Renegade Riders (15 page)

“Breath Feather has not lived up to her name,” White Eagle said sadly. “She is called so after the soft down on an eagle’s underbelly. There is no softness in her. My daughter has brought shame upon her father and our people. My heart is heavy from the path she walks, and I know of no man with the strength to gentle her.”

“Well, it won’t be me,” Trace admitted. “You know someone else has my heart, and I’m hoping those two never meet. If things go right, riders from the north will be here soon. A day, maybe two at the most. So…I guess we should start rounding up the horses in the meantime.”

“We will meet you below when the sun rises,” said the aging warrior, straightening his posture in an unmistakable show of pride and strength. “You will ride with White Eagle and his horse hunters. Do not fear. Your woman will be watched by my braves whenever it is possible. If only I could find someone to do the same for my daughter.”

Before Trace could reply, the Indian was gone, vanished into the shadowy trees.

An unease filled Trace as he walked Diablo back to Comstock’s camp. He hoped the man was sound asleep, that he wouldn’t ask about the Indians until first light. Trace was bone weary after the hard ride to Flat Springs and back, and he wanted rest—and maybe to talk to Mae. Only, Comstock was wide-awake. The rustler’s lean, dapper figure was all too visible in his blinding white shirt and jeans that didn’t look as though they’d ever seen a day’s honest work. There would be no rendezvous, however brief, for Trace and Mae.

On the surface, the night didn’t seem much like any other. Mae was in her tent, and Preacher was bedded down not far away, snoring heavily, Trace’s Winchester at his side. A couple of riders played cards while Chips was honing his knife. The men were apparently too keyed up over the roundup in the morning to drink themselves blind as they had the other two nights; that would have been too much to hope for.

“Well, you were gone long enough. Did you find this White Eagle?” Comstock asked as Trace strolled up to the campfire.

Trace ignored him for a bit, taking a cup from the side of the wagon and pouring some coffee. He knew it
aggravated Comstock. Good. Men who were too emotional were dangerous, but they were often controlled by their tempers and easier to prod in one direction or another.

“Well, did you find them or not?” Comstock repeated.

“Yeah, I did,” Trace responded, sipping his coffee. “They’re up there all right. They beat us here. They were just waiting to talk to me.”

“So, where’s the herd?”

Trace rolled his shoulder, which was stiff, and decided to lie. Just to play it safe. “White Eagle’s men are still tracking them. He and his riders will meet up with us at sunup.”

Comstock looked uneasy, and Trace wondered if he was scared of Indians. A moment later, the man settled any doubt. “I don’t trust them thieving Walapai.”

Trace gave a tired laugh. “Since I met you, Comstock, I cannot say I’ve noticed you trust much anyone or anything. You don’t trust the men you hire. You don’t trust the Indians. You don’t seem to trust your wife, belling her like you would a cat… Just who do you trust? A man who cannot trust must feel mighty alone.”

Jared was alone, that was clear. He was also the biggest puzzle Trace had ever seen. He was a bully and, like most bullies, a coward at heart. But usually bullies surrounded themselves with slimy stooges who scurried around both fearing and worshipping them. He didn’t see that happening with Jared. The man had two strong-willed employees that totally disregarded him, and also a bunch of drifters who gave him no more allegiance than a snake would a coyote. The man seemed desperate
and weaker all the time. Trace hoped Slade didn’t pick up on that and try to take advantage.

Tossing the dregs of his coffee into the fire, Trace spat out the rest of what was in his mouth. Steam hissed up at him, and his nostrils flared against the aroma of bitter coffee and mesquite. “Don’t tell Preacher,” he groused, “but that brew tastes like horse piss.”

Comstock laughed. “Drink much horse piss, do you? I made it. Preacher faded long ago. Get some shut-eye yourself. Morning is going to come quick, and then we will see if you’re as good as you say with wild horses. For your sake, I sure hope so.”

“A threat if I ever heard one,” Trace muttered under his breath. “A stupid threat from a stupid man.” He gave a crisp nod and went to settle himself apart from the others, though close enough to keep an eye on Mae.

