Renegade Riders Read Online Free PDF

waiting for you to come back, so I had me a look-see through your packs to find out if you was worthy of some of my stew. Ain’t as good as I usually make, sorry to say—not enough critter parts. Mostly beans, some wild onions. But an empty belly makes everything tastes better, eh?”
    “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.

Chapter Three
    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