Renegade Riders

by Dawn MacTavish

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.

  Slade slowly smiled. “Good night again, Miss Mae.”

  Mae hurried to her tent. Inside, she quickly closed her eyes and pretended to go to sleep, but there was no way she could find rest. Where was Trace? She wanted him here. The situation with Jared was a total riddle, with more questions appearing every time he acted or opened his mouth.

  Just as she started to drift off, she felt something digging at the back of the tent. She almost cried out, thinking it was a coyote or some other creature. A voice said in a hoarse whisper, “Just me. Here.” The edge of the tent lifted, and a derringer appeared. A moment later she heard Preacher move off.

  The gun was small. A gambler’s weapon, she’d heard tell. Most had had two shots, but as she fingered the gun, she realized it was a bit bigger than the one her grandfather owned. This one had four bullets. One shot for Jared, one shot for Slade? Two other shots would be left. Who were they for?

  Grimacing, she tucked the derringer under the edge of the bedroll.

  Chapter Twenty

  The roundup is no place for a woman,” Trace argued, voicing his opinion on Comstock’s plan to bring Mae along. His words fell on deaf ears. “It’s dangerous for both her and for the men. If their attention’s on her and not the job…one misstep and someone gets dead.”

  In the predawn darkness, the men were huddled around the campfire. They’d had their breakfast, and were trying to shake off sleep by drinking copious amounts of coffee. Soon light would streak across the rim of the canyon and the rounding up of Standing Thunder’s herd would commence.

  Comstock rose from his seat. “Mae’s coming and that’s final.”

  Trace sighed. The last thing he wanted was to be worried about Mae underfoot. Jared Comstock didn’t seem to have a care about the risk to her, about deliberately putting her in harm’s way, which was a puzzlement. But the man was one contradiction after another. He’d noticeably increased his possessiveness of Mae, while he didn’t exactly seem besotted. There was calculation in his eye, as if she were important in a fashion that eluded Trace. All he could think was that Mae was an ace up Comstock’s sleeve. But…against what?

  There wasn’t time to analyze it now, and he didn’t dare put up too much of a protest about Mae coming along on the drive. Trace gave Comstock a blank stare and shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to him if she got hurt. “Just keep her out of the way. The last time I spotted Standing Thunder, he was holed up on the little mesa at the east end of the canyon. We’ve got to go in from behind and drive him down onto the canyon floor.”

  “Standing Thunder, Standing Thunder,” Comstock snapped. “I’m sick of hearing about him. He’s one horse. There’s a whole herd down there!”

  “Have you ever done this before, Comstock?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “You get your stock in easier ways, don’t you? Much easier.” Trace couldn�
��t resist the jab, though he knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t know how long it would be before any backup arrived.

  Comstock glared at him. “What in hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that, since you don’t have experience with wild horses, I’d suggest you listen to someone who does. It’s what you’re paying me for, after all.” Trace cast a sidelong glance at Mae. She looked pale and frightened, dark circles under her eyes as though she hadn’t slept. But then, he hadn’t had much sleep, either, not since that first night in Echo Canyon. He doubted Preacher was sleeping much, either.

  He pushed on with the discussion. “Standing Thunder leads that herd. He’s the key to everything. Those mares follow him. If you get the mares and don’t get him, he’ll call the mares to him and they’ll kill themselves trying to get back to him. My plan is to get to him to lead those horses off that mesa. White Eagle’s riders will fan out wide on the flatland to either side, fire their rifles, and push those horses toward that gap. You boys should ride in close from the left flank, making sure they don’t turn. Once they all get moving in the right direction, it’ll be a flood rolling down the canyon. When they start to close in on the corral, they’re going to balk. Hang back and fire your guns in the air to keep them running. Don’t fire too early, though, or they’ll panic and break through the Indians’ line on the other flank. We’ll have to start all over again.”

  Trace turned. “That means you, Slade. You act stupid and I’ll shoot those irons right out of your hands. You got that?”

