Renegade Riders (13 page)

T
race
broke camp and rode back to the Lazy C well before dawn. Lights in the bunkhouse drew him. The riders had already gathered for breakfast—Chip, Wally, Ben, along with others—and Slade, whose dark, swollen glower menaced him the minute Trace crossed the threshold. But it was the look on Preacher’s face that froze his heart and stopped him in his tracks. Something was wrong.

It didn’t take long for Trace to find out what that something was. A voice from behind spun him around, and he faced Jared Comstock with Mae on his arm.

“Better sit down and dig in, Ord,” he said. “Preacher’s got to clean up and outfit the chuck wagon before we can head out.”

The cold fingers of a crawling chill crept up Trace’s spine. Three telling scratches on Comstock’s cheek and a puffy bruise on Mae’s lip spoke for themselves. She was dressed for the trail, in a split-skirt riding outfit. The look in her eye was pleading, but Trace turned away and took his seat with the others and let Preacher fill his plate.

“Steady,” the old man whispered, leaning over him.

“We’ve already eaten,” Comstock drawled, seating Mae at the table, “but we’ll take some coffee before we head out.”

Trace glanced at Mae. Again, she flashed him a pleading look. That, coupled with Preacher’s one-word caution, stayed his hand against every instinct. He picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of bacon instead.

Comstock was watching him closely. Quick sidelong glances at the others while he ate revealed that all the riders—Jared included—were packing guns. Now Trace understood Mae’s pleading glances. He could take one of them out, or two, or maybe even three; he was that fast. But he couldn’t get them all, and then she’d be left with no one to defend her.

Trace’s mind was racing. The food tasted like straw; the muscles in his jaw began to tick as he tried to force it down. The only reason for taking Comstock to the canyons to capture this herd was to get the man and his crew away from the Lazy C, so Preacher could take Mae to safety. That wouldn’t happen if Preacher and Mae were going along. That also meant there wouldn’t be any way to get word to any northern rancher or the U.S. marshal. Trace considered. Should he press for Mae to be left behind or accept the situation without question? Or was Comstock waiting for him to do precisely that? Trace had no choice. He would have to go along with what ever Comstock was planning in order to stay alive and protect her.

One man at that table was itching for revenge; that was certain. Slade’s enmity was palpable. By the look of the rest, they were too afraid of Comstock and his
blacksnake to go against him. If Trace only had himself to consider, he would have made an end of this immediately, one way or another. But there was Mae. She had to get back to Kentucky. And, by damn, despite all his feelings that he wasn’t good enough, he wished he’d taken her back there himself.

Perhaps fate was stepping in, he allowed himself to think. Everything seemed so perfectly planned. He hadn’t wanted to see her again, as parting would be easier for them both that way. Now all his fine resolve and noble intent fell away. He would never be able to leave her again. If they survived the coming storm, he’d take her back to that farm in bluegrass country and spend the rest of his life trying to help her forget the West ever existed. He just hoped he lived to accomplish it.

But she didn’t need to know his plan. Determined to keep her at a distance, for her own sake and for the sake of his sanity, he employed a different strategy.

“You sure you want to drag her along?” he asked, crooking his finger toward Mae. “This isn’t a Sunday picnic we’re going on, you know. A wild horse roundup is no place for a woman. She’ll only slow us down.”

“My wife was raised among horses, Ord,” Comstock remarked. “She can handle herself. Besides, I’m sure we can keep an eye on her.”

“You’ll keep an eye on her,” Trace retorted. “You can count me out.”

“I fully intend to,” said Comstock. “And she goes. That’s decided.”

Trace decided to use this to his advantage. “If that’s the case, I get to ride the black,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten what happened the last time I was in your wife’s
company. If I’m going to have to rope her again, I want the advantage.”

Comstock hooted, erupting in laughter. “Deal!” The others followed suit.

Trace gave a crisp nod. “I’ll need the black underneath me when we get to the canyons anyway. Unless I miss my guess, he isn’t long this side of a wild horse herd himself. He’s got that look about him. Where’d you get him anyway?”

