Renegade Riders (12 page)

W
hen
Trace Ord strode into the cookhouse before dawn with the others, he breathed a sigh of relief. Preacher was pouring coffee, which meant at least one burden weighing down his conscience was lifted.

The sly wink the old man directed his way had Trace suppressing a smile. They had to talk, but not while all the shifty-eyed wranglers were monitoring his every move. Comstock was watching with not a little interest, either. Of course, it wouldn’t do to ignore the old man; they were all aware that Trace and Preacher knew each other.

“Hey, old-timer,” he sang out. “You still here? I figured you’d be mining the dunes in Death Valley by now.”

“Nope, heeded your advice about the desert being a killer. Ain’t no tenderfoot, but figured it was safer here. ’Sides, I sort of like having something besides beans to eat.” Preacher piled bacon on a platter. “I’m settled in right nicely. The boss pays a good wage, and the grub is good. You should like it here.”

“Good news for me,” Trace returned. “I haven’t had
a decent meal since we parted company.” He turned to Comstock. “I told you he was a damn good cook. Did I lie?”

“You surely did not,” Comstock drawled. “If everything else about you is straight-shooting, we’ll rub along just fine.”

The words were cordial enough, but the sarcastic delivery gave Trace gooseflesh. Especially when all through the meal he sensed that Preacher wanted to tell him something but couldn’t. It threatened to affect his demeanor as he went out with the hands to the corral afterward, where a number of horses were milling. Chip and Wally straddled the corral fence, while Michael Slade sat atop it, the heels of his boots braced on the second rail. Ben watched from the other side.

Trace leaned his arms on the top rail and watched the horses, taking note of each beast’s individual potential and also the brands on their rumps. Close scrutiny showed him nothing but a sideways C, the Lazy-C brand. He hadn’t expected anything else. Finding proof wasn’t going to be
that
easy; otherwise Preacher might already have done it.

Comstock was strolling toward him. Trace had to be careful. He couldn’t tip his hand this early in the game, no matter how anxious he was. Hoping the test to come would lead him one step closer to his goal, he adjusted his posture and put on his poker face. “Fine-looking horseflesh. If the rest of your herd is as fine, you should do very well at market. You might want to consider adding a mustang stallion or two if you’re thinking about breeding.”

“These are only a few examples,” Comstock replied. “I’ve got a full range of superior horseflesh.”

“I surely would like to see that,” said Trace.

“Maybe you will,” Comstock drawled.

“Do you breed your own?”

“I breed some, buy some…” Comstock answered. “Only a few are wild. Take that bay there.” He pointed. “The boys I got here are the finest bronc stompers in the territory.”

Trace scrutinized the horse in question: a well-muscled, reddish brown stallion with a sweeping black mane and tail, two hands to the withers above any of the other horses in the corral. The beast showed a proud head, and his dark eyes had a wild darting glare. Trace noticed that he led with his right shoulder, then followed up with flying forefeet. It was clear that on the open range he’d been a herd leader, and that he was trying to lead the mares corralled with him now. Trace had seen many like him, Diablo among them. So, this was to be his test.

He gave Comstock a lazy smile. “The bay’s a biter. Notice how the others give him a wide birth. He’ll take a plug out of anyone who comes near. Does he have a name?” he asked, pushing back his hat.

“Wally calls him Lucifer. He’s a devil all right, but it’s too fine a name for him. He needs taking down a peg, to be shown who’s master. Once he’s broke, I’ll find a proper name for him.”

“I guess you expect me to break him for you?”

“For starters.”

Trace took off his spurs and handed them over. “Hold these,” he said.

“Are you loco?” Comstock chortled. “You can’t hope to break that horse without spurs.”

“Won’t need a quirt, either,” Trace replied.

The men on the fence began to hoot with laughter and making bets on the outcome. Only Michael Slade, spinning his guns, made Trace uneasy. A corral full of nervous horses was no place for gun work.

