West of the Law

Chapter 16

‘‘Your charger is ready, Mr. McBride,’’ Prescott said, trying to hide the grin that flirted with his mouth. ‘‘I even fixed you up with a saddle on account of how the mustang has a backbone like the High Sierras.’’

There was nothing about the ugly little horse that filled McBride with confidence.

Prescott had cut back the reins to a manageable length and stripped off an undamaged portion of the trap’s seat cushion. He’d tied the scorched cushion to the mustang’s back with the remainder of the leathers.

‘‘Just be careful how you get up on her,’’ he said. ‘‘The saddle is a mighty uncertain thing. It could slip and slide.’’

Prescott read the lack of enthusiasm in McBride’s eyes. ‘‘Beats walking, John.’’

‘‘Maybe.’’ McBride stepped to the horse. It looked taller now that he was close. ‘‘How do I get up there?’’

‘‘Easy.’’ Prescott bent from the waist and laced the fingers of his hands together. ‘‘Put your foot in there and I’ll boost you up. Then ease down real slow into the saddle.’’ McBride lifted a foot. ‘‘Probably better to use the left one, John.’’

Angry at himself for making the same mistake twice, McBride changed feet and Prescott, revealing surprising strength for such a small man, hoisted him effortlessly onto the mustang’s back.

The gunfighter stepped back, rubbing his chin like an artist admiring his work. ‘‘Well, so far, so good, and you sure don’t have far to fall, John. Your feet are only about six inches off the ground.’’ He swung into the saddle of his prancing black. ‘‘Now, what say you, should we hit the trail and see if we can do some damage to Gamble Trask?’’

McBride nodded and gathered up the reins. ‘‘Giddyup,’’ he said. The mustang stood where it was, its blunt hammerhead hanging.

‘‘Two things,’’ Prescott said. ‘‘First, squeeze the horse with your knees when you want it to go. Second, lay the reins against the right side of its neck when you want to turn left, left side when you want to go right. Got that?’’

‘‘I would have figured that out for myself,’’ McBride said, annoyed at being spoken to like a child. He kneed the horse and it walked forward, making him lurch ungracefully on the seat cushion.

‘‘Crackerjack!’’ Prescott said. ‘‘We’ll make a rider out of you yet.’’ Irritated as he was, McBride was oddly pleased. Compliments of any kind from Luke Prescott were rare.

The man handed him his rifle. ‘‘Here,’’ he said. ‘‘I have a feeling you might need that . . . sooner than later.’’

They reached the wagon road and headed west, riding through hilly, broken country, much of it forested with piñon and juniper. Here and there iron-wood and catclaw grew on the slopes of the rises, surrounded by streaks of pink daisies and bright scarlet paintbrush.

After a mile Prescott found the cutoff and they swung northwest, the elevation climbing, piñon and spruce gradually giving way to aspen, fir and ponderosa pine on the slopes of the higher hills.

McBride had finally relaxed, moving easily with the mustang’s choppy gait. The little horse was teacher and he student, and he accepted their relationship as such.

By noon, after they crossed the reedy shallows of Apishapa Creek, the day grew hot, the sun a burning gold coin in a sky free of cloud. The two riders followed the wagon trail through a series of narrow arroyos, where the air hung still, the only sounds the creak of saddle leather and the soft footfalls of the horses.

When they topped a shallow rise, Prescott drew rein. ‘‘If you look westward, you can just see the Spanish Peaks, John,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s beautiful country around there.’’

McBride stared into the vast distance of the lonely land, stunned at its beauty, by the far blue mountains and the play of light and shadow among the hills. City born, city bred, he had grown accustomed to vistas reduced to the crowded clamor of dirty streets and tall brick buildings that rose so high they blocked the sun.

This was so different, all that surrounded him. For a few moments he took delight in what he was seeing, breathing clean air, scented by pines.

With a start, McBride realized he was swallowing hard. He had fallen in love with Shannon—was he now falling in love with the land that nurtured her?

Luke Prescott was a perceptive man, his instincts honed to razor sharpness by the years he’d lived by the gun. Now he smiled at McBride. ‘‘Gets to a man, doesn’t it?’’

McBride nodded. ‘‘I’ve never seen its like.’’

‘‘When this is all over and Gamble Trask is dead, you should spend some time in the mountains with your lady. Then you’ll really see something.’’

McBride smiled. ‘‘Trask dead? Right now, that seems almost impossible.’’

