Renegade Riders

by Dawn MacTavish

  Preacher’s hand dropped from his currying. “Trace?” Unease was written clear on his face.

  “What is it, old-timer?” Trace reached into his shirt pocket for the sugar cubes he’d taken from the hotel dining room. He put two on his palm, which he held out flat, and let the stallion’s velvety muzzle find them.

  With a sigh, Preacher rubbed the back of his neck. “I know Slade is dead. Saw it with my own eyes. And you said Jared is dead, that you got one of his hands to go back and bury him. But something you said to Mae got me thinking, and I’d just as soon get shed of it. It was about those two men asking for protection for Mae. I might see Jared saying protect her from Slade. The part I don’t get is, who was Slade warning you about? He said—”

  “I know what he said. I was there,” Trace snapped. He wasn’t upset at Preacher, but the sourdough’s misgivings echoed his own—which magnified his recent discomfort.

  The old-timer made a sour face. “Sorry, don’t mean to gnaw on your nerves, but…who, Trace? Who did Slade mean? He told you to protect her, not to take care of her. He was warning you against someone. Only, everyone who’s a threat to her is dead. Right? It don’t make no sense to me. I thought about keeping my trap shut, but I’ve got me one of those queer itches on my scalp like a red man is thinking it’d look mighty fine hanging in his lodge. We don’t ignore those feelings, Trace. No matter how much we’d like to. That’s why you and I are still alive.”

  “I’m not ignoring them,” Trace growled. “I just don’t have any answers for you.” He put his hands on his hips and threw his head back, staring up at the barn’s loft. “I go in circles until I get plum loco.”

  A train whistle blew, alerting the whole town that a locomotive was arriving in Timber Junction. Both Preacher and Trace walked out and saw the black monster slowing rolling past toward the town’s high water tower. Trace wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a more welcome sight.

  “Let’s get on the train, and then the words of those two dying men won’t matter much. They don’t matter much anyway. I will protect Mae. She’s my wife. I’ll get Mae up and ready, and then I’ll come back to help you with Diablo. I have a feeling he’s going to be a pain in the backside to get on board. They have a two-hour stop for the passengers getting off, and to allow the driver and engineer to get some grub in their bellies, to get the mail loaded and take on wood and water. I’ll go get Mae dressed and fed and then meet you back here in a little over an hour. If you have anything you need to do, get it done.”

  Trace strode from cool shade near the stable into the harsh rays of the morning sun, the day already promising to be a hot one. A small bead of sweat trickled down his spine, but when he shivered, it wasn’t from an itch the drop of moisture provoked. Nope, it was the damn recurrent feeling that eyes still watched him, were following his every move.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Time to board, miss,” the conductor called to Mae. She shot Trace a worried look, and he couldn’t help admiring the sweetness of her face as she gnawed on the corner of her lip.

  He was walking Diablo in circles. When a horse proved too stubborn to go where you wanted, you turned him around and around until the fool animal forgot where he was headed. Only, the black wasn’t falling for the trick. This was the third time he’d led the animal in a loop, and the stallion was no closer to allowing Trace to get him into the boxcar.

  “Damn fool critter! I’m the one who’s getting dizzy. Would serve you right if I left you behind, sold you to some farmer for a plow horse.”

  The horse’s eyes seemed to go wide and flash Trace a shocked expression, and he actually shook his head. When Trace glared, Diablo shoved out his nose and gave Trace’s chest a gentle push. Just then, Duchess nickered from the boxcar, calling out to the stallion.

  “Yeah, your lady love is summoning you. Why don’t you do us all a favor and listen to her? Or I might have to ride you all the way back to Kentucky,” Trace threatened.

  “Hey, you two. We’re set to roll. You coming or not?” the conductor called from the platform steps of the train.

  “Trace!” Preacher yelled from inside the boxcar where he was settling the mare. “Maybe if I get behind him, you lead and I push, we can get the blasted varmint to load hisself.”

  “He’ll kick you like a mule that’s been bee-stung,” Trace predicted, laughing, then once again turned the stud in a tight circle.

  Preacher appeared. He took off his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow, and then gave Trace a big grin. “Then I’ll lead him and you can push.”