“Suit yourself,” Comstock drawled. “It’s your funeral. Hey, boys, if we’d known all this last night, while you was at it you could have dug two holes.”

Trace ignored the brays of mirth, monitoring Comstock’s narrowed slate gray eyes and lopsided smirk. The man leaned on the corral gate, watching and chewing on a piece of hay, clearly confident he had the upper hand—which promised all too clearly that Trace needed to be on his guard. They were going to toy with him, likely intending the fool horse to kill him. But Trace was ready for that.

Stripping off his bandana, he soaked it in the horse trough and tied it back around his neck with a loose knot. Wally brought a saddle and bridle meant for the bay, and draped them over the corral fence. A flicker at the window of the house caught his attention. Mae? He swept that concern to the back of his mind. Right now, he needed to concentrate on the task at hand.

Comstock could have made it easier by separating Lucifer from the others. Putting the horses together served only one purpose: to work up the horses and keep them edgy, making the job all the harder. Trace would have to rope the bay, bridle and saddle him, then mount him and stay on his back until the defeated animal yielded.

“Throw a rope on him,” Comstock said. “Show me how you cut a horse out of others in close quarters. Then we’ll open the gate so you can run him into the little corral to wear him down and break him.”

Trace didn’t reply. He snaked the bay’s bridle from the corral fence and entered the pen. Wally handed him a rope, and Trace formed it into a lasso. Jeb swung the corral gate open. Trace walked through, the gate snapping shut behind him.

The bay was clearly trying to re-create the role as lead stallion he’d played in the wild; Comstock had made Trace’s task as difficult as possible. It was a large corral, but too many horses occupied it to safely single out and rope one wild stallion from such an agitated press. First he had to get them all running in one direction. Having observed that the bay charged with his right shoulder, Trace stayed on the beast’s left, edging closer until he’d displaced the horses in between them. The object was to wear the bay down as much as possible beforehand. But the bay had a gaze that was almost human, bespeaking great cunning.

Trace made ready to throw the lasso. The whoops and hollers from the corral rail weren’t helping matters, and his first two attempts failed. The first rope closed too low on the horse’s head and he shook free; the second try was again too shallow. Trace adjusted his distance and, whirling the lasso, hurled it again. This time it landed just right, far enough back on the horse’s head that the bay couldn’t shake free. Trace gave the line a jerk, and it slipped down and tightened around the horse’s neck. The bay reared, pawing the dusty air, stomped the ground, bucked and kicked like a mule. It
took some fancy footwork to say out from under those killer hooves.

“Open the gate!” Trace bellowed, hanging on. His shoulder, which had borne the brunt of keeping Mae from falling the other night, was hurting like the devil.

None of the men made a move. Instead, Michael Slade’s gun replied, and several whoops and shouts. The following screams, snorts, and terrified cries of the animals made an earsplitting din.

Trace loosed a string of oaths as more rounds boomed from Slade’s smoking Colts. The bay writhed and twisted on the end of his lasso, making a desperate effort to free himself, dragging Trace into the middle of the milling herd. Trace swung around and kicked the gate with all his force, Comstock standing on the other side. The man jumped back and several hands hopped off the fence. The gate opened, and the bay stallion flew through, tail arched high, again dragging Trace in his wake. Comstock’s men leapt for the gate to close it before the mares could follow.

Yet another volley sounded from Slade’s Colts. Trace paid them no mind. He was gradually reeling the bay in, shortening the distance between them by inching along the rope. The horse was lathered, snorting with exhaustion, when Trace edged close enough to reach out and touch his rippling flesh. Crooning softly, he soothed the horse while stroking his twitching withers, each caress moving a little higher along the horse’s neck and, finally, face.

The bay danced and then snorted, bobbing his magnificent head. With a gentle hand Trace fit the bit and bridle into place, then slipped the rope off him. There
was some resistance, but nothing Trace couldn’t handle. He just had to keep dodging the nips. “Bite me, horse, and I will bite you back,” he said softly. “You wouldn’t want those fillies over there to witness that, now, would you?”

