Free The Savage Curse by Jory Sherman

be swarmin’ out here like a pack of hornets.”
    â€œYeah,” John said, just to be using his voice instead of thinking about Mead and the bullet that had taken his life.
    Did talking about a thing make it so?
    John wondered.
    Perhaps, he thought, there was a curse on the gun his father had customized for him. Maybe there was a curse born of that day when Hobart and his men had gunned down his entire family—father, mother, little sister—and he had taken up the gun to exact vengeance.
    Have I kept the pistol with honor? He wondered. Have I only drawn it with good reason?
    Maybe.
    â€œJohn, we ought to git,” Ben said. “You can’t do nothin’ for Mead.”
    â€œI know.”
    Ben tickled Blaster’s flanks and turned him to the south.
    â€œWell, come on, then,” Ben said.
    John clucked to Gent and turned him, following Ben, the sickness gradually subsiding. That is, the queasiness in his belly was diminishing, but there was a cloud of it in his brain, a worry that flitted around inside the cloud like a wounded bird, a broken-winged fledgling sparrow that had fallen from its nest and could not fly. The gun weighed heavy on his gunbelt and he could feel its pressure against his leg, the heat from it burning through to the bone.
    â€œSee that green spot yonder?” John said to Ben when they had ridden some distance from where they had been.
    Ben squinted into the sun, shaded his eyes.
    â€œMight be one of them mirages.”
    â€œDo you see it, damn it?”
    â€œAin’t no need to get testy about it, John. Yeah, I see somethin’ green way off. Don’t look real, though.”
    â€œWell, head straight for it. Might be grass, and where there’s grass, there’s probably water. And where there’s water, there are probably trees.”
    â€œWhooo-ee, John, I think that sun done burned your brain to a crisp.”
    â€œJust hold to that line, Ben.”
    â€œYou are testy, ain’t you?”
    John said nothing and when Ben looked over at him, Ben turned away as if unable to bear the look on John’s face.
    They rode on in silence, both looking back every so often to see if they were being followed. They were not, but the uneasiness between the two men continued. For no good reason, Ben would have said, but he was keeping his mouth shut.
    The green patch grew as they rode closer. It spread from a small island into a peninsula, but they still could not make out what it was. The ground was uneven. It rose and fell like some undulating reptile, and they did see small shimmering lakes dancing in the sun, looking like lakes or ponds. The heat was intense and both men were oiled in sweat, their foreheads grimy and glistening, their shirts black with moisture and stuck to their backs and drooping sodden in front.
    The valley was lower than the terrain the two men were traversing, and when they came to its rim, their eyes widened in wonder. Spread out before them was a long valley, lush and green with grass and a sea of wooly sheep clustered at one end. There were adobe huts, like small islands, on the far side and in the middle and near them. They saw no signs of life, neither herders nor sheepdogs, and they rode down into the grass and saw the irrigation canals threading through the grass, little silver threads among the green.
    â€œA sheep ranch,” Ben said.
    â€œLooks like it.”
    John scanned the horizon. The sheep were feeding. He had no idea how many there were, but they covered a large section of land and seemed so peaceful and contented, he wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him.
    â€œThere’s a little canal near that adobe over yonder,” John said. “Let’s give the horses a drink and see if anyone’s home.”
    â€œIt don’t look natural, does it?” Ben said, tipping his hat back and scratching behind his ear.
    â€œIt’s mighty strange. But somebody went to a lot of trouble