“So I passed muster?” Trace asked.
“Well enough,” the old man replied with a crisp nod. “I don’t break bread with outlaws or rustlers. I got you figured for a man come to hard luck or hard times. Maybe both.”
“You still haven’t told me who you are,” Trace persisted. “I’m pretty careful who I break bread with myself.”
“Some folks call me Pappy, but that ain’t my real name. Some folks call me Slops, since I done my time as camp cook over the years. Tain’t my real name, neither. Take your pick, or call me what ever you like. Truth told, folks have given me so many handles over the years, I don’t rightly remember what my real name is.” He dosed Trace with a sober stare. “Around these parts, young fella, sometimes it’s better that way.”
Trace stared at the strange figure patiently stirring his pot. He looked like one of those raggedy leprechauns his mama had told him about at bedtime when he was small. Still, his belly was getting the better of his caution, as the aroma of that stew was sheer torture.
He hadn’t had a bite to eat all day, just the few swigs of coffee, since he’d been so anxious to set out after Mae. His stomach rumbled and his mouth began to water. He swallowed back the hunger. Dealing with an old “sourdough” was the last thing he needed. But oh, the smell of that stew…
“Well?” The old man brayed a laugh, which set off Trace’s burro again. “Are you going to stand there slackjawed, or put that damn Winchester down and grab a plate?”
With a sigh, Trace leaned the rifle against his saddle.
T
race
didn’t know what to make of the new intruder. He’d been a loner too long for trust to come easily. Putting faith in the wrong people often put a cowboy in his grave, and this man showing up so soon after Mae made Trace think twice about trusting him. Still, there was something about the old geezer that seemed harmless, and Trace’s guard slowly relaxed.
“You got a name, son?” the drifter asked, taking a final bite of biscuit.
Trace set his plate aside and settled back with his tin cup full of perfectly brewed coffee, watching the old man through the flames of the campfire. Finally he said, “Ord—Trace Ord.”
“Not your real handle, though, I’ll wager.”
“Like you said, old man, sometimes it’s better that way.”
“Yep, that’s what I figured.”
“Where’d you come from anyway?” Trace pressed. He wanted answers—or at least some reason to trust the old man’s sudden appearance.
“Originally? Back East—”
Trace gave him a level stare. “No, today. Did you happen on a pack of riders—five, maybe six—heading southwest?”
Pappy shook his head. “I’m down from Flat Springs,” he said.
“Too far north,” Trace grunted. “You wouldn’t have seen them. Where are you headed anyway?”
“Just drifting,” Pappy replied. “Figured I’d head on out toward California. Heard there’s still gold in the desert out there, if a man knows where to look for it.”
Trace shook his head at the notion. “Death Valley? You must be addled? That’s no place for an old-timer. Not with summer coming on. That desert is hell on earth, a man-killer. How do you think it got its name?”
The old man shrugged. “Prospecting is just about the only occupation I haven’t tried my hand at. A man can’t brag about what he ain’t done, and I aim to brag about it
all
afore I die. Bragging is what I do best, son. Where were you aiming to head before you lit out on foot like you got bee-stung? And where’s your horse? You ain’t been riding that burro, that’s for dang sure.”
“I was headed for the Lazy C. A couple rancher friends of mine are looking for some horses that somebody made off with. Rumor has it that more than one herd’s made its way to the Lazy C. I aim to see if theirs is among ’em,” Trace admitted.
Pappy looked skeptical. “Old Colonel Comstock’s place, eh? That’s a bad outfit, son. You don’t want to be messing around the Lazy C. Word is, it was a pretty square spread when the old man was running it.” He paused to sip his coffee, shooting Trace a dark look. “The son’s got it now. Ain’t no meaner hombre in the Territories
than Jared Comstock. Heard tell he ain’t above rustling or worse. He’d sooner shoot a man as look at him, is what people say.”
“I’m going there just the same. You know where it is?”
Pappy pointed. “See them mountains? That’s the Hualapai Range. The Lazy C sits just east of that gap there in the middle. But what—you aiming on walking in there single-handed, expecting him to just hand over all the horses he’s stole? And you called
me
addled.” He snorted.
“I had planned to cut out a few wild mustangs, maybe even the one the Indians call Standing Thunder if I got lucky, and use them as bait to get myself hired on as a wrangler. Only, now I’ve got to catch up with those riders I asked about. I tracked them southwest to the rocks, and then lost the trail in the dark. I left a marker. I’ll head back to the spot come first light and scour the area until I pick it up again.”
“You sure must want them hombres pretty bad,” Pappy muttered.
“One of them stole my horse.”
“Well, that explains you being on foot. I had you pegged for either a wrangler or a lawman. I can smell the law a mile downwind of a cyclone.”
“Is that right? You got problems with the law, Pappy?”
“Nope. I just spot ’em.”