Comstock’s men had transferred to places on the little corral rail, perched in much the same positions as they were earlier. A saddle came crashing to the ground at Trace’s feet. He didn’t see or care who threw it; he was blind with rage. Nonetheless, he led the bay over and gentled it with more soothing sounds and restful strokes. He dropped a blanket over the horse’s back. Once the bay held still, he gently eased on the saddle.

The bay pranced in place, snorting and tossing his tangled mane while Trace tightened the cinch and eased down the stirrups. He wanted to end this here and now. He would leave the corral, strap on his irons, and deal with Comstock and his henchmen one by one in face-offs. Then, if he were still standing, he would send for the northern ranchers and let them sort out their own horses. He’d skip the marshal. Rustler or not, Jared Comstock needed to die.

But no. Mae stood between him and that fantasy. Before he acted, he needed to get her away from the bastard. And yet a plan formed in his mind that just might work.

“Easy, fella,” he crooned in the horse’s ear. “We’re almost done.” He scrutinized the bay’s side, where the cruel rowels of a Spanish spur had gouged him more than once and left permanent scars. “I won’t spur you, and I won’t whip you, but I will break you. How long that takes is up to you.”

With the words scarcely spoken, he swung himself into the saddle. More shots rang out, still aimed at the ground. Trace ignored them—
expected
them—but the bay did not. It bucked high and wheeled in circles, kicking the corral rails, lunging and whirling and shrieking protest into the wind. Trace soothed the bay all the while, holding on to the leather pommel and the horse’s mane with an iron fist. He leaned forward, crooning into the animal’s ear, promising that it soon would be over, praising and comforting the horse as it leapt into the air again and again in a vain attempt to free itself of its burden. Charging at the rail, the bay turned sharply with the intent to crush Trace against it, but Trace held on, even as the horse fell on his side—not once, but twice.

Exhaustion was Trace’s ally. The horse’s chest heaving to draw breath, all fight left him. Trace was finally able to coax him up on all fours. Riding the bay around the corral, Trace eased him into a loose trot and a slow canter. Finally he walked him around the corral twice and then swung himself down.

“Good boy,” he murmured. “You’re no devil. Your owner is.” And with that, he walked the bay to the corral fence and handed the bridle to Comstock.

Without a word, he strode next to the rail fence where Slade sat smirking. Trace just stared at him, meeting the gunslinger’s cold, empty gaze. Then, before Slade could blink, Trace grabbed him by both ankles and jerked him off the fence. Straddling the bastard, he grabbed the front of his shirt and planted a rock-hard fist full in his face. A nose-breaking crunch sounded, but Trace hit him again, and blood gushed from the
gunman’s nose and split lip. A third blow closed Slade’s right eye.

When Trace drew back his arm a fourth time, the youth held up his hands in defeat.

“If I was packing, you’d be dead,” Trace seethed, putting his face right in the gunman’s. “The next time you take one of those irons out of your belt within a mile of me, you better be prepared to use it.” With no more commentary, Trace got to his feet and stomped out of the corral.

The curtain at the window flapped again. Mae, watching. He wondered what she thought about the violence in him. Well, too damn bad if it off ended her. It was going to take a wagonload of violence to save either of them now.

P
reacher
wasn’t in the cookhouse as Trace hoped when he stormed past. He went to the bunkhouse and was strapping on his guns when Comstock arrived.

“There’s no need for that, Ord,” the ranch owner said. “You’ve gone and messed up his pretty face. That’s enough.”

“So you say,” Trace erupted. “I say different.”

“I’ll handle Slade,” Comstock assured him. “He’s young and reckless, but he was only funning.”

Trace glowered. “Well, you’ve had your fun and you got your horse broke. Now it’s my turn.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I offered you a sweet deal, Comstock, and I agreed to let you try me for free. If you want to have any more ‘fun,’ you’re going to have to pay for it—one way or another.”

