33 The Peacemakers (A Floating Outfit Western) by J. T. Edson

Author:J. T. Edson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing
Published: 2019-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

Nine – Lodgepole

Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid drew their horses to a halt and looked at the waters of the Rio Grande.

‘Reckon they made it?’ the Kid asked.

‘Likely,’ Dusty replied. ‘They’d be using el Camino Real most of the way and making good time along a near enough straight road. We’ve had to swerve a mite and hide some.’

‘Sure, but we made good time for all of that. You was right about only the two of us coming and me changing clothes though.’

‘Let’s get across,’ suggested Dusty. ‘I’ll feel a mite safer then.’

‘Sure. There’s a good ford here.’

Looking at the rolling waters Dusty could see no sign of a ford through the muddy surface. However, the Kid knew this stretch of the Rio Grande as well as Dusty knew the O.D. Connected range. In the old days when running contraband the Kid often needed to know these hidden fords to avoid capture.

His judgment did not prove faulty for, although the current ran fast, it did not reach the top of their boots in midstream. Neither drew rein until they sat their horses on the Texas shore once more.

‘Reckon Chavez’ll recognize you, happen you run into him again, Dusty?’ asked the Kid.

‘Maybe. He sure was toting a load of coffin-varnish when we hit him. It’ll be dark soon, Lon, reckon you can find your way to Lodgepole at night?’

‘I tell you, Dusty,’ answered the Kid, grinning broadly at his amigo’s question. ‘I know the way by dark right well. Fact being I don’t rightly reckon I could find it by day.’

‘How well do you know Lodgepole?’

‘Right well. My pappy used to run wine and tequila across the border to sell to ole Judge Buckley, him being local justice of the peace, town marshal, county deputy—’

‘And a right stout pillar of law and order, way you tell it,’ Dusty interrupted dryly.

‘Why sure. Smuggling’s only illegal to revenuers. We’ll call on in and ask the Judge how much he knows about Chavez and his bunch.’

They reached Lodgepole after dark, finding a small, yet fairly prosperous cow-town no different, except in the names of the business premises’ owners, from a hundred more which ran the length of the Rio Grande country.

A short, bowlegged, whiskery old-timer greeted Dusty and the Kid as they led their horses into the stable. He looked down at the animal’s legs with some interest, then glanced at the riders.

‘Just come up from the Rio, huh?’ he asked.

‘Nope,’ replied the Kid. ‘Got wet crossing the Salt Fork of the Brazos. Been many in from the river tonight?’

‘Salt Fork of the Brazos’s a mite too far north for many folks to come from it,’ replied the old-timer and sent a spurt of tobacco juice splattering over a lizard on the wall some twenty foot away. ‘One bunch come in just afore noon. Looked like some haciendero’s daughter. Sure got a mean bunch riding with her though.’

‘They leave their hosses here?’ Dusty asked.

‘Nope. Saw ’em while I was down getting my rheumatism medicine from the Golden Harp.

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