Carlow was thinking of Ellie Beckham. He glanced back at his bulging saddlebags. Among his supplies were a special brooch for her and a beaded sheath knife for her son, Jeremiah. They had been purchased in San Antonio.
“Oh, tell me ‘tis not so,” Kileen blurted and reined his horse to a stop.
“What?” Carlow said, drawing his hand carbine.
Mirabile was in the middle of rolling a cigarette and dropped the makings in surprise.
The big Irishman pointed to a dead crow almost in the center of the trail.
“It’s a dead crow, Thunder,” Carlow said, reholstering his weapon.
Mirabile shook his head in relief, brushing off the tobacco shreds.
“Aye. ‘Tis bad luck. A sign of death, me lad.”
With that, he made his nephew get down to pluck a feather from the crow’s tail and stick it in the ground.
“Good, me son. Now ridin’ around it we go. All o’ us. Three times.”
Carlow cocked his head. He might have been Irish, but he had none of their superstitious nature—or their lyrical brogue, thanks to his late mother, Kileen’s sister.
“We’ve got riding to do, Thunder.”
Mirabile frowned, but said nothing.
“Three times around, me lads. Three times around.”
Carlow griped all the way through the little ceremony, but Kileen only smiled, as did Mirabile. The land ahead looked flat, but was broken by hills, canyons and sudden arroyos. White rock decorated most of the ridges. Prickly pear and mesquite added their own touches. In the distance, an occasional ranch house disturbed the wildness.
Dusk found the three lawmen camping near a half-dead pond that badly needed rain to restore it to glory. But the remaining water was clear, not brackish like so many small pools and springs in the region. The appearance of mesquite had alerted them to its presence. Mesquite usually meant water. Two downed cottonwood trees, a wobbly pecan tree and a few lonely willows were solemn testament to high winds and the lack of consistent water. A batch of buffalo grass thrived near the pond. Around them the prairie was highlighted with mesquite, prickly pear, catclaw and alkali. If it was grazing land, there wasn’t much for cattle to work with.
The Rangers stayed far enough away from the pond that animals seeking water wouldn’t be scared away. That was Carlow’s idea.
Kileen rolled his shoulders to relieve the fatigue and took a swig from his flask. He offered it to Mirabile, who enjoyed a long pull and returned it. Carlow declined. After returning the flask to his pocket, Kileen yanked the saddle from his tall horse and studied the rising moon.
“ ‘Tis a wanin’ moon. Matters of importance should nay be done durin’ a waning moon. Nay, should not. Should be waitin’ for a new moon.” He rubbed his chin. “Vegetables are to be gathered while the moon is on the wane. Wood be cut best when the moon finds herself below the horizon.”
“Any problem with us gathering mesquite? For a fire?” Carlow teased and nudged Mirabile with his elbow. “Or rubbing down our horses?”
“Nay. ‘Tis no problem.”
“I’ll help get us some wood,” Mirabile said.
Soon a small fire cut into the growing dark. They built it in a narrow hollow where the glow was not likely to clear the land. After cooking, the men doused the fire. This was Indian country. Small bands of Comanches and Kiowas mostly. No use taking unnecessary risks. At night a fire could be spotted a long way away.
Bitter hot coffee washed down a pan of salt pork and beans with a little hardtack. Chance shared Carlow’s meal, enjoying the meaty morsels tossed his way. With so little grazing about, they gave their horses grain from the small sacks each Ranger carried. Afterward, they walked the horses to the side of the pond where the water appeared to be clearest, then tied them up for the night to sturdy branches of the downed trees. Carlow knelt beside the pond and rubbed the bullet burn on his cheek with the cool water. It felt good.
Weary from the
“Oh, tell me ‘tis not so,” Kileen blurted and reined his horse to a stop.
“What?” Carlow said, drawing his hand carbine.
Mirabile was in the middle of rolling a cigarette and dropped the makings in surprise.
The big Irishman pointed to a dead crow almost in the center of the trail.
“It’s a dead crow, Thunder,” Carlow said, reholstering his weapon.
Mirabile shook his head in relief, brushing off the tobacco shreds.
“Aye. ‘Tis bad luck. A sign of death, me lad.”
With that, he made his nephew get down to pluck a feather from the crow’s tail and stick it in the ground.
“Good, me son. Now ridin’ around it we go. All o’ us. Three times.”
Carlow cocked his head. He might have been Irish, but he had none of their superstitious nature—or their lyrical brogue, thanks to his late mother, Kileen’s sister.
“We’ve got riding to do, Thunder.”
Mirabile frowned, but said nothing.
“Three times around, me lads. Three times around.”
Carlow griped all the way through the little ceremony, but Kileen only smiled, as did Mirabile. The land ahead looked flat, but was broken by hills, canyons and sudden arroyos. White rock decorated most of the ridges. Prickly pear and mesquite added their own touches. In the distance, an occasional ranch house disturbed the wildness.
Dusk found the three lawmen camping near a half-dead pond that badly needed rain to restore it to glory. But the remaining water was clear, not brackish like so many small pools and springs in the region. The appearance of mesquite had alerted them to its presence. Mesquite usually meant water. Two downed cottonwood trees, a wobbly pecan tree and a few lonely willows were solemn testament to high winds and the lack of consistent water. A batch of buffalo grass thrived near the pond. Around them the prairie was highlighted with mesquite, prickly pear, catclaw and alkali. If it was grazing land, there wasn’t much for cattle to work with.
The Rangers stayed far enough away from the pond that animals seeking water wouldn’t be scared away. That was Carlow’s idea.
Kileen rolled his shoulders to relieve the fatigue and took a swig from his flask. He offered it to Mirabile, who enjoyed a long pull and returned it. Carlow declined. After returning the flask to his pocket, Kileen yanked the saddle from his tall horse and studied the rising moon.
“ ‘Tis a wanin’ moon. Matters of importance should nay be done durin’ a waning moon. Nay, should not. Should be waitin’ for a new moon.” He rubbed his chin. “Vegetables are to be gathered while the moon is on the wane. Wood be cut best when the moon finds herself below the horizon.”
“Any problem with us gathering mesquite? For a fire?” Carlow teased and nudged Mirabile with his elbow. “Or rubbing down our horses?”
“Nay. ‘Tis no problem.”
“I’ll help get us some wood,” Mirabile said.
Soon a small fire cut into the growing dark. They built it in a narrow hollow where the glow was not likely to clear the land. After cooking, the men doused the fire. This was Indian country. Small bands of Comanches and Kiowas mostly. No use taking unnecessary risks. At night a fire could be spotted a long way away.
Bitter hot coffee washed down a pan of salt pork and beans with a little hardtack. Chance shared Carlow’s meal, enjoying the meaty morsels tossed his way. With so little grazing about, they gave their horses grain from the small sacks each Ranger carried. Afterward, they walked the horses to the side of the pond where the water appeared to be clearest, then tied them up for the night to sturdy branches of the downed trees. Carlow knelt beside the pond and rubbed the bullet burn on his cheek with the cool water. It felt good.
Weary from the
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