West Texas Kill by Johnny D. Boggs

Author:Johnny D. Boggs [Boggs, Johnny D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2011-03-10T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

They didn’t head to Presidio.

Two miles south of Marathon, once Hec Savage was certain they weren’t being followed, a tall, barrel-chested Ranger with a sugarloaf sombrero, left the group, and took off at a high lope east. He rode that strong gray Andalusian stallion, the horse Dave Chance had been riding.

The only place he could be going, Grace Profit figured, was Sanderson. The same town where Chance was to catch the train, and then deliver Savage’s demands personally to the Ranger colonel in the state capital.

Two other riders, one named Eliot and the other called Taw, cut out a short while later. They rode northeast. Back to Marathon? Grace wasn’t sure.

That pared the group down to three—Savage, Doc Shaw, and a third Ranger called Newton—and for a moment, Grace wondered if she might risk an escape, but decided against it. She couldn’t get away, and besides, Linda Kincaid might need her.

After another mile, Savage turned his gray horse off the road and led his command west, then northwest, through the Del Norte mountains, and across the desert flats. No sound, except the clopping of hooves and the rustling of the wind. Savage put his gray into a hard trot, and they followed, Grace cringing, gripping the horn, trying to stand in the stirrups and lessen the jarring her spine took. The bay horse she rode was hell on her back.

At least she wasn’t riding a sidesaddle. Shortly after they had left Marathon, Savage had apologized that he had no sidesaddle to offer her, but Grace didn’t mind. Hell, she hadn’t ridden sidesaddle since she was fourteen. She was a pretty good rider, but, damn, she hated a trot, and the bay had no easy gait.

They rode most of the afternoon, trotting and bouncing in the saddles, until Grace thought she’d either fall off the bay, or throw up from all the torment her stomach, let alone her back, kept taking. They’d slow down, walk their horses for ten or fifteen minutes, and start trotting again.

She lost track of time. They kept riding.

For November, the day had turned warm. The clouds had moved off, the sun burning her face, neck, and hands. She hadn’t thought to wear a hat—hadn’t expected to be going for a long ride—and no one had offered her his headgear, not even a bandana to turn into a bonnet.

By mid-afternoon, the top of her head felt like a burned hotcake.

They slowed their horses again, letting them walk across the stone-filled prairie. To the north, she could see the southern edge of the Glass Mountains, and wondered if that’s where Captain Savage was taking her. Or beyond there. To . . . Murphyville?

Her horse stopped. A moment later, she heard its urine spraying the rocks.

Doc Shaw rode point, Hec Savage having spurred his gray to check their back trail. She heard a horse loping behind her, and Savage called out, “How you faring, Grace?”

He reined in beside her, holding out a canteen. She wasn’t too proud to accept.

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