Concho

By Denzel Holmes

Bob Guthrie, a successful trail driver, first appears in Denzel Holmes' Mitt Stone series of novels as Mitt's chief accomplice. Matt Altmann enters manhood in Holmes' epic novel Texas Victory as the son of Prince Carl. The two meet on the West Texas Concho River.

Col. Mackenzie is poised to put an end to the threat from free roaming Comanche using Fort Concho as a hub. Despite their best efforts Matt and Bob find themselves embroiled in the errupting conflict.

Matt is determined to do what no man has done: build a dam across the Concho River. Bob's newly acquired ranch land sits on the same spot. Their purposes and personalities clash.

Common enemies - renegades, Comanche and nature - bring them together dragging each man to the brink of death.

Unpredictable longhorn cattle, horses and companions send the men on an odyssey across the most dangerous ground on earth in 1874, theTexas plains.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denzel Holmes
• Release date: Nov 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9780975975084

Denzel Holmes

Denzel Holmes is the author of eight Western novels, set in Texas and true to the times and places. He grew up in the ranch country of Pecos County, Married his sweetheart Margie when she was 16 and he was 20. Going on 60 years now. They live in Belton and sell their books there and at Canton, Kerrville, Waxahachie, Dripping Springs, Wichita Falls, Madisonville, San Angelo, Georgetown, Round Rock, Nacogdoches, Killeen, Temple, and many other local venues. He speaks to civic, social and library groups where asked.

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Concho

By Denzel Holmes

Published by Denzel Holmes at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Denzel Holmes

Cover layout by Rebecca Hayes

Longhorns by Jan Thompson Studio

Texas Flag by Dreamstime

Both used by permission. All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition, License Note

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Red River 1873

Chapter 1

M.L., how did you talk me into riding horseback all the way back to Texas? Bob Guthrie asked as they dismounted just south of the Red River. About half their return journey from Kansas was done. We could’ve seen lots of new country takin’ the train to New Orleans, and a coach to San Antonio.

Wull, boss, I done told ye, M.L. Carter said as he lifted his tattered hat and wiped his brow. I lost all muh money in Dodge City. Besides, I didn’t wanta leave these three horses behind.

I would pay for your ticket. You could owe me. You’re always owin’ me anyway. Bob grinned.

Wuz ye gonna buy the horses some train tickets too?

No, but we didn’t take the train anyway, Bob said as he dragged the saddle and a sweat soaked blanket from Jubilee, his bay gelding. Now, since you’re gettin’ a little long in the tooth, I might remind you that I own half interest in these horses. That’s what kept you from gambling them away.

M.L. drew several two-foot iron stakes from loops on his saddle. I reckon it is, seein’ as how you wuz standin’ right over my shoulder when I bet my last cartwheel. He twirled his right hand. Hot damn, I still think if I coulda placed one more bet, I’da took that pot.

Yeah, well I came out ahead and I never placed a bet. Bob wiped Jubilee’s legs and belly with a burlap bag, grateful that the unpredictable Red was running low. Grateful also that they had made it through Indian Territory with but one chase by the lively inhabitants. I’ll wipe the horses down while you stake them. This is a good camp spot.

I was the trail boss, a fourth interest in the herd, Bob thought as M.L. walked off fifty yards. I’d be some kind of a fool if I left Dodge stone broke. The problem with riding back to Texas was the five thousand and fourteen dollars he carried in his saddlebags. He allowed that he’d be safer on a train. Maybe not. At least M.L. had won a few rounds earlier, with Bob’s backing, and acquired three trail worn horses besides his lean mount. The animals could be a great asset if they made it home.

Bob watched M.L. driving stakes, setting them just the right distance apart to keep the horses from tangling. What they’d been through together, well, he could write a book. He missed those days when he acted like M.L., wild nights of music, drink, food and women. He would always love the man, three years his senior, who saved him from sure tragedy as an orphan in Waco. Bob had matured after living with Mitt Stone’s family. He discovered trail driving, and cattlemen like Shanghai Pierce saw potential in him that he hadn’t seen in himself. God, was he grateful. He gazed over the sandy Red River and twirled the cylinder of his Smith and Wesson .44 revolver. That side Indians; this side white men. The danger wasn’t over.

