B
oy,
you do seem to just dig that hole deeper and deeper. Keep at it, and it’ll be deep enough for a grave, if’n you ain’t careful.” Preacher gave Trace a dark stare. “How’d you get involved with them Injuns anyway?”
“Hunting horses,” Trace answered, helping Preacher refill their barrels with fresh spring water. “A few years ago I was up on the mesa tracking Standing Thunder—had an idea of capturing him and starting a herd, stopping being a renegade rider. Almost had him, too, but the rope snapped and the fool stallion came at me. Got me pretty good. The Indians took me in, healed me. I owed them for saving me, healing me, and for a number of other things. In return, Wild Eagle asked my help. His daughter was gone, taken by white men. Frankly, I think the girl went willingly. She has hungry eyes, wants more than a nomadic life. White Eagle couldn’t go after her, so he asked me. I had to say yes. The girl apparently set her sights on me.”
“Poor girl,” the old man mused, pouring another bucket into a half-full barrel. “You going to tell Mae about her?”
“There’s nothing to tell. I did a job for a friend, nothing more.” Trace shrugged, not needing this new complication.
Preacher shook his head. “Seems to me that keeping things from Mae is more dangerous than not, likely to cause more trouble just when you don’t need it. Like the snake that strikes without rattling, might bite you in the rear end. Aren’t you thinking of marrying the girl?”
“Well, Ord!” Comstock’s booming voice interrupted their conversation. The man strode through the camp, kicked a couple of hands to wake them up, and moved toward Trace. “Did you find those Injuns?”
“I did,” said Trace, reaching for the coffeepot. “White Eagle agreed to meet us at Echo Canyon.”
“That’s where the horses are, eh?” There was calculation in Comstock’s eyes; the man was clearly considering dispensing with Trace and the Indians now that he knew the location of the herd.
Trace shrugged. “They won’t be sitting there waiting, that’s for sure. Echo Canyon is just our meeting place with White Eagle. He’ll help us track the herd from there.”
“How much does he want?” Comstock asked.
“Three horses.
Good
ones. Still, I told you they would work cheap,” Trace returned. “White Eagle owes me a heavy debt. So you’re benefiting from that.”
Comstock took the coffeepot from the nearby fire and poured some into his cup. “Lucky you. Lucky me. You sure he won’t go back on his word?”
“Once White Eagle gives his word, it’s law.”
“You better be dealing straight with me, Ord,” Comstock warned, his demeanor having suddenly soured.
“Something don’t sit right about you. I’ve had a queer feeling since the first time I clapped eyes on you, and a man who ignores his feelings is a fool apt to get killed.”
Trace sipped some coffee himself. “I can pack and leave right now. Then you can go on to Echo Canyon on your own. Of course, White Eagle won’t even show himself, let alone aid you.”
All talk stopped as Mae appeared. She paused, her eyes locking on Trace, seeing him conversing with her husband. Not speaking, she approached. Trace gritted his teeth as the little bells around her ankle jingled. And if he was riled by the bell, Trace’s blood actually boiled when he caught Slade leering at Mae.
Preacher’s eyes flashed to Trace; then the old man picked up a tin cup and filled it. He made to pass the cup to Slade, but as he did, coffee splashed onto the gunman’s hand. Slade howled in pain and grabbed at Preacher, but the old-timer deftly sidestepped.
“You clumsy old bastard,” the gunslinger thundered. “You did that on purpose!”
“I did not!” Preacher said, bristling. “I was just giving you coffee to help you wake up. If’n your eyes hadn’t been glued where they shouldn’t be, you wouldn’t have missed taking it.”
Slade’s gun was out of its low-slung holster and in his hand, cocked and aimed at Preacher, before anyone had a chance to blink. Trace’s gun followed suit, only it was aimed at Slade.
“Don’t think you really want to do that, boy.”
Comstock flushed red along his neck. “Both of you put those hog legs away. Now! And, Slade, you keep your eyes where they belong. Understand?”
