Renegade Riders (4 page)

Pappy glared. “Damn fool! What’s so funny? You have a chaw of locoweed?”

“Sorry. The asses have their asses turned into the wind.” Trace tried to regain seriousness, given the gravity of their situation, but then Pappy laughed, which returned Trace’s humor. Sometimes life was so damn ridiculous that laughing was the only thing you could do. Here he was, huddled under a blanket with a bossy old coot and about to be buried alive. He was no closer to getting onto the Lazy C than he’d been a few days before, and his horse had been stolen twice—and a certain beautiful horse thief was most likely in the grasp of a gang of outlaws.

The last thought was sobering. Images of the war returned: homes burned, lives destroyed. Women hadn’t fared too well, as Mr. Lincoln’s war had seemed to set loose an ugliness in men that made respect and gentle manners a way of the past. Trace wondered if Mae was healthy. Had infection set in? His stomach muscles tightened with fear as he pictured her abused by five or six men. He’d encountered women—one woman in particular—in the wake of such brutality. Or, rather, the shells of these women. One had been his sister, Annelee.

Trace might have shed a tear—for his sister, for Mae—but it was hard to tell in the dust storm. All he could do was shake from the painful memories and fear, and pray.

Sand piled up against the blanket Pappy and he desperately clutched, heavy, anchoring them to the spot. The grit worked its way under the edges, sharp as needles
against any exposed skin. But while the time was painful and immeasurable, eventually the storm spent itself. The wind slowly died down, picked up again briefly, then gradually carried the driving sand westward. Trace was unsure how long the storm had lasted. It seemed like years. They shoved their way out from under the blanket.

The brim of Trace’s Stetson was heavy with sand. It clogged his ears and blurred his vision. It overflowed his boot tops and had collected underneath his shirt collar. The damn stuff had even worked its way under his shirt.

Trace struggled to his feet, took off his hat, and knocked it against his thigh. He tried to spit but lacked enough moisture to do so. “I thought storms like that only happened in the desert,” he choked out, again trying in vain to clear his mouth of the gritty particles.

“Damn dust devil. Look at what you’re standing on.” The old man coughed. “Wherever there’s sand, you’re going to have sandstorms.”

“We never had sandstorms in Louisiana,” Trace complained.

Pappy chuckled. “No, but I heard you have big blows called hurricanes.”

Trace stared past the trees to the valley beyond, his heart heavy. There was little hope any trace of Mae or Diablo remained. The wind had covered everything in sand; the stuff was knee deep in some places. The horse tracks had vanished as though they never existed.

I
t
seemed fate had it in for Trace Ord. In the course of the month since he’d left the ranchers up north to locate their stolen horses, his whole life had changed. His horse had been stolen by a baffling female, which had forced him to cancel his plans to capture the elusive wild stallion, Standing Thunder, and now he’d taken on excess baggage in the person of a crusty old wanderer.

He’d dubbed his companion Preacher after a particularly long sermon the old man gave. Damn old-timer rambled incessantly. He’d implied he had a dark past, which sometimes made him contemplative, though he’d shrugged off giving any details. Trace respected that, not being willing to give any details of his own. He liked the old man. Still—and though a lot of what he said had merit—Preacher’s constant yammering made it hard for Trace to concentrate. A loner, Trace was used to silence. Preacher talked so much he feared his ears might bleed. Now, when he needed his wits about him as never before, his nerves were frayed to a raveling.

He was at the end of his tether by the time they reached the last semblance of civilization east of the Hualapai Mountains and the Lazy C. It was a strange town, so small that Trace could hardly believe the mail coach even stopped. No dwellings, only establishments. If someone had ever christened it, no one seemed to know the name anymore. “The Outpost” was all anyone knew. It consisted of—and these first things were all under one roof—a general store, a saloon, a hotel, and a bath house complete with weathered, steelbanded wooden tubs. Next door was a combination livery and blacksmith. The closest thing to a law officer of the so-called town was a circuit judge who, Trace was told, put in an appearance every three months or so. But even that wasn’t set in stone, since a dispute over the territory’s western border was still a bone of contention.

Trace spread the word that he and the old man were drifters—a wrangler and a camp cook—looking to hire on with any outfit that would have them. They were quickly directed to the Lazy C, which was precisely what Trace had hoped. There weren’t any other spreads in the area, and it had become quickly apparent that Jared Comstock owned the Outpost, lock, stock, and barrel. The place existed almost solely to serve the needs of the Lazy C.

