The curtain at the window flapped again. Mae, watching. He wondered what she thought about the violence in him. Well, too damn bad if it off ended her. It was going to take a wagonload of violence to save either of them now.
Chapter Fourteen
Preacher wasn’t in the cookhouse as Trace hoped when he stormed past. He went to the bunkhouse and was strapping on his guns when Comstock arrived.
“There’s no need for that, Ord,” the ranch owner said. “You’ve gone and messed up his pretty face. That’s enough.”
“So you say,” Trace erupted. “I say different.”
“I’ll handle Slade,” Comstock assured him. “He’s young and reckless, but he was only funning.”
Trace glowered. “Well, you’ve had your fun and you got your horse broke. Now it’s my turn.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I offered you a sweet deal, Comstock, and I agreed to let you try me for free. If you want to have any more ‘fun,’ you’re going to have to pay for it—one way or another.”
Comstock’s jaw muscle clenched. “I don’t take kindly to threats, Ord.”
“It isn’t a threat. It’s a fact,” Trace replied, tying up his bedroll.
“Where are you going?”
Trace shrugged. “Never did take to bunkhouse living. Reckon I’ll camp under the stars from now on.”
“Look, I know you’re all horns and rattles right now, and I can’t say as I blame you. But no harm’s been done. I appreciate you’re breaking the bay.”
“He’s broke, but he’s still a killer. I’m thinking he’s killed before.”
Comstock nodded. “You’ve got the right of it. There’s more than one notch in his tail.”
“Breaking him won’t change that. Nothing ever will.”
“You’ve got a peculiar way of handling horses,” Comstock observed, playing with his mustache. “I did hear tell of an hombre once who broke horses like you. The Indians called him the Whisperer—a renegade rider out of Texas. Nobody seems to know his name. Bad business, messing with renegade riders. Worse than Texas Rangers in their doggedness. You’re from Texas, isn’t that so, Ord?”
“Texas is a big place, Comstock. Been through there. Been through a lot of places since the war. I’m from Louisiana.”
“They say this Whisperer has a gentle hand—like you. I figure you might have run up against him somewhere in your travels, and maybe he gave you a pointer or two.”
“My daddy taught me how to break horses,” Trace said smoothly. “He owned a breeding farm in northern Louisiana. Lost everything because of the war. He taught me horses respond better to a gentle hand than a heavy one. Just like women.”
Comstock grunted. He handed Trace back his spurs. “Don’t know how you ever did it without those Spanish rowels,” he admitted. “I’m curious…What was it you said to the bay?”
On the verge of losing his temper, Trace looked the man in the eye while jamming the spurs into his pack. White dots of rage starred his vision, and his hands balled into fists. But there was too much at stake to act upon his instincts. “I just let him know who was boss,” he said, in the same soft yet unequivocal tone he’d used with the horse.
“Hmmm,” Comstock responded. “You mentioned going after a heard of ’stangs in the canyon. How many riders you figure we’ll need to collect them? I can count on Wally, Ben, and Chip. Jeb’s too sore in the joints to wrangle wild horses anymore, but I can bring a few boys in off the range. And we’ve got Slade.”
“You’ve got Slade…” Trace gave him a deadly smile. His first instinct was to say no to Michael Slade, but that would mean leaving him behind with access to Mae. “You won’t need to call in your stringers. Wally, Ben, and Chip will be enough—and Slade. Just keep him out of my way.”
Comstock scoffed. “We can’t capture a herd of wild horses with five riders!”
“Won’t need more,” Trace promised. “I was going to hook up with White Eagle and his horse hunters. They know where Standing Thunder is, and they’ll help us bring him and his herd in cheap for trade.”
“I don’t like messing with Injuns,” Comstock said.
“Well, that’s the deal,” Trace said, slinging his gear over his shoulder. “Take it or leave it. I could do it on my own and keep all the profits if I was of a mind. And this isn’t the only horse ranch in the territory. You saw what I can do; I won’t have any trouble finding another employer.”
“Now, let’s not be so hasty,” Comstock cajoled. “I didn’t say no. Them Injuns up on the mesa still?”
“Nope. I just came down from there before I ran into your wife. They’re down in the valley most likely. We won’t have any trouble picking up their tracks.”