When we get to San Antonio, I’ll have a talk with M.L... No, I’m not goin’ to San Antonio. I’m out where the free grazing land is. I can buy part of it, become a producer of cattle instead of a drover. I hate to part ways with him, but… he’ll never settle down. I want to get a wife, like Mitt. He glanced up to make sure M.L. hadn’t heard the involuntary outburst of words.

A gunshot broke the stillness. Two more shots sounded along with a ricochet from steel. Bob dropped to his knees, holding his horse’s reins. M.L. drove a final hammer blow to the fifth iron stake. He crouched and drew his pistol, facing west. Bob hadn’t determined a direction but lunged for the Henry rifle in the saddle scabbard on the ground.

Git down! M.L. screamed. They got a bead on ye. Bob dropped behind his sprawled saddle. His mind raced to assimilate the shot sounds. One bullet had hit the stake M.L. was driving. Yet he hit the iron a final blow.

M.L.’s revolver sounded. Pow! Pow-whomp!

God damn you, you’re dead. A voice, not M.L.’s, said. Two strangely dressed riders charged from the west mesquites, straight for M.L.’s position. M.L. rose to full height, held his black powder pistol at eye level – both hands – and fired. Whack! A rider folded and tumbled. Whack! The second rider flew backwards from the saddle.

M.L. kept his pistol trained westerly. Now git yer rifle, he shouted. I don’ know if it’s over.

Bob jerked the Henry rifle and levered a round into the barrel. With M.L. watching west, Bob needed to look south and east. He caught movement in the cedars. He scurried to gain protection behind his saddle. The shadow moved again. He fired. Whomp! I hit a horse. Bob’s own horse Jubilee jerked violently – the bullet passing under his neck – but Bob held firmly to the reins.

A half naked figure leaped from his falling horse balancing a rifle at arm’s length. The rifle pulled toward Bob. He could see the rifle, not the man, as he slammed in a second round and fired. The man dropped like a stone.

Bob gathered his feet and crouched beside Jubilee to block the view of eyes from the easterly direction. Eternity passed as he glanced in every direction.

We got ‘em, buddy. M.L.’s voice startled Bob momentarily. His partner sauntered up from the north. Ye done good on that last ‘un. They walked toward the fallen horse and man where Bob had fired.

Wished ye hadn’t kilt that horse. M.L. said, bending and stroking the mane of a gorgeous dapple-rump Appaloosa stallion.

Horse, hell. I was tryin’ to save my hide, and yours. Bob lowered the rifle and blew hard. You sure it’s over? And who are these characters? He studied the spread eagled figure with a single bullet wound in the middle of his naked chest. This one here is nearly as white as I am but he’s dressed up like an Indian.

Ain’t no Indians. You said before, it’s the whites ye need tuh look out for south of the Red. M.L. glanced up and gazed westward. They may have a camp, but these wuz the hit men. We nailed ‘em all. Now le’s go ketch their horses. They’re ours. Guns too, if they’re worth pickin’ up.

Bob grinned nervously. Ain’t that kinda like stealin’?

Yeah, but it’s legal to steal a horse frum somebody tryin’ to kill ye. Take notice they didn’t hit our horses. That’s whut they wuz after.

An hour later their camp sat deeper into the live oaks, two miles away from the river and its thin mesquites. With a staked and tied, growing horse herd they sat around a low fire.

M.L. glanced around the woods. You want me tuh take first watch?

Yeah, I guess you better. Whoo! We’re finally in Texas, and our troubles just started.

****

Three days later they entered the village of Jacksboro weary from the constant watch, fording streams and dodging brush with six loose-herded horses. Bob quickly spotted a stable and pointed. We put the animals in there for a day or two and find us a hotel room. I want to buy a few things too.