“He belongs to my wife,” said Comstock smoothly.

Trace avoided Mae’s eyes, but his peripheral vision showed him her clenched posture. “He got a name?”

“Not yet. I’ll leave that up to her.”

Trace scooted his chair away from the table and got to his feet. “Well, she isn’t going to ride him this trip,” he drawled, tipping his hat to Mae. Then, without a backward glance, he swaggered out to saddle Diablo.

Mae climbed into the chuck wagon, where Preacher had made a comfortable place for her among the paraphernalia. She’d hoped to ride horseback—counted upon it—but Comstock was too clever for that.

Preacher had made her a nook so that they could converse unobserved. Mae was of the opinion that his effort was a waste. She had no words for him then; she was too scared for Trace. Jared’s attitude bothered her. He laughed too much and seemed excited. That scared her more than his bullying. It was almost as if he sensed he’d won.

“Buck up,” Preacher whispered, in reply to her dry sob. “I never seen a man’s face go so gray as Trace’s did when he seen you with that purple lip. How bad was
that tussle you had with Comstock anyway? He’s going to be asking me first thing.”

“I found the note my father made, giving over his share of my grandfather’s farm. Jared caught me in his study with it. I had my hands on it! Now it’s in his safe. Says he’s protecting it for me, keeping it from falling into the wrong hands. Bastard! I demanded he tell me how he got it, since the last anyone saw of it was when my father left for the Outpost.

“I guess I was a little pointed in my suggestion. I accused him of killing my father. He grew angry and hit me. Then he turned remorseful, begging me to forgive him. He explained he’d found the deed in Morgan’s belongings. Tried to make out that he was shocked. He figured, I guess, that if he could distract me with his advances I might forget about Morgan and the deed. That’s when he got the scratches. He scares me, Preacher. He actually thinks I can come to love a man who killed my father.”

Preacher flicked the reins, setting the wagon in motion. “Ever consider that Comstock ain’t right in the head? If that’s the case, all this heading out to the middle of nowhere on some fool errand to hunt horses is mighty dangerous.”

“He’s evil, Preacher,” Mae agreed. “In its purest form. There’s some ugly things, ugly people in this world, but Jared’s something else.”

She thought about Trace. She’d seen the white knuckles of his hand poised at his side, inches from the gun slung on his hip. Their eyes had locked, and in that instant her heart stopped. Preacher was right. If Trace had drawn that gun, he would be dead. He probably
would have drilled Comstock, but Slade was the fastest gun around. Trace would have died because of her—because of the grudge he bore against the man who’d wronged her. She could never live with that. And the terrible reality was, Trace and Comstock would clash before this drive was over. Lead would fly.

Dread gripped her heart in an icy fist and she murmured, “Trace is going to kill Jared, isn’t he, Preacher?” she murmured.

“Uh-huh,” the old man replied. “I reckon one of ’em will die, shot full of bullet holes. Let’s just pray it’s not Trace.”

They made camp an hour before sunset by the mesa where Mae and Trace spent a night.

When Mae attempted to exit the chuck wagon, Comstock’s firm hand prevented her. “I have a little present for you, Mae,” he said. By the expression in his eyes, it was clearly going to be one she wouldn’t like.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew something that looked like a dog collar. It tinkled. Bells? Mae glared, not knowing what he was up to but repulsed by his proximity.

“What the hell is that thing?”

“My version of a hobble. You will wear this around your boot. I’m belling the cat, you might say. That way, Preacher and I will know where you are at all times.”

As he reached down for her ankle, she jerked it away. “If you think I am going to wear that, you’ve taken leave of your senses,” she snapped. Not that she didn’t already think that.