As he always did in a difficult situation, he tried to just rest, one eye half cracked. He managed to stay awake until Comstock bedded down for the night, but finally both eyelids began to droop, heavy with sleep; he’d been too long in the saddle. Propped uncomfortably against the trunk of an old cedar, he shook himself awake several times, but the effort was in vain. Despite his resolve, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

T
here
would be no roundup today. The corrals had to be built first. Not that Trace was in a hurry; the northern ranchers needed time to come with the law. Just past dawn they set out: Trace, White Eagle, and half the Walapai riders. The rest of the Indians remained out of sight, keeping an eye on Mae and Comstock, as their chief promised. Despite Trace’s hope, there was no opportunity to speak with Mae. Comstock stayed too near the camp, watching everything like a hawk. No, there was nothing to do but trust Preacher to take her in hand while they all played out their hands.

They followed the timberline north-northeast to a gap in the rocks that would soon form the funnel-shaped makeshift corral they’d devised, emptying into a larger makeshift corral of wood that they were set to build. The landscape was made for such a horse trap, sheer-faced rock on one side, chest-high split rails they’d build on the other. The horses—there were fifty to a hundred they’d counted—would have no choice but to run the narrow gantlet and then be forced through a gate admitting no more than five abreast.

His mind’s eye saw the great herd stampeding through the canyon, and he could almost hear their frenzied cries. He shuddered, imagining the noble beasts in the hands of Comstock and his crew. But with luck, the northern ranchers would arrive in time. Standing Thunder could never survive in the power of a man like Comstock. He was like Diablo and Mae, too wild to be broken. He needed to be gentled instead.

“The Whisperer is not happy he must capture these horses for others,” White Eagle observed, as though he read Trace’s mind.

“No, I’m not.” Trace glanced at him. “And remember, these men do not know that Trace Ord is called Whisperer. It might mean my death, White Eagle.”

The Indian shrugged. “I understand. But they and their chief keep their distance. He fears me and my kind, I think.” After a moment the Walapai added, “My riders watch your woman.”

“Tell them to beware especially of one called Slade,” Trace cautioned. “They will spot him instantly. Dressed all in black, he wears his guns strapped low on his hips. He’s fast,” Trace warned.

The Indian seemed surprised. “As fast as you, my friend?”

Trace shrugged. “Maybe.”

“That is not good. If you do not know…He will be wondering. He will want an answer.”

Trace had certainly considered the possibility.

His attention was caught by Standing Thunder, who stood poised on a mesa on the eastern fringe of the little canyon, a noble statue carved of the same red rock
upon which he stood. Trace’s heart leapt at the sight. Admiring the slanted shoulders, the deep, powerful chest, and the long, sleek neck—the mark of a long-reaching stride—he could scarcely draw breath.

As though in salute, the stallion reared, forefeet churning, jet-black broomtail sweeping this way and that. Trace patted Diablo’s neck to soothe the restlessness in the horse’s spirit. When White Eagle laid a hand on his arm, Trace’s muscles tensed beneath the Indian’s wrinkled fingers.

“He sees you,” the Walapai leader said. “He tastes you on the wind. Many years he has roamed these canyons, riding with the wind. He is a clever spirit. I have passed through his lands many times and never once tried to claim him. Perhaps I felt that as long as he ran free, then I would remain free. We have understood each other…until now. The time of the wild horses draws to an end, much like the time of my people.”

Trace glanced at the Indian, unable to speak.

White Eagle shrugged. “The days to come are not clear, my friend. I dream on this, seeking the path to lead my tribe. I must make choices soon. Nothing stays the same, no matter how much we want that. These ending days seem fated for both the stallion and me and my kind. I would rather see the great broomtail in the Whisperer’s hands than in the power of one such as Comstock.”

A shiver ran up Trace’s spine. He certainly didn’t want this horse in Jared Comstock’s power. Nor did he want Mae to end up there. Everything was coming to a head. Standing Thunder, White Eagle, Comstock, Slade… Bad medicine was brewing. A storm was
coming, and it would soon break. Trace just hoped he could hold tight to what he loved.

Now he had to go back and get the people together to build the corral.

Something was wrong—terribly wrong. Mae felt more a prisoner than she had while locked in the ranch house. She saw Trace only at a distance. For the three days of the trip, Jared Comstock hadn’t let her out of his sight. This last day was the worst, while the men were out building the corral. He would no longer leave her in Preacher’s charge, he said, was keeping her confined to her tent and the chuck wagon, giving her no chance to speak to the old man. Preacher wouldn’t keep watch outside her tent at night anymore, either. Comstock himself would do that, and Mae was terrified by the thought.