What thangs? I thank we oughta jest git some grub and move on. M.L.’s large blue eyes scanned the lazy street.

Pack saddle for all this loose stuff we got tied on, and some halters for these broncs. We been on the trail so long no tellin’ what nice things they got in town now days. Bob glanced toward M.L. You wouldn’t mind a taste of whiskey, would you?

M.L. straightened and grinned. Guess not. He pushed the herd toward an open gate beside the livery shed.

Dismounted, Bob turned to the clap board shack as M.L. walked the pens and examined the rail fence.

Two days, Bob said to Dillon McGeorge after introductions. Eyeing the tack on the wall he added, When we get ready to leave, I’ll talk to you about some of that gear. He was serious but also hoped that the promise of a purchase might assure the safety of his animals during the stay. Where can a couple of weary cowboys find a room?

Only hotel in town, the Richardson. Due south on the left. The stocky keeper scratched his bald pate. Say, do you want me to shoe these animals? I can have ‘em all fixed in two days. You ain’t gonna make it to San Antonio like they are.

Ahh! Bob groaned. Hadn’t thought of that. How much would you charge me?

Four cents a nail. That’s trimmin’ their feet and new shoes all around. He clanked two shiny horseshoes on the counter. Comes to a little over ten dollars. I’d do it for ten even. The man had made the calculation in his head.

I’ll let you do that. You want part of the money now?

Naw, I know you and I know you got a good reputation on the trail. McGeorge squinted. You did say ‘Bob Guthrie,’ didn’t you?

That’s me. His face flushed. Minor fame as a trail boss brought an uneasy feeling. You might have heard wrong. He reached out and took the crusty hand of the farrier. You’ll look after our long guns and stuff?

I’ll take ‘em to my house. McGeorge hooked a thumb over his shoulder. It’s right back here.

M.L. standing at Bob’s side, said, I want that drink o’ whiskey before we go look for a room. I’m thirsty.

McGeorge raised a hand. You ought to get your room first. Today is payday out at Fort Richardson and the soldiers will pour in here in the next two hours. Hotel gits awful busy.

With saddle bags over their shoulders, the pair paced down the dirt street. Bob’s right wrist hugged the holster at his hip for assurance as he tried not to shift his face, only his gaze. M.L.’s hand rested atop of his Colt Navy Model 1851, .36 caliber, black powder revolver – it had killed men a few days before – as his head jerked left and right watching every boardwalk, every alley.

A few minutes later they dropped their bags in a second floor room of the Richardson Hotel where Bob had insisted on two cots, refusing to sleep in a double bed with M.L. The man turned and tossed all night, snored, and screamed out at times.

Now, if you still want to, we can go get that drink of whiskey, Bob said, teasing his partner as he dropped his range hat on a straw mattress cot. But I’m takin’ my saddle bags with me.

M.L. jerked the hall door open. What er ye waitin’ fer? Le’s git outa here.

The hotel had no bar, but they had passed three saloons on the way in. Now on the way back up the street, Bob said, Back in New Orleans, and ever place else in the civilized world, they got banks where you put your money. You don’t have to wag it over your shoulder goin’ into a saloon full of outlaws. Maybe I ought to move to New Orleans.

Ye got Texas in yer blood, M.L. said as he forced Bob into a hard left turn directly into the nearest saloon. If ye don’t have a bank, ye need me with ye, partner. Dense smoke cut visibility as off-tune fiddle music and shouts assaulted their ears. There’s the bar. Le’s belly up.

Bob had started to say just one drink but somehow he knew there would be more. He hoped he could get M.L. out of there before the soldiers showed up with their female consorts. No telling what M.L. would do. But, too late. A dozen uniformed men lined the bar and some at the tables. Most had sad looking women at their sides. The few women who looked fresh and young made Bob wonder what drove them to this life.

A black-eyed bartender motioned for two soldiers to spread apart and allow Bob and M.L. to approach the bar. M.L. rushed forward to gain the right side, next to a woman.

