Renegade Riders by Dawn MacTavish Page A

couple of times, when the wind was blowing just right, I thought I heard a woman’s voice up to the main house. Once I might’ve heard crying. Another time it sounded like a man and woman arguing. Tried once to get up there, to see for myself. Made it to the back porch on the excuse I was wondering if they had a Dutch oven. Comstock comes out and chases me off. Even so, I spotted a shadow inside. A female shadow.”
    “Was it her?” Trace asked through clenched teeth.
    “I’m getting there,” the old man shot back. “I kept my eyes and ears open after that. Didn’t see the woman again, but listened real good to what them riders was saying. There’s a woman on the place all right, a woman named Mae. But…”
    “But what, old man?” Trace prompted.
    “Here’s the part you ain’t going to like. She’s Comstock’s wife.”
    Trace took a step backward. His mind reeled to the ring on her finger and what she’d said when he asked her name, how she’d stumbled over her answer. But why was she running through the canyon on foot like a mad, wild thing when she had a whole herd of horses at her command? Something wasn’t right here. Mae hadn’t been headed southwest to the Lazy C when she lit out; she’d been headed east. Those riders had caught up and turned her back toward the mountains. Back toward the Lazy C.
    “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of Comstock changing his mind about me?” he asked.
    “After the stunt with that horse?” The old man loosed a guttural chuckle. “Not likely.”
    “I was trying to settle Diablo down,” Trace snapped.
    “I know, I ain’t holding it against you. I’m just saying you spoilt your chances of getting hired on, is all. Man seems none too trustful to begin with, and you’re someone that horse respects. Set Comstock’s hackles up.”
    “When are you coming into town again?”
    Preacher shrugged. “Not for a week, maybe two.”
    “Doubt I can wait that long.” Trace shook his head. “Riders are coming and going every day from the Lazy C. I’ll be spotted sooner or later.” He pointed to the northwest. “See that ridge?”
    Preacher nodded.
    “There’s a little grove with a stream running through it. I’ll camp there and keep watch from up top during the day. See if you can’t get in good with the ranch’swranglers. Drink and play cards with them, find out what’s going on. I need proof before I send for the ranchers who hired me, or for the marshal up north; the circuit judge is likely on Comstock’s payroll. And…keep your eyes open for Mae. Something’s not right here.” After a moment Trace asked, “Is Diablo all right?”
    “He ain’t happy. That Comstock is running him into the ground. He’s all cut up from whippings. Truth to tell, I’ve been trying to figure a way to set him loose. I would, too, except I didn’t want to get caught before I found out something to help you.”
    “Don’t—not yet. Leave Diablo to me. But before it’s done I’m going to give that hombre a taste of his own bullwhip. You can count on that.”
    That night, Trace slept in the cul-de-sac. All day he’d haunted the ridge above, and at dusk he rode Duchess down the rocky trail of ragged steps to the outcropping of red rock where he’d hidden his gear and burro. It was the perfect seclusion, being tucked behind trees and far enough from the trail to risk a small campfire.
    The air was sweet and clean, blowing down from the mountain peaks that still showed snow on their caps. Sage colored the distant foothills. New grass swayed in the breeze, and the stream ran cold and full from the melted snow from above. Spring was in full swing, but Trace couldn’t enjoy it.
    Early the next morning, he watched hawks and eagles sail on the wind, and he caught a glimpse of deer, elk, and once he could have sworn he saw a great black bear. He set snares for rabbits and kept himself busy. It was that or his temper would get the better of him and he’dcharge, guns