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

him. He ached and burned and felt an Arctic chill deep in his bones. Several times he half woke to find his teeth clattering until he thought all the rest would crack. He dreamed of fire and snow and fork-tailed devils chasing him through dark canyons and up mountains limned in moonlight and into the waiting arms of snarling, red-eyed wolves. All night he was either running from demons or wolves or fire or icy snowmelt seas.
    When one of those wolves had grabbed his ankle, and the demons were swarming on top of him, one of the demons screaming, “
Killer!
” he jerked his head up off the soaked leather saddlebag pouch with a low, raspy yell that got tangled up in his throat.
    Golden-copper light angled through the cave mouth. It could be morning, but judging by the warmth in the air, it was likely later on in the day. Colter blinked against the light as he looked around dumbly, only half remembering where he was and what had brought him here, running his tongue around in his dry mouth that still tasted like copper. He fumbled around for the canteen, and just when he’d gotten the cap off and was taking a drink, Northwest whinnied.
    The dun’s cry was answered by another horse farther away.
    Shod hooves clacked on rock.
    Colter dropped the canteen and flailed around with both hands for his pistol. Where the hell was it? Finally, he found his shell belt half concealed by his possibles bag and pulled the Remington from its holster, his hand still shaking from the fever as he heard the rider moving up the slope toward the cave.

Chapter 7
    As the hoof clacks grew louder and copper dust began to waft in front of the cave, Colter saw his rifle in its scabbard still strapped to his saddle. He depressed the Remington’s hammer, set the pistol aside, and grabbed the Henry. He racked a shell into the breech and scuttled forward until he was a few feet from the cave mouth, then, on his knees, pressed the stock to his shoulder.
    A girl’s scream cut the quiet air.
    Colter blinked in surprise as a cream gelding was brought up short, the bit in its teeth drawing its head back as it pranced in place, half turning and showing the profile of the chocolate-haired girl in the saddle, clad in a blue blouse with ruffled sleeves and collar and a spruce green riding skirt. She sat back in the silver-trimmed Texas saddle with a dinner-plate-sized horn, her back taut. Beneath the brim of her straw sombrero, her fearful eyes flicked between Colter’s scarred face and the cocked rifle he was aiming at her heart. She held the reins in her gloved hands up close to her creamy neck.
    â€œDon’t shoot me!”
    Colter lowered the rifle, looking around quickly, then, seeing no one else riding up the slope, depressed the hammer and let the barrel sag toward the cave’s floor carpeted in gray rock dust. “Lenore . . . ?”
    She swung expertly down from her saddle—no sidesaddle for Lenore, which was one of the things Colter had admired about the girl—and continued the last twenty feet to the top of the slope, leading the cream by its reins. Rocks rattled beneath her dusty black riding boots. Her horse snorted and blew. Northwest whinnied from his alcove, and the cream raised its head and returned the greeting in kind.
    Lenore place a quieting hand on the cream’s snout, her eyes riveted to Colter. “God, you look . . .
terrible
!”
    â€œWhat’re you doin’ here?” Again, Colter swept the boulder-strewn slope with his apprehensive gaze. “Who told you . . . ?”
    â€œMr. Tappin. He couldn’t come himself. My father’s keeping a close watch on him.”
    â€œWillie’s all right?”
    Lenore nodded. “He hasn’t been hurt, but if my father thought that he knew where you’re holed up, he’d likely face a firing squad. My father’s very . . . angry . . . about this.”
    â€œWhat about