Trace awoke, chilled in the darkness before dawn. The fire had gone out, and his first conscious thought was of rekindling it for Mae’s comfort. He yawned, stretched, and rolled over…only to stop dead, his eyes fixed on Mae’s bedroll. Her empty bedroll. As his heart stuttered, he tried to tell himself that maybe she’d slipped off to heed the call of nature.
A quick glance to the far side of the encampment confirmed other fears. Diablo’s hobbles lay abandoned on the ground. Trace scrambled to his feet and rushed toward them, wincing at the sharp stones beneath his stockinged feet. Snatching them up in an iron fist, he scanned the black distance in all directions for some sign of Mae. Nothing.
“Hellfire, horse feathers, and damnation!” he roared as he hurled Diablo’s hobbles to the ground. Not content with that, he let loose a string of expletives, which in turn evoked a hee-haw from the burro staked nearby. Marching over, he vented his spleen on the fool varmint. “Shut up, you lop-eared jackass! Why couldn’t you make that god-awful racket when she was making off with Diablo?”
It was beyond bearing. He was a renegade rider, and he’d had his prize stallion rustled from right under his nose not once but twice—and by a woman, no less. When this got out, and it surely would, he’d never live it down. He’d be the laughingstock of the whole territory.
Trace raked a hand roughly through his hair, trying to think. The blasted hobbles caught his eye again, and he drew back his foot and kicked them into the air with all his strength, remembering too late that he hadn’t taken the time to pull on his boots. His yowl, and the one-legged dance that followed, elicited another chorus of braying from the burro. Trace loosed another string of curses, more colorful than the last, and then stalked back to build up the campfire.
He was used to night tracking, but the circumstances were too serious to risk losing the trail in the dark. Dawn was nigh, so after tending the fire he set out a pot of Arbuckle’s to brew, awaiting first light.
After drinking half his second cup of coffee, he doused the fire by slinging the remainder into the flames. He’d decided not to break camp. In her condition, he doubted she would stay in the saddle for long. “Stupid woman wants to get herself killed,” he muttered, gathering what he’d need. “If she hadn’t lit out with Diablo, I might leave her to do just that.”
Despite his grumbling, Trace knew that wasn’t so. There was something vulnerable and panicked in her brown eyes that touched his heart in a way he couldn’t explain. It made a man want to step forward to defend her, no matter what she was running from.
Giving the donkey a glare, he told it, “Don’t you go getting yourself stolen, too, you hear?” Then, armed with his pistol, his Winchester, and a full canteen, he put on his Stetson and strode past the burro.
Mae and Diablo’s trail was easy to follow, and he tracked them on foot across the canyon to the sheerfaced wall to a shelf where she had obviously mounted. Such resourcefulness encouraged him somewhat, but the fact that she couldn’t just jump up on the stallion told him that Mae wasn’t up to making any escape. His white-lipped anger dissolved into a troubled frown. He would find her any minute, unconscious on the canyon floor; he was sure of it. He just hoped she was still alive.
Diablo’s tracks were clear and fresh; the stallion was running at a full gallop. He wasn’t branded, but Trace had notched the horse’s hooves and shoes as a means of identification to prove ownership in just such a situation as this. The trail stopped at the narrow stream snaking through the canyon, one of many tributaries that fed the Colorado River farther down. The stream was shallow here, and not too wide to cross on foot. The water barely reached midcalf at its deepest. Frustratingly, the prints didn’t pick back up on the other bank.
Looking up at the hot sun rising high in the sky, Trace sighed. “Blamed woman is smarter than I gave her credit for.” Mae had evidently ridden Diablo straight through the center of the stream to avoid leaving a trail.
Picking up his pace, Trace waded into the water and zigzagged back and forth from bank to bank for some distance. At a bend in the canyon wall, the rising water reached his hips. Then his waist. The depth and swirling eddies were a growing problem, and Trace had to struggle to keep his balance and to hold his weapons up to keep them dry. This was good news, however. Diablo was water-shy.
