Massacre at Whip Station by Dusty Richards

Author:Dusty Richards [Richards, Dusty]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pinnacle Books
Published: 2020-02-20T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

B.W. was all confusion as Slash hurriedly climbed to the ground.

“Leave the horses,” he told Isaiah.

“But we got a good one—”

“I know,” Slash said. “Ain’t got time to explain.”

Isaiah did not argue. He walked over to the injured mare, kissed her and said, “Thanks, Molly,” then lifted his mother from the saddle. He gave her his strong right arm as he escorted her toward the coach.

Meanwhile, Slash took the reins of both horses. As B.W. watched with confusion, Slash walked the horses into the darkness, toward the open plain. There, he released the injured mare.

“I can’t shoot ya, girl,” he apologized as he removed the reins and bit. “Someone may hear and figger how far we are. You graze till you can’t no more.”

The horse moved its head up and down, a reflex to being liberated. But it almost seemed to Slash as if it understood.

An animal knows its own mortality better than a person, Slash told himself.

He stood there for a moment, considering briefly about what lay in store for this poor mare. A mountain lion or coyotes would find the animal soon enough and take her down. Or Injuns. They’d take a lame horse for the young to learn on, making it walk miles.

“Slash!” B.W. called in a loud whisper. “C’mon!”

The young man still hesitated.

Pa loves horses more than people, he thought. What would he do?

The answer was unpleasant but obvious. Drawing his long-blade Green River knife, Slash stroked the horse’s muzzle with his left hand and, with a quick move along its soft skin, cut the old mare’s throat. The animal whinnied from the sting, backing away. Almost at once, as a sheet of blood washed free, the animal wavered from side to side. Slash stood there caressing it as the blood splashed onto the ground.

Molly fell over suddenly, and for a few seconds more the head and legs moved slightly along the ground, the chest heaving dully. Then the big eyes shut and the animal shivered still.

Slash wiped his bloody knife on the scrub. He finished just as the still-draining blood reached his boot.

“I’m sorry, girl,” the young man said softly as he mounted the other and rode back to the stagecoach. Isaiah was just shutting the door and climbed into the front box.

“What’d you do with Molly?” the black man asked.

“She’s at peace,” he answered, then regarded B.W. “I’m gonna double back along the trail. Anyone coming after you, I’ll slow ’em down.”

“A shot will tell us how far they are,” Isaiah said. “I used ta gauge distance that way on—”

“He won’t be shooting,” B.W. interrupted.

Isaiah was about to ask “What then?” when he noticed the sheaths on Slash’s legs. Slash adjusted his hat against the high bright moon, then gave the animal his heels and went back into the lowlands.

B.W. eased the brake back and started the rig rolling.

“Knife fighter, eh?” Isaiah said.

“’Tween Saint Louis and the Yerba Buena Cove at trail’s end, I never met one better,” the Whip replied. “There’s something I have seen plenty of, though.

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