At least it was only a small war party, Laredo thought as he peered over the top of the rise from where he lie prone on his chest and stomach, in the tall damp grass.
It was the darkest and coldest part of the night; pushing toward three in the morning. The Kid had been traveling the rest of that day and all night. There was still a sliver of moon when the clouds didn’t obscure it enabling Laredo to be able to find his way, steadily heading northward, his gaze fixed on the north star.
The night had turned increasingly colder as he trudged onward and the tall grass, damp with dew, had drenched the bottoms of his jeans’ pant legs where the cuffs had been rolled half way up the sides of his worn boots.
He had heard them before he saw them. The sounds of Indians on the far side of the ridge he was approaching, had traveled far in the clear night air. The Kid had bent low, approaching the rim; keeping himself from being sky lined above the ridge.
As he approached, he fell into the thick wet grass and crawled silently to the top of the ridge.
As he peered into the valley before him, he could see about a dozen braves camped around two small fires. Further down the valley and downwind, their horses were picketed; tethered to ropes stretched between young aspen trees. Laredo could hear them stamping and snorting in the darkness, but other than that, they were just moving shadows in the darkness.
The lay of the land, being what it was, was going to make getting past the warriors very difficult. It would be foolish to move forward toward the camp and try to pass on by. He would surely be discovered. There was absolutely no hope that he could pull it off.
That left him with three options; head east, keeping to this side of the ridge until far enough away to avoid the camp and then resume north or he could head west and do the same thing, but with the horses picketed in that direction and downwind, they would probably pick up his scent and give warning to the braves.
The third alternative was to wait until the war party broke camp and rode off. But what if they rode toward the ridge and found him there?
He quickly dismissed staying where he was as an option.
Heading east would take him deeper into the mountains and deeper into Comanche country.
West was the best bet, but with the most risk. And, if he were to take that risk, he might as well make the most of it. He had been walking for hours and his feet were burning in the tight fitting cow boots that were designed for riding, not walking. His legs ached and his back pained him. He really needed a horse. And, just a short distance away, there were several horses waiting to be taken. That is, if he could get to them and ride off with one before the Comanche war party could catch him.
He lay quiet in the grass for a while, keeping himself motionless and trying to blend into the stillness of the night. The wet grass was soaking through his jeans and the front of his shirt that was not covered by his black leather vest.
Occasionally, he would lift his head slowly, to peer over the ridge for a quick glance, and then he would lower it just as slowly, fighting the urge to bob up and down quickly. He knew sudden moves could be detected much quicker than a slow even motion.
At the last glance, he could see that the camp fires were beginning to burn lower. The braves were spread out on the ground, sleeping, with only one warrior still on guard. He was sitting close to the fire and occasionally, his head would nod and then snap upward as he fought to keep himself from falling asleep.
Laredo was patient, waiting for the guard to finally doze off for more than a moment, but the buck was true to his duty and managed to avoid falling asleep.
The Kid’s only hope was that the brave, as tired as he was, would not be as alert as he should be when Laredo would finally try to chance making a move. He waited a few minutes more. The brave nodded again.
The Kid pushed himself backward in the grass, moving silently back down the protected side of the ridge until he was far enough below the ridgeline that he could rise to a crouch and move faster without being sky lined.
He scurried along at a brisk pace, but not so fast as to make a significant sound or to heighten his breathing to a level that would force him to pant.
He moved quickly and tried to judge the time and distance he was traveling. Occasionally, he would stop and rest, listening for sounds of stirrings from the camp.
When he had satisfied himself that all was still, save for the stamping and snorting of the horses, he moved on. Each time he stopped, the sounds of the horses grew louder.
When he finally determined that he must be directly above where the horses were picketed, he crept a little further onward until the sounds began to diminish. Then, hoping that he had passed the horses by, and was now downwind of them, he crawled back up the slope toward the ridge line. He bent low as he climbed until he was close to the apex of the ridge; then he fell full length into the grass once more.
He crawled the rest of the way to the top and peered over. He was right. He had passed the picket. He turned his head to the right and looked back toward the Indian camp. He could barely see the winking glow of the camp fire through the trees.
Closer to where he lay, he could see the horses milling about, in the light of the partial moon, though it was intermittently hidden by wisps of cloud. A larger cloud was passing to the west and in a moment the remaining light of the moon would be totally extinguished for a few moments, until the cloud passed on by.
The Kid waited patiently, trying to hold his excitement down. His heart was pounding in his chest against the wet grass.
The cloud drifted a little more, then some more, and just as the final glint of moon disappeared, The Kid shoved himself to his feet and ran headlong down the bank to the flat land below. As he approached the horses, he slowed his pace and moved more slowly toward them.
He passed under the picket rope and reached for the first tethered horse; a brown mustang. He bent low, reaching for the top of his boot and sliding his hunting knife from the sheath sewed into the inside lining.
The mustang shied to the side as The Kid reached for the pony’s neck rope that had been tied to the picket line. He shrieked with startle and the other horses followed suit; stamping and pawing at the ground.
As The Kid’s blade came up to slash the rope, there was a movement behind him. He whirled instantly. The blazing whites of a brave’s eyes loomed inches from his face. A tomahawk was in the warrior’s hand and his arm was raised shoulder high.
As the axe arced downward, The Kid dodged to the side, bringing his blade up and sinking it deep into the Comanche’s mid section.
The Indian was just as surprised as The Kid had been. His eyes flared wide, then the pupils shrank to dots as Laredo ripped his blade upward under the brave’s ribs and slashed sideways; then upward again.
The warrior’s knees buckled. The tomahawk fell from his fingers and he collapsed in a huddle at The Kid’s feet.
The Kid was breathing hard now as he stared down at the body, his knife still buried in the warrior’s body and stunned at what he had just done. Then, suddenly, he was aware of excited voices coming from the direction of the camp. The commotion of the horses had obviously, drawn attention.
Laredo swiveled on the balls of his feet, almost in place, and in one swift motion, he pulled his blade free from the brave’s body, and slashed it across the horse’s rope, blood still dripping from the blade.
Taking no time to sheath the weapon, he dropped the knife in the grass, grabbed a hank of horse mane and swung atop the mustang, neck reining him away from the picket line. He kicked the animal hard in the ribs and urged him forward away from the other horses and away from the camp.
Behind him, he heard the excited shouting of voices and after a moment or two he heard the sound of rifle fire, but he was already out of range. No flying lead came near him.
Without looking back, Laredo leaned over the pony’s back and urged him on at full speed. The mustang was a good horse; strong, fast, and full of stamina. He had gained a substantial lead by the time the
war party had taken up pursuit behind him.
The Kid dared not let the animal slow its pace. He had to at least maintain his lead until he could reach the mountain passes. Once in there, his pursuers would find it difficult to find him.
Spurring the mustang on and letting him have his head, The Kid kept the horse to a full gallop and rode on into the night
*****
Chapter Three
Alias: The Hangman From Hell Page 2
