Ralph Compton The Convict Trail by Ralph Compton

Author:Ralph Compton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

The night had turned cold and there was sleet in the rain as Logan Kane rode into camp. The fire was out and there was no sign of Sam Shaver.

He swung out of the saddle and let the mustang’s lead rope drop. Then his eyes sought to penetrate the darkness, looking for movement in the shadows. Nothing stirred, the only sound the rustle of the oak and the distant cry of coyotes.

He drew his gun and limped toward the wagon, the pain in his leg beating at him. The cage loomed ahead of him, an obscene thing of wood and iron. It was empty, the open door creaking in the wind.

“Logan, is that you?”

Sam’s voice, thin and strained.

“Behind the wagon, Logan.”

The old man was lying on his back, his face wet with sleet and rain. Death shadows had gathered in his eyes and cheeks; his breathing was labored, his chest rising and falling with every shuddering gasp.

Kane kneeled beside him. He took off his slicker, rolled it up and placed it under Sam’s head. “Take it easy, old-timer,” he said, attempting to smile. “You’ll be fine.”

“Not fine, no, Logan. They’ve kilt me.” His eyes dropped to the front of his shirt where blood gleamed. “I’m shot through and through, Logan.” He lifted a thin, blue-veined hand and touched Kane’s chest with his fingertips. “I held on—figgered you’d be back.” His eyes met those of the younger man. “Get yore sorrel back?”

“Sure did. Brung the dray back too.”

“Take care of that mustang, Logan. He ain’t a bad hoss.” Sam’s hand fell to his side and for a moment Kane thought he was gone, but then the old man whispered, “Cullen?”

“Dead.”

“Did he have iron in his hand?”

“He did, and he had his face to me.”

“Then you done what you had to do, Logan.”

“Maybe so.” He brushed a wisp of gray hair from Sam’s forehead. “What happened, old-timer?”

“Ol’ Buff called me over to the wagon, tole me Joe Foster was awful sick because o’ that kick in the head you gave him. The kid was groanin’ an’ carryin’ on, an’ I set my scattergun down and stepped over there.”

Sam was fighting for breath, desperately clinging to life.

“You take it easy, Sam,” Kane said. “You can tell me later when you feel up to it.”

It didn’t matter how it had happened; the prisoners were gone and Sam was dying. The circumstances told their own story.

But the old man shook his head. “Listen . . . Buff grabbed me and held me against the bars. Then he yelled, ‘Now, Jack!’ Next thing I know, a bullet hits me atween the shoulder blades an’ they’d done gone an’ kilt me.” He smiled weakly. “I didn’t have no Colt or I would have drawed it an’ at least plugged ol’ Buff.”

Kane’s voice was tight in his throat. “Which way are they headed?”

“North, Logan. They got a heap o’ friends in the Indian Territory.” Sam let out a long, pained sigh. “My talkin’ is done, Logan. Hey, know what I’d like?”

“What’s that, old-timer?”

“A cup o’ coffee.

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