Assuming the horse would be too hard for her to handle, Trace crossed over, and just as he expected, he found the beast’s tracks again on the south bank. He followed them east-southeast for some time until the canyon wall gave way to flat tables and shelves leading to higher, rockier ground that would cloak Diablo’s hoofprints. Mae had ridden straight for it.
“Son of a bitch.”
And Trace cursed again when he spotted the other tracks. “One…two…three, no, four riders, riding hard.”
A short distance ahead, it was clear where they had overtaken and surrounded Mae. She had almost escaped them. Almost. The violent marks left behind on the sandy canyon bottom told the story. Diablo’s tracks, for the most part, were hind-hoof prints, showing he’d reared and spun in a vain attempt to break free of the circle of horses closing in around him. Trace imagined the confrontation only too clearly.
He followed. Mae had not gone willingly. She had fought her attackers, both on and off Diablo. She’d been dragged off the stallion by the look of it, broken free, and run. One man had jumped from his horse and gone after her. She hadn’t gotten far. There had been a skirmish then. The imprint of two struggling bodies was clearly visible in the red sand, along with ruts from Mae’s boots as she was dragged off.
“Poor, stupid fool. She never had a chance.” Trace removed his hat to mop sweat from his brow, blinking back tears. Why hadn’t she stayed with him? He could have protected her.
He put together what had happened next. The riders had headed southwest, Diablo with them, bucking and rearing to the last. But Trace lost their trail in the rocks, and blind fury set his blood boiling. How could she have courted this fate rather than confide in him? Double damn, it was his fault. He’d spooked her.
Farther up ahead, a swatch of blue caught his eye: his kerchief. The same one he’d fashioned into a sling for Mae. He picked up the pace and, squatting on his haunches, dragged it from a tumbleweed. The knot was still tied. There was blood on it.
A flaming sun died on the horizon, painting the sky over the western hills with bands of crimson, gold, and turquoise blue, that majestic beauty almost taunting Trace as he limped back toward his camp. He was thirsty, hungry, and sore to the bone.
“On top of that, I must be hallucinating,” he grumbled—and pulled up short. The tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee, biscuits, and what smelled like hot son-of-a-bitch stew threaded through his nostrils, riding on the fragrant smoke of burning sagebrush.
Cocking his Winchester, he crept along in the shadows of the rocky shelf. He could have sworn he had doused the campfire. Taking aim, he leveled the rifle on a wizened, rags-clad figure in a floppy slouch hat. He was seated on the ground, stirring part of the aforementioned hallucination with a long-handled spoon.
“Don’t move a muscle,” Trace warned the intruder.
“I heard you coming, young fella,” the man replied without turning. “Heard you before you rounded that ridge back yonder. Not too smart. You want to watch that. Could get you killed.”
“You’re the one courting death, old-timer, messing with another man’s camp,” Trace growled. “Who in hell are you?”
It was as though Trace hadn’t asked the question. “Them Navajos didn’t teach you much, did they?”
Trace stood slack-jawed.
The old man did turn then, and presented him with a sly wink and a gap-toothed smile. “No magic. I found your medicine bag,” he explained.
Trace shook his head to clear it and tossed the man’s words back into his face. “Do you always make free with a man’s belongings without so much as a howdy-do? Not too smart. You want to watch that. Could get you killed.”
“Now, ain’t that
gratitude for you?” The intruder laughed. “Here I fix you vittles, feed your jackass, and keep watch over your outfit for you, and what do I get for my pains? Piss and vinegar, that’s what. Didn’t your mama teach you no manners?”
“Leave my mother out of this. Answer my question,” Trace demanded. “Who gave you leave to go rummaging through my kit?”
“Why, nobody,” the old man said. “You see anyone around here to say yea or nay, except that fool burro? I stumbled onto your camp—coffee still warm in the pot, that jackass over there with his tongue hanging out for want of water, hobbles on the ground, with no horse in them…and tracks I take to be yours, leading off into the canyon. Seemed you lit out in a hurry. I got tired of waiting for you to come back, so I had me a look-see through your packs to find out if you was worthy of some of my stew. Ain’t as good as I usually make, sorry to say—not enough critter parts. Mostly beans, some wild onions. But an empty belly makes everything tastes better, eh?”
