McKettrick's Choice Read Free Page B

‘whom.’”
    â€œAnswer the question,” Holt retorted. “Which brand were they riding for?”
    Gabe let out his breath. His long hair, black as jet, was tangled and probably crawling with lice; his buckskin trousers and flour-sack shirt were stiff with dirt and rancid sweat. Once as robust as a prize bull pastured with a harem of prime heifers, Gabe was gaunt, with deep shadows under his eyes.
    â€œI can’t say for sure,” he said at last. “But if I was laying a wager, I’d put my chips on the Templeton outfit. They’re the ones been devilin’ John Cavanagh and some of the other ranchers, too.”
    â€œTempleton?” the name was unfamiliar to Holt, even though he’d run cattle around San Antonio himself, once upon a time, and thought he knew everybody.
    â€œIsaac Templeton,” Gabe said, gripping the bars again, giving them a futile wrench with both hands. “He bought out T. S. Parker a couple of years ago.” Navarro paused, squinting as he studied Holt’s face. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You mean to ride out there and ask a lot of questions. Don’t do it, Holt. The place is a snake pit.”
    â€œWhatever happened to ‘one riot, one Ranger’?” Holt asked.
    Gabe looked him over. “You’re not a Ranger anymore,” he said quietly. “You’ve been up North, living like a rich man. I can tell by your clothes, and that horse you rode into the square just now.” Navarro tried to smile but failed. “Besides, with Frank dead or holed up someplace nursing a bullet wound, you’re the only hope I have of getting out of here before Judge Fellows puts a noose around my neck. Can’t have you getting yourself gunned down in the meantime.”
    Gabe’s assessment stung a little, but Holt reckoned there might be some truth in it. He worked hard on his corner of the Triple M, but he’d been eating three squares and sleeping in featherbeds for a few years. When he was a Ranger, then an independent cattleman, things had been different.
    â€œMaybe you’ve gone soft, Navarro,” he said, “but I’m still meaner than a scalded bear. If you met my old man,you’d see just what kind of rawhide-tough, nail-chewing son of a bitch I’m cut out to be.”
    Gabe seemed pleased by this remark, and Holt had the feeling he’d just passed some kind of test. “I’d like to meet your old man,” Navarro said. “’Cause that would mean I was a long ways from this hellhole.”
    Holt reached between the bars, laid a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “If I have to dynamite this place, I’ll get you out. And I’ll find Frank.”
    â€œI believe you,” Gabe said simply. “Make it quick, will you? These walls are beginning to feel a lot like the sides of a coffin.” A bleak expression filled his eyes. “I can’t see but a little patch of sky, and I can hardly recall how it felt to walk on solid ground.”
    Holt felt a constriction in his throat. Briefly, he tightened his grip on his friend’s shoulder. “Remember what the Cap’n used to say. This fight will be won or lost in the territory between your ears.”
    Gabe chuckled, albeit grimly. “You suppose he’s still out there someplace—old Cap’n Jack, I mean?”
    â€œHell, yes,” Holt replied, without hesitation. “He’s too damn ornery to die, just like my old man.”
    A door creaked open at the far end of the winding corridor.
    â€œTime’s up,” the deputy called.
    Holt ignored him. “Anything I can bring you?”
    â€œYeah,” Gabe said. “A chunk of meat the size of Kansas. All I get in here is beans.”
    â€œAccounts for the smell,” Holt replied.
    â€œYou comin’?” the deputy demanded. “I don’t want to get into no trouble for lettin’ you