“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.”
Chapter Five
Well, you could have bowled me over with a feather that day,” Preacher was saying.
Nearly two more had passed since they parted company. Two days of hell, of waiting. Trace had watched for the old man every hour from a nearby ridge. Finally he’d spotted the buckboard leaving the Lazy C, likely to pick up supplies, and Trace met his friend at a small, unseen grove just off the trail.
“What I don’t get is why you didn’t claim that mustang on the spot. Couldn’t you prove he was yours?” Preacher fussed.
“I could’ve proven it. Diablo’s hooves and shoes are notched.”
“Then, why?”
“It wasn’t the right time,” Trace said. “Comstock wasn’t packing, unless you want to call that meanlooking blacksnake on the pommel of his saddle a weapon. A coward’s weapon. I’ll bet he knows how to use it, too. But that foreman of his was. If I’d drawn on Comstock—and it would have come to that if I’d claimed back Diablo, believe me—who knows how many other riders would have drilled me from behind? You, too. He and a couple of boys were on the porch watching my every move as I rode out. I’ve no doubt they saw and heard it all.”
“You don’t make no sense, Ord,” Preacher opined, lifting his dusty slouch hat to scratch his head. “Ever since we first met, you’ve been braying about getting that black devil stallion back. Well, you get the chance, you’ve got proof that he’s yours, the poor animal was being abused something terrible and—cool as you please—you tip your hat and walk away. I take back what I said about you having a short fuse, but I still think you’ve been chewing on locoweed.”
“That woman stole my horse,” said Trace. “I need to find out if she’s in cahoots with this outfit or a victim of it. Then I can do something.”
“If Comstock don’t kill that mustang first,” the old man said. “That horse recognized you, Trace. I see that now. That’s why he acted like he did.”
“Don’t you think that tears me up inside?” Trace’s anger burned hot. “Do you have any idea what it took for me to turn my back and leave him there? If that gal is part of this gang, it’s one thing. If she’s here against her will, it’s another. She was running from something, remember? If she’s still alive, I have no idea what she’s told Comstock, and I could get her hurt or killed. That’s why I need you there. You have to find out the situation.”
“You ain’t going to cotton to a lot of what’s going on,” the old man said darkly.
“Spit it out!”
The old man gave him a sad smile. “I knew you’d be champing at the bit, but I couldn’t get out here no quicker without rousing suspicion. You see, they ain’t exactly welcomed me into the fold with open arms. They like my cooking well enough. I never was worried about that. But they ain’t giving me rein to move free about the place. They keep me pretty close to the bunkhouse and the cook shack, and they’re generally a tight-lipped bunch.”
“How many riders?” Trace asked.
“Ten that I’ve seen, but I gather there are more. Some out on the range never come in—leastwise, they haven’t since I’ve been there.”
“What about the girl?” Trace urged.
The old man hedged. “You ain’t going to like what I have to say.”
Trace snapped. “Don’t mess with me, old-timer. Is she there or not?”
Preacher frowned. “I didn’t see no womenfolk at all, and I didn’t hear no mention of any, neither. Nobody was saying much around me. A couple of times, when the wind was blowing just right, I thought I heard a woman’s voice up to the main house. Once I might’ve heard crying. Another time it sounded like a man and woman arguing. Tried once to get up there, to see for myself. Made it to the back porch on the excuse I was wondering if they had a Dutch oven. Comstock comes out and chases me off. Even so, I spotted a shadow inside. A female shadow.”
“Was it her?” Trace asked through clenched teeth.
“I’m getting there
,” the old man shot back. “I kept my eyes and ears open after that. Didn’t see the woman again, but listened real good to what them riders was saying. There’s a woman on the place all right, a woman named Mae. But…”
“But what, old man?” Trace prompted.
“Here’s the part you ain’t going to like. She’s Comstock’s wife.”
Trace took a step backward. His mind reeled to the ring on her finger and what she’d said when he asked her name, how she’d stumbled over her answer. But why was she running through the canyon on foot like a mad, wild thing when she had a whole herd of horses at her command? Something wasn’t right here. Mae hadn’t been headed southwest to the Lazy C when she lit out; she’d been headed east. Those riders had caught up and turned her back toward the mountains. Back toward the Lazy C.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of Comstock changing his mind about me?” he asked.
