Valley of Outlaws by Max Brand

Author:Max Brand
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2013-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

Soon they left the open. The trees began to rise about them, and the trail wound in and out among the trunks, while the noise of the hoof beats behind came to them in pulses—loudly in the open, veiled and muffled as they entered the woods again.

“The roan?” asked Terry Shawn. “Is he equal to the race?”

The Mexican threw his hands out in a wide gesture. “The roan says that I am nothing on his back, señor. I am a feather and he is a bird. He laughs at such a burden. He is happy, and his back muscles are bunching as though he thought of bucking with every jump. He will run to the end of the world and there is no barrier that he will not jump. Never fear for him, señor.” He added: “And the mare?”

“She feels as strong as a rock,” answered the outlaw. “But,” he added, looking down at her dripping flanks, “she is a little soft. Confound men who won’t grain their best horses. They’re not worth stealing, José. However, I think we have that lot beaten.”

A long gap opened before them. They were well across it and entering the woodland on the farther side before Lank Heney appeared at the head of his posse, riding like a jockey, with his long frame doubled to the work.

José marked him specially. “Shall I persuade him to turn back?” he asked, touching the rifle that was holstered beneath his knee.

“Let him be,” said the outlaw briefly. “This isn’t his day to die. Keep straight on, José. Here’s the lead rope. Don’t turn, even if I turn. Keep straight up the valley.”

They had issued from the trees again, and before them, to the left, was the wide front of the Bowen house, with the brightly colored pattern of its garden spread out in front. But what the keen eye of the outlaw marked was a woman in sunbonnet and apron, on her knees, trowel in hand.

It might be Mrs. Bowen; it might be a servant of the house. But no. Now she started to her feet, and he told himself that only one creature in the whole world could move like that. It was Kitty Bowen, he could swear.

He cast one glance behind as he galloped for the Bowen house.

José rode on hard and fast up the valley, but, as one man, the entire posse had swept to the left and followed Terry Shawn. He was the prize in their eyes; there was no blood money on the head of the Mexican. And still Lank Heney rode in the front, jockeying his tough little horse along, and never slackening his pace. However, there was a broad gap between him and his goal, and that gap might enable Shawn to do what he wished to do.

Shawn saw Kitty Bowen—plainly it was she, now—turn and run toward the house. But she hesitated and turned back as he shouted. He saw Bowen himself run for the house onto the front porch, with a rifle in his hand.

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