the Shadow Riders (1982) (19 page)

It was a lovely, gently rolling land. Along the occasional streams were giant oaks and pecans, and upon the country around were clumps of mesquite and huisache with still a few of the golden blossoms. The season had been late. Daisies were scattered among them, often in great blankets of color. A few lingering blue-bonnets added their color.

Mac turned in his saddle and looked back, then let his eyes sweep the country on both sides, hesitating at anything unusual.

He was tired. It seemed he was always tired these days, and the sun was already warm. He pushed ahead, trying to close up the long column. It was spreading out too far as some of the horses wanted to lag. He pushed the last riders forward, urging them to keep the line closed up.

Again he glanced around. The country seemed virtually without cover, but he was too old a campaigner to believe that. There were always places a man could hide. If you didn't believe that, fight the Apaches.

Dal was almost a half mile ahead, much too far. "Jesse!" he called. "Close them up!"

Jesse was talking to Dulcie and only waved a hand, but he did begin to urge them forward. Slowly the gaps narrowed until the column was less than a quarter of a mile in length and slowly closing.

Dal pulled up on the crest of a hill, standing in his stirrups and looking all about. He should not do that. Made too good a target of himself.

They started on. Up ahead some trees came down close to the trail. A place to watch. Swiftly he swung out, cutting wide from the column and moving toward the trees. When he was nearer he got out his glass and studied them ... nothing.

Nevertheless, he did not like the look of them or the rugged country around. Yet when they drew abreast of them, nothing happened. He scouted the near side, saw no tracks.

He squeezed his eyes together, then opened them wide. The easy gait and the hot sun were making him sleepy.

That Martin Connery now, there was a character! If he had been along with some of his men, especially that Fraconi, he'd have felt better.

The column was lengthening again, and he urged the laggards forward, growing irritated. Damn it, couldn't they realize the danger? A man would think that after what they had been through they'd be more cautious.

He topped a rise and went over it quickly, taking a look back as he did so.

He dried his palms on his shirt front, holding the Spencer in his right hand, momentarily shifting it to the left.

He almost pulled up. As he shifted the rifle he thought he saw something ahead and off to the right. Must have been a flicker of light off the rifle barrel. Anyway, there was nothing there now.

Mac looked around quickly ... nothing. Had he seen something or was it his eyes? He was very tired, and ...

The loop came out of nowhere and dropped over his shoulders, totally unexpected. He was jerked from his horse, and the startled animal leaped forward and began to run.

He hit the road with a thump and heard a scramble of feet. When you roped something you hog-tied it. He knew that in a flash of realization and rolled over. He had clung to his rifle, and now as a man loomed over him he thrust the muzzle into the man's stomach and pulled the trigger.

In the instant before the gun went off he saw the startled look of awareness on the man's face. The instant that gun muzzle thrust into his stomach the man knew!

The blast of the gun knocked the man back, and Mac scrambled to his feet, trying to shake off the clinging rope before somebody else grabbed it.

The rope dropped free, and he glanced once at the man on the ground. He was dying and had no chance. The heavy .52-calibre slug had done its work.

He ran up the slope and saw the column scattered all over the plain. What seemed like a dozen or more men had charged down upon it, and with him knocked out of action their surprise was almost complete.

Jesse was firing, Dal had turned back, and several of the girls were bunching around Kate and Mrs. Atherton. Mac dropped to one knee. The distance was well over the two hundred yards his rifle was expected to shoot with accuracy, but he took careful aim, let his breath out slowly and squeezed off his shot.

A rider jerked in the saddle but continued to move. Taking his time, Mac fired again and again. Four shots. One man down, one man hit, and two clean misses!

A man on a blood bay horse was charging toward the girls, and Mac fired again. He evidently burned the horse, for it leaped aside, unseating its rider.

The fight was moving away from him. Quickly, Mac glanced around. Where was his horse? Where was the horse of the man who roped him? He saw neither, and took off running.

He could see it all up ahead. Then from the low ground before him a man raised up with a pistol ... it was Happy Jack, and just as a rider charged down upon him, he fired.

The man went up in his stirrups, then fell, hitting the ground near Jack, who shot into him again. Scrambling, obviously wounded, Jack recovered the man's rifle and crawled toward the possible shelter of a place where run-off had scooped out the ground.

The fighting had gone over the rise in the ground and left him alone. He ran up to Jack. There was blood on his leg.

"I'm all right. I'm dug in an' I can handle myself. You get after 'em boy!"

On the rise before him there was a horse, reins trailing. He started for it, calling. It was his own horse. The animal hesitated, looking at him, but did not come. Slowly, he edged toward the horse and it moved away a little. He continued on, talking quietly. It was not a horse he'd had for long and although he moved hesitantly, it still shied away.

He gave up, dropping on one knee to survey the field. Several men, a half dozen at least, were riding and shooting. The girls had bunched together but whether Kate was with them he could not see. He ran forward, carrying the rifle at port position, ready to fire on the instant.

Dal, on Bonnie Prince again, he could recognize at once. He saw Dal charge a man. They both fired, but Dal remained in the saddle. The other man dashed on by, and when at least fifty yards further on, he fell.

Mac took careful aim at a rider, led him a little and squeezed off his shot. The man left the saddle as if swept by a giant arm. The horse came racing on up the hill, and as he came abreast, Mac swung himself into the saddle and turned the horse back toward the fight. His own horse followed, stirrups flopping at the gait. The attack was broken. A few riders raced off, and he fired a futile following shot, then pulled up and reloaded. He walked his horse down the slope to the girls and saw Dal coming from the other side. He dropped the Spencer into its scabbard and looked around.

Jesse was coming toward them, limping. "Lost my horse," he said, "and a good horse, too."

