Stryker's Bounty (A Matt Stryker Western #3) by Chuck Tyrell

Author:Chuck Tyrell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: bounty hunter, pulp fiction, western fiction, chuck tyrell, the old west, charles t whipple, piccadilly publishing, matt stryker, western and american frontier fiction
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Nine

Stryker and Carpenter made no effort to hide. Still, they rode by night, as the blistering daytime sun sapped the strength of man and beast all too quickly. And while the palomino paint was mustang bred and mountain born, the pony was still an unknown as far as Stryker was concerned. So he and Carpenter shaded up during the heat of the day and rode carefully toward Hell’s Gate and the trail that was hell to the unwary and those who knew not the desert, but was ki datbaa to Apaches since time immemorial.

While the Dents crashed into the labyrinth of Hell’s Trail, taking wrong turns and retracing their steps as often as they made progress, Stryker and Carpenter closed in from the west, as did Nate Cousins and his gunhands. The rabble from Alamo, following John Walker, moved quietly for rabble, but the eyes of Norrosso’s Apache Scouts noted their progress.

As Stryker and Carpenter saddled up at dusk, an Apache in knee-high moccasins, breechclout, and fading cavalry blouse materialized. Stryker rubbed the tears from his cheek with his upper arm. Dagot'ee, he said. Norrosso sent me.

Stryker nodded. “Coffee?”

The Apache shrugged. “No time,” he said. “We go to the woman.”

“Your name?”

“Taklishim,” the Apache said.

“There’s a man here to take us to Molly Miller, Lige.”

“I heard him,” Carpenter said. “Let’s go.”

“I hear you,” Stryker said. He mounted the palomino paint with a smooth easy motion. “Taklishim,” he said, “we follow you.”

Taklishim started south.

Carpenter looked a question at Stryker, who reined the palomino paint after the quick-striding Apache. Taklishim was already almost out of sight. Stryker knew he remained in sight for the two riders’ benefit. If they could not see him, they would soon wander off course.

Stryker’s horse followed the Apache as if by magnet. Perhaps the scent of Apache was all he needed. The moon drifted up from behind the Chiricahua Mountains far to the east. Stryker realized they had yet to cross the San Pedro River. At least it would give them water for the horses so they wouldn’t have to deplete their canteen supply. Taklishim angled down a draw that led eastward toward the San Pedro. Four hours of following him brought Stryker and Carpenter to the muddy river.

“For caballos alone,” Taklishim said.

Stryker’s paint and Carpenter’s dun drank, but not much.

“Tomorrow’s horse bells will come brown,” Taklishim said. His face was solemn but his eyes twinkled with mirth.

Stryker wiped his face with his sleeve again. Neither he nor Carpenter drank from the canteens.

They crossed the inch-deep, muddy San Pedro and continued east. This time up an arroyo that would probably bring them into the northern foothills of the Little Dragoon Mountains. Taklishim broke into a trot. Stryker’s paint lifted into a single-foot, as did the dun. They ate up the miles with minimum exertion.

Then Taklishim stopped. “We walk,” he said. Stryker and Carpenter dismounted and followed the Apache, leading their horses. Both men walked with the loose-limbed stride of woodsmen rather than the stiff bowlegged gait of the habitual horseman.

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