What’s your pleasure, drovers? The attendant bellowed and wiped the varnished surface.

Two shots o’ whiskey. M.L. said. Muh partner can tell ye what he wants. He dodged Bob’s glancing slap to his shoulder.

One shot. Make it your better stuff. Bob said. He waited as M.L. engaged the young woman in small talk.

Black Eyes returned. Two house whiskeys for the cowboy, and one Old Crow for the gentleman. He pushed the shot glasses forward. Bob dropped a silver dollar on the counter. Two dimes came back.

Whiskey’s gone up since I drove north in the spring, Bob said with a grin.

Wooee, that’s rough, M.L. said, crunching his face. Lemme try yours. He reached.

Bob downed his shot and handed M.L. the empty glass. Help yourself. The soldiers laughed. The woman laughed. Now, let’s go get something to eat.

M.L. lifted his second glass. Pick a table. I’m right behind you.

I had in mind we’d walk up the street. M.L. had turned back to the lady, a plain blonde in a silk floral dress. So far her soldier friend, a slender black corporal, had shown no objection to M.L.’s small talk. Did you hear me? Bob added, nudging his pal’s arm.

Aw, hell, my grandpa is gonna make me leave, honey. You busy an hour frum now? M.L. asked the woman.

She glanced at her escort. We’ll see. She smiled weakly. Her eyes showed deep sorrow although attractive at one time.

Bob felt a dozen gazes as he approached the batwing doors. M.L., you know you can’t horn in on another man. These workin’ girls are nobody’s property, but that young soldier might not see it that way.

The batwings burst open to the inside. Bob tightened his grasp on the saddlebags and stepped back.

Four men, dark, long-haired and filthy marched forward. Shotguns dangled. Side arms rattled against one another. Bob swept his right hand back to remove M.L. from their path. The bar patrons separated.

Three of the rough-cuts slammed boots onto the bar rail. The fourth turned back toward Bob and M.L. who stood staring. He was taller than his companions and older, perhaps fifty. He wore a straw, elaborately stitched Mexican sombrero with tie strings dangling along the ears. A bandoleer with rifle cartridges crossed his chest. A thin mustache drooped to below his chin.

He backed to the bar, raised his curled left hand. The bartender Black Eyes placed a whiskey glass into it. He sipped. Ju have keelers een your saloon, patron´! No soldier or woman remained at the bar. Why do ju let keelers een your saloon? His gray eyes didn’t fit his dark complexion as they shifted from Bob to M.L.

Black Eyes cleared his throat. No, Railo, we got no killers here. Just soldiers and cowboys. He forced a chuckle. Our girls are no killers.

Ahh, patron´, today ju let keelers in your door. Railo’s partners had eased a half circle and now faced Bob and M.L. Each whiskey glass was held in the left hand; right hands hovered at their waists.

Bob and M.L. had been in tight places. They knew better than to turn their backs on such threats. Bob said, We’re not killers. If you keep lookin’ at me you better explain yourself. Both he and M.L. rested their hands atop their revolvers.

Railo’s whiskey glass thrust forward. Eet ees a lie to say ju no keel the son of Railo.

Bob recalled the fight on the Red. I will kill any man who tries to kill me first.

Railo frowned and waved the whiskey glass. "But this time, peones, ju keel the son of Railo. That ees not good."

All ambushers are the son of some man, Bob said as evenly has he could.

Railo’s eyebrows knotted. "What ju have een ze saddle bag, peones?"

No man from Texas to Kansas, in all Bob’s trail years, had asked that question. It wasn’t done. Bob took a chance. Soldiers, help me out here. I’ll take Railo. My pal will take the one on his right. Ya’ll don’t let the other two walk out of here.

The click of hammers and roll of cylinders encouraged Bob. He pulled his .44 Smith and Wesson and cocked the hammer. His left hand touched M.L. on the sleeve in hope that he wouldn’t shoot yet.