The youngster swung his gun so that it pointed at Jared. “Oh, I understand things. The question is, do you? Remember, you don’t give me orders. Ever. I don’t think I need to spell the situation out any plainer.”
All eyes were trained on the pair, waiting for the first person to blink. Trace stood quietly, ready to kill one man or both.
Mae’s white face haunted his peripheral vision. Her hand went to her mouth, and she was clearly terrified everything was about to erupt in deadly violence. Her gasp caused Slade’s eyes to shift to her for a heartbeat. That was a mistake. One someone like Slade should never make.
A loud crack broke the silence. Comstock stepped forward, his blacksnake whip unfurled and ready to snap again. “I’m boss around here. And don’t anyone forget it. All of you—get about your business. Eat up, we’ve a hard ride ahead.”
Slade sneered at the word
boss
but eased his gun back into his holster. He was a hothead, like all gunslingers, but this attitude toward Comstock seemed beyond a young man’s natural arrogance. Something just wasn’t right in all this, but Trace was damned if he could figure out what.
Trace holstered his Colt, meeting Slade’s eyes. The bastard had taken notice of how fast he was and wouldn’t forget; cockiness would surely push the youngster to find out which of them was faster. Trace sighed. He was going to have to kill the boy before this was all through.
Mae wanted into the back of the wagon for a good hard cry. She’d been terrified that Trace and Slade were going
to shoot it out, and that Trace would be the loser. Her heart had pounded like a terrified jackrabbit’s, especially as Slade, who was supposed to be in Comstock’s pay, made it clear he wasn’t answerable to the man.
“Remember, you don’t give me orders. Ever. I don’t think I need to spell the situation out any plainer
,” the gunslinger said.
What situation? Was Jared working with someone else, maybe someone on the receiving end of the horses they were going to sell? Could Slade and Morgan both be working for this unknown man, riding herd on Jared to make sure he lived up to whatever bargain he’d made? That was the only thing that came to mind. But who? No one had ever come to the ranch who fit that bill—and of course the situation hadn’t seemed to help Morgan in the end. Still, Mae quivered at the idea of a new person being introduced to this mix. She didn’t doubt that whomever Jared Comstock dealt with would be evil.
Preacher came and offered his hand to help her to climb up into the wagon. Their eyes met, and he gave her a smile. It was forced. The old man, too, had seen how Slade openly stared at her, not fearing Jared’s reaction. That was why he’d deliberately spilled coffee on Slade: it both blistered the gunslinger’s hand, maybe giving Trace a tiny advantage should things come to a shoot-out, and drew attention to the young man’s impropriety.
“Chin up, missy. They say it’s darkest before the dawn.” Preacher lifted his shaggy eyebrows as he gave her a boost.
Sadly, Preacher’s words did little to disquiet her growing apprehension.
T
race
sat atop Diablo that evening, surveying the land. Everything had passed quietly since the incident with the spilled coffee, but the whole outfit still seemed to be walking on eggshells, waiting for something to happen. Everyone knew Slade would only wait so long before calling him out. Especially since he was fast.
He’d erred in letting everyone see just how fast he was, Trace knew. Now it was gnawing at the gunslinger, which of them was faster. Trace had seen it before: every young buck trying to earn a name glommed onto another gunman as the means. Like the way gold fever struck some men, making them blind to anything else, being top draw infected the mind of many a gunslinger, became an all-out obsession.
This was a damn nightmare. He hadn’t truly intended to trap the horses with Comstock; he’d just wanted to lure him away from the ranch long enough for Preacher to get Mae safely headed back to Kentucky. Now he was forced to continue the farce, waiting for an opportunity to escape.
“How far is Flat Springs from here?” Comstock asked,
coming up alongside Trace. “I figure it best we stock up on supplies. You think they’d have barbwire in supply? Would making cornering those horses in a box canyon a damn sight easier. We could drive them down the coulee. Once they reach the end, we could draw the makeshift fence of barbed wire over the opening and have them trapped. What do you think?”
