pickle.
Having never seen a map of the area—if one even existed—he had no idea of what might lie ahead. So far, he hadn’t seen any houses, or trading posts, or anything else that would indicate a specific location. Maybe that grouping of teepees was what was called a town up in these parts, Seth thought. Didn’t seem right to him. Those Indians could pack up their tents and be gone before dark, leaving nothing but open space in their wake. And it was strange to think of it that way. Seth’s grandfather’s grandfather had lived on the land where they now lived, a succession of Ridgeway families all tethered to that one location. From the looks of things up here, it appeared the Indians didn’t much care about putting down roots or anything else that would result in any sort of permanent place. And, as Seth thought about that, he began to understand why the Indians were so difficult to keep on the reservation. It was as unnatural to them as it would be for him and his family to pack up and move, then move again, and again, and again. They were two entirely different worlds, and, for a moment, Seth envied the Indians. They got to go where they wanted when they wanted, and for a boy who hadn’t been much beyond the ranch, that was a powerful thing.
Seth’s thoughts were interrupted momentarily when he spied a trio of riders headed his way. Though still too far away to discern much about them other than their clothing, that was enough for Seth to know they weren’t Indians. He sat a little easier in the saddle as his horse plodded forward, the distance between him and the three riders diminishing. He was hoping they could give him the lay of the land or what might lie ahead and, if not, it was time for him to turn back for home before the storm hit.
But what Seth would soon discover was that skin color and clothing were irrelevant when judging a man’s intentions.
CHAPTER 8
Eli Ridgeway muttered a curse word or two as he and Winfield Wilson rode single file up a game trail on the north bank of the Red River. Most of his vehemence was directed at his sister Rachel, the rest reserved for the building storm clouds to the west. He was concerned the rain would wash out the trail and he was also concerned about their own safety. No man liked to be atop a horse during a lightning storm and if it started hailing it would beat them all to hell. Eli spurred his horse into a lope and Win matched him then rode on ahead to take the point. Eli could read sign, but Win could read it and tell you who was riding which horse and how it had been since their last meal.
Eli slipped his watch from his pocket to check the time and grimaced. They might have six hours of daylight left and Seth had at least a four-hour head start. Eli loosened the reins and let the horse set the pace. The pony he was riding, a black-and-white paint, was native to Texas and could gallop all day and not give out. But it was never a good idea to let a horse run for long periods of time, despite their capability. In this country a man never knew when his life might depend on his horse’s swiftness and stamina. Eli’s only complaint about this particular horse was that he was a little shorter than most and the stirrups, and his boots in them, got dragged through the tall grass. But he’d take that, knowing his mount was sure-footed and an overachiever.
Thunder rumbled off to the west and Eli glanced up at the sky. A majority of the time the storms in the area moved from northwest to southeast and there was a chance this one could pass behind them. And that’s all Eli could hope for, knowing Mother Nature could be a bitch when she wanted to be.
Win slowed his horse to a walk and Eli did the same, easing his horse forward to ride side by side.
“Bunch of redskins off the reserve,” Win said out of the corner of his mouth. “Ride through here in the winter and all these small creeks would be crowded up with teepees.” With disgust on his face Win surveyed the area. He had no qualms when it came to killing Indians, and Eli knew why. As a young boy, Win had been working out in the field with his father when a Kiowa war party rode up on them. The Indians killed and mutilated his father and they held Win captive for two months before a trader ransomed him and returned him to his mother.
“They’ll never stop the Indians from migrating back and forth,” Eli said.
“You’re right,” Win said. He bent over and spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “Ought to wall off the whole damn territory and let ’em all go at one another.” Win steered his horse toward a game trail and followed it down to a small creek and both men let their horses drink under the shade of a large cottonwood tree. “Guvmint give them all this land and they don’t do a damn thing with it,” Win said, obviously not finished on the subject of Indians. “We ought to take it back. A feller could graze a bunch of cattle up here.”
“If we confiscate all of their land, where do you expect them to reside?” Eli asked.
“Six feet under works for me,” Win said. “The sonsabitches.”
Eli glanced up at the sky again and, eager to change the subject, said, “Think the storm is going to miss us?”
Win shrugged. “If we’re lucky.” He surveyed the chewed-up ground and picked up Seth’s trail again.
“With all of those hoof prints, how do you know we’re following Seth?”
Win looked at him like he was a greenhorn. He pulled his horse to a stop and pointed at the dirt. “Tell me what you see.”
Eli studied the ground for a moment then shook his head. “A bunch of horse tracks.”
Win shook his head. “I’m amazed you can find your way home. Look yonder,” he said, pointing to a hoof print ten feet away. “See that track right there?”
“I see it. What about it?”
“That there’s Seth’s horse. The left, back shoe was put on a tad cockeyed.”
Eli rode forward for a closer look. “Well, if it is, it isn’t skewed much.”
“Don’t have to be, if you knowed what you’re lookin’ for.” Win shook his head, disappointed with Eli’s poor tracking abilities.
“What else does that track tell you?”
Win touched his spurs to his horse’s ribs to get him started. “We’ve gained some ground on him.”
“How much?” Eli asked as he started his horse moving.
“’Bout an hour or so, I reckon.” Win put his horse into a lope and Eli did the same, dejected they hadn’t made up more time.
Eli looked up at the approaching storm again. The dark, rain-filled clouds were scudding across the sky and moving directly overhead. A bolt of lightning lit up the gathering gloom and a rumble of thunder rolled across the prairie. They were now on borrowed time.
They came to another small creek and Win and Eli charged down the bank, splashed across the water, and raced up the far bank. Three hundred yards farther, Win slowed his horse and walked it in a circle as he studied the hoof prints. After a moment or two, he reined his horse to a stop and looked up at Eli. “There’s three new sets of tracks in here around Seth’s horse.”
“Shod ponies?”
“Yep. Don’t mean much, though, with all the horse thievin’ the Injuns do.” Win turned his horse and rode east for a bit as Eli watched. After a moment, he returned, his narrow shoulders slumped. “There’s four horses headed due east.”
All thoughts of the approaching storm were pushed from Eli’s mind. Although