  “Folks, we’re already ten minutes late,” the conductor announced, pocketing his watch. “You all better hurry up. When the engineer gives me the signal—which will be any minute now—that’ll be all she wrote; this iron horse moves out.”

  Mae glared at him. “Mr. Conductor, you’ll be waiting for my husband to load his stallion. As long as it takes. We’re the only ones boarding the train here, and from the looks of that passenger car we’re your only passengers anyway, so no one is waiting on us. These delays sometimes happen. There’s no point in being a horse’s behind. Am I clear?”

  The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he nodded, cowed. “Yes, ma’am. Anything you say, ma’am. I’ll just tell the engineer to wait, that there’s a small delay.”

  Trace chuckled to himself, shaking his head as the conductor hurried off. Yes, he and Mae certainly would have stories to tell their children and grandchildren. He’d never wanted anything as much as to hold their first baby in his arms, to watch Mae’s expression as she cradled their son or daughter to her breast. Like any man he hungered for a son, but a precious little girl who was a small copy of Mae would be worth all the gold in the world.

  Diablo suddenly jerked hard against the lead shank, his nostrils flaring, his eyes wild. Trace struggled to keep the horse from pulling the leather strap out of his hands. “Easy…easy,” he said. “Something sure has you spooked, boy.”

  The world suddenly moved in slow motion. Trace half turned his head, hearing the cock of a gun hammer behind him. Mae called out a warning—or tried; her words never had the chance to leave her lips. From the corner of his eye Trace saw a man step out from between two railcars. He ducked behind Mae and put a gun to her temple, clamping his left hand over her mouth.

  Trace released his hold on Diablo’s shank, so his hands were free. The horse snorted, stomped, and then trotted away. Trace didn’t spare the stallion a second glance. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, planning to spin around and shoot his wife’s assailant on the count of three.

  “No, you don’t. I ain’t stupid,” another stranger said, a white-haired man stepping into the open. “I heard you killed Slade, so I ain’t takin’ any chances. You turn around real slowlike.”

  There was something familiar about that voice; Trace had heard it before. Biding his time, he did as he was told, racking his memory for when he’d heard that gravelly bark. Even when he looked the man in the face, he still couldn’t place him.

  Finally truth hit him. His forehead creasing in confusion, Trace guessed, “Morgan?” The man had aged quite a bit, still looked a tad unsteady on his feet, which Trace attributed to the grievous injuries Comstock had inflicted on him.

  “Yeah. Morgan. Bet you thought you’d never see the likes of me again, eh?”

  “I wonder if that’s what Lazarus said to Jesus,” Trace said, a bit inanely. He was stalling, giving himself time to assess the situation. What did these two want?

  Morgan gave a laugh. “You can ask old Jesus when you see him. Of course, that’s assuming you make it past the Pearly Gates.”

  “How did you achieve this miraculous rise from the dead?” Trace asked.

  “I wasn’t really dead when Wally dragged me out to bury me. I paid him to get me away from the Lazy C.”

  “What do you want?” Trace demanded. “It’s not to avenge Jared. We both know he wasn’t your boss, and he tried to kill you. There was no love lost between you and Slade, e
ither, so I don’t imagine that’s the reason you’re here…”

  “Slade,” Morgan muttered. “Anyone stupid enough to go up against him should have the survival instinct to back-shoot him. You don’t give someone like Slade the chance to clear leather! Only, you’re the Whisperer—that’s what them Injuns call you. You’re that renegade rider. Worse than Texas Rangers, they are…You’re likely jug-headed and principled enough to face Slade man-to-man.”

  Morgan grinned and continued. “Slade once told me never to trust speed alone, that you should always look for the advantage. Well, we have the advantage—we have your woman. I figure that’ll rattle you a bit.”

  “She’s not my woman—she’s my wife,” Trace corrected.

  “Wife?” Morgan glanced at her and leered. “Is she really your wife, or did you marry her like Jared married her?” He glanced with amusement toward the man holding Mae.

  “She’s my wife. And I’m going to kill any man who tries to hurt her,” Trace promised. His voice held a softness that belied the cold fury rolling through him.

