Vengeance Trail (13 page)

Afoot, they were awkward and slow. Astride their ponies, however, there was not a more graceful or deadly an enemy.

Pete Winter had never encountered these people, but he took it on good account as to their prowess. And it was of no little
concern to him that there were still a few marauding bands of these warriors around.

Now, the trio paused and rested for a matter of minutes. He had them air their horses by loosening the saddles. While Johnny
Montana and Katie Swensen took their ease, Pete Winter checked the supply of ammunition that he maintained in his saddlebags.

His weaponry consisted of a .44 caliber rimfire Winchester that held sixteen rounds, and .45 Colt single-action revolver.
He had also packed a .45 Smith and Wesson Schofield break-top model. He hoped it was enough to get the job done.

The land ahead seemed without life. No movement, not even the scuttle of a lizard. Something in it made him feel uneasy.

He removed one of the canteens and held it out to the woman. As he did so, he gave a shifting glance toward the outlaw who
made no attempt to reach for it first.

He watched her drink, and then hand it to Johnny Montana. “Go easy, mister,” he cautioned the outlaw. “We’ve got a dry stretch
ahead of us according to this map and my memory. This land won’t forgive us if we run dry.”

The outlaw cast a furtive glance at the lawman, but limited his take of the warm water. Pete Winter drank last, taking in
the least amount he thought necessary. They still had two full canteens, but there was no telling when the next water might
appear.
Many of the marked sources on the map the Ranger carried had proved to be either dried up, or not where they were marked.

When he finished drinking, he hooked the canteen over the horn of his saddle, and grabbed the pair of handcuffs and tossed
them to the outlaw.

“This land looks like hell and brimstone, Ranger. A man could easily lose himself and die out here. We ain’t lost are we?”

“Mount your horse, mister,” was the only response Pete Winter cared to give.

He did not feel lost, but finding good water was beginning to concern him. For the last several hours, he had scanned the
ground looking for animal tracks that might lead to water. He had seen none.

He moved to help the woman mount up. In order to do so, he had to form a stirrup with his hands while she gripped the horn
and cantel and pulled herself up. She weighed practically nothing at all, it seemed to him.

For Katie Swensen, the trip had confirmed one glaring fact for her: Each mile crossed caused her to become more bitter and
sorry for her decision to have run away with Johnny Montana.

Each time she glanced at him, she no longer saw the gallant, handsome man who had entered her father’s store that fateful
day. Rather, she saw an embittered, complaining, weak soul whose only concern seemed to be his own discomfort. She had asked
herself a hundred times or more since their capture why she had ever been so foolish.

She felt the heavy weight of guilt riding with her.
Yes
, she told herself, she was just as guilty as he for
the crimes that were committed. He had done those things, but she had stayed with him. It seemed of little consolation to
her that she could tell herself she had acted out of love for the man.

Now, as she stole glances at him, all she saw was a man whose wrists were shackled, a man who exuded sweat and meanness and
arrogance. She saw now, not a handsome sweetheart, but a dejected, captured outlaw.

Her heart was full of gloom.

The small renegade band of Comanches came across the fresh tracks of horses.

One of the warriors dropped from his pony and read the sign, the tips of his brown fingers tracing the hoofed depressions.

Three sets of tracks indicated they were shod horses; the fourth set appeared to be that of the Long-Ear animal the white
man used to pack supplies. The warrior made sign by holding up three fingers and then using his fingers to make ears atop
his head to indicate the riders were packing supplies on a mule.

He pointed off toward the direction that the tracks were leading. The Comanches knew the land well. They knew it to be a dry,
harsh environment that could parch a man’s throat and swell his tongue black in the summer, freeze him to death in the winter.

The band had been returning from a raiding party in the New Mexican Territory. The raid had netted them little save one milch
cow, which they had ended up slaughtering for food. Now, they had a quarry at hand…only three riders.

Their leader, an extremely muscular man, looked
off toward the direction the tracker had pointed. Waves of heat rose off the floor of the land and blurred his vision beyond
a point.