“After the stunt with that horse?” The old man loosed a guttural chuckle. “Not likely.”
“I was trying to settle Diablo down,” Trace snapped.
“I know, I ain’t holding it against you. I’m just saying you spoilt your chances of getting hired on, is all. Man seems none too trustful to begin with, and you’re someone that horse respects. Set Comstock’s hackles up.”
“When are you coming into town again?”
Preacher shrugged. “Not for a week, maybe two.”
“Doubt I can wait that long.” Trace shook his head. “Riders are coming and going every day from the Lazy C. I’ll be spotted sooner or later.” He pointed to the northwest. “See that ridge?”
Preacher nodded.
“There’s a little grove with a stream running through it. I’ll camp there and keep watch from up top during the day. See if you can’t get in good with the ranch’s wranglers. Drink and play cards with them, find out what’s going on. I need proof before I send for the ranchers who hired me, or for the marshal up north; the circuit judge is likely on Comstock’s payroll. And…keep your eyes open for Mae. Something’s not right here.” After a moment Trace asked, “Is Diablo all right?”
“He ain’t happy. That Comstock is running him into the ground. He’s all cut up from whippings. Truth to tell, I’ve been trying to figure a way to set him loose. I would, too, except I didn’t want to get caught before I found out something to help you.”
“Don’t—not yet. Leave Diablo to me. But before it’s done I’m going to give that hombre a taste of his own bullwhip. You can count on that.”
That night, Trace slept in the cul-de-sac. All day he’d haunted the ridge above, and at dusk he rode Duchess down the rocky trail of ragged steps to the outcropping of red rock where he’d hidden his gear and burro. It was the perfect seclusion, being tucked behind trees and far enough from the trail to risk a small campfire.
The air was sweet and clean, blowing down from the mountain peaks that still showed snow on their caps. Sage colored the distant foothills. New grass swayed in the breeze, and the stream ran cold and full from the melted snow from above. Spring was in full swing, but Trace couldn’t enjoy it.
Early the next morning, he watched hawks and eagles sail on the wind, and he caught a glimpse of deer, elk, and once he could have sworn he saw a great black bear. He set snares for rabbits and kept himself busy. It was that or his temper would get the better of him and he’d charge, guns blasting, into the Lazy C Ranch. He usually was a patient man, but this waiting was awful.
The following day he rode to the Outpost. No one in the town seemed to know of anyone named Ahern. His casual questions met with stony stares, closed mouths, minimal answers. He assumed this was because it was a company town, and everyone was heedful that the company was Jared Comstock. Buying supplies, Trace made a lot of noise to spread the word that he was heading back to canyon country, searching for wild mustangs; then he rode out in that direction, inviting many curious stares. He left late in the day, which allowed him to double back under the cover of twilight and return unseen to his campsite.
Trace chafed to take action. This waiting wasn’t getting him anyplace. It was all he could do not to immediately ride to the Lazy C, reclaim his horse and get to the bottom of the mystery of Mae. If she was Jared’s wife, then so be it. He’d take his horse, ride away, and never spare her another thought. He’d find proof of Comstock’s rustling, send for the ranchers who’d hired him, and tell them to fetch a U.S. marshal.
But he couldn’t get that haunting face out of his mind. He knew animals well, and guessed people weren’t much different. He’d seen fear in Mae’s brown eyes. Something pretty bad had pushed her to run away in the middle of the night, with no gun, food, or proper clothing, and to become willing to risk being shot as a horse thief.
He hoped Preacher was being careful. The old man was smart but often talked too much. One slip, and Jared would be all over him. This was Trace’s job. He was used to working alone, which had the benefit that he didn’t have to worry about others. This time, if anything happened to Preacher it would be his fault.
“One more day, Duchess,” he said, patting the sorrel’s neck as he made his final evening check before turning in. “Then I’ve got to make some sort of move.”
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of motion: a horse and rider traveling at a gallop, as if the devil were on their heels. Not eastward toward the Outpost, though. And it didn’t ride like Preacher.