  “All aboard!” the conductor shouted from inside the train, clearly not wanting to come out and risk another confrontation with Mae.

  Morgan called over his shoulder to his partner, “You go ahead. Get her on board. I’ll deal with Ord and catch up at the next station.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” his accomplice replied.

  Suddenly Mae stomped on the inside of her captor’s foot and shoved away from him. Spinning, she confronted the man…and a mixture of shock, horror, and revulsion crossed her beautiful face. “You? My God. I thought you were dead. Murdered. They told me you were dead!” Tears filled her eyes and choked her voice. “Father. Why?”

  Trace was taken aback. It was peculiar enough to face one man returned from the dead, but two? “Your father? Seems Lazarus here wasn’t alone. Is there some resurrectionist around here selling potions?”

  Now that more pieces were falling into place, things were beginning to make a little bit of sense. Morgan had never worked for Jared. He’d been working for Mae’s father all along.

  “Michael Slade,” Trace told the older man. “He was your man, too. None of these people ever worked for Jared.”

  “How could they work for Jared when he didn’t own the Lazy C? Jared worked for me. A pretty boy with smooth ways—if he couldn’t sweet-talk you, he’d scare you half to death with that blacksnake.” Jack Ahern laughed.

  “But none too bright, eh?” Trace shook his head. “He didn’t realize you were using him. If those ranchers came looking for all those horses, the first person they’d go after would be Jared Comstock. Your hands were kept clean.”

  “As much as you’d like to drag this out, I can’t stand here all day. Come, Mae. We’re getting on the train.” Jack Ahern reached out and grabbed her upper arm.

  She tried to jerk away. “Like hell we are.”

  “You’re my daughter. You will do as I say,” he barked.

  Mae shook her head. “You’re not my father. I’m the daughter of no man who allows me to be terrorized and nearly raped by your hired hand over there.” She pointed to Morgan.

  The white-haired man’s eyes narrowed and he turned to stare at Morgan. “Is this true? I told you and Slade to protect her from Jared.”

  “Jared?” Mae’s laugh was harsh. “Jared Comstock was a gentleman compared to Morgan. Your hired vermin was always putting his hands on my body, grabbing and squeezing… Why do you think Jared took a whip to him? He found out how Morgan was treating me. He was the reason I ran the first time. I see by the expression on your face your lackey didn’t explain everything.”

  Her father looked furious, but he mastered himself. “I tried to protect you by—I’ll deal with this later, Mae. Get on the train. Now.”

  Mae dug the heels of her boots into the dry soil, resisting. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “You’ll do as I say, this instant, or I’ll shoot Ord down like a dog, right before your eyes. We’re getting on this train. Now.”

  “Hold it right there! Don’t either of you polecats move!” Preacher called from the darkness of the boxcar. “A Winchester is pointed at what’s left of your back, Will Morgan. One move and I’ll shoot you like the yellow-bellied varmint you are.”

  Instead of holding still as Preacher ordered, Morgan drew. Trace was faster; his gun was in his hand and fired by the time Morgan’s finger found the trigger. The train gave a loud lurch and began to move. The herky-jerky motion sent Preacher falling backward, spread-eagle and trying to balance on one leg. His Winchester barked. The bullet splintered wood as it went through the slatted side of the boxcar.

  Morgan stood, stunned, his gun trained on Trace. Unfired. He reached up to his chest with his left hand and touched the stain spreading across his green shirt. Then, in one breath, all strength seemed to drain from him. He dropped to his knees, his gun falling into the dirt. “I’ll…be damned.”

  “You got that.” Trace stalked forward and kicked the man’s gun away, not trusting Morgan not to back-shoot him.

  Jack Ahern swung Mae around hard, tossing her to her hands and knees on the metal stairs of the coach car. Grabbing the metal railing, he jumped onto the bottom step. The train started to roll in earnest. The wheels were spinning, the locomotive fast gaining speed, and the engineer blew the ear-piercing whistle to alert everyone to clear the tracks. Trace dashed after it.