His face hardened. Reaching out, he grabbed her booted ankle and yanked her off her feet to fall back against a sack of flour. Holding her ankle in a viselike grip, he fastened the insulting thing around her boot. “I’ll pitch you a tent by Preacher’s bedroll. I want you out of the men’s view. I’ve seen Slade and Chip eyeing you, and I don’t trust this Ord fella any farther than I can throw this wagon. But that won’t matter long. Once I get my hands on those horses, he won’t…have a job. I don’t cotton to insolent hired hands.”

“What? You’ll whip him to death, too?”

Comstock looked her up and down, clearly not liking the growing rebellion in her. “Well, you have yourself to thank for that. I was defending your honor.”

“Are you
insane
?” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she knew they were a mistake. His face flushed red with anger, and his hand flexed about the hilt of the whip tied at his waist. She continued anyway, needing to set things straight. “I had nothing to do with you killing Morgan. Yes, I complained. I had a right to. If you were paying closer attention, defending my honor in the first place, it would never have happened. You bear the blame of Morgan’s death alone, not me.”

For a moment she feared she had pushed him too far, but then he nodded. “I suppose that’s true.”

“You know it is. You could have simply fired him.”

“Let’s say I just got rid of a thorn in both our sides. Sometimes, Mae, things out here appear one way when they are really another. You know, like those mirages I told you about, seeing water where there isn’t any. A person meddles in matters that she doesn’t
understand…well, it’s like sticking your hand into a nest of rattlers. By the time you hear the rattling, it’s too damn late.” She read the veiled threat in his words. “Anyway, Preacher will feed you here in the wagon, out of the way of the men’s ogling eyes. I don’t want you anywhere near them. He’s to take you to the underbrush whenever you need to do the necessary. But don’t try to run, Mae. I’ll only catch you. I’m getting tired of these little games of yours—of
everyone’s.
Think on it. I’ll sleep in the open with the riders.”

Mae frowned. Once again Jared was keeping her prisoner and yet allowing her to keep him at arm’s length. It was baffling. Men like Jared Comstock—bullies—didn’t sit and wait or say pretty please. They just took what they wanted. They enjoyed hurting people weaker than themselves. From the very start this had puzzled her about Jared. But then, every aspect of the situation bothered her. Comstock’s comments about rattlers made her realize just how little made sense here. As she watched him stalk off, she wondered what demons were really driving and controlling Jared Comstock.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Trace watching her. It was a brief glance as he adjusted the cinch on Diablo. That gaze met hers, then dropped—Jared was headed in his direction—and Trace didn’t look her way again. He swung himself up on Diablo and rode off without ever glancing back.

Fear returned. What if he didn’t come back? Jared clearly didn’t trust him, and the man’s pause before predicting Trace would soon be without a job sent a chill up her spine. One thing was for certain: while a lot
of things out here were a mirage, Trace was not one of them. He was honest and true. He was a gentleman, someone she could stake her life on.

She supposed she already had.

Not long after dark, Mae watched Comstock put up a small tent on the far side of the chuck wagon. Preacher eventually brought her a plate of beans and two biscuits. His bedroll was between the tent and the campfire, effectively creating a barrier between her and the men, who ate in sullen silence. Once their meals were consumed, nearly everyone crawled into a bedroll, knowing dawn would come all too soon.

Tired herself, Mae closed her eyes and allowed the sounds of the prairie to lull her toward sleep. Exhaustion allowed dreams, however: swirling blue mists, a figure moving through the haze. Someone was calling her name—a man’s voice, resonant and deep, but a voice she’d never heard. She could almost see this man. He was a man of power, someone who had been controlling everything that happened since she’d arrived—

“Mae.
Mae!
”

It finally registered that this second voice was not part of her dream. She struggled to awaken, but fatigue kept trying to pull her back into the black.

“Mae! It’s me!” the voice whispered, giving her good shoulder a shake.

She blinked, wondering if this was still merely her dream. Reaching out, she touched his face. Her fingers trembled as they slid lower, touching his broad, angular jaw, the cleft in his chin, and his lips, which her thumb
at last caressed. His raw male scent rose in her nostrils. Trace. He’d come back.