Comstock’s jaw muscle clenched. “I don’t take kindly to threats, Ord.”

“It isn’t a threat. It’s a fact,” Trace replied, tying up his bedroll.

“Where are you going?”

Trace shrugged. “Never did take to bunkhouse living. Reckon I’ll camp under the stars from now on.”

“Look, I know you’re all horns and rattles right now, and I can’t say as I blame you. But no harm’s been done. I appreciate you’re breaking the bay.”

“He’s broke, but he’s still a killer. I’m thinking he’s killed before.”

Comstock nodded. “You’ve got the right of it. There’s more than one notch in his tail.”

“Breaking him won’t change that. Nothing ever will.”

“You’ve got a peculiar way of handling horses,” Comstock observed, playing with his mustache. “I did hear tell of an hombre once who broke horses like you. The Indians called him the Whisperer—a renegade rider out of Texas. Nobody seems to know his name. Bad business, messing with renegade riders. Worse than Texas Rangers in their doggedness. You’re from Texas, isn’t that so, Ord?”

“Texas is a big place, Comstock. Been through there. Been through a lot of places since the war. I’m from Louisiana.”

“They say this Whisperer has a gentle hand—like you. I figure you might have run up against him somewhere in your travels, and maybe he gave you a pointer or two.”

“My daddy taught me how to break horses,” Trace said smoothly. “He owned a breeding farm in northern Louisiana. Lost everything because of the war. He taught me horses respond better to a gentle hand than a heavy one. Just like women.”

Comstock grunted. He handed Trace back his spurs. “Don’t know how you ever did it without those Spanish
rowels,” he admitted. “I’m curious…What was it you said to the bay?”

On the verge of losing his temper, Trace looked the man in the eye while jamming the spurs into his pack. White dots of rage starred his vision, and his hands balled into fists. But there was too much at stake to act upon his instincts. “I just let him know who was boss,” he said, in the same soft yet unequivocal tone he’d used with the horse.

“Hmmm,” Comstock responded. “You mentioned going after a heard of ’stangs in the canyon. How many riders you figure we’ll need to collect them? I can count on Wally, Ben, and Chip. Jeb’s too sore in the joints to wrangle wild horses anymore, but I can bring a few boys in off the range. And we’ve got Slade.”

“You’ve got Slade…” Trace gave him a deadly smile. His first instinct was to say no to Michael Slade, but that would mean leaving him behind with access to Mae. “You won’t need to call in your stringers. Wally, Ben, and Chip will be enough—and Slade. Just keep him out of my way.”

Comstock scoffed. “We can’t capture a herd of wild horses with five riders!”

“Won’t need more,” Trace promised. “I was going to hook up with White Eagle and his horse hunters. They know where Standing Thunder is, and they’ll help us bring him and his herd in cheap for trade.”

“I don’t like messing with Injuns,” Comstock said.

“Well, that’s the deal,” Trace said, slinging his gear over his shoulder. “Take it or leave it. I could do it on my own and keep all the profits if I was of a mind. And this isn’t the only horse ranch in the territory. You saw
what I can do; I won’t have any trouble finding another employer.”

“Now, let’s not be so hasty,” Comstock cajoled. “I didn’t say no. Them Injuns up on the mesa still?”

“Nope. I just came down from there before I ran into your wife. They’re down in the valley most likely. We won’t have any trouble picking up their tracks.”

“I don’t know,” Comstock hedged. “I don’t like those thieving Hualapai.”

“White Eagle owes me,” said Trace, “and I’d trust him and his with my life—unlike your crew.”

“I guess I had that coming,” Comstock conceded. He looked pensive.

“Uh-huh. You need time to think about it?”

“Nope,” Comstock decided. “We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow, and if those horses are half as fine as you say, we’re both going to be rich men.”

