didn’t hear the stallion trot up beside him. Nor did he bother to look at it as he said grimly:
‘Horse, it’s time you an’ me rode north.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At dawn the next morning, before the rooster stopped crowing, Gabriel left the barn where he’d slept and breakfasted on four raw eggs and a gourd of goat’s milk. He then released the pigs and goats so they could fend for themselves, and left the barn door open so the chickens could wander in and out.
Next he walked halfway down the slope to a pile of rocks and rolled one aside. Beneath it was a bundle wrapped in an old slicker. He unfolded it and took out the contents: a bedroll, canteen, a box of 44-40 cartridges. He’d buried everything right after he’d taken possession of the abandoned cabin for the very reason he was now going to need them: survival.
Only this time he wouldn’t be battling just lawmen or bounty hunters; this time he’d be up against a far more powerful enemy, a man everyone feared, a man he’d once admired, even thought of as a surrogate father: Stillman J. Stadtlander.
Gabriel pocketed the cartridges, filled the canteen from the stream, walked back up the slope to the Morgan and tied the bedroll behind his saddle. Then he mounted and rode off without once looking back at the smoldering remains of the cabin.
His arm ached where the bullet had nicked him, but the bleeding had stopped shortly after he’d poured the last of the whiskey on it and now, except for some stiffness, it worked fine.
He rode out across the flat scrubland, the stallion’s easy lope giving him the sense of being in a rocking-chair. In the cool dry air the Morgan was capable of keeping the pace steady for mile after mile. But Gabriel, sensing he hadn’t seen the last of the bounty hunters, reined the horse in as soon as they reached the end of the valley.
Ahead, the trail climbed through several big rocky outcrops, then sloped down into a vast desert of greasewood and cholla . The latter, a cactus that grew in strange, twisty shapes, was covered with sharp clingy spines that stuck to boots and clothing and were painful as hell to dig out once they got under the skin.
It was getting hot and Gabriel slowed the Morgan to a walk. To cross the desert in summer heat was dangerous, often fatal. Known as Viaje del Muerto , or Dead Man’s Journey, the land seemed harmless enough until one noticed the numerous bleached-white bones poking up through the reddish dirt. Rider and horse had to be especially careful where they trod, as stones and ruts and pockets of quicksand could cause a broken leg or a twisted ankle – dooming the victim, man or beast, to eventually die of dehydration.
But today Gabriel knew he had more to worry about than the desert. As he rode slowly across the wasteland he rested the Winchester across his arm, ready to fire at anything threatening.
After an hour or so he approached a mile-long gully walled on both sides by boulders. His intuition honed by a life on the run, he knew this was where the bushwhackingwould take place. Glancing up at the sun he saw that it glared down on his left side. Now he knew where the bounty hunters would be hiding. But from high up and at so steep an angle, it wouldn’t be an easy shot.
Making a run for it was out of the question: even if they missed him with every shot they might still hit the horse. And once he was on foot they could wait him out until he died of thirst.
It was then that he remembered a coyote he’d once hunted. The wily creature had kept exposing itself for a second before ducking out of sight. Each time Gabriel fired at it and missed. It was a daring ruse but it worked. After a dozen shots, Gabriel decided to look for easier game and gave up. The coyote’s mocking yip-yipping had rung in his ears as he rode off.
Now, hoping that the bounty hunters were watching, he dismounted and examined the stallion’s left foreleg. Then pretending the horse had gone lame, he switched the rifle
‘Horse, it’s time you an’ me rode north.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At dawn the next morning, before the rooster stopped crowing, Gabriel left the barn where he’d slept and breakfasted on four raw eggs and a gourd of goat’s milk. He then released the pigs and goats so they could fend for themselves, and left the barn door open so the chickens could wander in and out.
Next he walked halfway down the slope to a pile of rocks and rolled one aside. Beneath it was a bundle wrapped in an old slicker. He unfolded it and took out the contents: a bedroll, canteen, a box of 44-40 cartridges. He’d buried everything right after he’d taken possession of the abandoned cabin for the very reason he was now going to need them: survival.
Only this time he wouldn’t be battling just lawmen or bounty hunters; this time he’d be up against a far more powerful enemy, a man everyone feared, a man he’d once admired, even thought of as a surrogate father: Stillman J. Stadtlander.
Gabriel pocketed the cartridges, filled the canteen from the stream, walked back up the slope to the Morgan and tied the bedroll behind his saddle. Then he mounted and rode off without once looking back at the smoldering remains of the cabin.
His arm ached where the bullet had nicked him, but the bleeding had stopped shortly after he’d poured the last of the whiskey on it and now, except for some stiffness, it worked fine.
He rode out across the flat scrubland, the stallion’s easy lope giving him the sense of being in a rocking-chair. In the cool dry air the Morgan was capable of keeping the pace steady for mile after mile. But Gabriel, sensing he hadn’t seen the last of the bounty hunters, reined the horse in as soon as they reached the end of the valley.
Ahead, the trail climbed through several big rocky outcrops, then sloped down into a vast desert of greasewood and cholla . The latter, a cactus that grew in strange, twisty shapes, was covered with sharp clingy spines that stuck to boots and clothing and were painful as hell to dig out once they got under the skin.
It was getting hot and Gabriel slowed the Morgan to a walk. To cross the desert in summer heat was dangerous, often fatal. Known as Viaje del Muerto , or Dead Man’s Journey, the land seemed harmless enough until one noticed the numerous bleached-white bones poking up through the reddish dirt. Rider and horse had to be especially careful where they trod, as stones and ruts and pockets of quicksand could cause a broken leg or a twisted ankle – dooming the victim, man or beast, to eventually die of dehydration.
But today Gabriel knew he had more to worry about than the desert. As he rode slowly across the wasteland he rested the Winchester across his arm, ready to fire at anything threatening.
After an hour or so he approached a mile-long gully walled on both sides by boulders. His intuition honed by a life on the run, he knew this was where the bushwhackingwould take place. Glancing up at the sun he saw that it glared down on his left side. Now he knew where the bounty hunters would be hiding. But from high up and at so steep an angle, it wouldn’t be an easy shot.
Making a run for it was out of the question: even if they missed him with every shot they might still hit the horse. And once he was on foot they could wait him out until he died of thirst.
It was then that he remembered a coyote he’d once hunted. The wily creature had kept exposing itself for a second before ducking out of sight. Each time Gabriel fired at it and missed. It was a daring ruse but it worked. After a dozen shots, Gabriel decided to look for easier game and gave up. The coyote’s mocking yip-yipping had rung in his ears as he rode off.
Now, hoping that the bounty hunters were watching, he dismounted and examined the stallion’s left foreleg. Then pretending the horse had gone lame, he switched the rifle
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