Last Ride of Jed Strange (9781101559635) by Frank Leslie Page A

because, while there’d been a hole dug for a fire ring inside, until he and Willie had spent a night here there’d been only a trace of ashes in it and the flaky remains of ancient, charred bones.
    He half fell out of his saddle and dropped to his knees, sucking air into his battered chest, his ribs grinding as his lungs expanded. He was soaked in sweat. Cursing Belden, he gained his feet and stared off across the jagged slope that was cast mostly in shadow by the west-tumbling moon. He could neither see nor hear anything from the devil’s mouth of slashing canyons and gorges he’d just traversed, though from far behind him, on the other side of the ridge, coyotes were yammering.
    Odd, how he found comfort in their distant company. Aside from them and Northwest, he was alone out here, miles from anyone including the old
mesteno
who had a small log cabin about five miles away as the crow flies—a long, hard ride in this devil’s playground. He’d grown accustomed to spending long stretches of time alone, sometimes going weeks without spying another soul. But it was always harder just after he’d been amongst people he’d become close to, like Willie and Lenore Fairchild, whom he would likely never see again.
    As he led Northwest up around the rocks toward the cave, he supposed she’d learned of the death of her beau. He supposed, too, that she wished she’d never laid eyes on Colter Farrow, and was probably right now cursing his name while she cried into her pillow.
    He paused outside the gaping cave mouth, smelling the cold stone within. Touching the worn walnut grips of his holstered Remington, he said softly, “Hello the cave.”
    The cavern’s only response was the faint echo of the redhead’s own voice. Quickly, agonizingly, he stripped off Northwest’s bridle and saddle and the bedroll and saddlebags, piling the gear in front of the cave, then led the horse around the cave to a small alcove nearby. It was an area about as large as two stable stalls, and it had a small rock tank with some water in it from a recent rain. He placed a hackamore over the horse’s head, tied the rope to a pillar of rock, and tossed down a few handfuls of oats near the tank. The water and oats would have to do for now. He’d rub the coyote dun down later, when he’d had some sleep. And he’d take him down to the spring in the morning and let him crop the green grass that grew amongst the rocks lining the seep.
    In the meantime . . . he stumbled on the toes of his boots as he made his way back to the cave. He scratched a lucifer to life on his shell belt and ducked inside the cavern, holding the match up to inspect the place, making sure it was empty. Then he dropped the match, dragged his gear inside, spread his blanket roll as best he could, and collapsed into it, drawing the top blanket up to his chin. He was cold as well as hot, sweating so that he felt as though he were swimming underwater, and sleep would not come.
    He knew he should build a fire, but he did not want to risk the glow being seen from downslope. Besides, he didn’t have the energy to gather wood. Remembering Willie’s whiskey, he opened the flap on one of his saddlebag pouches and pulled out the bottle. He grimaced when he thought of that snake floating around on the bottom of the sutler’s vat and gave a shudder. Before he could chicken out, he popped the cork and took a pull.
    The whiskey set his mouth on fire. He swallowed quickly, and then his throat and belly were aflame, as well. His guts heaved, and he bent forward, nearly vomiting. After a few seconds the burning waned and a faint lightness closed over him, dulling the ache in his lips and ribs. He corked the bottle, set it aside, and laid his head back on his saddlebags before closing his eyes.
    He gave a deep, rattling sigh.
    Sleep about as restful as a voyage in a small boat on typhoon-embroiled seas boiled over