At the general store Trace replaced his spare shirt that Mae had taken when she ran away, and much of his sandblasted wardrobe, then headed for a good long soak, a shave, and a haircut at the bath house. Dust and sand coated his body like a second skin beneath his clothes, and he’d nearly scratched himself raw in spots.
Getting his companion to follow suit was another matter entirely, but persis tent threats finally won out.

After a filling if not particularly palatable meal, they paid a visit to the livery. There Trace bought himself a respectable-looking sorrel mare that answered to the name of Duchess. She was no Diablo, but she was healthy and fast enough to pass for a wrangler’s mount. Preacher balked at the idea of a horse for himself, opting to stick to driving the burros. Though that would slow them down, Trace had to agree that it better suited the old man’s image.

It was a half-day’s distance to the ranch, and by the time their personal business was done the sun had slipped behind the mountains, capping those hazy purple spires with rivulets of crimson and gold. Trace viewed the flaming sunset with a wistful uneasiness, seeing the exact color of Mae’s hair. He hoped to God she was all right. Why that should be, when anger seemed a more appropriate response to the bedeviling little horse thief, he couldn’t imagine. But some things just were.

Anxious to reach the Lazy C, Trace decided it was best they not spend the night in town. Instead, they headed out and traveled until night fell. They made camp in the inky blackness and slept under the stars.

When they approached the Lazy C the next day, noon was near. The spread was far grander than Trace expected. A sprawling compound, it boasted a halftimbered ranch house, with bunkhouse, stables, and corrals tucked behind, well out of view. Though he could hear horses, none were visible.

The spread backed up to the mountains. Owing to
the lay in the land, there was only one possible approach to the ranch: the trail they now traveled. All in all, from first impression, the Lazy C had all the earmarks of a rustler’s paradise.

Trace’s demeanor changed with every step as they guided the animals closer. His eyes—sharp as an eagle’s—and keen nose missed nothing, neither the hawks swooping overhead nor the muffled sounds and tantalizing smells of roast meat coming from the ranch house. He sat his horse with spine straight. Every sinew was taut. He was all renegade rider, aloof yet ready for anything.

“Let me do the talking,” he said to Preacher as they approached the hitching rail in front of the house. “Just follow my lead and don’t volunteer anything. They’re probably expecting us after all the noise I made back at the Outpost about looking for work. I did that on purpose. Our coming out here needs to look natural. If Jared Comstock and his riders are what I think, they’ll pick up on an ambush quick as you can spit and holler howdy.”

“Suppose they take you on and not me?” the old man asked.

Trace growled. “Let’s just take things as they come, eh? Don’t go borrowing trouble. We’ve been lent enough as is.”

He was about to swing out of his saddle when a wiry, hatless man strode out onto the ranch house porch, spurs jangling, and sized them up with a hooded gaze that turned Trace’s blood cold. “You have a purpose for being here, you better state it quick,” the man snarled.

“We’re looking for work,” Trace responded. “Folks
back at the Outpost said you might be looking to hire a wrangler and camp cook. Said to see Jared Comstock. Would that be you?”

“It would not,” the stranger replied, raking them with skeptical eyes. “He’ll be along, but we don’t need no help.”

“Well, since we’ve come this far, we’ll stick around and ask him anyway—if it’s all the same to you,” said Trace.

The stranger shrugged. “Suit yourself. I don’t much care how you waste your time, but I’m foreman here—the name’s Will Morgan—and I say we ain’t hiring.”

“Well, Will Morgan, my name’s Ord, and this here is Preacher. He makes the best son-of-a-bitch stew this side of the Mississippi; I can vouch for that myself. And we’ll hang around awhile.”

“Wait there, then.” Morgan crooked his thumb toward the bunkhouse. “Outside. Like I say, I don’t much care how you waste your time.” The foreman spun on his heel and stalked back inside.

Neither Trace nor Preacher spoke until they’d rounded the corner toward the bunkhouse and were out of earshot. Horses were visible now, some ambling in a nearby paddock, some grazing in the pasture directly behind. Two riders were cutting several out of the herd to be branded.

Stolen or no, some fine horses were on the spread, judging from what Trace could see. But he needed to get closer. The pastureland stretched way back to the mountains. There were groves and valleys and outcroppings of rocks in the hazy distance that could conceal anything,
and it stood to reason that rustled horses would be kept well out of view.

“What do you think?” Preacher asked.

“Not a very sociable welcome,” Trace observed. “About what I expected, though. That fella needs taking down a peg.”

“And you think you’re just the man for the job? From the look of that thundercloud you’re wearing for a face, I’ll bet you’re just itching.”

