Texas Rifles Read Online Free PDF Page A

heads. Others, who couldn’t rope, rode up beside loose horses and dropped the end of the rope over an animal’s neck, then reached down and caught the rope end from beneath and drew it up, making a loop. Most of the men took some care in their selection of remounts. A few had no real idea what to look for.
    Watching a few like these, Cloud thought he could understand the captain’s bitterness over some of the new men. These were not frontiersmen. Men like these were the shirkers, here to keep out of war.

    Cloud left his sorrel and caught a good-looking brown that had strong legs and a deep chest and looked as if it could hold out in a long run. He knew the brand on its hip. It belonged to a ranch far to the south and east. Quite a circle these Comanches had made.
    In moments the men were mounted. Barcroft signaled to the Mexican, who struck out in the lead, following the trail of the Comanches.
    Cloud looked around him as he rode, appraising these other members of the Texas Mounted Rifles. There was no uniform. Every man dressed as suited him—or more likely, as he could afford. Money was scarce in Texas, and always had been. Some wore homespun, some wore store cloth. A few wore buckskin. Some had high-topped, flat-heeled boots, and several wore shoes.
    Cloud had seen a copy of the orders setting up a regiment of the Rifles. It required that each man should have a Colt six-shooter, if possible, plus a good double-barreled shotgun or short rifle “if convenient.” He was supposed to have a half-gallon tin canteen, covered with cloth, and a good heavy blanket to sleep on.
    Every man Cloud saw had a pistol on his hip. And as per orders, each carried either a shotgun or rifle across his saddle. The rifle was good for distance, but a shotgun was unbeatable in close combat. The state didn’t furnish the armament. In this outfit a man brought his own weapons or didn’t join.
    A grinning young man with rust-red hair edged over next to Cloud and stuck out his hand. “Guffey’s my name. Quade Guffey.”
    Cloud took his hand. “Sam Houston Cloud.”
    Quade made no remark about the name. It was not unusual for boys in that day to be named after General Sam. “Captain there, he gave you a pretty stiff initiation
speech, but don’t let it worry you. You get used to him after a while.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œYep, and then you hate him even worse.”
    The riders passed the horse Cloud had dropped out from under one of the Comanches. Minutes later they went by the spot from which he had stampeded the herd. Cloud rode off to one side to look. He found a spot of blood where the buck had fallen, but the body was gone.
    One less hole for Lige’s boys to dig.
    The men settled into a long trot, occasionally pushing the horses into an easy lope for a way, then pulling them down again. The Indians had a long start. But they had been pushing their horses hard when they left. The mounts would inevitably tire. By conserving their own horses all they could, the Rifles had a better chance of catching up.
    Cloud soon found himself riding near the lead. It was not his way to bring up the rear. Barcroft glanced at him, appraising Cloud and his equipment. But the captain had nothing to say. He glanced toward the sun every so often, measuring the rate of its descent. Cloud knew what the man was thinking. They’d better catch those Indians before dark. Give the Comanche horses a few hours of rest and they would be as fresh again as the ones the Texans rode.
    The tracks freshened. The Indians were slowing down. The Rifles came upon a horse, its throat cut. Exhausted, and killed by the Comanches so the white men couldn’t get any use from him.
    A little later the Mexican up front signaled and pointed to the ground. Riding up, Cloud saw the stiffening body of the Indian he had shot. It lay in the buffalo grass, abandoned by tiring Comanches who could no longer carry