All Blood is Red (An Apache Western #10) by William M James

Author:William M James [Lesley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter Five

BEYOND THE CREST of the gentle hill to the east of the Johnstone homestead, the ground fell away to deepen the valley between the tree-covered slopes at north and south. The timber closed in at the foot of this brush-covered decline. The trail to Creekville, impossible to see on the open ground, was clearly defined now: it followed the line of least resistance through the Cascade pine forest.

Cuchillo kept the pace of the buckboard fast down the gradient, but had to reduce speed as the trail dipped and curved through the timber. In the shade of the evergreen foliage the snow was frozen and the iron rims of the wheels were quick to slither across the surface amid sprays of ice crystals; the wagon threatened to slam sideways into immovable trunks at each curve.

The meandering trail they left behind them went nowhere except to the Johnstone place and it was unlikely that either owner of the property had worked at setting it down. It had simply existed as an untrodden way through the forest until men found a purpose for it. Other natural trails occasionally spurred off to the left and right and Cuchillo and his captive were perhaps two miles as the crow flies from their starting point when he steered the gelding onto a northerly course.

‘We could get lost,’ Faith cried anxiously. ‘There’s nobody who lives this side of town except—’

‘If we die, who will tell the truth that must be told?’ Cuchillo interrupted.

The spur trail narrowed and broadened by turns. Then it came to an abrupt end in a clearing with no way out except back the way they had come. The clearing was about a mile and a half north of the main trail.

Cuchillo took the shotgun with him when he jumped down from the buckboard and started to take the gelding from the traces. His feet crunched on the crusting of frozen snow. The breath of the horse, the woman and the Apache became gray vapor in the air. The sun was bright over half the clearing, beyond the shade of the tall pines.

‘How long do you think this false trail will hold them up, Indian?’ Faith snorted contemptuously.

‘I care, but do not know,’ he replied, and swung up across the bare back of the gelding. The animal balked, but settled down to uneasy calm under the expert handling of the Apache. It had obviously been saddle broken long ago, but was unused to a bareback rider.

Cuchillo swung the shotgun around his head and hurled it hard into the timber. It thudded and crashed from trunk to trunk, then dropped to the snow. He sidled the mount over to the buckboard and extended an arm to indicate the woman should get astride the gelding in front of him.

She glared at him defiantly. ‘If I do not, you’ll cut me to pieces?’

He smiled brutally. ‘Your blood will be ugly on the snow. You will be uglier.’

He did not have to remind her about the saddlebags. She scooped them up before rising and allowing him to help her astride the gelding.

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