“Well, I’ve done my share of days as deputy,” Trace admitted, “but I’m no lawman. Never been on the wrong side of the law, though, if that’s what’s about to come out of your mouth. But that’s likely to change once I catch up with those riders.”
“I don’t want nothing to do with bounty hunters,” Pappy remarked. “Can’t trust ’em.”
Trace flashed a grin. “You might say I’m a bounty hunter—of sorts. But I hunt horses, not men.”
“That why you tote a gun with no trigger guard? You sure you ain’t a gunslinger?”
“I’m no gunslinger, Pappy, but I like staying alive. A man has to have an edge to survive out here.”
“A renegade rider?” Pappy realized. Trace steeled himself against what was coming. “And you got your horse stole?” The old man shook his head and clicked his tongue, chuckling. “That don’t say much for your talents, do it? You ain’t been at it long, have you?”
“Long enough,” Trace growled, hurling the dregs of his coffee into the fire. A plume of hissing, spitting steam shot up.
“Don’t go gettin’ your britches in a twist. I’ll help if I can,” Pappy offered.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a horse stashed someplace, would you?” Trace asked. “That’s about the only way you could help me now.”
“Just that old jackass staked alongside yours over there. Where’s your partner? Did he get his horse stole, too?”
Trace blinked. “What partner?”
The old man crooked his thumb toward the two bedrolls.
Trace drew the bloodstained kerchief from the back pocket of his jeans and fingered it absently. “I shot a thief stealing my horse, night before. Turned out to be a woman running from something.”
“A woman out here? Alone?”
Trace nodded. “The wound wasn’t bad. I wasn’t shooting to kill. What ever she’s running from must have scared her pretty bad.”
Pappy filled in the blanks: “So she stole your horse again. And you set out after her.”
“Yep. And I mean to get that damned horse back,” Trace concluded.
The old-timer frowned, scratching his grizzled beard. “A man gets his horse stole, he gets mad. You ain’t mad so much as you’re worried. I’m guessing that worry is for that little horse thief.”
“She’s on the run—and I did shoot her, after all,” Trace confessed. “And now that pack of riders has her and my horse.”
“And you plan on going up against five or six men alone?” Pappy took sand and rubbed the tin plates to clean them. After a moment he added, “She must be something. A man can always wrangle another horse, so I’m thinking you’re more concerned about that gal.”
Irritation pulsed through Trace. “I spent five years of my life stalking that stallion, tracking him from canyon to canyon and finally cutting him out of a herd single-handed. Snapped a bone in my wrist breaking him.”
“You might be proud of the stallion, but it’s concern over that gal eating away at your insides. And most likely your conceit is scorpion-bit by her stealing your pride and joy,
twice.
Bad mix of emotions riding you, renegade. You best be careful. When a woman gets under a man’s skin, he loses that edge you were talking about.”
Trace’s jaw flexed. “She ain’t ‘under my skin.’ I just want my horse back.”
Pappy laughed. “Then them mules ain’t the only thing stubborn around here.” He paused before suggesting, “Since we’re both heading in the same general direction, maybe I’ll throw in with you for a spell.”
Trace shook his head. “I travel alone, old-timer. Then I only have to worry about myself.”
“Seems to me you could use a hand, seein’ as your head’s been turned by a female.”
Trace settled back against his saddle, stared into the fire. “I don’t want you underfoot. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but I can’t afford distractions. And that’s what you’d be. I don’t want to bury you, either.”
“Might be one way to look at it,” Pappy mused. “But from where I’m sitting, maybe it was your lucky day when I stumbled upon your camp, maybe it happened for a reason. Maybe having me watch your back would be good—might save your life. You might be glad you brung me. See, no pretty female has me all hepped up like a stallion scenting a mare. A thing like that is mighty distracting. When you throw down against a pack of varmints, another gun protecting your back might make all the difference. Ever think of that?”
Trace ran his hand through his hair and breathed an exasperated nasal sigh. This was not how things were supposed to be. He’d had everything planned before a horse thief smelling of wild clover, with hair like sunset gold and eyes like a doe, crashed into his life. His loins responded to the memories of Mae’s soft skin, her full white breasts. Pulling a blanket over his legs, he shifted uneasily.
The old man sniggered, not fooled. “Thinking, are you?”
“I’m going after my horse,” Trace responded.
“I figured. The woman has nothing to do it.” Pappy began fixing his bedroll. “And that’s another thing—I’m a damn fine tracker, nearly as good as an Injun. Might come in handy tomorrow trying to pick up their trail.”
“Is there anything you aren’t good at, old man?” Trace asked.
“Jack-of-all-trades, master of few,” came the reply. “Unless you say otherwise, I’m assuming I’ll be heading out with you at first light.”
“Even if I said no, I have a feeling you’d just trail along anyways.” Trace slid down against his saddle, fighting a yawn. It had been a hard day. He needed to get some sleep.