You sent your son to hell, Railo, Bob said. Are you ready to join him? His Smith and Wesson had a hair trigger.

Railo’s gaze shot hatred. His hand lifted from his waist as he hooked a thumb in the bandoleer across his chest. He glanced left and right. An evil grin formed. "Ah, peones, ju mees understand. Railo come only to introduce ju to Railo."

Bob studied saying anything. This gang posed a continuing danger if they walked away. Yet Bob and M.L. could hardly gun them down based on words alone. I have your message. You will leave the saloon now.

The bartender Black Eyes lifted Railo’s empty glass from his raised left hand and placed a full one there. "Railo will finish his drink, por favor."

Bob stepped sideways, easing M.L. aside. You’ll finish your drink on your horse. The Smith and Wesson raised and leveled on Railo’s eyes. Soldiers, you four, Bob pointed to four at a table across from him so that no one would cross his vision, walk out to the street. See Railo and his men to their horses. I’ll be right behind them.

Railo stood like a statue. Bob pulled his gun barrel to a direct bead on the glass in Railo’s hand. He squinted his left eye. No! Railo jerked the glass down. "Railo go, peones…for now." He led out and the three followed glancing rage toward Bob and M.L.

When Bob and M.L. exited the saloon, the four horsemen galloped southward down the street. Railo rode a magnificent Appaloosa stallion, a twin to the one Bob had killed on the Red River. Damn, I should’ve known, Bob moaned.

Knowed whut? M.L. asked.

Known they’d go south. That’s the direction we got to go in a few days.

Chapter 2

Bob and M.L. watched the four coarse characters disappear down the dusty street. They glanced at one another.

The horses! they said in near harmony. They turned to charge up the street to Dillon McGovern’s stable. The four soldiers who had obeyed Bob’s arbitrary command to go outside stood like sentinels as though they awaited his next word. Two were black, two white. Bob stopped as M.L. sprinted toward the stable.

Men, Bob said, You saved our hides. I can’t thank you enough. I bet ever one of you has seen action against the Indians. But I tell you, what you did just now was one damned fine act of valor. He extended his hand.

Aw, tha’s awright, mista. We was awful ready to git outa that place anyhow, A black private said. Do’n want no part o’ Mista Railo. He and the others holstered their pistols.

I’m Bob Guthrie, soldier. Bob wrung his hand. What’s yours?

"Honorable Wyatt. ‘Round heah they calls me Honey." He grinned as the others laughed.

Honey it is. I want to shake ever hand. Bob moved among the four, swearing inside that he would remember every name. They came. Raymond Skope, the other black; Ernest Johnson, and Bill Simms. He fished two silver dollars from his vest pocket. I’m Bob Guthrie, home from a long trail. Ya’ll take this money and go buy yourselves a drink. I got to see about my horses.

He turned and stepped lively toward the stable. From behind he heard, Is that Bob Guthrie, the trail boss?

Bob rushed into the stable shed as Dillon McGovern talked to M.L. Boy, that guy scares me. I’ve done some business with him, but I know what kind of man he is. He’d kill you in a heartbeat.

Who is he, Dillon. Is he Indian, Mexcin, or white? How does he run wild? Bob wanted any information he could get.

Little of both, er, all three. Maybe some French. Nobody can figger him out. Dillon’s open hand made a chopping motion. He rides a ridge right in between the campaign against the Indians and the law on the other side. I’m purty sure he buys white captives from the Indians and sells them back up on the plains, like the Comancheros. Anything and everything to make money. Ain’t been caught doin’ anything illegal yet.

"Caught is the right word. Four of his men tried to kill us back at the Red. They never figgered on two raw cowboys knowin’ how to use their guns. Bob shook his head. Has the army ever had a run in with him?"

They chased him into the Territory one time thinkin’ he had horses he stole down close to Fort Concho. I heard that he sweet talked ‘em into believing he didn’t do it. Blamed the Indians.

M.L. laughed. Yeah, once ye git in the Territory, it’s awful easy to git rid of any horse.

