William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

“Make it fast. We’ve got to move,” he called after her.

Lydia went inside, making no reply. A minute or two later she returned, carrying a rifle and a box of cartridges. It was a Henry’s, a repeater—a good gun. She took some cartridges out of the box and started loading it, She handled it like she knew what she was doing.

Sam said, “We’re in a heap of trouble, miss. The upland is thick with Comanches. Looks like the whole blamed tribe is on the warpath. More could come along any minute. We’ve got to get down to the flat, fast. Later when it’s safe we can come back and give your folks a Christian burial. But now we got to run. Savvy?”

“I savvy,” Lydia said.

“Good. Let’s mount up and ride.”

“I’ll take Brownie.”

“Brownie? Who’s that?”

“My horse. I’m not leaving him behind.”

Brownie, a strong, solid-looking gelding with good lines, was in the corral. The Comanches’ horses were saddled up, but there was no telling what their dispositions were like. Sam didn’t want to chance the girl being unable to control a strange mount. Best let her ride the animal she was used to and that was used to her.

Lydia went into the barn with him and pointed out a saddle. Sam carried it out while she toted a blanket. Brownie was anxious, unnerved by the blood, shooting, and violent death. Sam sympathized. He knew how the horse felt.

Lydia stood inside the end of the corral farthest away from where the Comanches’ horses were tied up. Brownie came to her when she called him. She stroked the horse’s muzzle and patted its neck, speaking softly to him, gentling him down. She put a bridle on him, then led him out through the corral door Sam had opened.

Sam unhitched the Comanche horses from the fence one by one and led them into the corral, then closed the door, penning them with the other horses. He didn’t want them wandering off, attracting Indian scouting parties to the ranch.

Lydia spread the blanket over Brownie’s back; Sam saddled him. She adjusted the saddle girth and the height of the stirrups, her movements deft and sure, her pale, slim-fingered hands steady.

Taking two handfuls of cartridges from the box, Lydia stuffed them into a pair of deep pockets at the front of her dress. She put the box in a saddle bag. There was no scabbard, but a set of leather ties allowed her to secure the rifle to the side of the saddle.

“My name’s Sam, Sam Heller. What’s yours?”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“So I can call you something besides Miss.”

“You talk funny. You’re a Yankee,” she said accusingly.

“That’s right.”

“Hmmph. Miss will do just fine, thank you very much.”

“The war’s over, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“That’s a sneaking Yankee lie. God bless the Confederacy and Robert E. Lee!”

Sam showed a quirked half smile. “Comanches don’t make no difference between Yankees and Rebels, you know.”

“Well, I do.” Lydia Fisher had been raised to believe that Yankees were the Devil. The stranger had no tail, and if he had horns they were hidden under his hat, but she trusted him no more than she had to. Trouble was, she had to, at least until she was off the plateau and safe among decent, civilized Southern folk.Sighing, Sam mounted up on Dusty.

She swung herself up on Brownie’s back. The horse’s eyes bulged, nostrils flaring. He pawed the ground, sidling. Leaning forward, Lydia patted Brownie’s muscular neck, murmuring comforting sounds into his pointed ears.

“Sure you can handle him?” Sam asked.

“Don’t worry about me, Mister Yank. Brownie’ll be okay once we get away from here.”

“What’s the fastest way off the plateau? Can we get down from there?” Sam pointed directly south where a ridgeline screened the edge of the plateau from sight.

Lydia shook her head. “Can’t go that way, it’s too steep. No way down. The nearest trail’s Hopper Glen, a half mile or so down the road.”

“Can we go through the woods? Any trails?”

She shook her head. “The brush is too thick. Got to take the road.”

“Great,” Sam said sourly. He and Lydia rode between the house and the woods, north across the field. Sam rode ahead, to scout Rimrock Road bordering the edge of the property. It was empty in both directions, as far as the eye could see.

Lydia came alongside him. They turned right on the road, going east. She did not look back at the ranch, not once, not even a glance.

“You look like you know how to handle that rifle,” Sam said.

“I do. Here in the hills, it’s shoot straight the first time, or you don’t eat,” Lydia said.

“Lord knows you got plenty of reason to want to even up. But don’t shoot straight off if you see a Comanche. Make sure he sees us first.”

“What d’you expect me to do? Throw flowers at him?”

“Just don’t give away our position if you don’t have to.”

After a fifth of a mile, the belt of woods on the south gave way to fields dotted with dirt mounds and stands of timber. “Best stay off the road if we can. The Comanches are out in force,” Sam advised.

They turned right, angling southeast for several hundred yards. A game trail wound east through low, rounded hills. They followed it.

“We’re coming on the Oakley ranch,” Lydia said after a while.

Sam couldn’t see it. “Where?”

“Not far. There’s a brook, then a rise. It’s on the other side.”

A low, tree-covered ridge ran north-south, a stream winding along its western foot. Smoke showed over the treetops, a hazy gray curtain. Sam reined to a halt, Lydia pulling up beside him. Sam shucked the mule’s-leg out of its holster, holding the reins in his free hand.

Lydia looked stricken. “The Oakleys?”

“Comanches got there first,” Sam said, shaking his head.

“Maybe it’s not too late to help.”

“Hear any shooting?”

“No.”

“It’s too late, girl. Comanches have already been and done. Any Oakleys left alive, they’d be shooting and the Comanches would be shooting back. It’s over.”

“You don’t know that for a fact.”

“I ain’t risking my hair to find out,” Sam said. “You?”

“No,” Lydia said, swallowing hard.

“Let’s get clear.” If we can, he thought. He pointed his horse north, Lydia following. They rode along the base of the ridge until they struck Rimrock Road, running east through a gap in the ridge.

Sam scouted the road. It looked clear. Quickly, he and Lydia crossed over to a long, grassy slope and trailed north along the foot of the ridge. He holstered the mule’s-leg as they rode on.

The ridge flattened out as the long grassy slope crested. Beyond, in the middle distance rose Sentry Hill, its base hidden by thick woods.

Sam and Lydia made a right-hand turn, going east once again. Below, a line of trees screened the Oakley ranch from view, but they could see the inverted pyramid of smoke rising amid the mass of leafy green boughs. Black at the base, it lightened to gray as it fanned out into the sky.

The fugitive duo crossed an open space, coming to a thicket of woods. Riding south along the treeline, they searched for an opening. A gap showed, revealing a game trail winding east through the brush. Sam and Lydia entered the narrow passage, forcing them to ride single file. Sam took the point, Lydia following. Shady groves alternated with sunny glades.

The trail bent southeast, the ground sloping downward. Once again, they crossed Rimrock Road. Beyond, the trail angled south. It widened, and they rode side by side.

The slope leveled off, the trail continuing south. The woods thinned out, showing bright, open sky. Ahead on the left, a massive shape loomed.