pioneers or a reckless Indian fighter, but Quantro envied him his experiences and the places he told of, places that had only ever been names to him. One day he would see them all, and remember Tom Galloway, his twinkling eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the fire as he recalled some long lost nubile senorita who had stolen his heart, and most likely his bankroll.
When the weather allowed, they hunted or exercised the horses, but they always returned to the cabin by nightfall. The howling of the hungry packs of timber wolves saw to that. In the dim, overcast days, when their evening hunts had yielded little, the wolves took to running in the afternoon, and their tracks were always evident each morning around the cabin. Quantro and Tom saw many tracks that winter; grizzly, elk, rabbit and fox, and always the wolves. They even found Indian tracks one morning, but of the Indians themselves they saw no trace.
Soon spring brightened the sky and winterâs stretching hold on the land began to shrivel until she hung on barely by her fingernails, a finger of snow stubbornly clinging to a high ridge or laying unwarmed in a sheltered arroyo.
Their luck had been good. Their hunting had rewarded them with an excellent diet, and the horses too, were fit. It was time to go. Tom headed north to his friends in Montana and Quantro turned the buckskinâs head south, his mind once more set on seeking out Zeb Cole, the murdering half-breed.
He followed the high trails that ran through the line of the Colorado Mountains, down into New Mexico Territory, past Wheeler and Rincon peaks. Then he turned west to meet the waters of the Rio Grande north of Santa Fe, and followed the river southwards before he turned west again, skirting Mount Taylor.
He finally tied the buckskin to the hitching rail outside the Maybelle Saloon on the main street of Grants. Inside, he swilled down his first beer, ridding his throat of the trail dust, and listened to the Smalltalk of the men lining the bar. He learned nothing of interest, so when the beer was finished he tossed a coin onto the counter and went back out on to the sidewalk. He stood for a moment in the sunshine before he spotted the sheriffâs office further down, across the street.
He strolled over and examined the Wanted Flyers tacked up on the board outside, but the face he was looking for was absent. Inside, the sheriff had his feet on the battered desk as he cleaned an old rifle. Several batches of posters were thumb tacked to the wall behind the desk. Quantro nodded at the sheriff and pointed to the clutch of papers. The sheriff gestured for him to help himself. He studied the pictures and the rewards as a matter of course.
What he wanted, he found in the third batch.
A poor drawing, but it was Zeb Cole all right. Wanted for cattle rustling and robbery. A bank job, the sheriff said, it was the bank and Wells Fargo who had put up the reward. Cole and two other men. The reward stood at Two Thousand Dollars. Quantro raised an eyebrow.
Enough to feed him for a long while.
No, Cole hadnât been seen in Grants, but the sheriff had heard of a series of cattle thefts near to the border of the Arizona territory. Could be the same crew, you never knew. He shrugged and went back to cleaning his rifle. Could be at that, Quantro conceded. It was fifty miles to the border. A bath and a nice soft bed wouldnât go amiss. And a good, thick beefsteak. Obliged to the sheriff, he tipped his hat and stuck the offered copy of the flyer into his pocket for future reference.
He checked into the hotel and stabled the buckskin at the livery. Alone in his room he counted through the money left from the bounty on Purdy Dale. Five hundred dollars in notes and a few coins. He smiled, remembering those cold evenings in the winter cabin. Tom had managed to wheedle quite a few dollars out of him during their lengthy poker games.
The bath cost him fifty cents and was worth every penny. A full
When the weather allowed, they hunted or exercised the horses, but they always returned to the cabin by nightfall. The howling of the hungry packs of timber wolves saw to that. In the dim, overcast days, when their evening hunts had yielded little, the wolves took to running in the afternoon, and their tracks were always evident each morning around the cabin. Quantro and Tom saw many tracks that winter; grizzly, elk, rabbit and fox, and always the wolves. They even found Indian tracks one morning, but of the Indians themselves they saw no trace.
Soon spring brightened the sky and winterâs stretching hold on the land began to shrivel until she hung on barely by her fingernails, a finger of snow stubbornly clinging to a high ridge or laying unwarmed in a sheltered arroyo.
Their luck had been good. Their hunting had rewarded them with an excellent diet, and the horses too, were fit. It was time to go. Tom headed north to his friends in Montana and Quantro turned the buckskinâs head south, his mind once more set on seeking out Zeb Cole, the murdering half-breed.
He followed the high trails that ran through the line of the Colorado Mountains, down into New Mexico Territory, past Wheeler and Rincon peaks. Then he turned west to meet the waters of the Rio Grande north of Santa Fe, and followed the river southwards before he turned west again, skirting Mount Taylor.
He finally tied the buckskin to the hitching rail outside the Maybelle Saloon on the main street of Grants. Inside, he swilled down his first beer, ridding his throat of the trail dust, and listened to the Smalltalk of the men lining the bar. He learned nothing of interest, so when the beer was finished he tossed a coin onto the counter and went back out on to the sidewalk. He stood for a moment in the sunshine before he spotted the sheriffâs office further down, across the street.
He strolled over and examined the Wanted Flyers tacked up on the board outside, but the face he was looking for was absent. Inside, the sheriff had his feet on the battered desk as he cleaned an old rifle. Several batches of posters were thumb tacked to the wall behind the desk. Quantro nodded at the sheriff and pointed to the clutch of papers. The sheriff gestured for him to help himself. He studied the pictures and the rewards as a matter of course.
What he wanted, he found in the third batch.
A poor drawing, but it was Zeb Cole all right. Wanted for cattle rustling and robbery. A bank job, the sheriff said, it was the bank and Wells Fargo who had put up the reward. Cole and two other men. The reward stood at Two Thousand Dollars. Quantro raised an eyebrow.
Enough to feed him for a long while.
No, Cole hadnât been seen in Grants, but the sheriff had heard of a series of cattle thefts near to the border of the Arizona territory. Could be the same crew, you never knew. He shrugged and went back to cleaning his rifle. Could be at that, Quantro conceded. It was fifty miles to the border. A bath and a nice soft bed wouldnât go amiss. And a good, thick beefsteak. Obliged to the sheriff, he tipped his hat and stuck the offered copy of the flyer into his pocket for future reference.
He checked into the hotel and stabled the buckskin at the livery. Alone in his room he counted through the money left from the bounty on Purdy Dale. Five hundred dollars in notes and a few coins. He smiled, remembering those cold evenings in the winter cabin. Tom had managed to wheedle quite a few dollars out of him during their lengthy poker games.
The bath cost him fifty cents and was worth every penny. A full
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