Maybe we’re safe here for a couple of days. Bob clasped a hand on M.L.’s shoulder. But not safe enough to leave our horses unguarded. You up to a few more nights on the ground?

Aw, Bob! M.L. winced and turned away.

Tell you what. Let’s keep that hotel room long enough to get a bath and a clean set of clothes. Maybe a haircut and a shave.

***

Barn sleeping proved as boring as they had hoped. Bob allowed a third night to assure rest for the horses and some extra distance for Railo and company. Once on the road they would follow the forts trail.

These ponies are steppin’ lively with them new shoes, all rested up and fed, M.L. commented as they trotted out toward Fort Belknap. Ol’ Railo is gonna appreciate that once he ambushes us and takes ‘em.

If I can keep you awake maybe that won’t happen.

Wull, ye never did tell me why ye want to move west like this instead o’ south. We could be halfway to Waco by now. Still got a few buddies I’d like to see.

I told you a dozen times, Bob said pushing Jubilee left to turn a straying horse. I’m lookin’ for land to buy. But I’m damn particular. I want it close enough to some free graze that I don’t have to pay for ever blade of grass my cows eat.

Buy? You fixin’ to go soft on me like Mitt done?

I wouldn’t call it soft. I’d have to build a house and barns and pens. I tell you, M.L., it’ll toughen you up to work for me digging post holes. You’re gonna do that, ain’t you?

M.L. looked forward for a moment, his lips pinched thin. I’m damn particular too. Don’t dig post holes for any old sod buster. His head rolled. Aw, Bob, don’t do that jest yet. We got three, four more trail drives in us. I’d like tuh see ye make some more money, git a bigger spread.

Bob started to tell M.L. about the money he had with the Groos brothers in San Antonio, but M.L spurred his bay into a gallop to round the little remuda back to a manageable herd. Bob might have added that he’d consider a few more drives if M.L. would save his money and put it to good use. But he would never say that to M.L. He didn’t believe M.L. could keep such a promise.

M.L. disappeared below a rise two hundred yards away. Seconds later M.L.’s famous whip cut the air three times, quickly. Bob leaned back in the saddle expecting his partner back in less than a minute. When three minutes passed, he pushed forward sweeping the horizon left and right as he gained speed.

Abruptly a rider appeared. It was not M.L. Bob’s hand landed on his Smith and Wesson. The rider, slender, with flop hat and baggy clothes, pulled leather to stop his scrawny mount. Instantly M.L. appeared behind him, his pistol drawn. The young rider raised his hand. Bob was upon him. All horses skidded to a dusty halt.

What have we got here, M.L.? The stranger appeared to be no more than a grown kid. Bob didn’t pull his gun.

We got one o’ Railo’s gang. Le’s hang him, boss.

What’s your name, young feller?

Lance DuPree, sir, corporal in the former Confederate army, at your service. He grinned through brown stubble, showing worry in his blue eyes.

Put your gun away, M.L. Bob said. Tell me in your own words why my partner don’t trust you.

I was lookin’ over the horses. They’re mighty fine critters, sir. Didn’t mean no harm.

Like M.L., Bob showed suspicion. Where’d you come from and where are you going?

I’m from Alabama before the war. Came out here to throw in with the army, but I got this bad hand. He lifted his left hand revealing the absence of all but the index finger and thumb. They won’t have me. I was headed on up to Richardson to see if they could use some help.

Did you lose those fingers in the war?

Yes, sir, and it wasn’t right. I never got the chance to do anything to prove myself. They turned me out like they was doin’ me a favor. I didn’t want out.

M.L., what made you think he was with Railo? He’s not Mexcin or Indian or French.

I thank he’s a Frenchman. He wuz nuzzlin’ our horses like he wanted tuh make friends with ‘em. M.L. said, looking remorseful.

I’m gonna let him make friends with them if he can stay in a saddle and help us with the drive. Bob leveled his gaze on Lance DuPree. You do have a French name. I’ll overlook that if you can take the edge off of these trail horses, and, if you want a job.

