Free Ralph Compton Comanche Trail by Carlton Stowers Page A

on the small herds of mule deer that grazed in meadows and drank from the streams. Squirrels played chase in the trees as coyotes watched them hungrily.
    With two quick pistol shots whose accuracy amazed Taylor, Barclay killed two rabbits, which would serve as their dinner once they camped for the night.
    Strapping the carcasses to his saddle horn, Tater spoke for the first time in hours. “We’re still a day’s ride, maybe a little more, before we get up into the Hills. Daylight’s about gone, so I ’spect we ought to be looking for a place to rest our bones and cook up these critters.”
    Taylor’s thoughts flashed back to home and the sweet smells of Sister’s cooking wafting from the kitchen. And at that moment he wondered if it had been a mistake to embark on what his companion had called “a fool’s journey.”
Why go in pursuit of revenge for the death of a man who never for aminute cared about me? Why is it my duty to find Jakey’s mother, a woman I’ve never even laid eyes on?
    Had Tater Barclay not invited himself along, Taylor would likely have already turned back. But he’d now come too far to admit his misgivings. While Barclay seemed at home in this wilderness, he was lost. And more afraid than he would dare admit.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    He woke from a restless and nightmare-filled sleep and lifted his head from his saddle to see the forms of two men standing over him. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming. The campfire where earlier the rabbits had been cooked was reduced to glowing embers, and the hoot of a nearby owl was the only break in the silence. With only a sliver of moon above, it was impossible to see the faces of the intruders.
    He was still not sure they were real until one spoke. “We had not expected the good fortune to meet up with a fellow traveler,” the smaller man said.
    As Taylor attempted to get to his feet, the end of a rifle knocked him back to the ground. He said, “What is it you want?”
    â€œOur mounts are tired and we have no money. Perhaps you would be kind enough to help us.” The man added a high-pitched giggle. “We’re headed north and have been moving at night to avoid interference from those who wish us harm. We find that in these parts it is a wise thing to do.”
    Taylor was now fully awake. He rubbed his shoulder. The second bandit, the one with the rifle, stepped forward and placed a boot against his chest. In his hand was a large bowie knife. Even in the darkness Taylor could see a grin on his bearded face, and his breath smelled of whiskey and rottingteeth. “Course,” he said, “if you ain’t of a mind to politely lend us a hand, we gotta do what we gotta do.” He moved the knife close to Taylor’s throat as his companion searched the saddlebag that lay nearby.
    He spilled its contents to the ground and bent forward to retrieve a small leather pouch. Shaking it, he giggled at the sound of coins jangling.
    â€œIt ain’t much,” Taylor said, “but you’re welcome to it if you’ll just move on and let me be.” He was aware that his palms were moist with sweat and his mouth had gone dry.
    Both men laughed. “Wouldn’t be no fun in that,” said the big man looming above him. “What we’ll do instead is take your money and your fine horse and leave you dead.”
    A few feet away, Magazine snorted, and a third form moved swiftly from the shadows of a nearby stand of trees. Two rapid blasts from a shotgun echoed into the night. The coin pouch flew from the hand of one of the bandits as he went to his knees, then lurched forward onto the dying campfire. The man with the knife fell across Taylor, suddenly deadweight, blood pouring from where his grin had once been.
    â€œBein’ one who don’t sleep too good can be a blessing,” Barclay said as he approached. “I heard ’em