He hadn’t lain there long before the bunkhouse door came crashing in. Jared Comstock’s tall, lanky figure appeared, blacksnake in hand. With a flick of his wrist, he lashed out the whip with a blood-chilling crack. It wrapped around Will Morgan’s neck twice and yanked him backward onto the floor, chair and all.
Cards, coins, and bills went flying. Michael Slade leapt out of his chair, guns drawn, until he saw who was meting out justice; then he jammed them back in their holsters. The others sat slack-jawed, their eyes trained on Will Morgan writhing at their feet, clawing at the whip wrapped around the neckerchief he wore.
There would be no credibility to sleeping through this. The foreman’s strangled cries and Comstock’s bellowing voice were loud enough to wake the dead. Trace eased back his Stetson and slowly swung his feet to the floor, frowned, and faked a yawn.
“Lay hands on my wife, will you?” Comstock shouted. He turned to the others. “Wally, Chip, stand him on his feet. Ben, get up from there and fetch a rope. Jeb, stay out of the way! The rest of you, get him outside—you, too, Ord. You’re new here. I want you to see right off what happens to any man who crosses me.”
Without question or hesitation, the others dragged Morgan outside. Trace followed, his thumbs hooked in the waist of his jeans, and he leaned against the frame of the bunkhouse door, watching Comstock’s men haul the foreman down the steps.
“Bring that rope here, Ben,” Jared barked.
“You’re making a mistake,” Morgan was saying. “You fool! You know I didn’t break my orders—no more than you did, eh? If she said different, she’s a damn liar. Nobody could get near enough to that she-cat to lay a finger on—” The handle of Comstock’s blacksnake caught him across the lower jaw, cutting him off. “You don’t dare cross—”
Jared struck him across the mouth, this time with a backhand. “Lash the son of a bitch to the hitching rail,” he commanded the others.
Jeb and Wally carried out the order and quickly stepped away. Comstock grabbed the foreman’s shirt in a white-knuckled fist and ripped it open down the back. Then, despite Morgan’s screams of protest, he used his blacksnake.
Slade hovered nearby, watching, hands seemingly lazy but close to his holsters. Trace glanced around. More men were gathering, coming from the barn and the corral. But where was Preacher? That racket should have brought him. Not that Trace wanted him to see. Morgan deserved this and more, but it wasn’t a pretty sight. At ten lashes, he grimaced and stopped counting. The flesh on Morgan’s back was a bloody mess. Trace couldn’t help but remember the whip marks on Diablo’s sleek, black hide.
Comstock’s men had begun to mumble among themselves, saying enough was enough. That only fueled their boss’s rage and earned them a warning glare. Mercifully, the foreman had lost consciousness. He was hanging from the rail by his wrists.
“Cut him down,” Jared commanded at last, to no one in particular.
Wally responded, shuffling over and fisting his hand in Morgan’s blood-matted hair. He pulled the foreman’s head back and squinted down at him. “By damn, he’s dead, boss,” he said.
Comstock shrugged. “Dig a hole and plant him. Let this be a lesson to you—to all of you. I’m in charge here. You do as I say. No questions asked,” he added, addressing the entire gathering though his eyes were riveted on Trace. “That corpse there was my right hand, my best hand, before he crossed me. None of you stands on firmer ground. Now clean this mess up.
“Not you, Ord,” he rumbled when Trace moved to help. “You get some shut-eye. Come dawn tomorrow, you’re going to show me your stuff. It’d better be good. You’re going to have to do your job and Morgan’s, too. We’re shorthanded, and there isn’t time to find a replacement. I need someone I can trust.”
Mae hadn’t dozed long when a sharp knock at the door wrenched her bolt upright. It took her a moment to remember where she was, and another to accustom her eyes to the darkness and make her way to the door.
“Missy,” said a gruff voice from the other side, “it’s Preacher, the cook. Ord’s friend.”
“Is he all right?” she asked.
“I won’t lie to you, I ain’t seen him,” he replied.
“What are you doing here? If Jared catches you—”
“Easy, now, it was Comstock who put me in charge of guarding you. Guess after Morgan he figured a crusty old man was safer. Maybe I can carry messages between you and Ord ’til he can figure something out.”
“Oh, Preacher. Will you tell him I’m all right? He probably doesn’t care anymore, though. Not after…after…”
“Now, now, none of that,” came the old man’s voice. “I knew how much he cared for you before he did.”
Tears welled in her eyes. If only it were true that he cared. Even if it had been true once, she couldn’t see how it possibly could be now. Still, it was something to hope for, and she grasped at hope with every fiber of her being.
“Morgan’s in for it. Comstock’s after blood over something he done. That’s why he give the job of watching you to me,” Preacher was saying.
“Oh, God, that’s my fault!” Mae realized. “I told Jared how Morgan…tried to attack me. I had to do something to put him off Trace. He doesn’t trust Trace, Preacher. You’ve got to warn him. He’s going to make him ‘prove himself.’ Trace has such a temper, I’m afraid he’ll—”
“Don’t you worry, missy, just leave all of that to me. And don’t worry about Morgan, neither. He’s one mean hombre; I can vouch for that. What ever he gets, he deserves. Get some sleep. I’m moving away from the door, just in case. The minute it’s safe to talk again, I’ll come back.”
Mae stumbled away from the door and sank back down on the bed, comforted by Preacher’s words. She heard the floorboards creak under his receding steps. She hoped he returned quickly.
Chapter Thirteen
When 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.
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