#erebus0dora

Angel kept tight rein on his temper as he shuffled the deck. It wouldn't do to let anyone see his intent, not before it was too late. Pass. Cut. He flicked the cards across the table with expert precision, eyeing each of his competitors in turn. Not a good enough hand. Fold. He passed the deck to the man next to him.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

A small wager. Loss.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

Fold.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

A large wager. Win.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

A larger wager. Win.

Shuffle. Cut. Deal.

Fold.

In the guttering light of the backwater saloon, Angel raked in his winnings with a smug grin. Amateurs. Especially the one in the bowler hat. That imbecile had played right into his hand on multiple levels until the man had left the table with little more than the clothes on his back. Good. Served him right. Now that Angel had what he wanted, though, there was no point in sticking around.

"Gentleman." He stood, offering them a nod, and pocketed the cash. The hastily scribbled receipt of ownership, however, he kept between his fingers.

The stables were dark when he entered, but it didn't take much to find the stable boy curled up in the corner of the lone empty stall. He nudged the boy with his boot until he woke.

"Get my horse," he demanded, "and that red gelding with the white blaze."

The boy scrambled to obey, leading the paint mare to its owner before gathering up the tack.

"The gelding, boy," Angel barked.

"That one's not yours, sir," the boy replied. "It belongs to that short fella with the black vest and bowler hat."

"It's mine now." He waved the paper at him. "Now get the damn horse." The suspicious look the boy threw his way made him glad he'd gotten three witness signatures; he'd be damned before he got hung for being a horse thief.

He tied the mare's lead rope to one of the rings as he was brought his prize. With a shrewd eye, he looked the animal over, hands gliding over withers and flanks as he moved about. The chestnut beast was narrower than he generally preferred, but he'd known it would be. The cursory inspection would have to do; the animal didn't appear too lame for light travel.

He threw his saddle pad over the mare's back and began to tack up, keeping the gelding's rope in hand all the while. In a few minutes, he was astride the black and white horse and heading out with the other in tow. It took a couple of hours, but the small camp came into view as he rounded the last outcropping.

"Jesus Christ, Angel," the man at the fire cussed as the gambler rode in. "Another one?"

He didn't deign to reply. Dismounting, he tied the mare to the picket line and led the gelding closer to the fire where he could see it better. Its eyes began to roll and it pulled back on the rope, head lifting as it sank onto its haunches. A few snorts of distress accentuated its opinion. He made gentle shushing noises as he darted to the side, one hand up to draw the animal's attention to him while he turned them away from the flames. It quieted, but stayed at the end of the rope, ears flicking back.

"Easy, boy," Angel cooed. He took a small step forward, maintaining pressure on the rope. Changing hands, he snuck a little closer still. The animal's head turned so it could eye him, but it didn't pull away. "That's it. Good boy. That mean son-of-a-bitch ain't got you no more."

By the fire, his compatriot groaned and rolled his own eyes in exasperation. "What was it this time?"

Angel's eyes darted his way, a brief glare. "Bastard had a nasty set a spurs and no compunction about using 'em."

His disgust was evident. "You can't save them all."

"I saved this one," he replied defiantly. "If you don't like it, you can hit the damn road."

The man just shook his head and went back to stoking the fire. It wasn't snowing, but it was still cold in March. Angel had made it to the horse's shoulder by then and he stroked the beast with long, firm draws of his hand. Slowly, he made his way around.

It was in sound condition and lifted its feet without much fuss, so at least the farriers had been reasonably kind to it. He doubted the man in the bowler hat could have been bothered to check the hooves as Angel now did, working over the fleshy parts and dips and toe with careful precision. The shoes were nailed well, newly done from the looks of it.

Old blood was caked along its sides, scabbing over the places where the spurs had pierced without remorse. It flinched from his touch, so he left those places for now. The animal was already breathing hard enough; no need to torment it further. By the time he had passed behind the horse and worked his way back to its chest, he had reevaluated his opinions.

It may not have been as stocky or tall as what he usually rode, but it carried itself with a natural collection that could sometimes be hard to get even from reasonably well trained animals. It was better bred than he'd thought, but not for the kind of work that would be required of it out here. This was a horse better suited to that dainty stuff the English did.

A week passed. His companion left for better money. He kept moving. Another town, another poker table. Eventually, the wounds healed and all the gelding had to show for it were a few stray hairs of white. Angel itched to try the animal under saddle and, after a few more days, gave in to the urge.

He didn't really need a pack animal since he traveled lightly, so he hadn't asked for much in the way of work so far. Which meant it wasn't much of a surprise when, upon approaching the horse with his saddle, it danced away from him. It shied and dragged its feet, throwing up dust around the tree where he'd tied it. He stopped, waited for it to calm down, and tried again. With the same result. It took a half hour of such shenanigans before it finally stayed in place enough for him to lay hand on it.

"That's it," he praised. "Spirited thing, ain't ya?" He ran a hand over its withers and watched its ears. "I don't think this will be too bad. You'll see. You and me might get along just fine."

The snort it gave seemed a fairly straightforward response: I doubt it.

Piece by piece, he got the animal tacked up. Blanket. Saddle. Girth. Breast collar. By the time he was ready to try the bridle, risking his hands near the animal's mouth, the beast appeared to have gained some interest in the proceedings and tolerated his work. He reached over the saddle, waving his hand on the animal's other side. It glanced that way, but didn't seem bothered. He grabbed pommel and cantle, rocking the saddle, and received a similar response.

Tempted, he tested his boot in the stirrup only for the beast to suddenly dart forward a step. He laughed, having half expected it, and led it to circle around him before bringing it right back to where it had been standing. "Let's try that again," he commented and lifted his foot. This time it stayed still.

There were a couple more tests. Standing in just the one stirrup. Leaning way over the saddle and drawing the horse's attention again. More favorable responses. Slowly, he pivoted, swinging his leg over, and settled into the saddle. The gelding sighed, flicking an ear in his direction, but gave no other indication that he had bothered it.

A little pressure with his legs, a little slack in the reins, and they began to move. Oh. From walk to jog to lope, he encouraged the animal's pace. It moved...beautifully. He couldn't recall having ever owned an animal that flowed like this one. He lifted his hands slightly, giving the leg cues. If it was as well trained as he thought...yes! It lengthened its stride at once, responding to the subtle give and take of pressure with alacrity.

With a whoop of joy, he asked for more and they tore off across the landscape. The little chestnut gelding gave him everything. Quick turns. Flying lead changes. It never even balked at the unexpected sinkhole, collecting and carrying them over it as if it were all part of the plan. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he reined them in and patted the animal's neck heartily. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he scratched at the horse's mane.