Trail of Blood and Bones: A Walt Slade Western by Bradford Scott

Author:Bradford Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Western, gunfighter, ranger, historical fiction, old west
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2018-02-05T00:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

SLADE RODE WEST AT A LEISURELY PACE, for he had plenty of time if things worked out per schedule. Reaching the head of the ford, he sat for a moment gazing across the river, which was silvered by the light of the waning moon; the water was not very high, not enough to deter anybody really anxious to cross. He led Shadow back a little distance down the trail, where he would be safe from flying lead, flipped the bit out and left him to graze. Returning to the ford, he rolled a cigarette, sat down and schooled himself to patience; it still lacked a while till dawn.

Gradually the sky grayed, the east flushed rose and pink. The stars turned from gold to silver, dwindled to needle-points of steel and winked out. The glow in the east strengthened, birds began to chirp. The rose and pink deepened to crimson flecked with ruddy gold. A shaft of light shot upward, reached the zenith, fell earthward. The flaming rim of the sun appeared, a little wind shook down a myriad of dew from the blades of grass, and it was day.

Slade knew that his position was not the best, outlined as he would be in the blaze of sunlight, but there was no help for it. Nowhere was there any cover. He made sure the mechanism of his Winchester was in perfect order, rolled another cigarette.

On the north bank of the stream there was no sign of life. The chaparral stood stiffly erect, its points glittering in the sun bath, devoid of movement. Evidently the posse was under cover.

To the west of the ford, as to the east, the trail curved sharply through the chaparral. And where it curved, Slade fixed his gaze. Still nothing moved, no sound save the ripple of the river broke the silence.

Then as if jerked forward by invisible strings, a tight group of riders, more than a dozen in all, bulged around the bend and sped toward the ford. Slade could not hear Sheriff Calder’s shout of, “Elevate! You’re covered!” but he saw the puffs of smoke mushroom from the group, as they jerked their mounts to a slithering halt. And the answering puffs from the brush. A moment later the crackle of the reports reached him. He held his rifle at the ready, his eyes fixed on the riders sitting their rearing horses. He saw men fall, other lurch and sway. It was as if he had a front seat at a stage performance.

Then, just as he expected, a rider detached from the swirling group, sped to the ford and sent his mount into the water. Slade raised the rifle, clamped the butt against his shoulder. His eyes glanced along the sights and he squeezed the trigger.

The rider whirled from his saddle, struck the water below the ford and vanished. A second horseman charged toward the river’s edge. Slade shifted the rifle barrel a fraction. Two riderless horses plunged across the river. A third tried it, whirled his mount as a slug sent his hat spinning through the air.

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