“Maybe you ain’t half as stupid as that damn burro of yours. Been kind of lonely out here. Our paths crossing seems fated, so I reckon I’ll be tagging along.”
“Just one thing,” said Trace, stretching out. “If you’re going to tag along, stay out of my way, and when I tell you something, I expect you to listen. I don’t want to be repeating myself. A man’s life depends on quick thought and even quicker action.”
Not waiting for an answer, he rolled over to get some much-needed rest. His feet were sore from the stones and his imprudent assault on Diablo’s hobbles, not to mention the miles of tracking Diablo and the woman. Only, sleep didn’t come. His blankets smelled of wild clover—of Mae.
He awoke with a start just as the sky began to lighten, to the smell of fresh coffee and a hand like wrinkled
leather shaking his shoulder. His gun left his holster before his eyes focused.
“Whoooooa, Ord! It’s
me
,” the old man chuckled. “Ain’t worth wasting the bullet.”
“Don’t ever do that,” Trace growled.
“You’d best hop to,” the old man urged. “You made it sound as if you wanted to be off by first light. Maybe we better shake a leg? I don’t like the looks of that sky. The air’s so thick you could cut it with a knife.”
Trace accepted a tin of hot coffee, then took note Pappy had already packed up the rest of the camp. Maybe allowing him to tag along wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Pappy pushed a plate at him. “Not much—just some leftover stew and a hard biscuit. Soak it in your coffee and it’ll soften it up. You need grub in your belly if’n you plan to catch up to your horse and your woman.”
“The woman ain’t mine.” Trace picked up a fork. “And I’ve ate coffee-soaked biscuits more times than I care to remember. Daily diet for a Johnny Reb.”
“Figured you for one, what with that accent.” Pappy studied him with a sharp eye. “Tough to place. Ain’t hard like Tennessee, nor heavy on the drawl like Mississippi. Planters stock, I’m a-guessing. Georgia or Alabamie.”
Trace gave a faint nod, not really wanting to think about the past or why he’d come out West—to get away from all that had been taken or destroyed in his life. It was easier to forget when you weren’t reminded of the way things used to be.
“Louisiana. Not far from Baton Rouge,” Trace admitted
grudgingly, hoping that Pappy would allow it to drop.
“A renegade rider…Hmm, bet you rode for old Nathan Bedford Forrest during the war.” The old man’s brows lifted in challenge, daring him to deny it. “His boys could
ride.
”
Trace shook his head. “You know, Pappy, my mama used to tell me stories back from England and Ireland, where my family hailed from. She said hundreds of years ago they used to burn or hang people for being witches. You better be glad you were born now. You would have been dancin’ on the wind.”
Pappy tossed sand onto the campfire to put it out. “ ’Tain’t nothin’ magic about it. I just watch. A lot of people are too busy flapping their jaws.”
Trace chuckled. “Seems to me you do a fair amount of jaw-flapping yourself.”
The old man shrugged and studied the pink and purple horizon toward the east. “Well, might just be me flapping my jaw now, but I fear a sandstorm might be kicking up. See how misty it looks back in the canyon? That ain’t good. We’d better make tracks, and pray that haze burns off when the sun comes up.”
Trace hated to admit it, but the old man was right. Again.
The haze did not burn off. The saffron sun rose, cloaked in a jaundiced gray veil draped like a pall over the entire canyon, and the air was thick despite the occasional gust that whistled through. It was like inhaling near a campfire.
“Where’d you leave that marker?” the old man asked as they led their mules up the rocky draw.
“Not much farther,” said Trace. “There’s a spring with a stand of cottonwood trees.”
“Well, we might reach it too late. See that yellow fog rising from the canyon floor?”
Trace nodded, taking his kerchief from his pocket to wipe his face.
“That ain’t haze like before, that’s sand, and it’s coming our way. We’re going to need shelter here, pronto. Afraid your woman’s trail is going to get blown away.”
Trace pulled his bandana up over his mouth and nose, hating that the old man was right. The storm seemed to hit them from everywhere, a hissing, howling whoosh of wind that sucked up the sand from beneath them and blasted the entire canyon. A great wall of it eclipsed the sun, making day into an eerie gray-green twilight. Despite the protection of the bandana, the sand stung his ears, clogged his mouth and nose, and left grit in his clenched teeth.
Trace tugged the brim of his Stetson down over his eyes, struggling to find shelter. Blind against the wind, he and Pappy trusted their burros’ instincts to find water. Suddenly the ghostly trunks of the cottonwoods loomed before them.
He helped Pappy drag a blanket from his pack while the burros huddled together, their faces behind the trunks of the trees. He couldn’t help it; he had to laugh. Crouching low, the two men sank down beside the tree and huddled together as the merciless waves of sand swept over them.