Renegade Riders Read Online Free PDF Page A

She had almost escaped them. Almost. The violent marks left behind on the sandy canyon bottom told the story. Diablo’s tracks, for the most part, were hind-hoof prints, showing he’d reared and spun in a vain attempt to break free of the circle of horses closing in around him. Trace imagined the confrontation only too clearly.
    He followed. Mae had not gone willingly. She had fought her attackers, both on and off Diablo. She’d been dragged off the stallion by the look of it, broken free, and run. One man had jumped from his horse and gone after her. She hadn’t gotten far. There had been askirmish then. The imprint of two struggling bodies was clearly visible in the red sand, along with ruts from Mae’s boots as she was dragged off.
    “Poor, stupid fool. She never had a chance.” Trace removed his hat to mop sweat from his brow, blinking back tears. Why hadn’t she stayed with him? He could have protected her.
    He put together what had happened next. The riders had headed southwest, Diablo with them, bucking and rearing to the last. But Trace lost their trail in the rocks, and blind fury set his blood boiling. How could she have courted this fate rather than confide in him? Double damn, it was his fault. He’d spooked her.
    Farther up ahead, a swatch of blue caught his eye: his kerchief. The same one he’d fashioned into a sling for Mae. He picked up the pace and, squatting on his haunches, dragged it from a tumbleweed. The knot was still tied. There was blood on it.
    A flaming sun died on the horizon, painting the sky over the western hills with bands of crimson, gold, and turquoise blue, that majestic beauty almost taunting Trace as he limped back toward his camp. He was thirsty, hungry, and sore to the bone.
    “On top of that, I must be hallucinating,” he grumbled—and pulled up short. The tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee, biscuits, and what smelled like hot son-of-a-bitch stew threaded through his nostrils, riding on the fragrant smoke of burning sagebrush.
    Cocking his Winchester, he crept along in the shadows of the rocky shelf. He could have sworn he had doused the campfire. Taking aim, he leveled the rifleon a wizened, rags-clad figure in a floppy slouch hat. He was seated on the ground, stirring part of the aforementioned hallucination with a long-handled spoon.
    “Don’t move a muscle,” Trace warned the intruder.
    “I heard you coming, young fella,” the man replied without turning. “Heard you before you rounded that ridge back yonder. Not too smart. You want to watch that. Could get you killed.”
    “You’re the one courting death, old-timer, messing with another man’s camp,” Trace growled. “Who in hell are you?”
    It was as though Trace hadn’t asked the question. “Them Navajos didn’t teach you much, did they?”
    Trace stood slack-jawed.
    The old man did turn then, and presented him with a sly wink and a gap-toothed smile. “No magic. I found your medicine bag,” he explained.
    Trace shook his head to clear it and tossed the man’s words back into his face. “Do you always make free with a man’s belongings without so much as a howdy-do? Not too smart. You want to watch that. Could get you killed.”
    “Now, ain’t that gratitude for you?” The intruder laughed. “Here I fix you vittles, feed your jackass, and keep watch over your outfit for you, and what do I get for my pains? Piss and vinegar, that’s what. Didn’t your mama teach you no manners?”
    “Leave my mother out of this. Answer my question,” Trace demanded. “Who gave you leave to go rummaging through my kit?”
    “Why, nobody,” the old man said. “You see anyone around here to say yea or nay, except that fool burro?I stumbled onto your camp—coffee still warm in the pot, that jackass over there with his tongue hanging out for want of water, hobbles on the ground, with no horse in them…and tracks I take to be yours, leading off into the canyon. Seemed you lit out in a hurry. I got tired of