He approached and handed her a plate of food. “Ever see a wild horse roundup, Mae?” he asked, sitting down to eat beside her.

“N-no,” she said. “I’m from Kentucky, remember? Horses are bred and raised on the farm there, not taken from the wild.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about your grandfather’s farm,” he suggested.

Mae paused, the food untouched on the plate. Every hair on her body was standing on end. “Why would you be interested in that?”

“No reason, I suppose.” Comstock shrugged. “But I’m hoping that, as things settle down between us…well, as your husband I’m sure your grandfather will want to get to know me. He can’t be a young man.”

The deed in his safe was gnawing at Mae’s mind. She told herself to ignore that. Picking up a biscuit, she went through the motions of eating, barely tasting what she put in her mouth.

Evidently sensing he’d pushed too far, Comstock switched directions. “Well, eat up and get ready to ride. Come tomorrow, you’ll have an adventure to tell your grandfather.”

“You’re going to let me go along?” Mae was shocked, considering his recent protective behavior.

“Yep. Can’t leave you behind. It’s not safe.” He exhaled. “Don’t get any harebrained ideas about running off again, though. You don’t want to rile me. Once this roundup is over and things settle down, I’ll have plenty of time to court you right proper, like we talked about. Maybe that’ll make you happy. We can have a proper honeymoon someplace nice like San Francisco. With the money these horses’ll bring, I can afford that. Damn tired of living out here, to be honest. Maybe we could just sell out and move to a real town, have a big house on Nob Hill. I was there once. Loved the clothes, the fancy restaurants…You’d like it, too, Mae. You’re too fine a woman to waste your life out here. With the sale of these horses, I can give you all that.”

Mae swallowed hard, again confused. She asked, “I’d have thought the Lazy C gives you enough money to afford anything you want. If you don’t like the West, why didn’t you sell out and move to California as soon as your father died?”

“Gambling debts drained the farm,” Comstock answered. He stared into the flames, lost in anger. “Stupid
old man—couldn’t seem to stop himself. Didn’t matter he was frittering everything away.”

“But I thought…” Mae caught herself and didn’t finish her question. It was her own father who’d had the gambling debts, not Jared’s.

He seemed to come back to the present. “Thought what, Mae?”

She tried to force a smile. “Oh, nothing. Just making conversation. Trying to get to know you, like you want.”

His eyes narrowed at her lie. “Are you really? Or are you offering one of those mirages we talked about, Mae?” He reached out and caught her hand. “Mae, I could make you a good husband, if you only gave me half a chance. What with the money from these horses and your grandfather’s farm, we could build an empire together.”

“My granddad’s farm…?” She tried to pull her hand back, but he wouldn’t let her. “What has that to do with—” She started to say us, but the word stuck on her tongue. Instead she said, “—your plans?”

He shrugged. “He’s an old man. It’s sad, Mae, but people die. My father did.”

“And mine,” she gritted out. “Murdered like a dog, or do you fail to recall?”

He took the plate from her hand and placed it atop his own. “Mae, you should forget all about the past. It just upsets you when you speak of it. I don’t like to see you unhappy. If things were diff—”

She jumped to her feet, yanking her hand from his grasp. “You want me happy, and yet you keep me prisoner. You forced me to marry you with a gun to my
father’s head! I warned you about Morgan and you ignored me. He killed my father and you did nothing. You have a lot to learn about women, Jared Comstock. I am not some horse to be broken. Not to mention, you don’t beat an animal with a blacksnake whip and expect him to
love
you.” She swallowed hard, biting back further, angrier words. There was no use arguing with this man; there was something not right in his thinking. Everything that had happened since she’d come to the Lazy C was increasingly confusing.

“Aw, Mae, honey,” he said, reaching for her. He had a strange look in his eyes.

She tried to back up but the tent was behind her. She started to lose her balance and fall. Jared caught her. Instead of releasing her when she was again on her feet, he pulled her against him, hard. His mouth came down on hers. She grimaced at the kiss and shoved at his chest, but that didn’t move him. His unyielding hands pulled her even closer.

Panicked, Mae did the only thing she could think of: she bit down on his lip and then stomped on the inside of his foot with her boot heel. “You brute!” she shrieked.

