Chapter Four
South-Central Texas
June 3, 1888
Folks said Thomas Beaufort could track a housefly through a hurricane, and though he admitted that might be a slight exaggeration, he felt it wasn’t too far off. His reputation as a bounty hunter was unmatched, and he intended to keep it that way. The only blot on his otherwise excellent record was about to be erased.
“Well, Rip,” he whispered to his half Catahoula cur, half mystery mutt, “looks like somebody’s home. We’ve got him this time.”
He and the dog—named after famous Texas Ranger Rip Ford—lay side by side on a sandy ridge in the heart of Texas brush country, looking down on a weathered shanty forty yards away. A thin wisp of smoke leaked from the stovepipe, and a pair of horses stood in the weak shade of a mesquite inside a pole and brush corral, the only signs of occupancy.
Thomas swiped with his shoulder at the sweat trickling down his temple. Jase Swindell had led him on a wild chase since escaping from the prison up in Huntsville almost a year ago. Thomas had been tracking him off and on for months, taking quicker jobs when they were offered, but never forgetting about his main objective. Every time he got close to making an arrest, Jase slipped away. But not this time. Thomas had him now.
Nothing moved, not a breath of wind to stir branches or cool his skin as the sun pounded the Texas landscape. Thomas surveyed the area once more before easing back from the ridge, keeping low and drawing Rip along with him. He made sure his horse, a sorrel with white socks named Smitty, was tied securely well back from the ridge.
“We’ll circle around on foot to that thicket and get close, and then we can rush the door, all right?” Thomas had grown accustomed to thinking out loud, talking to the dog as if he were human. Might as well talk to Rip. Not like there was anyone else to converse with. The bounty hunter life suited Thomas most days, but he had to admit, it could be a mite lonely at times.
He tucked his rifle into the crook of his elbow and checked his sidearm. Chambers full. Thomas took a deep breath, going over his planned moves, trying to anticipate Swindell’s reactions and how to counter them so they both lived through the next few minutes.
Firming his resolve, he holstered the pistol, settled his hat securely on his head, and made a crouching run for the tangle of brush and thorns just ahead. Rip followed on his heels, snaking into the undergrowth.
Cautious and smooth, Thomas approached the cabin, bending limbs out of his way, stepping carefully so as not to snap a twig or rattle a branch. He steadied his breathing, listening to the heavy thud of his heart in his chest. How many times had he done this—crept up on a fugitive, got the drop on him and clapped him in irons? He stood just back from the edge of the brush, studying the cabin, looking for signs of movement behind the tattered curtains hanging in the broken windows.
Nothing. If not for Rip, he’d think the place deserted. Easing forward, he crossed the dry, open yard and stepped lightly onto the porch. A fly buzzed past his nose, but he ignored it, concentrating, letting his experience and instinct guide him. Gathering himself, he plunged his boot into the door, shattering it at the frame, and leaped into the cabin.
“Hands up, Jase!” The door banged against the wall and shot back toward Thomas. He shouldered it aside, raking the room, swinging his rifle from side to side. Rip bounded inside, fangs bared, and skittered to a halt.
Swindell rocketed to his feet from where he’d been kneeling by the bed, his eyes wide, face filthy with sweat and dirt. A woman lay on the bunk.
A woman?
The outlaw crouched in front of her, and Thomas couldn’t risk a shot, not with his rifle. The bullet might go clean through the fugitive’s miserable hide and hit the woman.
A low moan came from the bed, followed by a lung-racking cough. Rip, who had been snarling and barking at Thomas’s side, went silent.
A strange sensation skittered up Thomas’s spine, that feeling he got when something unexpected and unwelcome was about to happen.
In that moment, Swindell leaped toward the open back door of the shack. Thomas snapped off a shot as Rip bounded after him. The room filled with the smell of burnt powder, and the woman screamed. Thomas bolted after his quarry, but as he passed the bed, the woman grabbed him by the sleeve.
“Don’t shoot him!” she begged.
Knowing he had to get outside, he shook off her grasp. If Rip didn’t get to Swindell in time, the outlaw would surely shoot the dog in order to escape.
Thomas jumped out into the sunshine as Rip hurled himself at Swindell, who was trying to climb into the saddle. The dog’s powerful jaws clamped down on the man’s left forearm, half dragging him from the horse’s back. The outlaw used the butt of his drawn pistol to club the dog, sending Rip to the dust in a yelping, tumbling heap. Thomas raised his rifle and snapped off a shot, too quickly, and knew it went wide. Swindell legged his horse