Trace hated such a strategy. Cattlemen and horse men alike detested the wire, preferring free-range grazing and the use of branding to maintain one’s herd. Animals were cut up or often died in the tangle. The use had caused many feuds and range wars to break out. That Comstock would want to use it didn’t surprise Trace one bit.
Still, it was a legitimate excuse to make the side trip to Flat Springs. Trying to avoid suspicion, Trace tried not to appear too anxious. “Sound idea. Though you better be prepared for some cut-up horses. You could detour there alone while the drive heads north and meets up with White Eagle and his tribe. Shouldn’t take you a day, maybe a day and a half to catch up.”
Comstock barked, eyes moving over him to judge Trace’s suggestion. “And leave my wife here with the lot of you? You must think I’m a damn fool.”
Trace shrugged. “You’re the one who brought her. There’s no place for a woman on a drive, in my opinion. You already see how Slade’s forgetting his place. Sticking a woman in a camp of men is like dragging a mare in season before a herd of stallions. Men get loco, edgy. Edgy men do stupid things.”
Comstock didn’t say more about the wire until they stopped for supper. Taking the plate piled with
stew and biscuits Preacher handed him, he sat down on a fallen tree. After a few bites he asked, “Any of you boys know the way?” He lifted his fork while awaiting a reply.
“I’ve been there once—a while back,” Chip drawled. “Not much of a town, as I recall. Of course, they rarely are. General store, trading post, livery, and saloon. Had a dirtier saloon gal than I’ve seen anywhere else. She was named Rose as I recall. Had this rose tattoo on her fat as—”
All the men broke in to howls of laughter, cutting him off.
“Heard ol’ Rose set her cap on marrying you, Chip,” Ben joked. “Wanted you to make an honest woman of her—and to scrub her back on Saturday night.”
Comstock kicked Chip’s booted feet. “I didn’t ask about your whoring. Will they have what we need? I am hoping they’ll have barbed wire.”
The cowpoke shrugged. “They might. Hard to say. Only, you’ll need a wagon to fetch enough of it. Maybe you can buy one there.”
“How about you, Ben?” Comstock asked. “You up to the ride?”
“I reckon I could, if’n that’s what you want,” the hand replied.
Comstock finished off the food on his plate. Once he was done, he wiped his mouth and ordered, “Make tracks in the morning, boys. Get what we need and meet up with us at Echo Canyon.”
As the man stood and started back to the chuck wagon, probably for more food, Trace’s heart began to pound. This, he couldn’t allow. He needed to be the
one to go to Flat Springs. Then he could send a telegraph to the men who’d hired him and tell them where they were headed and that he’d found their rustled stock. It was imperative either he or Preacher go, and Preacher wouldn’t be sent because he was needed to cook.
Jared sat down with another plate of Preacher’s stew. Trace waited until Ben and Chip emptied their plates and went about several last-minute chores, paused before biting into his biscuit. “Not telling you your business or anything,” he said, “but you must like to toss your money around. Supplies, wires, cutters, a wagon, and a mule? Big wad of bills you’re going to hand those two. Bet Chip’ll be glad to see Rose and her tattoo.” He smirked, as if pondering how the trail hands would spend Comstock’s dough.
Jared glanced around the campfire, his expression revealing that he really didn’t trust any of the crooks he’d hired. “I’m not leaving Mae—not after what went on with that bastard, Morgan.” His jaw clenched as his eyes found Slade. The gunslinger lounged on his side while eating his food, but he could’ve been chewing sawdust and he wouldn’t have noticed; his eyes were fixed on Mae. She sat beside the tent, eating her meal. Slade’s cold black stare never left her.
Comstock tossed his fork down on his plate. He stared at Trace. “Why don’t
you
go? You’re wanting to catch those horses as much as I. At least I can trust you to get there and back with what we need and not waste my money on some fat whore.”