  Wooden crates that had been off-loaded sat at the end of the station’s platform and he was forced to vault over them, which cost him precious time. Ahern was pressing Mae up the steps toward the door of the coach. Her father looked back, staring straight at him. Then, giving a half smile of victory, he slowly raised his pistol and took aim.

  Mae grabbed her father’s gun arm, causing the shot to go wild. Even so, the bullet went buzzing by so close that Trace could hear the whir. It hit a strut of the water tower and ricocheted off in another direction. A moment later, Jack shoved Mae through the door and into the railcar.

  Trace was actually gaining ground and catching up with the train, though it was still increasing speed. The train’s bell clanged a warning for some kids playing along the tracks. The kids scattered right into Trace’s path. He was forced to pull up or they all would’ve collided.

  Cursing, Trace sensed the train reach full speed. He was losing more and more ground, the distance increasing between him and Mae. His eyes searched frantically for an option. He could see her standing in the middle of the train car, the white of her dress brilliant in the shadowed interior, her beautiful face growing farther and farther away. He made one last push, running with all his energy.

  The iron bar railing was there, almost in grasp…His fingertips brushed it as he stretched to grab hold, but then the toe of his boot caught on a dead honeysuckle root and sent him sprawling to the ground. He slammed into the red dust, so stunned that he had to shake his head before he even attempted to sit up. Anguish gripped his soul as he observed the train growing smaller and smaller on the horizon.

  Rage boiled up inside him, and he lifted his head to the sky and bellowed. Satan seemed to be breathing down his neck today. Now what? Was he to sprout wings?

  A nicker came from off in the distance, and suddenly things weren’t looking so bad. He saw Diablo cantering his way, and he let out a shrill whistle. The animal walked up to Trace. Giving him a nudge with his nose, the horse rumbled a deep-throated murmur.

  “For once you do what you’re supposed to. I could kiss you.” Trace almost laughed. Picking up his Colt from the dirt, he holstered it. He then snatched the dangling lead shank and vaulted up on the horse’s bare back. “Sorry about your spine, but this is likely going to hurt me more than you. Ride like the wind, you devil’s child. That piece of filth—hmmm, my father-in-law—has our Mae.”

  He leaned forward, giving the horse his head, and they raced to catch up to the rolling train. Trace wasn’t sure how far it was to the next station, but he wasn’t about to hope
he caught up by then. He needed to move faster. Mae was his. He didn’t care what it took to see her safe, even if he had to kill the low-life skunk who happened to be her father.

  Diablo flat-out galloped, running with his whole heart as though he knew Mae’s safety depended upon them catching up. They were making up the distance, despite the engine’s huffing and puffing and its plume of black smoke. Cinders hit Trace’s face, stinging his skin, but he paid them little mind. His sole focus was on catching up.

  Yard by yard, he did just that. He moved past the caboose, then the baggage car. There was no sign of Preacher anywhere. That bothered Trace. That nosy old man would be trying to do something if he was able. Since Trace couldn’t spot him, he feared something had happened. He couldn’t take time to find his friend now, however; he was almost even with the boxcar. Only a few feet more.

  Diablo stretched out his neck, finding a second wind to sprint alongside the train car. “That’s it, fella!” Trace said. “Come on, come on!”

  At last, he pulled close enough. Trace grabbed the vertical railing of the platform. His fist closed around the wrought-iron bar and held tight, and he inclined forward and allowed the onward motion of the train to haul him from Diablo’s back. He grabbed for the short railing with his right hand and missed. For a moment he seemed to dangle in midair, and then he dropped hard, his thighs slamming against the edge of the metal steps. The toes of his boots dragged in the dust and rocks.

  Gritting his teeth, Trace held on, for to let go would be to lose all. His arm felt as if it was being yanked from the socket, yet still he struggled not to lose his grip. Only by sheer will did he reach up and hook the small railing. Once that hold was established with his right hand, he was able to haul the rest of his body onto the steps.

  For a long moment, he sucked in the cinder-filled air, trying to summon enough strength to finish what he must do. Taking his Colt from its holster, he removed the spent shell and replaced the bullet fired into Morgan. He definitely wanted all six shots for this encounter.