Free Deadfall by Stephen Lodge

eventually lead us to the person, or persons, who ordered my family’s abduction in the first place . . . and, whether he is still keeping them as prisoners, or has sent them on ahead to whoever is paying him.”
    â€œThank you both for bringing me up to date,” said Kelly. “We’ve all been riding since before sunup, Charley. Don’t you think it’s about time we stopped for something to eat?”
    â€œNow, why didn’t I think of that?” said Charley.
    He turned in his saddle.
    â€œRoscoe,” he called out, “how about fixing us up a noon meal?”
    â€œCan I build me a fire this time, C.A.?”
    â€œI suppose so . . . it should be all right now.”
    Fuerte nodded.
    â€œThen I’ll start with the coffee,” said Roscoe. “Hot . . . hot . . . coffee.”
    â€œNot too hot for me,” said Fuerte, as he circled back, moving in beside Roscoe. “If you take in a deeper breath than normal, you’ll realize that today is going to be even warmer than yesterday.”
    Holliday moved in beside Charley and the others. He carried his frockcoat folded neatly under his arm. Perspiration had already begun to stain portions of his frilly fronted dress shirt.
    â€œHell,” he said, “it’s already hotter’n a skillet full a’ fryin’ bacon.”
    â€œNow ain’t that funny,” said Roscoe. “That’s exactly what I was about ta whip up for your noon meal, Holliday. Along with some of those tins of Mexican free-holies. ”
    Sergeant Stone and Pennell were already stretched out on their bedrolls. Rod and Kelly were doing the same a few feet away. The sergeant’s three toolboxes remained tied to the chuckwagon nearby.
    â€œWhat do you have in those boxes of yours, Sergeant?” asked Rod. “Looks to me like a couple of those cases might contain M1895 Colt-Browning machine guns.”
    The sergeant whipped around, ready to fight if need be.
    â€œHave you been snooping around my boxes, Indian?”
    â€œCalm down, Sergeant,” said Rod. “I saw a couple of those automatic Colts in action during the Cuban campaign. That’s all.”
    â€œThen you must have been one of Roosevelt’s team.”
    â€œThat’s right,” said Rod. “During the battle for San Juan Heights, I was one of the first to make it to the crest at Kettle Hill.”
    â€œAnd he was one of the first to make it back down to the bottom of that hill, too,” said Kelly, cutting in. “His boot heel was shot out from under him just as he reached the summit.”
    â€œIt was definitely a rock-hard tumble . . . all the way down, I remember,” said Rod. “Lead was flying in every direction, but not one bullet found a piece of me.”
    â€œYou’re lucky,” said the sergeant.
    â€œMore than that,” said Rod. “I’m blessed.”
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    The puppy was playing in the dirt—its neck attached to Henry Ellis’s wrist by a long piece of rawhide.
    â€œLookit them feet,” said Roscoe, who was putting away his supplies and tying several frying pans to one side of the chuckwagon. “He’s gonna grow up ta be as big as Buster was.”
    â€œBigger,” said Charley, who stood nearby. “I remember the old Buster at this one’s age. He wasn’t that big at all.”
    â€œHow old do you think he is, Grampa?” asked Henry Ellis.
    â€œNot more than three or four months, I reckon,” said Charley.
    â€œWhat should I feed him?” the boy wanted to know.
    â€œBuster ate table scraps and whatever he could find in the chicken yard,” said Roscoe.
    â€œOh, no, no, no,” interrupted Kelly, who was near enough to have heard Roscoe’s remark. “You can’t feed a puppy table scraps. It’s not good for them.”
    â€œI’ve been eating food that makes table scraps all my life,” said Charley, “. .