Trace frowned. “I hoped to ride on ahead of you all, meet up with White Eagle. We could start tracking
them horses a mite early…” His eyes flicked past Comstock toward the wagon, as if checking if there were any biscuits left, but really he was eyeing Mae. Her face was ashen and her eyes wide with worry at the prospect of him riding off and leaving her alone. But there seemed no help for it, not if he wanted to call in the law. Since Comstock was keeping his distance from her, he was less concerned about leaving Mae behind with him.
Of course, there was also Slade. The gunslinger wanted her. And he wanted Trace dead. Trace would have to trust Comstock to keep her safe, with Preacher watching over her as well, until he could return.
But he still couldn’t let his enthusiasm show. “I’m no grip, handling supplies. I’m a wrangler, a broncobuster.” Trace got up and snatched another biscuit from the nearly empty pan.
Comstock held up his own plate and addressed Preacher. “Pass me that last biscuit, old-timer. You might be a sourpuss to look at, but you sure can cook. And you follow orders.” He waited until Preacher obliged him. “I’m boss of this outfit and I’m tired of people forgetting that. Trace, I’ll give you the money and list of what I need. Ride hard. Get the supplies and catch up with us at Echo Canyon. You need to be there to deal with that Indian friend of yours. He doesn’t owe me anything.”
“I’m taking the black,” Trace warned.
“You’re mighty partial to him, ain’tcha, Ord?” Comstock observed. He was staring holes through Trace. “You wouldn’t be getting
too
attached to him, now, would you? My wife’s horse?”
“You just ordered me to get to the Springs and then up to Echo Canyon before you meet up with the Walapai. I need a fast set of legs under me,” Trace drawled. “And a horse like that needs riding every day. If I go, no one will be doing that. Mae certainly won’t.”
“Awww, take him,” Comstock consented. “But you better be at that canyon before those Indians show or there’ll be hell to pay. In fact, you’d better get going right away.”
Sighing, Trace said, “You’re the boss.” He tipped his hat and went to pack up.
Behind him he heard Comstock grumble, “Damn glad someone around here remembers that.”
Every step Diablo took away from the group increased Trace’s sinking sensation that he shouldn’t have left Mae behind. Only, there was nothing for it. What, Preacher and he would just up and shoot their way out, praying Mae would be okay? Or maybe he could talk White Eagle and his braves into slaughtering Comstock and his men in front of her. That’d be just peachy.
No, the law had to get involved. They had plenty of proof now. As much as he wanted to kill Comstock, it was likely better and safer to see things done properly—especially since Jared was now allowing Mae to maintain her distance. She was safe there with Preacher. The only drawback was Slade. The old man was no match for the gunslinger, and Trace was fearful that neither was Jared. But he was trapped into this plan.
Cursing every second away from her, Trace made the trip to Flat Springs in record speed. He was saddle-tired and dusty as he rode into town. Once there, he sent
wires to Sam Overton of the Bar O and Bret Thorne of the Double Bar T, giving them the facts: their horses had been found and indeed could be collected at the Lazy C. He also gave the direction of where the outfit was headed, just in case. Thorne’s ranch was just north of the canyons. He had a feeling the man might ride to intercept them and make sure Jared was taken into custody before going on to the Lazy C to round up his missing stock. He might even bring the marshal and some of Overton’s men.
Not bothering with the barbed wire or the wagon, he bought the other supplies and made good time on the return trip. He planned to give Jared back his money and say they were out of stock on the wire.
It was dusk when he spotted Echo Canyon, and a shimmer of golden flame painted the mountaintops behind him. Below, steeped in purple shadow where twilight had already fallen, the red clay canyon floor stretched out, walled in red rock and fringed at the bottom with a line of cedars that hemmed a shallow stream. The canyon took its name from the echo of the wind off the vast amphitheater of weather-sculptured rock on both sides.