“So I passed muster?” Trace asked.
“Well enough,” the old man replied with a crisp nod. “I don’t break bread with outlaws or rustlers. I got you figured for a man come to hard luck or hard times. Maybe both.”
“You still haven’t told me who you are,” Trace persisted. “I’m pretty careful who I break bread with myself.”
“Some folks call me Pappy, but that ain’t my real name. Some folks call me Slops, since I done my time as camp cook over the years. Tain’t my real name, neither. Take your pick, or call me what ever you like. Truth told, folks have given me so many handles over the years, I don’t rightly remember what my real name is.” He dosed Trace with a sober stare. “Around these parts, young fella, sometimes it’s better that way.”
Trace stared at the strange figure patiently stirring his pot. He looked like one of those raggedy leprechauns his mama had told him about at bedtime when he was small. Still, his belly was getting the better of his caution, as the aroma of that stew was sheer torture. He hadn’t had a bite to eat all day, just the few swigs of coffee, since he’d been so anxious to set out after Mae. His stomach rumbled and his mouth began to water. He swallowed back the hunger. Dealing with an old “sourdough” was the last thing he needed. But oh, the smell of that stew…
“Well?” The old man brayed a laugh, which set off Trace’s burro again. “Are you going to stand there slackjawed, or put that damn Winchester down and grab a plate?”
With a sigh, Trace leaned the rifle against his saddle.
Chapter Three
Trace didn’t know what to make of the new intruder. He’d been a loner too long for trust to come easily. Putting faith in the wrong people often put a cowboy in his grave, and this man showing up so soon after Mae made Trace think twice about trusting him. Still, there was something about the old geezer that seemed harmless, and Trace’s guard slowly relaxed.
“You got a name, son?” the drifter asked, taking a final bite of biscuit.
Trace set his plate aside and settled back with his tin cup full of perfectly brewed coffee, watching the old man through the flames of the campfire. Finally he said, “Ord—Trace Ord.”
“Not your real handle, though, I’ll wager.”
“Like you said, old man, sometimes it’s better that way.”
“Yep, that’s what I figured.”
“Where’d you come from anyway?” Trace pressed. He wanted answers—or at least some reason to trust the old man’s sudden appearance.
“Originally? Back East—”
Trace gave him a level stare. “No, today. Did you happen on a pack of riders—five, maybe six—heading southwest?”
Pappy shook his head. “I’m down from Flat Springs,” he said.
“Too far north,” Trace grunted. “You wouldn’t have seen them. Where are you headed anyway?”
“Just drifting,” Pappy replied. “Figured I’d head on out toward California. Heard there’s still gold in the desert out there, if a man knows where to look for it.”
Trace shook his head at the notion. “Death Valley? You must be addled? That’s no place for an old-timer. Not with summer coming on. That desert is hell on earth, a man-killer. How do you think it got its name?”
The old man shrugged. “Prospecting is just about the only occupation I haven’t tried my hand at. A man can’t brag about what he ain’t done, and I aim to brag about it all afore I die. Bragging is what I do best, son. Where were you aiming to head before you lit out on foot like you got bee-stung? And where’s your horse? You ain’t been riding that burro, that’s for dang sure.”
“I was headed for the Lazy C. A couple rancher friends of mine are looking for some horses that somebody made off with. Rumor has it that more than one herd’s made its way to the Lazy C. I aim to see if theirs is among ’em,” Trace admitted.
Pappy looked skeptical. “Old Colonel Comstock’s place, eh? That’s a bad outfit, son. You don’t want to be messing around the Lazy C. Word is, it was a pretty square spread when the old man was running it.” He paused to sip his coffee, shooting Trace a dark look. “The son’s got it now. Ain’t no meaner hombre in the Territories than Jared Comstock. Heard tell he ain’t above rustling or worse. He’d sooner shoot a man as look at him, is what people say.”
“I’m going there just the same. You know where it is?”