Trace hesitated when Comstock offered his hand. The last thing he wanted to do was shake, but he did just the same. He’d already gained one point: with the Indians watching his back, it wouldn’t be quite so easy for Comstock and his men to bury him in that canyon. If the rest of his plan worked half as well, the risk involved would be a small price to pay for Mae’s safety.

Risking Comstock’s anger, he tended Diablo. Once the healing wounds were salved, Trace threw a blanket over the horse and led him into a stall. Diablo’s grateful nuzzling both touched his heart and stirred his anger. It was clear that the animal didn’t understand why he’d been abandoned and mistreated, and that he
looked to Trace to liberate him. Trace couldn’t look him in the eye.

Speaking to the horse in soothing tones, stroking his sleek neck, he didn’t hear Preacher approach. Sensing a presence, he spun on his heel, his Colt free of its holster and aimed before the pivot was completed. The rapid movement spooked Diablo. Eyes wide with fright, the horse began backing into his stall.

“You two simmer down,” the old man said.

“Mae?” Trace urged. “Is she all right?”

“She is,” said Preacher. “Put that damn thing away. With that short fuse you’re going to get yourself killed. Then you’ll be no use to the gal, no use to the horse. I seen what you done to Slade…” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Busted his nose and spoiled his pretty face. What’d you hit him with?”

“My fists,” Trace snapped, “and he’s lucky that’s all I busted. What are you doing out here? What if Comstock comes in on us?”

“He isn’t going to. He’s up at the house eating. I come out here when I get a chance to sneak this black devil a treat.” He held up a bunch of carrots, and Diablo whinnied.

Trace shoved his Colt back in its holster and took a carrot, which he held out. Thrilled by the treat, the horse settled down.

“What the Sam Hill happened to Morgan last night? You pop him, too?” Preacher fussed. “We heard the ruckus. Then he wasn’t in for breakfast, and nobody’s talking.”

“Comstock beat him to death with his blacksnake. They buried him out in the sage.”

“The hell you say! Damn, Mae said
she
turned Comstock on Morgan. Don’t guess we need to tell her the result.”

“How come you got to her without Comstock knowing?” Trace asked.

Preacher laughed. “He knew all right. He put me in charge of guarding her before he lit out after Morgan. Guess he figured an old cuss like me would treat her nice and he wouldn’t have to worry no more. What went on at the corral? We heard shooting.”

“A bit of a shivaree, you might say. Comstock had no intention of me surviving the tussle with that bay—or at least he had no intention of letting me out of there in one piece. They were playing with me, like a cat plays with a mouse. They figured I’d never be able to get near the bay. When I did, Slade shot off his guns trying to get me trampled. I beat the holy hell out of him.”

“Musta made that temper feel better to rearrange his features, but not a smart move, Trace. He’s a sidewinder, one that don’t shake his rattle before he strikes. He ain’t going to take too kindly to you ruining his smile. So now what are you aiming to do?”

“I’m going to take Comstock after those wild horses.”

“You’ll never come back alive—not in that company.”

Trace didn’t need to be told. “I won’t be alone. We’re going to meet up with White Eagle and his hunters. They’ll watch my back. Comstock didn’t much like the idea, but I said the Indians work cheap—for barter—and that we need them because they know right where the horses are, and that’ll save us time. He’s itching
to start that drive to market, but he’s drooling over that herd more. We leave at dawn. I’ve cleared out of the bunkhouse. I told Comstock I’m camping under the stars from now on. I need your help, old-timer.”

“Anything. Just name it.”

“I’m camping out in the sage tonight—at least it’s going to look that way. As soon as the lights go out in this compound here, I’m going to check out some of Comstock’s herd—in the paddock, and out on the range—looking for Bar O and Double Bar T brands, or at least for brands that have been messed with.”

“You’ll get caught.”

Trace reached inside his shirt and produced an envelope. “Hang on to this,” he said, handing it over, “and don’t get caught with it. It’s the addresses of the ranchers I’m working for up north. Also…as soon as you can manage it after we leave for the canyons, I need you to get Mae out of here.”

