Hell's Angel Read Free Page B

as they neck-reined their mounts around, batted their heels against the mounts’ flanks, and galloped back up and over the hill and out of sight. The rataplan of shod hooves dwindled quickly, and then the only sound was the indignant yammering of two coyotes in the dark hills to the east.
    Prophet waited, listening, watching for more riders. When none came, he plucked four fresh shells from his cartridge belt and thumbed them through the Winchester’s loading gate. Sliding the rifle back into its scabbard, he pointed Mean north once again and touched spurs to the horse’s flanks. He did not gallop the mount and risk Mean breaking a leg and stranding him out here at the mercy of Campa, but only trotted up and down the long hills cloaked in starlight.
    Several times he stopped to let the horse rest and drink from his hat. He’d left San Simon so quickly that he hadn’t had time to fill his canteen, so he continued north across the dry Chihuahuan Desert with only a little brackish water sloshing around in the flask. There was a Mexican stage line that ran through this part of the desert, and there were of course wells at all of the stations along the line, but since he didn’t know their exact locations, finding one in the dark would be almost impossible.
    Best to avoid the stations for as long as he could. As few folks who saw him on his run to the border, the better.
    He’d stay clear of the country’s main trails, as well. If he was lucky, he’d run into a spring. If not, he and Mean would have to wait to refresh themselves at the Rio Bravo. They’d gone without water before.
    He continued riding, slowly but steadily widening the distance between himself and Campa. Staying off the main trails should buy him enough time to get across the border before the jealous Rurale colonel could catch up to him. It would be damn near impossible for Campa’s men to track him out here in the dark. There was no moon, and it didn’t look like there was going to be one, and while the stars were bright, they weren’t bright enough for efficient tracking.
    After an hour of relatively hard riding, hearing no one behind him, Prophet allowed himself a saddle snooze. When he awoke, he rested Mean, dampened the horse’s mouth and nostrils with a wet bandanna, and then set off once more. Dawn found him skirting a broad canyon that he knew fed into the canyon of the Rio Grande, which meant he was getting close to the border.
    The gray light turned a soft red, and shadows drifted out from rocks and small bunches of dry, brown grass. Sotol cacti sent their saber-like stalks straight up from their ragged bases around him.
    The sky turned slowly from green to a cobalt blue. To each side were mountains. Behind were the rolling, brown, rock-stippled hills he’d passed through in the dark.
    Around nine o’clock, judging by the sun’s angle, he spied some relatively heavy growth sheathing an arroyo just east of him. He reined Mean into the shallow wash and loosed a ragged breath when he saw shiny water bubbling up from tan shale rock along the wash’s southern bank, nourishing the galleta grass and a few spindly willows drooping around it, offering shade. The water winked gold in the intense desert sunlight. A kangaroo rat scurried behind a hump of gray rock on his left, and he could hear the rapid thumps and grunts of what was likely a javelina that had probably been enjoying the water before Prophet and Mean had interrupted it.
    Mean smelled the water and shook his head in eager anticipation, rattling the bit in his teeth.
    Prophet rode the horse ahead and climbed heavily out of the saddle, looking around carefully. When water was this scarce, there were likely to be more critters nearby than wild pigs and kangaroo rats. Border toughs, maybe. Possibly Kiowa, as this was their traditional stomping grounds, though he was glad he’d seen no recent sign of the fierce nomadic