He said quietly, “I’ve found the Indians. They’re east of the mesa. When I return, be ready to move if I say.”

He stood for a moment, hardly more than a shadow in the inky night. Then he was gone.

T
race
smiled as he rode into the Indian camp, which was positioned on the mesa south of the entrance to the valley. A narrow trail forked down from both the rock walls, emptying into a draw. Alert to his presence, the men were waiting, almost as if they’d been posted specifically for him. But while the group, outcast from the Walapai tribe, kept to themselves and trusted no one, White Eagle was the leader of this rogue band. Minutes after exchanging greetings, Trace was seated in a crudely constructed summer dwelling, one of the several well concealed by nature behind the foothills.

White Eagle, wrapped in a buffalo robe, his shoulder-length hair adorned with three eagle feathers, was past his prime. His demeanor didn’t evidence this. A dignified bearing bespoke his greatness as a warrior, and also a bone-chilling aura of ruthless cunning that always made Trace glad he numbered among the few white men the Indian called a friend.

“Many days have passed since the Whisperer has shared our camp,” White Eagle said. “For this past moon, you travel back and forth through the land, going in
circles. Now you ride with the enemy of White Eagle. The Whisperer would like to tell me his purpose?”

“I need your help,” said Trace, speaking in a mix of English and the Walapai dialect. “Your enemy is my enemy. I ride with him only to protect two others who are in danger.”

The Indian nodded. His eyes, as black as onyx, hadn’t left Trace since his entrance to the makeshift dwelling. That scrutiny, however, didn’t faze Trace. White Eagle appeared to have the power to see the truth in men’s souls, and he had nothing to hide.

“The woman you brought to the mesa—she is your woman?”

“You knew I was up there?” Trace blurted. The Indian’s knowledge never ceased to amaze him. “Yes, she is my woman…or soon will be. It’s why I need your help. The leader of the men below means her harm, just as he likely means to kill me after I round up the wild mustangs near—”

The conversation stopped as a slender Walapai woman placed bowls before them. She flashed Trace a look that could kill.

“Pay her no need,” said White Eagle, dismissing the female. “My daughter has been tempted by the white man’s world but belongs here with her people. You did my bidding and brought her back to me. I told her to choose a brave for a husband. Foolishly she voiced that she wants you, Whisperer. Fury resides in her heart since she heard you have taken a white woman. But she is young. She will fix her mind elsewhere. So be it. Now, come, tell me of this trouble that has brought you to us.”

Trace explained over the bowls of food what had happened and what he feared would happen. When he finished, there was silence while the Indian pondered what he’d learned. Trace’s life, and those of Mae and Preacher, could well depend upon what the other man said.

“This Comstock has stolen ponies from White Eagle,” the Indian said at length.

“He has stolen mine, too, and those of my rancher friends in the north. I am trying to prove that, and put a stop to this theft.”

“Still, you plan to give this man Standing Thunder and his herd—”

“I never intended to give Comstock the herd. I used it as bait to draw him away from the Lazy C, so my friend could take my woman to safety and send for the ranchers in the north. Only, Comstock changed things. He brought the woman along as a weapon to control me. I need to spirit her away and send for the marshal.”

“This I cannot do,” White Eagle said. “We cannot visit the towns. No white man would give ear to our words.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Trace agreed. “I’ll figure a way to get word to them, probably north from Flat Springs, if we can get there. I am hoping to use the horses to draw Jared’s group in that direction. Do you know where Standing Thunder and his herd are hiding?”

“Echo Canyon,” said the Indian.

Trace hesitated. “If trouble comes, can I bring my woman to you until I settle the score with these rustlers? I don’t know that it will be necessary, but…well, it’s just good to know all one’s options.”

White Eagle closed his eyes and thought, then gave a single nod. “You once fought for the honor of my daughter, brought her back to me. I owe the Whisperer the same. Ride to Echo Canyon. In two days, White Eagle will join with you. We will help keep you and your woman safe.” He flashed a hard smile that wrinkled his leathered face. “It is good to see my old friend the Whisperer, and even better to learn he is still friend and not enemy.”