Pappy pointed. “See them mountains? That’s the Hualapai Range. The Lazy C sits just east of that gap there in the middle. But what—you aiming on walking in there single-handed, expecting him to just hand over all the horses he’s stole? And you called me addled.” He snorted.
“I had planned to cut out a few wild mustangs, maybe even the one the Indians call Standing Thunder if I got lucky, and use them as bait to get myself hired on as a wrangler. Only, now I’ve got to catch up with those riders I asked about. I tracked them southwest to the rocks, and then lost the trail in the dark. I left a marker. I’ll head back to the spot come first light and scour the area until I pick it up again.”
“You sure must want them hombres pretty bad,” Pappy muttered.
“One of them stole my horse.”
“Well, that explains you being on foot. I had you pegged for either a wrangler or a lawman. I can smell the law a mile downwind of a cyclone.”
“Is that right? You got problems with the law, Pappy?”
“Nope. I just spot ’em.”
“Well, I’ve done my share of days as deputy,” Trace admitted, “but I’m no lawman. Never been on the wrong side of the law, though, if that’s what’s about to come out of your mouth. But that’s likely to change once I catch up with those riders.”
“I don’t want nothing to do with bounty hunters,” Pappy remarked. “Can’t trust ’em.”
Trace flashed a grin. “You might say I’m a bounty hunter—of sorts. But I hunt horses, not men.”
“That why you tote a gun with no trigger guard? You sure you ain’t a gunslinger?”
“I’m no gunslinger, Pappy, but I like staying alive. A man has to have an edge to survive out here.”
“A renegade rider?” Pappy realized. Trace steeled himself against what was coming. “And you got your horse stole?” The old man shook his head and clicked his tongue, chuckling. “That don’t say much for your talents, do it? You ain’t been at it long, have you?”
“Long enough,” Trace growled, hurling the dregs of his coffee into the fire. A plume of hissing, spitting steam shot up.
“Don’t go gettin’ your britches in a twist. I’ll help if I can,” Pappy offered.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a horse stashed someplace, would you?” Trace asked. “That’s about the only way you could help me now.”
“Just that old jackass staked alongside yours over there. Where’s your partner? Did he get his horse stole, too?”
Trace blinked. “What partner?”
The old man crooked his thumb toward the two bedrolls.
Trace drew the bloodstained kerchief from the back pocket of his jeans and fing
ered it absently. “I shot a thief stealing my horse, night before. Turned out to be a woman running from something.”
“A woman out here? Alone?”
Trace nodded. “The wound wasn’t bad. I wasn’t shooting to kill. What ever she’s running from must have scared her pretty bad.”
Pappy filled in the blanks: “So she stole your horse again. And you set out after her.”
“Yep. And I mean to get that damned horse back,” Trace concluded.
The old-timer frowned, scratching his grizzled beard. “A man gets his horse stole, he gets mad. You ain’t mad so much as you’re worried. I’m guessing that worry is for that little horse thief.”
“She’s on the run—and I did shoot her, after all,” Trace confessed. “And now that pack of riders has her and my horse.”
“And you plan on going up against five or six men alone?” Pappy took sand and rubbed the tin plates to clean them. After a moment he added, “She must be something. A man can always wrangle another horse, so I’m thinking you’re more concerned about that gal.”
Irritation pulsed through Trace. “I spent five years of my life stalking that stallion, tracking him from canyon to canyon and finally cutting him out of a herd single-handed. Snapped a bone in my wrist breaking him.”
“You might be proud of the stallion, but it’s concern over that gal eating away at your insides. And most likely your conceit is scorpion-bit by her stealing your pride and joy, twice. Bad mix of emotions riding you, renegade. You best be careful. When a woman gets under a man’s skin, he loses that edge you were talking about.”
Trace’s jaw flexed. “She ain’t ‘under my skin.’ I just want my horse back.”
Pappy laughed. “Then them mules ain’t the only thing stubborn around here.” He paused before suggesting, “Since we’re both heading in the same general direction, maybe I’ll throw in with you for a spell.”
Trace shook his head. “I travel alone, old-timer. Then I only have to worry about myself.”
Renegade Riders Page 3