“She’ll never leave without you. That gal’s in love with you, Trace.”

“I don’t care what you have to tell her, or how you have to manage it. Rope her if you have to. Help her find that deed or letter or whatever Comstock has, and put her on a train for Kentucky. Then get to a telegraph office and send word to the ranchers to fetch a marshal and get down here pronto.”

“You ain’t got proof yet.”

“I will before the night is out. The only reason I’m going after those horses is to give you time to get her on that damn train. Just do like I say, and tell her…tell her I said if she ever wants to see me again she’s got to do exactly what you say. Period.”

Trace’s message for Mae troubled his conscience, since he didn’t intend to see her again. It was better this way, though. She deserved so much more than he had to offer. She belonged on her grandfather’s horse farm in Kentucky, not tagging along after a renegade rider with no roots to put down and death riding on his flank. It was only a matter of time before bad luck caught up with him. Perhaps that’s even what he’d hoped for during the past five years.

He hadn’t declared his love. That would only complicate things. She loved him now, but love and hate were two horns on the same steer. She’d never forgive him for his lie. She’d get over him. She’d meet some decent, upstanding young Kentuckian who would sweep her off her feet and worship her for the rest of her life, and she’d forget Trace. Just the thought caused him physical pain, but he knew it was the kindest solution for them both.

Yet his body remembered how perfectly their bodies molded. The one thing his flesh, mind, and spirit had in common was pain. His heart was breaking.

There was a cottonwood tree at his campsite that gave him some cover while he monitored the Comstock compound. He’d left his burro at the ranch. They would use packhorses on the trail, which were faster. Unsaddling Duchess, he laid out his bedroll with his saddle as a pillow, then bunched up the extra blankets in the shape of a body and topped that with his Stetson. He then wedged his Winchester between the blankets in such a way that it appeared he was holding it at the ready while he slept and waited.

When the compound went dark, Trace mounted Duchess bareback and moved stealthily through the sage toward the paddock behind the corrals. Passing the ranch house, he strained for any sound that might mean Mae was in danger. All was still. No lights showed in the windows or from the bunkhouse or cook shack. All hands were turning in early, most preparing for the hard ride at first light.

Trace gave the buildings a wide berth. Clouds hid the moon, abetting his mission. Ahead, the foothills were visible, a dark fringe at the base of the mountains. He wouldn’t face a problem here, only out there in the darkness where the rest of Comstock’s wranglers camped. The ones he hadn’t seen. So far, no campfires showed. It was well past midnight, so he hoped that the stringers were asleep.

When he came within reasonable walking distance, he slid off Duchess’s back and left her grazing, bridle down, on a patch of new spring grass. He dropped and crawled toward a string of horses silhouetted against a rocky wall in the foothills, but took no comfort in the fact that he saw no sign of riders among them. They would hardly have left the beasts unattended; the lookout had probably fallen asleep.

Had he gone in mounted, he would have been spotted easily. Instead, feeling his way along, he soothed the string of horses toward quiet with soft murmurs and gentle hands. Luckily, he seemed to have happened upon broken stock, not a wild horse among them. They were used to humans—although, considering their abused appearance and response to affection, he imagined they were unaccustomed to humane handling. By
the time he’d threaded his way through the lot, he’d found not only Bar O and Double Bar T stock, but a number of horses with other altered brands. And that was after examining less than a hundred head.

Trace was thankful that the moon was hidden, grateful that he couldn’t see the horses’ wounds clearly. As it was, he realized that more than one had met with Comstock’s blacksnake. With a refreshed and passionate disdain for the rancher and his operation, he crept back through the sage, swung himself up on Duchess, and returned to his camp. He could sleep now. He’d done the job he’d set out to do. His instincts were correct, the wheels were set in motion and word would be sent to the ranchers, who would bring the marshal and see justice done. That was no longer his priority. Come dawn, he would occupy Comstock far enough away to give Mae the only thing he ever could: her freedom. Even if the cost was his life.