Montana Abbott 10 by Al Cody

Author:Al Cody [Cody, Al]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: action hero, American Frontier, Colt.45, ebook, fiction, Gunfighters, Piccadilly cowboys, Pulp fiction writing, the Old West, Western series
Publisher: Piccadilly
Published: 2022-07-31T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

RIDING ONCE MORE, possessing a gun, and with at least the edge of their hunger blunted, the situation was measurably improved. Though forced to go bareback, that was warmer, and to that extent an advantage.

But for the long haul it became a matter of averages, and by that standard their prospects were dubious. Coleen couldn’t go much longer without rest and sleep. But the soggy ground was not at all inviting, leaving them no choice but to struggle on.

All sounds of pursuit had faded. To hunt them in such darkness would be wasted effort. Their horses had settled to a resigned plodding.

Breaks appeared in the clouds, allowing a misty light to filter through. The faint rustling of other, mostly four-footed hunters, began to intrude—the swoop of an owl, like a sudden strong wind, followed an instant later by the belated scurry of a rabbit, a squeak cut short in a brief wild threshing.

A winding twist of a creek opened on to a deep pool, dark waters rippling to the surge of a beaver. Apparently scenting them, the swimmer was gone, the warning slap of its wide tail startling as a gunshot. Some smaller animal wailed in the brush. The night of the hunter.

Light silvered a long hill, barren from just above its base, upthrusting steeply. Abbott scrutinized the rocky cliff hopefully, and was rewarded by a darker blotch some distance up. That was perhaps a recess, possibly the mouth of a cave. Such a room would be dry, even warmer.

They swung closer, and it was a cave, a sort of door in the cliff, some thirty feet up from the base, big enough for easy entrance. Not far to the side were trees, and to these they tied the horses.

A path, apparently not much used but indicating that the cave might occasionally serve as a den, led upward. Animal odor, faint but unmistakable, clung at the opening, and Montana’s nose wrinkled consideringly. But the merits of shelter outweighed possible risks. He shouted into the gloom and was reassured as nothing stirred. A short distance back from the opening it was warmer, as well as dry.

Wild commotion awakened him, and he was momentarily at a loss. The half-light of dawn filtered in to the cave, enough to show Coleen also starting up from where she had almost instantly fallen asleep, regardless of the rocky floor.

The noises came from outside, a confused medley of growls and neighing, along with the mad threshing of terrified horses. Looking out, the light was good enough to give him the picture, once more of sudden trouble verging on disaster.

His ears had prepared him for what he saw—a lumbering, cinnamon-hued monster, upright on its hind feet, snarling and growling at the frightened horses, though not overly close to them. Disturbed by their plunging efforts to break loose, the bear had swung about as it reached the foot of the path, of two minds whether to rush at them or climb to the cave.

The terror of the cayuses was readily understandable.

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