  The gunslinger made no reply, just flashed him a cold-eyed stare.

  Trace turned to Comstock. “Get the mustangs into the big corral with as little damage as possible, then close the gate so they can’t turn and crash back through. With a hundred or more head of stampeding horseflesh, there isn’t room for error. Remember any mistake’s a quick way to get dead. Any questions?”

  “Yeah. Where are those Injuns?” Comstock complained. “The sun’s coming up.”

  “They’ll be here, don’t worry,” said Trace. “No other questions? I suggest we gather up what we need and get in the saddle.” He moseyed over to the chuck wagon. “I do believe I could live on your biscuits, Preacher,” he said loudly, snatching up the last one remaining and taking a bite. It was the best excuse he could think of.

  Preacher was washing up the cook pans. “Seems like you already do. Biscuits and beans—what built the West, eh?” He took Trace’s cup and poured him the last of the coffee. With a lowered voice, he said, “Comstock has ordered me to stay here in camp. I’m supposed to get a meal ready for after the hoedown.”

  Trace sighed. “I know you and your sense of adventure would like to be in the thick of things, but it’s better if you stay out of the way. I’ve got this itch crawling up my spine like things may go bad.”

  “If they do, you need me and that Winchester.”

  Trace shook his head. “Despite his love for your cooking and the fact that you’re too old to meddle with his wife, Comstock don’t trust you any more than me. Your coming to the Lazy C with me probably still rankles him.”

  “That man’s wasp-bit for sure. Acting strange enough lately. And Slade…?” Preacher frowned and shook his head. “I been thinking about him more and more. Why’s he here? A man like that lives by his guns, not playing cowpuncher. That’s beneath him. His guns are for hire, not his wrangling abilities. But he’s riding along, though he resents every step of the way. Something ain’t right about the lot of them. It don’t make sense, Trace. A mad dog should behave a certain way, if you take my drift.”

  Trace paused before taking a sip of coffee. It was more bitter than usual, but he supposed that was because it was the dregs. “Yeah, I get that same feeling. The more I see, the less any of this makes sense. Comstock’s edgy. He keeps looking around like he’s expecting trouble. At first I thought he was jumpy about the Indians, or suspected I contacted those other ranchers, but now I’m not so convinced. There’s something else. And you’re damn right about Slade. Babying cows and horses and dealing with dust from their trail? That’s not for him. He’s no cowpuncher. That pail don’t hold water.”

  Preacher gave Trace a level stare before taking the coffepot and dumping it out. “One last thing. You can call me crazy, but I have the strange sensation we’re being followed. It may just be a feeling, but…”

  Trace had lived in the West since the war. He knew never to doubt the animalistic instincts men developed. Foolishly dismissing them got a body killed. “Near or far?” he asked.

  Preacher shrugged. “Far, I guess. Ain’t seen nothing outside of them two riders.”

  “What two riders?” Trace hissed.

  “Yesterday, when you were out with White Eagle, I spotted two men on horse back. Too far away to see anything much. They were just sitting on the ridge, watching. At first I dismissed it—thought it was you with White Eagle, surveying the area. But then you came riding in on Diablo a short time later from the opposite direction.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Preacher gave him a look as if Trace had gone simple. “Like I had a chance to speak to you! Comstock’s eyes never leave you. He watches you more than he does Mae.”

  Trace nodded. “Point taken.”

  “I’ve a mind to circle back after you head out, see if someone comes closer to the camp while you folks are off wrangling.”

  Trace handed back his tin. “It might be those ranchers. Thorne is close enough for his boys to have gotten here. I sure the hell hope so. But be careful, you hear?”

  “Ord, I thought you were ready to move out,” Comstock barked, riding up on his roan.

  Trace gave Preacher a nod. “Just hate to see good biscuits go to waste. Going to be a long time until the next meal.”

  Mae was mounted on a packhorse, the animal standing quietly next to Jared’s. Her eyes met his, and fear and questions were both clear in their brown depth. It hurt, but he answered with a curt nod, then walked on past.

