Spanish Bit Saga, Volume Three: A Classic Western Series by Don Coldsmith

Author:Don Coldsmith [Coldsmith, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781647345969
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2022-02-07T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

The night air of the mountains carried a chill, even in summer. Red Feather estimated that at home on the plains, this must be the Red Moon, hottest and driest of the year. He had lost track of time during their imprisonment, where one day blended into another with few differences. Mostly those were distinguished by some being more unpleasant than usual. But enough days had passed that it must be the Red Moon.

Even so, nights were always cold in the mountains. They had noticed it before. At home in the grasslands, there was a cooling of the world at night, a comforting relief from the Red Moon's blazing heat. Frequently, especially in the more western areas of the Sacred Hills, it was necessary to seek a robe sometimes until Sun Boy's torch began to warm the day again.

Here in the mountains, the chill of night was more than that. It was crisp, knifelike, and quite uncomfortable. Red Feather's teeth chattered, both from cold and excitement, as they ran through the deserted streets toward the edge of the town. Behind them, there was a growing noise and commotion as the soldiers roused to organize pursuit. There were shouts and curses. A musket boomed, the blast closely followed by the squeal of an injured pig. Some soldier had fired at a moving shadow in the darkness.

They ran on, the sounds becoming fainter behind them as distance widened. Once clear of the last lodges, they stopped for a moment to catch a breath. Red Feather found that he was weak, his legs threatening to give way.

They must keep moving, before their muscles began to stiffen and cramp from the unaccustomed activity. He had not foreseen this, the weakness that would come from lack of exercise and poor food in the dingy cell of the Hair-faces. He was breathing hard, and the recovery was much slower than he had expected. His teeth started to chatter again from the cold.

“Here, Father, put on your leggings,” White Fox was saying.

“You have them?”

“Yes. I tossed them out the window before we came out.”

Red Feather had not noticed, in the excitement. He took the twisted wad of buckskin and shook the leggings free. The shape was distorted from inappropriate use, but it would conform again with wear. Gratefully, he pulled the garment on, and tied the thongs at the waist. He began to feel better, his aching legs protected now against the chill of the night breeze.

Now they must move on. There was no sign of immediate pursuit, and probably would not be until daylight. By then, they would cover all the distance possible. He wondered for a moment if the Hair-faces had any skilled trackers. He tried to remember the patrols of the Spanish. He had always been so impressed by the showy uniforms and rigid discipline of the troops, he had not noticed. They had surely had wolves out, but he could not remember. Were they uniformed soldiers? Or did the soldiers use guides and trackers as wolves?

Red Feather was a little disgusted with himself.

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