the dreaded feline scream.
When Colter had made sure his rifle was secure in its saddle boot, he heaved himself bitterly into the saddle, the twisting and crouching making him feel as though a hot, wet blanket had been thrown over his shoulders, then turned his head to listen behind him.
Amidst the clomps of oncoming horses, he could now hear menâs low, conferring voices. The deep, raspy one he recognized as that of Major Fairchild. A stone dropped hard in Colterâs gut. The majorâs leading the contingent himself in the middle of the night, with his bad knees and pleurisy, meant the old man really meant business. Heâd show Colter no mercy at all for killing his prospective son-in-law, let alone listen to Colterâs story of how it had all transpired. Colter knew the manâs iron-hard, take-no-prisoners reputation when it came to the Apaches, and heâd likely treat Colter with just as little mercy.
Colter put Northwest ahead, holding the horse to a trot, as he didnât want to be heard by the riders behind him, who probably realized they were nearing their prey and were stopping often to look and listen. When he gained the vertical jut of sandstone at the top of the rise, Colter picked up the wild horse trail at the base of the rock and followed it down a steep slope to the south.
At the bottom of the slope, he swung Northwest into an eastern-angling, gravel-bottomed canyon and, knowing now he was likely far enough from the cavalrymen that they wouldnât hear him, booted the horse into a gallop that broke the sweat out in earnest across Colterâs forehead and shoulders.
He was fairly swimming in pain and fever sweat by the time heâd reached the end of the canyon and loped on up and over a rise, then swung hard to the south. This was rocky country, so by the time the soldiers reached the end of the canyon, theyâd have no way to track himâespecially in the dark. Only a good Apache scout could shadow him to where he intended to goâup high into the rocky, wind-blasted, and sunbaked reaches of the boulder nest called White Tanks that formed a spur off the southern Galiuro Mountain Range.
Only diamondbacks, Chiricahua Apaches, and Mexican banditos lived there, though Colter had heard that the Apaches had been chased into Mexico by General Crook. That left the snakes and banditos, formidable opponents Colter would worry about when the time came, after heâd lost the soldiers.
Colter had been through this country three times since heâd come to Camp Grant, looking for wild horses to trap and some to buy from a friendly old
mesteno
who lived near here but whom Colter would not burden with his troubles. No, heâd find the cave. He knew a winding route through deep canyons, and the moon should make for relatively easy traveling as long as he wasnât waylaid by banditos or the odd Apache whoâd chosen to remain here in the Chiricahuas rather than run wild in Mexico with the others.
Colter had been traveling alone in remote country for nearly three years now, on the run from the law as well as bounty hunters, and he had developed a good eye and a good memory for landmarks, for he never knew when heâd need a fast, inconspicuous escape route to a remote sanctuary. Thatâs why heâd remembered the cave and the path that led him into a canyon below it and then to a circuitous wild horse trace up a steep ridge, until the cave shone like a velvet, black, egg-shaped shadow in the rocks just above him.
It was surrounded by wiry tufts of brush and cactus, slabs of rock poking every which way, and wagon-sized boulders. There was about fifty feet of sheer granite above it, like a giant fireplace mantel, so it was a hard place to see from any direction unless you happened to stumble on it, as he and Willie had done when theyâd been avoiding banditos. He doubted anyone had spent much time in it over the last fifty years or so, including Apaches,
When Colter had made sure his rifle was secure in its saddle boot, he heaved himself bitterly into the saddle, the twisting and crouching making him feel as though a hot, wet blanket had been thrown over his shoulders, then turned his head to listen behind him.
Amidst the clomps of oncoming horses, he could now hear menâs low, conferring voices. The deep, raspy one he recognized as that of Major Fairchild. A stone dropped hard in Colterâs gut. The majorâs leading the contingent himself in the middle of the night, with his bad knees and pleurisy, meant the old man really meant business. Heâd show Colter no mercy at all for killing his prospective son-in-law, let alone listen to Colterâs story of how it had all transpired. Colter knew the manâs iron-hard, take-no-prisoners reputation when it came to the Apaches, and heâd likely treat Colter with just as little mercy.
Colter put Northwest ahead, holding the horse to a trot, as he didnât want to be heard by the riders behind him, who probably realized they were nearing their prey and were stopping often to look and listen. When he gained the vertical jut of sandstone at the top of the rise, Colter picked up the wild horse trail at the base of the rock and followed it down a steep slope to the south.
At the bottom of the slope, he swung Northwest into an eastern-angling, gravel-bottomed canyon and, knowing now he was likely far enough from the cavalrymen that they wouldnât hear him, booted the horse into a gallop that broke the sweat out in earnest across Colterâs forehead and shoulders.
He was fairly swimming in pain and fever sweat by the time heâd reached the end of the canyon and loped on up and over a rise, then swung hard to the south. This was rocky country, so by the time the soldiers reached the end of the canyon, theyâd have no way to track himâespecially in the dark. Only a good Apache scout could shadow him to where he intended to goâup high into the rocky, wind-blasted, and sunbaked reaches of the boulder nest called White Tanks that formed a spur off the southern Galiuro Mountain Range.
Only diamondbacks, Chiricahua Apaches, and Mexican banditos lived there, though Colter had heard that the Apaches had been chased into Mexico by General Crook. That left the snakes and banditos, formidable opponents Colter would worry about when the time came, after heâd lost the soldiers.
Colter had been through this country three times since heâd come to Camp Grant, looking for wild horses to trap and some to buy from a friendly old
mesteno
who lived near here but whom Colter would not burden with his troubles. No, heâd find the cave. He knew a winding route through deep canyons, and the moon should make for relatively easy traveling as long as he wasnât waylaid by banditos or the odd Apache whoâd chosen to remain here in the Chiricahuas rather than run wild in Mexico with the others.
Colter had been traveling alone in remote country for nearly three years now, on the run from the law as well as bounty hunters, and he had developed a good eye and a good memory for landmarks, for he never knew when heâd need a fast, inconspicuous escape route to a remote sanctuary. Thatâs why heâd remembered the cave and the path that led him into a canyon below it and then to a circuitous wild horse trace up a steep ridge, until the cave shone like a velvet, black, egg-shaped shadow in the rocks just above him.
It was surrounded by wiry tufts of brush and cactus, slabs of rock poking every which way, and wagon-sized boulders. There was about fifty feet of sheer granite above it, like a giant fireplace mantel, so it was a hard place to see from any direction unless you happened to stumble on it, as he and Willie had done when theyâd been avoiding banditos. He doubted anyone had spent much time in it over the last fifty years or so, including Apaches,