Prescott was not smiling and his eyes were cold. ‘‘It’s not impossible. If this little jaunt of ours fails, I’ll still get to him and kill him.’’

‘‘Then we’d better not fail. To save Shannon, I want him to lose all he has. I want him isolated and alone so he looks around and realizes he’s come out on the far end of what he’d once been.’’

The little gunfighter nodded, his hard face grim. ‘‘So be it. Then let’s get it done.’’

McBride’s eyes fell on a hawk riding the air currents in the far distance ahead of him. They rode in that direction.

But McBride had no way of knowing that at the exact moment he’d seen the hawk, the bird’s sharp eyes were looking down on a scene that had transformed a very small part of the enchanted land into a place of unbelievable horror.

For the most part the wagon trail skirted the aspen groves. Only once had trees been hacked down to clear a path over a humpbacked ridge that led down to a broad and pleasant meadow strewn with wildflowers. A stream bordered by cottonwoods and willows angled across the flat, bubbling clear over a bed of pebbles.

McBride and Prescott sat their horses at the top of the ridge and looked down at the valley. ‘‘Good a place as any to stop and boil up coffee and eat,’’ Prescott said. ‘‘There’s some salt pork left, but after that, we’ll have to shoot our own grub.’’

They rode down the slope and reached the creek.

That was when the smell hit them. ‘‘Something dead,’’ Prescott said, his nose lifted to the tainted air. ‘‘Maybe an antelope. Now and then coyotes can pull one down that’s old or sick.’’

‘‘Where the hell is it coming from?’’ McBride asked, talking through pursed lips, the cloying sweetness of death in his nostrils.

‘‘Further ahead of us. I only hope wherever the critter is, it’s not in the water.’’

McBride’s mustang, which up until now had taken little interest in its surroundings, lifted its head, ragged ears pricked forward. Prescott’s big black was up on its toes, tossing its head as it fought the bit.

Prescott’s blue eyes scanned the tree line along the creek, his face showing concern. With a wild animal’s instinct for danger he slid his Winchester out of the scabbard and racked a round into the chamber.

‘‘I think we’ve got a dead man ahead of us,’’ he said, turning to McBride. ‘‘And where’s there a dead man his killer might still be close by.’’

‘‘Indians?’’ McBride asked.

‘‘Only the Apache are still hostile and I doubt they’d come this far north.’’ Prescott fought his nervous horse, then said, ‘‘Keep your rifle ready, but if the work is close, toss it aside and shuck your revolver. Fast.’’

‘‘Could it be Apaches?’’ McBride asked, the words coming dry as sticks from his parched mouth.

‘‘Could be. Sometimes they torture a man so long, his body starts to rot.’’

McBride wiped suddenly sweaty palms on his pants, then levered his rifle. The mustang’s head was still up, but it was standing pat.

‘‘Probably just an animal,’’ McBride said hopefully.

‘‘Probably. But don’t count on it.’’ Prescott smiled. ‘‘You ever fit Injuns before, John?’’

‘‘Never.’’

‘‘Well, I reckon there’s a first time for everything.’’

McBride sighed. ‘‘And this could be the time.’’

‘‘Seems like.’’

Prescott kneed his mount forward and McBride followed. He knew his seat on the mustang was a precarious thing, and he resolved to dismount and fight on foot if he found himself surrounded by hordes of feathered savages. Back in New York he’d once read a dime novel about Apache who massacred a regiment of U.S. Cavalry. Nothing he recalled about the book provided him with the slightest reassurance.

The two riders splashed across the stream to the far bank, then followed its meandering course, keeping close to the sun-dappled cover of the cottonwoods. The afternoon was very still, without a breeze. Crickets made their small sound in the grass and once a marsh rabbit bounded away from them, bouncing across the meadow like a rubber ball.

The stench of death grew stronger.

McBride saw Prescott ease his Colt in the holster, his eyes roaming far, searching for whatever lay ahead. The black reared, attempting to turn away from the nearness of a thing it feared. A skilled horseman, Prescott fought the stud and pushed it forward.

McBride followed. The heat of the day crowded uncomfortably close to him, like the naked body of an unwanted lover, and sweat trickled from under his hat brim. He was surprised that he wasn’t afraid, a city boy about to take on the dreaded Apache, sitting a horse he couldn’t ride, holding a rifle he couldn’t shoot.

The thought, unsettling though it was, made McBride smile . . . until he heard Prescott’s wild curse.