Trace smiled. “I want Standing Thunder for my own,” he pointed out. “I have stalked him through the canyons for four summers. Once we settle this, however, you are welcome to all the remaining horses.” He offered his hand. “And don’t call me Whisperer. These men know of my skill but don’t know anything else about me. They know the Whisperer is a renegade rider. It could get me killed.”

White Eagle nodded again. “It will be as you wish, my friend. We meet at Echo Canyon in two days.”

Trace left the camp and headed back to where he’d tied Diablo. He pulled up short when he saw the horse, Breath Feather sitting astride him. Aside from her glossy black hair falling from a center part to her waist, she was naked. Trace was glad no Walapai braves were nearby.

He didn’t miss a step. It was plain that she meant to disarm him with her nudity. Her breasts were only partly covered, the nipples hard in the cool evening air and protruding provocatively through the dusky curtain of hair. When he drew near, she flicked the hair back, proudly flaunting her breasts.

“Is she as beautiful as Breath Feather, your woman?” she asked in the Walapai tongue, sliding her hands over her breasts, down along the curve of her waist and hips. “I see your eyes tasting what you see.”

“I see a spoiled child who will catch her death in the cold,” Trace responded, snatching up her buckskin shift from the ground where she’d discarded it. He tossed it over to her.

She allowed it to fall. “I scratch her eyes out if you bring her here!” Hunching forward, she struck at him like a rattler, spooking Diablo, who danced on his hooves and whinnied. “I will pull the hairs out of her head! I will gouge her white skin until it bleeds!”

Trace reached out and grabbed her around the waist, yanking her from the horse and dropping her onto her feet, hard. He picked up her shift and thrust it at her. “Stop this. Now. You always knew there was nothing between us. I did your father a favor in bringing you back; that was the end of it. I owed him. There are plenty of fine braves for you to choose from right here in camp.”

Her dark eyes flashed. “They all shun, turn their faces away from me. None among them will have me now. ‘White man’s leavings,’ they say, ‘unclean to the Walapai nation.’ There is no one left to me but Whites.”

“Whose fault is that?” Trace snapped.

She wilted. “I begged you to take me. On my knees, I begged you! But you would have none of me. I have waited for you. I knew one day you would come back. You have no woman!
I
am your woman!” She moved to throw her arms around his neck, but he dodged the
embrace. He took her hands and crimped them around her shift.

“You are wrong. I love this woman you have heard of. I hope to marry her once I get her back to her home.” He paused and looked Breath Feather in the eye. “And if you
ever
threaten her in any way, you will wish to God you never laid eyes on me. Your time will come. You will find a man who loves you, just as Mae has.”

Breath Feather stared up at him, tears gleaming in her eyes. Her fingers worked, punishing the fringed buckskin of her clothes, clenching and flexing in an angry rhythm. For a moment Trace thought she was going to throw the garment at him, but she didn’t. Instead she spat in his face as a snake spits venom, spun on her heel, and ran off, her long hair streaming behind her.

Trace stripped off his bandana and wiped away her spittle. Then, without a backward glance, he swung up on Diablo’s back and headed off toward Comstock’s camp.

He dismounted when he reached the stream and wrung out his kerchief. The icy water was melted snow from the mountains above the foothills, and Trace bathed his hot face and soothed his parched throat. Finally he tried the damp kerchief around his neck and mounted Diablo again. The whole incident with Breath Feather left a bad taste in his mouth. His words to her had surprised him. He’d always planned on seeing Mae home safely, of course, but everything else had been a little vaguer. Only, now the words were out. He intended Mae for his wife, and damn any man or woman who stood in his way.

He wished he could find someone to make Breath Feather happy, though. He knew she just needed someone with a firm hand and the smarts to gentle her. To some degree, everyone needed someone to gentle them. Sadly for her, it would never be him.