Lance’s eyes brightened. I can do that. I can. Yeah, I mean, yes, sir, I want a job.

All right, I think you’re on the payroll, Lance. Let’s get the horses bunched up and I’ll let you show me your talents.

The horses had traveled over the rise, and since M.L. hadn’t brought them back, they loped the distance and quickly bunched the herd.

Bob took Lance’s reins and told him to dismount. Let’s put your saddle on one of ours. He snatched the trailing rope on one of M.L.’s poker-won horses, a red roan with rolling eyes. These horses had seen hard service on the cattle trail but hadn’t felt a saddle in two months. With M.L.’s help the circling roan was bridled and saddled in two minutes.

Lance, you ready to see if you got a job?

Roany humped his back as Lance correctly pulled the reins to the saddle horn. He leaped aboard impressing Bob and M.L.

Roany stepped sideways, rolling his eyes and jerking his head to create slack in the line. Lance pulled the slack out. Roany crow-hopped. M.L. grinned, charged forward waving his hat, and yelled, Heahhhh! Hold still, you sorry bronc!

Roany ignored the command and reared onto his hind feet, dropped with precision and kicked his heels. Lance leaned forward with the jump and dropped backwards in the saddle with the heel-kick. His hat fell backwards as Roany took another leap and kick. He pulled the reins turning Roany’s head hard right. Roany swirled right, giving another heel kick amid grunts and exit emissions.

M.L. rushed to give the horse more encouragement. Roany outran him and leveled out in a hard gallop. Lance let him run for fifty yards.

M.L. said, I told ye, boss. See that! He jest stoled one of our horses.

Bob laughed and watched. Near a hundred yards out, Roany turned in a wide circle. He galloped within twenty yards of the standing pair.

Wull, I’ll be damned, M.L. said.

Buddy, I think we got us a third guard. Bob trotted toward Lance and Roany, grasping the reins and helping Lance ease down.

Lance, I want you to ride him to Belknap. Maybe more if he’s not settled down. Then we’ll put you on another one.

Lance panted. Thank you, sir. You remind me of my commanding officer at Antietam, the one that made me stand up to draw enemy fire. It was my chance to do something worthwhile, but I didn’t. I just lost three fingers.

Bob chuckled. I don’t know if that was a compliment, but I want to put you on steady. You got a gun?

No, sir. Lance stepped to military attention.

Aw, hell, Lance, Bob said with a sigh, recognizing the trouble a soldier would endure if he lost his gun. Get over that military crap. The war’s behind us. You done good if you stood up before the enemy at Antietam and lost three fingers. I’d call you a hero. He slapped the man’s back. Wouldn’t you, M.L.?

Fer ridin’ that bronc, yes I would. M.L. said.

Cut him some slack, M.L., Bob said and turned to Lance. I’m Bob Guthrie and this is my pal M.L. Carter.

Lance offered a firm handshake to Bob and a dishrag to M.L. If Mr. Carter wishes to kill me I ask that he give me a fair chance on the field of battle.

What? Bob exclaimed. He remembered the whip cracks while M.L. was out of sight. M.L., did you shoot at this man?

Three shots and he still came right at me. He’d o’ been dead on the first one if I meant to hit him.

Lance gained control over all the loose horses as they traded out on mounts through the forts: Belknap, Camp Cooper, Fort Griffin, the town of Fort Phantom Hill located at the old post on the Clear Fork of the Brazos, and the abandoned Fort Chadbourne.

At camp supper ten miles from Fort Concho. M.L. said, Boss, ye been awful quiet fer two, three days. Whut’s on ye’re mind?

When we get to Concho, I’m gonna take root for a spell. Ya’ll are pushin’ me too fast. And, M.L., I done told you I’m lookin’ for land. I don’t care how long it takes to get to San Antonio. If you can’t wait, you can go on. What about you, Lance?

"There’s no war in San Antonio, Mr.