This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [15]
Finishing the cigarette, he let his eyes wander to his right, where a dip in the ridge would be the logical place to hide and wait for the wagon. It was so logical a place for an Apache; he would wait behind the broken boulders that lined the ridge—and if he took his time and made no sudden moves to attract the eye, he would be on the wagon before Bulldog could spit. Sweat trickled through the dust on Slater’s face. His neck itched from the heat and dust. Nowhere in all that vast distance was there a movement. Yet, somewhere out there were Apaches. He was sure of it.
Yesterday, on his way to town, he’d crossed the trail of a band of Apaches. They had been riding without women and children, which meant they were young bucks out raiding, hot to lift hair and steal horses. No doubt they were a rag-tail outfit of half-starved renegades, and Slater hoped to hell he wouldn’t have to kill them.
The Apaches were not the only problem Slater had to worry about. There was another gang in the area, led by a man named Findlay. Bushy Red, he was called; and as far as Slater knew, he was the only white man in a gang of renegade Apache scouts, runaway slaves and Mexicans. Several times lately he had come across their sign, had found tracks of as many as a dozen or more. They were a mean outfit. The Texas Rangers had run them out of the Brazos River country, and they had drifted south, rustling and raiding.
Slater eased his weight in the saddle and checked the eagerness of his horse. They had been motionless for half an hour. Both had welcomed the rest after the grueling ride across country from Hamilton. But now he gave himself a mental shake. He couldn’t keep his thoughts from the small dark-haired girl who got off the stage. Somehow, he hadn’t expected to see such a proud little creature. She walked with her head up and her chin tilted as if she were six feet tall. He had often wondered what kind of woman the little girl had grown into; she was spunky from what he could tell. But still, he was puzzled by her bringing along the girl from the dance hall. He shrugged. As long as she didn’t cause trouble among the men, he didn’t care.
Slater’s eyes were alert, but his thoughts traveled. The little brother was quite brainy, if Bulldog could be believed. At least the kid was well-behaved. Both of them will be better off at the ranch, he mused. Especially now that Travis had set eyes on the girl. The McLeans hadn’t bothered him for a long time now, but he knew the meeting was no coincidence. And if Ellen had said anything about Sam, the girl wouldn’t have left town with Bulldog.
And there was Jesse Thurston to deal with. His toughness was ingrained. He wasn’t a cruel man, yet he was quick, hard and dangerous. Whatever wells of softness there were in him, were apparent only where Ellen McLean was concerned. That was a strange alliance. He was still lapping up every word or gesture from the woman, and she old enough to be his mother for all her beauty and careful grooming. He had seen Jesse almost beat a man to death for making a remark to Ellen, and she had stood by loving every minute of it. That was before . . . he raised a hand to his scarred cheek, rubbed the rough ridges. Every time he saw his reflection in a mirror, his eyes hardened and he felt almost choked with hate. Yes, he had been right to send Bulldog to meet the stage. His face might have been a shock to her now. He put his heels lightly to the horse’s flanks. Even if she hadn’t written, he had always had it in the back of his mind to fetch her home.
Slater pulled the buckskin up short of the ridge and moved against a dark clump of juniper where he was as invisible as possible to be on the hillside. A small cloud of dust rose above the brush