Action at Thunder Mountain by Owen G. Irons

Author:Owen G. Irons
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-09-08T01:39:00+00:00

Shy's landmark was the outcropping called Devil's Thumb. Before he had reached it, the rains hit. Vicious, lashing rains, as the thunderclouds collided with the mountain range and were forced upward in massive columns of turbulent air. Below and beyond, the desert was clear, tinted a strange reddish yellow by the cloud cover. But in the Dragoons the winds tore at the low brush; the rain pelted rider and horse like buckshot.

He had reached the edge of the mountains. The earth fell away in a thousand-foot drop. The wind thrust icy fingers into his face as they rode the lip of the cliff, searching through the iron-grey curtain of the rain for the mysterious trail. It should be there, and it might very well be, but in the storm he could see nothing. It would cost another two days to circle back to Roundtree if the gamble did not pay off. He had trusted Yarenda's word, and the Indian seldom spoke if he did not know that what he said was a fact. Yet he himself had not ridden the trail and seemed afraid of attempting it.

It was supposed to be an ancient trail, one used by those cave-dwelling peoples who had lived in these parts long before the Spaniard came, long before the Apache himself had drifted down from Canada, in eons past. The trail might have simply disappeared, been reclaimed by the forces of nature. It might be broken, gapped by the flash floods that followed rains such as these, or it might be only a legend....

Shy rode on, his eyes on the flanks of the mighty mountain. Devil's Thumb was behind him a half mile, lost in the twisted mass of clouds. Lightning flashed, causing the horse, the entire earth, to tremble, but it showed nothing of a trail.

Suddenly, in a moment of clearing, when the veil of rolling clouds parted for a brief second, he saw, or thought he saw, the trail. He halted, feeling the wind buffet the dun. Then again he thought he saw something-wavering along the face of the sheer mountainside, little more than an eyebrow that followed the natural inclinations of the terrain, disappearing behind brushy stands, into declivities. It was no more than a game trail, unused for centuries perhaps. But if he could find the beginning of the trail, he would have to chance it.

It must go somewhere. Yarenda believed it worked its way to the base of the mountain. But was the Indian sure? No-he would not ride the "magic trail." Nevertheless, roads are not built that go nowhere, and the only plausible destination was the floor of the desert. Whoever had built this trail had planned it carefully. It was difficult to find, and probably difficult to traverse. Another thought occurred to Shy, and not a comforting one-these men had had no horses. The path was meant to be traveled on foot. Could the dun make it at all?

"Well, old fellow? What d'you think?"

The horse responded to his voice and the stroking of its neck, but the poor animal was nervous, eyeing the abyss before them.

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