Last Ride of Jed Strange (9781101559635) by Leslie Frank

Author:Leslie, Frank
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2011-12-06T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Colter fed and watered Northwest, hobbling him near the pine tree so the horse could freely graze. He removed his spurs from his boots and draped them over his saddle horn. Making sure that both his Remington and Henry were loaded, drawing the loading tube out from under the rifle’s barrel, then shoving it back in and locking it, the redhead gave the coyote dun a parting pat on the neck and stole off down the canyon, making his way through the darkness relieved only by starlight.

He wished he could have made a more thorough reconnaissance of the rurales’ camp before dark. As it was, he pretty much had to hope that the luck of the Mexican gods was with him, and that he could make his way around behind the rurale camp without being shot by a picket. And that there was a way up and over that caprock from the backside. His intension was to sneak up on the camp from that direction, find out where the girl was, and free her in whatever way he could come up with on the spur of the moment.

Dangerous. But he’d been in dangerous places before. Danger had become such a way of life, he wondered if he’d ever be able to enjoy a settled life if he found one.

The farther he tramped away from his horse, the quieter and more slowly he walked. He followed the canyon around to what he figured was the backside of the one the rurales were camped on, and started to climb. Here, he moved even more carefully, more slowly, setting his boots down softly. The crunch of gravel might give him away to any pickets about, and surely the rurale captain had posted a guard or two.

Keeping his eyes and ears skinned, Colter continued to climb the steep ridge, hunkered low, holding his rifle in his right hand, using his left to push off rock and boulders, and for balance. He knew now why the old deputy U.S. marshal he’d gotten to know in Wyoming—Spurr Morgan—had preferred moccasins over cowhide boots. They were a hell of a lot quieter. Try as Colter might, he could not keep his boots from grinding gravel ever so faintly.

It was the boot-grind of another, though, that stopped him in his tracks.

The sound had come from above a rock ledge on his right. He dropped instantly to a knee. A stone rolled off the ledge and onto the ground about six feet in front of Colter. The starlight shone on it faintly. Colter pricked his ears, squeezing the rifle in his hands.

He did not hear another footfall. But as he knelt there, as patient as an Apache, he caught a whiff of tobacco smoke. He lifted his chin, sniffing the still air. The smoke was drifting down from nearly straight above him and, judging by how the smoke peppered his nostrils, not more than a few yards away.

Colter crept slowly forward, crouched beneath the ledge. He

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