Comanche! (A Peacemaker Western--Book One) by William S. Brady

Author:William S. Brady [Brady, William S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: American Old West, American westerns, Gunfighters, Comanche Indians, Piccadilly Cowboys, Angus Wells, action heroes
Publisher: Piccadilly
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

MCLAIN HALTED AS the moon drifted towards the horizon behind him. He was out, now, on a spread of desert country that ended where a low butte stuck up from the flat. There were ridges to the north and south, but none close enough that he could reach their cover before late morning, at the earliest. Most of his tracks – he thought – were hidden, invisible on the hard rock of the arroyos, or lost amongst the inwards trails of the Comanche. Only the last part gave clear indication of his route, where the stone and scrub gave way to open sand that carried the tracks of the double-mounted horse with menacing clarity.

But – given the circumstances – he had little choice. The country all around was wide open. If Walking Bear had sent riders after him, and if they did pick up his trail, then he wanted some kind of defensive position. And the butte was the only one around.

It stuck up like a broken bone from the body of the plain. In the early morning light it looked grey, only the top edged with the pale gold of the rising sun. It was about thirty feet high, the sides sheer, scored through with deep indentations where storm water had scoured out a hollow on the top and bled over to carve channels down the sides. It rose vertically from a surround of wind-blown sand that rested long enough to give plants a chance to grow, gaining footholds on the lower level that bound the sand tight, forming a shallow slope that was dull yellow and dull green in the dawn light. Against the face of the vertical incline dark cuts showed like the striations of sinews against old bones. Some were carved deep against the face of the butte, leading on to secondary cuts that split the hard-baked sand like knife wounds.

McLain went to the closest of these deeper cuts, and found a kind of miniature canyon that fed back into the butte for maybe fifty feet. It was fifteen across at the opening, narrowing down in a wedge shape to the rear. There was a ramp of hard-packed sand leading up to the front, the sharp ascent dotted with cactus and mesquite. At the rear of the split there was a pool that had been cut out by countless years of dripping water. The sides were slick with silicate deposits, the multitude of colors shimmering as the sun lifted over the rimrock and glanced into the split.

The water coming down the side of the butte was clean: he filled his canteen and used his hat to provide a container from which the tired horse might drink.

He watered the horse, then took off the saddle. Alice Patterson was down on her knees, scooping water from the pool. When she was finished, he took the stallion inside the cut and rubbed it down. The roan was sweating heavily from the long ride and the heat. McLain tethered

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