He backhanded her, driving her to the ground. Mae stared up into his eyes, terrified. Those eyes were tinged with madness. Panic exploded within her. Jared had sent Preacher off with Chip to fill the water barrels. Trace was out in the hills and hadn’t returned. There were only a few riders in camp, finishing up supper, and they believed she was married to this monster. They wouldn’t lift a hand in assistance.

“You she-bitch.” Jared’s hand moved to the whip at his waist. “I ought to learn you how to behave—”

From behind Jared came a metallic sound. He froze, then slowly turned. Slade stood there, his gun drawn. He wasn’t pointing it at Jared, was just standing there smiling and spinning the cylinder of his revolver. The sound seemed to break through Jared’s peculiar mood.

“You’re interrupting, Slade,” he said lowly, fixing his attention on the young man.

The gunslinger gave a small jerk of his upper lip against his long white teeth, as if thinking. “Uh, yeah. Guess I am. You’re making a lot of racket. Upsets my digestion, don’t you know? Seeing as you ran off that old man with the Winchester, giving him work, I figured I’d better stick close to Miss Ahern. Never know when my gun might come in handy. Like, when some sidewinder come sneaking around where he ain’t wanted.”

“
Mrs. Comstock
,” Jared corrected.

Slade pushed his black felt hat back on his head. “Funny thing about names, don’t you think? Once you’re used to one name, sort of hard to switch to another. Ain’t that so, ma’am? Don’t you still think of yourself as Mae Ahern?”

Mae’s eyes shifted between the two men, feeling a meaning present far beyond the simple words. She didn’t necessarily understand it. “Frankly, since you ask…yes, I do.”

Slade flashed her a big grin. “See there? I was right about that. You might could be surprised what else I’m right about. My gran—she was from Scotland—used to tell me that back there women never took their husband’s names until the English came in and forced their way of doing things down the Scots’ throats. I guess that’s part of why I took to carrying my guns
slung so low—I never cottoned to having anyone try to ram their ideas down my throat. See what I mean?”

Mae was glad for Slade’s intervention, but that didn’t make her trust him a bit more than she did Comstock. Something odd was going on here. But what? All Jared had to do was order his man to leave them alone, threaten not to pay him, but he wasn’t doing that. Why not? Once again, Mae was curious and alarmed by Jared’s reactions to the insolence of his hired hand.

She took a step away from Jared, the bells jingling on the bizarre anklet he’d fashioned for her. Slade’s eyes went immediately to her boot. Spinning the cylinder again, he asked, “Miss Ahern, you enjoy wearing that fool thing?”

She glanced up to see Jared’s reaction, but Comstock was standing stone-still, his hand on his whip, clearly trying to gauge if he could use it before Slade shot him. Stupid. Still, Mae was not above playing an advantage.

“Actually, I detest it. It’s humiliating,” she replied.

Slade sauntered close. With a tilt of his head he said, “Why don’tcha take it off?”

“Beg pardon?” She blinked, hearing an unmistakable command in his deep voice.

“I cannot imagine any man”—he flashed Jared a look of disdain—“doing that to his woman. Sort of treating her like a dog.”

Mae didn’t hesitate another moment. She sat down on the wooden box she’d been using as a stool and unlaced the anklet chain.

“Mae!” Jared cautioned, clearly warning her not to take it off.

She looked up and flashed him a smile, finished removing
the anklet, then stood. “Thank you, Michael Slade. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me? It’s been a long day and I need my rest if I’m to join the horse roundup.”

“Good night, Miss Ahern.” Slade tipped his hat to her.

“Good night, Mr. Slade.” She paused to study the gunslinger, not fooled by his recent actions. He was deadly if handsome, and anyone who didn’t see that was a fool. Long, sooty black eyelashes or not, he could kill Comstock in his sleep, and deep down she was terrified that he could do the same to Trace.

Swallowing hard, she turned to go inside her tent. Jared reached out and caught her upper arm.

“Mae—”

The clicks from the slow rolling of the gun cylinder came again, silencing what ever else Jared was going to say. A moment later Slade said, “Miss Mae’s tired and needs to rest for tomorrow. You heard her say that, right? Sounds right intelligent, don’t you think?”

Jared spun on his heel and walked toward the chuck wagon. He didn’t look back.