They too were in search of water. There was good water less than an hour’s ride, but in the opposite direction that the tracks
of the shod horses were headed. Their skin water bag was nearly empty.

The leader of the group considered the options:
The chase would lead them away from water. He knew of no good water in the direction the tracks were leading. If the riders
who had left the tracks were well-armed, it could come down to a fight where braves would be lost. He knew some of the whites
to be good shooters and repeating rifles could make few seem like many.

The tracker made a short grunt followed by a hand signal that expressed his impatience at not pursuing the horse tracks.

The leader made a gesture to cut off the tracker’s impudence. He weighed, for a moment more, the decision. The lack of water
for themselves and their ponies could prove a difficult problem if they did not catch up to the quarry quickly. On the other
hand, the prospect of catching more horses and possibly prisoners was an attractive motivation.

The dark eyes within the coppery face searched the direction the riders had ridden off. His pony, too, seemed to be impatient
as it stamped and pawed at the ground.

Finally, with a broad grin splitting his round face, he signalled them forward in the direction of the tracks. They yipped
their approval.

To count coup, to take scalps, to steal the enemy’s horses, that was the way of the true Comanche.

The shadows of the three riders and their animals grew long over the plains. The fiery sun had made its trek from east to
west across a cloudless sky.

For the better part of the last hour, Pete Winter and his prisoners had been following a dry wash that snaked across the flat
ground. Even though dry, the fact that it existed at all gave the Ranger some hope that it might eventually lead to water.

Earlier, they had spotted a jackrabbit hunched beneath a greasewood bush. It had broken cover as they neared and quickly disappeared
among the many yucca. It was a missed opportunity for some meat, but, the Ranger concluded, it might mean that water was near.

They rode on.

The small band of Comanche warriors were closing fast on their quarry; the tracks were growing fresher. They rode proud, haughtily
upon their ponies. Some possessed Henry model 1866 repeating rifles, their stocks studded with brass tacks. The others carried
old breech-loading, single-shot Spring-field carbines. They wore no paint, except the paint of dust that clung to their coppery
skins.

When they would find water, they would cover themselves with mud to stave off the heat and sting of insects.

They carried war shields of painted hide. And one or two carried the old weapons of bows and rabbit fur quivers full of arrows.

“I’ve got to stop for a time, Ranger!” announced Johnny Montana. “It’s that time of day for me. You got any more of those
catalogue pages left from that book?”

Pete halted the group and allowed the outlaw to dismount and walk off toward a distant yucca plant. The Ranger dismounted
and helped Katie Swensen to do the same. She had a pale, haggard appearance.

He sat her down on the ground and handed her a canteen. Taking the bandanna from around his neck, he handed that to her as
well.

“Wet it down and tie it around your neck,” he offered. “It’ll help cool you down.”

She smiled wanly, her eyes pretty but sad.

“Thank you, mister,” she said, spilling enough water on the bandanna to wet it down and then pressing it to her face.

“No need for thanks,” he said. “And you can call me, Pete. Mister sounds sort of old.”

She lifted her gaze once more, a slight movement of her mouth, a near smile, showed him that she was grateful for his kindness.
She glanced once in the direction that Johnny Montana had gone.

“I don’t know if that would seem right,” she said, “me calling you by your first name.”

“Well, I’d prefer it,” he said, easing down beside her, holding the reins of all three mounts in his hand. The pack mule was
contained by a lead rope tied to his saddle horn.

She thought him handsome, but not in the rakish way she had once thought Johnny Montana was handsome. The Ranger had a soft,
boyish face and crisp eyes that seemed forever shadowed under the brim of his dusty black Stetson. He had the raw-boned leanness
of the land itself. She found both his speech and his manners to be pleasant.

“It’s terribly warm, Texas,” she said, patting the damp kerchief to her face.

“Well, maybe back where you come from,” he said, with an easy smile. “But out here, I’d say this is just about normal. Now,
when it gets so hot you have to put newspaper in the bottoms of your shoes to keep the soles of your feet from blistering,
that’s when it’s considered warm.”

