Stampede by Len Levinson

Author:Len Levinson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cowboys, us civil war, gunfighters, cattle drive, stampede, the old west, john stone, the wild west, len levinson, josh edwards
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Six

The four riders leaned into the wind that washed their faces and creased the brims of their hats. Slipchuck rode in front, and behind him was John Stone flanked by Calvin Blakemore and Luke Duvall. The horses’ pounding hooves shattered the stillness of the night, and the riders were sheathed in moonlight, as furtive little prairie animals watched the eerie spectacle from behind bushes and trees.

The three-quarter moon shone overhead, and a few flimsy clouds floated across the starry heavens. In the distance, the outlines of a mountain range could barely be perceived. The rustlers had a two-hour lead.

Tied to his saddle, John Stone tried to hang on. Whiskey and wounds pushed him into semi consciousness, and it was like a dream, or a nightmare. Every movement of his horse sent pain rocketing through his body, and hoofbeats tattooed his brain. His shirt was wet, and he looked at the widening stain—hard riding had opened his wounds. He thought about Cassandra, Truscott, and the others asleep around the campfire, and the rustlers sneaking up on them, to cut their throats. He clutched the pommel of his saddle as Tomahawk streaked over the grass, heading for the cow camp in the hills.

~*~

Cassandra opened her eyes; the segundo sat a few feet away, staring into the night. His head made slow, sweeping movements as he scanned the perimeter of the campsite.

Cassandra had seen the segundo on previous nights, guarding the campsite. He seemed to require no sleep, his skin was a peculiar shade of purple, and something terrible had happened to his mind.

He submissively followed any order that was given him, his will destroyed, a massive hulk with a big round head, sitting hatless on a rock, peering suspiciously into the darkness.

~*~

Five hundred yards away, the rustlers gathered around one-eyed Monty Kendrick as a night bird cried nearby.

Kendrick’s face was shadowy in the darkness, and his black eye patch looked like a hole through his head. “You stay with the horses,” he said to one of them. “The rest foller me, and we don’t want no gunplay if we can help it. When I give the word, you know what to do.”

Kendrick drew his knife, and the blade was eight inches long, flashing in the moonlight. He moved toward the campsite, and his men followed, to murder the sleeping cowboys where they lay.

~*~

Stone felt as though he was becoming unraveled. Black ink filled his eyes, his nervous system clicked off, and he sagged sideways in his saddle. Tomahawk felt the imbalance immediately, and slowed down as Calvin Blakemore reached out and caught Stone’s shirt before Stone hit the ground.

The horses stopped in the shadow of a mountain, while rolling hills spread out before them in the dim moonlight. The cowboys climbed down from their saddles and untied Stone, then eased him toward the ground, where he lay unconscious.

“He’s bleeding,” Blakemore said to Slipchuck.

“Cain’t leave him here,” Slipchuck said. “Coyotes’ll git him fer sure. Tie him head down over his saddle.”

He pulled the lariat down, while Blakemore and Duvall draped Stone over the worn leather.

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