Free Deadfall by Stephen Lodge Page A

. and the first Buster ate my table scraps. It never hurt neither one of us none,” he went on.
    â€œThe only time ya ever got sick after eatin’ a meal, you blamed it on my cookin’,” said Roscoe. “An’ it turned out ta be the opossum meat in the stew that was spoilt.”
    â€œThat was raccoon meat, Roscoe, and it wasn’t spoiled. You know I’m allergic to raccoon.”
    â€œWell maybe it’s time to change Mr. Sunday’s way of thinking about food,” said Kelly. “’Specially dog food.”
    â€œPardon me, Miss Kelly,” said Charley. “But don’t you think I should know something about what to feed animals by now? I’ve been raising all kinds of ’em since I was a tad younger than Henry Ellis here. Birds and tortoises, too,” he added. “I’ve raised ’em all.”
    â€œJust promise,” said Kelly, “to cut off the fat if you feed him meat . . . and mix him up some gravy and rice to go with it.”
    â€œThat won’t be no problem, ma’am,” said Roscoe, “seein’s how it’s me who does all the cookin’.”
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    It was late in the afternoon when they arrived at what remained of Colonel Armendariz’s camp. Of course they found it to be abandoned. Several local peons were all that remained, and even they ran off into the surrounding foliage before Fuerte could question them.
    A search was made of the adobe building that had been built on the land, plus the area nearby, and it was agreed upon that nothing had been found to support the fact that Henry Ellis’s parents had even been there. That was until Henry Ellis, himself, found something in one of the old building’s second-floor bedrooms.
    â€œGrampa! Grampa!” he called out.
    Charley and some of the others who were close by came running, finding the boy in one of the smaller upstairs sleeping quarters.
    The boy was on his knees in a corner with his back to Charley when the old man entered.
    â€œWhat do you have there, son?” said Charley as he advanced closer to his grandson.
    Henry Ellis turned around slow and easy. In his hand a single red rose, faded, with a broken stem.
    â€œThey were here, Grampa,” said the boy. “Señor Fuerte brought Mother a bouquet of red roses as a welcoming gift from Don Roberto when we arrived in Brownsville that day.”
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    An hour later the outfit had made camp and Feather was bedding down the horses and other livestock. The horses had been unsaddled and were now tied in a string beside the adobe.
    The rest of the outfit had spread their bedrolls in a wide circle surrounding the chuckwagon and the campfire. Roscoe was cooking the evening meal over the flames, while at the same time he was making sourdough bread in a Dutch oven he’d remembered to bring along.
    Charley sat on the adobe’s porch steps with Henry Ellis and Roca Fuerte on either side of him—they were going over some maps. The rest of the outfit was either sitting or laid back on their bedrolls. They were watching what their leader was doing on the porch and waiting for their orders.
    â€œThe Armendariz gang is not as large as I first thought they were,” said Fuerte. “He has no more than ten or twelve men riding with him . . . plus several female camp followers. It appears they all left this place at around the same time . . . shortly before noon . . . and they left in a hurry, I suspect, by the condition in which they left this place.”
    â€œWell,” said Charley, “then it shouldn’t be that hard to find them, should it?”
    Fuerte raised a finger, hoping to get a word in.
    â€œThere is only one problem, Señor Charley,” he said. “They have now split up into smaller groups of twos and threes and are headed out in many different directions.”
    â€œWe can handle that,” said Charley. “We’ll just do the same