“Not ’til I do what I’ve come for,” Trace responded. “Personal feeling don’t enter into it. All that can wait.”

“Well, it don’t appear that the wait’ll be long,” the old man replied.

A tall, lean rider was fast approaching on a black stallion. He was fair-complexioned and broad-shouldered, wore a gray Stetson and jeans too new to have seen much work, and a crisp white shirt billowing in the wind. His eyes were deep-set and dark, his mouth a thin, lipless line beneath a sandy mustache. Trace swallowed dry. His jaw muscle began to tick, and when he touched the brim of his hat in greeting, it was only with the tips of his rigid thumb and forefinger. The rest of his fingers were balled into a white-knuckled fist.

“What in the hell’s the matter with you?” Preacher whispered, leaning toward him. “You’ve gone white as a cotton field! You know this hombre or something?”

“Not now,” Trace gritted out through clenched teeth.

“You Ord?” the horse man asked.

Trace nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Jared Comstock,” the rider announced. “I own this spread. My foreman tells me you’re looking for work.”

“That’s right,” Trace forced out.

“Well, I don’t need any wranglers,” Comstock explained. “We’re full up. But I could use a good camp cook. Mine ran off, and we’ve been making do.”

Preacher tensed. “Oh, now, I don’t—”

“You won’t find better than Preacher here,” Trace interrupted, dosing the old man with a warning look. “And we’re not a package deal. We’ve only been traveling together since Flat Springs, but I can sure vouch for his vittles.”

Comstock grunted. “We’ll see.”

“You sure I can’t give you a hand?” Trace offered coolly. “You can try me out for free.”

“Sorry,” Comstock said. He barked a harsh command to his horse, which had begun to snort and prance underneath him. Ignoring Trace, he turned narrowed eyes on Preacher. “You want a job, store your gear in the bunkhouse,” he instructed. “You can show me what you can do at suppertime. The cookhouse is out back.”

Trace spoke up. “Preacher’s got some of my gear on his burro. I’ll just collect that and switch it over to mine. Then I’ll be on my way.”

Comstock gave a dismissive nod, eyes cold and skeptical.

“If you change your mind,” Trace remarked, “I’ll be staying in town for a few days.”

“Not likely,” Comstock snapped. The horse underneath him began to dance, and he pulled back hard on his reins. The bit cut the animal’s mouth, and blood began to leak from it. “Hold, you churn-head!” he snarled. The horse was rearing now, groans of protest rumbling in its throat, the animal’s eyes wild.

Trace dismounted. Tossing his reins to Preacher, he approached the frenzied stallion, speaking soft commands.

“Get back, you fool!” Comstock bellowed. “This’un’s a killer!”

Trace raised both hands in a gesture of compliance, and took a step back. “Just trying to help,” he said. “I’ve gentled many an ornery mustang in my day. You’ve cut his mouth there. That’s why he’s fussing. Keep that up and you’ll ruin his mouth, cause it to callus. You’ll never get him to behave without gaining his trust first.”

“I don’t need your help, wrangler, I already told you that,” Comstock snapped, “and I sure don’t need you telling me how to handle my horse! You’d best be moving on. Now git!”

Trace touched the brim of his Stetson in silent farewell and moved off toward the burros, but his eyes never left Jared Comstock, who dug his spurs into the horse’s sides and galloped off, raising a cloud of dust in the direction of the two men branding in the corral.

“Now what are we going to do?” Preacher complained. “I told you to watch that short fuse. You’ve got that fella mad as a peeled rattler.”

“You’re going to stay here and cook,” Trace commanded, his lips scarcely moving. He stared after the horse and rider. “Yes, sir, you’re going to cook like you never cooked before, and you’re going to keep an eye out for a pretty lady who answers to the name of Mae, with big brown eyes and hair like sunset gold, and anything that smells of rustling. I’m going to do just what I said: hang around in town awhile. As soon as you can, I want you to meet me there with whatever you’ve
learned. Don’t raise suspicion, but don’t take too long, neither. You ain’t seen nothing like what’ll happen when that short fuse of mine burns down to the powder.”

“What makes you think I’ll see your woman, stuck way out here in a cook shack?” the old man barked. “You plumb loco?”

“You wanted to tag along,” Trace growled. “This is what tagging along gets you. Just do as I say.”

“What’s got you snakebit, Ord?” Preacher asked. “You look like you’ve seen a gosh-darned ghost.”

“Worse,” Trace gritted out. “That’s my horse he’s riding.”