  Any hopes Mae had of speaking with Trace alone before they broke camp were dashed the minute Jared put her on the packhorse. Comstock now rode beside her, and it was clear he expected her to stay close at all times.

  Frowning, she spared a glance back toward camp. It bothered her that Preacher had remained behind. She hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to him lately, either, and that worried her greatly. He was her only ally, and he could get a message to Trace even if she couldn’t. She’d hate to have that line of communication entirely severed.

  She spotted the Indians atop the canyon rim but moving like wraiths within the pearly haze of first light. As one might expect of wraiths, they made no sound. It was odd. She’d heard so many horrific stories about this breed who’d owned these lands before the white man came, yet she found a comfort in their presence when compared to Comstock or Slade. Maybe that wasn’t so odd, now that she thought of it.

  Her eyes were drawn to the far end of the canyon and two figures on horseback who seemed to be watching. They were at the wrong end of the draw to be of any use to the roundup. “Jared,” she asked, “who are those men, and what are they doing over there?”

  Comstock’s head snapped around, and he stared at the two riders. His expression went nearly as white as his shirt. “Stay here, Mae. I mean it. Don’t go anywhere else; it could be very dangerous.” And with no explanation, he spurred his roan and headed off. It was a reminder that Mae understood nothing about the man or what was going on here. Gooseflesh crawled over her skin.

  Staring after him, she shielded her eyes, scarcely able to believe that he’d just left her unattended. The sun was beating down, but she had the sense of a coming storm. The air was stifling, almost if it wasn’t air she drew into her lungs but dry heat.

  Reaching up, she swiped beads of perspiration off her brow. Scanning the skies, she saw big puffy clouds in the distance, sort of like beaten egg whites—thunder pillars, her granddad called them. Of course, sometimes these clouds moved
across the sky and not a drop of rain ever fell.

  Damn, but she wished the drive were over. Of course, she had no idea what would happen after. Trace seemed unhurried. Had he gotten word to the ranchers who’d hired him? Maybe they were the men on the far ridge who upset Jared so much. If they were, though, what were they waiting for? Why not move in immediately?

  She glanced down, searching both the canyon rim and the gap below; the horses would soon be driven down that narrow corridor of the draw, toward the open area at the end that would be used as a pen. On the far side, she spotted Trace. Almost as if he sensed her eyes on him, he turned and looked back. The distance seemed too narrow as they stared at each other. She felt the pull, the connection that said this man was different from all others.

  He turned toward the pair of riders she’d just pointed out to Jared. Did he suspect they were the ranchers he’d summoned? Did they all have some sort of scheme and were simply waiting for Jared and his men to fall into the trap, much as Jared was trying to snare those wild horses? She was furious that she had been left out of the plan.

  She glanced after Jared. At the same time, he glanced back toward her. His head turned and he was clearly looking off past her, and he grimaced, but he didn’t slow his horse; he simply spun back around and kept riding. As Mae turned back, she caught Trace staring off to her right as well.

  Slade. That was what both men had been looking at. He sat on the ridge slightly below Mae, his black hat cockily pushed to the back of his head. He flashed Trace a big grin, then lifted his gun and touched the tip of the barrel to his forehead in a salute, which, despite the hot sun, sent a chill over Mae. Cautiously she slid her hand into the pocket of her split skirt, her fingers closing around her derringer. Its presence gave her a small comfort, just as Preacher had intended.

  Her horse’s head bobbed, and he gave a soft nicker. In the distance rose a dust cloud: the Indians driving the wild horses toward the canyon. The waiting was over. Finally something would happen.

  As the storm of dust drew closer, the riders started firing their guns. Mae felt sorry for the horses, all of them free spirits like Diablo. In an odd sense, she had been driven just like these animals. From the instant she’d stepped off the train from Kentucky, though she hadn’t recognized it, men had been herding her forward. Everything had been a trap. She had to fight the urge to descend the canyon trails before the herd and fire her derringer desperately, all in hope of turning the beasts back toward freedom.