Page 13 of Smart@ss Cyborg

“Don’t you want down?” I ask him, stymied. I hate to state the obvious but… “Then you should… get down.”

He doesn't.

Strange. He’s acting as if he can’t. His tail whips at his hindquarters in agitation.

“Why not use the stairs you used in the first place?” I ask him, curious.

“He’s SCARED!” the woman behind me explodes, making me jump.

Her shout makes all the equines jump too.

Forehead furrowing, I transfer my consternated gaze from her to Paco. “Why?”

“It’s too far down!” the woman says with a surprising amount of passion. “Now that you’ve let him go up there, you have toshowhim how to get down. And if you don’t scare him when you do it,” she adds, “if you take the time to show him how to use the stairs to get off the porch, he’ll never forget how to get down by himself. Donkeys are really smart. But if you’re mean, you’ll ruin him. He’ll get scared of going down stairs for the rest of his life.”

Transferring my puzzled frown from the donkey to the woman, I nearly ask,What will happen if I leave him to figure this out on his own?

Before I can say anything, she shakes her head. “If you don’t help him and he jumps, he could break his legs—which means he dies. He instinctively knows that. Since he’s probably never used stairs before, it’s scary for him and he’s not going to be able to go down. You shouldn’t have let him up the steps in the first place.”

Stunned at the amount of words that have burst from her, I turn and look back on her, surprised when she shies away from me further. Her brain tells me she’s growing more afraid. I keep my voice very calm. Easy. “Technically, he didn’t ask for my permission. Past experience tells me that had I told him not to attempt it, he would have disregarded my order. How much do you think he weighs?”

Straightening, eyeing me with caution, the woman ventures a guess, her gaze flitting to Paco who is snorting and stamping his hooves on the porch. “Five hundred pounds? Six? He’s the chunkiest donkey I’ve ever seen. In case you didn’t know, his neck crest being thick like that? It isn’t good. You shouldn’t overfeed him.”

“I didn’t know,” I tell her. “And I didn’t overfeed him.” I move for Paco, surprised when he walks to my hand. I don’t catch his bridle like he’s evidently expecting—just before I reach him, he throws his head to the side, away from my fingers.

Which is fine. I drop my arm and catch him around his breast bone and around his hindquarters, preparing to lift him off the porch.

“Youcan’tpick him up! You’re going to give yourself a hernia—” the woman starts to call out, but I’ve already raised the animal and I’m carefully setting him on the ground before she can finish sharing her opinion.

I raise my eyes to hers, releasing the suddenly still animal and standing to my full height, dusting off my hands and arms. “Well, I thank you again for the hospitable trade. I’ve debated if I should offer to help you bury the dead men, but I really should be on my way. I need to find lodging for the night, unless you would rent me a room?”

Something in what I say seems to upset her; her eyes begin their leaking again. Which is a shame. She causes me less discomfort when she keeps herself under control. “You need a place to stay?”

“Yes,” I confirm, moving around Paco, who has dropped his muzzle to my boot, where I feel his flat grazer’s teeth testing the width of my foot. “Stop it,” I warn.

The woman’s head jerks back. “What did you say?”

“I told him to stop tasting my boot.” I motion for the donkey. “Meet Paco. He’s a smartass.”

As if to prove it, he snakes forward to allow his nose to better follow my boot and closes his teeth over it until my toe sensors send warning signals to my brain.

Biting my boot is keeping him still, so I let him gnaw on my foot through the leather and reach for the saddlebags on his side and begin to empty my few possessions. Spare bullets for the pistol I wear in my hip holster, a spare shirt, jeans, socks, and what’s left of my money.

Unfortunately, purchasing Paco cost me half of what I had. I give the animal a sour look and jerk my boot from his squeezing lips and testing teeth. Resisting the urge to growl at him, I step back.

I move for the chestnut horse, casting a last glance at the buttermilk, appreciating his soft cream color. Since the woman didn’t say I could swap horses, I assume that her reply is otherwise a no. As I approach the animal’s rump, I stroke my hand over its hip.6 = 6is branded here, on its left side.

A “Scab” brand. Specifically a “Scab Six.”

My initial research about this planet took a dive into ranch brands. Brands with an equal sign are known as Scab brands because the two burned lines often heal together, forming a thick single scab.

When brands are by definition identifiable, the Scab brand stands out. Pondering this, I open the chestnut’s saddlebag, about to deposit my things inside… and stop.

“What’s wrong?” the woman says, standing beyond my elbow.

“There’s a common form of tender in here,” I tell her. “A lot of it, I think.”

A jerky movement catches my eye and I glance over at her. But as my attention shifts, she freezes. She’s staring at me, indecision written all over her face.

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