Free The Drifter's Bride by Tatiana March Page A

torrent of water drowned out all other sounds. He didn’t need to worry about the rasp of his body against the damp earth but he knew that a gunshot would shatter the steady roar of the river and raise alarm.
    They couldn’t afford to start shooting—not until he had killed at least two of the Comancheros. Only a few more yards now. The pair of burning dots rose and fell like fireflies as the two men guarding the horses lifted their cigarettes for another drag.
    Carl rose into a crouch. Slowly. Silently.
    Every muscle tensing, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his knife and leaped forward. He grabbed his victim, slamming his left hand across the man’s mouth and yanking the man’s head back against his shoulder as his right hand slashed the serrated blade across the Comanchero’s stocky throat.
    Not pausing to lower the body to the ground, Carl jumped back and then forward. He dealt with the second man in the same fashion. Two muted thuds broke the silence, followed by a faint whirring sound, like the wings of a bird, as a wide-brimmed hat fell from the head of the second man and spun its way to the ground.
    Carl edged forward in the darkness. Two of the remaining men were sitting by the fire, passing a bottle between them. Yaquis. In the light, he could see their coarse, square features and the pale drape of their white cotton clothing. The dark fabric of his coat and denims gave him an advantage, allowing him to blend into the shadows.
    The last two men were stretched out on bedrolls farther back, but still within the glow of the fire. To the right of them he could see the huddled shapes of three children. From the awkward way they sat or reclined, he could tell their wrists were bound, and a rope around their necks tied them into a human chain.
    He eased toward the sleeping men, knife in his right hand, the Colt in his left. He froze, waited for a log in the fire to crackle loud enough to hide the click as he cocked the hammer. The nearest man let out a snuffle, not quite a snore, and Carl understood that up this close the roar of the river would no longer disguise his sounds.
    The man slept wrapped in a blanket, a hat covering his head, his back toward Carl. He was burly, with a layer of fat over his bones. Without being able to properly angle the blade between his ribs, Carl couldn’t rely on piercing his heart. He surged forth and plunged the knife in the thick neck instead, forcing the blade deeper as the man’s head snapped forward.
    His luck ran out. The gurgling sound made the fourth man jerk up into a half-seated position. His hand went to the rifle by his side. Carl lifted his Colt and fired. The sound tore through the night, a signal for Jade to run out to the captive children and cut them free. They had planned their strategy while watching the camp, waiting for darkness to fall.
    Behind him, the remaining pair of men bellowed in Spanish, their voices slurred and their tone confused. They were drunk. Carl yanked his knife free from the dead man’s sturdy neck, spun around and saw the two who had been on their feet leap toward him. He fired off a shot with the gun in his left hand, saw the taller man fall. A pain burst in his forearm. The Colt clattered to the ground. He felt a warm trail of blood trickling down his skin.
    One Yaqui left. Carl crouched, knife in his right hand, choices reeling in his mind. His revolver was lost somewhere in the darkness around his feet and his rifle dangled on his back. Across the fire he saw the small, wiry man rush at him. No. Not at him. Toward his dead companion. In a flash Carl realized the man had no gun and was seeking to retrieve the one still clasped in his dead compatriot’s fingers.
    Leaping beside the fire, Carl picked up a burning branch and hurled it at the Yaqui. It hit the man in the back. Dark streaks of soot and yellow licks of flame smeared his white cotton tunic. Carl lurched forward, seized the bottle of whiskey from the ground and threw it