Preacher’s campfire beckoned, its flickering light suggesting that things were all right, that preparations for supper had begun. Riding slowly, Trace stayed vigilant, alert to anything out of the ordinary. There was no sign of the Walapai, which surprised Trace, since he’d expected them to reach the valley before Comstock.
The aroma of Preacher’s beans and meat roasting over the campfire greeted him as he tied up Diablo in
the remuda. His belly had begun to growl, reminding Trace he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. His mouth was watering by the time he’d unsaddled the horse, but his first thought was of Mae. A quick glance in Preacher’s direction earned him a faint nod, but Trace didn’t relax until he caught a glimpse of her face inside her tent near the chuck wagon.
He gave her credit. She did a good job of hiding her emotions. Though she watched him coming into the camp and going to the wagon to take a plate, he could have been any other drover.
“So, where’s the wagon and the wire?” Comstock finally asked.
Trace shrugged. “No wire. No need for a wagon since they didn’t have the wire. I got the other stuff, though. And they had a couple airtights of peaches. Thought you might want to give them to your missus as a treat. I’m sure this ride ain’t too pleasurable for a female. Never hurts to give a lady nice things.”
Comstock nodded, smirking. “Fine idea. She might like them.” After a moment he said, “We haven’t seen hide nor hair of your Indian friends. You sure they’ll show up?”
“White Eagle is a man of his word,” Trace said. “I’ll ride out after I eat, see if I can spot them coming.”
“You do that,” Comstock grunted. “While you’re at it, figure out a good way to pin those broncs once we get them herded into the canyon. I can’t believe Flat Springs didn’t have that wire…” He shook his head and wandered off to get some grub.
After he ate, Trace rode up onto the ridge. No one followed. The night was clear; stars winked down from
the indigo vault overhead, and a first-quarter moon had just cleared the canyon wall. Squinting, Trace swept the land below with his gaze, searching the cedars and the rocky wash that edged the stream for any sign of the Walapai. Then he scanned the ridge opposite, first toward the west but eventually to the less likely direction, the east.
Where the rocky edge sloped back from various outcroppings into a dense wood, a short line of mounted braves seemed to materialize, standing mute at the edge of the timberline. White Eagle, at the head of the column, walked his dapple gray forward, while the others faded back among the trees. Trace raised his hand in greeting, and White Eagle did the same.
“You’ve found the herd,” Trace said, seeing the Indian’s smug expression.
The chief nodded. “Beyond the draw”—he made a sweeping gesture—“in the little canyon north of here. Build your corral below in the narrow place between. Separate them from Standing Thunder, and then you can drive them through the gap.”
“How many braves are with you?”
“Enough,” White Eagle replied.
Trace stared out over the ridge to the campfire below, then turned north. His sharp eyes spotted Standing Thunder high on a hill, and the other wild horses grazing just below.
The Indian read him so clearly: “You worry over your woman. That is why you find yourself beset with so many problems. You do not think straight because your mind is on this female with the hair of flame. Say to me that this is not so.” The Indian laughed softly. “Chasing
wild horses is no place for a white woman. Worse with these men. They are horse thieves, killers. If we did not fear trouble with the white law, we would take care of them ourselves…but that is not to be. They will see justice, though, as you intend. They will trouble this area no more. As for your woman…she sounds like a lot of trouble, my friend. You will need to marry her and give her many babies. Then
she
will trouble you no more.”
Trace hesitated, turning back and staring out over the precipice as though seeking to divine the answer to all his problems from the tufts of aromatic mesquite smoke wafting up from Comstock’s campfire below. There was another problem he had, one he hated to speak of. “There is something else,” he confessed. “Breath Feather…We locked horns after I left your campfire.”
“She spoke to you?”
Trace sighed. “She had a lot to say, yes. She threatened Mae. She’s your daughter, and I respect you…but I won’t stand for her trying to hurt the woman I’m going to marry. I figure you need to watch her.”