She laughed slightly.

“Is it normal for Texans to tell such tall tales?”

“Oh yes ma’am. If us Texans couldn’t swap stories, we might just as well all move to Kansas. Surely you have heard by now
that everything in Texas is bigger and better and much improved over what the rest of the country has to offer.”

He pushed back the brim of his hat far enough to reveal a sandy shock of hair and the crystal clear gray eyes, exposing a
tender shyness that greatly appealed to her.

She thought that if this were another time, another place, they could easily have been two young lovers out for a day’s ride.

He had been entertaining thoughts of her as well. She was pretty and good-natured, and did not complain. It was hard for him
to understand how she could have ended up in such a mess.

A rustle in the distance drew their attention. Johnny Montana, his gaze immediately fixed upon them, hurried his step to where
the couple were sitting.

“Seems a man can’t hardly do his duty in the bushes without someone trying to steal his gal. I turn my back and the first
thing I know, you two are getting cozy with one another!”

Pete Winter flushed with anger over the accusation, but more so over the outlaw’s foul manner. He leaped to his feet to confront
the man.

“I’ve warned you mister about prodding me. Now you just back off!”

“Go ahead, Tex! Show me how tough you are! Prove it to the lady! Go on, whip me while I’m handcuffed!” It wasn’t jealousy
that motivated Johnny Montana— jealousy had nothing to do with it. All he hoped for was that the Ranger would make a mistake,
lose control, anything that might give him a chance.

Katie quickly pushed herself between the two men.

“Please!” she said, her eyes pleading with the angry stare of the lawman. Her fear was not for the outlaw. She knew that Johnny
could be deceptive and vicious and that if the two engaged one another in combat, Johnny might gain the upper hand.

“Please, no more violence!” She had placed her hand on the lawman’s chest, a slight pressure of resistance, a pleading for
him to refrain.

It was in that instant that he saw the band of Comanche riding toward them, the dust rising up from the flying hooves of their
ponies.

“Get mounted!” he ordered. “We’ve got serious trouble coming!”

Johnny Montana saw them at almost the same instant.

“Lord!” he cried. “It’s Indians!”

Pete Winter lifted Katie off the ground and unto the saddle with one powerful movement, slapped his Stetson across the horse’s
rump and shouted, “Ride full out, and don’t stop for anything!”

Then, he bolted for his own mount. Snatching the lead rope of the pack mule in one hand, he whipped
the ends of his reins over the shoulders of his mount and raked his spurs across its flanks to plod it into a dead run.

The outlaw was riding neck and neck with the woman directly ahead of the lawman.

The leader of the Comanche band saw the quarry bolt—like rabbits who have been spooked from their hiding, he thought with
excited pleasure.
They can run, but to where?

He
yiieed
a cry to the others and they bent their bodies low over the flying manes of their ponies.

Pete Winter glanced behind him and saw that the pursuers were closing the distance quickly. He dropped the lead rope of the
pack mule, hoping that its load of supplies might be enough to divert, or slow down the pursuit.

He saw the pack animal run for a short distance, slow, and then stop altogether.

He caught up to the lead, rode alongside the woman.

“Stay with me,” he shouted above the wind and drum of hoof beats. She looked frightened as she clutched the reins in both
hands. He could see that she was not a good rider. His own pace slowed in order to stay with her.

He glanced once more behind him. One of the warriors had dropped off and now stood holding the rope of the pack mule, but
the others were still in full pursuit. Their ponies were tough, sure-footed and long-winded. He knew that there would be no
way that they could outrun the Comanches. A quick tally proved there to be eight of them.

Ahead Johnny Montana was riding the big black, its hooves tossing clods of dirt high into the
air. The Ranger spurred his own horse to catch up. The Comanches were gaining steadily, in minutes they would be on them.

The fine, solid quarter horse he rode finally pulled alongside the outlaw.

“They’re going to catch us!” the lawman shouted. The outlaw’s features were grim. Just ahead was an old buffalo wallow, its
muddy depression dry and cracked.