“I don’t know,” Comstock hedged. “I don’t like those thieving Hualapai.”
“White Eagle owes me,” said Trace, “and I’d trust him and his with my life—unlike your crew.”
“I guess I had that coming,” Comstock conceded. He looked pensive.
“Uh-huh. You need time to think about it?”
“Nope,” Comstock decided. “We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow, and if those horses are half as fine as you say, we’re both going to be rich men.”
Trace hesitated when Comstock offered his hand. The last thing he wanted to do was shake, but he did just the same. He’d already gained one point: with the Indians watching his back, it wouldn’t be quite so easy for Comstock and his men to bury him in that canyon. If the rest of his plan worked half as well, the risk involved would be a small price to pay for Mae’s safety.
Risking Comstock’s anger, he tended Diablo. Once the healing wounds were salved, Trace threw a blanket over the horse and led him into a stall. Diablo’s grateful nuzzling both touched his heart and stirred his anger. It was clear that the animal didn’t understand why he’d been abandoned and mistreated, and that he looked to Trace to liberate him. Trace couldn’t look him in the eye.
Speaking to the horse in soothing tones, stroking his sleek neck, he didn’t hear Preacher approach. Sensing a presence, he spun on his heel, his Colt free of its holster and aimed before the pivot was completed. The rapid movement spooked Diablo. Eyes wide with fright, the horse began backing into his stall.
“You two simmer down,” the old man said.
“Mae?” Trace urged. “Is she all right?”
“She is,” said Preacher. “Put that damn thing away. With that short fuse you’re going to get yourself killed. Then you’ll be no use to the gal, no use to the horse. I seen what you done to Slade…” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Busted his nose and spoiled his pretty face. What’d you hit him with?”
“My fists,” Trace snapped, “and he’s lucky that’s all I busted. What are you doing out here? What if Comstock comes in on us?”
“He isn’t going to. He’s up at the house eating. I come out here when I get a chance to sneak this black devil a treat.” He held up a bunch of carrots, and Diablo whinnied.
Trace shoved his Colt back in its holster and took a carrot, which he held out. Thrilled by the treat, the horse settled down.
“What the Sam Hill happened to Morgan last night? You pop him, too?” Preacher fussed. “We heard the ruckus. Then he wasn’t in for breakfast, and nobody’s talking.”
“Comstock beat him to death with his blacksnake. They buried him out in the sage.”
“The hell you say! Damn, Mae said she turned Comstock on Morgan. Don’t guess we need to tell her the result.”
“How come you got to her without Comstock knowing?” Trace asked.
Preacher laughed. “He knew all right. He put me in charge of guarding her before he lit out after Morgan. Guess he figured an old cuss like me would treat her nice and he wouldn’t have to worry no more. What went on at the corral? We heard shooting.”
“A bit of a shivaree, you might say. Comstock had no intention of me surviving the tussle with that bay—or at least he had no intention of letting me out of there in
one piece. They were playing with me, like a cat plays with a mouse. They figured I’d never be able to get near the bay. When I did, Slade shot off his guns trying to get me trampled. I beat the holy hell out of him.”
“Musta made that temper feel better to rearrange his features, but not a smart move, Trace. He’s a sidewinder, one that don’t shake his rattle before he strikes. He ain’t going to take too kindly to you ruining his smile. So now what are you aiming to do?”
“I’m going to take Comstock after those wild horses.”
“You’ll never come back alive—not in that company.”
Trace didn’t need to be told. “I won’t be alone. We’re going to meet up with White Eagle and his hunters. They’ll watch my back. Comstock didn’t much like the idea, but I said the Indians work cheap—for barter—and that we need them because they know right where the horses are, and that’ll save us time. He’s itching to start that drive to market, but he’s drooling over that herd more. We leave at dawn. I’ve cleared out of the bunkhouse. I told Comstock I’m camping under the stars from now on. I need your help, old-timer.”
“Anything. Just name it.”
“I’m camping out in the sage tonight—at least it’s going to look that way. As soon as the lights go out in this compound here, I’m going to check out some of Comstock’s herd—in the paddock, and out on the range—looking for Bar O and Double Bar T brands, or at least for brands that have been messed with.”
“You’ll get caught.”