His heart leapt. Was it Diablo? He didn’t hesitate. He mounted Duchess and spurred her down the sloping trail through fallen rocks, finally breaking free into the grove below. Running his horse flat out at twilight was hazardous when he didn’t know the land, and he prayed she didn’t find a prairie dog hole. He leaned forward in his saddle, steering the mare to intercept the other rider.
Diablo ran like the wind. That had Trace worried. He had always said there was no match for his stallion. Of course, that had been before Diablo was abused by Jared Comstock. He had to give Duchess her due; she ran with her full heart. And she was gaining.
Trace grimaced. Could his mustang be so altered, or had he misjudged the sorrel beneath him? To ride a horse, you could either break or gentle him. He’d witnessed both methods. Gentled, Diablo had kept his spirit. He had a feeling Jared Comstock would break a horse, grinding him down until he lost all fight. But if Comstock had ruined his horse, Trace was going to kill him.
As Duchess pulled within range, Trace put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle—a command he’d taught the horse to obey, a summons that had always worked in the past. This time, though there was a slight hesitation to the horse’s gait, Diablo’s rider slapped the end of his reins like a whip and once more the stallion sped ahead.
Trace leaned low over Duchess’s lathered neck, driving her to her limit. Once more the mare nearly closed the distance. There was no moon; twilight was quickly shifting to full darkness. As his eyes adjusted, however, the rider came into focus and Trace loosed a string of oaths. Without hesitation, he ripped the lasso from his pommel, whirled it over his head, and threw it, the circle dropping over the mustang’s long, muscular neck.
Diablo went wild, the encircling rope nearly pulling Trace from the saddle. Both horses almost stumbled and fell. The mustang’s screams filled the night, reminding Trace of the first time he’d brought the horse down. Certainly, Diablo’s rider was having a hard time keeping astride. What could be driving them to such acts of painful desperation?
“Hold, you black imp of Satan!” Trace commanded, winding the rope around his saddle horn to keep Diablo from pulling it out of his hand. The stallion puffed visible breath from flared nostrils, tossed his head, mane flying. He did not slow his flight, however.
Trace reeled in the horse until he could reach out and pull Diablo’s rider out of the saddle and across his lap. He growled, staring into the face that had haunted his dreams. “Bitch. I ought to wring your pretty neck. You’ve got a lot of answering to do.”
Chapter Six
Despite her struggling, which was about as wild as the stallion’s, Trace held Mae fast. And, like when he’d gentled the stallion the first time, he allowed her to get the fight out of her system.
It wasn’t easy. His blood ran hot because of the horse. Diablo has been abused, nearly driven mad, all because of Mae’s selfish actions. Trace was having a hard time reining in his fury. Nonetheless, he gritted his teeth and allowed her to fight. But then holding her became harder for other reasons.
The feel of her in his arms, the heat of her body so close to his, plus that wiggling around on his lap, began a fiery ache in his loins. That sexual need was fed by his anger. Diablo’s misuse made him heartsick, made him want to lash out in punishment, but the rest of him wanted to throw Mae down and worship her like a goddess. Such a terrible mix of emotions riddled him that he scarcely dared trust what he might do next.
“Quit that!” he snapped, shaking her. “I’m not going to hurt you, but you’re going to hurt yourself, maybe us both, if you don’t stop struggling. Your damn willfulness has already cost my stallion. That wound in your shoulder is too new to stand this strain. You’re going to open it again.”
“Let go!” the woman raged.
“Enough! It’s me, Trace Ord. You stole my horse, remember? I can’t say he’s fared well because of it.”
She whimpered, and her blows softened, shifting to two stiffarms that kept him at a distance.
“That’s better,” he said. “This is your fault. You wouldn’t be having these troubles if you’d confided in me when I asked you, instead of sneaking off with my horse in the dead of night. You proud of what happened to Diablo? Do you even give a damn?”
“I never harmed your horse,” she sobbed.
“No, you just stole him for your rustler friend,” he retorted. “I’m going to use that damn bullwhip on him. Bet on it, lady.”
Renegade Riders Page 5