly seemed to go dismissive -- but she nodded to her back again. Given what was very nearly the shortest distance possible to do so from, he looked her over a second time and didn't find any ambush during the search. Just the biggest damn horse in the world, a beautiful white coat contrasted by hideous mane and tail, that expressive face with its purple eyes, and the circular yellow splotch -- a color which, from this closer perspective, didn't seem to be dye at all: just the natural hue for that portion of the fur. A birthmark of sorts. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth..." he muttered. Her ears went back again, and the sound felt as if it had sprung from confusion. "It's an expression," he sighed, and did his best to climb on. She waited until he had gotten twin grips of the ugly mane, fingers woven into tangles almost beyond hope of escape, then stood up with extreme care. Made what seemed to be too much of a show out of sniffing the air. Began trotting north.