Trace reached inside his shirt and produced an envelope. “Hang on to this,” he said, handing it over, “and don’t get caught with it. It’s the addresses of the ranchers I’m working for up north. Also…as soon as you can manage it after we leave for the canyons, I need you to get Mae out of here.”
“She’ll never leave without you. That gal’s in love with you, Trace.”
“I don’t care what you have to tell her, or how you have to manage it. Rope her if you have to. Help her find that deed or letter or whatever Comstock has, and put her on a train for Kentucky. Then get to a telegraph office and send word to the ranchers to fetch a marshal and get down here pronto.”
“You ain’t got proof yet.”
“I will before the night is out. The only reason I’m going after those horses is to give you time to get her on that damn train. Just do like I say, and tell her…tell her I said if she ever wants to see me again she’s got to do exactly what you say. Period.”
Trace’s message for Mae troubled his conscience, since he didn’t intend to see her again. It was better this way, though. She deserved so much more than he had to offer. She belonged on her grandfather’s horse farm in Kentucky, not tagging along after a renegade rider with no roots to put down and death riding on his flank. It was only a matter of time before bad luck caught up with him. Perhaps that’s even what he’d hoped for during the past five years.
He hadn’t declared his love. That would only complicate things. She loved him now, but love and hate were two horns on the same steer. She’d never forgive him for his lie. She’d get over him. She’d meet some decent, upstanding young Kentuckian who would sweep her off her feet and worship her for the rest of her life, and she’d forget Trace. Just the thought caused him physical pain, but he knew it was the kindest solution for them both.
Yet his body remembered how perfectly their bodies molded. The one thing his flesh, mind, and spirit had in common was pain. His heart was breaking.
There was a cottonwood tree at his campsite that gave him some cover while he monitored the Comstock compound. He’d left his burro at the ranch. They would use packhorses on the trail, which were faster. Unsaddling Duchess, he laid out his bedroll with his saddle as a pillow, then bunched up the extra blankets in the shape of a body and topped that with his Stetson. He then wedged his Winchester between the blankets in such a way that it appeared he was holding it at the ready while he slept and waited.
When the compound went dark, Trace mounted Duchess bareback and moved stealthily through the sage toward the paddock behind the corrals. Passing the ranch house, he strained for any sound that might mean Mae was in danger. All was still. No lights showed in the windows or from the bunkhouse or cook shack. All hands were turning in early, most preparing for the hard ride at first light.
Trace gave the buildings a wide berth. Clouds hid the moon, abetting his mission. Ahead, the foothills were visible, a dark fringe at the base of the mountains. He wouldn’t face a problem here, only out there in the darkness where the rest of Comstock’s wranglers camped. The ones he hadn’t seen. So far, no campfires showed. It was well past midnight, so he hoped that the stringers were asleep.
When he came within reasonable walking distance, he slid off Duchess’s back and left her grazing, bridle down, on a patch of new spring grass. He dropped and crawled toward a string of horses silhouetted against a rocky wall in the foothills, but took no comfort in the fact that he saw no sign of riders among them. They would hardly have left the beasts unattended; the lookout had probably fallen asleep.
Had he gone in mounted, he would have been spotted easily. Instead, feeling his way along, he soothed the string of horses toward quiet with soft murmurs and gentle hands. Luckily, he seemed to have happened upon broken stock, not a wild horse among them. They were used to humans—although, considering their abused appearance and response to affection, he imagined they were unaccustomed to humane handling. By the time he’d threaded his way through the lot, he’d found not only Bar O and Double Bar T stock, but a number of horses with other altered brands. And that was after examining less than a hundred head.
Trace was thankful that the moon was hidden, grateful that he couldn’t see the horses’ wounds clearly. As it was, he realized that more than one had met with Comstock’s blacksnake. With a refreshed and passionate disdain for the rancher and his operation, he crept back through the sage, swung himself up on Duchess, and returned to his camp. He could sleep now. He’d done the job he’d set out to do. His instincts were correct, the wheels were set in motion and word would be sent to the ranchers, who would bring the marshal and see justice done. That was no longer his priority. Come dawn, he would occupy Comstock far enough away to give Mae the only thing he ever could: her freedom. Even if the cost was his life.
Chapter Fifteen
Trace 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 the
n 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.”
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