Mac turned and rode toward his horse, which stood still, waiting. It was less nervous with a rider approaching than a man on foot. He caught up the bridle and rode toward Jesse. He swung down.

"Take this horse. I'll stick to my own." They both mounted. "Jesse, catch up a loose horse and take him down to Jack. Just over the rise."

Slowly, they gathered together. Jesse had been hurt when his horse fell, but aside from a bad bruise was all right. Happy Jack had a bullet through his leg. Neither Dal nor Mac had been hurt.

Gretchen had been grazed by a bullet that cut the skin on her shoulder. The others were unharmed, though very frightened.

Victoria was dark when they rode into town. Only a few lights glowed, one of them in what was called the Railroad Hotel.

Stiffly, Mac got down and walked into the lobby. A clerk with sleeve garters and a green eye-shade got up from behind a desk.

"If you got four or five rooms you could help us a lot."

"We've got the rooms, but I'm afraid there's no place for young women. I mean my rooms are partitioned off just with sheets of white cotton. No walls. Some of the men use some pretty bad language."

"You give us the rooms. I'll take care of the language."

He looked at Mac again. "Yes, sir," he said. "How many, sir?"

"Eleven beds. If you have two to a room, so much the better for some of them."

When they were shown to the rooms, Mac said, "We'll put the girls in the middle. Dal, you an' Jesse take the last room. Jack and I will take this one in front."

While they slowly filed into their rooms, Mac suddenly spoke out in his best parade-ground voice.

"Now listen! We've several very tired young ladies here. One of them is my sister. One of them is my brother's bride-to-be. I take it you are all gentlemen here. If you are, you will go to sleep and save the conversation until tomorrow. If you are not gentlemen I will personally attend to the noise-makers!"

There was silence. Then a voice said, "You just bed 'em down, Mister. We'll be quiet. Thank you for warning us. There isn't a man here who would use profanity in front of a lady!" Then more quietly, he said, "Now you boys shut up!"

There was a long silence, and then a voice said, "All right, Joe! We heard you! And we heard the gent who's with the ladies, so we'll shut up. But tomorrow morning when we see you in the street, you sure won't be no lady, and you'll get a cussin'!"

At three o'clock in the morning the town was dark and still. The man who dismounted at the corner of the hotel, tied his horse there, out of sight. He waited for a moment, listening, then came up on the boardwalk. He peered into the hotel.

A light glowed over the desk, but nobody was in sight. Slipping off his boots he pushed a rawhide thong through two of the loops and slung them around his neck. Then he eased into the door.

Frank had made up his mind. The whole shooting match of a thing had gone down the drain. It was all over, but the one thing left to do. He was going to kill Mac Traven.

The lobby was empty but for some old newspapers scattered over a table and some chairs. A door was open behind the desk, and there was a bell on the desk to ring for the clerk, which would have been a futility, for all the rooms were gone.

Walking in his sock feet Frank went into the sleeping area, pausing suddenly, confused by all the ghostly white partitions. After the first moment, however, he realized it made his task the easier, for he could see through the cotton hangings. Although there was no light, there was a full moon outside, and Mac Traven's handle-bar mustache was like no other.

A gun or a knife?

A knife if possible. If not, a gun. In the confusion he could easily escape.

He was a burly, strongly built man, but he moved like a cat. That was Traven, right there at the end of the room, right where it would be easiest. Next to him two women were sleeping on low cots.

Those damn Travens! He never had liked them, seeing them around, riding their horses so big and brave! They'd never even known him, although before he joined up with Ashford he'd led a guerilla outfit that raided into Texas. Not that he led them. Guided was more what he'd done, although he could have led them, and better than he who did it.

He'd helped steal most of their horses and some of their cattle. He'd stolen Ranch Baby, the one they prized so much. He'd done it a-purpose, and it was Ranch Baby who was tied out there around the corner, waiting to carry him away after he killed Mac Traven.

He felt along the curtain, trying to find the opening that would let him through. He found the wrong one at first and stepped into the room where Dulcie slept in one bed and Mrs. Atherton in another. He stepped in ever so gently, but a board creaked and she opened her eyes. The moment they opened she was wide awake. She saw the man, saw that he clutched both a gun and a knife, but she had her Deringer.

Her eyes were on him, her hand moving ever so gently out from under the blanket. She held the gun out of sight below the edge of the bed, her thumb on the hammer.

The prowler was fumbling with the curtain. He was going into the compartment where Mac Traven lay. It was he whom the prowler intended to kill.

"Major Traven! Look out!"

The man turned like a cat, turned toward her, and she fired. The man jumped, then ran blindly at the curtain, hesitated there, torn between his desire to kill and the need to escape. Suddenly with a curse he tore down the curtain and ran for the door.

The cry awakened Mac and he came out of his bed, gun in hand. He saw the prowler and raced after him. The startled clerk lunged from his room in time to see a heavy-set man plunge through the outer door into the street.

Mac sprang after him, and the man turned sharply around, gun in hand. "Damn you, Traven!" The gun came up, and Mac Traven turned sharply, his right side to the man, and they both fired.

Mac saw the man shudder as he took the bullet; then he fired again.

Gun ready, he walked toward the man. He was on his knees now. It was the man called Frank. The man he had first seen in the streets of this very town. One of Ashford's men.

He was on his knees, his features twisted with hatred. "Damn you!" he muttered. "You've got all the luck! If it hadn't been for that woman ... !" Mac Traven waited, holding his gun ready. The man was on his knees. He started to get up, then fell head-long. He lay sprawled on the board-walk, his fingers slowly relaxing his grip on the gun.

Lights were going on all over town. People would be asking questions, wondering, wishing these strangers would go away who had brought violence into their town. There hadn't been so much trouble around the country since the plague, and that was years ago.