Love on the Line Read Free Page B

respectable lawman would own. During his five-day ride in from Alice, he’d memorized the twenty-three Rules for Troublemen as presented in his SWT&T manual.
    Rule #1: Put up a good front. It is not necessary to advertise any tailor shop; neither is it necessary to go about your work looking like a coal heaver. Overalls can look as respectable as anything else, but they must at least show they are on speaking terms with the laundryman; and shoes must have a bowing acquaintance with the bootblack.
    He hated this. No Stetson. No Lucchese boots. No gun belt. No Padgitt saddle. No mustache. No trousers, for crying out loud. He’d hidden his pistols—Odysseus and Penelope—along with his badge, inside a specially designed compartment of his suitcase.
    His mahogany-and-white tobiano shook her mane, no doubt in protest to the indignity of having to ride through town with this godforsaken saddle strapped to her back. He’d picked up the mare last week, and though he’d compromised his standards on everything else, he drew the line at horseflesh. If the unexpected happened, he wanted an animal he could rely on.
    Patting the mare’s neck, he murmured words of sympathy and urged her onto a wooden bridge crossing the Hog Branch River. Her clopping hooves captured the attention of a couple of boys with rolled-up pant legs and minnow nets. They quit their wading along the bank to stretch out and wave.
    Luke tugged his hat. The moment his fingertips touched the rim, he was again reminded he’d had to pack his Stetson away. In place of the fine nutria fur was a brown duck farm hat, which—if Sears, Roebuck could be believed—would hold up in any kind of weather. He’d spent all week dirtying it and beating it, along with his new overalls and plow boots. Hopefully they looked well-worn, yet still decent enough to suit SWT&T.
    A breeze whisked across the river, the leaves of a live oak flapping like coattails of men on the run. With the wind came the aroma of spring. In the distance, a quail whistled in appreciation.
    He scanned the terrain, zeroing in on the bird’s call, narrowing its hiding place to either the yaupon or the mesquite. He was almost on top of it before it burst from the mesquite and startled his horse.
    Controlling Honey Dew with one hand, he “drew” with his other, pointed his finger and clicked his thumb down. “Pow,” he murmured. “Gotchya.”
    Hunting quail ranked right up there with hunting outlaws. He loved how the bobwhites hunkered down until the last second, then erupted from their refuge, giving him but a split second to take the shot. Not with a pistol, of course, but with his Remington. Still, he’d had to leave his shotgun behind. For manhunts he needed his rifle. He adjusted the 1895 Winchester encased in a long scabbard on the left side of his horse, then looked for more birds.
    He’d flushed out Comer just as he had the quail. Three times. And each time, Comer had either known he was coming, or he was receiving divine intervention. Whatever the case, Luke was in this untenable position because of it.
    He allowed himself a long sigh. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the men were holed up in one place like a typical gang. Then he’d just track them, find them, and capture them.
    But nothing about Comer was typical. He took his time. He thought ahead. And he garnered citizen support.
    Now he was spreading out his men. Turning them into farmers while things cooled down.
    Luke repositioned himself in the saddle. For all he knew, they’d been farmers all along. Maybe they’d been living in Washington County for generations and came back to warm, cozy homes after every single job.
    The boys he’d gathered up at this last robbery hadn’t told them much, but it would sure explain why he’d had such a confounded time finding a hideout. The only time he came close to catching them was right after a holdup.
    He’d be right on them, then— poof. They were gone.
    He lifted his hat, then settled