Three-Legged Horse by Russ Hall

Author:Russ Hall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gale, Cengage Learning
Published: 2015-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jobe bent closer to the trail, took in each bent blade of grass and hoofprint. As the prints became more distinct, less softened by the steady blow of wind, he slowed. Before he crossed the next low rise ahead, he led Old Top over to a stand of chaparral, full of agarita and everything else with any kind of thorn, and tied the reins. He slid his carbine out of its scabbard and crouched low to ease up to the crest and peek over. Good thing he did.

Below he could see the other Rangers starting to set up camp. Between him and them he saw the Indians spread out, two already slipping in a crawl over toward the remuda where they could get at the horses and burro. He had to hand it to that Bent Feather for daring, trying to steal horses from a group like these Rangers, but so far the edge was all on the side of the Comanche and Kiowa warriors.

He had little time. The lead Comanche nearest the horses was flat on the ground and squeezing through a pair of yuccas. All the other warriors were poised to start shooting.

Jobe carefully sighted and drew a bead on the moving warrior, leading him just a bit. He slowly squeezed the trigger, felt the rifle buck in his hands, watched every Indian head snap his way. The Rangers dove for cover, and in an instant turned from a helpless bunch about to be slaughtered into a fighting unit that outnumbered the ambushing warriors.

A shot from a rifle threw dirt up from the ground in front of Jobe. As many shots were aimed at the Rangers below, but none of them came from where they were before. The Rangers in turn fired up at the Indians. Jobe ducked low so he wouldn’t be hit by a stray shot from either side.

He shifted his position, moving over behind a red-and-brown boulder. Subtle as he’d been, someone was watching, and a bullet ricocheted off the rock and sent a spray of sandstone flying into the air and down over him. Jobe ducked lower.

Below a flurry of shots, far more from the Ranger side than the Indian, filled the afternoon air. He could smell gunpowder, hear the rustling as the Comanche warriors scurried to change positions, and in a few moments more he heard the pounding of unshod horses headed away from them, far to his left. They had cut and run right now when the winds of advantage had shifted. He gave a begrudging tip of his hat to Bent Feather. But he looked with care before he dared rise and show himself to the Rangers far below, several of who were already saddling up, getting ready for the chase.

The body of one of the Comanche lay where Jobe had shot him. The others had all gotten away. A couple of the Rangers were wrapping quick bandages from torn shirttails around a place here and there where they’d been winged.

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